When I went online in 1998, my experience with PCs was limited to basic word processing, and the most technical term I knew was, “Load game.”

Today, I maintain my own website and I roam the Internet with confidence.

But during those first months online, I gained more worry lines and lost more sleep than I ever did when my children were teenagers!

Most of my frustration was due to the lack of any simple instructions on how to do the most basic things. Allow me to illustrate with the Saga of the Alt Tags…

After creating a killer of a website, complete (or should that be “replete”?) with dancing raisins, gold fish swimming in bowls, bounding panthers, five different fonts on every page and a flock of birds that flew from one side of my page to the other (is that cool, or what?!) I decided that I’d log on to one of those sites that offered a free assessment of web pages.

I couldn’t understand 90% of the report, but one point did penetrate, and that was the warning that I should use “alt tags”.

I was convinced of the need to use alt tags (I’d received so many “warnings”); I was willing to use alt tags; I was desperate to use alt tags — but what on earth were alt tags?

I scoured the Help files on all my programs; I visited all the message boards and help forums I could find; I instigated searches on the Internet’s finest search engines …

Every source told me that I should definitely use alt tags, without explaining what they were.

As the time decreased and the frustration increased, I finally found out that alt tags were the alternative names for images and that they should provide a description of the image.

I dutifully went through, typing in names for every image on my site…”red bullet; black square bullet; black round bullet; black squiggly bullet …”

This seemed totally pointless, but I’d been told by the web’s finest to include the name of each image and who was I to argue?

A couple of weeks later, I happened to be viewing the source code for a site that was number one in a search listing, when I noticed that their alt tags included the name of their site.

Clever!

I spent another few hours, changing all my alt tags to read, “mysite red bullet; mysite black square bullet …”

This nagged at me, however; it seemed a bit too close to trying to fool the search engines for my comfort.

It wasn’t until another month had passed that I read yet another article that explained why alt tags were necessary. It seems that many people turn off the images on their browsers and the alt tags show up in place of the missing goldfish, birds etc.

Suddenly, it all made sense; there was actually a logical reason to include alt tags; they weren’t names or descriptions, they were captions! (I have to confess, that I haven’t added ‘captions’ to all my bullets this time — I know it’s possible to use “invisible tags” such as alt=” ” but I haven’t quite had time to do it … it’s next on my list …)

So, now when you visit my site, you’ll notice that my alt tags are phrases that tell you something about what the site has to offer, “Professional writing services,” “Home study tutorials,” “Improve your writing” and so on.

And it only took me four months to discover this!

How many millions of hours have been spent in fruitless searches for such simple problems? We could have found the answer to the meaning of life in less time!

Jennifer Stewart offers professional writing services for web pages, press releases, advertising material, business reports, content for autoresponders, technical booklets and articles for newsletters. For those who want their own writing double-checked for accuracy, Jennifer offers proof reading or full editing. Website: http://www.write101.com

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Maureen Dowd was on Imus the other morning plugging her new book, “Are Men Necessary”; a book I plan to buy so I can get some slightly demented insight into the mind of a troubled woman. During the interview, Imus and his sidekick Charles challenged Ms. Dowd about a female perception she had just suggested that all heterosexual men froth at the mouth at the mere mention of a trip to a strip club or the possibility of a cat fight or the chance two women might lock in lesbian love making. Imus proclaimed that he, even amidst the weakness of lowly cocaine induced comas and vodka fed stupors, never stepped inside a topless joint. Charles nodded his head in brotherhood like the bobble-head doll he is sometimes. Their point being, not all men are beasts; that some have evolved above such shameful sexual servitude.

A couple of things.

First, Imus and Charles are probably lying through their coffee stained teeth about visiting strip clubs.

Second, I have frequented such establishments years ago. I eventually concluded that go-go bars are places where prematurely balding, man-boobed, middle aged business men hire enterprising young shapely women, forming a convenient unholy alliance of distrust to tap into the cash cow created when injured fragile male egos are deceived by alcohol induced sexual fantasy. All the females need to do is squirm provocatively while whispering real sweet nothings into customers’ hair filled ears. And if carried out correctly, the dollars shoot out of the slobbering stooges like ATMs in gleeful male orgasm. Make no mistake about it; the dancer is always in control of the patron. And when she is not, she moves on to the next penis clad cash machine. The only cost to her is to turnover some obscene percentage of the take to her sleazy male boss. It’s a business after all, and business is still a male dominated endeavor.

Third, if one has ever listened to Imus for more than an hour, one knows he and his cronies takes delight in sexually stereotyping and demeaning women. This idea that Charles and he are better than that is all part of the act.

For instance, a few minutes further into the same interview, Imus commented on the “balls” it took for Maureen Dowd to write a particular op-ed piece about Judith Millera remark that she quickly and graciously accepted with a simple and sweet, “thank you”. Although I haven’t checked, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Ms. Dowd does not have testicles. So why was she so quick to acknowledge and accept what I’m guessing she felt was a compliment? I’m pretty sure that bravery, fearlessness, strength, and convictionall nice attributes to have when kept in check by common senseare not gender assigned. And I’m positive they are not a function of male genitalia. I’m equally convinced that reluctance, fearfulness, and weakness do not require one to have a vagina.

It’s one thing, a very feeble thing at that, for Imus and his crew or even Jon Stewart and Al Franken for that matterall professed non-chauviniststo use male-centric language in an “equal opportunity” way; misguided into believing that somehow they are treating women and men equally.

It is another thing though for Maureen Dowd to acknowledge and welcome her inclusion into the club. She could have simply said, “Imus are you suggesting that I have to be a man to be tough?”

I am sure if asked Maureen Dowd would say without hesitation that she is a feminist or at least a proponent of feminist beliefs. Why then did she let Imus off the hook and indulge in the myth?

Like many things about feminists, I don’t get it. They can be their own worst enemy from time to timejust like Democrats when they run a national campaign.

Here is another example of something I don’t get. Why do some corporate feminists find short tight skirts, plunging necklines and push-up bras to be the business suit of choice? I suppose they might argue, just as strippers might, that they are simply using their power over men to get what they want. And on some level I understand that argument: play into the male need to be the sexual alpha dog as long as the targeted objective is personal gain. This attitude however strikes me as feeding the very stereotyping and sexism women want to end, which leads me into a short discussion of another dilemma I have with feminism.
Within the last few years, I have been introduced to the forefront of feminist thought. Well not introduced exactly, more like pummeled. Here is what I have learned. I have something called. “white male privilege”. Essentially, whether I consciously or subconsciously acknowledge that privilege, it doesn’t matter. I have it and I need to “own it”. I’m pretty sure that means I have to fess up to it and wear it like a scarlet letter (although a white penis will do just fine). Believe me! I understand the importance of the concept. The dried blood tracking from my ears is proof positive of the difficulties and hard work it took me to reach that understanding.

But that’s as far as the feminists have taken me. I’m afraid to tell them but it’s like a false crescendo. It can’t be the end of the symphony. Okay, so I “own” white male privilege. What next? There must be more. Am I supposed to give it up someday? Is it like owning an unregistered gun? Will there be a turn-in-your-white-male-privilege amnesty day? I’d be more than happy to if I just knew when, where and to whom? Or come to think of it, maybe not. What takes its place? Or worse, who gets it next? Gee, maybe I should take advantage of it more consciously while I still have it.

Anyway, in the meantime, as I meander aimlessly, I’m going to refrain from saying stuff like, “Hey that Barbara Boxer, she sure has some pouch of brass nuggets on her.” I will also try to be more cognizant of this privilege I have and renounce it at every turn. It’s all I can do until I get further instructions.

You know, I can’t help but think if reincarnation happens, I might want to come back as an earthworm. They have both the male and female sex organs. When they mate they impregnate each other. Everything is “even up”. And the result is that they are a pretty happy bunch. You don’t hear about earthworms having male/female issues. Okay so they have other issuesfish hooks being a big one. But quite frankly, I’m not sure that is any worse; sometimes I think it is a whole lot better.

The above article was wrtten by humorist Robert Crane. Similar articles, short stories, and satire by Robert can be found at his popular site: http://www.cranelegs.com

Drop by!

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We are all affected by humour. The Webster’s Dictionary definition of humour is “a normal functioning bodily semi fluid or fluid (as the blood or nymph).” I have no clue what this means, but to me humour is something funny. I kind of liked the part about the nymph, but the rest of that definition is lost on me.

The first recorded occurrence of humour was found on the cave walls of Lascaux. Sometime in 1957, Archaeologists unearthed a carving, primitive in construction, of a black guy, a Jewish guy, and a Polish guy walking into a bar. The punch line is no longer decipherable, but cultural anthropologists have speculated that, since these carvings were made in France, it is likely that the three bar patrons were refused service by obnoxious waiters. This illustrates the fact that different cultures have different conceptions of what is funny.

For example, there is a type of humour which is often referred to as “British,” this is most likely because it comes primarily from Great “Britain.” British humour usually falls into two categories: funny and weird, or stupid and weird. Both types more often than not involve men dressing as women, a device which, like the metric system, has been imported into American comedy with varying degrees of success. It never ceases to amaze me that this is considered to be the pinnacle of humour.

An analysis of British comedy provokes some key questions: How does British humour fit into the larger cultural framework? If there is a God, and he is merciful, then why does ‘Benny Hill’ exist? Is it possible to enjoy a Monty Python film if you watch it with someone who insists on saying every line along with the actors? Do all those people who refer to Shakespeare’s ‘comedies’ truly think that his stuff is funny, or are they just embarrassed because they don’t get it either?

It is true that humour can vary according to culture, but there are some things that everyone can agree on. For example, everyone knows that there are some things which just are not funny: AIDS, the Holocaust, and any film staring Chevy Chase. Beyond this common ground there is much disagreement as to what is funny. I have witnessed, first hand, many otherwise sane people who find Jim Carrey to be intensely humorous. While I am willing to allow that a man who makes funny faces at the camera is amusing to small children and the intellectually challenged, I have serious doubts about a society that sanctions his being paid $7 million to film two hours of fart jokes.

Ultimately, humour, much like intelligence, is about associations. If you combine two elements that people wouldn’t normally associate, like chocolate and peanut butter, or Tony Blair and ethics, then you’ve said something humorous. “Cows and scientology.” That’s funny. Don’t ask why, but it is. So learn to appreciate the humour that surrounds you, because laughter, like radiation, brightens our lives. And laughter lasts much longer.

David Stockdale is a man without an agenda. He uses his writing as a tool to express ‘his’ opinion in a world all too often concerned only by the voice of the majority.

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Mamma was a strong believer in heredity, and she believed our family’s German heritage predisposed us to two things: hard work and stubbornness. The gene for hard work lay pretty low in us kids while we were growing up, but stubbornness kicked in fast.

So one might say that what happened one summer evening in the late 1940s was all our ancestors’ doing.

Daddy was getting ready to go to a church board meeting. Four-year-old Davie wanted to go to the board meeting too. (Right from the start, Davie liked to go places, while Mamma, Daddy, and I liked to stay places.) We explained that board meetings were for grownups only. He still wanted to go. We explained that board meetings were for board members only. He still wanted to go. We all stood around the bedroom, while Daddy knotted his tie and combed his hair, and we took turns explaining what a miserable time Davie would have at a board meeting. By that time the conversation was getting heated and tears were beginning to flow, but also by that time Daddy was ready to leave and it was time to leave, so he left.

I watched the cloud of dust as the little black Chevy coupe sped up the hill next to our Montana farmhouse. And then I noticed at the rear of the dust cloud a tiny figure. Davie on his tricycle was bravely pedaling after. Clearly he intended to tricycle the five miles to the board meeting.

I watched him for several minutes. He got up some pretty good speed on the slope down toward the creek. But then the hill began, and the lower part of the hill was almost vertical. The tricycle wheels moved slower and slower, but Davie’s legs were still pushing. Davie wasn’t giving up.

About that time I thought to tell Mamma, and she realized what I had not: if a car should come swooping down that hill, it would mash Davie and his tricycle flat before the driver even saw them. Mamma was off like a shot, and I was able to observe the result of two objects with the same trajectory traveling at different rates of speed.

Davie was surprisingly docile once Mamma landed on him, and it appeared he had been defeated, but he had not. His views were unchanged. He still thought going was better than staying and going places on wheels was better than anything else.

About the Author

Go STEAMIN’ DOWN THE TRACKS WITH VIOLA HOCKENBERRY, a storytelling cookbook — and find Montana country cooking, nostalgic stories, and gift ideas — at Janette Blackwell’s Food and Fiction, http://foodandfiction.com/Entrance.html — or visit her Delightful Food Directory, http://delightfulfood.com/main.html

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Last week, upstart Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmandinejad sat right down and, ostensibly, wrote George Bush a letter, in which he lectured him on the evils of “freedom and democracy,” while pontificating about his own nation’s right to have nuclear energy but only for peaceful purposes.

How gullible does he think the rest of the world is? Is the unaware soul actually deluded into thinking people everywhere can’t see that he was using the letter as a transparent pretense to grandstand for his own treacherous and impossible agenda?

It is misguided calculation at this level that has brought the world to one of the most serious confrontations afoot in it.

We used to think that nothing is more dangerous than ignorance in power. Now we must give primacy to insolent idiocy.

Tom Attea, creator of NewsLaugh.com, has had six shows produced Off-Broadway and has written comedy for TV. Critics have called his writing “”delightfully funny” and “witty” with “good, genuine laughs.”

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Hybrid tea roses and the original tea rose are the world’s favourite roses and are available in many gorgeous colors.

Hybrid tea roses are among the most beautiful flowers in the world. They are the florist’s rose.

The blossoms are fantastic and each flower can have as many as 60 or more petals. You can not find a more beautiful cut flower.

The fragrance also makes the hybrid tea rose an excellent choice to give as a bouquet or to grow in your garden.

Hybrid tea roses are different from other roses because they produce their flowers usually one bloom to a long stem rather than in clusters. Most hybrid tea roses produce flowers during the entire growing season and the plants grow 3 to 6 feet tall.

Caring for hybrid tea roses is no more difficult than other roses although you do need to give them special care in colder climates. They are no more or no less pest or disease resistant than other kinds of roses.

‘La France’ was the first hybrid tea rose grown in 1867 by a French nurseryman, Jean-Baptiste Guillot. He cross-bred two old garden roses and developed an entirely new kind of rose.

Hybrid tea roses should be planted 18 to 36 inches apart or they can be planted with other flowers in large pots.

There are hundreds of choices when looking for hybrid tea roses. Choices can be made by color, names or fragrance. There are hybrid tea roses named after famous people including presidents and their wives.

The very first tea rose was a cross between a China rose and Rosa gigantea. These plants are more bushy than the hybrid tea rose but the well-shaped flower buds remind us of today’s modern hybrid tea roses. Tea roses come in shades of white, pink and yellow.
Start thinking about adding a tea rose or hybrid tea rose to your garden this year.

About the author:

Ken Austin is the webmaster at Roses and Rose Gardening Resources

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I don’t know how he does it.

But he does.

The proof is in the finger prints.

The problem didn’t start until a few years into our marriage. Probably because when
we first got married we were dirt poor and didn’t have the money to spend on
extras. But as our financial situation strengthened, I started experimenting.

One day while grocery shopping I decided to try something bold. I bought my
husband a bottle of chocolate milk. Now, before you start saying, “Big deal? Who
hasn’t tried chocolate milk?”, I’ll tell you who hadn’t tried chocolate milk - my
husband.

You see, Barry, (my husband) didn’t grow up in the US. He is from South Africa and
thus arrived in America with a completely different set of taste buds and food wants.
It took quite a bit of convincing for him to try anything new - including chocolate
milk.

I now look back on those simple days and think, “What kind of a monster have I
created?”

Chocolate milk.

It’s an addiction that he must feed.

I’ve seen him go out in a torrential rain storm just to buy the stuff — and I’m not
just talking about little bottles, I’m talking gallons.

According to the Mayo Clinic, an addiction is, “An illness in which a person seeks
and consumes a substance, such as alcohol, tobacco, chocolate milk or a drug,
despite the fact that it causes harm.”

Ok, I added the chocolate milk part, but not the harm.

“What’s the harm in drinking chocolate milk?” I’ll tell you the harm. It’s stinking
everywhere. If smoke gets in your eyes, then chocolate milk gets on everything else.

I have never seen anything like it.

If we use his truck to go someplace, I have to stand back when I open the door. Like
Fibber McGee’s closet, when you open the truck door a torrent of little plastic
chocolate milk bottles comes flooding out towards you.

I can spend hours cleaning the kitchen, come back 5 minutes later, and there it is.
On every surface, handle and knob. He’s like a junkie who needs a fix so bad that he
leaves the needle in his arm after he shoots up.

I find huge chocolate milk hand prints on the refrigerator’s handle; pools of
chocolate milk puddles on the floor; rivers of chocolate milk running down the front
of cabinets.

We always have to have a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup in the house as an
emergency back-up source. (This way if we run out of chocolate milk, he can
improvise and make his own.)

One day after cleaning a big, sticky, chocolate mess off the counter, I rolled my neck
backwards in an effort to stretch it. In doing so my eyes focused on the kitchen
ceiling and my mouth dropped open in shock. Was that actually chocolate syrup on
the ceiling?

I walked over and stood under the dark brown streaks of chocolate. How was this
even possible?

I started walking, following the long brown lines all the way across the kitchen
ceiling and down the far dining room wall. This was not a short distance. We have a
very big kitchen. I was following 20 feet of chocolate stripes across my kitchen
ceiling and down my dining room wall!

When pressed for an explanation, my husband confessed that in his urgency to
make a glass of chocolate milk, he didn’t notice the cap was not secure on the
Hershey’s syrup and that the bottle had felt quite empty. In an effort to force the remaining chocolate sauce from the bottom of the bottle to the top, he had held the
container by the bottom and flung it as hard as he could in a big sweeping motion
from over his head down towards the floor.

“I cleaned it up off the floor,” he sheepishly offered. “I guess I didn’t think to look at
the ceiling.”

Indeed.

Where are the Oompa Loompas when you need them?

I handed him a sponge and walked away.

Maureen Valdes Marsh is an author and former newspaper reporter. She
currently writes a semi-punctual weekly column on her website called, “Musings
of Vintage Grace.” She is the author of the upcoming book for Collectors Press,
’70s Fashion Fiascos - a polyester romp through ’70s fashions”, set for release
Fall ‘06. You can read more of Maureen’s writing on her website, Vintage Grace
by visiting http://www.vintagegrace.com.

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Copyright “The Quipping Queen” 2005.

CALENDAR OF ODD EVENTS - JAN. 2005
– Eccentric events and odd occasions to celebrate in January 2005 –

**Compiled by Lady Beatrice Blitterlees and edited by Lord Earl Craboon

January is, to put it bluntly, a bit of a merry-impaired month as far as the Gregorian calendar is concerned.

With the ho-ho-ho season gone…things start all over again.

The origin of January comes from “Janus”, the god with two faces, one on the front of his head, and one on the back. He’s the guardian of gateways and of beginnings. So now we know who to blame for the ridiculous New Year’s resolution ritual.

Brain cell exercises aside, there are simpler if not slothful ways to get through the first month of winter — by yawning or humming not to mention less taxing titillations such as twiddling one’s thumbs and wiggling one’s ears.

For those who share an abiding interest in mild merriment, modest mirth and marvellous morsels of muddle — this month has your name on it.

So, without further adieu — here are some upcoming odd occasions to add to your “to do” list and eccentric events to celebrate on your January calendar.

Note: The funnybone-impaired should proceed with caution as excessive giggling, glad-handing, and gleams in the eye are known to cause gregarious gleeful behavior which your gloom and doom family members and friends may not understand or appreciate.

JEST JANUARY EVENTS AND CELEBRATIONS

1. NATIONAL NUDE NICK DAY (in honor of Hogmany, Hogwash & Horsefeathers)

2. HOPS N’ SCOTCH DAY (in honor of hung-over heffalumps)

3. BURPING, BELCHING & BREAKING WIND DAY (yup, another survival-of-the-fittest contest)

4. LITTLE LEFT OVERS DAY (dedicated to long-forgotten things in the refrigerator)

5. PIN THE TAIL ON THE DONKEY DAY (a fine way to restore hope in the life of Eeyores)

6. HUG A HIPPOGRIFF (a mythical beast named “Bucktooth” is waiting for you at the petting zoo!)

7. CAPRICORN AWARENESS DAY (are you sure you’re ready to “get someone’s goat”?)

8. BROWN-NOSING DAY (this is your chance to fawn and flatter your way to success)

9. TOUCH TONE TUNE DAY(time to be creative and compose a song using your telephone keypad)

10. PET ROCK RECOGNITION DAY (in honor of boisterous boulders, scintillating stones, and ribald rocks)

11. BAUBLES, BANGLES & BEADS DAY (impress your boss with trashy trinkets, garish gew-gaws, knock’em-dead knickknacks or perhaps a few paddywhacks)

12. NATIONAL CLOCK-WATCHING DAY (in honor of all pathetic procrastinators and ludricrously late-bloomers)

13. “GOTCHA” DAY (better get out the old whooppee cushion and chocolate-covered ants)

14. NATIONAL WORRYWART DAY (brush up on your favorite sky-is-falling stories)

15. GADFLY(homo botflyillucus)CONSERVATION DAY (try cross-pollinating…with a saucy social butterfly…silly)

16. THINGS THAT SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN INVENTED DAY in recognition of strange gizmos or unusual gadgets you’d never be caught dead buying or using)

17. EDIBLE GREEN STUFF DAY(learn to love or at least play quietly with your Brussels sprouts, cabbage or celery)

18. SLOW NEWS DAY(in honor of far-flung factoids, sanctimonious slide shows, and pithyless PowerPoint presentations that put most people to sleep)

19. NATIONAL BAD HAIR & HABERDASHERY DAY (dedicated to folks whose favorite coiffure is a ball-cap worn backwards)

20. NATIONAL LEMING AWARENESS DAY(celebrating the value of cliff-hangers and pro-active followship)

21. NAUGHTY POETRY DAY (honoring wicked haikus, salacious puns and daring double-entendres)

22. JUNGLE MOUTH ELIMINATION DAY(so what’s your favorite mouthwash or toothpaste flavor?)

23. TICKLE A FRIEND DAY(based on gender-neutral, permission-based solictations only)

24. GOOP & GUNK DAY(time for a bit of patty-cake making or harmless mudslinging)

25. HAGGIS & HIGHLAND FLING APPRECIATION DAY (A celebration of strange Scottish customs kept firmly under wraps unless your name is Robbie Burns)

26. SLIDE RULE REMEMBRANCE DAY(if you don’t know, ask an engineer how to use one)

27. SHAGGY DOG STORY DAY(honors any anecdote or joke that lasts more than 5 minutes)

28. GO FLY A KITE DAY (the only way to send your favorite Nemesis up, up, and away!)

29. NATIONAL WET NOODLE DAY (for those who know how to ‘boil water’ but can’t cook with a wok naturally)

30. MERRY VOICE-MAIL GREETINGS DAY (time to create a humorous voice mail message to amaze your family, friends, or work mates)

31. NATIONAL CROSS-DRESSING DAY (what a way to empty your chameleon clothes’ closet!)

About the Author

Lady Beatrice Blitterlees (referred to in polite circles as the Duchess of Dither) and Lord Earl Craboon (better known as the Duke of Doorknobs) are a devoted duo in the Ripsnorting Royal Court of The Quipping Queen (www.quippingqueen.blogspot.com)

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I’m done with my thinking

I came up with none

I’m tired of playing a pensive philosopher of life

‘Don’t want to fully understand it

I just want to scream and laugh and dance in glee.

I read volumes and scores of books

To get a grip on the sufferings of man

Yet none got me anywhere,

I start to yawn

And dream of choco fudge, bubble bath and water beds.

I tried to grasp the hierarchy of power

And histories of war

Get inside the psyche of the most influentials of men

But my mind drifts back to my adventures in the rain,

Butt naked, bare footed, enjoying like crazy…

To hell with figuring out the world!

October 12, 2000

About the Author: wILLIAM RAMOS asks of your opinion on all the articles he publishes here.Feel free to text your comments or suggestions or possible reprint of his work @ +63917 496 27 68 OR EMAIL @ pogieramos@yahoo.com or at pogiedman@yahoo.com

Source: www.isnare.com

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Without question, going to the hospital is teamwork from the time you arrive until you are wheeled out the front door. Everyone is working together for the common good of the patient, or at least a crack at his bank account. That is as it should be in such mercenary endeavors.

Spending a few days in the hospital recently reinforced this in my own mind. Although my time in the hospital was brief, I was given the full treatment.

The hospital staff left no bed unturned in the holy quest of my recuperation. No matter what time of night it was, each nurse cooperated in awakening me and asking, “And how do we feel tonight?”

Teamwork is good for a number of things in life. Peanut butter and jelly, ham and eggs, and bologna and cheese are a few things benefiting from cooperation. In each example, one element compliments the other and the combination is greater than each individual part. This is coordination at it finest.

There is a limitation to the so-called cooperation, especially in the environment of the hospital. I don’t want to complain, but now that I am out, I feel a little freer expressing my opinion, without fear of any needling from the hospital staff.

I will grant you, nurses are some of the most wonderful people in the world. The job they do is simply marvelous. It is absolutely true that patients could not get along without these nurses.

On the other hand, what would these nurses do without patients?

I don’t want to brag here, but if it were not for patients like me (if there are patients like me), nurses would not have a single thing to do in the hospital. Essentially, they owe their job to me. The level of their significance is in direct proportion to the patients they serve.

Not one to belabor a point, (it’s hard to do any labor in my condition right now) I think it’s about time someone stood up for patient rights. Since I have nothing to do for the next week except recuperate here at home, I am the perfect person to say something about this crucial issue.

The major complaint I have is with the “we-disease” rampant in hospitals across the nation. This “we-disease” syndrome has gotten out of hand and despite all the research, no cure seems looming in the hospital corridors.

Every morning, around 5 o’clock, my nurse came bouncing into my room with the cheeriest of dispositions, completely disregarding my condition at hand and boldly asked, “And how do we feel this morning?”

Even on my best day, 5 o’clock in the morning is not a good time to ask me any question, especially how I’m feeling. If there were any chance that I was feeling good, I certainly would not be in the hospital.

The thing most disturbing to me is the sense on the part of the nurse to personally identify with my pain. Hence, “And how do we feel this morning?”

I object to this vehemently. It is my pain, not “our” pain. I believe each nurse should go and get their own pain. I’m paying a lot for this pain and I deserve all the credit. I do not choose to share my pain with anyone, especially someone with a bubbly orientation so early in the morning.

It’s my ailment and I have the right to not only enjoy it but also tell everyone about it. One reason it’s so hard to tell people about my ailment is everybody wants to tell me about their own ailments instead.

My hospital room that I’m paying for should be the one place I can indulge my ailment. I should not have to compete with nurses concerning my prevailing ailment. From a casual perusal of medical journals while waiting in the doctor’s office, there are more than enough ailments to go around.

This is my ailment and I share it with no person, especially healthy nurses wielding needles and pain pills.

If I hear that phrase, “And how do we feel this morning?” one more time I’m going to throw some business to my favorite funeral home.

A related phrase brought just as much frustration. My good nurse came in one morning and quipped, “And are we having our breakfast this morning?”

Looking at the breakfast tray before me, with barely enough for me, I simply glared at her. If she had any designs of slicing in on my breakfast, blood would flow. I gripped my plastic knife menacingly.

This whole thing came to a head my last morning in the hospital. My evanescent nurse burst into my room and asked, “And are we ready for our bath this morning?” This was the straw that sipped the last drop of patience from my languishing body.

Nothing is more personal to me then “my” bath. I will share my tub with nobody except my rubber ducky.

Getting rest in the hospital is a challenge for the weariest soul. Just when you think you have snuggled down for a snooze, someone asks how you are.

The best rest comes from Jesus Christ who invites everyone to “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30 KJV.)

His inquiry is always welcome and comes at the right time, like now.

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