Gwen and I stayed home last weekend (even though it was a four-day), opting to sleep in and enjoy the mornings at our leisure over getting away and traveling somewhere. It was a good call - nice and relaxing - coffee stretched out over a few hours lounging around, playing video games, checking the internet (and not returning emails) - that sort of thing. The weather has been beautiful here, and I was able to get out and exercise a bit in the sun as well. I've resurrected my running career, having gotten sick of the 5-10 pounds I put on during the months of traveling, not working out, and eating like a pig.
We did yard work, trying to get a handle on our less-than-stellar lawn. Our lawn is not God-awful, just PRETTY awful, but nevertheless I'm sure its a topic of disdainful discussion amongst some of our neighbors, who probably gather around at night, eat schnitzel, drink beer, and scoff at the "Americans" and their "Dummkopf" lawn care. Even the 156 year-old lady who lives next door manages to keep her yard in shape (with help), so I suppose we should at least make SOME effort. (We can't get shown up by Frau Frenzel.)
And so I found myself mowing the lawn last Saturday with an old push-mower while Gwen trimmed some of the hedges and trees with newly bought clippers. The smell of freshly-cut grass always makes me think of three things. One is my allergies, the second is early football season back when I used to play Pop Warner - running laps, stretching on the grass, plastic mouthpieces, etc - and the third (and most poignant of my associations) is all the times I was forced to mow the lawn as a pre-teen and teenager back in New Jersey. Things started with a push mower, and then our lawn care graduated to a rider model. And always, Papa Stup would stand at the edge of the driveway, fists on hips, surveying my somehow inadequate mowing actions, regardless of the implement. He would stare me down, ever-vigilant, and just wait for me to screw up.
OK, it wasn't quite that bad, but still, my dad was a little bit of a lawn tyrant - a man who ran his lawn care precisely, anal-retentively and with an iron fist - with a teenage son as his slave.
One time I remember my parents were headed out somewhere some Saturday afternoon and my dad told me to mow the lawn while they were gone. He warned me not to "take the speed above 3" on the rider mower because somehow the wicked cornering speeds of the lighting-quick "4" and the utterly ludicrous "5" ruined the lawn. Well, they left, and being an apathetic teen who didn't particularly enjoy mowing lawns, I promptly fired the mower up, engaged the throttle to the inconceivable "5" and started mowing like the wind, shaking my head the whole time and thinking "how the hell would he know?". Well, that was a mistake. Sure enough, when Papa Stup got home a few hours later, he knew almost immediately something was amiss. He walked to the edge of the driveway, looking around, scowling. Then he stepped out onto the lawn and damn if he didn't go down to one knee to inspect the grass like a Navajo tracker who's quarry was afoot. Seated in front of the TV, I could see it all out the window. I froze, staring in disbelief, both amazed and horrified. Then my dad frowned, stood up, turned and stormed toward the house. As I recall, things didn't go too well from there.
Ah, memories.
I've been playing a lot of games lately. Madden on the PS2 is the staple, but over the weekend Gwendolyn and I bought "Puzzle Quest" for the PSP and both got promptly hooked on it, even though it cheats and cheats horribly. I've also been playing a lot of chess on itsyourturn.com with a couple of friends - and been generally getting my ass handed to me in the process. Still, I'm enjoying it. Gwen and I also still have our LOTR uber-nerd board game set up and in process, awaiting its resolution.
I also drafted a fantasy baseball team on yahoo which started as a "this will help me casually pass the time until football season" sort of thing but has since morphed into my daily obsession. I haven't followed baseball with any closeness in years. In fact, I only recognized like three players from my draft by name. Now, however, I wake up and go right to the computer. How did my team do? Why is my catcher sucking? How is my pitching staff? What does ESPN say abou this guy? It's addicting. And its worse than football - changes have to be made daily. Anyway, its been a fun thing to do. I recommend it, even if your only lukewarm toward baseball. Just be prepared to obsess and spend some time...
Lastly, Man Room is up and running, but that's a post unto itself.
Tschuss!
Yo VIP - Let's Kick it!
So, THIS GUY showed up on the wards at work today.
Landstuhl is funny this way. Everybody who's somebody - and sometimes not even that - comes out - usually on their own publicity campaign - to "visit the troops". We get everybody from some big VIP's (President, staff, senators, generals) to little VIP's (retired no-name sports stars, barely heard of actors, etc) and everything in between (a lot of pro wrestlers, NFL guys). Oftentimes I find this hilarious.
Today I was running around the wards, busy on call. I'm flipping through a chart and in walks this Michael Buffer with a small posse, which includes one toady who's carrying a large blue bag filled with something that turned out to be large red boxing gloves. After introducing himself to the staff, the esteemed Mr. Buffer wandered the halls, visiting the war wounded, and at each room would take out a glove and sign it with his name and "Let's Get Ready to RUMMMBLLE" written clearly on the back of it. (One of my patients showed me his.) I half expected him to start belting out his famous line every time he went into a new room, so that as I worked at the nursing station I would hear his bellow down the hall every three minutes on cue and be left shaking my head. Fortunately (and yet sadly), he did not do this.
I'm not sure how happy these VIP visits make the soldiers feel or not - most of them seem to have a whatever type of attitude. I would imagine most wounded joes would rather have their missing limb back and not have seen Michael Buffer, but I could be wrong. And as for internal medicine patients (much more likely to be the war SICK than the war wounded - or even more likely to be elderly folks having nothing to do with the war), I have no idea how it makes them feel. Oftentimes these VIPs just avoid their rooms all together, probably because it would be awkward if Michael Buffer walked into a room and said "Hey, you're 72 and got pneumonia - LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLEEEEE! Thanks for serving your country, umm, 40 years ago I mean - and here's a glove..." But again, I could be wrong.
From a staff perspective, the VIPs are mostly a nuisance. If its a general (whom I will actively AVOID if I know they are coming) who steps onto the ward, then we all have to stop what we're doing, stand at attention, and pretend to be interested in whatever "rah rah, you're doing great things for your country" monologue they have prepared for that day. Work - or care of the sick and wounded - ironically grinds to a temporary but complete halt while this happens. If its a non-military VIP, then its interesting to get a glance of the person (like when I watched the WWE's Undertaker standing there half-menacingly, half-uncomfortable and mean looking, towering over IV poles) but then the charms fade quickly.
The nursing staff, who suffer far more of these visits then I do (being on the wards all the time), are often outwardly bitter after the VIP's come in and out and slow down everybody's work. Many question if these "VIPs" are really here for the troops - or more for their own publicity agendas.
I suppose in the end, its at most harmless for these guys to come by, and if it does actually lift the spirits of Private Snuffy then I suppose its worth it. And it does make working at Landstuhl a tad more interesting than your average hospital. Nevertheless, I also can't help but wonder if the nurses are right regarding the agendas of such visits.
Thank YOU, Michael Buffer, for making me think about these things today.
Landstuhl is funny this way. Everybody who's somebody - and sometimes not even that - comes out - usually on their own publicity campaign - to "visit the troops". We get everybody from some big VIP's (President, staff, senators, generals) to little VIP's (retired no-name sports stars, barely heard of actors, etc) and everything in between (a lot of pro wrestlers, NFL guys). Oftentimes I find this hilarious.
Today I was running around the wards, busy on call. I'm flipping through a chart and in walks this Michael Buffer with a small posse, which includes one toady who's carrying a large blue bag filled with something that turned out to be large red boxing gloves. After introducing himself to the staff, the esteemed Mr. Buffer wandered the halls, visiting the war wounded, and at each room would take out a glove and sign it with his name and "Let's Get Ready to RUMMMBLLE" written clearly on the back of it. (One of my patients showed me his.) I half expected him to start belting out his famous line every time he went into a new room, so that as I worked at the nursing station I would hear his bellow down the hall every three minutes on cue and be left shaking my head. Fortunately (and yet sadly), he did not do this.
I'm not sure how happy these VIP visits make the soldiers feel or not - most of them seem to have a whatever type of attitude. I would imagine most wounded joes would rather have their missing limb back and not have seen Michael Buffer, but I could be wrong. And as for internal medicine patients (much more likely to be the war SICK than the war wounded - or even more likely to be elderly folks having nothing to do with the war), I have no idea how it makes them feel. Oftentimes these VIPs just avoid their rooms all together, probably because it would be awkward if Michael Buffer walked into a room and said "Hey, you're 72 and got pneumonia - LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLEEEEE! Thanks for serving your country, umm, 40 years ago I mean - and here's a glove..." But again, I could be wrong.
From a staff perspective, the VIPs are mostly a nuisance. If its a general (whom I will actively AVOID if I know they are coming) who steps onto the ward, then we all have to stop what we're doing, stand at attention, and pretend to be interested in whatever "rah rah, you're doing great things for your country" monologue they have prepared for that day. Work - or care of the sick and wounded - ironically grinds to a temporary but complete halt while this happens. If its a non-military VIP, then its interesting to get a glance of the person (like when I watched the WWE's Undertaker standing there half-menacingly, half-uncomfortable and mean looking, towering over IV poles) but then the charms fade quickly.
The nursing staff, who suffer far more of these visits then I do (being on the wards all the time), are often outwardly bitter after the VIP's come in and out and slow down everybody's work. Many question if these "VIPs" are really here for the troops - or more for their own publicity agendas.
I suppose in the end, its at most harmless for these guys to come by, and if it does actually lift the spirits of Private Snuffy then I suppose its worth it. And it does make working at Landstuhl a tad more interesting than your average hospital. Nevertheless, I also can't help but wonder if the nurses are right regarding the agendas of such visits.
Thank YOU, Michael Buffer, for making me think about these things today.
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