Being a Caregiver

Being a caregiver is full of challenges.  My sympathies to those caught up in bureaucratic red tape on a regular basis.  Dealing with doctors, hospitals, medical clinics is time consuming, and frustrating.

At the lab, we were recently turned away, because the phlebotomist couldn’t find the diagnosis code on medical forms.  A trip back to the orthopedist’s office.  There a nurse pointed out, the code had been there all the time.  Back to the lab for the second time.

Not that I haven’t had past caregiving experience.  It was just five years ago that my spouse suffered a severe wrist fracture.  We made it through.  That time she was mobile.  This time, with a fractured pelvis, she is dependent on the use of a walker.

Handicapped parking spaces are now important.  My wife has started getting out and about.  Some local restaurants and businesses are more friendly, to handicapped persons than others.

It had been at least 35 years since I last visited a Waffle House.  I think it was on a vacation trip to Orlando, Florida.  It hadn’t changed much in all those years.  Waffle House restaurants–you either love them or hate them.

On line restaurant reviews weren’t always truthful.  A local downtown diner/greasy spoon, was a disappointment.  The food was mediocre. The place cramped and dingy.  Prices were too high.

 

A Missing Meatball Conundrum

My dining klutziness has gotten worse, since this was published, two-years ago.  With company in for a visit last week, we dined out several times.  Somehow, bits of this or that ended up in my lap or on my shirt.  Souvenir stains I didn’t need or want.

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Somewhere between wearable food and klutziness lies the mystery of the missing meatball.

It started when a delectable Italian meatball sandwich met up with yours truly.  I paid for four happy meatballs.  Now, there were only three.  It was sad–because it was only there for a brief moment.

Meatballs can be difficult to control–fair warning from me.  “Meatball control–we have a situation over here, at table 15.”

I hated the “On Top of Spaghetti” song, about a poor meatball that embarked on an unplanned journey when somebody sneezed.

The sneezing part was gross and disgusting.  Wasn’t that why they had sneeze guards at salad bars?

My missing prodigal meatball was nowhere to be found.  What to do–crawl under the table on hands and knees?  The five-second rule had long passed–if anybody followed it.

After paying the tab, getting ready to leave–there it was.  The saucy, recalcitrant, missing meatball was on the floor, under the back of my chair.  It was no longer a meatball worth chasing.

This has been an example of what not to do when eating meatball sandwiches, presented as a public service.  Don’t let this happen to you!

 

Thanks For Everything and Good Luck

I have a new favorite breakfast spot.  Been there at least a half-dozen times or more.  Christina was a great waitress, attentive, courteous, with a friendly smile.

“Would you like your usual?”  She’d ask. We’d sit at our favorite table.  Last Sunday, Christina, was no longer there to brighten the morning.

It turned out, she had a killer commute to work–moved on to better things, closer to home.  Can’t blame her–crossing the bay bridge and tunnel, famous for traffic tie ups, was nerve-wracking.

Maybe it’s nitpicking, but her replacements had a lot to learn.  Starting with the difference between one slice of thick marble rye toast, cut in half, and two slices of rye toast, cut in half.  Breaking in new employees was a tough job.  I can’t help it–Christina spoiled me.

Christina, I don’t need you to come back.  Wish you best of luck and happy landings.  Will miss you on early Sunday mornings.

Don’t Be Deceived

In case you’ve been led to believe, yesterday was the true pie (Pi) day.  That’s well and good–if that’s what you’re into.

Wednesday is always free pie day at a certain casual dining chain restaurant.  I’m not giving them a plug–only to say it rhymes with “O’ Gnarly’s.”

So, if number crunching satisfies your appetite–have at it.  As for me, I’d like a slice of French silk pie, please.

A MISSING MEATBALL CONUNDRUM

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Somewhere between wearable food and klutziness lies the mystery of the missing meatball.

It started when a delectable Italian meatball lunch sandwich met up with yours truly.  I paid for four happy meatballs.  Now, there were only three.  It was sad–because it was only there for a brief moment.

Meatballs can be difficult to keep under control–fair warning from me.  I hated the “On Top of Spaghetti” song about a poor meatball that embarked on an unplanned journey when somebody sneezed.

The sneezing part was gross and disgusting.  Wasn’t that why they had sneeze guards at salad bars?

The prodigal meatball was nowhere to be found.  What to do–crawl under the table on hands and knees?  The five-second rule had long passed–if anybody really followed it.

After paying the tab, getting ready to leave–there it was.  The saucy, recalcitrant missing meatball was on the floor under the back of my chair.  It was no longer a meatball worth chasing.

This has been an example of what not to do when eating meatball sandwiches presented as a public service.  Don’t let this happen to you!

–Image, http://www.en.wikipedia.org/