Tisha Sharp

Part Two: Customer ASSociates

I was raised to be polite, respectful, and yes, tolerant of people that had no class.
BUT there comes a time when biting your tongue only hurts you, not the offender.
And so we dive back into the Bra story from Hell.
After Miss Obnoxious implied I couldn't afford the Tisha bra, my broken toe went numb. Lucky for her, at that exact moment, one of my most favorite patients from three years ago happened by. Did I mention her family owns about half of the county? Yea, that kind of patient knowing your name is EXACTLY what Dr. Comeuppance ordered.

"I haven't seen you in forever! Come give me a hug." The matron commanded to which I was more than happy to obey as the entire lingerie force watched in shock. "Girls, this is the meanest damn therapist in this town but if she wasn't so tough, I wouldn't be here today." She turned a complete circle, something three years ago took two person assistance.
"You get all the credit, honey. Besides, it's not like I work in a place where you HAVE be nice, right?" I pointed at the group of over-cosmeticized ASSociates. "Take them, for example. They are expected to treat every customer the same, right? That wouldn't work in my line of work. I'm paid to torture and they are paid to be respectful." All eyes stared at the floor.
After exchanging phone numbers and a recent Casper/Drama Diva story with Miss Bookoo-money, we hugged goodbye in front of the trembling cluster of women.
"Um, what size in the Tisha bra did you need, ma'am?"
"I think I'll just wait after all. Dallas malls have so much more to offer."
Maybe not the Chuck Norris spin kicking saga you imagined, but I feel better not resorting to reciprocal rudeness or bodily harm. Plus I hadn't stretched my hamstrings, so there would be no way I could have taken all of them out like the Rainbow Coalition days. I'm too old for that now.

Customer ASSociates: The new breed

Life was so easy for Laura Ingalls Wilder.
All she had to do was wrap up her 'bosoms' before chopping wood, milking cows, and sewing her own clothes.
She was never face to face with BRA-MAN, who could have been my worst nightmare in a lingerie department...until today.
Waiting six months between bra purchases, I hoped to avoid Bra-Man's sarcasm and beligerence and as the old saying goes, be careful what you hope for.
Since I am not yet in my forties, I haven't earned the right to say "Back in my day, there was such as thing as courtesy". My grandmother could teach a class on how to shame a rude clerk or insolent waitress by pursing her lips, adding a tsk-tsk, and the ultimate shaking of her head in disdain. I, however, am less subtle in my disgust, and apparently, so are the new "Customer ASSociates" of our day.
It was my fault that I didn't take into consideration working in the Dillards lingerie department was so stressful, so exhausting it required multiple breaks an hour. To expect the sales force to stagger these much needed breaks, well, WHO DO WE THINK WE ARE?
As much as I'd love to know who Chaz is taking to dinner/what the hell LaMoniqua was thinking when she wore that weave to the club that night/who told Spencer that he could or should dance, my main objective in interrupting the conversation was to ask where my favorite bra might be. Sighs of annoyance could be heard all the way to children's clothing...from them.
"Can I help you?" (stupid wench, do you not see us talking)
"Do you have the Mysteria line?"
"You mean Mystere." (dumb wench wasting my time)
"Whatever. I am mainly looking for the Dream Tisha bra."
"It's the most expensive one we have." (broke wench, you can't afford that) She motioned to the wall where the Oprah endorsed bra hung in all its glory. "We have some others on sale."
And this is where my upbringing went out the window.
To be continued...tomorrow!

A stroke of bad luck

The first thing I noticed was her face.
Sitting on the small bedside toilet, Miss Carolyn blankly stared into space. Not a normal daze, but more like a freshly erased chalkboard on the first day of school. Saliva bubbles puffed from the right side of her mouth with each breath.
"Miss Carolyn?" She didn't make eye contact, but groaned.
"CALL 911," I screamed to the open door.
Patting her right hand elicited no response, but touching her left hand brought purposeful movement. And more groans, from deep within her untouched brain, knowing what was happening to her and the powerlessness she now found herself in. No one had to tell her she had a stroke, she knew her fate the moment her head began to hurt, the moment her right arm went dead and her words became crytoquotes.
When they took her away on the gurney, one tear slipped down her hardened face and hundreds more dripped down my own.
And so now it isn't the 'stroke' patient I love, it's the person before the stroke that I will treat.
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Argh, another serious BLOG POST! Geez people, what is going on with me? I shall find something funny to write about, I promise!

Missing pieces

When I was a kid, jigsaw puzzles were common in our house, especially during the holiday season. Something about finding that one perfect piece amongst the hundreds that could have, should have fit but didn't gave me hope and perserverance to finish the puzzle.

Lately I have found the life is more like the table top puzzles of my childhood than I realized. We work on the edges first, so to confine ourselves in an area, define who and what we are, and then work inward, making the picture match what is on the box. For some of us, we constantly force that one piece into an area we are convinced belongs 'right there', only to find that our conviction was incorrect and frustration sets in. Then there are the easy pieces, the obvious ones, that take little to no effort, but are satisfying nonetheless in completion.
But the best piece of all is the 'there you are' piece, the ones that come out of nowhere, maybe hidden under the floor rug or the puzzle box lid, the piece that you didn't know you were searching for, that you needed, but found when you least expected it. The piece that you didn't believe even existed.
People are like that, I think. The easy aquaintnences, easy fitting pieces that float in and out of your life without regret or fanfare; the nameless influences that may remain but provide great background in your life; the straight, the narrow, the jagged, the crooked people that give vivid detail and color to life; but then there is the 'there you are' people. A handful of people that can connect deeply whether in moments or years and once that bond is made, the puzzle is complete.

The happiest moment a jigsaw fan has is the completion of the puzzle, and so it should be with life.
Hold onto your pieces, because I can tell you personally when you find and then lose one of those precious 'there you are' pieces, you are never the same.

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Sorry for the existential/tangential mumblings...back to normal Tish stuff soon. Promise.

Mad Cow disease?

I may have to call Oprah.
All this time, I've been a proponent for all things beef. Beef tips, sirloin, fajitas, hamburgers, meatloaf, the list is endless.
But today, I was attacked by a mad cow and luckily for me, I had a camera to capture my agony.
Note the discoloration where the COW broke my big toe. It's a blur, but maybe I can tell it without breaking down. I mean, I can't even go near.....hold on....
THE REFRIDGERATOR.
Okay, so it wasn't an actual cow, but it was part of a cow. I think. Like many of you, I shop at Sam's to buy in bulk that once home I divide into smaller portions for freezing. Hamburger meat is like water in this house, so when I can find, oh, maybe a fifty pound pallet for twenty bucks, I am all over it.
What I failed to remember, however, (at 6 AM, mind you) was that one of the sixty two freezer bags full of said hamburger meat (now known as DEFENDANT) was lurking on the highest door shelves. I could be wrong, but I think the frozen squash AND brussel sprouts put the DEFENDANT up to it, as HE divebombed to my foot as I attempted to extricate breakfast items for Drama Diva and Casper. Those damn vegetables can be spiteful but it was the DEFENDANT'S actions that broke my toe and now has caused irreparable damage to my daily life. Patients are laughing at my limp which doesn't exactly curry respect for my profession, does it?
One lawyer actually listened to my case for about five minutes until I mentioned the freezer bag.
He wanted to know what brand.
And after a long pause, he hung up on me.
I think we need a grass roots campaign.
And I threw away those evil frozen veggies. Guess I showed them.

Smelling like ass

In the world of funny phrases, 'smells like ass' was once in the Top Ten for me...until today.
Now that I have fully transitioned to long term care, I have found that that easiest way to impart to you, my dear reader, what I experience is to just report. Like Fox news, I report, you decide EXCEPT often I add some sensory information like today.
If you've ever walked into a women's bathroom right after a baby's diaper has been changed, you THINK you've smelled poop. If you've ever eaten at Pancho's on an empty stomach while taking antibiotics for the Bubonic plague and then gone to the bathroom, you might consider this to be the aroma breathed in by Hell's occupants.
No.
Today, without warning, I was olfactorized - accosted by the most innocent looking, frail, probably worked at Grandy's as a Grandy Greeter woman this side of the world. Apparently, food in a nursing home environment is seasoned with either rat dung, sulphur, and/or El Charrito TV dinner remains.
After licking her plate clean (literally), Granny wheeled into the rehab room with a smile...and a quiet woft of such 'stank ass' (the nurse aide's words, not mine) that the room turned green.
"Ready for exercise!"
My eyes burned as I came closer to her wheelchair. The man sitting next to her began to foam at the mouth and had to be rushed to his room - not really, but he did gasp for air and immediately wheel out of the room without a word.
"Uh, I think you might want to go to the bathroom first, Granny."
"No, I am fine. Let's get started."
A nurse aide walks by, stops at the doorway, and pretend vomits before laughing down the hallway.
"Therapy, you have a call on line one. Therapy, you have a call on line one." Luckily for me the phone is at the nurse's station, so I had an excuse for my escape.
The phone call, a pointless conversation regarding small business insurance, would normally irritate me and earn a hang up BUT seeing as I was faced with returning to Stank Fest 2006, I actually asked questions for at least five minutes.
When I returned to the room, Granny blocked the doorway and the most cantankerous patient I have to date, Mr. Whacker (you can read into that what you will)
"GET OUTTA MY WAY WOMAN!" He screeched while thrusting his right fist at her.
"I am waiting for exercise, young man."
"YOU SMELL LIKE ASS." And with that, he began ramming his wheelchair into hers until she finally surrendered the doorway.

The story ends well, I guess. One of the RN's happened by and noticed my pale complexion, my shallow breathing, and swept Granny away to the shower room where I would imagine gloves, gowns, and masks would be worn.

Now I know what the NT is for….

When I was 17, everyone said to cherish my youth.
When I turned 27, people said it was the best years of my life.
But when I turned 37, no one said a word and something clicked. No longer am I bound to the traditional ‘thirty’ mindset my mother lived, apron clad in the kitchen with flour on her shoulder, nor am I that older woman trailing along side the younger hot chicks hoping for a scrap of attention.
Maybe there is a reason we learn to count by tens as children, because society marks our lives by the decades we turn. Think about it – no one says “Oh, that twenty fifth year is a doozy!” or “Man, what I wouldn’t give to be thirty six again!” Nope, life is marked by the notches of decades, the twenties, thirties, forties, and so on.
The thing is, if you add just two little letters to decade, you get something completely different – decadent. ‘NT’ turns the demarcation of your chronological life into debauchery, corruption, and deceit. Personally, I’d like to think of ‘NT’ standing for ‘Not Telling’ or ‘Nice Try’. Something not so negative but more empowering than another synonym for depravity.
BUT, and here’s the kicker, there is one decadent synonym that every woman deserves but rarely explores: self-indulgency. No offense, guys, but most women are hard wired to provide, protect, procreate, placate, and any other great ‘p’ word that means nurture. (Notice I said most as there are women out there that have the heard of a cinder block and the soul of Hitler) It’s women that soothe the anger in a man’s wounded ego, the woman that brokers peace between warring bitches, and the woman that every child from 0-75 run to in order to feel secure. That leaves little room for self-indulgence.
So here’s my charge to all of you, and yes, guys, you can take the challenge if you want: Every week, take one hour to focus on you. Not you getting into shape because the girl in the next cubicle just lost 75 pounds and you secretly want to inject her skinny thighs with Crisco – and not you joining a book club to expand your mind because other than the great wine and gossip, it’s not self indulgent. This should be 60 full minutes of nothing but narcissistic pleasure for your entire body, soul, and mind. For me, it was twirling in a new dress while the paid attendants cooed about how good it looked (um, yes, I realize you have to say that but could you say it louder next time??) and then spending the day with a friend as just me. Not Mom me, not wife me, not even writer/PT me, just the Tisha that existed long ago and far away in another galaxy (if you are around my age, you get my reference!)
What will your hour be? What is your ‘NT’? Find it. Live it. Life is too damn short to be just another decade slipping by.

Baltimore will forever be known as TISHAMORE

The city Tish took by storm.
Thanks to AnonymousCoworker, his lovely wife, insane brother and his wife, and their dear friend for making my trip worthwhile.
Now, he has his 'story' of what happened on during our night out, and then there is MINE, what is commonly known as the truth.
First, it was only ONE pitcher of the now famous MULATTO Russians as I like to mix the white and black together. "We are the World" comes to mind when I drink this, or is it "Ebony and Ivory"?
Secondly, I didn't dance directly ON the bar, nor did I threaten anyone with a beer bottle......oh, wait, there was that one bartender that didn't make direct eye contact so maybe I did get a little cantankerous. BUT HE WAS ASKING FOR IT.
Thirdly, the stories I told to ACW and his minion can also be found on this blog, things like the Rainbow Coalition fight and so on. I don't know if I ever posted about my time in Saddam Hussein's harem as an undercover agent, but until Dubya completely releases me from all sealed indictments, I'll just have to wait.
Fourth, crab cakes are good and fine, but I wanted JUST CRAB LEGS which to my knowledge no one in Baltimore Proper serves.
Where was I?
My PT portion of the trip was fabulous yet tiring. I spent two days assisting the expert, dare I say the guru of Swiss Ball therapy, and had my own speech to deliver as well. Speaking in crowds usually doesn't bother me too much, especially with all of my clothes on (ha ha) but I was nervous addressing these Yankee therapists. Much to my surprise, however, I was somewhat well received and I think three people I paid even clapped for me.

My plan to visit everyone's blog and also post from there didn't come to fruition as I was EXHAUSTED every night and had to get up early every day. Plus, and for those that don't know this, apparently Holiday Inn has invested bookoos of money in bowling balls for pillows so it would behoove you to take your own pillow if you plan on sleeping.

Now that I have conquered the upper Northeast, I may be off to San Diego or Mississippi to assist and/or teach these courses. Of course, while I am there I shall also wreak havoc upon their fair cities and be escorted out by four state troopers and one chiropractor just for good measure.

Click the extended link below to view my night out with ACW and his gang.

Next on the agenda, visiting ALL of you and then posting about my normal insanity.

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Leaving on a......

Okay, it won't be quite that redneck but I am leaving for five days and four nights.
AND THE BLOG WORLD SIGHS.
So, why am I leaving? Hmm.
Could it be to escape the clutches of Buford's distant carnie cousins? Alas, no, they have higher standards than me. Seems I don't wear tight enough pants (camels come to mind) nor do I apply sufficient gobs of DEP gel into my hair to be considered worthy.
Could it be that I am relocating? Again, no, as I would not do well in the Northeastern part of this wonderful US of A. And it's not just the weather, either. I'd have to hire an interpreter.
Could it be that my husband and children have entered me into "Wifeswap"? HAH. I pity the family getting me as a surrogate mother. And what would Drama Diva and Casper do to an unwittinly sweet mother? I'd dare say her hair would fall out followed by her teeth.
So what does that leave? Career. Okay, I will 'fess up. I am a double secret agent travelling to Baltimore/D.C in the hopes that my influence at the UN will somehow unravel the tangled mess in Iraq AND Iran. Let's just say I have a technique that is highly persuasive but requires top secret clearance....and Gorilla Glue.

OKAY. Truth is I am going to a PT course. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
I will blog from there.
I will visit you all from there.
AND......
there will be pics.

So, wish me well over the next two days I prepare to leave.
And don't be surprised IF CNN reports breaking news at the UN over the next week.
Just saying.

On another note, please go visit my sugar Hoss and wish him a speedy recovery. He had a watermelon pulled out of his belly button....oh, wait, that was me with Casper. Anyway, go say hi and get better.

A night at the fair means two things:

1) I get to use this phrase to a total, toothless, bearded stranger:
"SPIN ME, BABY - SPIN ME LIKE YOU KNOW HOW!"
Would you like a visual?
Something about spinning while spinning brings forth pre-teen giggles. Did you know that by making direct eye contact while using the phrase above guarantees you a free ride with extra spinnage? Take my word for it.

2) Buford's out of state family visit for two weeks along with all of the other fair employees. Not since Billy Ray Cyrus toured America have I observed so many mullets in such a small area. Women, children, even their pitbulls had mullets! I'm not baffled by the sight of women dipping Copenhagen now, but when Granny in the gray mullet shares the spit cup, my jaw drops.

Sixty bucks later, Casper and Drama Diva were high as kites in an Oklahoman tornado on funnel cakes and fried twinkies (NOT MY IDEA, thank you!) I was giddy from the TiltaWhirl, and hubby was just glad we were on our way home.

Good thing the fair is here for another week. I've got some more spinning still left in me.

I'll Take Penises and Tish for 500 dollars, Alex

Answer: What is three?
Oh, I'm sorry, you were off by one. The question was how many penises did Tish have to see today during her stint at the nursing home and the correct answer would be TWO.
For those just tuning in to the World of Tish, I've recently left a full time home health career for the hustle and bustle world of nursing homes. Before you cringe and wrinkle your nose in disgust, think about this: Where else can you find sex, drugs, racism, bitchiness, and/or jackasses under one roof? High schools MAYBE, but nursing homes for certain.
Back to the penises. Urination takes on a whole new significance in the nursing home. Think of the immediate gratification drive of a toddler, then add around 70 years and a urinal, and you have my morning.
"Can you take it out for me?"
"Hold it tight."
"I can't do much except this, so don't worry."
and my personal favorite for the day:

"Shake it three times and I'll give you a quarter."

If that weren't enough, a woman safety belted in a wheelchair happened by the rehab room at the exact time Mr. Pee-body was filling up his plastic jug. She stared for a moment, then exclaimed for all to hear:
"JESUS CHRIST, SHE'S HAVING HER WAY WITH HIM! SOMEBODY COME HELP, SHE'S TAKING ADVANTAGE OF MY SON!"

As three nurse aides peeked into the room, Mr. Pee-body waved with both hands, grinning like a possum as I held the urinal without looking at its contents.

"I owe her a quarter."

As for the second penile exposure, another wheelchair bound resident found his way to my rehab room. Apparently the rumor of my shaking penises after assisted urination spread like wildfire by mid-morning snack.

"Mine ain't so big but you can give it a tug iffen you want." He stood with wobbly knees and proudly showcased his male member.

"GET OUTTA THERE, MISTER CHARLES!" His nurse aide chased him out of my room with threats of telling his wife and daughters.

Welcome to my NEW world, ladies and gentlemen.

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Speaking of my world, I am showcased by the one, the only LISABINDACITY as a guest blogger.
It still boggles my mind why Lisa loves me, but believe you me (a favorite phrase of mine) I feel special being noticed by such a spectacular person. In a perfect world, I'd be visiting her in NYC while sporting a rounder butt. Reality bites, you know?
Don't hate me 'cause Lisa loves me.
Be a little jealous though.
Really. It's an honor.

Embracing the day before

Why is it we never remember what we were doing before a tragedy happens, but can recite in detail the moments after?
Many of my patients have shared what they were doing when JFK was shot but very few can accurately describe the day before. The eve of every catastrophic moment is washed away from our minds.
On this eve of a national disaster, of pain and horror, of blind rage and innocence lost, may each of us find a way to that place before. That place before our children needed a definition of terrorism.
That place when looking over your shoulder in an airport didn't fill your heart with dread.
That place when the future wasn't so bleak, the present not so scary, and our past was for all intents and purposes, more glorious than garish.

May God grant us the wisdom to learn from tomorrow's past.
May the world rally together to eradicate hatred that boils within souless men.
May we, the HUMAN race, find the one common thread that binds us together: a better place for our children.

God Bless America.

A lesson in husbandry

My patient's 75 year old wife taught me a valuable lesson today in the bathroom.
By flushing her husband's precious Viagra, she made her point loud and clear with the swirling water and blue pills floating away.
Her point?
Let me back up a moment. She is a lovely woman, with varied interests such as gardening, volunteering at the hospital, church choir, and Wheel of Fortune. He enjoys M*A*S*H reruns and a cold beer. She coos at babies in Walmart while waiting in line; he snarls at them. It was her donation to the Boys and Girls club that provided new basketballs for the upcoming season while his contribution to society was made in his words "Not going out in public while gassy."
So on this particularly ordinary day, the day when I come and tend to his physical therapy needs, she decides enough is enough.
I think it was his hand grabbing my rear that pushed her over the edge. It may have been his looking down my shirt, although I don't know if she caught that, or possibly his 'accidental' genital exposure while doing bridging exercises that finally broke the straw.
Without saying a word, she captured his attention by rattling the full bottle, then marching to the master bathroom, and pouring the ED medication into the sparkling clean toilet she happened to scrub just an hour before.
And the moment the last Viagra bubbled away, a miracle occured.
My patient's grim, dare I say vulgar, behavior disappeared. What once was a scowl was a bright smile; what had been negative was optimistic. He patted his wife's shoulder, whispering softly to her something only a wife needs to hear. He offered to make her lunch. He went so far as to ask if she wanted him to do the laundry.
As he shuffled off to the washer, she held my gaze for a moment before offering a little advice:

The horse must have a rider if he is to be ridden. Remember that.

The World's Loss

It was Steve Irwin's smile and quirky sense of humor that intrigued all of us. His family, his life, his children, all on display for the world if only we would respect his passion.
And we did.
And now Heaven's creatures have a new angel to watch over them and wrestle them.
Prayers to the Irwin family.

Help me, Tom Cruise! Help me, Oprah!

No, I didn't wreck my car and become engulfed by invisible fire.
But what I did experience today should become the US government's newest form of interrogation...

Before you ask, I wasn't drunk nor did I inhale any large quantities of Liquid Paper. A now former friend said A) it doesn't hurt, and B) that I wasn't a real woman until I did it.
And so, believing her and with my womanhood challenged, off to the Salon I went (a gift certificate also is a strong motivator but please remind me to thrash the person who gave that to me!)

]]> No, I won't detail the actual procedure, but if I had to give specifics, here they are:
Remember what Silly Putty felt like as a kid? Now think of it hot being poured onto a part of your body that has only been exposed to warm water.
Just when I think 'It won't hurt' the technician's eyes glow red and a demon-like voice says "BE STILL" - I hear the ripping of possible flesh and then the pain, oh my, the pain, the agony, the sheer brutality of it.
I called out to God, to Jesus, and I think at one point I mentioned Mel Gibson (just because Delmer writes about him, I think). And that was only the first of a series of strips as Ava Braun likes to be exacting with her waxing placement.
"You don't want stragglers," she says with a smirk.
"Can I have an epidural?" I mumble.
"Oh, you can take it." She smiles that Nurse Ratchett smile, you know the one, and then rips again.
I think I passed out at one point and may have met Marilyn Monroe who admonished me for doing such a barbaric thing to my body. Then James Dean winked at me, and as he reached out to touch my face, I came to with the waxing Hitler saying, "Okay, now we do the other side."
OTHER SIDE?
I asked for a cold cloth, a priest, something before she proceeded but she just looked at me and said "Let's finish it."
You know, I've had two children. I've been in a fight with the Rainbow Coalition. I've stood my ground with groping men and fiesty women BUT never in my life have I endured so much pain in such little time.
When it was over, and I had cursed everyone, their mothers, five US presidents, three living celebrites and two dead, she patted me on my clammy shoulder and said "you should make an appointment for a month from now. It won't hurt like that again."
And I was alone. In a room that should be used to find out the next terrorist plot.
Now if you will excuse me, I must take a handful of assorted pain killers and go to bed.

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In reality, the technician was a lovely woman that ignored my insane pleas for help from beyond. Everything else is true.

My MIL walked for me today, with two person assistance and a rolling walker, and will be transferred to in-patient rehab tomorrow.
I attribute her rapid recovery to your prayers and her strong will to live. Thanks to ALL OF YOU. I'd hug you each but right now, I think sitting is easier......