After much consideration, the decision was made. Pros outweighed the cons; intellect won over the heart and so I took the sandals off the exhibit and asked the saleswoman to bring a pair in my size. I sat impatiently in the chair, relishing the very thought of having a new pair of sandals snuggled away in my closet. They’d be hidden from sight for the mandatory 3 weeks so that I could then wear them and say truthfully to my husband, “No honey, these aren’t new. I’ve had them for a while now.”
She came out of the shoe inventory door (also known as heaven’s gate) and bobbed toward me carrying several boxes of sandals that may be of interest.
I took off my shoes, slid down my socks and nearly fainted from the sudden awareness of my aged Post Winter Feet. Good lord almighty, there was nowhere to hide. The saleswoman was upon me. My feet were bare and nearly glowed in the unfortunate retail lighting.
As I shuffled my feet beneath one of the boxes that I pretended to drop, she stood there, refusing to move along and help other swooning women. She asked if I needed a nylon stocking and I whispered yes. She handed me a flimsy film of nylon and remained planted in her spot, determined to watch me pull on the sandals.
I scooped the nylon quickly over one foot and put on the shoe. My thick, jagged toenails ripped through the end of the nylon like shark’s teeth. The hoary, cracked skin of my heel snagged and shredded the rest of it. Scars from my ankle replacement surgery three years ago stood out like purple reminders of putting my foot in a margarita blender. My humiliation was complete. Still, I carried on and minced around the sales floor as if I had just come from the mani/pedi salon. The foot-high mirrors told no lies however and it was clear from the bits of nylon and flaking skin floating to the floor that I would have to buy the sandals or be forced to accompany the saleswoman outside to dump them in an incinerator.
At the register, she thanked me for my business and hoped I enjoyed the new sandals. I blurted out that yes, I would enjoy them greatly sometime after several visits to the farrier salon. She smiled politely, wondering – I’m sure – why I had apparently waited 47 years to apply lotion or a soapstone to my feet.
My female compatriots of a certain age, take this cautionary tale to heart. Take a peek at your feet before you hit the shoe store.
Teton Valley Health Care recently received a bronze level award from The Aster Awards for its website, tvhcare.org.
The Aster Awards, one of the largest national competitions of its kind, is hosted by Marketing Healthcare Today Magazine and Creative Images, Inc. This elite program recognized outstanding healthcare professionals for excellence in their advertising/marketing efforts for the calendar year 2014.
The 2015 Aster Awards received nearly 3,000 entries from across the United States as well as several foreign countries. All entries are judged by industry experts and are scored on multiple criteria with a possibility of 100 total points. Participant’s entries competed against similar-sized organizations in their specific groups and categories.
Awards were issued for entries that received top marks from judges placing them in the top 16% of the nation for advertising excellence. Judging criteria included creativity, layout and design, functionality, message effectiveness, production quality and overall appeal.
“The creativity of this year’s participating healthcare marketing professionals exceeded our expectations. The 2015 Aster Awards program contained some of the best and most creative advertising in the world,” said Melinda Lucas, Aster Awards program coordinator.
Teton Valley Health Care competed in the “Hospitals with under 75 beds” group, and earned a third place recognition among the website category’s 32 submissions.
All winners are posted on the Aster Awards website as well as published in Marketing Healthcare Today.
We can all remember our first car. Not the family station wagon. Not the hand-me-down from big brother that smelled like musky gym clothes. I’m talking about the first car that was entirely yours, even if it was used or “pre-owned” as car dealerships like to say.
A mid-1980s Honda Civic via WikiCommons
I was 26 when I purchased my very own brand new car. It was a 1986 Honda Civic wagon and I loved it. No air conditioner, no frills, vinyl seats and 48 mpg. Those were the days. I would drive from Salt Lake to Jackson Hole and back on one tank of gas. I would drive to San Diego, stopping every 40 miles to douse myself at the rest-stop water fountains during those 102-degree desert stretches, then drive soaked from head to foot with the windows down. Now that was air conditioning.
Imagine my excitement when I bought a new Ford Escape Limited in 2004. It was the second time in my life I’d bought a brand new car rather than used pre-owned. I knew the saying that once you drive it off the showroom floor, the car’s value drops 99%. I didn’t care. I was in fact overly proud of the purchase. As the old saying goes, pride goeth before a fall.
The Ford Escape AKA Mouse Mobile
The Escape was only two days old when I drove my two toddlers to the grocery store. Somehow, an entire jug of milk was spilled between the seats during a backseat conspiracy to search the grocery bags for cookies. I spent 2 hours scrubbing, spraying, rubbing and generally assaulting the area with cleansers. The smell of sour milk never left the vehicle. It was an omen.
One after another, horrible things happened in the Escape. A completely potty-trained child thoroughly wet his pants. Dogs threw up. A cat leaped onto my lap and peed while I was driving. Moldering carrots were found under the passenger seat. A slice of pizza worked its way into the spare tire well and grew fabulous green feathers.
Just before the Plague of Rodents commenced, I had what I thought was the capper to all of this evil. While driving my son’s friend home from a playdate, the cherub told me from the backseat that he needed to go number two. I asked him if I should pull over or if he could hold it until the upcoming gas station. He felt that he could wait. Two seconds later, he said “oh no” and then the fun began. My son caught a whiff and immediately vomited. Twice. I rolled down the windows. I opened the sunroof. I looked back to assess the damage and was struck by a force stronger than a tidal wave. We drove the rest of the way with our heads out the windows, tears streaming down our cheeks. I was triple charged for the car detailing.
Then came the Plague. It started with a few tiny droppings here and there on the car mats. I’d set a trap inside my car, catch a mouse and go on about my business. Then I noticed more droppings. I worked up to 4 traps placed at night and 4 mice in traps in the morning. I detailed. I vacuumed. I squirted VO5 hairspray. I tried sonic sound waves. I put bars of Irish Spring under the seats. The mice ate them.
Finally, I removed all of the interior side panels, trying to find the rodent welcome mat. Caches of seeds, dog kibble and fluffy mouse nests poured from every possible crevice. Entire generations of field mice had wandered about, given birth, raised families and died in my car. I admitted defeat and felt grateful that no one in our family had been struck with Hantavirus. Accursed vehicle. Stephen King could write a book about it.
The Mousemobile found a new home with a family that apparently does not have a battalion of mice seeking a motel on wheels. I gave full disclosure prior to handing over the keys. Buh bye.
Guess what I’m driving now? A used Honda Civic wagon. With air conditioning.