Like I believe you anyway

Nancy Pelosi said: "The party is over."

To which I say: The party is over, and mom and dad are going to clean up your mess, not make you pay for any of the damage you caused and are going to buy the booze for next weekend's party, too.

Whatever.

Just like on TV

Tad and I are going to one of the resorts tonight, to watch (me for work, him for fun) the taping of an episode of Wheel of Fortune.

Sometimes my job is funny. Of course, it wasn't until I'd already gone into work that I found out that the tape time had been pushed back, because of glare from the setting sun on the puzzleboard. So my boss sent me home for a few hours, so I didn't work a 12-hour day.

Not like on TV: Discovering that the dissolving stitches put in your dog in June haven't completely dissolved after all. And having to remove them yourself. I am the wound queen, I guess. Good at cleaning them out, good at wrapping them up.

He said "trust me"

I spoke with a retired neurosurgeon today, about one of our island hospitals.

The lengthy conversation was interesting. But the ending comments were my favorite.

Solving the hospital's problems isn't brain surgery, he said. Trust me, he said, he is the best authority I'll ever hear use that common phrase.

I laughed. And I trusted he was right.

Why we don't leave the house...

We tried to go to the beach this afternoon. We packed the camp chairs, had snacks and beverages and threw some notebooks and pleasure reading into a bag and set out.

We drove 35 minutes to Hapuna, a lovely, sandy beach up north.

I didn't even make it to the sand before I tripped, fell, and turned my kneecaps into hamburger. We stayed long enough to get alcohol wipes and gauze from the lifeguard. Then, my legs stinging from the burn of the setting sun and the salt in the air, we walked back up the hill down which I fell and drove all the way back home, where I had the delightful task of digging sand out of my scraped skin.

The beach is too dangerous for me.

In which the communications student in me emerges

I didn't major in communications. You know that, though I did take an awful lot of those classes, and some of the concepts stuck with me. I wouldn't presume to tell advertising agencies how to do their jobs. Nor would I presume to tell companies (large or small) that I find their advertising ineffective.

But Tad and I do like to reinterpret the message certain commercials and print and online ads are sending. My favorite ads are the ones that insult me while trying to convince me to purchase their product. And, for some reason, two burger chains seem to be the worst offenders.

Jack in the Box's ads for their steakburger were really ads against Burger King's 100 percent Angus burger. For those of you not in the Jack in the Box market, the setup in several commercials was simple: Jack, spokeshead for the restaurant, explains, with a diagram of a cow, why the sirloin steakburger is good. Best, even. Cut to someone, evidently stuck in junior high, asking which part of the cow is an Angus. Jack, despite being a man wearing a big, white pingpong ball on his head, manages to look distinctly uncomfortable. Message: You, America, are too stupid to know that Angus is a type of cow, and not anus of cow. (And besides, where do people think rump roast comes from?)

Fast forward: Burger King now has a "loaded steakburger." The commercials show a person asking two burger-eating folks what they did to deserve this obviously amazing burger. One person has found a new planet, saved a baby seal, etc. The other was just hungry or helped. Message: You are not good enough for this burger, you moron.

I will be first in line for that sandwich. As soon as I find a cure for cancer.

It's funny ... sort of

I learned something mildly amusing today: Our dog is not as spayed as the Humane Society led us to believe.

We adopted Laika from the Humane Society at the end of January. She was a year old, and they were relatively certain ... 99 percent certain she had been spayed. They felt a scar on her abdomen. (Is that what it's called on dogs?) I felt the scar, for crying out loud.

Yesterday, Laika went into heat. Thankfully, Tad recognized the symptoms right away. We did not put her outside this morning, as we usually do. The vet at the Humane Society checked Laika out and confirmed what we'd already figured out, that in a few days, our dog would have been ready to get pregnant. Yippee. Just what we'd want our friends to deal with when they house sit next week.

Laika goes back to the Humane Society for surgery on Wednesday. She can come home that afternoon.The people at the Humane Society apologized, and the spaying is free (or, more accurately, covered in the adoption fee we previously paid).

Right now, she's dreaming that she's running around; I can see her paws twitching with the enjoyment of it. She won't feel so good come Wednesday, but we will save her from bearing unwanted puppies.

Film festival

Tad and I attended the island's film festival last night, for the second year in a row. This year was much more organized than last year (when employees at the resort where it was held had no idea where the movies were being shown), and overall, the films were better, mostly, I'd guess, because we opted for the family films. At the grownup venue last year, we saw several disturbing films that included multiple, violent deaths and a graphic rape scene that left me sick to my stomach.

This year, we saw mostly family friendly flicks, except for the last one, which left me, Tad and a friend shaking our heads at how it ended up in the family venue. Bad language, near nudity (including a strange image of pink-frosted donuts with donut holes stuck in the middle) and adult situations are not my idea of good family fare. But my friend had noticed the writer/producer/lead actor sitting right behind us, so we opted not to run out right away.

On the way out, we heard this writer/producer/actor saying people tell him he's a cross of Rodney Dangerfield and Chris Farley, which he thinks is a compliment, except that they're both dead. If he gets no respect ... well, there may be a good reason for that.

Things that are harder than they should be

In trying to prepare to visit a Third World country, I've been looking up things like vaccinations and health precautions. And I discovered I needed a Hepatitis A series of shots. Great.

I called my ... nurse practitioner, whom I see for some health things. I did not have a general practitioner. They "don't do that stuff." I called urgent care, as someone suggested. Nope, they don't either. I called DOH. They recommended my (nonexisitent) GP or a health clinic. I called a health clinic. They could administer the shot, but I needed a prescription and had to pick up the shot myself. Could they give me the prescription? .... Someone, instead of answering, recommended a doctor who "does travel immunizations." That someone failed to mention that the doctor suggested was part of an HMO to which I do not belong.

Keep in mind that this county is in a constant state of health care crisis, and many physicians are not accepting new patients. I needed the first shot several weeks ago, and couldn't find anyone willing to take my money (I wasn't even planning to try to use my health insurance, as it's an elective sort of thing and not covered anyway). I had cash in hand. But I checked my insurance provider's website and called the first GP listed accepting patients. Bust again, because that person isn't actually a GP, but an OB/GYN. Not helpful. I try number two and am immediately impressed with the nurse/office manager and her helpfulness, and her ability to schedule me to come in the very next morning. She does, however, instruct me to call a nearby pharmacy, to see if how long it takes to order the vaccine. They have it on hand, so I call back. Turns out her office has it on hand, too.

Go in the next day and discover the GP is also a bariatric doctor. But none of the patients I saw there seemed to be in need of that kind of services. Very nice man, my new doctor. And he has a chipper, well-traveled nurse who offered good suggestions for our trip. I go back three days before we leave to get the second shot. Hopefully, it will do its job and protect my liver. I like my liver and I'd like to keep it.

Reasons to not hate my job

In the last two weeks, the following things have happened:

1. A couple whose mortgage troubles I wrote about late last year stopped by the paper to tell the editor that the story brought them to the attention of someone who helped them and saved their house.

2. A recent issue with two stories I did on vog (volcanic fog) had no returns from the sales racks. Completely sold out, likely because of the coverage of vog. (It's the byproduct of emissions from the volcano.)

3. I've even gotten several nice e-mails of late, and not so many hateful ones.

That might be it for now. I keep reminding myself of those.