Scientific Method at its Finest!!

Did you know that you can get a grant to study anything?? And our government is dumb enough to happily accomodate. After all, doesn't everyone need to know how fast ketchup comes out of a bottle??

The latest example of really dumb research comes from a presentation given this week at the annual meeting of the Radiological Society of North America. It was there that researchers revealed what we have guessed, but never known for certain:

Fatter asses require longer needles for intramuscular injections.

I can't imagine how the scientific process of this research came to pass, but using the standard scientific method, one can assume that it went something like this:

1. Observation: "We have observed that the posteriors of Americans have been growing at an alarming rate with the invention of the super size value combo meal. This could be problematic to the nurses who have to give them pain medicine for their chronic back pain."
2. Forming a Hypothesis: "If needles are only 1 inch in length, they cannot reach musle tissue in someone who has a fat ass. Therefore, longer needles are needed to effectively give injections."
3. Experiment: "We shall measure the asses of test subjects and try different sized needles so we can find out which needles can reach muscle. We shall put out a call for test subjects with ghetto booty."
4. Analyze: "The average-sized needles were not effective in giving an intramuscular shot. The longer needles worked much better."
5. Conclusion: "Fatter asses require longer needles. Yay...now we can go to lunch."

Sheesh!! I could have saved them time and money and told them this. They could have given ME the money and I could have shared this pearl of wisdom to the researchers. Any nurse could have told them this I wonder how much money was shelled out for this completely pointless and idiotic study. Besides, don't they know that nurses seldom give shots in the ass due to the higher risk of hitting a nerve? If we do have to give an IM shot, it usually goes into the arm.

I'm going to put in for a research grant. I even have a hypothesis: Fatter asses require larger pants.

Tis the Season

So, I am at work. The songs of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory keep running through my head. Imagine trying to insert an IV with "Augustus Gloop" ringing in your ears.

I talked with Mike (the lawyer, not the brother) earlier this evening and he was just finishing up tree-trimming festivities with his two daughters. He said that all the ornaments were on the lowest part of the tree, on one side. This makes sense because little kids can't reach any higher. I laughed as I heard excited squealing in the background. I imagine this time of year is exciting when you are a parent.

When I was a kid, I looked forward to Christmas. Now that I am an adult, Christmas doesn't hold nearly the magic for me. I'm fairly certain a couple bad experiences are to blame, not to mention I have no children of my own to fawn over (but this year I do get to buy for my newly-adopted nephew). I remember as I child, that certain smell that would come from the box of Christmas decorations. I occasionally smell it when I go to a craft store and walk down their decoration isle, and it takes me back to the days when I still believed in Santa Claus.

We used to put up the tree at the beginning of December with great excitement. Now, I can't even work up the enthusiasm to erect a tree. Oh, I find excuses...no room, crazy dog, I live alone. I own a 7 foot pre-lit and fiber optic tree that I bought after Christmas one year. The damn thing is so heavy, and takes more than one person to assemble...but it is really pretty when it is decorated.

My mother used to say that "Christmas is for kids". I'd hate to think that is true, but sometimes it sure seems that way. I wish I could again feel the magic and the excitement of the holidays. It's not even about the whole gift-exchanging thing. In all the commercialism of the holiday, the message and the feeling has been lost.

Mom is planning on decorating my patio, but no mention of a tree. I should put up a tree this year. After talking with Mike, I thought maybe I could invite some kids over to decorate my tree. Kids love that sort of thing. I could pay them in freshly baked cookies and hot chocolate. Kids also love that sort of thing. But kids today are very smart. They would probably detect anything fishy.

I should also order pizza.

But I want to sleep!!!

I'm supposed to work tonight. I had planned on sleeping all day to prepare for it...but nooooo. The maintenance men had to come over and finish repairing my ceiling. Now, Sam is in his kennel going insane, and I get no sleep. NO SLEEP!!!

It's going to be another strong caffeine night for Heather.

However, I did read somewhere that an apple will wake you up better than caffeine. I might have to find an apple and test this.

The Best First Date Ever

Okay, so I am on a blogging roll. I sometimes get into these moods where I just have to write.

I was thinking about stuff as I was driving home from the cabin. I think a lot when I drive. I think about a lot of things. As I passed by a certain county justice center, I couldn't help but think of one of the prosecuting attorneys that works there. When I think about Michael (the lawyer, not my brother), my mind always wonders back to our first date...and I can't help but smile.

We had discussed going out for a while, and finally got around to it. We made a plan to go out on a Monday evening. He mentioned that he had a court-thing that night, but it was a small thing, and would only take about 15 minutes. Would I mind just coming along with him to court?? Then we could go directly to the restaurant immediately after.

Sure...why not?

So, Michael shows up at the apartment in what he called his "lawyer costume". Costume or no, he looked pretty damn good. Anyway, he drove us in his Jeep...with very, very bad brakes. They would grind and squeal every time we approached a stop sign or light. Michael told me he had an appointment at the dealership the very next day to get them fixed.

Mike is driving, and I get to hold the map. Neither of us has been to this courthouse which was in some little suburb in Johnson county. We make it to a very small brick building and go inside. I take a seat in the very small, and not-at-all-court-looking courtroom. A desk at the front with a long table, and a room full of chairs. Mike takes a standing spot at the courtroom. Slowly, the room fills up. The janitor comes in carrying a garbage can and disappears into a back room. The judge comes out of the back room in a robe, then I realize that it's the janitor.

It was explained later that in most courts, the judges see the folks who have lawyers first so the lawyers can do their thing and leave. Not so with this court. The janitor-judge just goes straight down the docket. Mike's client is somewhere further down the list. People come and go...not guilty, no contest, guilty, pay your fine, go away. Mike cringes when a woman who has a stack of violations pleas guilty, her husband, who is sitting behind me, almost starts to weep openly. The judge, apparently seeing her husband turn blue, suggests that the woman think about what she is going to do before she makes a plea. Apparently, she was looking at an obscene amount of fines.

Mike disappears into the back room with his client, along with another lawyer. I watch the court proceedings with some interest. One other time, I did manage to observe court...only because I was there for a traffic violation and managed to show up an hour early. This was in KC...the big place downtown. So many people went up for drug charges, and everyone of them plead "not guilty". It gave me a moment's pause. How can someone who was found with crack, the tools to smoke it with, not to mention itemized receipts showing they had sold some of it, and video footage of them smoking crack still manage to plea not guilty?? Okay, so it wasn't as blatant as that. I am always amazed that people caught red-handed will say not guilty, and I will never understand how that flies. But then again, I'm not a lawyer.

At any rate, I watch people shuffle in and out of the, ahem, courtroom. Some big guy sits next to me, I smell him shortly after. At the time, there must have been some sort of soap shortage because this guy had bad body odor...but was wearing a really, really nice leather coat...so you can't tell me that maybe he couldn't afford deodorant.

Soon after that, I much bigger man in a Harley jacket sits in front of me...and has the largest plumber's butt-crack I have EVER SEEN...compounded by the fact that this guy had a hairy ass. I immediately pull out my Palm Pilot and start playing solitaire...anything to keep my mind off the hairy butt-crack in front of me, and the smelly man next to me who is now making my eyes water. Throughout all this, Mike keeps turning around and mouthing, "I'm sorry!!" I merely chuckle because only things like this happen to me.

Two afters after our arrival, Mike finally gets to finish with his client and we get to leave. I could tell he felt bad about how our first date was going, and he apologized profusely. I told him I wasn't mad, and I don't think he believed me. However, if I had simply decided to meet him at a restaurant and wait for him...for two hours...I probably would have been more unhappy. But then again, I wouldn't have waited in a restaurant for two hours...

Mike takes me to the Plaza to a place called Grand Falloon. He tells me it is one of his most favorite places. I've never been there. It's a relaxed atmosphere, and not at all prententious...which is me in a nutshell. We order burgers and talk all night. At the time, he was in private practice, and had such interesting stories. We found common ground: we both hate onions, and he has sued my employer, not to mention the very doctor I loathe and despise.

He also keeps apologizing for the court debacle...not to mention that he takes me to a bar for dinner.

He might have been thinking, "She is never going to speak to me again after tonight."

I was thinking, "I hope there is date number two with no legal involvement."

The night ended on a happy note. As he was kissing me, he asked if I realized that our legs were touching all during dinner. I must say that was the exact moment I was reeled in hook, line and sinker.

Funny how life moves on. He took a job in the public sector, thereby sacrificing any semblance of a social life. I started working a lot. I've seen him since then, but nothing concrete has materialized. I suppose if something monumental is meant to pass, it shall. I still think he is a terrific person, and I still have hope. He told me he wanted me to think of him as exceptional. Well, it is safe to say that he accomplished that.

Why, you might be wondering, would I even think this as a best first date? Well, I know a lot of guys pull out the stops to make a great first impression...but is that who they truly are? When time passes, girls tend to forget the flowers, the fancy dinners, and all that other stuff. After it happens so often, it just blends together until nothing stands out...all the faces become blurred and experiences become "something I went with some guy once". I'm sure there are some girls who would look upon this experience with a very sour outlook. I'm not one of those girls. Experiences rich in laughter far exceeds anything in the monetary sense.

You have to admit...sitting in a courtroom for two hours on a first date is pretty damn funny.

I like to think of this as the best first date because it was something I will remember until the day I die.

Say it isn't so!!!

Wow...Nick and Jessica, calling it quits.

Boy, no one ever saw THAT coming.

Maybe we can finally not have their faces all over the media. Maybe the news can actually report something noteworthy (not likely, but a lofty hope). Maybe the media will actually get a clue that the general public really doesn't care about the love triangle between Nick, Jessica, and her dad.

However, if Nick is looking for a change of pace...someone who has an IQ greater than 100...he can always give me a shout. I'm available...AND I know where tuna comes from.

Thanksgiving Blather

So, another T-Day come and gone, and I spent most of it sleeping.

I got home Thursday morning butt-exhausted after three days of sheer hell. I showered, and climbed into bed, still soaking wet. After a three hour nap, the alarm sounds and I hustle to get dressed, pack a bag, catch Sam, and try to figure out where my brother lives. (He had switched addresses) After some text messaging, and a pointless conversation with a rather dumb female, I finally find my brother. We take off, speeding for the cabin. We get there in record time, and I immediately head for the guest bed in the loft. Wake up, eat dinner, and go back to bed.

Mom and I had planned on getting up early for the Black Friday festivities...but we both overslept. We finally make it into town around 10am and head to Walmart...where everyone else in Southern Missouri is. Mother gets detracted by a box of free kittens and I lose her in the crowd. When I finally find her, the first thing she wants to look at is tablecloths. Tablecloths!!! Not a large selling item, not even listed on the circular...but by God, Mom has GOT to have one.

Hours later, we make our way out of the store. I manage to buy some yarn, a DVD, and a digital camera to get me by until I can grow a pair of balls, buck up, and drop a grand on the digital camera of my wildest dreams. Mom ends up not getting a tablecloth, but rather some red slippers and a skateboard.

The rest of Friday passes unremarkably with the exception of a round of "Name That Ache and Pain" with my stepdad, then we all turn in for the night. Around 1am, Mike comes into the cabin and sets up camp on the couch. I asked him why he wasn't staying in the guest room off the garage, and he yawns and tells me there is possum in the room under the bed. What!?! Mom hears this and wakes up Jerry and they discuss the possibility of a possum in the guest room. Perhaps Mike just saw the cat and thought it was a possum. Nope, Mike swears it's a possum...he came face to beady eyes with it. Mom tells Jerry to go shoot it. Jerry goes back to bed. Everyone else decides that there will be no shooting that night, so everyone goes back to bed except Sam who is excited and starts barking.

Later that morning, it turns out that Mike was right. The possum was still in the guest room. Jerry shoos it out where it casually strolls out of the garage, down the steps, down the sidewalk, and under the cabin. Mom wants to know why Jerry didn't just shoot it. Jerry didn't have the heart. Next time I go to the cabin, that damn thing will have a name and it's own bed.

I drive Mike home in record time, drop him off and head for my house. I know there is a hot bubble bath with my name written all over it.

My sinuses have been very congested as of late, coupled with the very dry air...it makes for a pretty miserable time. I blow my nose and I must have blown a little too hard because I then have a nose bleed. Not a little trickle...oh no...we're talking Mount St. Helens! So, imagine passing a black PT Cruiser doing about 70mph, a redhead inside, with tissues stuck up her nose. That's me, folks. I must have gone through three tissues, before blowing my nose again and ousting a big clot, and even more blood. I have a pretty strong constitution, but even that grosses me out.

So, I am trying to control the car AND the bleeding. The bleeding stops the same time the car does...when I get home. I've got blood on my hands and probably the steering wheel. I definitely needed a bath at that time.

If any man who was interested in dating me had seen me at that given moment, he would certainly not be interested in me anymore.

The Chronicles of 'bert

This Thanksgiving, I got to spend some time with my brother Mike, who often enlightens the family with humorous tales of him and others. This time, he told us of his best friend 'bert...which is obviously a nickname. I feel compelled to blog about it because the stories are just too good to not share...and I still can't make this stuff up.

*******************

A couple days before Thanksgiving, Mike and 'bert are driving down a country road. At the end of the road, there is a small cluster of wild turkeys. Mike jokingly suggests that 'bert try to hit one of them. 'bert readily agrees and accelerates. His car finds its mark on the slowest turkey of the bunch (Darwinism at work) and smacks it just as it was flying out of the way. 'bert stops the car and they get out to inspect the damage. There, on the side of the road, lays a dead turkey...who suffered a quick death at the hands of GM.

Now, one might say that this was a cruel and inhumane thing. However, upon looking at the turkey, 'bert says, "This will save us having to buy a turkey for Thanksgiving." And with such words, he scoops up the catch of the day and deposits it in the back of the car. To our knowledge, 'bert's family did eat the turkey for Thanksgiving. Mike told him to save enough for a sandwich.

Is this incident wrong if the outcome was to feed your family?? I can't think of anyone who would think to run over a turkey for the purpose of eating it later...except 'bert.

******************

Mike and 'bert go out to the local watering hole and proceed to drink their weight in grain alcohol. Mike, recognizing he was in no shape to drive, passes the keys to 'bert...who really wasn't in any better condition. At 4 in the morning, eats at McDonalds sounds like a fine idea. At the drive-thru, both inebriated men order their food. Mike then immediately passes out in the passenger seat. 'bert pulls up to the drive-thru window, and then passes out while the clerk gets his change. So, you have a car at the drive-thru at McDonalds, and both occupants are passed out.

I thought strange stuff like that only happened at my job.

I imagine trouble with the law ensued after that, but I don't know for certain because Mike wouldn't elaborate...either that or he just didn't remember.

I Dreamed a Dream

I dreamed last night I was workng (shocking, I know). One of my patients was a little old man. When I was assessing him, he reached up and grabbed my left boob, squeezed it three times and kissed it twice. Mortified, I scolded him for being inappropriate, to which he replied:

"I'm an old man and I can't help myself."

I bet stock brokers and and real estate agents don't have nearly the warped job-related dreams.

A Salute to Justice

Earlier this year, an elderly man was murdered. Less than a week later, the man's granddaughter was arrested in connection. She told her friends he had millions stashed at home, so the friends went over to collect the alleged millions, and ended up shooting the man, who was also a retired minister. One of his own children was had the misfortune of finding him dead.

I'm convinced there are special places in hell for criminals of this nature. Almost a year later, I still cannot fathom what would be so important that you would place your family in mortal danger for. I have some pretty crappy family members (most on my Dad's side), but my contempt of them would never reach the point that I would want them eliminated(incarcerated, yes...but not death). Then, I think of my Mom. What if something horrible happened to her and it was deliberate, and commited by another family member? I don't know if I just have way too much time on my hands...but I simply cannot wrap my mind around it. How does a parent come to terms that your child is responsible for your father's murder?

At any rate, the trial of the granddaughter started this Tuesday, and a verdict was reached on Thursday. Talk about quick and speedy trial!

Why do I even bother to blog this? Well, I happen to know one of the prosecutors on the case. I know he has been very stressed in what I am fairly certain is his first murder case ever. I know that he has made sacrifices in his own life for his job. I sleep better knowing that there are people like him in the world, who have the courage to do what he does. I have my own challenges with my job, and I know he doesn't understand why I can do the things I do. Rest assured, that works both ways. I know I could never do what he does...not in a million years. I don't think that I could even hold a candle to it.

So, here is to you, Michael. Congratulations on the guilty verdict (even if bittersweet). I'm truly fortunate to know someone like you exists in this world.

(I still think you are dead sexy, and a damn good kisser.)

Sleep in this weekend...you deserve it!!

Pick a Winner!*

I stopped by Starbucks before I came to work for their delicious Peppermint Mocha. Because I was tired and felt crappy, I had them toss in an extra shot of espresso. Anyway, in front of me, there was a woman and her little son...who was maybe 5-6 years old. He was in his pajamas and a bathrobe. He also had his finger so far up his nose, you would have thought he was digging for a Power Ranger or something. He popped his finger out, and cool as you please, popped it right into his mouth.

Ummm...ewww.

Mom, oblivious to her child's prospecting, turned and looked at me...who was standing there, mouth agape. She gave me this look that said, "What the hell are you looking at?"

Honestly, I can't make this stuff up.

On a happy note, the child got some hot chocolate...which is good because I'm certain he needed something to wash the boogers down.

(*Edited because I felt like it)

Yup

Ever been so tired that when you wake up, you realize that when you put on your pajamas, they are not only on inside-out, but also backwards??

Another website to waste time on...

I've been putting the names of exes, folks I loathe, and most importantly, Paris Hilton.

Tombstone Generator

Oprah...gone but not forgotten.

Today, my baby brother came and took my truck away. Ofcourse, I told him to. His crappy little Mazda finally died, and he neded a vehicle. I've been trying to sell Oprah for about 6 months now, to no luck thanks to the prices of gas. Oprah has been sitting at Kant's house, so I am certain everyone in her family was tired of looking at it. The truck need a new owner who would love her and cherish her the way I did.

Why do I call the truck Oprah? Well, she's big, black, and powerful...and also getting up there in years.

I was sad to see Mike drive off with the old girl. I was surprised it was still operational...but at least he knows how to work on her should she break down. Lots of memories with that truck: a romantic interlude in a parking garage at the Plaza, many trips down to the lake, piling tons of nursing school buddies in the cab just to go to lunch, a canoe trip, towing my boat after it was purchased...only to discover the brakes were bad when I was on the highway...ahh yes, the memories. Oprah...you will be missed.

At least I know the truck went to someone who needed it. I didn't make any money from it, I just gave him the keys and said "take care". I'm glad I could do this for him.

My Humps??

I don't have MTV...I don't even have cable. I can afford it, but with so much garbage on tv, why should I waste the money? I do listen to music online, and on the radio on my car. So, I like to think myself up on what's new on the charts. Sometimes, I regret that. My latest example: My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas.

Normally, I like the Peas. Most of their music is catchy, and has a good beat. I take exception with this song. The first time I heard it, was in my car. I must have looked funny to other drivers, doing 80 mph down the highway, with my mouth hung open in abject horror. The second time I heard it, I saw the video online. I was even more appalled.

I must be getting old.

In case you have no heard the song, "my hump" refers to a woman's ass. Fergie goes on to refer to her breasts as "my lovely lady lumps". She uses all of the above to get men to buy her things.

I. Have. No. Words.

If a man were to comment that he liked my humps/lumps...I would have to laugh in his face, but I wouldn't be flattered. These are not the words that make normal, educated, classy women swoon. If ghetto-fabulous is more your cup of tea, humps and lumps could be part of your vernacular. You probably also use the words "pee-pee" to refer to your penis, and "private parts" to refer to girly netherregions.

INSERVICE! Humps are something you find on a camel. Lumps are something you either A. find in oatmeal, or B. things you find inside a breast, also known as tumors. They are not words to describe human anatomy unless you are 8 years old.

I think I am going to go listen to some Ray Charles or Dean Martin now.

Because Snitches Get Stitches

So, Kansas City has just had their 113th homicide this year. I think we've beaten previous records for our town. Media has run stories on how inner city folk won't talk after a crime has been committed...because "snitching", as pop-culture has coined it, just ain't cool. A teenager is gunned down in broad daylight in a crowd of people, and no one knows a thing.

Most of the crime occurs in the areas of town notorious for it. Usually, there are witnesses, and usually, those witnesses won't talk. Then, they complain that these crimes go unsolved and the killers walk free. "Cops ain't doing their jobs" they say, as if the police department can figure most of this stuff out by looking in their crystal ball. Don't people realize that a lot of success within the justice system is directly related to the cooperation of the people it was designed to protect?

Ofcourse there are groups who are fighting this mindset, but it appears they are losing the battle. How do you fight glorified pop-culture?

If you don't snitch, you lose the right to bitch...they should make a shirt that says that. Until people stand up and speak out, their neighborhoods will fall to gangs and thugs. Instead, they will just go on, killing each other, and everyone on the outside powerless to stop it. And I, will be at the hospital, with a lot of my colleagues, just waiting for the end results to roll in.

*I found this blog...if there were more people out there like him (edited for gender), I think a lot of problems would be solved. One of the best blogs I've read.*

It's cold....

I already miss the days when it was 60+ degrees outside. Now, it is windy, cold, and big fat snowflakes came down earlier. My toes are cold. The heater is on. Winter sucks...and its not even winter yet.

November's Midwest Pasttime

I decided to go down to the cabin this weekend for lack of better things to do. I got up at 4am...which is way to early for anyone to get up, and made the trek. Mom does it in alittle over 2 hours, I can make the trip in about an hour and a half.

Along the way, I kept seeing various vehicles parked alongside the highways. It wasn't until I saw someone in an orange hat, that I remembered that deer hunting season was officially open. That time of year where men take leave of their senses and disappear into the woods, donning the brightest, ugliest orange coupled with clothes to make them blend in with the environment. That never made much sense to me. Why would someone go to great lengths to look like a tree, only to throw on a flourescent orange vest and hat? Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose??

Another thing that baffles me is that these great hunters slather "deer scent" all over themselves to mask their humanly, macho man smell. Deer scent is a nice way of saying deer piss. Something called Deer Piss couldn't be marketed at Walmart (it's a family place, ya know)...so they give it a much more pleasant name...Deer Scent, because no man would knowingly bathe in deer piss to attract other deer. To make it even better, they don't shower for the entire time they are out...which can last up to a week.

So, not only do they prowl the woods looking like light-reflecting orange trees, they smell like a johnny-on-the-spot for Bambi. Men from all walks of life. It's a national event. In some parts of the country, I'm sure banks close down (don't let the whole Veteran's Day fool you). Towns roll up their sidewalks. Open rifle deer season has come upon the world.

Meanwhile, the women...the hunting widows, are left at home...alone to indulge in the luxuries of shopping, eating out, and most importantly...bathing with soap.

All the men in my family (and one tomboyish female) partake in this time-honored tradition. They go away and be fearless hunters during the day, sitting around the campfire at night, drinking beer, eating chili, and embellishing stories about how the world's largest buck narrowly escaped from their sinister, and very intimidating, clutches.

This is my dowry. The man that marries me is ensured a spot in the Great Charpie Hunting Expedition. The expedition so renowned that Charpies (by blood or marriage) travel from all parts of the country to take part in.

I'm so glad I was born with a vagina.

Karma is a Wonderful Thing

It's a official. I am going to have a niece. My first niece ever. My brother and his wife had their sonogram yesterday, and it was revealed that they are going to have a little girl sometime in March. With any luck, maybe around my birthday. They have already named her...with everyone else's middle name.

At any rate, I always thought it would be great if my brother had a girl. Remembering what a little turd he was when he was in his younger, wild oat-sowing days, he would have a daughter of his own...constantly under the black cloud of knowing that somewhere out there, boys just like him will be laying in wait. He's going to go prematurely gray just worrying about. My dad used to say, "With a son, you only have to worry about one penis. With a daughter, you have to worry about them all."

I laugh with sadistic glee. I'm going to buy her every noise-making toy on the planet. I'm going to buy the most feminine of outfits. I can't wait until that day when the house is full of Tiger Beat magazines, and filled with the sound of whatever crappy bubble gum pop happens to be trendy. He will never get to use the telephone. He will have boys calling the house at all hours of the night. He's going to be sitting in the living room cleaning his hunting rifle whenever a young boy comes to take her out.

I can't wait until the first time my brother has to go out and buy feminine hygiene products.

This is going to be great!!

Rioting in France???

Hehehe...couldn't happen to a nicer country.

At War with the Toilet

Okay, so Mom and I both agree that we don't like the new toilets. Mom, having worked for a plumbing company in the past, tells me they are industrial-type toilets designed to save water. Industrial? That explains why I feel like my ass is being cut in half whenever I sit on it. The one place you could go for solace and comfort...destroyed by the bastards who want to save a few bucks on the water bill.

Kant calls them Princess Potties. I guess because they are so tall you feel regal sitting on them. I don't feel regal. I feel annoyed. I loathe the toilet.

I ran some errands today and saw the workers were busy around the complex installing the gleaming white menace. The old toilets sat in a pile, rejected. I contemplated going and stealing one for my apartment. I don't know how to install a toilet, but I don't think it would be that hard.

Mom's toilet is not secure, and wobbles when you sit on it...partially because the floor is uneven in her bathroom. Today, she called to tell me that her toilet mooed at her this morning. I called the office to complain about the shakey toilet, but I withheld the mooing part. I don't know how the management would have felt about that.

The World Against Me...One Flush at a Time

So, I worked last night. I was the only "seasoned nurse" with a bunch of new nurses, so by default, I was the charge nurse and go-to girl. If you had a question, I would most certainly have an answer...at least that's what being the charge nurse is supposed to mean. In truth, I was sick, running a fever, pounding headache, and I didn't want to answer anyone's questions because it required me to think, which made my head hurt even more. I would have called in, but the staffing being the way it was...I didn't. We have one girl who's called in before so she could get ready to go to a party. I am not so pathetic, and I really didn't want to screw over my coworkers in such a manner. Sick as I was, I went in to work.

For the better part of the night, I was nauseated. We got a patient who tipped the scales of 600lbs plus. I walked in her room, and the smell was so horrible, I thought I would hurl right then and there. Who knew what lay in the folds of the abdomen and cankles of this patient, but I swear I thought I saw a green fog hovering over her bed.

The night passed on, and in the morning...I had to go to then annual Competency Fair. For those who don't know what Comp Fair us, you are lucky. It is a day where you go and take little quizzes, do return demonstrations on skills such as NG tube placement, blood gases, and other menial blather nurses do. We also have to sit through little presentations...all the while keeping track of all we have done with a little check-off sheet. When everything is checked-off, we get to leave. I'd rather set myself on fire than ever go to Comp Fair.

For us unfortunate night folks who worked the night before, we were given a sticker that said, "I worked last night, I get to go to the front of the line." Ideally, we were to wear these stickers to facilitate a faster procession through the gauntlet of catheters and needles. In reality, no one cared. I had to wait in line behind all the people, the freshly dressed and well rested people. Bitches.

Towards the end, I was starting to get annoyed. I stood in front of this HUGE posterboard display and some med-surg nurse (I hate med-surg) blathered on about...oh hell, I don't remember what she blathered on about...but all she did was read from the posterboard. Like I can't read it for myself. At the end, she wanted to know if anyone had a question...so naturally, someone had a dumb question. I wanted to go smack them both.

Three hours it took me to go through this. I skipped the flu shot and drove home. I walked into my apartment building and found the door wide open. Shit. Inside, I found two little Mexicans working on my toilet. I then remembered that my apartment complex sent out letters saying they were replacing all the toilets. Yay. Too tired to care, I went into my room, shut and locked the door, and proceeded to pass out.

I woke up this evening to a quiet apartment. I jumped out of bed to admire my new, gleaming white toilet.

I miss my old toilet already.

My new toilet is tall. My feet don't even touch the floor when I sit on it. If I can't touch, Mom's legs are going to fall asleep everytime she has to go. My blue fuzzy lid cover won't fit on the new toilet either.

This sucks. I'm buying my own place, then I can have the toilet I want. They don't call is a throne for nothing.

November already!

I can't believe how fast the year has gone by. The next thing you know, it will be Christmas. I haven't done shi-nola in preparation for Christmas. I've thought about buying an iPod for myself...and that is about it.

I do know I will be working Christmas Eve. I also know I will be off New Year's Eve. I always say I am going to do something spectacular for New Year's Eve...but never do. Last year, I think I fell asleep on my couch before the new year struck.

What can I say? I'm not a go-out-and-get-shit-faced-from-something-I-drink-out-of-a-Dixie-cup-just-because-I-can type of girl. I always thought one of the those New Year's Eve parties hosted by one of the big fancy hotels would be pretty fun. A chance to dress to the nines! I wear scrubs most of the time...so I welcome the opportunity to dress up and strut my stuff...which doesn't happen very often.