FLOCCINAUCINIHILPILIFICATION

Words are just neat.

I freely acknowledge that if I had not been born in an English-speaking country, I would find English incredibly cumbersome, illogical, and unwieldy.

Because it is.

When I was young, there was a movement/attempt towards creating an international language of "Esperanza " - based on Spanish and English, but designed to be simple, logical and easy.

It didn't seem to get very far (do you know anyone who speaks Esperanza?), and I probably am the only person who remembers it - because Esperanza is my name in Spanish.


Some words have always been extra cool to me - like antidisestablishmentarianism. My brother taught that to me when I was real little, supposedly as the longest word in the English language.

There is pneumonoultramicroscopicsilcovolanconiosis - but it was invented just to be longer than antidisestablishmentarianism, and isn't found in most dictionaries.

And there is a protein's name that is longer - but Windows Explorer shuts down every time I try to cut and paste it into this blog.

But the word that is both pretty long and is incorporated in just about every aspect of my life is anthorpomorphism. That's attributing human characteristics to non-human things.

Like seeing a person's facial outline in a mountain range - the outline of a lion in a taco - and things like naming your car.

I didn't realize for a long time that not everyone does this. I mean, every single car I have ever owned has had a name. Charlie, Mac, Grey Ghost, Blue Goose, and right now I am driving Blanco (who is actually Blanca, but doesn't like having a girl's name. Even though she is a girl).

But when driving back from Phoenix this week, I asked my friend who drove us up what her car's name was - and she, get this, had never even thought about naming ANY of her cars.

Please, please, people, tell me that you name your cars. That's I'm not the only one in the world.

Oh, and the title word? Means "the act of establishing as worthless."

Fits this blog perfectly, doesn't it?

STEAK AND KIDNEY PIE

I love modern medicine. I honestly do. I would not be alive today without it.

Hmm.... but I also would not have had some life-threatening issues without modern medicine.

But, really, it's great.

In fact, I need to share some parts of the final radiology report from last night's (well, actually this morning's part of) ER visit:

-"The visualized portions of the lung bases are unremarkable"

- "The liver, spleen, adrenal glands, gallbladder and pancreas demonstrate no acute abnormalities"

- "The large and small bowel are unremarkable."

Maybe it's just me, but haven't they just insulted eight of my internal organs?

But the best one of all,

- "The uterus is not seen most compatible with surgical removal."

That just makes me laugh.

The doctors, PAs, nurses, technicians and receptionists are all obligated to tell you or provide with a piece of paper that lists every single possible outcome of your condition (heart failure, kidney failure, dandruff and/or nightmares about intimate relationships with Ed Helms)

They must also have you sign copious amounts of legal paperwork (when you have seriously bruised your back and cannot raise your hand above your waist) that state you will not, under any circumstance:

- Sue any individual employed at the medical facility (although Marthing, Bething and Jennifering, as far as I can tell, have not been heavily contested in the court system yet - give it time)

- Take any of their advice in any manner other than the one they intended (i.e., "stay well-hydrated" does not justify going off on a week-long bender, and "return to er for any other concerns" isn't for filing for tax extension or marital counseling)

- Understand that any doctor, nurse or technician flirting with you after 11:45 p.m. is simply their trying to remain conscious after a fourteen hour shift, and is not to be taken seriously by the patient or any accompanying spouse (good thing I had my son drive me in, not my husband)

- "Avoid heavy lifting and strenuous activity for the next few days" is the same as telling that to a mother returning home with two little kids there already - ain't gonna happen.

But it finally became apparent to all health-care professionals involved with my case (which turned out to be about seventy-four) that I have a RENAL CONTUSION - which means my kidney has a boo-boo.

I am supposed to follow up with my doctor about "a few small nonspecific mesenteric lymph nodes" (do you still have those things when you've had a full hysterectomy?) were 'noted'.

At least they kept their dignity - they were NOT called "unremarkable".

I AIN'T GOT NOBODY - I GOT ABOUT 85

Think about where you would LEAST like to spend seven hours on a Friday evening.

You are CORRECT, sir - waiting in the emergency room at the local hospital.

My horse, whom I still adore even after this little incident, has been incredibly obedient, calm and attentive all this past week with training. He has lunged, stopped, backed, picked up his feet, and even allowed me to completely brush all the tangles from his tail (which, when untangled, are equivalent to the entire square mileage of French Guiana).

So when he tried to follow the mare out of the pasture into the corral when I was feeding them at 4 p.m. yesterday, I calmly yet forcibly stepped in front of him to halt him, certain that he would again respond to my verbal command.

And was properly knocked flat on my back as my horse went ahead and plowed right through me.

Wait, let me clarify that a bit.

He knocked me flat on my SHOULDERS, which was then followed by my head, and then my butt hit the ground and last of all my feet.

I laid there in the dust for a few seconds, feeling very sorry for myself, but since there was no one else there to sympathize with me - even my dog had fled the scene - I got up, chased my horse back to where he belonged, and went into the house. Slowly.

And on arriving in the house, discovered I had had... well, an accident.

Well, of course, I had HAD an accident - with my stupid &@%$(@# horse knocking me off my feet.

I mean, another kind of accident. One that you are supposed to have conquered when you stop using diapers. When you begin school. Or before you have reached the age where a sneeze can cause that kind of accident.

And that sort of accident that shouldn't involve blood in any way - at least not when a uterus is no longer a part of your physiology.

So regardless of which information source I consulted (WebMD, Google, my doctor's office, my oldest daughter), the guidance was the same - go to the emergency room.

Immediately.

Do you know how many people seem to have nothing better to do on a Friday evening than go to the E.R. for a MINOR symptom, such as sniffles, a slight fever, or kidney stones (well, I guess that last one isn't minor, but he was being SUCH a big baby about it)?

But the crowning jewel is that 85% of these people spend the majority of the emergency room COMPLAINING about how...

1) The staff in the emergency are doing things that are NOT related DIRECTLY to seeing to that particular complaining patient (such as eating dinner, talking to each other, going to the restroom, etc.)

2) The man who came in TWO HOURS after that particular complaining patient was seen BEFORE them - who cares that he was bleeding from gunshot blast, clutching his chest, and/or in the last stages of labor (okay, maybe not that one).

3) There are not sufficient personnel in the E.R. to take note of their complaints, comfort and/or constipation (er, sorry, not that last one) exactly when this particular complaining patient needs to vent.

So I bent over backwards to tell each and every E.R. personnel (Michelle, Lisa, Heather, Eva, Stephen and Eddie) how incredible great and efficient they were and how much I appreciated all their efforts.

And got out of there just under seven hours. Even with having a CAT scan.

You guys at the E.R. rock.

ACCLC, CTUI, and JHGAY CERTIFIED

Some times I think I should be on the lecture circuit, and get PAID for all the advice I dole out on a daily or (dare I say it?) hourly basis.

I mean, people actually make a living from saying basically what I say on auto-pilot to my second daughter just about every day.

She and I sat at Denny's today for probably 45 minutes, while she ate a short stack of pancakes (infuriated, I must admit, since I refused to pay for a Grand-Slam-Cholesterol-Laden-Clog-Your-Arteries-In-Under-Five-Minutes combination of greasy meats, egg yolks and piles of carbohydrates with melted lard) and I gave her my standard pep talk.

You know the one - "Yes, you are having some problems now but if you keep pressing on and working the sun will come out and shine and angels will sing the Hallelujah chorus from Handel's 'Messiah' and Zac Efron will ask you out..."

Wait a minute - that was the talk she wanted me to give her.

No, I gave her my not-quote-memorized-but-close mom-encouragement think-positive good-attitude speech.

And about midway through it, I realized the man at the next table was actually listening.

He wasn't taking notes or anything, but he was paying attention.

I immediately thought, "Hey! If this was copyrighted, then I could charge him for the lecture!"

There are numerous websites about 'accredited' life-coach training, with wonderful wording - for example:

Today, coaching is a highly recognized and respected occupation, (however) since coaching is not counseling, social work, sports psychology or psychotherapy, there are no state or regional laws for "coaching" someone on important issues in their life. There is also no government-approved governing body for the coaching field. (In other words) you have complete freedom in selecting your specific training and how you develop your business and your career.

I think I've found my new career.

(And the acronyms in the blog title? "American Certified & Credible Life Coach","Completely under the Table and Unregulated Income", and "Just How Gullible Are You")

UP UP AND AWAY

Okay, making a resolution to be a good listener and all that is SOOOO much easier when you end up driving seven hours with two AWESOME people who ARE great conversationalists and actually LIKE all the ridiculous stories that your kids have heard 3,872 times and roll their eyes when you begin to tall it again.

However, I also feel like death that has been slightly warmed in a toaster oven.

The weather is part of it - middle of April, insane winds for the past month, and (for us) COLD COLD COLD. As in 34 degrees tonight. Come on, the few things that bloom down here have already bloomed, and this is gonna kill them... beyond toaster oven rejuvenation.

It's 9:40 p.m., and I'm going to bed.

GIVING INSTEAD OF TAKING

Sometimes conversations just flow. Maybe the stars are in perfect alignment - more likely it's the fact that you've drunk way too many Diet Mt. Dews, it's after 11:30 p.m., and you simply can't shut up.

But sometimes they don't. Awkward pauses that hang in the air for possibly decades. Stilted efforts - no give and take.

Might be one of the reasons I love my dog so much. He looks up at me adoringly not matter what I am saying, and never interrupts.

Not so much my horse. He's a little more demanding, and if it isn't a subject he's comfortable with (i.e. carrots, hay, scratching his belly), he'll simply walk away.

And my cat? Forget it. If it's ain't about him, it ain't worth listening to.

It's easy for me to ignore people (my partial deafness can sometimes be used to an advantage), and it's just as easy to let my selfish ego take control of a conversation. and become the dominate speaker.

Tomorrow I am going to be spending a minimum of six hours in some sort of transport going up to and then back from Phoenix. And I am determined to ride that middle ground - to be an active and involved listener, only keeping up my end of the conversation by making concerned and sincere inquires that I legitimately am going to (try to) be enthusiastic about hearing the response

Report by 8 p.m. tomorrow night. Wish me luck.

MONDAY THE 13TH

The number 13 is lucky.

At least for me. I was born on the 13th. And since every one else considers it bad luck, then I'm just gonna step right in there and suck up whatever good luck there is.

They've even named a mental disorder, triskaidekaphobia, a specific phobia of Friday 13th.

Try to say that fast thirteen times.

There are some reasons perhaps that 13 is unlucky. Children become teenagers at age 13. And if anyone has had more than one teenager and not wanted to shoot them right around that age, please let me know.

Did you know that a bar mitzvah, Judaism's recognition of 'coming of age' for the boy is at age 13, while a bat mitzvah for girls is at age 12? Yup, women, we just mature faster and the guys never catch up, do they?

Halloween's date is 13 backwards (yeah, that may be stretching it just a little bit).

Some buildings eliminate the #13, and just go from floor 12 to 14 in order to avoid the number 13.

Apollo 13? Made a great movie, but something that in retrospect maybe NASA could have just skipped and no one would have noticed.

Supposedly the author Stephen King won't stop reading on page 94, 193, 382, et al because the digits add up to 13 . Personally, I think he already had to be more than a bit weird just to have written all these horrifying books, so maybe he just reads the book cover to cover, because having to consider what the page numbers add up to... that's sort of a thing John Nash would notice.

But the number of original colonies in the United State was 13; in fact, the one dollar bill is U.S. currency has multiple 13's - 13 levels to the pyramid, 13 stars, 13 arrows - somebody on that design team didn't have a problem with it.

The 13th Amendment to the Constitution is the one abolishing slavery, and that's pretty cool. But it also adds "except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted" - does anyone know if we can still do that? I like the concept; much cheaper than the prison system, I would think. I could use a slave - or two, since my kids have moved away.

We've already had two Friday the 13ths this year - and one more coming in November. And as far as I know, nothing horrible happened on those days.

In ancient Egypt, the number 13 represented immortality - in ancient China, it meant completeness and perfection.


13 is a prime number; and I just LOVE prime numbers.

And Wilt Chamberlain wore the number 13 on his jersey - hey, if that doesn't make it great, what else could?