Chapter Four - Life is a Bowl of Toilets and I Feel Flush - #humor

Take This Job And Shove It!

If I were to fill out an application for work today that required listing all my previous jobs, I pretty much think someone would request a psychological evaluation.  My first job:  working for the US Air Force as a secretary for the Missile Safety Program.  I left that job to take a job closer to home with the telephone company as a Service Representative.  That was back in the day when you got actual service from a human being and didn't have to go through an automated attendant who asked a zillion wrong questions before you got to the one you wanted.  Can you actually believe they hired other folks just to listen in on conversations to make sure you thanked the customers, and also timed you to assure you weren't off the phone for more than ninety seconds without excusing yourself a second time?  A board hung in our office charting our "delays" our manner discrepancies, and other faux pas. To inspire us, we were pitted against other offices to improve our scores.  Now that I think about it, that was a pretty sick way to get people to be nice.

I left that stressful environment to accept work at a nearby University acting a secretary for the English department.  I put emphasis on the "acting" since that stint last about three weeks.  Shortly after accepting the job, I discovered I was pregnant and couldn't stop throwing up.  I didn't think it was fair to get paid to lay in the employees' lounge all day, and I'm pretty sure the department wasn't thrilled with their hiring choice, so I graciously resigned.

After my son turned two, I decided on a part time job as a school bus driver.  What was I thinking?  I left one kid with a babysitter to spend my days with 70. Not by best idea, by far, but the experience created some lasting memories which you may have read in my first "Toilet" book.  I think the only incident I omitted was getting my boob caught in the bus door and having to write an accident report on how I did it.  I didn't know then, and I'm still not sure.

From bus driving, I went to work part-time in a landscape/nursery gig as a bookkeeper.  The job turned info full-time in two days, after the owner and his wife got into a big tiff and she quit and left me the job...even her husband if I wanted him.  As it turned out, he was quite the ladies man and I think she'd had it.  At the time I didn't know much about sexual harassment, but I think I might have a case simply based on the fact that he called me "Chi-Chi," which I late learned meant "titties" in Spanish.  Somehow my boobs got me into trouble again.

I won't mention the employer's name, but I can tell you he was quite the charmer.  He came from Spain, spoke fluent Spanish with a really broken English accent and had killer blue eyes and a smile that melted women. BUT, It didn't take long to see why his wife got fed up.  Oh, I admit, at first I was dazzled by his attention, but after noticing he fed the same line to every woman who came in the place, he quickly lost his appeal.  I think the killer for me was when I heard him repeat what he'd just said to me to an elderly woman with a mole on her nose bigger than a quarter. Beautiful, my butt!

 I didn't blame his wife.  Some things should be reserved for that special person in your life, and trust me, he didn't reserve anything.  Still, stupidity kept me there for longer than I should have stayed.  What started as three days a week immediately turned into five plus.  I was supposed to be the assistant bookkeeper, but despite keeping the same crummy wage I was hired at, I quickly acquired everything his wife did except sleeping with him.  I'm pretty sure I could have shared his bed too, If I was so inclined.

 I wised up and quit the day he had me hauling five-gallon trees to their designated place in the nursery.  I didn't quite see how that and cleaning the toilet had anything to do with bookkeeping.  Color me brilliant.

I was only one of hundred who came and went, judging from the number of W2 forms that arrived via mail the day before I departed.  Mr. Charming hired illegals, and faster than INS could snag them back, he'd have another truckload delivered.  The last thing I needed was trouble with the "feds."

From there, I tried my luck at another university job,starting as a Senior Clerk Typist Clerk, advancing to a Principal Clerk, and eventually working my way up to a management position.  In all my years there, I never could figure out what a Principle Clerk was...as opposed to a unprincipled clerk?

I spent twenty-three years there and have lot of happy memories and one not so great, but I might have to write a book about how I was driver from my job by a fellow disgruntled employee with an unfounded grudge.  Anyhow, we kept a running "funny file" to document the wacky things that happened everyday.  When you work with diverse groups of people trying to adjust to new cultures, you're bound to experience some amusing situations.  Now, I'm not lying.  These are real names and in their home countries I'm sure they don't even register a chuckle, but the first time Semmah Dong came to see me, I had a difficult time keeping a straight face.  However, that was a mild day compared to when I first met Fok Yu at a student orientation.  Oh my God, how would you like to have that name?

I'm sure there were lots of amusing things that happened while I was there, but unfortunately, my long term memory has joined my short and gone on hiatus.  That's just another plus of getting old.

For some strange reason, I always felt like I belonged in the medical field.  Each time I visited a doctor, and believe me, after chalking up the cast incident, there were more than a few to count.  I always had an eerie sensation that I'd been a nurse or doctor in a previous life.  If I could stand the sight of blood or vomit, I might have tried the profession in this one, but I'm afraid I'd have  horrible beside manner.  Joining your patient while. they throw up in a little kidney-shaped tray in the hospital probably would be frowned upon...but that's just a hunch.  I decided to stick with jobs I knew I could handle.  Of course I have this uncanny knowledge of medical info, and for some reason, know more about car engines than I should.  My husband is convinced that in my previous life, I worked my way through medical school while working as a mechanic.

I retired at an early age because of the aforementioned incident, and made a leap of faith, leaving California for the southern charm of Tennessee.  Unfortunately, we researched everything but employment and wages.  The town we elected to call home was filled with empty buildings of failed businesses or ones moving to Mexico, so I found myself having to find a job while my hubby searched for something lucrative.  Considering his previous $25.00 an hour wage, the twenty-six cents per mile truck-driving job he acquired after paying $5000 to go to driving school should have been a harbinger of things to come.

I visited an employment agency and filed out a generic form.  Imagine my surprise when they sent me to the local Sheriff's Office for an interview.  I assumed it was a clerical job, but I was questioned about my ability to serve as a Correctional Officer.  I was sure they were kidding.  I was almost sixty, had no training in dealing with inmates, and have a bad knee.  I assumed I was wasting time, but out of curiosity, I sat through the interview.  Heck, in California, you have to attend an academy to even apply so I was stunned when the called back and hired me.  Of course with I realized I'd just agreed to work for $7.55 per hour among the incarcerated, I questioned my sanity.  The jail housed state inmates as well as the locals...everything from larceny to homicide so I couldn't understand why they found me qualified.  I figured it out.  I was breathing, I could walk, talk, and agreed to work for peanuts.

Every other position in life had no equipment requirements except maybe having a good writing pen, but now I found myself wearing a uniform, utility belt, handcuffs, and an empty holster.  No guns allowed in the jail, which was a great idea, but I did have pepper spray, a flashlight and a glove case...all of which I was required to purchase myself.  In order to be a C.O. you must have a gun, so I used my ex-husbands service revolver.  I'd never even shot a weapon, so finding out I had to be certified was a shock.  I remember how nervous I was, then stunned when I shot 83/100 on my very first attempt.  I was so sore the next day, I could hardly hold up my arm, but I proudly displayed my target silhouette riddled with accurate bullet holes.  I never imagined hanging something like that on my home office wall, but I was pretty stoked about doing so well.

In order to use the pepper spray, I had to attend a special class.  What they failed to mention was that I also had to "experience" pepper spray firsthand.  After the textbook instruction part of the class, we all assembled in the Sallie port, stood in line and had out choice of being sprayed or swabbed.  I elected the swab thinking, "how much can they put on a q-tip."

I'd never seen a swap that huge.  It resembled a mini-mop, which I guess is the reward for being a wimp.  If they instructor wanted me to see what fire really felt like,he achieved his goal.  My eyes immediately teared up and my cheeks flamed.  I was forced to remain standing before I could "decon" the situation, but I soon discovered there really isn't anything you can do to make the pain go away.  Following instructions, I splashed cold water on my face, but forgot that rubbing it exacerbates the effect.  After about forty-five minutes, the agony dissipated.  I thought that concluded the class.  Wrong!

The instructor pulled the three ladies aside and gave us "personal instructions" pertinent only to our gender.  He warned us about any hand to nether-region contact without thoroughly washing ones hands first.  I found myself a tad embarrassed  having a total stranger instruct me about yeast infections and the like, but when I glanced at my still-red cheeks and eyes in the mirror at home, I seriously considered sending him a thank you card for his hygiene lesson.  All. the way home, I sat in front of the air-conditioning vent aimed at my face, and later thought how ridiculous I might look trying to cool the part of my body we had discussed in semi-privacy.  That'd be a site no one should see.

So, I survived the pepper spray experience, certified with my weapon and had been handcuffed to learn the use of them.  When they showed me the taser and asked if I wanted to be certified to carry one, I passed on the offer as soon as I learned I had to be tased to achieve the status.  The phrase, "help I've fallen and can't get up" kept racing through my mind.  I was just thankful I didn't have to be shot in order to carry a firearm.

I could probably write a whole book on my experiences in the jail because I learned so much.  Most people who are locked up are unfortunate souls who made mistakes and are paying for them. Many are repeat offenders who never learn or maybe just like the food and shelter.  Some are just destined to be mean.  Luckily, I didn't meet an inmate I couldn't handle.  I was a gun-toting, pepper spray and cuff-carrying granny, and I think the inmates either pitied me or didn't want to mess with a bitch going through menopause.

Just a note:  I've updated this a tad, and since have written a book called First Degree Innocence, a fictional accounting of the claims of innocence I heard on a daily basis.  Made me wonder if some might be true. The books I shared in the jail library made me feel popular, but then I think books with sex are a hot topic there, even if most of mine were sweet romance.

As is the norm...I have to end with a joke:

Ethel and Mabel, two senior widows, sat on a park bench, watching folks pass by.

"You know, Mabel," Ethel said, "I've been reading this "sex and marriage" book and all they talk about is mutual orgasm.  Mutual orgasm here, mutual orgasm there--that's all they talk about."  She turned serious eyes to her friend.  "Tell me.  When your husband was alive, did you two ever have mutual orgasm?"

Mabel though for a long while before finally shaking her head.  "No, I''m pretty sure we had State Farm."

Chapter Three - Life is A Bowl of Toilets and I Feel Flush #humor @gingersimpson

Strangers in the Night

Oh, how I wish I still had a memory.  That's one of the first things to go as you age.  One day you're heading down the  hall and you suddenly realize you have no idea why...or even of your final destination.  The first time it happens is a horrible feeling, but soon becomes so commonplace you simply rearrange your life to accommodate those lapses in memory.  Some use a checklist before leaving home to make sure they don't burn the house down by forgetting to turn off appliances.  I don't bother because I can't count how many times I've made a list for the grocery story and get there without it.  I've solved the key finding dilemma by attaching them to my purse strap with a hook, and now the problem is remembering where I parked by car.  Thank goodness for the panic button on the back of the keyless entry or I'd still be wandering around in the parking lot at Walmart.

And...is there anything more embarrassing than running into people you don't remember, especially when they seem to know you quite well?  If the "strangers" are close to my age, I try to fish for tips on how we know one another.   Hopefully, they won't remember when they get home, anyhow.

I think everyone over fifty should have their names embroidered on their clothing in a highly visible area, and in large letters for those of us who left our glasses somewhere and can't find them.

Here's an example of what might be looming in our future:

Two elderly women were out for a cruise, neither could barely see over the dashboard of the large vehicle.  As they moved along the boulevard at a healthy clip, they reached an intersection where the traffic light was red.  Instead of stopping, the car went right through.

The woman in the passenger seat glanced back over her shoulder while mumbling, "I must be losing my my mind.  I swear that light was red."  

After a few more minutes they came to another intersection and red light and just as before, the car raced right through.  A little further down the street, it happens again.

Now the lady in the passenger seat begins to panic, but before she can say anything, her friend runs another red light.

Fearing for her life, the passengers turns wide eyes on her friend.  "Mildred, do you realize you've been running every red light since we left home.  You would have killed us both."

Mildred turned to her with a bewildered look.  "Oh crap!  Am I driving?"

******

Along with your memory goes you eyesight.  God was kind here because most people over fifty have lost some degree of vision, most likely to balance the shock of the body changes we experience.  Luckily, we don't have to wear our corrective lenses to bed or senior sex would come to an immediate halt.  If we saw one another with 20/20 accuracy, we'd probably consider celibacy a serious cure.

Senior sex, you say?  Studies show that most adults stay sexually active well into their golden years and actually enjoy the intimacy more than when they were young.  I have to admit, I'm trying only because I've read that sex can prolong your life.  I view intercourse as a monthly dose of exercise.  Why jog when I can make love and cause my heart to race just by trying to assume positions I favored in my younger years.  I've decided the "missionary" is my favorite at this stage of life since I spend most of my time praying for the torture to end.  The article stated seniors actually enjoy sex more?  I've come to the conclusion the study most likely was based on bedroom noises.  It's hard to decipher between someone lost in the throes of ecstasy and someone with the sudden onset of leg cramps.  Face it, at fifty or older, most of us just aren't as agile as we used to be.

I just don't want to be like the women in these jokes:

An elderly woman ambles down the nursing home hallway.  She stops in front of each old man along the way, rests on her walker, flips up the bottom of her nightgown and says, "Supersex?"

After stopping in front of four or five gentlemen and not receiving any response, she pauses before a newcomer who sits in his wheelchair.  Again, she flips up the hem of her gown and says, "Supersex?"

The elderly man gives her a quick once over.  "I'll take the soup, please."

OR

Eight-year-old Bessie bursts into the rec room at the retirement home.  She holds her clenched fist in the air.  "Anyone who can guess what' s in my hand can have sex with me tonight."  A yell comes from an elderly man in the back of the room.  "An elephant?"

Bessie thinks for a moment then smiles.  "Close enough!"

My gradual loss of vision and sex drive coincided with the spouting of long hairs on my neck and a few on my upper lip.  What's that about?  I had a hysterectomy, took hormone replacement pills daily, and now I'm growing a beard?  I don't know about you but I think my husband should be the only one in the house with whiskers or a moustache.  It's even more humiliating when I have to ask him to "pluck" me since I can't see well enough to do it myself, and he can't hear without his hearing aids.  I can't stand the look of rejection on his face when I clarify what I asked for, so I've taken to getting facial waxes at my local salon.  

I remember my first visit when I first read the menu and found they offered "bikini waxing."  I might have considered one if I had a bathing suit body, but a few stray pubic hairs really are the least of my concern at this point.  In my younger years I did do a little trimming here and there on occasion, but I never considered asking a stranger to do it for me.

I realize I'm touching on a very sensitive topic, but consider this a warning.  Be thankful you have what you have, while you have it.  One of life's best kept secrets is that the hair on your head aren't the only locks that turn gray, and worse than that, not only men develop male-pattern baldness.  Let me just say that baby girls may look cute out of their diapers, but there is nothing attractive about a graying, balding who-who.  The way gravity is shifting everything downhill, it won't be look before my boobs hid the problem anyhow...as long as I don't lay down.

Here's a few things you can count on after you turn fifty:

• Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.
• There are three signs of old age...the first is memory loss...I can't remember the other two.
• Your mind wanders.  Sometimes it leaves completely.
• You are definitely old when you get the same sensation in your stomach from a rocking chair that you once got from riding a roller coaster.
• Never read the small print.  Too much effort for something you won't like anyhow.
• If you let a smile be your umbrella, you'll most likely walk around soaking wet.
• There are two things you will do with greater frequency...urinate and attend funerals.
• After a certain age, if you don't wake up aching in every joint, you're most likely dead.

Stay tuned for Chapter Four next time.

Chapter Three - Life is a Bowl of Toilets and I Feel Flush #humor @mizging

Breaking Up is Hard to Do!

My granny always swore she could predict the weather by her aches and pains.  Of course, when I was young, I laughed at the idea, but now I wish I could apologize for doubting anything she told me.  I never realized I'd learn so much from that lady, and I hope even though she's been gone for a lot of years, she knows I really miss her and I'm not laughing anymore.

I had arthroscopic surgery on my knee years and years ago to fix a torn meniscus...my old softball injury.  For those of you who don't what it is that I tore, all I can tell you that that it's in your knee and if you tear it, you can't walk, and it hurts like a son of a bee-atch.  At the time the new and improved procedure was less invasive and repaired the problem, but wasn't without it's own pain.  I spent eight glorious weeks in a full-leg cast that weight as much as an anchor.  I slept on a lumpy roll-away bed at the foot of my usual, comfy water mattress because the excess weight of the plaster kept me sunk to the bottom and caused a tidal wave that tossed my husband out of bed every time I tried to turn over.

I'm sure my then husband was glad when I finally had the cast removed, but I'm POSITIVE the doctor was.  I must be listed somewhere as the most annoying person ever to wear a cast and the biggest pain in the butt.  I can recall at least six occasions where I showed up at his office complaining about that awful abomination.  (You thought it was going to say Obamanation, didn't you?)  Same thing, just a different kind of discomfort.

The day after I came home from the hospital, my then husband took me out to dinner to help me forget the grudge I had against the witch who slid into first base and took me and my knee out of the first game of our district tournament.  Let me describe how I felt.  If you picture stuffing your leg into one of those long cardboard rolls that holds wrapping paper, then try to maneuver gracefully, you'll have a fair idea of what it was like...but don't forget to add about fifty pounds to the mental image.

Sometime during dinner, I got a horrific cramp and stood up with speed so blinding, I knocked the chair over.  Of course the idea was to walk it off.  The spasm was forgotten when the entire cast shifted downward and rested like a razor blade atop my foot.  Talk about a cylindrical torture chamber!!  I demanded my then husband take me to the doctor and make him fix the problem.  At that time, I didn't realize the problem was ME!

The doctor used one of the handy little saws and removed the offending cast, but he immediately applied another fifteen layers of plaster.  Makes sense to me, doesn't it to you?  Add another three hundred pounds to an injured limb that's trying to heal.

That cast lasted almost a whole day and a half before it too shifted down and impeded my ability to walk.  I had already made numerous calls asking how to scratch an itch, how to bathe, and why my leg was sweating, so I wasn't in a hurry to visit his office again, at least not so soon.  I decided to take matters into my own hands.  Bad decision.  I limped to the garage, and using a pair of pruning shears, tried to make my own adjustment.

Did it work?  Well, it was no easy feat.  Remember I had my leg in a full-length cast so there was no bending involved except at the waist.  Do you have any idea how dizzy you get bending over for twenty minutes while trying to re-sculpt plaster?

I managed to carve a little arc about the top of my foot.  I was soooo proud of my ingenuity...until I tried to amber back inside the house.  My work was for not.  The cast slipped further down, and now the edges rested on the floor and made walking impossible.  I hopped back inside and called the doctor.

He wasn't impressed with my handiwork, but by now realized he had to fix the problem and make me go away for a while.  There had to be a solution besides amputating my leg,  He cupped his chin like Sherlock Holmes, and pondered.  I'm pretty sure somewhere in his mind was the old saying, "They shoot horses don't they?"

Finally, he had an "aha" moment.  A lighter cast.  What a concept.  So off I went to the casting room once again to "go under the saw."  This time instead of plaster, the tech applied layers of fiberglass, I'm sure praying the fix solved my dilemma and he didn't have to see me again anytime soon.  Too bad, it didn't.

This cast shifted easier than the other, and in two days, I painfully discovered that fiberglass cuts even deeper than plaster.  Sooo, back to the drawing board.

The doctor "threw in the proverbial towel" and left the problem in the hands of the casting tech.  I'm fairly sure his remedy didn't originate from medical school, but at this point I was ready to try almost anything.  He attached an actual garter clip to the top of the cast and gave me an elastic belt with instructions to put it on and latch the two together.  The whole thing reminded me of my days wearing a "kotex" belt, but off I went thinking I'd have no more problems.

WRONG!  The solution might have been ingenious, but it didn't work.  The weight of the cast, although lighter than the previous one, still slid down atop my foot.  The elastic belt (the clue being ELASTIC) simply stretched, cutting into my waist and adding new discomfort to the situation.  Now I had an rash around my middle, a curved spine to go with my limp, and looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  Remember when someone gave you an "Indian burn" when you were a kid.  That's what my middle felt like.  Yikes!

The look on the technician's face when I showed up again spoke volumes.  He motioned me to the table and displaying knitted brows and his bottom lip sucked between his teeth, promptly put my foot into the cast to support the cylinder.  Why didn't they think of that before?  I'll tell you why.  Somewhere, someone must have known it was a bad idea.  Although I limped out of the office with a now fully-supported cast, little did I know that my severe claustrophobia would kick in.

For those of you who share claustrophobic feelings you can appreciate how awful this was.  First I tried relaxation techniques, picturing myself on a beach in Fiji, but anywhere my mind took me, that damn cast went along.  Thank goodness I had some Valium left in the medicine chest or I wouldn't have made it through the night.  I even made another trip to the garage, but found NOTHING that would cut through fiberglass short of a table saw, and I wasn't about to risk that.  I hobbled back inside, took another Valium and tried to relax.

At five A.M., I drove myself to the emergency room, and paced back and forth with the worst cramp ever.  Talk about a fierce Charlie Horse...wow, I had to get that cast off my foot.  I'm a foot jiggler, and unable to perform that ritual caused every muscle in my leg, ankle and foot to tighten into a painful wad.

I was so grateful to see that little saw again.  At this point I didn't care if I had to hold the cast up with my teeth, I just needed relief.  The doctor skillfully and quickly (not taking the amount of time I had to cut an arch in the cast) removed the fiberglass from my foot, then adjusted the fit of the cast by applying foam between my skin and the sharp edges.  Oh, I love that man to this day!  I managed to get back home before my then husband even knew I was gone, and I handled that horrid cast for the remaining six weeks.  You don't really appreciate freedom until the day the cast comes off for good.  Of course, after eight weeks, I had a choice of shaving my legs or braiding the hair, but that was a small price to pay for joy!

Just my luck...the very week after I had my cast removed, my youngest son broke his leg.  His pain was my pain, his itches, mine too.  Listening to him complain was like having my leg casted all over again.  I just don't understand how he got to be such a wimp.

Oh, this experiences is all a distant memory now, and just like Granny did, I've become proficient in predicting the weather.  My conclusion...try hard not to injure anything.  The repercussions last long beyond the healing process, and I've concluded that if I ever break or tear anything again, I hope they do shoot me.

*******

An elderly woman calls 911 on her cell to report that her car had been broken into.  In hysteria, she explains how someone has stolen her steering wheel, stereo and stripped the dash of all buttons. 

The dispatcher tries to calm her.  "Just sit tight ma'am.  An officer is on the way."

When the policeman arrives, he promptly calls dispatch.  "Disregard the theft call.  Mrs. Ramsey got in the back seat by mistake."

*****

I hope you'll continue to come back for more from LIABOTAIFF.