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Too Much Reality TV Isn’t a Good Thing

Don't be tardy for the party

Don’t be tardy for the party (Photo credit: Totally Severe)

I’ve been watching a lot of reality TV lately. It started innocently enough. A little Real Housewives of Atlanta, solely to get to the bottom of Kim‘s wig fetish. Then I half-watched a few episodes of Teen Mom and wondered why a license isn’t required to have a child. Catfish, a show that provides the opportunity for the internet lovelorn to discover their online sweetie is using someone else’s identity, quickly became repetitive, so I switched to the The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills to watch women dumped by semi-famous men. That became a gateway to the Shahs of Sunset. Reza had a haircut I needed to study and no one does mean girls, it turns out, quite like the Persians. Oh, and a Persian Barbie who was also a lawyer. Who knew? Every time I watched I’d promise myself it was the last episode, then something shocking would happen and I’d be on the hook for the next show.

Best part of Shahs of Sunset: the shots of the...

Best part of Shahs of Sunset: the shots of the kabobs at the very end (Photo credit: ario_)

And, let’s be honest here, no one watches these shows to learn about life or live vicariously through someone else. We watch because we’re fascinated by the grotesque and ugly things these people do. 450 cc fake boobs, drunken catfights, botox, and plastic surgery combine to make these people look less than human. And the way they live? Not like anyone I know. Daddy or hubby pays the bills. Jobs, if they have them, are as ridiculous as making diamond water (don’t ask) or selling books about the scandals they’ve already covered on the show. They travel in limousines, have outrageous parties, and raise children that are largely absent. Definitely not in my league.

And not a league I want to be in.

I understand that everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame. I know if there isn’t controversy, no one will watch (me sitting on my couch in my pajamas would be an epic fail of a reality show). I acknowledge that good television requires good guys and villains and watching the conflict that develops between them is what keeps me tuning in.

But, there’s something inherently sad about watching people play a role on TV. The jilted lover, the lying stud, the long suffering wife, and the alcoholic, lonely single woman all seem comfortable to lay the pain and ugliness of their lives on the screen and have us watch. They want us to sympathize, understand, and ultimately learn from their story line.  Unfortunately all I’ve learned is that the tv viewing audience is no substitute for a trained therapist.

I think I’ll turn off my tv and leave them to their dysfunction.

Kicking Television

Kicking Television (Photo credit: dhammza)

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Patient’s Rights Shouldn’t Be at Nursing’s Expense

Group of nurses, Base Hospital #45

Group of nurses, Base Hospital #45 (Photo credit: The Library of Virginia)

Providing nursing care is an intimate business. Nurses are at the bedside for births, life-threatening injuries, chronic conditions, and death. They become familiar with both a patient and their family. Helping people navigate these life changes takes compassion and empathy. There are days it is damn hard to be a nurse.

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, if you’re in the hospital there will always be a nurse on-site. Budget cuts, staffing issues, increasingly complex machinery and treatments all contribute to the stress that nurses must deal as well as twelve-hour shifts, mandatory overtime, and working holidays and weekends.  Nurses are expected to keep patients safe, use resources wisely, and provide culturally competent care. The nurse is required to respect each patient as a person.

That makes it even more distressing when a hospital disrespects a nurse and her rights as in a recent lawsuit against a Michigan hospital.

The lawsuit alleges that a nurse of 25 years standing in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit was told by her supervisor she would no longer be assigned to care for an infant because the baby’s daddy didn’t want African-American nurses caring for his child. The man showed the supervisor a swastika-type tattoo in relating his request. According to the lawsuit, the baby’s chart was prominently marked to indicate no African-American nurses were to be involved in this infant’s care. This was honored for a month before the hospital attorney stepped in and had the notation removed.

English: The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NIC...

English: The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) at Kapiolani Medical Center in Honolulu, Hawaii (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t know what the hospital was thinking, other than to make the customer happy, but they should have told the man that they weren’t going to allow his hateful beliefs to compromise the care of his child and demean their employees. They could have offered to transfer the child to an institution willing to make those choices, if they could find one. They could have had their Ethics Board review the case and come up with an appropriate plan of care that didn’t imply that African-American nurses were any less competent, worthwhile, or caring than their white, Hispanic, or Asian counterparts. They could have done something.

Woman at work--registered nurse

Woman at work–registered nurse (Photo credit: yooperann)

Instead they bowed down to the demands that were not only hateful, but illegal. If the allegations are true, for an entire month qualified, trained nurses were told they weren’t the right color to provide care and that’s just plain wrong.

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The Secret Ingredient is (Always) Love

cat eating leftovers

cat eating leftovers (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Not at my house!

 

 

 

 

I’ve always loved to cook.  As a child, volunteering  to cook on weekends meant I didn’t have to go out and help drag brush into burn piles or do other unpleasant, outside chores. It also meant not having to suffer through my mother’s cooking which, back in the day, consisted of undercooked casseroles or spaghetti and burnt cookies.

 

 

 

overcooked cookies

 

 

 

 

 

 

As an adult, able to purchase my own ingredients and cook in my own kitchen, I grew to love cooking even more. Home made caramels and chocolates, crab rangoons, cheesecakes of every descriptions, there was no holiday or family event that didn’t involve hours of poring over recipes and experimenting with new dishes. Preparing my favorite meal, Christmas Eve dinner, involved days of preparation and culminated in tables and counters overflowing with food.

 

smörgåsbord), Swedish buffet

smörgåsbord), Swedish buffet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

At my house, there are always leftovers.

 

 

 

The last few years, though, I’ve noticed my cooking has been lacking something. My dishes are good, just not great. The menu is varied, but not spectacular. The leftovers fly out the door as quickly as ever, but what remains sits in my refrigerator uneaten. There’s something missing.

 

 

 

At first I thought it might be a change in my taste buds, but no one complained about the seasoning or flavor combinations. Perhaps it was a reflection of my hurried life. Rushing through meal preparations might result in inaccurate measurements or missing ingredients, but even when I slowed down, the results remained the same. In desperation, I started to farm out my cooking to other relatives. My recipes, my ingredients, my directions, my kitchen, not my cooking. Sort of like I was the executive chef and my daughter and nieces functioned as my sous and pastry chefs. It filled the table, but didn’t feel fulfilling.

 

cook helpers

 

 

 

Then this week, beset by an awful cold, I made my famous, never fail, totally delicious homemade chicken soup. And it sucked. Oh, it was good-looking enough, and it was hot, and it had the correct ingredients, but it didn’t taste right and it didn’t make me feel any better. It sort of made me feel worse. A feeling I’d never experienced with my chicken soup in the past. Why?

 

 

 

As I dumped it down the sink and ran the garbage disposal, it hit me. It was missing the most crucial ingredient of all – love. My food isn’t meant to just nourish people’s bodies, it’s meant to nourish their souls. Cooking isn’t the combination of ingredients and heat or cold and time equaling taste, it’s the way I say “I love you.” And the last few years, I’ve been a little down on myself. I feel overstressed, overworked, pulled in too many different directions, and plain tired.  Cooking has become another chore in the my never-ending chore list and I approach it with the same attitude I clean up dog poop with – resignation. It’s no longer a way to say “I love you.” Instead it’s become a way to say, “Eh, eat.”

 

human food

human food (Photo credit: xtopalopaquetl)

 

So how do I pull myself out of this cooking death spiral and put the love back in my cooking? I’m not really sure, but I have to try because I miss the looks on the faces of my loved ones when they bite into their favorite dish. I miss the appreciative “mmm’s” as they chew. I long for the happy smile when they ask for seconds. I miss all of it and I want it back.

So this weekend I’m going to pick out one dish and cook it with intention, honesty, and love. No looking at the clock. No stressing about bills that need to be paid or laundry that needs to be washed. No regard for how many dishes or ingredients it takes. All I’m going to do is make one meal with love. Then, hopefully, I can recreate that feeling and make another. I’m going to keep going, one recipe at a time, until I  return to the days when my food whispered “I love you” with every bite.

A turducken that is chock full of love.

A turducken that is chock full of love.

 

 

 

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Winter Storm Nemo: Stranded Without a Charger

LAX Delays 12/20/07

LAX Delays 12/20/07 (Photo credit: andysternberg)

Winter Storm Nemo didn’t do much in my neck of the woods other than fill my driveway with snow and make the dogs happy. While the dogs happily frolicked outside, I tried to figure out whether my mother, who had arrived in LAX Thursday morning to find her flight to Boston cancelled, had caught a flight home or been stranded for another day.

She’s one of the unlucky ones who found their travel plans disrupted by the closing of Boston’s Logan as well as every other New England airport. Hard to fly back from the West Coast when the East Coast is shut down. Hard for your family to figure out where you are when you forget your phone charger and are running low on battery.

Solar Charger and Nokia N82

Solar Charger and Nokia N82 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Of course my mother’s generation didn’t grow up with cell phones and smart phones. She grew up with party lines and pay phones. Her cell phone isn’t the way she communicates with the world, gets news, and keeps updated with her friends. It’s a phone.

In her world, someone meets her at the airport rather than waits for her in the cell phone parking lot. If her flight gets cancelled, she goes to the ticket counter and talks to a person rather than trying to rebook online. When she finds herself stuck overnight at an airport, she strikes up conversations with strangers to pass the time rather than  spending time playing Candy Crush or Words With Friends. Shutting off her cell phone to conserve the battery doesn’t bother her in the least because she’ll turn it on if she wants to talk to someone.

Being incommunicado is not a scary thing to my mother.

No Service

No Service (Photo credit: SkyWideDesign)

And maybe that’s not a bad thing, but my generation is used to being in touch.  Whether it’s updating Facebook. tweeting, or texting, you know where we are. We leave a wide digital swath behind us. Tracking us down is easy and we never forget a power cord.

As tethered as I am to electronics, part of me realizes that my mother’s casual attitude toward being connected isn’t necessarily a bad thing. She’ll return from her hours in the airplane terminal with a different experience. She might not know the latest weather update or the specials at the local restaurant, but she’ll have made friends and shared memories with her fellow unwired passengers. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.

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Yes. It’s My Yappy Dog.

Yes, it’s my yappy dog. The one who barks and barks for no good reason in a tone guaranteed to disintegrate ear wax. I know it’s annoying.  But, he’s really cute.

nate sleeping

I try to be considerate. When I let him out in the morning, I wait in my pajamas at the patio door, ready to force him inside the second he lets out his first annoying bark of the day. That loud clunking sound you hear is a cardboard box full of zombie dice being vigorously shaken while I hiss “zombie dice” at my dog. Don’t ask me why. Sometimes it works.

After breakfast he likes to go out again. His quiet dog brother (oh, you didn’t realize I had two dogs? Of course not. The yappy one’s noise drowns out the pitter patter of my other dog’s silent feet) doesn’t appreciate the incessant barking any more than the rest of us. Every once in a while, when you hear a snarl, it’s him saying “shut the hell up” in dog language.

045

Coming home for lunch means more barking. Barking as I pull into the driveway. Barking as I come up the walk way. More barking as I unlock the door and enter the kitchen. Luckily it’s inside barking, which, while annoying, I hope is not as loud as outside barking. Then it’s back outside again until the inevitable yapping returns and we’re back to zombie dice and treats.

Yes. I give him treats to come inside so I can shut him up. Remember when you didn’t want to screech at your children like a nut when they drove you crazy in the grocery store? That’s how I feel about my dog every single day, multiple times no less.

I’ve tried everything I can think of. Water bottles sprayed in his face temporarily stop him, but not for long. Shaking loud, noisy things in his face have the same brief effect. Bark collars? I’ve been through three of them.  They stop the barking for a while, but then it returns. My family says I should have his vocal cords removed.

If I didn’t love this dog so much, I’d probably contemplate foisting him off on some unsuspecting sucker. He’s good looking, friendly, and has a great personality. Until he opens his mouth.

nate and brady

Any ideas for how to make the perfect dog shut up (short of physically harming my precious)? Let me know in the comments. My neighbors will thank you.

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Skip the Sex and Spinach

Every time I pick up a newspaper or check out the online news I’m amazed by the new studies that shed light on healthcare myths. At this point, you’d think researchers would be running out of things to challenge, but no, there’s still plenty of information, once thought of as gospel, that now turns out to be nothing but wishful thinking and fantasy.

News this week that made me think “duh”? Green leafy veggies are the most common cause of food poisoning.

Lettuce

Lettuce (Photo credit: photofarmer)

Common sense says why the hell wouldn’t they be? Leafy greens live down at ground level, get submerged in mud every time it rains, and they are hard to clean. Fields of green being planted or picked by migrant workers who probably don’t have ready access to porta-potties (though it makes sense not to set up porta-pottties near food) are the most likely culprits in providing a little e.coli to the mix.  That triple washed on the package may mean triple washed in sewage. Luckily, lettuce is easy to grow at home.

In news designed to infuriate drug makers, another study looked at male erectile dysfunction and heart disease. Forget those commercials with bathtubs and happy couples, the more severe a man’s ED, the greater his risk for heart disease and premature death.

cialis

Doctors are advised to screen and test men for heart disease instead of discreetly passing along a six pack of Viagra.

The New England Journal of Medicine stepped in this week to debunk some myths about weight loss. Turns out having sex does not burn 100-300 calories per participant.  It only burns a measly 50 calories,  equal to 10 minutes of vacuuming or 20 minutes of typing.

"Vacuuming" (93/365)

“Vacuuming” (93/365) (Photo credit: kalavinka)

So for weight loss, skip the sex and grab a vacuum. You might not work up the sweat associated with sex, but you’ll look better burning those 50 calories.

It turns out fecal transplants can be a real lifesaver. Hard to treat c. difficile infections respond better to a procedure involving donor feces infused into the patient’s small intestine than they do to antibiotics. I am not shitting you on this. Doctors who promote this treatment agree that the science bears them out, but the ick factor involved, both having the treatment and harvesting the feces for treatment, make it a tough sell.  fmt

The award for best research goes to the scientists who looked into the killing capability of cats. There is a reason that cats in movies and books are suspected of smothering babies in their sleep and nudging the elderly or infirm down stairs.

English: Young street cats, Portugal.

English: Young street cats, Portugal. (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Cats awaiting their next victims.

It’s well known that cats carry germs that cause depression and miscarriage.  Now it’s revealed that cats kill 1.4 to 3.7 billion birds and 6.9 to 20.7 billion mammals every year. Not only are they killers, they’re serial killers. Feral and outdoor cats contribute to the bulk of the killings, but people with indoor cats should be aware that, quite possibly, their fluffy little friend is plotting their demise.

Thanks, science!

Have any freaky health research studies? Let me know in the comments.