This has not been one of my more fun weeks. Last week, Bear started nursery school. I will pause here for an aside. The school situation is out. Of. Control. We moved to our town last year when Bear was 15 months. People immediately started asking us where we were going to send him to elementary school. Wha...? Uh, he can barely walk. I'm thinking about when he can reliably cross the room on two feet, not where he's going to go to kindergarten. People told us that if we wanted to get into the good charter school we needed to send in enrollment paperwork immediately, since most people start the enrollment process when their kids are a few weeks old. A FEW WEEKS OLD. Do they not realize that we live in a suburb of Denver? This isn't New York City or Los Angeles, where crazy women who hate themselves force their kids into doing things so they can compete with other crazy moms.
Ahem. Sorry for that. Anyway, Bear started nursery school. Yeah, two-years-old is pretty young. I think it will indicate something about two-year-old boys when I tell you that all ten kids in his class are boys. It's just a couple hours three times a week. The teachers are really nice, they teach a little bit of basic stuff: colors, shapes, letters and numbers, most of which Bear already knows. The other focus is on teaching them how to participate in adult led activities. I've noticed since he started that he's been having a measurably more difficult time handling frustration and, literally, ANY separation from me. If he could, I think he would be physically touching me at all times. I'm not sure how much is his age and how much is starting school. I really like the teachers and I like the teaching philosophy but if things don't getter better I'm afraid my only choice will be to withdraw him. He's not used to being apart from me so much and I'm wondering if this is too much for him at two.
The other things we've been dealing with is Bunny being extremely fussy. Since a few weeks old, she's spent a lot of time crying and not sleeping. Nursing has been problematic and, at times, discouraging. I chalked it up to simple colic and figured she would outgrow it and we'd just have to slog through the next few months. On Wednesday we went in for her well-baby exam and mentioned the fussiness. The NP told us that she thought that Bunny might have reflux. She gave us a prescription for Zantac and since we started giving it to Bunny we've noticed a big difference. She's sleeping and eating better and much less fussy. It's a big relief, but I still think I need a beer.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Who doesn't love a list?
THINGS THAT ARE MORE FUN THAN A GROUCHY TWO-YEAR-OLD
* Minor dental surgery without anesthesia
* A sunburn
* Food going down the wrong pipe
* Cleaning a littlebox
* Any kind of news coverage on Kim Kardashian
* Sitting next to a snorer with personal space issues on a flight from Denver to Kansas City
* The grammatically incorrect expression: "I could care less"
* Burning your mouth on coffee
* Being forced to wait an extra 45 minutes in your doctor's waiting room
* Cold McDonald's french fries
THINGS THAT ARE LESS FUN THAN A GROUCHY TWO-YEAR-OLD
* Listening to Ann Coulter
* A papercut
* News coverage on any of the "Real Housewives"
* People that braggingly declare, "Haven't read a single book since high school!"
* Being told while pregnant, "You look like you're about to pop!" Seriously, pregnant women HATE this.
* Political emails
* Cleaning up barf
* Progressive insurance commercials
* Being stuck in traffic on I-25 when it's not rush hour
* Being around drunk people when you are sober
* Minor dental surgery without anesthesia
* A sunburn
* Food going down the wrong pipe
* Cleaning a littlebox
* Any kind of news coverage on Kim Kardashian
* Sitting next to a snorer with personal space issues on a flight from Denver to Kansas City
* The grammatically incorrect expression: "I could care less"
* Burning your mouth on coffee
* Being forced to wait an extra 45 minutes in your doctor's waiting room
* Cold McDonald's french fries
THINGS THAT ARE LESS FUN THAN A GROUCHY TWO-YEAR-OLD
* Listening to Ann Coulter
* A papercut
* News coverage on any of the "Real Housewives"
* People that braggingly declare, "Haven't read a single book since high school!"
* Being told while pregnant, "You look like you're about to pop!" Seriously, pregnant women HATE this.
* Political emails
* Cleaning up barf
* Progressive insurance commercials
* Being stuck in traffic on I-25 when it's not rush hour
* Being around drunk people when you are sober
Monday, August 22, 2011
Welcome to your life. You might be an asshole.
Sometimes things irritate me. Kidding! ALWAYS things irritate me. Apparently I'm a very testy person. But currently one thing is winning in the war to piss me off.
See, I've been following the famine in the Horn of Africa along with 38 other Americans. It breaks my heart to see the pictures of the starving babies and hear stories about people dying on the months-long trek to refugee camps only to continue to face dire circumstances thanks to warloads that threaten death to anyone attempting to deliver food and water. It gives me perspective on my life and my problems. It also amps up my frustration. As it turns out my tolerance for people complaining about their First World problems is at an all-time low. One thing provokes my ire above all others though.
Coffee.
Seeing, hearing or reading about someone complaining about their goddamn coffee in anyway way, shape or form infuriates me. Here's a reality check: IT IS COFFEE. In a lot of cases it's coffee that, when adjusted for volume, costs more than a gallon of gas. How selfish, spoiled and entitled are you to bitch about something so inconsequential? Here's another reality check: YOU ARE LUCKY TO HAVE THIS PROBLEM. Do you realize this? Do you realize that there are roughly a billion people in the world that don't have enough to eat? Don't have clean water? Are dying of malaria?
There are problems that are distinctly First World that are still tragic and life changing. There are things that are minor inconveniences that merit annoyance. But you know, every single thing that causes you discomfort doesn't require expression. Get a little perspective. Ditch the annoyance and appreciate the good things in your life and mourn the things that are legitimately sad or upsetting. Stop taking things for granting.
And seriously, get a grip on the fucking coffee.
See, I've been following the famine in the Horn of Africa along with 38 other Americans. It breaks my heart to see the pictures of the starving babies and hear stories about people dying on the months-long trek to refugee camps only to continue to face dire circumstances thanks to warloads that threaten death to anyone attempting to deliver food and water. It gives me perspective on my life and my problems. It also amps up my frustration. As it turns out my tolerance for people complaining about their First World problems is at an all-time low. One thing provokes my ire above all others though.
Coffee.
Seeing, hearing or reading about someone complaining about their goddamn coffee in anyway way, shape or form infuriates me. Here's a reality check: IT IS COFFEE. In a lot of cases it's coffee that, when adjusted for volume, costs more than a gallon of gas. How selfish, spoiled and entitled are you to bitch about something so inconsequential? Here's another reality check: YOU ARE LUCKY TO HAVE THIS PROBLEM. Do you realize this? Do you realize that there are roughly a billion people in the world that don't have enough to eat? Don't have clean water? Are dying of malaria?
There are problems that are distinctly First World that are still tragic and life changing. There are things that are minor inconveniences that merit annoyance. But you know, every single thing that causes you discomfort doesn't require expression. Get a little perspective. Ditch the annoyance and appreciate the good things in your life and mourn the things that are legitimately sad or upsetting. Stop taking things for granting.
And seriously, get a grip on the fucking coffee.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Where to begin
I really, really want to be a reliable blogger. Good, now that my regular apology for infrequent posting is out of the way...
So much has been happening in our household. We added to our little family. Bunny, as she shall be known in these pages, was born on April 15 at 6:02 PM. She weighed 6 lbs, 13 oz and totally perfect. Labor was easy and uncomplicated. Twenty-eight hours in total, two of them hard, two pushes and no epidural. By the way I love sharing my story and am happy to do so. I promise that I won't scare you or otherwise make you feel like you need a dose of Xanax. I also won't share the story on here unless I get an overwhelming readership request. Not everyone wants to read a birth story.
I realize that this isn't my most insightful observation but two things: first, WOW every kid is different. Yay for something every parent says. But it's true, which leads me to my next observation which is also a cliche: God lets you forget. You forget the frustration and sleep deprivation and the constant worry about whether or not you're doing things right. Some things stay the same, namely, will you ever lose the baby weight so your ass can fit into your really cute jeans again.
Expanding on the subject of jeans and asses, losing the baby weight seems more difficult this time around although it's quite possible I just blocked it from when I had Bear (as he will henceforth be known). I have some advice on that: buy a few things that make you feel great. Trust me, my experience tells me that staying in elastic waistband pants and your husband's old t-shirts will mostly make you feel worse. But for Heaven's sake, don't buy TOO much stuff. You don't want to get too comfortable and feel too stylish or you won't ever get back to you pre-baby weight. That's fine, of course, if that's what you want to do. (Seriously, no judgement. My hat's off to you.)
Wow, that was easier then I thought. I felt bad about not posting and so I didn't which just made it worse. Guilt over something you don't have to do. Biggest waste of a feeling ever.
So much has been happening in our household. We added to our little family. Bunny, as she shall be known in these pages, was born on April 15 at 6:02 PM. She weighed 6 lbs, 13 oz and totally perfect. Labor was easy and uncomplicated. Twenty-eight hours in total, two of them hard, two pushes and no epidural. By the way I love sharing my story and am happy to do so. I promise that I won't scare you or otherwise make you feel like you need a dose of Xanax. I also won't share the story on here unless I get an overwhelming readership request. Not everyone wants to read a birth story.
I realize that this isn't my most insightful observation but two things: first, WOW every kid is different. Yay for something every parent says. But it's true, which leads me to my next observation which is also a cliche: God lets you forget. You forget the frustration and sleep deprivation and the constant worry about whether or not you're doing things right. Some things stay the same, namely, will you ever lose the baby weight so your ass can fit into your really cute jeans again.
Expanding on the subject of jeans and asses, losing the baby weight seems more difficult this time around although it's quite possible I just blocked it from when I had Bear (as he will henceforth be known). I have some advice on that: buy a few things that make you feel great. Trust me, my experience tells me that staying in elastic waistband pants and your husband's old t-shirts will mostly make you feel worse. But for Heaven's sake, don't buy TOO much stuff. You don't want to get too comfortable and feel too stylish or you won't ever get back to you pre-baby weight. That's fine, of course, if that's what you want to do. (Seriously, no judgement. My hat's off to you.)
Wow, that was easier then I thought. I felt bad about not posting and so I didn't which just made it worse. Guilt over something you don't have to do. Biggest waste of a feeling ever.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Death by prone
Yesterday I came across a very interesting (to me) article on a local news outlet's website. The article (here) is about Colorado legislature voting on whether or not to ban prone restraints in all Colorado Department of Human Service programs, such as youth corrections and residential treatment centers. The ban would not apply to programs run through the Department of Corrections (i.e. the prison system). A prone restraint, for those of you not in the business, is when a person is face down on the floor with their arms held by two staff (one on each side).
I am particularly interested in this because about half of my working career, post-college, has been in residential treatment centers where prone restraints were regularly used. One facility was for adolescent girls, 11 to 18, and the other was for children, 3 - 12 (although we never had anyone under 7 while I worked there). Using any kind of restraints can provoke surprised and disgusted reactions, usually from people that have no experience in jobs where they might be needed. In the places I've worked, restraints were used as a last resort when patients were escalated to the point that they were a physical threat to themselves, the staff and/or other patients. I can't speak for all facilities, but I've never seen staff eager to jump straight to restraints.
The types of restraints I've used were a little different in each facility. In the facility working with teenage girls, two person restraints were always used; I can't remember ever seeing one person attempt a restraint alone. In fact, I think it was forbidden. There, a restraint might not start in prone but usually ended up there because of the size and weight of the patients. For the most part they were all as big, or bigger, than the staff. Going into prone was necessary for practical and safety reasons. It's very hard to control a combative person when they're still on their feet. Not only are they at risk but the staff doing the restraint is also at much greater risk of injury. (Seriously. We had a grown man break his leg when a morbidly obese schizophrenic fell on him during a restraint.) At the other facility, most of the kids were smaller than the staff and thus required a one-person restraint which kept both people upright. Of course, that didn't always work as well with some of the bigger, older kids and those kids inevitably inflicted more injury to the staff because they were too big for one person to safely control.
Being in a restraint, particularly prone, is not comfortable, even when it's only being done on you for demonstration purposes. In my experience patients de-escalate pretty quickly when being held and are then able to be safely transported for further de-escalation. Usually restraints lasted for less than five minutes. The restraints that lasted longer were typically in the patients that were seriously mentally disturbed and literally unable to control themselves. Those restraints sometimes lasted an hour or more (which is torturous if you are the staff doing the restraint).
There were certain steps that had to be taken when a restraint was being done. First, we were never allowed to restrain the legs of the patient. Doing so could constrict blood flow and result in unconsciousness or worse. Second, throughout the restraint we had to verbally interact with the patient to ensure they hadn't lost consciousness. Around the time I worked with the teenage girls, another facility had had a death during a restraint and in the video I saw, the staff were definitely NOT taking the necessary precautions to keep the patient safe.
There are a number of problems with attempting to ban prone restraints. The biggest is that you will now have people breaking the law on a regular basis in order to keep themselves and the patients safe. In many cases there are NO other safe ways to control an out-of-control patient. Facilities have to be specially licensed to administer chemical restraints, such as Halidol, as needed, or to use physical devices such as a straightjacket, which is no easy feat and means a large increase in cost. Families members of people killed during restraints argue that there are other options for controlling kids and adults without giving any examples. They also say that other states have put a ban on facedown restraints and that patients are still protected. However, no one from any of those states testified as to how well these alternate techniques were working.
In my opinion, if such a ban is to be put in place then it will mean a serious overhaul of our whole mental health system if we want to keep patients and staff safe. Patients who are seriously mentally disturbed need to be in facilities that are locked (as in, locked rooms which many facilites forbid), access to chemical and manual restraints, and intense psychiatric services. Unfortunately, not many facilities exist and most do not allow for the long-term treatment many of these patients require. While I'm genuinely sorry for those that have lost loved ones during restraints I have to argue that I believe that in most cases they were incorrectly conducted and that a ban will not solve the problem. In fact, I think banning them will lead to much more dangerous situations for staff and patients.
I am particularly interested in this because about half of my working career, post-college, has been in residential treatment centers where prone restraints were regularly used. One facility was for adolescent girls, 11 to 18, and the other was for children, 3 - 12 (although we never had anyone under 7 while I worked there). Using any kind of restraints can provoke surprised and disgusted reactions, usually from people that have no experience in jobs where they might be needed. In the places I've worked, restraints were used as a last resort when patients were escalated to the point that they were a physical threat to themselves, the staff and/or other patients. I can't speak for all facilities, but I've never seen staff eager to jump straight to restraints.
The types of restraints I've used were a little different in each facility. In the facility working with teenage girls, two person restraints were always used; I can't remember ever seeing one person attempt a restraint alone. In fact, I think it was forbidden. There, a restraint might not start in prone but usually ended up there because of the size and weight of the patients. For the most part they were all as big, or bigger, than the staff. Going into prone was necessary for practical and safety reasons. It's very hard to control a combative person when they're still on their feet. Not only are they at risk but the staff doing the restraint is also at much greater risk of injury. (Seriously. We had a grown man break his leg when a morbidly obese schizophrenic fell on him during a restraint.) At the other facility, most of the kids were smaller than the staff and thus required a one-person restraint which kept both people upright. Of course, that didn't always work as well with some of the bigger, older kids and those kids inevitably inflicted more injury to the staff because they were too big for one person to safely control.
Being in a restraint, particularly prone, is not comfortable, even when it's only being done on you for demonstration purposes. In my experience patients de-escalate pretty quickly when being held and are then able to be safely transported for further de-escalation. Usually restraints lasted for less than five minutes. The restraints that lasted longer were typically in the patients that were seriously mentally disturbed and literally unable to control themselves. Those restraints sometimes lasted an hour or more (which is torturous if you are the staff doing the restraint).
There were certain steps that had to be taken when a restraint was being done. First, we were never allowed to restrain the legs of the patient. Doing so could constrict blood flow and result in unconsciousness or worse. Second, throughout the restraint we had to verbally interact with the patient to ensure they hadn't lost consciousness. Around the time I worked with the teenage girls, another facility had had a death during a restraint and in the video I saw, the staff were definitely NOT taking the necessary precautions to keep the patient safe.
There are a number of problems with attempting to ban prone restraints. The biggest is that you will now have people breaking the law on a regular basis in order to keep themselves and the patients safe. In many cases there are NO other safe ways to control an out-of-control patient. Facilities have to be specially licensed to administer chemical restraints, such as Halidol, as needed, or to use physical devices such as a straightjacket, which is no easy feat and means a large increase in cost. Families members of people killed during restraints argue that there are other options for controlling kids and adults without giving any examples. They also say that other states have put a ban on facedown restraints and that patients are still protected. However, no one from any of those states testified as to how well these alternate techniques were working.
In my opinion, if such a ban is to be put in place then it will mean a serious overhaul of our whole mental health system if we want to keep patients and staff safe. Patients who are seriously mentally disturbed need to be in facilities that are locked (as in, locked rooms which many facilites forbid), access to chemical and manual restraints, and intense psychiatric services. Unfortunately, not many facilities exist and most do not allow for the long-term treatment many of these patients require. While I'm genuinely sorry for those that have lost loved ones during restraints I have to argue that I believe that in most cases they were incorrectly conducted and that a ban will not solve the problem. In fact, I think banning them will lead to much more dangerous situations for staff and patients.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
For Christ's sake, can someone please get on top of this blog?
I don't know who I think I am. With my lack of posting you'd think, I don't know, that I'm pregnant and have a toddler or something.
Oh, wait.
In case I haven't mentioned it here before, getting things done that require concentration start to become a little challenging with a toddler. It's not that they're so difficult, at least not in the way Calculus is difficult. It's more that they require a lot of supervision but a lot of that supervision is mindless. You make sure they don't do things like fall in the toilet, pull every item out of the cabinets they have access to, climb on various pieces of furniture or, just to use a random example, find a stray crayon and color all over a chair in the thirty seconds you're going to the bathroom. The end result is that the brain has a hard time with tasks that require more than five minutes. Mere minutes into a blog post and my brain is saying things like:
"I think I'm hungry."
"I wonder if there are any new and interesting posts on Facebook since I last looked ten minutes ago?"
"Maybe I should work on editing those pictures I took today."
"We've seen this episode of 'Clean House'. Find something else."
And, "I want more peanut butter. Get some now."
For the first time in my life I can relate to those that suffer from ADD. The good thing is that you, the reader, would never know that I was just gone for five minutes editing a picture. Which, erm, I definitely wasn't. Ahem. At first I thought it was just the result of pregnancy but I don't think that anymore. Last time I didn't have any trouble concentrating, I just had a problem being witty, interesting or sounding remotely intelligent. This time I can do all those things, as long as you only want me to have the attention span of a squirrel.
Oh, wait.
In case I haven't mentioned it here before, getting things done that require concentration start to become a little challenging with a toddler. It's not that they're so difficult, at least not in the way Calculus is difficult. It's more that they require a lot of supervision but a lot of that supervision is mindless. You make sure they don't do things like fall in the toilet, pull every item out of the cabinets they have access to, climb on various pieces of furniture or, just to use a random example, find a stray crayon and color all over a chair in the thirty seconds you're going to the bathroom. The end result is that the brain has a hard time with tasks that require more than five minutes. Mere minutes into a blog post and my brain is saying things like:
"I think I'm hungry."
"I wonder if there are any new and interesting posts on Facebook since I last looked ten minutes ago?"
"Maybe I should work on editing those pictures I took today."
"We've seen this episode of 'Clean House'. Find something else."
And, "I want more peanut butter. Get some now."
For the first time in my life I can relate to those that suffer from ADD. The good thing is that you, the reader, would never know that I was just gone for five minutes editing a picture. Which, erm, I definitely wasn't. Ahem. At first I thought it was just the result of pregnancy but I don't think that anymore. Last time I didn't have any trouble concentrating, I just had a problem being witty, interesting or sounding remotely intelligent. This time I can do all those things, as long as you only want me to have the attention span of a squirrel.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Writer's...something
I wouldn't describe what I have as writer's block. I think it's more a case of exhaustion-at-the-end-of-the-day block. I actually have a lot of things I'd like to write about but it's difficult to focus during the day when Bear is awake and usually by the time he goes to bed at 7:00 or so I'm not capable of any higher functioning than is required to empty the dishwasher and pick up the house. Luckily the other day I had an experience that not only begged to be blogged about, it was also absurd enough that I knew the words would flow from my fingers freely and with great ease.
Not all good stories start at the very beginning but this one will. In October I was driving into work and not paying much attention. I got pulled over for speeding. I was going 60 in a 45. Oops. Although in my defense I thought the speed limit was 55. Anyway, I was sad. In all my years of driving I've never before even been pulled over, let alone gotten a ticket. I decided not to argue with the officer and just take whatever punishment he doled out. The officer asked for my license and registration and I handed them right over. As I was pulling my registration out of the glovebox I realized with a sinking heart that my new, current insurance card was conveniently sitting at home, on the counter, waiting to be put in the car. Waiting for the last three weeks, in fact, because the walk from the counter to the car is all of twenty feet and we only make it two or three times a day. Needless to say when he asked to see my insurance I didn't have a current card to give him, so I gave him my expired one and explained my situation. I've heard (but I don't know if it's true) that if you don't have current proof of insurance your car can be impounded and, given the circumstances I think that the officer was extremely charitable. He took me at my word that my insurance was current even though I didn't have proof and gave me a summons to appear in court rather than impounding my car and forcing me to walk the twelve miles back to my house. He also did not give me a speeding ticket. How I lucked out of that I'll never know but I think my lack of arguing might have swayed his decision.
My summons was to appear in court in January which, in October, might as well be a million months away. He told me that it was likely that I could just take my insurance card into the county court to prove that I had current insurance when I was pulled over and that I wouldn't have to appear. Several weeks later I decided to try and tackle it and I called the court. The clerk I spoke to verified what the officer told me. There was no need to wait for my appearance. She also made the process sound pretty simple. Since it did sound so simple I decided to procrastinate. I did this for a couple reasons: first, no matter how simple any outing that necessitates me taking Bear is inevitably ten times more a pain in the ass than one I do alone. Second, I'm lazy.
The months went by and on a weekly basis I would think, "Hm, I really need to take care of this," but I didn't because I had loads of time. Well, as with everything, time does eventually catch up to you. Last week I realized that the axe was about to fall in very short order and I had NO desire to sit in court, so I better get in and take care of the summons. I talked to Kent about it and he was convinced that there was some way I could fax in my summons along with a copy of my insurance which would prove my insurance was current at the time of my stop. That was clearly the most efficient way to handle a situation that is probably pretty common. I was pretty sure that wasn't an option but I agreed to call the court again to verify. This time I spoke to a nasty piece of work masquerading as a woman. According to her, I not only couldn't fax anything to them, I also couldn't just go in with my insurance card. My summons was for a mandatory appearance: THE END. By the time I was off the phone I was totally fuming. Instead of procrastinating one more day, I was going to pretend the whole unpleasant phone call hadn't happened and go in once and for all. I was pretty sure that fifteen minutes would clear up the whole annoying situation.
I loaded up Bear with (tragically) very few provisions and set off. After parking two miles from the entrance I loaded him up in his stroller and got my purse. We were greeted by the most humorless group of men I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. I had to send my purse, shoes, sweater and so forth through an x-ray and walk through a metal detector with Bear and the stroller. After wanding me and the bump housing my two pound fetus I was deemed safe. Then an officer asked if he could search my purse. I could tell this was no time to lecture him about my Fourth Amendment rights so I agreed. He immediately honed in a two inch flashlight that weighs approximately four ounces.
"You aren't allowed to have flashlights. Do you want to take it back to your car or have it confiscated?" Well, I wanted to do neither. What am I going to do with that flashlight? For god's sake, my stroller is more of a weapon. I asked if he could just hold on to it. Nope. Trash or car.
"This is ridiculous. This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" I cried shrilly. I snatched the flashlight from him, gathered up my stuff and realized why people bring bombs to court houses or attempt to blind judges with mini-flashlights. I made the trek back to my car, dumped out everything that was a non-essential (including a baggie of Goldfish crackers. This would prove to make everyone very sad later.) and returned to the building where I went through the whole tedious process again.
**NOTE: There is no list of what is and is not allowed inside the courthouse, at least not that I was ever able to discern. So it's not like I willfully ignored and obviously forbidden item.
Once through security I tried to figure out where I needed to go. Lucky for me I was aided by a large sign just to my left that said TRAFFIC. Of course, that was also the line with about forty-three people in it. Sighing, I queued up and cursed my stupidity for not bringing my insurance card the single time I needed it. I felt confident though that once I got to the window the matter would be very quickly resolved and I would have wasted only a half hour or so. When I finally got to the window, I smiled my winningest smile and started to explain my situation. I was interrupted: "Let me see your summons." I handed it over and resigned myself to the fact that everyone I was going to deal with here had given up on life and was therefore bitter. The clerk got up, pulled my file and handed me a piece of paper.
"Read and sign this. Next." Basically I was being read my Miranda rights. This started to worry me. Color me stupid but this was my first inkling that this process might not be over in the next three minutes. I reminded myself I had nothing to worry about, that I hadn't even broken a law (well, except the speeding but I didn't have a ticket for that) and that I would not end up in Canon City pulling twenty-five to life. I gave her the paper and she handed me a pager. Sadly, it was not the type that ends up in a medium-priced meal.
"Have a seat there." She motioned with her hand. "Wait for the DA. Next." She was great. I can say my life was utterly enriched by the brief time she was in it. I sat down and explained to Bear how lucky he is that our tax dollars are being spent on pagers and wasting the time of people that have forgotten to carry current insurance cards in their car. I don't think my words had much impact but the pager did. He wanted nothing more than to put the filthy thing in his mouth and pitched a fit when I wouldn't give it to him. This just kept getting better and better.
As it turned out, the pagers didn't work and the DAs were forced to watch ten feet to fetch us. Person after person was called while Bearr became increasingly irate. I grew more irritated, both with the wait and my own naivete for thinking that this process would be simple. At long last a young woman called my name. I explained the situation to her. She was the only nice person I encountered and I assume it was because she was a law student who'd only been there a few weeks and that she knew that she would soon be done and could get a real job where she'd be able to bill $400 an hour and have someone to fetch her coffee. She looked at my insurance card, dismissed the ticket and told me to have a nice day and that I had a cute baby. Maybe there were traces of Stockholm Syndrome but I sort of loved her.
So there you go boys and girls, I had to wait for two hours for something that ended up taking about seventy seconds. Good times.
Not all good stories start at the very beginning but this one will. In October I was driving into work and not paying much attention. I got pulled over for speeding. I was going 60 in a 45. Oops. Although in my defense I thought the speed limit was 55. Anyway, I was sad. In all my years of driving I've never before even been pulled over, let alone gotten a ticket. I decided not to argue with the officer and just take whatever punishment he doled out. The officer asked for my license and registration and I handed them right over. As I was pulling my registration out of the glovebox I realized with a sinking heart that my new, current insurance card was conveniently sitting at home, on the counter, waiting to be put in the car. Waiting for the last three weeks, in fact, because the walk from the counter to the car is all of twenty feet and we only make it two or three times a day. Needless to say when he asked to see my insurance I didn't have a current card to give him, so I gave him my expired one and explained my situation. I've heard (but I don't know if it's true) that if you don't have current proof of insurance your car can be impounded and, given the circumstances I think that the officer was extremely charitable. He took me at my word that my insurance was current even though I didn't have proof and gave me a summons to appear in court rather than impounding my car and forcing me to walk the twelve miles back to my house. He also did not give me a speeding ticket. How I lucked out of that I'll never know but I think my lack of arguing might have swayed his decision.
My summons was to appear in court in January which, in October, might as well be a million months away. He told me that it was likely that I could just take my insurance card into the county court to prove that I had current insurance when I was pulled over and that I wouldn't have to appear. Several weeks later I decided to try and tackle it and I called the court. The clerk I spoke to verified what the officer told me. There was no need to wait for my appearance. She also made the process sound pretty simple. Since it did sound so simple I decided to procrastinate. I did this for a couple reasons: first, no matter how simple any outing that necessitates me taking Bear is inevitably ten times more a pain in the ass than one I do alone. Second, I'm lazy.
The months went by and on a weekly basis I would think, "Hm, I really need to take care of this," but I didn't because I had loads of time. Well, as with everything, time does eventually catch up to you. Last week I realized that the axe was about to fall in very short order and I had NO desire to sit in court, so I better get in and take care of the summons. I talked to Kent about it and he was convinced that there was some way I could fax in my summons along with a copy of my insurance which would prove my insurance was current at the time of my stop. That was clearly the most efficient way to handle a situation that is probably pretty common. I was pretty sure that wasn't an option but I agreed to call the court again to verify. This time I spoke to a nasty piece of work masquerading as a woman. According to her, I not only couldn't fax anything to them, I also couldn't just go in with my insurance card. My summons was for a mandatory appearance: THE END. By the time I was off the phone I was totally fuming. Instead of procrastinating one more day, I was going to pretend the whole unpleasant phone call hadn't happened and go in once and for all. I was pretty sure that fifteen minutes would clear up the whole annoying situation.
I loaded up Bear with (tragically) very few provisions and set off. After parking two miles from the entrance I loaded him up in his stroller and got my purse. We were greeted by the most humorless group of men I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. I had to send my purse, shoes, sweater and so forth through an x-ray and walk through a metal detector with Bear and the stroller. After wanding me and the bump housing my two pound fetus I was deemed safe. Then an officer asked if he could search my purse. I could tell this was no time to lecture him about my Fourth Amendment rights so I agreed. He immediately honed in a two inch flashlight that weighs approximately four ounces.
"You aren't allowed to have flashlights. Do you want to take it back to your car or have it confiscated?" Well, I wanted to do neither. What am I going to do with that flashlight? For god's sake, my stroller is more of a weapon. I asked if he could just hold on to it. Nope. Trash or car.
"This is ridiculous. This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" I cried shrilly. I snatched the flashlight from him, gathered up my stuff and realized why people bring bombs to court houses or attempt to blind judges with mini-flashlights. I made the trek back to my car, dumped out everything that was a non-essential (including a baggie of Goldfish crackers. This would prove to make everyone very sad later.) and returned to the building where I went through the whole tedious process again.
**NOTE: There is no list of what is and is not allowed inside the courthouse, at least not that I was ever able to discern. So it's not like I willfully ignored and obviously forbidden item.
Once through security I tried to figure out where I needed to go. Lucky for me I was aided by a large sign just to my left that said TRAFFIC. Of course, that was also the line with about forty-three people in it. Sighing, I queued up and cursed my stupidity for not bringing my insurance card the single time I needed it. I felt confident though that once I got to the window the matter would be very quickly resolved and I would have wasted only a half hour or so. When I finally got to the window, I smiled my winningest smile and started to explain my situation. I was interrupted: "Let me see your summons." I handed it over and resigned myself to the fact that everyone I was going to deal with here had given up on life and was therefore bitter. The clerk got up, pulled my file and handed me a piece of paper.
"Read and sign this. Next." Basically I was being read my Miranda rights. This started to worry me. Color me stupid but this was my first inkling that this process might not be over in the next three minutes. I reminded myself I had nothing to worry about, that I hadn't even broken a law (well, except the speeding but I didn't have a ticket for that) and that I would not end up in Canon City pulling twenty-five to life. I gave her the paper and she handed me a pager. Sadly, it was not the type that ends up in a medium-priced meal.
"Have a seat there." She motioned with her hand. "Wait for the DA. Next." She was great. I can say my life was utterly enriched by the brief time she was in it. I sat down and explained to Bear how lucky he is that our tax dollars are being spent on pagers and wasting the time of people that have forgotten to carry current insurance cards in their car. I don't think my words had much impact but the pager did. He wanted nothing more than to put the filthy thing in his mouth and pitched a fit when I wouldn't give it to him. This just kept getting better and better.
As it turned out, the pagers didn't work and the DAs were forced to watch ten feet to fetch us. Person after person was called while Bearr became increasingly irate. I grew more irritated, both with the wait and my own naivete for thinking that this process would be simple. At long last a young woman called my name. I explained the situation to her. She was the only nice person I encountered and I assume it was because she was a law student who'd only been there a few weeks and that she knew that she would soon be done and could get a real job where she'd be able to bill $400 an hour and have someone to fetch her coffee. She looked at my insurance card, dismissed the ticket and told me to have a nice day and that I had a cute baby. Maybe there were traces of Stockholm Syndrome but I sort of loved her.
So there you go boys and girls, I had to wait for two hours for something that ended up taking about seventy seconds. Good times.
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