The Fate of the Geographically Challenged


Chuckle #488 | April 11th, 2012
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I’d like to think that my kids could survive in the event of a major catastrophe, but I’m not so sure.  They’ve lived in the same town for 15 years, yet they still use GPS to get to the library.  For three otherwise pretty bright kids, they have a terrible sense of direction. 

What if a giant space amoeba attacked earth and the kids had to loot the Mini-Mart in order to survive?  They’d have to find it first, and the chances of that are pretty slim if all the satellites have been eaten by space amoebae.

You know how some people try to abandon their pets by driving them hundreds of miles away so the poor things can’t find their way home?  I’d only need to go about 10 blocks to get rid of my kids. I’d have to take the dog to California, ‘cause he’s a genius. 

My son recently went on a multi-day music field trip to VT.  Two days into the trip he called to report (sheepishly) that he was NOT in VT like we had thought, but was actually in CT.  His explanation?  ‘Foresty’ places in New England all look the same.

A more geographically aware kid might have wondered how the bus managed to get from CT  to VT in less than an hour, or why his ‘Vermont’ host family didn’t raise their own chickens and serve granola for breakfast, but not mine. 

Part of the problem is technology.  Headphones and electronic devices induce oblivion. But the gene pool hasn’t helped matters.  I’m not saying that this is definitively dad’s fault, but he has similar ‘issues’ and this kind of thing is clearly hereditary.

Maybe I’m wrong, but in a post 9/11 world, I would expect public schools to offer more in the way of survival skills classes.  They don’t.  Our school offers orienteering, which is nice, but not nearly enough.  If there’s a catastrophe, I want to make sure my kids are prepared for the worst, and I’m pretty sure that that AP British Lit is not doing that.

In a Hunger Games situation, the CT kids would be milling around aimlessly while the NRA sponsored kids from Texas picked them off one by one.  The “game” would have been over in about 5 minutes.

The only way to ensure my kids’ survival in the event of a doomsday scenario is to fill Connecticut’s egregious educational ‘gaps’ with some good old fashioned Eagle Scout/Independence Day skills building classes such as ‘Ten ways to Field Dress a Squirrel”,  “Spark that Flint!”, “Finding Shelter in the Sewer System”, and “Defending Yourself with a Fireplace Toolset.”  

My kids, as usual, think I’m crazy.

They claim to have learned sufficient ‘survival skills’ in third grade during the unit on Harriet Tubman.  But will knowing how to identify ‘north’ by feeling the moss on a tree trunk be enough?  I fear for them. 

The ‘geographically challenged’ gene should have died out thousands of years ago through the process of evolution.  But somehow that didn’t happen, and my kids are the result.  I haven’t done the genetic research necessary to fully blame my husband, but I’m floating the ‘dad’s fault’ theory again, in case you missed it earlier.

Faced with a crisis, and without additional training, my kids could very well run towards the tsunami wave, fail to find adequate shelter from radioactive fallout, or get permanently lost in Venice (which to be fair, isn’t that hard to do.)  

Since I love my children, I can’t simply let evolution take its course.  To give them a fighting chance, I’ll add few more things to our emergency preparedness kit, such as a map and a case of beef jerky.  As long as the Texas kids stay south of the Mason Dixon, this should buy them enough time to find the Mini-Mart.

Who knows?  If aliens somehow manage to disrupt magnetic north, my kids’ ability to interpret moss might, ironically, prove to be the ‘survival’ skill that saves us all.

If that actually happens, I’ll be the first one to admit that they were right.  I’ll even share some of my roasted squirrel with them.
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I Will Miss YOU Most, Brangelina


Chuckle #487 | March 21st, 2012
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I’m one of those weirdoes who enjoy spending time in a doctor’s waiting room - the longer the better.  Sounds lame, I know.  But as a busy mother of three the only chance I get to catch up with Brad and Angelina is when I’m trapped at the doctor’s office.  Trashy magazines are a guilty, therapeutic pleasure, and this guilty pleasure has always had its special time and place in my life.

Until now… 

You see, cost pressures from our delicately balanced healthcare ecosystem have forced doctors to become more efficient.  This means that during certain low reimbursement preventative care visits, docs have exactly 17 minutes to run us through a gamut of tests while listening to what we have to say.  After that they start losing money. 

As a result of doctors “optimizing”, I get to spend less time in the waiting room looking at photos of celebrity babies.  This makes me sad.  I know, to most guys, this logic must seem terribly flawed.

But I don’t blame my doctors.

Doctors have spent years in training, are saddled with debt, struggle with insurance paperwork overload, and shell out a third of their income in malpractice insurance.  Doctors could continue to work for peanuts, but then only idiots who can’t do the math (and a few genuine Mother Teresa types) would opt for medical school.  The entire system would collapse.

And strangely enough, I prefer to rely on non-idiots for my healthcare needs.

So what can we do, as patients, to ensure that relatively intelligent people continue to choose a career in medicine?  For starters, we can all do our part to increase ‘patient efficiencies’, by being on time, talking really fast, and focusing on the big picture.  For example, one shouldn’t waste time describing the wart on one’s big toe if one has a giant painful growth on one’s groin. 

For people who don’t like the new ‘assembly line’ approach to primary care, there’s “concierge”.  Concierge is where the patient pays a hefty fee up front to be able to talk their doctor into a coma.  That fee is obviously not covered by insurance, so the 99% need not apply.

Personally, I don’t want to pay extra for the privilege of blabbering. I can lay it all on the examining table pretty quickly; I can strip in a snap, and I regularly access WEB MD online.  There’s no need for me to spend hours discussing my symptoms with my doctor when there is so much misinformation available on the web, (most of it, oddly, pointing to “brain tumor”.)

Not sure if you’ve noticed this, but internet based self-diagnosis has a traumatic downside.

I’ve made my peace with speed doctoring.  But I still miss my Hollywood therapy hours in the waiting room.  Nowadays I’m lucky to have even a five minute reprieve before seeing the doctor. That’s not nearly enough time to finish a feature on Demi and Ashton’s break-up, forget about Time’s 20 page in-depth profile on Steve Jobs.

Like I said, I don’t blame my doctors for harshing my mellow, I blame the system.  But until things change for the better, I need to adapt.  From now on I’ll focus on only the best content in People, and avoid wasting my time on any Lindsay Lohan mug shots. 

Americans all over the country are making sacrifices to ensure that excellent healthcare is available for all, and not just the wealthy.  I accept my fate and I’ll support this new factory-line style healthcare delivery system as best I can.  In the interest of the greater good, I will put my magazine down promptly when called, and keep my conversation with the doctor as succinct as a chatty Cathy like me possibly can.   

That, and my own personal subscription to People will probably do the trick.
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