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Being a jewess, people often seem surprised to see I have a festive winter tree in my living room.  “I thought you were a Jew.  Why do you have a christmas tree at your latke party?”

Man, c’mon.  I’m an American. I celebrate NDGGH. Why can’t the festival of lights involve strings of lights?  On a tree?  No jeebus on it or anything, obviously.  There is a donut, though, and a bowl of spaghetti, even a Nike swoosh.  USA! USA! NDGGH!

Furthermore, it is a well-established urban legend that the Tree in Question has pagan roots.  The only reason (The ONLY reason) it skipped my People is because of our mediterranean climate.  Good luck finding a noble fir anywhere in the holy land.  Oy! Such a schlep I gotta make for this NDGGH tree!  Bettah we just stay home and eat, nu?

I’m glad you, me, and the Christmas tree industry can agree on this.  Now, let’s never, ever talk about my Gingerbread Shul.

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Except when your feelings are ugly and wrong.

I’m a nurse, an RN.  But I’m really not the “push 10ccs STAT!” kind of nurse.  I’m more the “let’s talk about your diabetes and your feelings” kind of nurse.  I believe in the work that I do, and I think it’s important.   But am I America’s Hero?  Not hardly. 

Still, every now and then, I will get a patient who tells me that the sun rises and sets in my ass.  I’m trying to be  flattered, Ms. Patient  – maybe you noticed my excellent documentation skills!  Or perhaps my inquiry about your plans for the weekend really made your day.  I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that I happened to facilitate your Oxycontin refill as well.

I want to be a descriptivist.  Mostly I am.  “They” as genderless third person pronoun? Why not.

But Bantam.  You guys.  You are a publishing house of some renown.  Also, the particular book I am reading, Asimov’s Foundation, has probably been edited once or twice.

Since all this has not yet produced proper comma-adge, I have written them in.

It is cool, you do not need to pay me.

On a Serious Tip

I only got 2 posts in before I got serious, I know.  It’s just my inner nerd pushed his inner glasses up his inner nose. Yes, my inner nerd is a man. No, I don’t know why.  I went to a lunchtime lecture about What To Do if Your Patient Disagrees With You, which I was hoping would have tips on winning thumb wars and staring contests, but it turned out to be all about death.

How do you convince someone they are going to die and you can’t help them? The good doctors found that explaining how busy they were a most helpful intervention. I’ve come up with some potentially quicker suggestions.  Comments and additions are welcomed.

“I agree that you might not die from this.  You might walk out the door and get hit by a bus first.”
“If you’re not ready to give up hope yet, I hear they’re making great strides in the field of cryogenics.”
“I am prepared to offer you a treatment that is just as likely to prolong your life as invasive surgery. It involves me borrowing a nickel from you every day and planting it in the ground. Then we take the leaves of the nickel tree and make a body butter.”

Sounds good, right? Except that I’m not a complete ass. Who really wants to waste a dying person’s precious moments with argument? But then, your patient wouldn’t know how important his moments are if you can’t convince him of their explicit finiteness. Maybe it would be better to write a prescription for the funnest drugs possible and tell him to do whatever he likes, but make sure to let the sun shine on his face all day.

“Normal American” is not your race, ma’am.  You cannot identify as that.

Especially if you mean “white.”   But great example of how race works in the states.  My students will thank you.  They are, after all, our future.

Long have I held that repetition is the key to learning.  Repetition.  It’s the key to learning.  Learning.  But you, my good lady, may be ready to disabuse me of that notion.  This must be the fifth time today you have called me to tell me of your poop.  And how it’s not coming out.  And I am running out of ways to tell you the same thing again and again.  I do believe that your altered sewer system has made you “shy of bowel”.  I believe you, I do, and yet I think your disdain for water, fiber, and laxatives also contribute.  I have outlined this whole metaphor where your bowels are like this membrane that is permeable to water… wait, that’s not a metaphor, it’s an actual-phor.  I have also outlined a plan for you, wherein you hang up the phone, walk to your door, open it, and purchase some Miralax.  Then you find a working potty and let the magic happen.  It has miracle in the name, for the love of all that is holy!

But hope springs eternal – perhaps we can find some common ground.  I agree with you that bad plumbing is bad, and better plumbing would be better.  Yet despite your extremely detailed and accurate descriptions of where you think the septic tank went wrong, I must reiterate: I am a nurse, not a plumber.  I nurse, but do not plumb?  I plumb not, lest I be plumbed?

Let me transfer you to our social worker.