I want to write something. I'm driven to write. Today, though, I have run out of time. I am doing the Clepper fitness plan. I have been pushing the medicine cart this week and standing most of my eight hour shift. I still like to walk outside for recreation, very recreational with the sniffing hound. My feet are hurting.
A few weeks ago, I noticed the charts did not feel as heavy when I lifted them for all the filing I must do. Helping with patients in bed, I discovered I had to hold back, as I may hit their head on the head board. My arms got stronger.
I'm hoping my feet and legs get stronger, too, as I continue this new task at my job. Trepidation at the thought of being responsible for twenty seven patients' medications and treatments made me uncomfortable. Can I handle this? I admire the girls who do this all the time and realize it does take us all about three hours to get those nine o'clocks passed, even on a quiet night.
Oh, we must not forget the diet. Eating? Not much for the eight hours. The best part of all this, is I'm not too hungry when I get home, so something to keep me from fainting is all I can do.
The temperature of a sauna and sweating most of the night also must contribute something to the weight loss. I don't want so much to be skinny as to be able to walk to the bathroom in the morning, instead of the hobbling this old lady is doing now. Park Vista has an indoor pool for their rehab, do you think Clepper Manor could install one for the continuing fitness program? Not with two percent reduction in Medicare reimbursement.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Notes Read in Front of the World
I think how Face book is the note writing of today. We loved writing notes, or little letters to each other, that grew in junior high and high school. My one friend, Amy, who's birthday was May 28, along with Sherry, wrote copious pages during study halls.
We didn't limit writing to study hall, though. I wrote in boring algebra classes or Mrs. Collins' history class to keep from falling asleep. Mrs. Collins droned on in a flat, nasal voice. I couldn't help liking her as a person, but she was pathetic as a teacher. Poor thing. Our morning class quietly kept our disinterest. But the afternoon history class, unfortunately, did not. One boy set off an M-80 resulting in giving the poor woman a heart attack or so the story goes. The weather, hot, made the non- air conditioned rooms an oven breeding discontent by seventh period at the end of the school year.
Amy wrote poetry, too. She grew up to be an English teacher. Later as young adults, she gave me several books to enhance my reading, like Grapes of Wrath, and Sophie's Choice. I've seen the movies. Sometimes it is hard to read the important books. Last year when I read To Kill a Mockingbird, I kicked myself for not reading it before then. Mom raved about it, too. As has everyone else, with good reason.
As we sat in high school, thinking we were smart, the sentences flew across the page. I still to this day, love those plain lined tablets, but give me a great pen. My boyfriend in ninth and tenth grade would draw a cartoon picture with the character saying our names with the plus symbol for every new tablet I got. He drew them in pencil on that gray cardboard. I traced very carefully over them with ink, so they would endure. I have lost them.
We seldom passed notes in class, so I did not suffer embarrassment often from the notes being read in front of the class. I got more than passing grades, so the writing didn't hinder. In fact, I bet it helped our writing skills.
We laughed with "Ha, ha." I thought writing BR for Baskin Robbins, hilarious. For awhile, my friends made fun of my Worthy Adviser aspirations and we used Grand Poo Bahs and Doo Doo Butts and variations of that theme. I didn't mind they made fun of it because I was secure in our friendship. The pomp didn't appeal to everyone.
I started reading a memoir Then Again by Diane Keaton and she, too, was impressed by the sister organization, Job's Daughters, a Masonic-sponsored secret club where girls in a pagentlike (Diane's word) atmosphere paraded around in long gowns. I'll write more on this book, a surprise that may have me reading into the night. Anyways, when I read that line today in the introduction, I felt validated with my love for Rainbow Girls when I was fourteen to twenty.
We abbreviated, but I do think we watched our grammar and spelling to a point. Along with writing diaries, note writing occurred every day. Over the summer, we had fancy stationery while we were imprisoned on family vacations. Or we bought funny cards and filled every inch with our hand writing.
Along with the poetry, we wrote stories as well. Descriptions of the teachers in study hall or the bored kids sleeping in various positions filled these notes, too. We saw, we wrote, we did, we wrote. Only when we shared did it seem to happen.
We were no Lewis and Tolkien, no space trilogy or hobbits. High school shenanigans, angst and fun filled the pages. One boy, who didn't go to our school, but his cousin did, did not appreciate my letter I sent via Tom. I guess he wanted that day's version of sexting. I never wrote to him again. So what, if we had made out in McDonald's parking lot. I never did that again with him, either.
My boyfriend and I exchanged notes regularly. He wrote in slanted printing. I could read it, a definite plus with letter writing. We expressed our love, our dreams and hopes for the future. He was frustrated, though, one time I painfully scribed the words to the Everly Brothers' All I Have to Do is Dream, stopping the record to get the words, then listening some more. I think he expected a love poem written by me. I could be wrong, but I hold to that feeling.
I had forgotten how important expressing myself was, till I thought how I love Face book. My passing notes the fifty two year old's way. Just don't do it at work or you'll be punished. The notes are all ready being read in front of the world.
We didn't limit writing to study hall, though. I wrote in boring algebra classes or Mrs. Collins' history class to keep from falling asleep. Mrs. Collins droned on in a flat, nasal voice. I couldn't help liking her as a person, but she was pathetic as a teacher. Poor thing. Our morning class quietly kept our disinterest. But the afternoon history class, unfortunately, did not. One boy set off an M-80 resulting in giving the poor woman a heart attack or so the story goes. The weather, hot, made the non- air conditioned rooms an oven breeding discontent by seventh period at the end of the school year.
Amy wrote poetry, too. She grew up to be an English teacher. Later as young adults, she gave me several books to enhance my reading, like Grapes of Wrath, and Sophie's Choice. I've seen the movies. Sometimes it is hard to read the important books. Last year when I read To Kill a Mockingbird, I kicked myself for not reading it before then. Mom raved about it, too. As has everyone else, with good reason.
As we sat in high school, thinking we were smart, the sentences flew across the page. I still to this day, love those plain lined tablets, but give me a great pen. My boyfriend in ninth and tenth grade would draw a cartoon picture with the character saying our names with the plus symbol for every new tablet I got. He drew them in pencil on that gray cardboard. I traced very carefully over them with ink, so they would endure. I have lost them.
We seldom passed notes in class, so I did not suffer embarrassment often from the notes being read in front of the class. I got more than passing grades, so the writing didn't hinder. In fact, I bet it helped our writing skills.
We laughed with "Ha, ha." I thought writing BR for Baskin Robbins, hilarious. For awhile, my friends made fun of my Worthy Adviser aspirations and we used Grand Poo Bahs and Doo Doo Butts and variations of that theme. I didn't mind they made fun of it because I was secure in our friendship. The pomp didn't appeal to everyone.
I started reading a memoir Then Again by Diane Keaton and she, too, was impressed by the sister organization, Job's Daughters, a Masonic-sponsored secret club where girls in a pagentlike (Diane's word) atmosphere paraded around in long gowns. I'll write more on this book, a surprise that may have me reading into the night. Anyways, when I read that line today in the introduction, I felt validated with my love for Rainbow Girls when I was fourteen to twenty.
We abbreviated, but I do think we watched our grammar and spelling to a point. Along with writing diaries, note writing occurred every day. Over the summer, we had fancy stationery while we were imprisoned on family vacations. Or we bought funny cards and filled every inch with our hand writing.
Along with the poetry, we wrote stories as well. Descriptions of the teachers in study hall or the bored kids sleeping in various positions filled these notes, too. We saw, we wrote, we did, we wrote. Only when we shared did it seem to happen.
We were no Lewis and Tolkien, no space trilogy or hobbits. High school shenanigans, angst and fun filled the pages. One boy, who didn't go to our school, but his cousin did, did not appreciate my letter I sent via Tom. I guess he wanted that day's version of sexting. I never wrote to him again. So what, if we had made out in McDonald's parking lot. I never did that again with him, either.
My boyfriend and I exchanged notes regularly. He wrote in slanted printing. I could read it, a definite plus with letter writing. We expressed our love, our dreams and hopes for the future. He was frustrated, though, one time I painfully scribed the words to the Everly Brothers' All I Have to Do is Dream, stopping the record to get the words, then listening some more. I think he expected a love poem written by me. I could be wrong, but I hold to that feeling.
I had forgotten how important expressing myself was, till I thought how I love Face book. My passing notes the fifty two year old's way. Just don't do it at work or you'll be punished. The notes are all ready being read in front of the world.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Wordless Wednesday
I took this with my cell phone from our wedding album. Sometimes, it is good to see things out of focus. Like waking up in the morning with the love of your life for thirty one years. Heck, focus or not, I love waking up with him. Don't get to do it often enough. Sorry for the bad grammar.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Tired and How to Beat It
Another day of sleepiness, this time because of sleeplessness between four and maybe six thirty. I can't hardly think. I need a nap before work, yet I put it off. I read a blog on "why" about writing and activities we do as writers. The successful things for one prove to not work for another. He advised us to ask why we do things.
I'm doing soul searching. I grow a bit dismal when I look at my page views. I feel sad when I see no comments. I do get comments on the Face book account, and when I e-mail a post to a friend.
I start talking about one of the real reasons I endeavored on this adult writing career, David and Mary Thompson, the Pierces, James Satterfield. I hop to life. I tingle at the research I'll do. I form stories around what I think happened. I love this history.
I wonder should I write a different blog. A specific one about cooking on a cast iron griddle for a year kind of post. Well, I'm kidding about cooking, but the one topic blogs do gender more traffic, it seems.
I go back to why I started posting on a blog. For my mom's stories to be told before I forgot them. To share my faith. I always want to encourage along the way. I pray a ray of hope will shine through. But what if my ray feels faint, how do I generate that hope?
I can't generate it. The Light comes from above, from Jesus. I need to focus on Him. As I laid awake this morning, but didn't want to leave my bed, I prayed some. Why do I write? I do want to make a living from it, as I grow more weary with nursing. I do want to glorify God and hopefully show some answers to someone's questions.
I think of Elijah when he was depressed. God allowed him to only sleep and fed him by the ravens. I think sometimes, I need to sleep. I need to quit striving. I do strive when I get down, like now. I think I will be happy with writing as my career, but then wonder, if I am ever happy? I am tired. I know I need to rework the last chapters of Summer Triangle, yet feel unable to do so with time constraints and lack of sleep.
I think a twenty minute nap may help. Putting all this in God's hands is the biggest boost. I read posts on Face book. One writer needs a breakthrough. The Presbyterian church posts Matthew 7:7-8 about ask, seek and knock. Beverly Lewis writes "I'd rather write than most anything. If I go too long without getting my words down, I have a tendency to become ill...as if part of me is somehow denied." Oh, confirmation of my desire, too, makes me wish I had climbed out of bed to write. It may not have been too bad.
I'm doing soul searching. I grow a bit dismal when I look at my page views. I feel sad when I see no comments. I do get comments on the Face book account, and when I e-mail a post to a friend.
I start talking about one of the real reasons I endeavored on this adult writing career, David and Mary Thompson, the Pierces, James Satterfield. I hop to life. I tingle at the research I'll do. I form stories around what I think happened. I love this history.
I wonder should I write a different blog. A specific one about cooking on a cast iron griddle for a year kind of post. Well, I'm kidding about cooking, but the one topic blogs do gender more traffic, it seems.
I go back to why I started posting on a blog. For my mom's stories to be told before I forgot them. To share my faith. I always want to encourage along the way. I pray a ray of hope will shine through. But what if my ray feels faint, how do I generate that hope?
I can't generate it. The Light comes from above, from Jesus. I need to focus on Him. As I laid awake this morning, but didn't want to leave my bed, I prayed some. Why do I write? I do want to make a living from it, as I grow more weary with nursing. I do want to glorify God and hopefully show some answers to someone's questions.
I think of Elijah when he was depressed. God allowed him to only sleep and fed him by the ravens. I think sometimes, I need to sleep. I need to quit striving. I do strive when I get down, like now. I think I will be happy with writing as my career, but then wonder, if I am ever happy? I am tired. I know I need to rework the last chapters of Summer Triangle, yet feel unable to do so with time constraints and lack of sleep.
I think a twenty minute nap may help. Putting all this in God's hands is the biggest boost. I read posts on Face book. One writer needs a breakthrough. The Presbyterian church posts Matthew 7:7-8 about ask, seek and knock. Beverly Lewis writes "I'd rather write than most anything. If I go too long without getting my words down, I have a tendency to become ill...as if part of me is somehow denied." Oh, confirmation of my desire, too, makes me wish I had climbed out of bed to write. It may not have been too bad.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Sunday, May 26, 2013
A Fake New England Weekend
http://missmolliesmusings.blogspot.com/2012/05/enchanting-jewell.html
I'm going to post pictures from our day yesterday in Poland, Ohio. I wrote last year about our trip to Poland Forest. A little more than a year later, we made it back as a whole family with Mary Ellen.
Many events scheduled in New England this weekend, that made me wish I could jump in that transporter. Lobster weekend in Mystic, Connecticut, David's second cousin's daughter in the lead role of Legally Blonde at Oyster River High School in New Hampshire and a praise night at church in Massachusetts, not to mention celebration of Jersey shore come back after Sandy with Southside Johnny in concert at Atlantic City. Even if we lived in Norwich still, there is no humanly way to have done all that. Life is like that, huh?
We enjoyed Poland and the feel of New England with the old homes, the people looking like when we lived there and the weather. I told David, I wanted to go to New England this weekend and that this was pretty close. We both smiled as we commented almost together, "Even down to the weather."
Since I was what my mom used to call owly (out of sorts, crabby)
today and my niece is coming over for a cool night beside the fire with hot dogs and s'mores, I'm writing quickly. Pictures tell the story tonight.
I'm going to post pictures from our day yesterday in Poland, Ohio. I wrote last year about our trip to Poland Forest. A little more than a year later, we made it back as a whole family with Mary Ellen.
Many events scheduled in New England this weekend, that made me wish I could jump in that transporter. Lobster weekend in Mystic, Connecticut, David's second cousin's daughter in the lead role of Legally Blonde at Oyster River High School in New Hampshire and a praise night at church in Massachusetts, not to mention celebration of Jersey shore come back after Sandy with Southside Johnny in concert at Atlantic City. Even if we lived in Norwich still, there is no humanly way to have done all that. Life is like that, huh?
We enjoyed Poland and the feel of New England with the old homes, the people looking like when we lived there and the weather. I told David, I wanted to go to New England this weekend and that this was pretty close. We both smiled as we commented almost together, "Even down to the weather."
Since I was what my mom used to call owly (out of sorts, crabby)
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Duck Drama
As promised...
A few days ago on my walk through Buhl Farm Park while the sun shone and it was a bit warmer, I sat for a few minutes to talk to my husband on the cell phone about drama at work, adding names because that is easier. The bench beside Lake Julia welcomed me as this seemed complicated. As I talked, the sun sparkled on the small ripples. I watched the mother ducks with their ducklings. One mother scolded a woman on the shore over the dam.
What was going on? I squinted to follow the irritation. The mother duck got angrier. The woman turned to cross the road. She walked back with a bundle in her hand. I thought, she can't feed the ducks, we're not allowed and it's not good for them. What is she thinking?
Soon, a wee bundle of brown feathers scooted from her hands. The mother duck called to her baby and shooed the flock further out in the lake. Another mother and her brood hurried away from the scene, too.
The woman stood watching when the park ranger parked his patrol car and sauntered up to her with his gut hanging over his belt. They talked. He probably told her not to handle the waterfowl. Another couple joined in and four people discussed duck troubles. The mother duck floated way off to the middle of the lake.
Harrison sniffed around the bench, then quizzed me as to why we had stopped. I gave a minute by minute detailed account to David on the phone, as the drama unfolded. He thought, My woman is losing it. Their conversation didn't carry over the distance. Soon, the group disbanded. The duck families swam to the opposite shores. Will this woman ever pick up a duckling to join with his family again? The mallard drake steamed over, but mother duck had things under control. The drama over, and no further work drama to report, I said good-bye. Harrison jumped to continue the walk.
No point, only fun for a Saturday night.
A few days ago on my walk through Buhl Farm Park while the sun shone and it was a bit warmer, I sat for a few minutes to talk to my husband on the cell phone about drama at work, adding names because that is easier. The bench beside Lake Julia welcomed me as this seemed complicated. As I talked, the sun sparkled on the small ripples. I watched the mother ducks with their ducklings. One mother scolded a woman on the shore over the dam.
What was going on? I squinted to follow the irritation. The mother duck got angrier. The woman turned to cross the road. She walked back with a bundle in her hand. I thought, she can't feed the ducks, we're not allowed and it's not good for them. What is she thinking?
Soon, a wee bundle of brown feathers scooted from her hands. The mother duck called to her baby and shooed the flock further out in the lake. Another mother and her brood hurried away from the scene, too.
The woman stood watching when the park ranger parked his patrol car and sauntered up to her with his gut hanging over his belt. They talked. He probably told her not to handle the waterfowl. Another couple joined in and four people discussed duck troubles. The mother duck floated way off to the middle of the lake.
Harrison sniffed around the bench, then quizzed me as to why we had stopped. I gave a minute by minute detailed account to David on the phone, as the drama unfolded. He thought, My woman is losing it. Their conversation didn't carry over the distance. Soon, the group disbanded. The duck families swam to the opposite shores. Will this woman ever pick up a duckling to join with his family again? The mallard drake steamed over, but mother duck had things under control. The drama over, and no further work drama to report, I said good-bye. Harrison jumped to continue the walk.
No point, only fun for a Saturday night.
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