Medic Alert

Back when tobacco-sponsored medical dramas showed people smoking in planes, restaurants and oxygen tents, Hollywood portrayed heath-care professionals as quiet heroes devoted to their patients' well-being. Sure, Ben Casey got angry, but only when the St. Nicotinia Hospital administrators balked at the experimental treatment (smoking) that could save little Susie, or when nurses neglected their duties:

“This patient needs surgery! Get a match, STAT!”

“The patient's AB negative, Doctor.”

“No, a MATCH! How do you expect me to operate without a cigarette? Just put the ashtray on the pancreas. Now sponge my forehead, and flick my ash away from the spleen.”

TV doctors don't smoke anymore. Instead they're sex-crazed substance-abusing megalomaniacs, which would be okay, except they're also mean. They've forgotten the gentle example of doctors Kildare and Welby, who never bullied their patients or whacked them with a cane. Doc Adams patiently dug bullets out of Dodge City's slow-draws, even though they were guest stars and therefore doomed. Bones McCoy may have been brusque at times (“Dammit, Jim! I'm a doctor, not a fiduciary actuarial analyst!”) but he did his best, even for the red-shirted Security personnel who never lived past the opening credits.

Like their predecessors, today's docs cure their patients (except the ones that main characters fall in love with; they're doomed). But first they misdiagnose the illness, subject the patient to painful tests and treatments, and probe secrets out of personal histories and even-more-personal orifices.

While real-life doctors may not be as abusive as their on-screen counterparts, they fail to grasp that when patients put on flimsy gowns missing essential ties and lacking yards of fabric, they cease to be reality-based life forms and become quivering blobs of terrified protoplasm convinced of impending doom. Perhaps health-care providers could be required to read a statement to patients, as police are required to Mirandize suspects:

"Don't panic! These are routine tests. We promise not to report the results in an ambiguous phone message at 4:55 on Friday before a three-day weekend so you have to worry about it until Monday and play it over and over trying to decide if our tone is somber or reassuring. Again, don't panic! Unless you're a guest star or love interest or wearing a red shirt.)”

Or perhaps an interpreter could silently shadow each doctor and indicate, through gestures and facial expressions, when the doctor strays into medical flights of fancy. A headshake and eyeroll could reassure the patient that, even though a case of kleptoparabisonymia would make a fascinating article for the American Journal of Medical Wishful Thinking, it's an extremely unlikely diagnosis. (This would also provide mimes with gainful employment and get them off the streets, where they don't get run over nearly often enough.)

Perhaps one day the inadequate gowns will be made of mood-sensing material, so doctors could tell when they've alarmed the patient:

Doctor: Your test results show a slight elevation in your polyesteriptides. Have you ever been to Pago Pago?

Patient: Nooo... (ohmygodIhavesomehorribletropicaldiseaseI'mdoomed)

D: I'm considering it for my next vacation. Tahiti's just too touristy now....

P: Hunh.

D: (to nurse) I'm reminded of an interesting paper I read in the latest AJMWT. The patient had ingested a larvae-infested papaya...

P: (Oh my god! I've eaten papaya! Or was it mango? I'm doooooomed!)

D: The larvae hatched into three-foot long worms that traveled throughout the bloodstream. The patient complained of feeling like his skin was crawling...

P: (AAAAHHHH!!! My skin IS crawling!!)

D: Now what made me think of that? Oh yes! I had fruit salad at lunch. With papaya. Or maybe mango.. Now, where were we?

P: Uhhhhhh....

D: Right. Your singing angiogram was a little flat, but within normal range. We also checked your trinomials and porte-cocheres, and would like to follow up with a look at your medusa arigato. Have you had any pain on your right side?

P: Ye-es, now that you mention it.... (Ohmygod! I probably have major organs on my right side!)

D: Oh well, not to worry. Now if it was your left side...

Doctor and nurse laugh knowingly.

P: (Ohmygod! Maybe it was my left side! I'm doooooomed!)

D: Just a little medical humor there. Ha Ha!

P: (doomed doomed doomed)

Mood-sensing gown bursts into flames. Interpreter mimes using a fire extinguisher. Doctor and nurse light cigarettes and discuss their article for the AJMWF. Patient is doomed.

Be It Hereby Resolved

This year, due to continuing lack of support from family and friends, I'm giving up my traditional resolution of not smoking in the New Year. I can no longer face their mockery and derision when I joyously proclaim another day/week/month without a cigarette. It hurts when they roll their eyes and snort bitter laughs. “You don’t smoke,” they tell me. “You’ve never smoked. You can’t resolve to quit smoking unless you are, in fact, a smoker. Look it up.”

So this year, I resolve to stay out of prison.

I also resolve to resist being drawn into conversation with blinky-eared people. No place is safe from them. Last week I was selecting Granny Smiths in the Piggly-Wiggly when I heard, “The bananas look good.”

I looked across the fruit display to see a young woman in business clothes.

I replied, “Yes, they do, don't they?”

“Should I get some?”

Always happy to help a fellow shopper, I answered, “Sure, why not?”

“How many do you want?” she asked.

“Oh, none, thank you. I'm getting apples.”

She changed the subject. “What about cheese?”

“Um, well, cheese is good with apples...”

“And ice cream?”

Our conversation seemed to be veering off-track, but I did my best.

“I don't know that cheese is good with ice cream,” I told her.

The young woman shot me a look of annoyance and said “Do you MIND!” As she turned away, I saw the blinking light by her ear and heard her say, “I don't know. Some crazy lady... Do you need milk?”

I’ve decided the real challenge of resolutions is finding the right people to share them with. Those closest to you know too much, and complete strangers don’t respond with the desired encouragement. When they fail to see a blinky light by your ear, they scurry nervously away down the cereal aisle.

The ideal confidants are casual acquaintances who will be simultaneously fascinated to learn of your vices, and impressed by your willpower in giving them up.

“Really?” they exclaim in wonderment. “You just went cold turkey on (insert vice here)? “Wow. Must be tough. Have some chocolate. Or would you prefer tequila?”

I resolve to find those people.

A Heart-Warming Holiday Tale

At this sentimental time of year, even the most hard-bitten snarks here in the Soup Tureen find their thoughts turning to home and family. Please indulge us as we share an old favorite; a holiday tale that speaks to us of what this season truly means…

As usual, he was the last to leave the towering office building that bore his name. International business didn't keep holiday hours, and neither did he. It was this drive and determination that had lifted him out of the tenements to the pinnacle of success.

“Home,” he told his driver, and opened his briefcase.

At a red light, he lifted his eyes from his papers. The sidewalks were crowded with people carrying bags and parcels, and he remembered it was Christmas Eve. Through the passing shoppers he glimpsed an old woman huddled in an alley. Her ragged coat offered scant protection against the biting cold, and her feet showed through the tattered remains of her shoes.

She was just another of the city's wretched bits of flotsam, but something about her touched him. On a sudden impulse, he told his driver to stop in front of an Army surplus store. He quickly selected a pair of sturdy boots, and told the puzzled driver to return to the alley.

The old woman hadn't moved. He placed the boots in the dirty snow in front of her and waited. She slowly raised her grey head, and her tired old eyes met his. She picked up the boots and held them a moment, as though she couldn't believe what he had given her, then chucked them at his head.

"Jeez," he exclaimed, dodging. "Way to hold a grudge, Ma!"

Happy holidays from Snark Soup. May your days be merry and bright, and your reflexes quick.

Wine Appreciation

During this season of revelry, you may find yourself at gatherings featuring the nectar of the grape. If you and your friends are of a certain age*, this consumption could take the form of judicious sips from actual stemware, followed by hushed contemplation, thoughtful discussion, and near-lethal boredom. You may be tempted to fake a phone call, or a seizure, so you can escape and search for the nearest real party**, but this is considered bad form. However, you aren't doomed to endure an evening of tedium. Science has discovered a consistent 1:3 ratio of wine snobs to wine bottles***, and since the bottles aren't going to provide much entertainment, the snobs will have to do. All you need are a few handy phrases, and you too can join in worshiping the waste product of yeast.

Like abstract art criticism (“This piece displays an insouciant solemnity in counterpoint to its theme of creative decay. The artist studied in Newfoundland, you know"), wine appreciation relies heavily on paired antonyms. Once you memorize a few additional descriptors, you'll be ready to slosh, sip and spit with the most sophisticated oenophiles. The following terms will get you through an evening; just reaarange them for each new bottle.

“This Topo Grigio charms the palate with its degenerate innocence of citrus, punctuated by a rich chalkiness and a palsied twitch of over-upholstered pomegranate, threaded through a stony finish of musty acidity, with a lingering top note of, am I right, peonies?" Then sit back while the wine snobs debate whether there is indeed a hint of peony, or is it perhaps anise?

Stuff a few of the tiny napkins in your mouth if you get the urge to laugh. It's considered gauche to giggle wine out your nose.****

*and not Newfoundlanders

** with Newfoundlanders

*** not valid in Newfoundland

**** except in Newfoundland

Talkin' Texan

When my family moved to southern California, I was a homesick under-sized fourth-grader on the wrong side of a language barrier. Born and raised on the Gulf Coast, I was an uprooted daughter of the Lone Star State, and my native tongue was Texan.

“But that’s English,” you may say. And I may say the same, except I’ll extend some syllables and ignore others, and twist vowels into sounds that aren’t listed in any pronunciation guide. I know. I researched it when Small Child’s homework instructed him to circle pictures of items with the short ‘a’ sound. Cat, yes; rake, no; a paper container used to carry groceries -- “Well, that depends,” I said. “Did your teacher call this a bag or a sack?” He didn’t know.

I consulted Large Child. He rolled his eyes and explained that both words have the same vowel sound. Not when I say ‘em, they don’t. The ensuing argument made up in volume what it lacked in vocabulary:

“No, listen! Bag! Sack! Same!”

“No! Baaag! Sack! Diff’rint!”

Small Child wandered off to supervise the on-going battle between Power Rangers and assorted super-heroes, while Large Child and I pulled out reference books. They all supported his position but I remained unconvinced, especially since they failed to acknowledge the dual-syllabic ‘a’, as in “Bayad dawg!” and “Dayam!”

I considered asking my English teacher colleagues, but decided not to risk it. At a faculty meeting I’d said that our new schedule left me feeling like I’d been rode hard and put away wet. It was fourth-grade all over again.

Learning to speak West Coast English wasn’t my only challenge at Midland Elementary. There were also cultural differences waiting to blindside the unwary newcomer. The first time the teacher called on me I leapt to my feet and responded, “Yes, Ma’am?” (Ma’am is a two-syllable word, by the way. It rhymes with dayam.)

There was a moment of stunned silence before the room erupted. I sank into my desk, willing the San Andreas Fault to open up and swallow me. The teacher, bless her heart, managed to keep a straight face as she restored order. I resolved to hush up, watch and listen until I mastered the dialect and customs of my new home.

I have a quick ear and I think I’ve purt’ near mastered English as spoken outside my home state, but traces of Texas linger. ‘Y’all’ has a permanent place in my lexicon because it’s so useful; I don’t know how y’all manage without it. Other words are not so easily employed. I’ve had to explain caddy-wampus and kitty-corner, play-purties and stink-purty, chiffarobe and monstrosity. (Translations: off-kilter; diagonal; toys; perfume; a wardrobe; and any large piece of furniture with multiple purposes. Mine is a desk/china cabinet.)

The word ‘tired’ remains troublesome. I just can’t muster up the energy to enunciate tie-erd when I am, in fact, tahred. (“And feathered, too?” wags enquire.) I’ve tried to navigate around it, but substituting ‘plumb tuckered’ just brings new problems.

I’ve learned that confusion and/or hilarity ensue if I neglect to utilize my internal Texan-English translator. If I say, “I might-could-oughta hang fire on buyin’ a new chiffarobe ‘til I can get over to Ikea. It’s a fur piece, but worth the trip,” people think I’m planning an indecisive fiery protest against the fur trade. (“But Ikea doesn’t even sell chiffarobe fur!” they whisper.)

Telling my sons “Y’all hush” has the opposite effect, and asking Large Child to “reach me down” something from a high shelf invites a gleeful grammar lesson.

I must admit, sometimes I’m not even sure what I mean. I’ve always used ‘It don’t make me no never-mind’ to indicate neutrality, but a friend from North Carolina is adamant that it means ‘I don’t want to.’ I’ve been unable to find a rule about triple negatives, so she may be right. But she also insists that ‘cut on the light’ makes perfect sense as the opposite action of ‘cut off the light.’

Many expressions have outlived their origins. Few of us tote muzzle-loaders nowadays, but ‘hang fire’ hangs on. My tattered Joy of Cooking makes no mention of egg-sucking (although it does offer instructions on how to skin a squirrel) but ‘Teach your grandma to suck eggs’ remains a useful response to unwanted advice because today’s know-it-alls have no idea what it means. Confused, they vanish like ninjas.

I retain a fondness for many sayings that drawled through my childhood, even though experience has taught me not to voice them. My Okie Daddy often declared something or someone ‘useless as teats on a boar hog.’ It’s a perfectly fine expression. Lincoln used it, but I can’t recommend that you do the same. People fall about laughing, which is also the response you’ll get if you complain that you feel like you’ve been ‘shot at and missed, and shit at and hit.’

Texan is a colorful language. Even the colors are colorful; fish-belly white, shit-brindle brown, goat-vomit green. And Texans cuss. They cuss cheerfully, creatively, and habitually. Cussing is natural as breathing, and just about as hard to stop for any length of time. Conversations with preachers are, of necessity, brief.

This creativity vanishes when naming, or nick-naming, people. Every family in my small town had a multitude of Bubbas and Sissies. To distinguish between them, at family gatherings you’d hear “Ask Aunt Sissy where she keeps her big spoons” and “Tell Cousin Bubba we need more ice.” This may have given rise to the belief that Southerners intermarry with casual abandon.

Despite the overabundance of Bubbas and Sissies, accurate identification could be achieved through context:

“Sissy, are you sitting down? You’ll never believe what I heard from Sissy at the beauty shop! She said Bubba at the bank run off with that red-headed Sissy.”

“Ohmylord! The one from the café?”

“No, you know the one, that tall realtor gal.”

“Ohmylord! Does Sissy know?”

And so on.

I’ve heard that language shapes culture, and my native tongue certainly shaped me. To this day I’m reluctant to travel north of the 35^th parallel, thanks to the alarming expressions that sprang to shivering lips every time a blue norther chilled Nueces County. If it got cold enough in southeast Texas to freeze certain intimate appendages off a metallic simian, I shudder to think what life must be like on the frozen steppes of, say, Missouri. Given my druthers, I’ll stay in southern climes. Being parboiled in sweat may be uncomfortable, but you won’t lose any body parts, and that’s a fact.

With a short ‘a’.

Jane Seymour's Guide to Lab Safety

(previously published in the Arizona Daily Star)

I began teaching science back when Einstein still combed his hair, and each year has added to my list of “don’ts.” Don’t eat the chemicals. Don’t stick flammable objects (pencil, paper, your partner) in the burner flame. If you get acid on your thumb and it becomes uncomfortable, don’t lick it off.

I used to wonder why I had to spell out these common-sense caveats for students, until I saw something on TV that clearly identified the source of the problem. The culprit is Jane Seymour.

I admit I’m not a fan of Ms. Seymour, mostly because of an interview in which she described how she regained her slender figure 17 minutes after giving birth to twins. She credited an exercise program that featured a huge rubber band, which she ate. This gave her a pleasant feeling of fullness, thus preventing her from eating anything else. Ever. (Correction: I have just been informed that Ms. Seymour never ate a huge rubber band. Ms. Seymour is a devotee of natural methods to enhance health and beauty, so she would never utilize a huge rubber band as a weight-loss aid. It was, in fact, a gigantic tapeworm, organically hand-raised by Tibetan monks.) (Further correction: I have now been informed that Ms. Seymour does not utilize tapeworms, either. She is blessed with a high metabolism and eats whatever she wants without gaining an ounce. This is greatly admired by her many adoring fans, who I ask not to hurt me.)

Anyway, Ms. Seymour, smiling sweetly and surrounded by her staff of 67, explained that there is no excuse for any woman not to quickly regain her pre-pregnancy figure, because the rubber band exercise program is so simple and takes only moments a day. Then she unhinged her lovely jaw and swallowed her personal trainer.

That interview, though annoying, is not why I blame Ms. Seymour for my students’ confusion about lab safety. No, the reason is her TV show, “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman,” in which an 1880’s American frontier doctor relied on her skill, spunk, and a huge rubber band to perform medical procedures no one else dared attempt. Brain surgery, kidney transplants, extreme makeovers -- nothing was too much for Dr. Quinn. “This patient needs cheek and chin implants right now! We can’t wait 100 years for the medical technology that will make it possible! Light the lantern, fetch the carbolic acid and fire up the LaserJet 6000! I’m going in!”

I never would have seen the show if not for my son’s fascination with cows. While his “Tom Kitten” video rewound after our 987th viewing, to his great delight there appeared upon the TV screen “COWCOWCOWCOWCOW!!!” It was a cow-intensive episode of “Dr. Quinn.” She and some other pioneer folk were herding cattle (cloned by Dr. Quinn) from Malibu to Cannes when they realized they were in the path of a prairie fire. Much consternation ensued, but there was only one course of action to take. Since the prairie on the other side of the fire had already burned, it was now safe. So everyone had to run through the giant wall of flame to get there.

I’m not sure how Dr. Quinn and company convinced the cattle and horses of the wisdom of this plan, animals generally having more sense than Hollywood writers, but sure enough, everyone made it through unignited. Dr. Quinn appeared last, after a suspenseful pause. One cheek artfully smudged, she gracefully swooned from the wagon seat into the arms of a guy who looked like a refugee from the cover of a romance paperback. All ended happily, and I was left to flip through my Fire Safety Manual looking for the section on ‘Stop, Drop and Run into the Wall of Flames.’ (It’s not there.)

Now, how can we expect our youth to understand and follow safety procedures when Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman so blatantly disdained them? Not that she’s the only safety scofflaw. Walker, Texas Ranger (or his stunt double) routinely defied the laws of physics and most of the contiguous 48 states as he fought the evil minions of K.A.O.S., T.H.R.U.S.H., and S.P.E.C.T.R.E. Even worse, Walker refused to have a stunt double sing his theme, inflicting untold emotional distress on the American public by warbling it himself. (“Cause the eyes of the Ranger are upon yewww, any wrong yew do he’s gonna see...”)

Correction: I have been informed that young people today have never seen “Dr. Quinn” or “Walker, Texas Ranger”, and that I should turn my attention to someone named Vin “ the Rock” Diesel.

PS “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” fans: Please stop slashing my tires.
PPS “Walker, Texas Ranger” fans: Yewww, too.

Majoring in Science at Hollywood U.

As a science geek, I take a keen interest in how science is perceived and presented in popular culture. This interest often takes me to the movies, which are certainly popular, if not particularly cultured.

The B movies of the 50’s are especially enlightening. Whenever a lab-coated scientist (usually Peter Graves) begins to uncover the cause (always radiation) of some bizarre occurrence, sit up and take notes. As he condescendingly enlightens the obligatory wide-eyed female, we learn that snakes are invertebrates, and the heart is a single cell, and why he and his brother, James Arness of “Gunsmoke”, are both 8 feet tall (radiation).

Of course, over the past 60 years we have learned not to fear radiation just because it makes grasshoppers, Gila monsters and actors mutate to horrifying dimensions. Now we know radiation is our friend and can be used to avert catastrophe. Planet-destroying asteroids or aliens heading our way? Nuke ‘em! Earthquakes destroying the West Coast? Nukes are the answer! The Earth’s core stopped spinning? Nukes will jump-start that rotation in a jiffy!

Still worried that radiation alone may not be enough to protect you? Hollywood offers a fail-safe personal safety plan: Be a dog. No harm will befall you if you are a dog. Lava may flow around you, earthquakes, aliens, meteorites, tornados or tidal waves may destroy your city, but you’ll come through it with your tail wagging.

If being a dog is not an option for you at this point, do the next best thing. Get a dog, and keep it near you at all times. If disaster threatens, grab the dog’s collar and don’t let go until the crisis is past. Then toss the mutt a Milk-Bone, secure in the knowledge that you’re ready for anything.

Even so, it might be a good idea for you and your Canine Personal Security Device to avoid the Hollywood sign. All disasters, even those not technically in California, go after that huge sign. (It used to be only ten inches tall, but, you guessed it, radiation!) The cone o’ safety emanating from your dog will probably shield you, but what if one of those giant letters has your name on it? We’ve all seen how doom can select a fleeing victim and carefully cut him (or her, but usually him) out from the panic-stricken horde.

Of course, if you’re a big star (in the non-irradiated sense) this probably won’t happen to you. Unless you are one week away from retirement, or show people pictures of your family, or direct the secret project that goes horribly wrong. Even Lassie couldn't save you then.

A classic disaster romp is “The Day After Tomorrow.” It practically oozes science, as global warming leads to rapid polar melting which leads to desalinization of the oceans which leads to currents shifting which leads to severe storms which no one saw coming because all the people (two) who were supposed to be watching the monitors were instead watching a soccer match or entertaining a lady friend. Of course they both die horribly, along with the lady friend, which seems harsh. She wasn’t neglecting her job.

The storms get worse, pulling super-cold air down from the troposphere and ushering in an instantaneous ice age. Then the ultimate, unthinkable disaster strikes; no cell phone reception. Everyone’s shivering too much to think of the obvious solution (nukes) so it just keeps getting colder, which is hard to make visually exciting, even with special effects and graphics from the Weather Channel, so the movie releases wolves from the New York City Zoo. Apparently cold, hungry New Yorkers deprived of cell phone service aren’t terrifying enough.

Sadly, the movie loses credibility near the end. The Cheneyesque Vice-President, who mocked the Warnings of Science that could have averted the tragedy, publicly admits he was wrong and apologizes. Like that would ever happen. Unless, of course, he had been exposed to radiation. And didn’t have a dog.

Names

Nothing drives home the significance of a name like having to select one for your child. After spending nine months choosing the perfect, unique name, one that reflects your values and family history and proclaims to the world your personal level of insanity, you’ll soon realize some harsh truths. First, you cannot prevent your child from acquiring a nickname. No matter how determined you are that little Washburn Tiburon will never be called anything else, nicknames happen. My cousin thought her son Dean Keith was nickname-proof. He was promptly dubbed ‘Dinky’ by the neighborhood urchins.

Secondly, your child will never thank you for all those hours you spent poring over Volumes 1, 3 and 4 of “Unique Baby Names No One Else Will Choose, Trust Us.” (Volume 2 is completely taken up with various spellings of Brittany. Or Brigtknee.)

Your child will especially resent you if the name you bestow upon him or her requires a pronunciation guide. (“No, it’s pronounced Bob. The ‘k’ is silent. So is the ‘w.’ No, I don’t know what that little squiggle means. My parents threw that in to be different. Yes, they knew I was a girl. No, I disowned them when I was eight.”)

Remember that your children aren’t bumper stickers, so their names shouldn’t be something that would follow “I HEART.” The world doesn’t really care that you love your Lamborghini LM002, or the Philharmonic, or Hormel Chili, so these are not good choices for names. (You might get away with Philharmonic: ‘Phil’ for short. This would probably require a son. And if you HEART your Brigtknee Spaniel, just be sure to have a daughter and then B~wkob’s your uncle!)

If you name your son Joffrey because you adore that ballet company, he’ll spend his life saying, “No, not Jeffrey. Joffrey. Joffrey. JOFFREYJOFFREYJOFFREY!!!!” And if you name your child Beluga Starshine, he or she will have to explain that no, his or her last name isn’t Zappa.

Even if your investments provided you with the 1.5 million dollars required to keep a child in strained peas and I-Pods nowadays, you shouldn’t name your child Morgan Stanley Price Waterhouse. It won’t fit in the space allotted for names on the many forms your child will be required to fill out. (A recent survey revealed the average American fills out 4.7 forms every 9.28 hours. The number would be higher, but many respondents couldn’t fit their names into the spaces provided, and gave up.)

Hyphenated last names may cause your child problems, as well. If you and your spouse can’t decide whose surname your child will bear, don’t burden the little tyke with ‘Haversack-Adenoid’. Especially if, as I suspect, those aren’t your names at all.

As generations of parents have realized, your best option is to climb the family tree for a name to inflict on your progeny. When your child complains of being saddled with Bertha or Imogene, you can disavow all responsibility. “Family tradition,” you shrug. This may not be an adequate explanation, especially if the child in question is a boy. But you can take comfort in this: someday your children will realize how much love and thought went into the choosing of their names. Then they’ll toss them aside and select new ones.

Call me Ishmael.

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