Ouch
Real hazards can accompany Easter holiday
As Easter approaches, let me
elaborate on some of the lesser
known hazards of the season.
They’re not as spectacular as
firework bums on the Fourth of July
or as dangerous as poisonous holly
berries, but nevertheless, I think that
it’s my duty as a Daily Nebraskan
columnist to warn you about these
things.
The danger of overeating is
present, as always. Marshmallow
peeps, when eaten by the case, can
do terrible things to your digestive
system.
The Easter treat that got me,
however, was the Robin Egg. (No, I
did not come down with a terrible
case of the runs.) It started in Super
K when my husband decided that he
wanted a candy bar. I was describing
in detail the nasty case of zits he
would come up with when he saw
the Robin Eggs. Sweet chocolate
around a core of malted milk— that
stopped my tirade instantly.
So we bought the Robin Eggs.
On the way home, he was trying to
open it without letting our son see or
hear the crinkle of the package. He’s
become an expert at discerning
whether things arc “Tanny” or not.
So, I turned the radio up. Simple
solutions ... as a reward, Shawn gave
me an egg. Well, one egg is never
enough. So I asked for another one.
“What will you give me?” Shawn
asked. I thought for a minute, then
told him that I wouldn’t wreck our
car if he gave me one.
He laughed. “Tucker and I both
have our seat belts on. And you
forgot.” I looked down— sure
enough, I had forgotten. If my life
insurance had expired, I still might
have had a chance with that line of
blackmail.
As it was, 1 offered him a kiss. It
worked. But pretty soon, I needed
another Robin Egg. So I offered him
two kisses this time, but he told me
that a million kisses wouldn’t be
enough.
“I’ll cook supper for you to
Kristi Kohl
“Having recently taken
a First Aid and CPR
course, my first reaction
was to ju mp up and
down, splattering blood
everyivhere and
screaming. ”
night,” I offered. He gave me one,
adding, “It has to be a good one.”
That means no Tuna Helper. Now
we were getting to the point where I
wasn’t needing Robin Eggs quite so
much. But I agreed.
And that was how I ended up
making steaks for supper. Now,
these steaks come in a plastic
package. Shawn’s always using the
scissors and never putting them
back. OK, maybe I had just given
Tucker a haircut. But anyway, the
scissors weren’t where they should
have been.
So I used a steak knife to open
them. Somehow. I sliced my index
finger down the middle. Having
recently taken a First Aid and CPR
course, my first reaction was to
jump up and down, splattering blood
everywhere and screaming. Tucker’s
reaction was to laugh at Mom, and
Shawn just stood there looldng at
me.
Finally I calmed down enough to
say, “Get me a paper towel.
NOW! !!” So wc wrapped my finger
in a paper towel. Shawn had taken
the same First Aid course I had. So
he told me to go to the bathroom
and we'd clean it up and put a Band
Aid on it.
“No,” I told him. “You don’t do
that for arteries. Try to find my
pressure point.” We finally compro
mised by not taking the paper towel
off so I wouldn’t bleed to death
while Shawn wrapped gauze and
tape around my finger. It looked
professional.
It looked like a finger splint, in
fact. Except for the fact that it was
crooked. I kept imagining telling
everybody who asked the next day,
“Yes, I broke my finger. Oh, no, it’s
supposed to grow back crooked.”
But I kept ft on. I wasn’t going to
go through the wrapping process
again. The next time, I think Shawn
might have taped my mouth first and
then just kept going to keep me from
offering my helpful suggestions —
“Don’t twist it so hard.” — “It needs
to be tighter.” — “Now it’s too
tight.”
The next day, I had to do my
Daily Nebraskan column. It’s kind
of hard to type with a huge “cast” on
your finger. A simple “t” ends up
being “rtgfy”. So I had to learn to
type with three fingers on my left
hand.
At work, I kept bumping the
finger on everything that stuck out. I
kept looking, but the blood never did
seep through. I guess I was lucky.
Later, I looked at it and decided that
I might not have actually hit an
artery. But I’m sure I did hit two or
three capillaries.
So, I credit Red Cross and our
First Aid class with the cool, calm,
competent way in which I handled
my emergency situation. But I still
believe in the maxim “Prevention is
the best cure.” So next time, we’re
getting two bags of Robin Eggs.
Kohl is a senior biology major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist
Safety first
Spring Break promises delight and danger
It’s about this time each year that
students like myself ask the same
question.
No, it’s not “Is there a ‘reset’ but
ton for my GPA?”, or even “When will
the freakin’ weather make up its
mind?”
The question is inevitably —“How
long until Spring Break!???”
Well, at the time I’m writing this
column, there arc exactly four days,
four hours, 50 minutes and 35 seconds
before my Spring Break begins.
Then again, for some of you Spring
Break will begin a lot sooner. Maybe
even after you’re done with whatever
class you’re reading this in.
Therefore, I’m going to dedicate
this column to the quest for the ulti
mate Spring Break, which is pretty
much one in which you aren’t killed,
injured or jailed, or pierced or tattooed
without your knowledge and/or con
sent.
The best Spring Break is one where
you come back in pretty much the
same shape as when you left.
This is not often easy, as many stu
dents’ bodies do not take well to ex
cessive drinking, dancing into an un
godly hour of the night, or acciden
tally turning yourself fire engine red
by falling asleep on the beach, dream
ing of drinking excessively and danc
ing into some ungodly hour of the
night.
Yet not just students abuse their
bodies during their vacation time and
pay for it when they get back.
Take, for example, Harrison Ford.
Remember the scene in “Raiders of
the Lost Ark” in the marketplace when
Ford was fighting off a mob of evil
Arab assassins clothed in black? Sud
denly, the crowd of people clears away
to reveal a massive sword-wielding
evil guy who looked as if he could
slice and dice better than any Ginsu
knife set.
Then you’ll also remember when
Kasey Kerber
“Vie best Spring Break
is one where you come
back in pretty much the
same shape as when you
left”
Harrison Ford looked at his belt
(where there was no sword), took out
his gun and shot him.
It was by far one of the funniest
scenes in the movie. Yet it was never
supposed to happen in the first place.
You sec, the movie script originally
called for Ford to fight the evil sword
wielding guy in long, drawn-out hand
:o-hand combat.
Yet Ford was sick at the time of the
shooting and a combination of the flu
and diarrhea kept him from perform
ing a long fight scene. The script was
changed and one of the most humor
ous Indiana Jones moments was im
mortalized.
What does this have to do with your
Spring Break?
Plenty.
I’m willing to bet a few boxes of
lujyfruits that Harrison Ford wasn’t
exactly treating his body very well
before that scene.
I’m not going to be your mother
and tell you how to spend your spring
break.
Yet I will give a little advice.
Harrison Ford might have created a
few extra million by making himself
sick, but chances are, you and I will
only make it harder to recover and
save our GPAs while there’s still time.
Even worse, we could do some
thing extremely stupid that will make
physical recovery impossible — or at
least pretty damn hard. Like getting
pregnant, contracting a disease or kill
ing yourself or someone close to you
in a “yeah, I was sober” driving acci
dent.
An example that comes to mind is
a commercial I see on TV at least 10
times a day. It has this guy who’s walk
ing through a Gotham-city-dreary
typc-nightclub scene scoping out
chicks and drinking beer from a green
bottle.
The narrator says: “Tonight all I’m
going to do is find women who look
like trouble and flirt with them ,
heavily.”
I laugh every time I see that and I
continue the narrative for him. “Then I
I’m going to go to my doctor and find
out what diseases I got from these
women who looked like trouble.”
It’s a reality. Sex, drugs and drink
ing arc pretty heavy dangers if not 1
handled right. Forget rock ‘n’ roll; all 1
it’ll be doing is playing in the back
ground.
When it’s all said and done — you
decide what happens over Spring
Break. But use some caution, or you
might find yourself with penicillin in
one hand and Pepto Bismol in the
other.
And no green bottle of beer or
multi-million dollar movie will save
you from cither of them.
Kerber it a freshman news-editorial |
major and a Dally Nebraskan columnist i
Babies suck people
into ‘hogtied’ love
WASHINGTON —I’m
nothing like my infant-hating
friend, Andre. But I must admit it:
Babies suck.
They suck hard. Anyone who
believes that women instantly find
breast-feeding as pleasurable as a
foot massage should note my
agonized facial expression in a
photo snapped at the “blissful”
moment tnat my eldest first
latched on.
But in time, mom’s body
adjusts and breast-feeding
becomes a joy. That’s more than
you can say about some folks and
infants. To Andre — who pleaded
with me to use his middle name
because disliking babies is worse
than flipping the bird at Mother
Teresa — “babies suck” has a
harsher meaning. Having just split
up with a marriage-and-infant
craving woman, Andre secs each
baby’s head-bobbing helplessness
as a mask for its true identity —
as the world’s second-most
ruthless being.
The only creature more
ruthless is a woman trying to get a
baby, Andre says. But women in
the throes of “baby fever” —
characterized by a compulsive
search for commitment-and-a-kid
— arc encouraged in their
madness by society.
“For women, the reckless
pursuit of motherhood is noble,”
Andre says. “Men following their
natural desire — for sex with as
many women as possible — arc
the scum of the earth.”
Painfully, he pauses. “Why do
women find babies so irresist
ible?”
In truth, Andre, 38, is a
sensitive and monogamous guy
who happens to be bitter over the
loss of a love. He fears he’ll never
find an infant-indifferent woman.
“Of course you will,” I insist.
Silently, I affirm my private truth.
You’ll change. Because babies
am imcsimiuic.
Especially the one who at this
moment is screaming upstairs
because the perfectly nice young
woman who’s bouncing, burping
and begging him to shush isn’t
me.
The second he appeared last
fall, my son Skye — whose name
means “unlimited possibility” and
“the only name that both my
husband and I could accept
without killing each other” —
bewitched me.
I mean, I love my husband. I
adore Skye’s brothers. But this
baby thing is, well, a fever. Why
else would someone who baptizes
me in urine, makes deafening bird
noises and represents decades of
servitude enchant me so?
For five months, my daily
schedule hasn’t varied. Feed
Skye. Change-bathe-dress-hold
him. Kiss his toes. Stroke each
palm’s satin center. Suck in his
fresh-baked fragrance. Start over.
I love it. Each morning, it’s
like Oct. 14 again, like the first
time I whispered, “Look at you,”
and took in his silky beige skin
and black patent eyes. Staring up
at me from his crib, he grins. I
mmmmm
Donna Britt
“Andre sees each
baby's head-bobbing
helplessness as a mask
for its true identity —
as the world's second
most ruthless being."
soften away.
This is how they hook you in.
I am being hogtied for the long
haul. Second by adorable second,
Skye is constructing an escape
proof edifice around me, a
straitjackct from which I can
never slip out. It’s what keeps
moms and dads there when their
former babies sass them, fail
classes or lose great-grandma’s
brooch. It keeps parents from
going ballistic when they get the
bill for “Booty in the House,” the
pay-per-view movie Junior
secretly ordered from cable.
Which brings us back to
Andre, and men’s “real” vocation.
That many guys, and even some
women, feel more connected to
sex — and careers and even TV
— than to their kids seems proved
by those who desert, abuse or
contribute zip to their upbringing.
But I saw my husband’s tears
at Skye’s birth. I’ve watched him
waltz his son to sleep at 3 a.m. too
many nights to doubt that he, too,
is bewitched.
One day, Skye will seem more
boy than miracle. Watching him,
we’ll still feel wonder and love,
but they will have sunk too deep
for everyday sharpness. Marvel
ing less, we’ll scold and worry
more.
And we’ll keep inviting Andre
over. Weeks ago, he first visited
the baby. Watching the two of
them, I wondered who’d prevail
— the gurgling infant or my
wounded friend.
Skye went to work. After much
slobbering, he emitted a series of
burps and birdcalls before gamely
attempting to nurse on Andre.
Failing, the baby grinned anyway.
Andre resisted.
Then he stood Skye up on his
lap. Andre almost smiled as my
son stretched out his arms, made
two dimpled fists and balanced
himself like a wobbly surfer
riding a blue-denim wave.
Helplessly, Skye bobbed his head.
And for a few moments, he
sucked Andre right in.
(C) 19%, Washington Post Writers
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