Grandma Gossip: Smarter Than Me

A while back, the two of us sat on the floor contemplating a puzzle of wild animals.

“Don’t help me!” “I can do it by myself!”

“OK, I won’t, but I’m right here if you need me. All you have to do is ask.”

She cocks her head, slyly looks at me, and declares, “I’m smarter than you, Grandma.”

I laughed, “Oh, you are? How so?”

“I can do this puzzle without your help.”

“I know you’re very very smart, so I believe that you can, but I will always be here if you need any help at all.”

A couple minutes go by as we work together to turn over all the puzzle pieces.

“I’m smarter than everybody.”

“Really?” I ask. “Everybody?”

“Oh yes.”

“Are you smarter than Daddy?” “Cos you know MY little boy is pretty smart, right?”

She thinks for a nanosecond.

“Yup, I’m smarter than Daddy.”

“How about Mommy? Are you smarter than Mommy?”

Another second goes by with a nod, “Yes, I am.”

“And what about Theo? Are you smarter than he is, too?”

First a sigh, than a shake of her head as she wistfully says, “No, I’m not smarter than Theo. He can do anything.”

My goodness. I was speechless. I could feel the deep love she has for her big brother.

“Theo IS smart and so are you, my Angel Girl.”

Laughing, she says, “We’re both smarter than YOU, little Grandma!”

I can’t really argue with THAT three-year-old, that’s for sure.

Not the Bees Knees 🐝

Of course I had to research the origin of that term "bees knees". The phrase was originally an 18th century fanciful phrase which referred to something that didn't exist. It was used as the kind of spoof item apprentices would be sent to the stores to fetch - like tartan paint or a left-handed hammer. That meaning is no longer used. In the Roaring Twenties in America, bright young things invented nonsense language to refer to things that were 'the tops' - like 'the cat's pajamas', 'the snake's hips' and so on. They utilized the existing 'bee's knees' phrase to add to that list. The expression has since spread and is now used worldwide to mean 'excellent/the very best'.

🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝

My visit with an orthopedic specialist was unsatisfactory on many levels.

First of all, the referral happened to send me to the same office that I had been to in the past for other random fractures and torn ligaments, which I thought was a great coincidence.

However, there was a major difference.

Before, I had PPO health insurance, (Preferred Provider Organization), which offers more doctor flexibility and has a higher monthly premium.

Now I have an HMO (Health Maintenance Organization), a network of health care professionals and hospitals who agree to provide medical care at minimal costs.

See the difference?

With PPO insurance, the attitude of staff and doctors is markedly more welcoming when scheduling an appointment than when you call to see a doctor who has first been referred by one’s primary doctor in an HMO. In fact, you can only see a specialist IF it’s been approved and authorized by the primary physician (who’s usually an internist) with a letter of referral from the insurance company.

I had always been treated respectfully — not this time, however!

Initially, when I called to make the appointment and they looked up my previous visits, the communication was pleasant and professional UNTIL I told them I had different insurance, no longer a premium PPO, but an HMO.

She said “Oh”. Her voice changed; her attitude changed. I didn’t think too much of it, didn’t take it personally, maybe it was a busy day or the scheduler had other things on her mind.

When I arrived for my consultation, to be fair, the front desk employees were friendly and professional which bolstered my view that the slight rudeness was a one-off…

However…

I finally saw the doctor about thirty minutes after my appointment time. From the moment he entered the room, I sensed that he was annoyed. He never made eye contact with me. He sat on his stupid little round stool and said “What’s the problem?” and when I I started to explain how it all occurred, he interrupted me to say, “But why are you here TODAY?”

As I started to explain, I could tell he wasn’t listening. He had that faraway look in his eyes that some people get when you know they’re not paying attention. My appointment was in the morning so it wasn’t like he had endured a full day of complaining patients.

He abruptly said, “Sit on the table and let me do an exam”.

It was rushed and cursory. He turned my knee in a few different directions, one of which caused a REALLY sharp pain, and then he pulled my shoes off without warning.

Let’s back up.

I’ve mostly always had great relationships with medical professionals. I like to consider that I’m an informed team member in my own health issues. It’s my body and all that. Because I know a bit about medicine, I feel that I offer valuable insights and points of view that MOST doctors seem to appreciate. I can talk the talk, as it were.

But while I was on the exam table, HE PULLED MY SHOES OFF.

He didn’t ask if I was OK with it, he didn’t ask ME to unlace and take off my workout shoes, he roughly pulled them off my feet — still laced up — and tossed them on the floor.

To me, that was absolutely disrespectful. No one should touch any part of one’s body without permission. Dignity, respect, and civility is not too much to ask of anyone, right?

I was definitely receiving the budget office visit, that’s for sure.

I asked a bunch of questions like I always do and he was SO ANNOYED with me, he didn’t even try to hide it. I could sense the eye roll…

Can I repeat that he never once made eye contact?

While my shoes were still off and on the floor, he opened the door and walked out of the room, turning around to say, “I’ll explain your MRI and x-rays.”

I said, “Am I supposed to follow you?”

No answer.

“Do I have time to put my shoes on?”

No answer.

So…I took my sweet time jumping off the table, bending down to pick up my shoes, unlacing my shoes and then put them on, re-lacing each shoe with a beautifully arranged bow, mindfully, lol.

I wasn’t feeling very comfortable with him as a doctor I’d ever allow to treat my knee.

His assessment of the data was pretty much as the MRI report stated, only more bleak because part of my knee is bone on bone, that’s why it hurts to do squats or lunges.

Here’s what he said, “When it gets bad enough, you’ll want knee surgery.”

“In the meantime, don’t do squats or lunges.” The unspoken words were apparently, “don’t be STUPID” and do squats or lunges.” He didn’t have to say that because his pass-agg attitude was clear.

He also offered to give me a cortisone injection. When I said that I have a bad reaction to steroids, he used “air quotes” to repeat what I said as if he didn’t believe me (really a jerky misogynist move) and instead offered a plasma injection spun out of my own blood which MY insurance doesn’t pay for and is $700 per injection.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked.

I responded that I’d discuss his opinion with my primary physician before I could intelligently decide any course of action, but it’s not bloody likely that I’ll have surgery that includes a recovery time frame of up to twelve weeks OFF my feet. Not bloody likely.

As he was halfway up off his stupid little round stool with his hand already on the door, I said, “But what about physical therapy or some kind of brace to protect and stabilize my knee?”

“What about the torn meniscus or inflamed bursa? That’s actually why I’m here. That’s what hurts. Is there something to do about that?”

“No, nothing will help.”

Then he said, “If you won’t do those things I suggested, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

And he was gone.

I had most likely run over my allotted budget appointment time.

I’m not being melodramatic or overly sensitive.

This is why people bemoan America’s healthcare system, one of many reasons why it’s all messed up.

It was a new experience for me to endure disrespectful and abbreviated treatment like I’m “less than”, a second class citizen solely based on the hierarchy of my health insurance.

Will I tell my own doctor how this one made me feel? You bet I will, and I’m going to request a second opinion, too.

I believe this doc was scalpel happy for sure, but there’s no way I’d trust him to slice open any part of my little body, no matter how many pictures he had on his wall of satisfied customers.

What’s the prognosis for my poor knee? I’m not sure, but at least I know what’s going on in there.

Will I stop doing squats and lunges? NOPE.

Update: I went for a walk along our beach seawall and saw a physical therapist had set up a tent and table for free consultations on a little grassy area. What great timing! I stopped to chat with him and I’m so glad I did! He offered better information about the mechanics of a knee and how to obtain relief (including a brace recommendation) than I did from that orthopedic specialist who wanted to slice and dice. PLUS he was respectful and gentle as he moved my leg around.

Call Me Dr. Rosebud

After all this time, after all my injuries, once again I accurately diagnosed a medical issue.

Last March I did a deep weighted squat and felt something pop in my right knee. My stubborn self chose to overlook the subsequent discomfort and stoically carry on.

We need a backstory here...This is the same knee that was injured when I carelessly pulled a full and very topheavy garden waste trash can to the street, blithely ignoring the fact that the wheels were tangled up in fruit tree netting.

I mean, for a split second the thought crossed my mind that I should probably untangle it before I rolled it down the hilly driveway but I did not.

So…as you can probably guess, my feet became entwined in the netting which then pulled the heavy can down on me, twisting my leg and knee beneath it.

I know, I know. I’m not bright, also extremely impatient.

Once I deduced that my knee/leg wasn’t broken, I iced it for a while and endured the pain on the lateral side of my knee. A few months later, I had some physical therapy which actually seemed to help and I was back to normal movement.

And that’s how I ended up doing a weighted squat. Again, I iced it and figured it would take a while to heal, whatever it was, but this time there was no specific pain location. I wore a brace and compression sleeve and that didn’t really help.

Finally, I was able to pinpoint the pain, did my research and thought it was a medial meniscus tear along with an inflamed bursa, right below the knee.

I waited a really long time before telling my doctor (too stubborn to admit defeat), but when the pain wouldn’t subside, I did. She ordered an x-ray and when the results were unremarkable, she ordered an MRI, the appropriate course of action.

That was my first ever MRI. For me, it was a pleasant experience, probably because only my legs were in the machine.

The results came back as I had predicted:

  1. There is a complex meniscal tear involving the posterior horn of the medial meniscus.
  2. Severe chondromalacia involving the lateral patellar facet (also known as Runner’s Knee)
  3. Mild joint effusion. (I believe it’s the pes anserine bursa.)

Now I have an appointment with the same orthopedic office where I’ve often visited for other dumb accidental broken bones and torn ligaments.

SIGH.

Just call me Doctor Rosebud BUT don’t be like me and wait months suffering before seeing a professional!

Near Death Experience

This is a cautionary tale to be diligent, alert, and always pay attention when you’re doing something as simple as walking…

Since we’re between storms, this was a beautiful morning for a walk. As I headed toward the beach, there’s an intersection with a four-way stop. (For those of you who know Carlsbad, it’s Chinquapin and Adams.)

At the time I safely proceeded to cross at the crosswalk, there were no cars. As I was almost all the way across the street, three-quarters of the way to the other side, a small-ish SUV caught my eye because the car didn’t seem to be slowing down to stop at the stop sign and I was directly in the line of fire.

It seemed as if she was planning to roll through the stop sign and hit me!

I stopped, yelled “HEY!” as loud as I could, which got her attention and she screeched to a halt, inches away from me.

She looked extremely flustered, surprised and guilty; proof that she had absolutely not seen me. I know I’m small, but I’m not invisible. Sheesh.

After that, I emitted a few dozen choice words and tried to get her license number as she sped off but not before I saw that she had a photo of a baby hanging from her rear view mirror. She was a mom and might have even put her child in harm’s way.

That’s a close enough call with death for one day, or at least a close call with a potentially painful accident.

The moral of the story is to stay alert and don’t trust that a driver will pay attention or even obey simple rules of the road.

Anyway, I’d like to thank my guardian angels for protecting me one more time!

Concealed | Revealed

This is a strange story.

I lost (or misplaced) three valuable (only to me) items a couple weeks ago.

I couldn’t locate my pointe shoes and it was driving me CRAZY. I literally turned the house upside down because NEVER in a million years would I even accidentally toss them out. I had stowed them in a safe place because I planned to wear them for the littlest ballerina.

I could see them in my MIND, folded properly as I had been taught, in a gray toe shoe bag along with my soft ballet shoes, hung up SOMEWHERE.

But where?

Nowhere that I could suss out, that’s for sure. After three exhaustive and anxious searches of the entire house, I had to radically accept the fact that actively hunting for them wasn’t going to work. I had to eradicate their potential loss out of my mind because I was becoming too stressed.

At the same time I couldn’t find one of my favorite scarfs that was a gift from my Angel Boy, along with a logo hat from the university where he teaches.

The reality is that I don’t often LOSE or misplace anything. Even with my admitted mild hoarding issues, I’m extremely organized. I have more than a thousand seashells and they all have a home, and they are all loved.

When I was younger and couldn’t find something, my mom and I would call out to each other, “the Borrowers took it”, referring to that adorable series of books by Mary Norton. This time, I whispered it to myself, shaking my head at the strange coincidence of multiple unaccounted for losses.

Cut to early Sunday morning…

How crazy is it that just now I found ALL THREE previously nowhere-to-be-found treasures within minutes of each other!

It’s true.

As I hung up a couple of freshly laundered hoodies on the pretty little jewel shaped over-the-door hooks on my bedroom door, for some reason I looked down at the inside doorknob and…obscured under a Yale backpack, I saw that little gray bag containing my pointe shoes. I was gobsmacked (to borrow a Brit term). Although I had absolutely given the door a cursory examination, I never physically searched more thoroughly.

But there they were. UNREAL.

Full of memories

Even more strange is that within the next couple of minutes, I also found the scarf and hat tucked away in plain sight on the sofa — WHERE I HAD LOOKED SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE.

Were those things there the whole time I was looking, or did they magically appear? So many questions are swirling around my brain. Were they really lost at all? How could I not see what was unquestionably right in front of me?

I can’t explain why or how but I’ll share that I felt a huge weight lifted off of me, like I was being held aloft by a joyous balloon. I know that sounds odd, but it’s true.

Was it some sort of planetary influence that kept my beloved treasures concealed from me? Did a portal spontaneously open? Did these three things–pointe shoes, a scarf, and a hat –become transported and spiral into another dimension; an alternate universe? Am I living inside an episode of the Twilight Zone?

l have no idea, but whatever the reason, I’m now free of the uncertain torment that had plagued me for a couple of weeks.

That feeling of loss negatively disrupted my normal sense of control. When we lose something valuable, our ability to consciously control is triggered. I felt helpless, that’s for sure, The truth is that losing things can have a devastating effect on our emotional wellbeing. Yup.

And now I’m happy, so it all makes sense. Sort of. I’m still shaking my head.

What does it all mean?

Left Behind

I don’t know if it was Freud or someone else who said that there was an underlying subliminal reason why someone leaves things behind at your home, but in the case of my Angels, I love it when they do.

I find and gather up the artifacts to either mail or bring with me on my next visit. They’re like little treasures that attach themselves to memories of a special time.

Thank goodness I didn’t step barefoot on a fierce Ninjago Lego minifigure. I had found another one and mailed it along with random socks and a forgotten light up ball that had rolled under the sofa, but this little guy was exhumed when I changed the sheets and I recalled the morning Angel Boy crawled into bed with me at about 6am.

“Grandma, are you awake? Daddy said I could come down. He’s going surfing.”
“Look at my Legos.This is one of the Ninjagos, LOOK!” “He’s one of my favorites.” “Grandma, can you make me a Ninjago cake?” “You can do it, I know you can.”

“I don’t know, T. I can do a kitty or an owl or a bunny, but a Ninjago cake seems pretty difficult for me.”

“Did you wash my favorite (Ninjago) shirt for me?”

“It’s a bit early for me to handwash your favorite shirt, T. How about breakfast first?”

“Grandma, do you always do the same things every single time you wake up?”

“What’s that, T? What do I do?”

“You put on your glasses, take off your retainers, take a vitamin, and do your inhaler. And then you make coffee.”

“You know what, Angel? That’s exactly what I do, in exactly that order. You are incredibly observant to remember each and every detail. I do those same things every single day at your house and my house. Do you think about that?”

“Yes, I do. I’m hungry. Can I have some apple pie?”

The answer to that was yes. The children know me too well. I approve of apple pie for early breakfast. I wrapped a piece for dad to eat before his dawn patrol surf sesh, too.

Those Angels leave a trail of love behind, that’s the best part.

Santa Fe, Turquoise, and Zozobra

I always thought “turquoise” was the most delicious word to wrap my tongue around. So much is going on with its delightful twists and turns.

Some summers saw us travel to Santa Fe, New Mexico to spend time with family who lived in an adorable adobe house. I loved it there. It was dusty and hot and full of colors and sounds and smells that we didn’t have in Detroit.

Our family has a long history in Santa Fe. Before and during WW2, my parents used to hang out in Taos with Georgia O’Keeffe and D.H. Lawrence. I wish I could remember more of their fascinating stories but I was an extremely obnoxious eye-rolling teen and ignored mostly everything they ever said. About anything, haha.

During those trips to Santa Fe, of course I had to have an elaborate fiesta dress and lots of turquoise jewelry. This was probably when I first fell in love with this exquisite rock. I surely wish I still had my little fiesta dresses for Angel Girl, but all I have is my mom’s dress.

We would go to La Fonda and the Plaza where the Native Americans spread their treasures on blankets and we’d spend hours walking around.

This isn’t very PC but one day a little girl yelled at her mom and pointed to me and said, “Look at her, mommy! That’s a real Indian girl!” I always thought that was the coolest thing although I’m sure it was because I was very tan from being outside all day (no sunscreen back then) and my hair was plaited in two long braids.

Sometimes we’d be there for Fiesta and the Burning of Zozobra, an event to dispel the hardships and travails of the past year. Zozobra is the creation of Will Shuster, one of Los Cinco Pintores, a group of artists who made their way to New Mexico in the 1920s. Shuster’s creation first burned in his backyard in 1924 as a 6-foot effigy, and over the years, has grown to a towering 50-foot high marionette.

Photos of Santa Fe from SantaFeSelection.com

Somewhere there’s a photo of me (with pigtails) standing on the steps just beneath the not-yet-burned Zozobra but I couldn’t locate it. When I do, I’ll update this post.

UPDATE: My memory was inaccurate! This is a photo I was thinking of, but it wasn’t me, it’s my older brother and my parents, way before I was born…

Another photo, during another summer visit in Santa Fe with Zozobra…

The Burning of Zozobra has been called the first Burning Man, but I don’t like the comparison at all as the intentions of the two events are lightyears apart.

Conversational Speed Bump

As I sit here with a sore throat, sneezing so hard I think I’ve rearranged some brain cells, I wonder how I even got sick since I still mask up in public. I’ve tested twice for Covid and it’s been negative both times, so that’s something to be grateful for. All I want to do is to curl up with a mug of spicy ginger tea and a cozy blanket.

My virus-type thing came on pretty rapidly after THIS experience. Maybe the Universe is helping me stay home and safely away from toxic people…

Photo by Michael Anthony on Pexels.com

There’s one specific car that flies down my street every morning, Monday through Friday, hurtling itself over the speed bumps/humps and barely – if at all – bothering to slow down for the stop sign before turning right and into the elementary school parking lot.

After randomly witnessing this occur over several days, I walked to the school and snapped a pic of the car in the parking lot.

I entered the Admin building and asked the school secretary to please take a look at the photo and explained that I’m sure this was an employee and it would be a good idea to caution this person that she was speeding and please slow down on our street as it’s not a freeway, even if she’s late for work.

I never imagined the vitriol I would soon receive.

First of all, the secretary curtly informed me that anything outside the parking lot wasn’t her business and I should go to the police. While she thought that statement would deter me, along with her frosty dismissive attitude, she clearly didn’t know with whom she was dealing.

I said slowly, enunciating carefully, “I came here as a courtesy, hoping that all staff would be reminded to drive carefully, legally, and responsibly around the neighborhood as it’s a known ongoing problem, and what you’re suggesting is that I should just go to the police?”

“Well, there are fifty cars out there, you can’t expect me to figure out who owns that car! How do I know if it’s even an employee! That’s not my job!”

I responded, “Oh, but yes, I surely DO expect you to do your due diligence, especially since you’re looking at a photo with the license plate. And I don’t understand why you’re not concerned or being helpful. This person is driving in a reckless manner.”

I will tell you that I spoke in a calm but firm voice, having been in that office dozens of times as a parent, which is why I know the lay of the land, so to speak.

I reiterated, “So what I hear you say is that you WANT me to go to the police and you are refusing to address this issue, simply and internally?”

She looked at me and said, “Where did you say this was? At the roundabout?”

Geez, I hate these kinds of encounters so much, but I persevered. I took a breath before continuing. “So far, I’ve explained to you three times that this car flies over the speed bumps on the street before the stop sign.” (And I actually pointed in that direction, which she could see through the doors.)

Her next words made me chuckle. So predictable for people like that.

“STOP YELLING AT ME! You’re being rude! I don’t have to be treated this way!”

I calmly informed her that I hadn’t raised my voice but that we neighbors do not appreciate staff using our street like a freeway and if she’d prefer that I give the vehicle info to the police, I’d be happy to do so as I had made the effort to come into the office as a consideration to avoid involving the police, which seemed entirely unnecessary.

In the old days, I would have been so angry that I would have met her vitriolic negative energy with a shit ton of my own. Trust me, I could raise the threat level to DEFCON 2 (next step to nuclear war) in a heartbeat.

In the OLD DAYS, smoke would have poured out of my ears and nose like a dragon, but this kinder and gentler version of me didn’t respond further. I walked home, shaking my head. Life lessons learned.

I was honestly surprised by her attitude. In my naïveté, I thought she’d thank me for bringing the matter to her attention and she’d inform the principal to review safety protocol for driving in our community, to respect the neighborhood, and to assure me that my concerns were important and would be properly addressed.

I was wrong.

So my next call will be to the police which was definitely avoidable. Once again I’m reminded of one of the reasons I HATED teaching elementary school.

(Another time I’ll recount the tale of the high school assistant principal who DARED to target my 4.8 GPA child for a crime he didn’t commit. Let’s just say that after I was done with him, he had another job. Mama bears don’t have an off switch when it comes to protecting their young, right?)

Wandering

Not like my Jewish ancestors wandering for forty days and forty nights in the desert but that’s what it feels like when I can’t find my car in the parking lot.

Photo by Kelly on Pexels.com

Others seem to be in the same predicament; we are all wanderers in the concrete jungle.

I guess my mind was on other things and I didn’t MINDFULLY pay attention to where I parked, but this time I almost thought that my car had been stolen, but it hadn’t been…it was in the stall exactIy where I had parked it and then I must have completely lost my train of thought as my brain was on to the next thing.

Part of the problem is that when I initially pulled into the spot, the lot was fairly empty, but when I came out of the store, it had gotten full and things looked a bit different and that was slightly disconcerting.

Anyway, it all turned out fine, the car was located, I laughed at myself and drove home.

Has that ever happened to you?

Moon Shadow Glow

From selenite to moon glow to reflecting on ways to become improved humans, we can’t forget our shadow side as well as our bright lovelight.

Carl Jung believed that we needed to see, understand, embrace, and accept our shadow side to become a fully integrated and fully functional human.

As much work as that seems to be to self reflect, with the full moon in a few days, I think it might be time to bring home another piece of selenite, don’t you?

For me, a little retail therapy is a bit more enlightening and illuminating than wallowing in sadness and guilt. At least, it’s less painful…

Remember this song by Cat Stevens?
“Moon Shadow”