Thursday, July 16, 2009

Growing moonflowers the slow and tedious way (A.K.A. the only way)

My first "official" garden entry is devoted to my namesake flower, the moonflower. This series is called "Gardening My Way" or "The Acrid Gardener," which means that I'm going to write about how I garden (which may or may not be correct) perhaps weekly or biweekly or monthly or yearly, depending on how busy gardening (or how lazy!) I am. Thumbs of all colors are welcome here.


Cultivating moonflowers is a bit of a process, albeit a worthwhile one. If you live in the far north, you can just forget it. You won't get a profusion of blooms. I know this because when I lived in Illinois I got about 5 flowers for the summer, and in Tennessee where the summers are unbearably hot I got new flowers almost everyday along with seeds at the end of the season. Moonflowers love HOT humid days, not the sissy 80's, but the beefy 90's. Just don't let them go dry in that kind-of heat, otherwise it doesn't matter what kind of day you have, because you will no longer have any moonflowers to speak of. They can be forgiving though, and if you do happen to bring them to the brink of death sometimes a little water and an overnight rest heals them.


Moonflower seeds. The cream and brown-colored ones are viable. The black one to the right came from one of my flowers last year. I had opened the seed pod immediately after pulling it off the plant, and I think it dried out too fast. When moonflower seeds are first harvested, their outer seed coat is soft. Exposure to the air is best done little by little. Let's move onto the actual growing of the seeds now.

The moonflower seeds must first be scored. No, this is not an activity that involves illegal substances. To score a seed means to make a tiny notch in the seed coat (A.K.A.--the actual seed), so that water can get inside the seed, and when the first leaves begin to grow out they will be able to break through the seed coat. Moonflower seeds are about 1/2 to 1 cm in diameter, and look and feel like little rocks. If you try to push them down into the soil and think that a little watering is going to start them, you will be looking at bare soil for a very long time.

To score a seed, all you need is a small steak knife and a willingness to sacrifice a bit of the skin on your index finger that is holding the seed. If your ear is itching while cutting, resist the temptation to dig. The combination of ear wax and a steak knife can be disastrous, and if you show up in the ER where I work I am going to just plain ignore you for not following directions.




Drop the seeds into a cup of water and let them sit there overnight.




Moisten a paper towel so that it is dripping wet, and lay it flat on a plate. Arrange the softened seeds on the plate, and cover them with another moist paper towel. Then wrap the whole thing in plastic wrap (like Saran wrap) to keep the paper towel from drying out when you are not around. Within 3 days, if you have decent temperatures in your house or sunroom (meaning that you don't need to be wearing a coat to be comfortable in there) you will see the sprouts breaking forth from the seeds. Hallelujah!






If you are forgetful like I am, you might happen to cut the top off a package of moonflower seeds and leave it standing upright on the kitchen counter in a moment of distraction. When you return to the package a half an hour later, after you have scored the first set of seeds, located a relaxing CD to listen to, poured yourself a drink of overpriced flavored soy milk, and visited the bathroom, you have forgotten that the seed package is still full. You grab it up by the bottom to throw it away, essentially spilling all the seeds across the floor. The redeeming part about this situation is that they are large and easy to locate. The problem part is that they are large and easy to locate. Make sure that you get them all up, because they could be a choking hazard to small children, and a hallucinogenic hazard to teenagers left home alone. Yes, you read that right, moonflower seeds can be toxic when ingested, leading to hallucinations and anti-cholinergic effects (according to the Merck Manual of Health and Aging, these include "confusion, blurred vision, constipation, dry mouth, light-headedness, difficulty starting and continuing to urinate, and loss of bladder control. Most of these effects are undesirable."). Undesirable unless you are suffering from irritable bowel syndrome.


As the sprouts continue to grow and the seed coat falls off, you can see the cotelydons, or seed leaves. As you can see in the photo above, they resemble a brain and a spinal cord (can you tell I'm a medical person yet?). As photosynthesis begins to occur, the leaves begin to turn green from the pale yellow they once were.

I placed my moonflower sprouts in a sunny window surrounded by a moist paper towel above and below. I found that by the end of the day the paper towel was dried out and the seeds were becoming shriveled, so I learned that the best way to allow the sprouts to grow safely is to cover the whole "apparatus" with plastic wrap during the day, and take the wrap off at night to allow everything to breathe and avoid mold growth.




An army of baby moonflower plants



I wish I could say that the "lesson" was finished, but unfortunately, there is a sadder ending.

If you look at the photos above of the seedlings, some of their stems curl around. This makes for difficulty when planting. Many of the plants above were placed very shallowly in the soil because of this, so that when I watered them they would tumble about, flop over, and get their leaves covered in moist soil. Dirty leaves prevent respiration from occurring in a plant, you know-- breathing, something even plants must do. Please consult your plant biology textbook for more information, as this is not meant to be a boring botany lesson.

Not only that, but I noticed that even though peat pots are convenient and better for the earth, they don't seem to hold water as well as plastic pots, so the soil would dry out rapidly. Not to bash peat pots so much, but they're pretty nasty when they start growing mold up the sides too!

Long story short, about half of the original seedlings died.

The moral of this lesson is to make sure you start lots of seeds, and don't give them pet names until their roots have become firmly established!

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

oh, and by the way...



The
last thing you want to have to do is make a trip to the emergency room when you're a 66-year-old woman having abdominal pain, and then have to admit to the triage nurse and the doctor that you're really constipated and haven't taken a good dump in 4 long days.

But you know us healthcare professionals, we are exactly that--professional--and can handle this problem with the utmost of tact.

After the acute abdominal series x-rays are taken which confirm the presenting complaint of constipation, the doctor orders a jug of Golytely and writes up the following informative and cordial discharge instructions:

"Add water to line on bottle up to line, shake well, and drink through the day until finished or bowel movement occurs. Happy Mother's Day!"

Saturday, May 2, 2009

she's an oxymoron


My husband told me about a woman that came into a store with a bottle of prescription pills. The name on the bottle was scratched off.

She was caught stealing a $180 DVD player, a 20 oz. bottle of Crush, and Joel Osteen's audiobook "Your Best Life Now: 7 Steps to Living at Your Full Potential."

You have to give her just a little credit for trying.

learning the language


Here in the South, there are churches everywhere.

People are sanctified and glorified. And now, according to one of my dizzy-feeling patients, they are also faintified. I wonder if being deep-fried fits in anywhere here.

That's almost as bad as when your feet get "swol."

The other day I caught myself saying "ya'll." And I have cut "pop" out of my speech except around family. It's "soda," otherwise I give myself away. Natives use "coke" to be persnickety to Northerners--to really confuse us. I know this because they always smile as they say it once they've notice my accent.

I've read that it takes 2 years to lay down roots in a new community, and it has been nearly two years now. I don't cry every other day about how I miss Illinois, and I like my next-door neighbor (either that, or I've just learned how to put up with him, or vice versa).

I am either conceding my northernness or selling-out.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

rudeness (or a bad mood, or simply misguided jocularity) has no borders


Up North:

Cashier finishes bagging items and hands them to shopper, with a curt send-off of "Have a day."

Flabbergasted. "Excuse me?"

"Have a day."

On the bright side, at least she didn't wish me to NOT have a day. That might be bad.


Down South:

Eating lunch at the local gas station/gift shop/eatery place. A man who looks about 80 and speaks as if he is a widower is sitting at a table kitty-corner to us. He asks random questions about my 2-year-old and I oblige him with answers, even though I am struggling to get her to eat and keep the food off the floor.

By the end of the meal, after straightening up the drop zone around the high chair as best I can, I politely tell the man to "Have a nice day."

"Don't tell me what kind of a day to have! I'll have whatever kind of day I want to!"

Stunned silence. Ummmm...this is awkward. My husband looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He knows how uncomfortable these situations make me. I mean, what the hell, we're in Tennessee for crying out loud! Old men aren't supposed to say stuff like that! They're supposed to call me "girl," if anything, but not rebuke my attempts to be respectful.

The man smiles. "You weren't expecting me to say that now, were you?"

All of this North/South business confuses me sometimes, especially when I realize that I have actually made some friends here. But the one thing I am sure of is that borders do not define the essential humanity in us. We all have our "moments"--we just express them differently.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Coldicidal

"Coldicidal"* (adjective)--to falsely state that you are suicidal on a cold night in order to secure a warm bed in the ER and possibly an admission to the psych unit, where you will receive blankets and 3 square meals a day.

A middle-aged man walks into the ER gripping his chest and complaining of pain. That combination of moves immediately buys him a gurney.

The standard chest pain work-up is started--EKG, IV, labs, vital signs, chest x-ray.

The doctor enters the room and does a history and physical:

How long have you had chest pain for?


A couple of weeks, off and on.

Did you drink anything tonight?

I had a couple.

Okay. Did you do any drugs tonight?

No.

Have you used cocaine?

Yesterday.

Tell me about your living situation. Where are you living right now?

Nowhere.

Are you living on the street?

Yeah.

About an hour later all the tests come back normal. We're not going to do any exploring for blood clots or what not. All signs point to one thing. He is discharged "home."

You got a bus pass?

No, we don't give those here.

The other hospital gave me one.

Well we don't do that. You can call someone to come get you or you'll have to walk.

The obvious question is "why do you have money for cocaine but not for a bus pass?", but I bite my tongue.

He gets dressed and comes out to the nurses station, casually leaning on the counter.

Anybody here got change for the bus?

No sir, we don't give change here. You can go back and ask registration if they have it.

A minute later the phone rings.

Why did you send him back here to get change? We don't have money for him! He's asking for a dollar sixty.

We meant you could MAKE change, not give change.

Unsuccessful, he ends his short-lived conquest for money and exits to the waiting room.

All is quiet in the ER now. It's the middle of the night--just a few patients with tests pending--time to relax, break out the magazines and suck on popsicles stolen from the patient food stash in the break room, check email on Blackberries. The phone rings again. It's registration.

This patient you just discharged says he's suicidal.

There's a camera in the waiting room, and we can see him on the monitor pushing buttons on the vending machine. And even more interesting to note is that he has somehow found change for the vending machine.


Here
is the precise point where his new diagnosis changes from "atypical chest pain" to "coldicidal":

1. It's 30 degrees outside.
2. He's homeless.
3. He's both hungry and suicidal.

Security proceeds to escort him through the exit door.

Better luck next time sir. By the way, this incident will be dictated into your permanent record, so you won't be getting any paper psych scrubs to wear anytime soon.


*Full acknowledgment and credit belongs to "Officer Frank the Tank" for coining his entirely original term "coldicidal." I promised I'd make him famous. Ha ha. Are you happy now? ;)



Monday, April 6, 2009

Need help with comment section!


I'm having trouble figuring out how to make my comment section appear right below the blog so that it makes a thread-like look.

I've seen this on other blogs and played around with the settings, but I just can't get it.

If anyone has any suggestions I'd appreciate them!

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

I woke up, it was a misty morning...







Wednesday, March 4, 2009

not trying to be antisocial, but...


After almost 2 years of writing on this blog I have still not really decided what is blog-worthy. I admire the people who can always stick to or rotate around one main topic on their blogs. I just don't want to start any more of them and so therefore this thing has turned into a hodge-podge. Without apology.

Tonight I was planning to go to a party for a co-worker who is in the military and will be leaving for a stint of active duty. The half-hour drive there will take me an hour (that is just me driving on the highway in the dark). The party is in Lebanon, which I pronounce Le-ban-on, which has my coworkers asking "where?" if only to be sarcastic. According to them it is "Lebnin" or something like that; I'm sure I still have it wrong. "You are too proper," they scold, "would you call it Louis-ville too?".

I was going to bring the infamous 7-layer taco dip. I originally asked what Tennesseans eat for side dishes. If it were up to me I would bring Hawaiian salad, potato salad or pimento cheese. They said that the taco dip would be fine. So I soaked the beans overnight and cooked them this morning, and now I have several pounds of black beans sitting in my refrigerator anxiously waiting to be married to cream cheese and Rotel.

I don't think that I'm going to go to the party though. Today has been a miserable day for me and I have spent it fighting the urge to rip these damned support stockings off with two hands and say the hell with it. Yesterday morning I had one of my large leg veins closed because the valve was warped from too many 8-pounder kids resting atop it, and I was instructed to wear these things for 5 straight days. Easier said than done when they are itching and pinching and rolling themselves down over the "baby fat" on my abdomen. How can I go to a party, with all the laughing and drinking and playfulness, when I am in a struggle to resist the urge to scratch, lest I appear to have scabies? I won't even be able to take any alcohol myself because I was advised to ingest 1600 mg of ibuprofen per day, which is surely eating away at my stomach lining and liver as I sit here typing. And that reminds me, I shouldn't be sitting like this, I need to get up and walk around again, lest I get a blood clot. Oy. I'd better have some nice-looking legs after all this!

The taco dip will be for work tomorrow night. I have the chips and everything already. It will help to get us through the shift, especially with all the beans I'm putting in there.

Monday, March 2, 2009

heeding the voices



My birthday is coming up this month. The great thing about birthdays is that they give you another chance to reflect on your life. Better than the new year when you are supposed to resolve to do things or not do things, of which about 75% of these haven't happened by the following January. With birthdays you get your whole life to make or break your promises and dreams.

I've learned over the years to listen to that little voice of God or angels or my brain or whatever or whoever is talking to me. This sounds kind-of crazy, but I will explain in order to make my case.

Several years ago I was in nursing school and commuting back and forth to Chicago from the suburbs almost every day.

Sometimes I would drive within a mile of my grandpa's house on the way home. But in my rush to get my daughter from day care, I never consciously realized how close I was.

On one of the afternoons the thought occurred to me that I should stop and see him. Just a quick visit. But what if he's napping or eating dinner or down the street at my aunt's house? I didn't want to be rude and just show up. I was finding every excuse that I could think of not to go.

A week later my healthy grandpa was suddenly dead, found lying on the floor next to his bed, at age 94. I never did stop to see him. I ignored the voice.

So today I was thinking about my mother, living alone up in central Illinois in a run-down house out in the country, surrounded by open land that puts no brakes on the cold, icy winter wind.

I was thinking about how I hadn't heard from her since she visited around Christmas. This, in itself, is nothing to worry about. I could go months without hearing from her. It has been like this for years. She lives her own life and seems to call me when it's convenient, and I've learned to deal with that.

But as I was sitting at the kitchen table eating my lunch, the little voice spoke up and told me to call her, and being that I'm about to turn 37 and I've learned that I need to pay greater attention to that sound, I called. I got the voicemail and left a message.

She returned my call later that evening, and as she rambled on about her visit to the spa and water aerobics, I breathed a sigh of relief. She was alive and well.

My mom told me that my aunt happened to have an extra ticket for an Eagles concert on the 18th, the day after my birthday. Some other family members that I hadn't seen in a long time were also going, but she told my aunt that she didn't think I would drive all the way up from Tennessee just to attend a concert. She figured that it wasn't even worth telling me about, but since I had called, she might as well mention it.

Little did she know that I had been in one of my all too frequent "I miss Illinois" funky moods lately, and had entertained the idea of driving up there for my birthday to cheer myself up. Later on I decided against such frivolity since we were planning another vacation in May. But now I had a reason to go.

So glad I heeded the voice this time.