Livin’ in an Amish Paradise

“We been spending’ most our lives living in an Amish paradise…” Weird Al

It’s getting close to lunch time at my clinic, but I have no hope of wrapping things up for a break any time soon. Why not? The waiting room looks like a call back for extras for Witness. Women in sturdy blue polyester dresses and enormous black bonnets, de rigueur for every Amish lady, are shushing children in blue shirts and black overalls, their bowl haircuts shrouded with enormous black hats. Men with springy gray beards sit silently nearby, dressed in their identical Amish uniforms. Probably only one of this cast of thousands is actually scheduled for an appointment. Yet in the course of the visit, I’ll start with one and end up seeing three or four, as they think I might as well see the daughter with a “little” cold (pneumonia), the diabetic grandma (blood sugar over 400), and their cousin’s farrier, who happened to come along for the ride. And could I please hurry it up, because the neighbor who gave them all a ride has to get back in time for dinner. Yes, just another day of Amish Hell at the office, and I’m smack in the middle of it.

The Amish are a sturdy sect of traditionalists who live simply and eschew modern technology. Originally members of a church schism in Switzerland, the Amish community left to settle in the Pennsylvania area, and eventually migrated to other parts of the US, including Michigan and Indiana. The Amish community is truly off the grid, living free of silly government entanglements such as Social Security numbers, government IDs, and therefore, health insurance. So just about any day might be Amish Day at the free clinic. The Amish folk are for the most part lovely, delightful people who would do anything to help a friend or neighbor. So why do I feel like I’m in the seventh circle of hell whenever their group darkens my door?

They come in large swarms, with no concept of anyone’s time, except their own. They want everything done at once, because they came all the way to town, darn it, and they’re busy people with things to do. The women wear two-piece dresses held together

by straight pins, and more undergarments than Scarlet O’Hara. Nothing strikes fear in my heart more than to think that I might have to ask one of them to get undressed – a 20 minute ordeal at least on each side of the operation which will tie up one of my two exam rooms for the next 40 minutes. Every Amish patient expects me to solve their problem, without their giving me any information about it. “So how has your blood sugar been, Rachel,” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Oh, I can’t really say. It’s high.” Then we begin the game we play every time, which I always lose. “Is it higher than 200?” I’ll ask, hoping this time I might get an answer. “Oh it’s high. I can’t really say.” “Can’t really say” is the Amish polite way of saying “you are an English woman, an outsider and I’m not giving you any information no matter how many different ways you ask.” And so I jump in, treating a pain they won’t describe, or a cough that has been present for God knows how long, listening to lung sounds through industrial polyester,  and expected to do it in record time because, really, don’t I know they still need to get to the store and be home in time for milking?

Later, if we have to call them about test results or an appointment, a new kind of hell begins. Their emergency contact person is listed only as “Bruce,” a non-Amish neighbor who has a phone, and has somehow become trusted enough to take their messages. I always hope that we never have to contact them for anything urgent, because Bruce might be busy with the plowing and not get them the message right away. Plus, he’s handling messages for every Amish family up and down the road, and with each family boasting 8 to 18 children, that’s a lot of Amish. There’s never any point in calling them to reschedule an appointment, because they’ll just show up anyway. After all, they went to all the trouble of getting a ride, and they’re not going to redo it just for my convenience.

Yet, in many ways they are endearing. They represent an earlier time, when neighbor trusted neighbor, when it was possible to be happy and connected to one’s community without having a phone permanently attached to one’s palm. Despite my frustration, I love most all of my Amish patients. They remind me of goodness, community, and simpler times.

© Huffygirl 2013

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Just in time for Easter, now there’s Chocnix

Worried about that chocolate addiction of yours? And with the Easter Bunny just here, showering you with chocolate bunnies, eggs and the like, aren’t you wishing there was a way you could come clean and rid yourself once and for all of that chocolate addiction? Well, now you can. Now, there’s Chocnix®.

Chocnix® is a prescription medication designed to free the user from chocolate addiction. Chocnix works by blocking the pleasurable and addictive effects of chocolate. After only one week of use, Chocnix® users will find eating chocolate less pleasant. Eventually, chocolate eaters will receive less and less positive reinforcement from the ingestion of chocolate, causing the user to eventually stop eating chocolate. By 12 weeks of Chocnix® use, most users find they are able to completely abstain from chocolate eating. After an additional 12 weeks of use, most patients find they will never desire to eat chocolate again.

Chocnix® is not for everyone. Users may experience rage, anger, chocolate envy and psychosis. Don’t use Chocnix® if you suffer from extreme chocolate addition, evidenced by waking up the day after Easter with your head in an Easter basket, surrounded by foil wrappers. Ask your doctor if Chocnix® is right for you.

© Huffygirl 2013

Homeless community seeks shelter at Chimp Haven

Chimpanzee. Taken at the Los Angeles Zoo. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Protesters from the homeless community lined up outside the NIH recently, demanding funding for housing assistance. Protesters sported signs reading “I want my 1,000 square feet too!”  and “Havens for all.” Arlo Twiddle, spokesperson for the homeless community, iterated the protesters demands. “It has come to our attention that NIH is providing funding for retired research chimps to live in a glamorous haven, with fresh fruit and nutritious meals, toys, activities and even concert performances. Meanwhile, I and thousands of  other homeless live under bridges and in boxes in back alleys. We are only asking for the same dignity for ourselves that the government is providing for, well, frankly, wild monkeys.”

Nina Bodewell, spokesperson for Chimp Haven, only partially disputes Twiddle’s claim. “As nearly everyone knows, chimpanzees are in fact great apes, and not monkeys,” Bodewell noted at a recent news conference. However, as to Twiddle’s claims that the Chimp Haven is a plush chimpanzee resort, Bodewell had no rebuttal. Sources close to the news have found the following information regarding the amenities at Chimp Haven, the sanctuary to which the NIH is sending retired research chimps.

“They’ll get a daily assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables along with their nutritionally balanced biscuits. They’ll have toys to play with, from balls and backpacks to anything else that’s safe and might amuse them — one Christmas, they got donated books — and even concerts. Drummers and other musicians have been brought in to play for them, and administrative associate Steve Snodgrass sometimes plays “lyrical” Irish fiddle tunes…”*

NIH has even laid out their requirements for what is an acceptable area for the retired chimps:

“Research chimpanzees should be kept in groups of at least seven, with about 1,000 square feet of outdoor space per chimp — roughly one-sixth of an acre for a group of seven, according to the proposal. The space must include year-round outdoor access with a variety of natural surfaces such as grass, dirt and mulch, and enough climbing space to let all members of large troupes travel, feed and rest well above the ground, and with material to let them build new nests each day, the report said. Chimp Haven’s enclosures range from a quarter-acre to five acres, some of them forested and all with climbing structures.” *

Twiddle and others in the homeless community remain ardent in their intent to continue the protest until they get a hearing for their grievances.” If the government refuses to provide us with similar housing and amenities, we plan to infiltrate Chimp Haven and live in the chimp resort. After all, at 1,000 square foot per chimp, roughly the size of a  two-bedroom apartment, there should be plenty of room for our community to share this space. Personally, I’d be happy with 500 square feet, and maybe a few left-over biscuits that the chimps have rejected.”

NIH officials remain silent on the homeless protesters demands.

*Research chimps may be headed from lab to leisure, http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=170043901

© Huffygirl 2013

Related links:

• Research chimps may be headed from lab to leisure
• National Institutes of Health
• Chimp Haven

Missing syrup has Canadian Federation in sticky situation

There are some days when the news gods smile on satire writers like me, and today is one of those days. I heard a news story so good that I wish I could say I had made it up. But I can’t because, sadly, it’s all true.

There’s a sticky situation going on for the Quebec Maple Syrup Federation. Yup, Even saying there’s a syrup federation sounds delightfully made up, as if this were OPEC or the Rebel Alliance. But, with syrup going for $1,800 per barrel, or about 13 times the price of a barrel of oil, the maple syrup heist is nothing to laugh at.

You can read the entire story of syrupy intrigue here, but in the meantime here’s the sticky details. Earlier this year an audit of the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve (Yes! There really is a strategic maple syrup reserve!) revealed 6 million pounds of the sweet liquid were missing, replaced by empty barrels or barrels containing water. The investigation eventually led to a tale of skullduggery involving  a leading syrup producer in New Brunswick, Etienne St. Pierre, Jacques Leblond, and a host of others that sound like the extras from Les Misérables.

Fortunately, in the latest development, the thieves have been pancaked, with several arrested and some of the missing syrup recovered. But the drama continues as syrup officials are unsure how sales of the stolen syrup will affect the global syrup market, and concerns from Quebec over continuing control of the syrup cartel.

And we thought nothing interesting was happening in the news this week!

© Huffygirl 2013

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• Missing Syrup

I’m ready for my Star Trek food replicator. Really.

Any day now we should be able to start ordering our Star Trek food replicators. Okay, for the uninitiated, aka non-Star Trek followers, this is how the food replicator works. You stand in front of the machine and clearly state whatever food you want, such as the classic, “Tea, Earl Gray, hot.” A soft whirring sound begins and a few seconds later, voilà: a cup of steaming hot tea appears.

So how do I know we are one step away from having a Mr. Replicator in every home? The 3D printer. I’m sure you’ve heard about this latest technology, straight from the Star Trek vault. A 3D printer works by dispensing particular  materials in small dots and layers, until your desired object is formed. There’s already a home version, The Cube, for only $1299, which allows you to make your own rubber toys, crowns, shoes, and small cathedrals, should you have enough of a need for any of these items that you’re willing to spend $1299 for one. The large replicators printers that make bigger things like cars and boats, are still a bit away, but based on our current use of Star Trek tech, should not be far behind.

As anyone can see, all of our current technology is based on old episodes of Star Trek. The touch screen? Why every machine on the bridge has been operated by touch screen even back when our computers were the size of  large rec room. Siri? Star Trek had a sultry voice-operated  computer which they addressed simply as “Computer”, which worked much better than our current voice recognizers, way back in the early episodes. Bluetooth? Just tap your communicator on your shirt and you’re Bluetooth connected. Tablets and iPods? “Here’s my report captain” and every Treker would hand a small, touch screen tablet device to the captain. The medical tricorder? Just swallow one when it’s time for your next colonoscopy.Since there are no new Star Trek episodes, our current tech inventors are relying on rewatching old episodes to come up with our latest gadgets. Thus, I’m sure they’re working on the replicator right now.

Okay. I’m ready.I’m getting kind of tired of shopping, cooking, and cleaning up. In the words of Pavel Chekov “now would be a good time Scotty…”

© Huffygirl 2013

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Whack-a-mole: now playing in my back yard

My best husband is playing his own personal game of whack-a-mole. Not the fun arcade game with rubber mallets and animated moles randomly popping out of holes, but his own personal hell whack-a-mole, right in our own back yard.

It started insidiously enough. A stroll through the back yard revealed a few soft spots. Mole tunnels or just disrupted turf from the recent sprinkler installation? He brushed them off. Who wants to enter Mole Hell if he doesn’t have too?

But, a few fateful days later, the mole invasion was in full swing, with a  mass of tunnels leading directly from the neighbor’s yard into ours. Turns out the neighbor is taking the path of least resistance, and spraying mole repellent instead of killing the buggers. So now, just like Russia in 1917, we’re waging two wars: one with the neighbor, and the other, much more foreboding one, the war of the moles.

Best husband, henceforth known as The Mole Warrior,  pulled out his heretofore tried and true mole weapon: the poison smoke bomb. The idea is to find the dominant mole tunnel, light the fuse and slide the bomb into the tunnel. The poison smoke fills the tunnels, the moles are, ahem, eliminated, and problem solved. The next day Mole Warrior goes out to check on the mole tunnel and finds the smoke bomb flung out into the yard from a hastily dug hole, with the fuse clearly snuffed out before it could release its lethal dose. Okay moles, game on.

The Mole Warrior pulls out all the stops. A trip to the armory, er, hardware store, yields a whole case of poison smoke bombs and a large carton of poison peanuts. Yum. Mole Warrior adds a large pile of rocks, which he uses to plug up the exits on the tunnels after he drops in the smoke bombs. Then, the warrior watches and waits. Each day he patrols the yard for new mole tunnels. If he finds a hint of a new tunnel, in go the poison smoke bombs, poison peanuts and more rocks. Lots of rocks. Our yard is starting to look like a gravel pit.

At first, no progress. The invasion continued, then perhaps ebbed. The Mole Warrior thought maybe the new tunnels were dwindling, but, maybe not.

But soon, all doubt is erased. Like ardent Israeli settlers, the moles have regrouped. Apparently undaunted by  the poison smoke and peanuts, their tunnel system has grown, rivaling that of the New York City subway. Each day we notice little additions – a new condo here, a dog park, Starbucks, Whole Foods. These moles don’t mess around.

After we watched the latest addition of Menard’s, and a Gymboree, I gently suggested that it might be time to call in the professionals. You know, the trained mole warriors who get paid to play Whack-a-mole in our yard. But not yet. The Mole Warrior has gone shopping again, this time returning with, a rubber mallet.

© Huffygirl 2012

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Global bacon shortage has consumers scrambling

English: Uncooked pork belly bacon strips displayed behind glass in Gorman’s Butcher Shop in Pine Island, Minnesota (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A global bacon shortage has egg and bacon loving consumers fearing the loss of this tasty breakfast meat. This past summer’s drought has cut the pork out of the pork industry. Hog producers have decreased the size of their herds, to save money on feed costs, after unusual heat and drought  caused a piggish raise in feed prices. Consumers, not wanting to miss out on this tasty breakfast meat, have bought up current supplies of bacon, contributing to the shortage.

Although, at least for Americans, there may be a silver lining to the bacon crisis, Health and Human Services secretary Kathleen Sebelius notes. “With two-thirds of Americans tipping the scales at overweight or obese, cutting bacon out of the American diet may just be a lifesaver,” says Sebelius. “Bacon, while adding flavor to our food, adds very little nutritive value, and is about 50% fat. If we cut bacon out of the American diet, over time we could have a lasting impact on our American girth.” Sebelius suggests that a Burger King bacon double cheeseburger might be just as tasty sans bacon, and would save consumers about 100 calories per portion.

While this baconpocalypse may benefit waistlines of hefty bacon consumers, farmers have a different take. With fewer piggies  coming to market and more staying home, farmers may suffer economic losses that may be difficult to recoup. Plus, farmers fear that once Americans stop bringing home the bacon, they may lose their taste for this porky product, and not resume bacon consumption once the shortage ends.

Twitter was abuzz this week with news of the global bacon crisis, although Kevin Bacon, the unofficial spokesperson for the pork industry, remained silent about the crisis.

© Huffygirl 2012

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The color of running

I am head over heals in love with running clothes. Bright orange tech tees. Purple socks. A periwinkle blue “technical base layer” shirt. Technical base layer? Who would have thought I would ever be the kind of person who would need a “technical base layer?”

Then there’s the fabric. The fabrics of my real life are mundane, routine. Denim. Polyester. Cotton. But in my secret identity as “runner” I wear exciting cloth with exciting names: Merino wool from Australia. Compression Lycra. Moisture-wicking nylon. Gortex. All I need is a cape to complete the feeling that I’m running in a super hero costume. Except a cape would create drag and slow me down, so forget that.

This is my first experience owning exciting athletic clothes, and I’m basking in it. Sure I’ve had athletic clothes before. I’ve got plenty of bike clothes, but let’s face it, except on those svelte professional riders, bike clothes do not look all that great. My second son cowers and declines to be seen with me in public in them.  My first son refers to them as “my ridiculous outfit.” But running clothes? Nobody ever makes fun of those. Do Usain Bolt’s kids make fun of his clothes? Well,I don’t even know if he has kids, but if he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t get any grief over his running unitard.

The best part of running clothes is the tech features. Running shirts are not just tees. They have panels and gussets and inserts designed to lessen drag, support muscles, and wick moisture. My sports bra has angled layers to get the job done. My base layer shirt is designed to keep me warm under the top layer while wicking away moisture, and has handy slits that let me pull the sleeves down over my hands, but still see my watch. In stark contrast, my everyday clothes sadly lack special features, and often disappoint.

If (when) I get to the point where I can no longer run, I will mourn the loss of my running clothes. I could be like those aging senior citizens who wear jogging suits as everyday wear, a little blue-haired woman with a gaudy necklace and jaunty scarf  made to match my zip-up sweats. But then I’d have to drive a Buick and live in a senior citizen compound, both of which I’ve already sworn to never do. For now, I’ll delight in my tech outfits, and savor every day that I’m able to don and use them.

What is your passion of color and fabric?

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Forget Pinterest, just get a mother-in-law

Take that Pinterest!

Back when I was  new wife and  mom, we didn’t have Pinterest. Instead, we had mothers-in-law. Mothers-in-law back then were all about making pie crust from scratch, sewing their own clothes, canning jam, weaving their own rugs, and worrying that the woman their husband married might not be up to the job of being the super homemaker that she was. Forget Pinterest – just get yourself an old-fashioned mother-in-law. Before you know it, you’ll be shearing your own sheep, then spinning your own yarn to knit your husband a sweater, while you’re aging your own cheese and waxing your driveway.

My mother-in-law was a super-duper homemaker, a post World War II bride. Back then, women who were in the workforce during the WWII were encouraged to return to homemaking and childbearing, so their veteran husbands, just back from the war, could resume their civilian jobs. Women had gotten a taste of being in the career workforce, and many of them liked it. So they turned their super organizational and multitasking skills, and competitive instincts  into being the best darn homemakers they could be. Husbands of the fifties never had it so good, and as husbands of today can attest, will never have it that good again. These women cooked real food, making most meals from scratch. The kitchen appliance industry had just taken off, and women could whip, beat, blend, sauté, bake, and brown to their heart’s content, while the home appliance industry produced improved washers, dryers, and vacuums, so women spent less time on housework drudgery and more time being creative.

But there’s more. Post war women were churning out babies like there was no tomorrow. After all, their husbands had been away at war, and there wasn’t much in the way of family planning then. These babies needed clothes. Women sewed and knitted like mad, producing what we called layettes – all the clothing and accessories needed for newborns. You couldn’t just go to Target and buy packages of inexpensive third-world-produced baby and toddler outfits, so women were making those too. Little hand-smocked dresses for girls and Buster Brown suits for boys. What is smocking, you might ask? It’s a decorative yet functional elastic design, and any little girl who wore hand smocked dresses was sure to be wearing the latest fashion.

Though I loved my super-homemaker mother-in-law, I also feared her. Back then, we still respected our elders, and having a disapproving mother-in-law could make one’s married life hell. When my in-laws visited, I worked for days to have the house spick and span, the children well-mannered, and the meals sumptuous and homemade, with all of my in-laws favorite foods. It was a tiring and thankless job, as, if everything was perfect I heard nothing. Yet if the food was tasteless, or the house a mess, word might  get out to the rest of the family that Dave’s new bride was not really up to wifely standards. The kiss of death to a new bride trying to be accepted into her new family.

Fast forward to today. Now homemakers and other artistic persons searching for creative inspiration go to Pinterest. Once there, as near as I can figure out, they see pictures of what other people have posted of creative projects made by, well, other, other people. So, essentially it’s like having hundreds of mothers-in-law flaunting their superiority in your face, with jaunty pins of homemade slip covers and recipes for making your own yogurt. You too could be making your own kiln-dried bent wood patio furniture if only you’d apply yourself a little.

Hmmm. I think I’ll stick with the mother-in-law.

My dear late mother-in-law, super-talented Mary Jane.

Thanks to Lindsay at Fueled by Diet Coke for inspiring this post.

© Huffygirl 2012

Related post:

Save a dying art: sew your own throw pillows (huffygirl.wordpress.com)

Door to door

Who says we need roofing?

Lately I’ve had a plague of door to door salespersons – banging on my glass door, despite the very obvious, lighted door bell.  I know that times are hard and people are trying to make a living the best they can, but REALLY? In the world of 24/7 online shopping, it’s hard to believe that anyone can still make a living as a door to door salesperson.

Of course, these salespersons are NOT selling anything. NO, of course not. That is the opening line. “Hello, I’m ________, and I’m not here to sell you anything.” Then, if I continue listening, they go on to ask if I’m concerned about: energy prices, home security, roofing and siding, water purity, and so on. Next, they tell me they’re shocked, SHOCKED, about the travesty of: high energy prices, poor home security, shoddy roofing and siding, or lack of water purity. Then they implore me to: put a sign in my yard, sign a petition, join my neighbors in decrying ______. Then, wait for it, here comes the kicker. The not-selling-anything sales person tries to sell me: better energy options, a home security system, roofing or siding, or a water purifier.

By now, readers are shaking their heads and saying to themselves “Huffygirl, why do you stand there and let them go through the dog and pony show? Just slam the door and be done with it.” Well, first I’m too kind to slam the door, and second they go through it all so fast I’m always caught off guard.

But now, I’m ready. I’m on to the door to door nonsales-sales ploy, and I’ll be ready the next time the perky young man comes to my door NOT selling energy efficiency, replacement windows, or home security. But by then, it will be time for the sweet-faced kids Little League kids  selling candy bars.

How about some nice replacement windows?

© Huffygirl 2012