Many months ago, my friend Christina said, “Hey – how about if I interview you for my podcast series.” Christina is smart, blunt, steadfast, and pragmatic in her role as the Corporate Rebel Coach. Of course I agreed.
Here is the interview. In it, we discuss our cultural obsession with WORK. I talk about my decision to leave clinical practice and how I navigate the “What do you do?” conversation. The interview runs about 30 minutes. Let me know what you think, eh?
We’re expecting!
Several years ago, I witnessed the untimely demise of a lovely woodchuck in Northwestern MN. Naturally, I pulled over to 1) make sure she was dead 2) scoop her up. To read the story in its entirety, see http://annelippin.com/blog/2014/09/01/labor-day-weekend/.
I delivered the (frozen) specimen to my taxidermist, Royce, of Willow Taxidermy (https://www.willowtaxidermy.com). And then I got mixed up in a remodeling project and the resurrection of a thrift store. Long story short, a couple years passed. I finally emailed Royce. ”Hey, you still have that woodchuck in the freezer?”
Yes, he did. I’m delighted to report that Charlotte will join our family just as soon as I can get up to Rock Creek.
Charlotte
This exchange between my husband, Ace, and my college roommate, Jessicca, amused me. They hash out logistics of an upcoming trip to the Bay of Fundy. I post mostly to give you a peek into my marriage ; )
Ace writes:
“Jessica: I don’t know how informed you are about the most recent version of our plans. As currently conceived, we would rely upon you heavily. Not sure how comfortable we all are with that idea. I will paint a picture in which you carry a heavy burden for you to consider as you walk the hills of Scotland, such that we might alter them as you see fit.
In the days leading up to the trip, Anne and/or I contact you frequently with ‘ideas’(ie demands) for materials which we might find useful along the coast of NB, but which are inconvenient to carry on an airplane. The ‘ideas’ will surely include pillows for Anne (unless I convince her that a place capable of sleeping 10 will have enough pillows…), coolers, foodstuffs, beach towels, etc, etc.
[Date redacted] sees Anne/[Ace/The Big E] enjoying restful flights to St. John, arriving at 8:08 pm. Meanwhile, Jessica has stuffed her vehicle with pillows, etc, and has driven long, hot, difficult miles in summer vacation traffic, located an obscure house, and is still expected to pick Anne et al. up at the airport, providing taxi service to the pile of Maine pillows.
You will then be expected to participate in a variety of activities, with a quarrelsome bunch of people who hate the sun, but also hate rain, and hate wind. The adolescent may be the most agreeable of the bunch which says a lot, but all will claim they are carsick. There will then be several days of excessive running about, at the expense of your vehicle, and patience.
Just when you can’t stand another moment, dreaming of your quiet ride home, you realize that the entire bunch now plans to accompany you back across the wasteland we midwesterners know to be Northern Maine. When you should be unpacking, washing your clothes and freeing you mind, they will still all be there, right on top of you for another 36 hours—starting [date redacted]! They will expect accommodations of all types. Then, they will demand unreasonably early transportation to the Portland air transit facility, with hardly a thanks, the morning of [date redacted].
You have several options which could minimize difficulties. Some of those options will alter the plans we need to make on our end. So please let us know if you would rather opt out altogether (eg an oversees walking trip suddenly emerging offers an excellent escape route). Let us know if you would rather meet us in NB at a time or place different from the proposed such that we could arrange alternate transport upon arrival. Let us know if you think a second car would be useful in any event (I see some obvious advantages), such that you could avoid an airport run at a difficult time in unfamiliar environs. Let us know if we should book motels/cars/etc for the brief Maine portion of the intrusion, including the Portland airport motel the night before our flight. I will cease listing the options for the sake of brevity, trusting you to make your desires and demands known.
I know it sounds like more fun than you had considered possible, hope your wild anticipation will not blunt your hills of scotland experience. [Ace]”
Jessicca’s response:
“Dear [formal name redacted],
Barring any unforeseen incidents (such as asteroids striking the earth) I would be delighted to join your expedition to the wilds of NB. Maine is not bad in summer to drive as long as I avoid route 1 from June until September so up 95 I shall go and the Expedition has Sirius XM radio so I have entertainment. Pillows I have in abundance and the aforementioned Expediton has tons of space so we are good there. I can also bring coolers, umbrellas, tents, ponchos, hats, books, games, or anything else you might like that will not fit in the overhead bin of the plane.
And the true reason for my agreeing to come (as you should already suspect) is to spend time with The Big E so happiness abounds in my world. As for sun, rain and wind I will bring sunscreen, my new raincoat and my sturdy Maine build (very hard to blow me over). I have managed to navigate across the US not once but 5 times without getting lost and have driving three times to the wilds of Northern Ontario so I should hopefully find the house in NB and the airport. If not then you, my friend, are out of luck.
Friends are always welcome at the Farm or my house in Raymond even when they are tired, cranky and smelly after trekking the shores of the Bay of Fundy. I love to travel and see new places and my goal in life is to say yes to as many cool, interesting things as possible…..so YES count me in and hopefully I prove to be a not too annoying travel companion. Enjoy your week and I am sure we will talk soon!
Sincerely,
Jessicca Grover
Globe Trekking former roommate of Anne Lippin”
Ace chimes in once again:
“Excellent, we will being forwarding an updated list of need weekly until departure, perhaps daily toward the end.
More importantly, what is the origin of the second “c”, or perhaps the first “c”, in Jessicca? Surely one should pronounce your name Jes-sic-ca, not jess-i-ca? If Anne hadn’t scolded me for misspelling your name, I would have forever gone on believing your typing skills were lacking, but not thought the less of you for it—knowing that poor typing skills are closely associated with genius. [Ace]”
Jess says:
“The second c is all mom plus when you say Jessicca with a maine accent it sounds like 2 c’s.”
I met two old friends (old as-in long-time friends, and old as-in can we talk about our aching joints? Srsly?) on Friday at the Como Conservatory. We were supposed to see the spring show and instead discovered that the spring show was being dismantled. We sat down on a couple benches after making a penny wish and discussed our kids and our parents and mostly our in-laws. It’s a mess.
My one friend wants a shih tzu. Her husband doesn’t. They wonder back and forth if their lifestyle is compatible with canine ownership. She really wants a shih tzu. Or a retired greyhound. But really a shih tzu.
I left the Conservatory, heading for home along Lexington Parkway. Lexington is a fantastic thoroughfare for roadkill, like one of the best. One of my finest specimens, Matilda the Baby Raccoon, came from Lexington. So you can imagine my distress when I saw what appeared to be a dustmop darting right across the four lanes of traffic. I watched the little dog make a beeline for the Great Dane on the other side, the Great Dane attached to a leash being held by a woman with a baby in a stroller.
Well, that looks challenging, I thought. I pulled onto a sidestreet. The woman, the baby, and the Great Dane asked if the dustmop was my dog. Nope, I said, I just thought you might need some help.
We used the Dane for bait, attempting to lure the dustmop away from Lexington. I tried my best koochie-koochie voice and it worked. The dog came over. I reached for it, it feinted, I koochied, it came back. I grabbed the mop’s scruff, realizing I might get bitten.
The dog didn’t bite. I tucked her/him under my arm. I’ll take care of her/him, I told the Great Dane. And the lady. And the baby.
We drove back up Lexington. The stinky dustmop settled right in, gazing out the window for a time, then snuggling down on the passenger seat.
Can I tell you exactly how much I love my vet clinic? We pulled in fifteen minutes after closing time and Erik, my favorite tech, scanned the mop for a chip. No chip. No collar, no tags, no chip. We clucked over the matted fur, the curved nails, the intact testicles, the goobery eyes that made sight a real challenge.
I confessed that I was sorely tempted to clean him up and present him to my friend, the one who really wants a shih tzu.
We gave the doggie a one-year rabies shot and a nail trim.
Ace was not particularly surprised to see a stinky dustmop in the backyard, making friends with Chester and Fergus. “I manifested a shih tzu,” I said. I gently cut the hairs and goobers from around his eyes.
Life goes on and I had an appointment to keep. I named the mop Max, Max the Mop, and he went on my errands, mostly content to sit in a kennel in the front seat. Upon our return, we posted on the Humane Society Lost-n-Found page. I scanned the Lost section and spotted “Lucky” who looked suspiciously like Max.
Heavy sigh. I really wanted Max to have a happy ending with my friend. I really did. I called the number on Lucky’s listing. Phone out-of-service. Great. I sent a message with my landline.
Max and I settled down on the stoop to give him a haircut.
A child called me, maybe 12 or 13. He described how his sister had been crying for an hour at the loss of Lucky. Lucky escaped exactly where I found Max. I’m pretty sure I have your dog, I said. Drat. We agreed that I would drop off the doggie when I picked up The Big E from school.
My friend K called while I trimmed the mats from around Max’s paws. K is a social worker. I bemoaned the fact that I had to return Lucky to a family that didn’t trim his nails or brush his fur or clean his eyes. K reminded me to have a bit of empathy. Focus on the kids, she said. When you return Lucky, make sure the kids look healthy and cared for. Fine. Harrumph.
I finished trimming all the matted fur from Max’s paws and back and face. Then I gave him a nice bath.
When I walked up to the house on Lexington Parkway, the Roadkill Mecca of St. Paul, two kids burst from the door. “Lucky!” they exclaimed. And one plucked the little dog from my arms. The kids looked well-fed. They had clean clothes and made appropriate eye contact. They smiled and thanked me.
I asked if Lucky ever goes to the vet. Yes, they said. We’re planning to get him a rabies shot this summer. I gave them the rabies tag and certificate.
Does Lucky have a collar? I asked. He did, but it got lost. I show the kids my phone number, printed on the rabies certificate. If you ever want help getting him a collar or tags, I said, just give me a call.
Have a nice life, Lucky. I walked away.
Sunday morning. The phone next to our bed rings at 7:16. The ringer’s turned off. I normally sleep through a downstairs ring but I pick up.
Ace, who left for work at 6:45, informs me that he just got rear-ended on Highway 65. The cops are on their way. The guy who hit him is “plowed.”
“Plowed?” I ask. “You mean drunk?” On Sunday morning at 7:16 am.
Yeah, he’s drunk. And ten seconds later he jumps back into his huge red truck and leaves the scene. Ace was rear-ended. The truck has no front license plate.
“Are you okay?” I’m still trying to process what amounts to way too much information.
“I think so,” he says. He can’t shake the idea that he shouldn’t be okay. Ace was at a dead stop on Highway 65 at a red light. The truck plowed into him full speed, at least 60 mph. The impact imploded the back end of our 2011 Subaru Outback, sending a shower of glass along Ace’s neck, and pushing his car all the way across the intersection.
The cops arrive and we hang up.
Ace and I talk regularly about the risks of an hour commute each way, the nasty stretch of road known as Highway 65. Wouldn’t it be great if he could walk a few blocks to the clinic on Grand Avenue? We put him in a Subaru for safety and mileage.
I start gathering my thoughts and my car keys. 1) Figure out if Ace is actually injured. 2) Call the insurance company. 3) What to do about his work day? There is no automatic “sub” system in his hospital practice. If he can’t work, we have to find someone who can; It’s not like he can call in and say, “Hey, sorry. Please let my patients know I can’t make it in. I just had a near-death experience.”
He was at a dead stop, rear-ended full speed. Physics suggests he shouldn’t be okay.
Ace calls back. He needs to get to work. He gives me the address of the towing company. My dad and I leave in two vehicles.
We meet in the parking lot snowbank of Qwik Trip, across the road from the closed offices of the towing company. He stands next to the debris he salvaged from the car: a pile of reusable shopping bags, a window break/seatbelt slicer, Minnesota winter emergency supplies, two hockey sticks. I walk to Ace and embrace him, kiss him, tell him I love him. His eyes are wide. Imagine you’re all calm and casual, cruising down the street. A red Lamborghini screams alongside, fire arcing off the metal. Death catches your eye, cocks his head, coolly assessing. Nope, not this time. He peals off onto the open road.
Ace describes the man, how he staggered from his truck. “I’m sorry,” he slurred. “I just broke up with my girlfriend.” He could barely walk, but got back in the cab and took off. They apprehended him a few miles up the road.
“I’m glad they caught the –“ my dad hesitates, as if looking to see if my mom is present. “Asshole,” I suggest, as my dad completes the sentence with “bastard.” (sorry Mom) We’re both spitting mad.
As a physician, I believe in the disease model of addiction. My sympathy for the heartbroken man who could’ve killed my husband ended the second he stepped into his truck. Don’t turn your own disease into someone else’s tragedy.
“Take ibuprofen now,” I say, knowing Ace is hopped up on epinephrine. He’ll only feel the full effects of this at the end of his shift.
I ride home in my dad’s Subaru. He tells me of the time an “old man” pulled right out in front of him. My dad, age 15 and on a bike, was tossed up onto the guy’s hood. The driver, an Eau Claire “stranger,” put my dad in the car and drove him to the hospital, waited while the doctor checked him out, paid the bill, and repaired the bike.
Dad drops me off at home. My mom checks in by phone, reminding me that her father was rear-ended by a drunk driver in the dead of night on his way home from working overtime. She started waking up when her father was due home and staying awake until he arrived. Safe.
I call the hospital where Ace works and chat with the floor manager. Yes, they heard what happened. I describe the scene in more detail and ask her to shove some ibuprofen down Ace’s throat. “We’ll hogtie him,” she assures me. “And make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” I say. “We’ll try,” she replies.
Working after such an experience might be considered stupid. What can he do?
I spend the next three hours on the phone. The deputy who helped my husband supplies me with the other driver’s full name, date of birth (two weeks after Ace’s, including the year), license plate, and insurance name and policy number. I inform American Family Insurance that their policy holder is currently in the county jail. They will attempt to contact him for ten days to get his side of the story. If they can’t reach him, they’ll proceed with their own investigation and decide whether they’ll accept liability.
How could they not accept liability? We went to inspect our impounded car today and found the red truck’s front license plate – fully embedded in our car’s rear bumper.
At the end of it, I have a probably-totaled car, a huge unanticipated vehicular expense, a lengthy insurance investigation, and a living breathing husband.
In five years, maybe I’ll look at Ace and say, “Hey, remember when that drunk driver could’ve killed you on Highway 65 four days after 17 students and teachers were mowed down by an angry 19-yr-old with access to an AR-15? I’m so grateful that our lawmakers finally tackled gun reform as well as addiction treatment and support.”
A gal can dream.
That’s the back of the guy’s license plate, embedded in our Subaru’s rear bumper.
The back of the car performed EXACTLY as it should, caving in and dropping down. You can see how the rear of the car is mashed up against the tires.
The interior seating area is quite well-preserved – plenty of room to survive. No airbags deployed.
Again, you can see how the back of the car tilted down. The rear doors are unusable.
Ace and Sparkle. Final goodbyes.
The front still looks great!
I don’t like football. I don’t get football. At several points in my life, various males have attempted to explain the “down” system in a way that made any sense whatsoever. They failed. To me, football is the American equivalent of the gladiator ring. We can’t condone fighting to the death but we can allow boorish fans to revel in blown ACLs, ripped rotator cuffs, and the chronic head trauma that leads to Swiss cheese brains.
Super Bowl LII provided the perfect opportunity for me to do my Target shopping. It just so happens that Justin Timberlake visited my Target
in the days leading up to LII. This video dropped Friday, inducing a frenzied rush of JT fans screaming “Aardvark!!!!!”
smiling, dressed for Target
second minivan on the left #RockStar
Super Bowl Sunday was COLD. I wore my Minnesota Suit and Tie and drove my SexyBack minivan to JT’s Target. Got me some rock-star parking (Not a Bad Thing). Contrary to popular belief, the Midway Target in St. Paul isn’t a Filthy, understaffed warehouse full of cheap, household Supplies.
empty aisles
it’s winter, people
#bikinibody
no shrine?
JT + FP 4evah
The Body Count in the store was low, with aisles as empty as the Blue Ocean Floor. A huge display of bikinis assaulted me, taunting me to Pose in front of the Mirrors. Not My Style. I walked the Five Hundred Miles to the back of the store, Fascinated by the thought that Justin Timberlake breathed the very air around the Man of the Woods display. I Can’t Believe It. There’s no shrine.
JT + RP ≠ TL b/c AL + RP = 4evah
FP ingredients = GMOs, pesticide, and petroleum byproducts #GetANewSnack
I asked the Target tech dude (who looked like he’d rather be Livin’ Off the Land) for the straight scoop. What went down on Friday? Give It To Me! Tech dude said JT came in on Friday, shot some video, spent some Money, walked around, and Nothin’ Else.
Hm, I thought. I Can’t Stop the Feelin’ that I’m not getting the True Colors of the situation, the Holy Grail of investigative journalism. The self-checkout helper dished the real Sauce. That Girl said the whole thing was a scam. Timberlake arrived on Monday, spent a couple minutes surrounded by security in the back of the store, signed exactly five albums, posed with a cart filled by someone else, and left. 4 Minutes max. Did he at least Say Something, take some Super Bowl Selfies with fans? Nope. Well, Cry Me a River.
no longer smiling #SallowFace
#Sadface. JT, you had a chance to Rock Your Body with good Minnesotans, folks acquainted with The [actual] Woods, people who would give you the several feet of personal space you deserve. What Goes Around…Comes Around, dude. We can see the Signs, stare right through your web of Flannel deception.
Sure, we’ll be nice, Role Model Minnesotans. But Ain’t No Doubt About It, you can anticipate a lukewarm, passive-aggressive reception Until the End of Time.
Hey! It’s flu season. Again! I blogged about this three years ago and I think it’s worth an update.
———————–
Disclaimer: I am not your doctor. I am not trying to give you medical advice. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 now. Now! Thank you.
————————
Tis the season. Everyone has “The Flu.” Unfortunately for health care providers everywhere, “The Flu” represents at least four different situations in our culture.
1) The Flue. Let’s get this one out of the way as it’s the least confusing. Anyone with a woodburning fireplace has A Flue. The great news is, flues aren’t contagious!
2) Which brings us to the next The Flu, as in Influenza, as in THE REAL DEAL FLU! This is the bad one. It isn’t actually one at all but many. Sorry. There are a three types of the influenza virus that afflict humans. Ya got yer influenza A and yer influenza B and yer influenza C.
But influenza A is further divided into subtypes: influenza A H(1-18)N(1-11). In other words, there are 19 different possibilities of H protein and 11 different possibilities of N protein on the surface of the influenza A virus. To put this in mathematical terms would require me to relive something involving factorials and I’m not going there. Suffice it to say that nature can produce many H + N combinations for our respiratory pleasure.
The joy doesn’t stop. There can be many strains of a certain subtype. Remember H1N1 from 2009? That was a new strain of influenza A H1N1. Vaccine wizards try to predict which strains, subtypes, and types will be particularly important in upcoming flu seasons and tailor “The Flu Shot” to those strains. Sometimes they get it right. Other times not so much. Don’t get too mad at them – remember that factorial situation.
How does The Flu Shot work? Most of the shots contain dead flu viruses. ”Inactivated” is the slightly more pleasant term. So I get my shot and my immune system picks up the dead viruses and says, hm, we have an intruder. (Technically, we have three ((trivalent vaccine – this year containing an A H1N1, an A H3N2, and a B)) or four ((quadrivalent vaccine – everything above plus another B)) intruders.) Let’s make antibody weapons directed against this intruder! It takes a couple weeks for me to really build up my antibody arsenal. When someone with The Flu sneezes on my face and I get exposed to real live virus, my immune system recognizes the intruder and my antibody weapons are ready to be deployed.
To put this in perspective, our bodies are exposed to thousands of new “intruders” each day as we eat and breathe and live. Most of us can easily handle a couple more.
FluMist, the nose spray flu vaccination, is made up of “live attenuated” virus. Think of it like a scorpion with its stinger removed. No don’t. That’s creepy. Think of it like a barberry bush with the thorns removed. Never mind. Don’t think of it at all because the CDC says DON’T GET IT THIS SEASON BECAUSE IT ISN’T EFFECTIVE ENOUGH!
Influenza A is currently running rampant according to my charming husband and this helpful yet alarming map. If you lived in Guam or Washington DC during the month of December, good for you. It’s January now though, and all bets are off.
This flu season ushered in a particularly nasty strain of Influenza A. Over thirty children have already died in the United States.
The match between the strains in the vaccine and the strains we are seeing “in the wild” isn’t perfect. However, the vaccine can still help your body identify and attack the intruder. Think of it like a family resemblance. The vaccine contains a specific strain of influenza A(H3N2). [Ms. Richardson, the flesh-eating zombie who lives next door.] You contract a slightly different influenza A (H3N2). [Hey! You look a lot like Ms. Richardson! Really? You’re her sister? I thought I sorta recognized you… Are you a zombie, too? ACK!!!]
As we get older, our immune systems get older, too. They don’t get as excited about the flesh-eating zombie next door. Folks over the age of 65 can get a couple souped-up versions of the vaccine: 1) a high-dose vaccine [a whole den of zombies] 2) an adjuvanted vaccine – the vaccine inside a base of squalene oil [like a zombie with flames shooting out of its orifices – highly noticeable].
The Bottom Line is you should get a flu shot. Now. Posthaste. And next year do it in October. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for the sake of the infants under six months who can’t get vaccinated. Or the elders who don’t get bent out of shape about a couple zombies.
3) So how about The Flu, like The Stomach Flu, like I’m-Puking-And-Pooping-And-Miserable Flu. Well, technically that isn’t flu at all. Depending on your circumstances, it could be “food poisoning” (which isn’t really poisoning, but ingestion of food-borne microbes such as campylobacter and salmonella) or viral gastroenteritis caused by any one of a number of fecal-to-oral transmitted viruses. Norovirus, the virus-formerly-known-as-Norwalk, is the big offender in this country.
Yup, you read that right. Fecal, as in POOP, to oral, as in EAT POOP. Ace and I both learned a scintillating saying in medical school: “If shit were red, the world would be pink.” Just let that one sink in for a minute. The moral to the story is: WASH YOUR HANDS.
4) Finally, we come to The Flu. ”I have a touch of The Flu” is what your neighbor says when he has a runny nose and slight cough. Folks, you cannot have a touch of the Actual Flu. The Actual Flu doesn’t touch you, it bowls you over, leaving you prostrate and begging for mercy. Your neighbor’s “touch of The Flu” is likely a viral upper respiratory infection, caused by one of a group of constantly mutating viruses. Hence, no vaccine). Common causes of The Common Cold include rhinovirus, parainfluenza virus, and respiratory syncytial virus (RSV).
People know that “a touch of The Flu” will excuse them from work, uncomfortable social obligations, and cooking duty. ”A touch of The Flu” begs sympathy and chicken noodle soup. ”I have a cold” and you can just join the club. Buck up!
If you schedule an appointment with your Minnesota doctor for symptoms of a viral upper respiratory infection during the months of December or January, s/he is likely to be sicker than you are and more than a little peevish from a vexing combination of stress (it’s nearly impossible for doctors to just “call in sick”) and lack of sleep.
That is all.
Love, joy, kindness, faithfulness, and what?
The Fruits of the Spirit rot,
Forgotten and maligned, sin-sick expendable culture.
With instant gratification, easily bruised egos
Spar from the anonymity of screens.
What can we do to help?
Remind everyone to eat their fruit!
Be kind. Be faithful. Be love.
Rafa snuggling with Chester
My beloved Pomeranian, Rafa, died last May of heart failure. Naturally, I assumed Ace would be just fine with the immediate procurement of another Pom. Not so. Turns out Ace enjoyed the relative dearth of barking.
I continued my daily Petfinder searches. Quietly.
Dear Universe, please send me a Pomeranian. The Universe had other ideas.
Rafa came from Second Chance Animal Rescue, a lovely 501(c)3 organization in the Twin Cities. My Henry and Teddy also came from Second Chance. I hooked up my parents with Second Chance’s Torrey (aka Freaky) over ten years ago.
Teddy and Henry.
Torrey.
After Rafa’s death, I took all of his heart meds to a Second Chance adoption event and gave them to the program director. I might’ve mentioned that I was in the market for a Pomeranian. It’s possible that I wrote down my name and phone number.
Roughly three days later, the program director called and asked if we could foster a Pomeranian. The dog was about nine years old with multiple medical problems and had been removed from an abusive situation. Oh, and the dog was a biter.
I played the Child card even though The Big E spent his whole toddlerhood as Henry’s chewtoy.
Shortly (very shortly) thereafter, another Pom needed a foster home. The dog’s human mother had dementia and was no longer able to care for a pet. Great! I said. Remarkably, Ace agreed. The devil you know…
More info emerged and the situation muddied. The Pom was a barker and liked to bite folks who got too close to her human. #Suboptimal.
Cheryl lives two blocks from us and happens to foster for Second Chance. She mentioned to me that she had a darling Yorkie she thought my parents should meet. I stopped by and took “Newton” for a little walk. My parents loved him. (“If he actually looked like a Yorkie we’d be seriously tempted.”) My son loved him. My Labrador Retriever loved him. My husband tolerated him.
At which time I pulled the Great Switcheroo of 2017. I asked Cheryl to trade; we would foster Newton and she would foster the barker/biter. She agreed.
I wanted a Pomeranian.
This is a Pomeranian.
This is a Pomeranian.
This is a Pomeranian.
This is NOT a Pomeranian.
During our brief stint as a “foster” family, I renamed Newton, ordered up a dog tag with his new name and our address, applied for a lifelong St. Paul pet license, and bought him an adorable faux-leather jacket.
But I want a Pomeranian! Ace did not want a Pomeranian. Ace announced that he did not want another dog but if he had to have another dog, let it be this dog.
I signed the adoption papers.
Fergus is not a Pomeranian. But he’s perfect. He loves his human and canine brothers. He rarely barks. He helped me study for my medical Board exam. He snuggles. He sleeps at my feet and in the morning when I’m waking up, he comes up and sits on my chest. He’ll even wash my face.
I’m planning to sew Fergus a Pomeranian suit for halloween. 
I set my intention. I asked the Universe for a Pomeranian. The Universe supplied me with the only small dog my husband could tolerate, and maybe even love.
I thought he was kidding. My husband asked, “Hey, did you see that tiny blurb in the Star Tribune about Trump banning the CDC from using certain words?” What? After nearly a year of madness, I shouldn’t be surprised.
According to multiple news sources, the Trump administration informed the Centers for Disease Control that they can’t use “transgender,” “fetus,” “evidence-based,” “science-based,” “vulnerable,” “diversity,” and “entitlement” in next year’s budget documentation.
The reasons for this latest assault on Reason, Science, and Humanity were not stated. They don’t need to be stated. The Narcissist in Charge is merely continuing his fascist, anti-choice, racist, opinion-based, homo- and transphobic agenda.
12,000 people work for the CDC. I guarantee that the least intelligent CDC employee is smarter than the president. Geez, what a nightmare. But just in case the CDC workers wish to focus less on linguistics and more on science, I’ll offer up some substitutions for easy insertion into documents.
Instead of “transgender,” try “queer.” Related but not necessarily synonymous, this quick-change will certainly produce some headscratching amongst the anti-facters. For added effect, be sure to utilize “queer” in other contexts, as in “The color of the acid bath looked a bit queer after we dipped Trump’s head in it.”
“Fetus” is a very specific medical term that describes the post-embryonic, pre-newborn products of conception. I suggest using a code-word to throw off the #AlternativeFacts folks. “Gerbil” could work well. Embed some links that toss readers out to #TotesAdorbs home videos. Here’s an example: “A gerbil is not a person.”
“Evidence-based” and “science-based.” Hm. What to do. Heaven forbid that any aspects of policy and budget should involve actual facts. As an initial management strategy, try “facts derived from scientific study” or “data discerned from the rigorous systematic evaluation of prospective randomized controlled trials.” Might do the trick.
“Vulnerable”? #seriously? I think of this in the context of the “vulnerable adult.” Why would you want to put a muzzle on discussion of vulnerable adults? Fortunately, we have a plethora of synonyms available including “at-risk,” “endangered,” “susceptible,” “exposed.” Upon further reflection, perhaps Trump banned this word b/c he can’t bear the thought of ever being vulnerable. For a narcissist, vulnerability is unthinkable. The opposite of great. Very bad.
I had to research why the CDC might use the word “entitlement.” Ooh! I get to quote Wikipedia! “An entitlement is a provision made in accordance with a legal framework of a society. Typically, entitlements are based on concepts of principle (‘rights’) which are themselves based in concepts of social equality or enfranchisement.” Here are some sentences that can replace the word “entitlement” in next year’s budget:
“Trump hates children.”
“Trump hates libraries and public schools – #TooSocialist #Sad”
“Trump thinks the ‘unalienable rights’ apply only to rich white men.”
“Trump would kill your pet bunny and force an indentured servant to turn it into golf club head covers.”
It’s only right that the Trump administration be banned from using seven words. Turnabout is fair play. Might I suggest:
1) fake
2) pussy
3) God
4) all superlatives, particularly “huge,” “tremendous,” “epic,” “great,” “Great,” & “Great!”
5) Hillary
6) Clinton’s
7) Emails
