Come Play
Hello World,
Well, here it is, Friday already, and you can believe me when I tell you that it certainly hasn't come a moment too soon and then some. Last week, I had taken Monday off from work and everyone knows what I think about those short weeks, and for those people who don't (and here, I'm including the KGB agents who may be monitoring my email) I'd be happy to explain it to you, except for the FCC regulations against that sort of language on the public airwaves. So I leave that to your imagination and you're welcome to it.
You can always tell when you've been working in the same field for too long, when you see everything through the prism of your industry, and not like real people see things. Here in the wonderful world of healthcare, one of the things we take for granted is the Pediatrics department, and all of its Pediatric sub-specialties, which have been with us for generations and no end in sight. It's commonly referred to as Peds, which is so routine now, that we don't even think of it as jargon any more. Like ICU, which we don’t expect anyone to mispronounce as “ICK-YOU” when they see it, we expect everyone who sees PEDS to realize that it's “PEEDS” for Pediatrics, whether they have a background in hospitals or not. So it pulled me up short yesterday when I got a call from one of our copier sales reps, who had a question about the equipment in what he referred to as our “Peds” clinic, rhyming it with “beds” instead of “beads,” and making it sound like we had a clinic for tiny nylon foot socks. For the record, we don't, although I would have to say that this is a market demographic that has been woefully under-represented in healthcare up to now.
Also at work, we found ourselves in the rather smelly predicament of having our carting company cut off our service, as they and the hospital were of two minds on the subject of some unpaid invoices. (For the record, the carting company was staunchly on the side of having the invoices paid, and the sooner the better, while the hospital was taking more of a “wait and see” approach to the payment issue.) I mentioned to our Storeroom manager that this would be a good time for his department to have a sale on cardboard boxes, which we receive and unpack by the truckload, since there was no more room in the compactor to put them. He said if it went on much longer, we'd have to implement the “bag-a-day” program, where all employees would carry out their office garbage and throw it away somewhere else. After that, it would be extended to include the patients as well, who would be required to take a bag of garbage with them when they leave, or give it to one of their visitors, so they could throw it out at home. This is what you call “thinking outside of the box.”
Last week being a short one at work, and holding true to form, it was already bordering on the disastrous, when we found out late in the game that friends of ours were planning to drive over 3 hours to visit us (which, multiplied by all of the people coming, made it actually more than 12 man/hours) on Sunday, no less. Apparently, they believed that the scheme they had cooked up among themselves had such powerful psychic vibes that we should have become aware of their plans telepathically. For anyone else who wants to believe that, I may as well say right here and now that if I did have any psychic ability, I certainly wouldn't be wasting my time working here at a squatty little community hospital, I'd be making my fortune on Wall Street, or at the racetrack, or in Las Vegas. So I think we can safely squelch those rumors right now.
As much as we enjoy seeing our far-flung friends, after the way things were going, the prospect of company on Sunday decidedly lacked a certain wonderfulness. But we're nothing if not game, so there I was on Sunday, running home from church with my coat-tails flying behind me to get ready. I couldn't get out of going to church, because I was scheduled to usher and count the offering, which I certainly would have re-scheduled, if only my psychic powers hadn't let me down until it was way too late. So I came flying home to change, with the expectation that we would meet our friends at a nearby diner for lunch, except of course, that they not only got lost, but got here too early besides, and turned up in our driveway instead while I was still in between outfits. (There's my psychic powers letting me down again!) We found out that Sunday afternoon is apparently no time to go to the diner (I told you I'm not psychic) but we finally landed at one with a free table for six. Everything seemed much better after lunch, and after that, it was a short jaunt to Playland amusement park in scenic Rye, where our friends hadn't been in years and longed to see again. The park is historic and beautiful, much the same as everyone's fond memories, although many of the rides have been changed over the years. But there are still many old favorites, like the Ferris Wheel, the Derby Racers, the enchanting Carousel, the Whip, the Old Mill and of course, the world famous Dragon Coaster. We had fun meandering around and taking in the sights, going on some rides and even indulging in the nostalgic taste of cotton candy. It was a real stroll down Memory Lane, and we really got a kick out of it.
Of course, not everything at Playland is old and shopworn, not by any means. We were surprised to discover that they use bar-coded Fun Cards and wrist wraps for the rides now, with scanners and turnstiles to get on. This was a whole new thing for us, and for the technologically-challenged among us, it turned out to be a sort of hit-or-miss proposition all day. They also have card readers scattered throughout the park where you can see how many “points” are left on your Fun Card, and machines where you can “re-charge” them by adding more money for points right onto them. It's a very handy system and we were impressed with it. Another sign of the times was outside of the Bumper Cars, one of their oldest rides, where there were posted large warning notices that in addition to restrictions due to health concerns, people were also prohibited from riding the Bumper Cars if they had mental health problems or psychological disorders. I remember when the only thing they cared about was how tall you were, not how sane you were. How times have changed, and you know I always say, not necessarily for the better.
All too soon, it was time to take our leave and be on our way. We stopped off at a local Italian eatery for dinner, where our friends filled up on pizza and garlic knots for the long ride home. Then we bid them a fond farewell and sent them on their way, while we returned home tired but happy. It was certainly a long week, and this unexpected excursion only made it longer, but we were glad to see our friends again and enjoy a day of fun and memories out in the sun and fresh air. And for the captious and petty-minded people out there, I will say that I certainly did NOT tempt fate by riding the Bumper Cars, when everybody already knows about my mental health problems.
As the weather in our little slice of Heaven continues to improve, and become more pleasant and balmy each day, we see those unmistakable harbingers of better times ahead. The stores are full of beach paraphernalia, the Farmers Market has returned to downtown on Fridays, and the sounds of landscapers (or, as my sister refers to them, “the SWAT team”) fill the air. Everyone seems to be out of doors and loving every minute of it, including our friends in the wonderful world of retail commerce. Bill had to send me a picture of a sign that was posted outside of a local furniture store, that advised people of their Sidewalk Sale, which was happening, conveniently, inside the store. Hmmm. That does seem, to the untrained observer, to take the concept of the Sidewalk Sale and turn it rather on its head. Of course, they might actually have a sidewalk indoors, but I would have to be psychic to know that, and I'm sure by now we all realize that I'm not.
Well, here it is, Friday already, and you can believe me when I tell you that it certainly hasn't come a moment too soon and then some. Last week, I had taken Monday off from work and everyone knows what I think about those short weeks, and for those people who don't (and here, I'm including the KGB agents who may be monitoring my email) I'd be happy to explain it to you, except for the FCC regulations against that sort of language on the public airwaves. So I leave that to your imagination and you're welcome to it.
You can always tell when you've been working in the same field for too long, when you see everything through the prism of your industry, and not like real people see things. Here in the wonderful world of healthcare, one of the things we take for granted is the Pediatrics department, and all of its Pediatric sub-specialties, which have been with us for generations and no end in sight. It's commonly referred to as Peds, which is so routine now, that we don't even think of it as jargon any more. Like ICU, which we don’t expect anyone to mispronounce as “ICK-YOU” when they see it, we expect everyone who sees PEDS to realize that it's “PEEDS” for Pediatrics, whether they have a background in hospitals or not. So it pulled me up short yesterday when I got a call from one of our copier sales reps, who had a question about the equipment in what he referred to as our “Peds” clinic, rhyming it with “beds” instead of “beads,” and making it sound like we had a clinic for tiny nylon foot socks. For the record, we don't, although I would have to say that this is a market demographic that has been woefully under-represented in healthcare up to now.
Also at work, we found ourselves in the rather smelly predicament of having our carting company cut off our service, as they and the hospital were of two minds on the subject of some unpaid invoices. (For the record, the carting company was staunchly on the side of having the invoices paid, and the sooner the better, while the hospital was taking more of a “wait and see” approach to the payment issue.) I mentioned to our Storeroom manager that this would be a good time for his department to have a sale on cardboard boxes, which we receive and unpack by the truckload, since there was no more room in the compactor to put them. He said if it went on much longer, we'd have to implement the “bag-a-day” program, where all employees would carry out their office garbage and throw it away somewhere else. After that, it would be extended to include the patients as well, who would be required to take a bag of garbage with them when they leave, or give it to one of their visitors, so they could throw it out at home. This is what you call “thinking outside of the box.”
Last week being a short one at work, and holding true to form, it was already bordering on the disastrous, when we found out late in the game that friends of ours were planning to drive over 3 hours to visit us (which, multiplied by all of the people coming, made it actually more than 12 man/hours) on Sunday, no less. Apparently, they believed that the scheme they had cooked up among themselves had such powerful psychic vibes that we should have become aware of their plans telepathically. For anyone else who wants to believe that, I may as well say right here and now that if I did have any psychic ability, I certainly wouldn't be wasting my time working here at a squatty little community hospital, I'd be making my fortune on Wall Street, or at the racetrack, or in Las Vegas. So I think we can safely squelch those rumors right now.
As much as we enjoy seeing our far-flung friends, after the way things were going, the prospect of company on Sunday decidedly lacked a certain wonderfulness. But we're nothing if not game, so there I was on Sunday, running home from church with my coat-tails flying behind me to get ready. I couldn't get out of going to church, because I was scheduled to usher and count the offering, which I certainly would have re-scheduled, if only my psychic powers hadn't let me down until it was way too late. So I came flying home to change, with the expectation that we would meet our friends at a nearby diner for lunch, except of course, that they not only got lost, but got here too early besides, and turned up in our driveway instead while I was still in between outfits. (There's my psychic powers letting me down again!) We found out that Sunday afternoon is apparently no time to go to the diner (I told you I'm not psychic) but we finally landed at one with a free table for six. Everything seemed much better after lunch, and after that, it was a short jaunt to Playland amusement park in scenic Rye, where our friends hadn't been in years and longed to see again. The park is historic and beautiful, much the same as everyone's fond memories, although many of the rides have been changed over the years. But there are still many old favorites, like the Ferris Wheel, the Derby Racers, the enchanting Carousel, the Whip, the Old Mill and of course, the world famous Dragon Coaster. We had fun meandering around and taking in the sights, going on some rides and even indulging in the nostalgic taste of cotton candy. It was a real stroll down Memory Lane, and we really got a kick out of it.
Of course, not everything at Playland is old and shopworn, not by any means. We were surprised to discover that they use bar-coded Fun Cards and wrist wraps for the rides now, with scanners and turnstiles to get on. This was a whole new thing for us, and for the technologically-challenged among us, it turned out to be a sort of hit-or-miss proposition all day. They also have card readers scattered throughout the park where you can see how many “points” are left on your Fun Card, and machines where you can “re-charge” them by adding more money for points right onto them. It's a very handy system and we were impressed with it. Another sign of the times was outside of the Bumper Cars, one of their oldest rides, where there were posted large warning notices that in addition to restrictions due to health concerns, people were also prohibited from riding the Bumper Cars if they had mental health problems or psychological disorders. I remember when the only thing they cared about was how tall you were, not how sane you were. How times have changed, and you know I always say, not necessarily for the better.
All too soon, it was time to take our leave and be on our way. We stopped off at a local Italian eatery for dinner, where our friends filled up on pizza and garlic knots for the long ride home. Then we bid them a fond farewell and sent them on their way, while we returned home tired but happy. It was certainly a long week, and this unexpected excursion only made it longer, but we were glad to see our friends again and enjoy a day of fun and memories out in the sun and fresh air. And for the captious and petty-minded people out there, I will say that I certainly did NOT tempt fate by riding the Bumper Cars, when everybody already knows about my mental health problems.
As the weather in our little slice of Heaven continues to improve, and become more pleasant and balmy each day, we see those unmistakable harbingers of better times ahead. The stores are full of beach paraphernalia, the Farmers Market has returned to downtown on Fridays, and the sounds of landscapers (or, as my sister refers to them, “the SWAT team”) fill the air. Everyone seems to be out of doors and loving every minute of it, including our friends in the wonderful world of retail commerce. Bill had to send me a picture of a sign that was posted outside of a local furniture store, that advised people of their Sidewalk Sale, which was happening, conveniently, inside the store. Hmmm. That does seem, to the untrained observer, to take the concept of the Sidewalk Sale and turn it rather on its head. Of course, they might actually have a sidewalk indoors, but I would have to be psychic to know that, and I'm sure by now we all realize that I'm not.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 7:48 PM
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