Why I'm Not a Dermatologist

      Not too long ago, we were at Mom and Dad’s house visiting with my brother, Moose, and his wife Red, my “baby” brother, Wolverine, and his wife Midge.  The Yankee, being the compulsive type, can’t stand to sit and chat.  He has to be doing something so he is usually the dishwasher.  (Mom has this weirdness about what can and cannot go in the non-human dishwasher.  “Bertha, you know those dishwashers destroy dishes”.  “But Mom, dishpan hands destroys hands and I can buy another set of dollar store juice glasses.”  “That’s so wasteful, Bert.”  “So where do you buy new hands, Mom?”)  Anyway, on top of being compulsive, The Yankee is also a bit of a dope in the kitchen.  He can’t make scrambled eggs worth a darn, he thinks sage is the magic herb that delicately enhances everything from seared ahi tuna to fruit cocktail in heavy syrup, and he cuts himself … on absolutely everything.  Broken glass, knife blades, cabinet corners, oven knobs; you name it, it has taken his blood.  This time, it was the blade of Mom’s food processor.  I hear the patented sucking sound of air through clenched teeth and see dishwater fly across the kitchen floor as he leaps for a paper towel.  Since I’m “Mrs. The Yankee”, I know what’s going on without looking but sweet, sensitive Red can’t help but check on him.  “Are you OK?” she asks.  The Yankee pulls back the paper towel and I see the color drain from Red’s face.  “Oh.  Blood.  Wow.” she barely whispers as she slowly makes her way to the floor so she can sit and force herself not to pass out.  “I … I … I just can’t do blood.”  Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.  The Yankee would be getting more pleasure out of this display were it not for the gushing geyser in his crumpled paper towel bandage.  I helped him get his finger bandaged up and Moose helped poor little Red make it to the couch before she completely lost consciousness. 

      If you had been a Peeping Tom peering through the window that day, you would have seen a sight too hilarious for words.  Red is an attorney (often paid in pies and lovingly crocheted afghans) who has no problems helping a poor old lady create a will and not leave her life savings to the “Save the Wealthy” charity group.  But you put a drop of blood in front of her, and she faints.  I don’t understand that.  For the record, I do not love blood.  Or blood and guts.  Or blood and gore.  Or anything else gross and bloody.  I just don’t freak out over it.  You chop your foot off with the chainsaw in the back yard, I will throw the detached appendage into a bowl of ice and drive you to the hospital at speeds that would make Mario Andretti admit defeat.  I will sign your cast.  I will bandage your wounds.  I will help you pull out your last baby tooth.  I will clip your stitches for you.  But if you come near me with skin flakes of any kind, I will vacate the premises post-haste.  Dandruff has to be undoubtedly the most horrendous thing on earth.  Red says, “Bertha!  You’re such a goober.  Dandruff is unfortunate but a bloody stub is … is …”  She sits before she gets any dizzier.  I totally disagree.  “No, Red, you’re the goober.  The bloody stub would be considered most unfortunate.  But flakes are just … just …” Now I’m sitting. 

       The Yankee thinks we’ve both lost it. 

      I think my issue started when I was in the first grade.  My dad mowed the grass shirtless in the middle of the summer and, big shock, ended up with wicked sunburn on his back. (Rednecks?  Us?  Surely not!)  He moaned for days while my mom slathered aloe on his back and I stayed as far away from him as I could.  About a week later, his moaning had stopped and he was able to wear shirts again.  I let my guard down and resumed my life as a busy 6-year old.  After a particularly spirited game of hopscotch, I came in the house to get a drink of water.  Walking through the back door, I rounded the corner just in time to see my mom peeling skin off my dad’s back.  There, utterly frozen, sat a shell shocked mini-Bertha on the verge of losing her lunch.  “What’s wrong Bert?” said my mom.  “Come look at your dad’s back!”  I took off running, my head feeling itchy, my stomach feeling queasy, and my brain permanently, eternally, irrevocably etched with the nauseating display I had just witnessed. 

      I relay my reasoning to Red and as she laughs, my mom rounds the corner.  “All this fuss over a little sunburn?!”  Well, Mother, if Valentine’s Day is “all this fuss over a little heart-shaped chalk”, then yes.  Hit the nail on the head there, Ma!

 

      So you see?  I have a good reason for my phobia/weirdness/nausea.  Red, on the other hand, is just a wimp.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Why I'm Not a Psychiatrist

     It’s an age-old question, but I’ve heard it many times: “Where do you get your material?”  How do you answer something like that without a phony-sounding “aww shucks” on one extreme, or a flippant-sounding “duh” on the other extreme.  Since I’m still hearing the same question, I suppose the best answer to give you is, “I let my eyes and ears find it for me”.  And that’s the honest truth.   

     I’ve always been quietly observant and have had a keen interest in the behaviors of humankind since I was in pre-school.  I remember seeing a little boy acting just horrible about something very simple and my 4-year old mind wondered “Why is Scottie being so hateful?  I bet it’s more than just the broken paintbrush, but what?”  Over the years I’ve had many well-meaning people suggest that I should be a psychiatrist, but I find the prospects far from desirable.  How long can you give a third-party, observant, “Mmm hmm” to a selfish person playing dying cockroach while the world passes by?  How long can you watch the trite, mundane, and downright ridiculous without saying something?  In lieu of seeing patients, I write what I see and hear.  Of course, what I see and hear is filtered through the “Bertha lenses” through which I see the world and the “Bertha ear muffs” through which I hear the world, but it’s certainly easier writing about it than trying to talk to The Yankee about it. 
 
      But seriously, I started thinking about this a little more closely and wondered how I would manage as an actual psychiatrist.  How would I deal with the deep psychological issues of the patients who came seeking my help when many of the solutions would be so simple?  I know there are some people who have lived through absolute horrors.  Abuse, torture, neglect - they all exist and have lasting, scarring effects that can take a lifetime to overcome.  These are not the issues of which I speak.  I am talking about the people who seek therapy for the fact that they can’t sleep.  “Mmm hmmm”, I would say, “Go on”.  “Well doc”, my hypothetical patient would say, “I can’t sleep.  I just lay there and lay there, watching the clock tick away, hoping I’ll fall asleep and I just can’t”.  *sob, sniff*  “Mmm hmm”, I say again, “And what time do you get up in the mornings?”  “Well’, *sniff, sob*, “I usually sleep until about noon because I’m so tired.”  My eyebrow raises and I say, “And what is your bedtime routine?”  *sniff, nose honk into hankie*  “Well, I don’t really have a set routine.  I read the news on my laptop, catch up on some work, make some phone calls, and then eat dinner.  I’m so tired, Doc, I just can’t cook so last night, for instance, I chopped up some Twinkies into a bowl of whipped cream and ate that with a bag of chips and a beer.”  My poor acting skills start showing as I can’t help the fact that my one eyebrow is raising higher and higher while the other is sinking lower and lower.  “And what time did you enjoy this gourmet feast?” *sob* “Oh, probably around 11pm.  But that’s not the worst of it.  I’ll fold laundry in front of an investigative true crime documentary to relax.  Then I head to bed and turn the TV on just to drown out the whirling thoughts in my head.  I need to call my client in the morning, I need to take the cat to the vet, I need to make sure I get earthquake insurance, I need to water the plants in the guest room, I need to make sure I locked the front door, I need to check in to getting a perm for my eyelashes, I have to have to have to remember to take my vitamins in the morning or my whole day is shot, then I scold myself for telling that platypus joke in the meeting this morning and go through every possible scenario of how I will lose my job tomorrow if my boss didn’t think it was funny, and then I wonder if maybe he really did think it was funny since he laughed but sometimes laughs can mean different things so I replay his laugh over and over and over and over and over in my head trying to remember if it was patronizing, maniacal, or just plain laughing because he thought it was funny.  And then it reminds me that I broke my funny bone in high school which is why it aches every time it’s going to rain and it’s been aching like the devil lately so I remember that I never did check into getting galvanized rain gutters or flood insurance, and then I start wondering what on earth I would grab first if a flood was coming and before I know it, the alarm is going off and I have to get up and hope I remember to take my vitamins or my whole day is shot.  You see why I can’t sleep, Doc?”  *sniff, gulp, sob*
 
      At this point, my one eyebrow would be entering my hairline while the other one would be threatening to abandon ship if it comes any closer to my lips and I just sit there, stunned.  And then when I prescribe a 2-week period of rest and abstinence from all electronics, my hypothetical insomniac patient storms out of my office and screams, “You pompous quack!  How is putting away my blender going to help me sleep?!!” 
 
      And as I relay this story to The Yankee, he says, “Poor guy.  All those problems and now he’s hypothetical, too.” 
 
     And that, boys and girls, is why I write … because otherwise, I would drink.
 
© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Why I Wear Big Earrings

     I never thought any deeper about my accessory choices than the age old question, “Does it match?”  Beyond matching, the whys and wherefores, the deep-seated reasons behind why I wear what I wear never really headlined in the variety show of my mind.  I just continued choosing big earrings and wearing whatever matched until the day I wore simple pearl earrings with an elegant outfit and someone said, “I thought you only wore big earrings.  What changed?”  Changed?  Nothing changed.  This elegant outfit called for elegant accessories and nothing fit the bill better than my wedding pearls The Yankee nervously handed to me as a wedding gift.  That bizarre-o question bugged me for the rest of the night.  Why do I wear big earrings all the time?  Is it the mere fact that I’m just drawn to them like babies are drawn to car keys and ponytails, or is it something more deeply philosophical?  After much soul searching and an internal interview, I have surmised the following hypothesis. 

     I've always been body-conscious for a number of reasons.  I've always felt "on the outside", so to speak.  Like the world had this big club in a shopping mall somewhere that I wasn't allowed to join.  I was this huge, tall kid who started wearing women's shoes in the 3^rd grade, so it was like, "Well, here's this fun ride, but you're too big for it."  Then I can't find any clothes to fit me because, while I was the height and size of a grown woman, I still had the figure of an 8 year old.  Nothing fit me and I looked ridiculous ... not to mention the 80's was the era that style forgot.  Thank goodness I never got into the whole leg warmers thing ... they probably wouldn't have fit me either.  Then, when I got older, it was like, “You've finally reached womanhood!  Here are the cute clothes for people your age ... oooh, so sorry, you're too big.  What?  You don't want to wear a 2 piece?  Well, the great-great-granny section is down the hall, left turn at the hearing aids.”  Then it was, “Wow you sure are tall!  We have tall pants in sizes 2,4,6,and our XXXL is an 8.  What?  You can't squeeze one butt cheek in our XXXL size 8?  Somebody tax this girl's carbon dioxide emissions!!!”  So, down the hall I go to the fat chicks department.  “Wow!  You're a buxom gal!  We have sizes 16, 18, 20 and up.  This 18 fits really, really, really TALL girls all the way up to 5 feet 4 inches in height!!!  What?  You're 6-feet-in-heels?  Security!!!”

     So I thought, “Well, I guess I'll stick to the few pieces of clothes I can find at Buxom Broads, Inc. that aren't $100 each.  With my high-water pants, I’ll start a Capri pants trend.  I'll just get colored contacts to make my green eyes greener.  That, along with my eye makeup and huge earrings, will take the emphasis off of my granny outfits and high-water pants.”  What?  You're legally blind?  Well, our colored lenses are for special people who are only sorta-blind, but we have these clear lenses that are almost comfortable!!  So, with my clear, almost comfortable lenses I think, "That's OK, I'll get a new hairdo".  And the hairdresser says, "You want your hair to look like Oprah's?  Well, I suggest you get hair donations from 20 of your closest friends because you're bald, darlin'!!  Only special people with tons and gobs of hair can look like her!!!"  So, I perm my 9 strands of hair, thus bringing the spiral perm fad back into haute couture,  and take my clear lenses, high-water pants, and short-people, granny-gauze bathing suit with the bra cups under my ribcage and think, "Well, I'll just use my sense of humor to make people not notice the baldness, clear lenses, high-water pants, and granny gauze bathing suit".  And the world says, "You want to make us laugh?  Ooooooh, sorry, that only works if you're thin with tons of hair, pants that fit, bright green eyes, and a bikini.  OR, you can use tons of profanity and scream the F-word every other breath.  What?  You don't cuss like that?  Well, the retired librarians are meeting down the hall, right turn at the orthopedic school marm shoes ..."

     So, there you have it.  My armchair psychiatric self-evaluation into the deep reasons why I wear big earrings.  Was my momentary lapse into the ladylike grace of demure pearls indicative of anything other than a one-time jewelry choice for a dress-up affair?  “Well, Bertha, only you can answer that.” 

OK, I’m getting on my own nerves now.  

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.