Way to go, you big dork!

I got paid last Friday, and like the countless people out there in the world, I have harnessed the power of direct deposit. I can sleep in on paydays, knowing my fundage is being safely placed in my checking account. I have even discovered the joys of banking online while in my bathrobe.

So I woke up Friday morning and checked my account just to see how much I got paid. Imagine my puzzlement when I saw my deposit was only half it's normal size. Annoyed, I slipped on my shoes and walked to the mailbox (still in my pajamas) and fished around for my check stub.

Opened it...

Studied it...

Let forth a string of profanities.

The bosshole failed to put in my paid time off for my week in Atlanta. He claims he forgot (he does that a lot), but would remedy the situation if I needed the money. I didn't really need the money and could have been more than okay with having it added to my next paycheck, but out of sheer principle, I told the Bosshole to I wanted my money this week.

Now, I have to drive to work to pick up the other half of my paycheck. I think this was done deliberately by the Bosshole in an attempt to flaunt his power.

I can see that my adversary is somewhat clever.

But I have estrogen on my side...

No shoes, no snow, no problem!

I just booked another cruise. Yay for me!!! AND...I actually have found someone to go with me, and I didn't even have to twist his arm into it. I think the idea of being someplace tropical with a foo-foo drink in hand sounded appealing to him.

This will be one heck of an outing!

But who is going with me is nonessential. The most important thing is that I am actually getting to go on my trip early next year, and I don't have to pay for double occupancy to do it. Right about the time everyone else in KC will be freezing their collective asses off. Yay!

The ship I will be on will be the Carnival Liberty, boasting an theater out in the pool area, so I can sit in this hot tub, and watch "Titanic". It will be an 8 day Eastern Caribbean jaunt where the temps are at least 80 degrees if not more. Someome else will be making my bed, cooking my meals, making my room tidy, bringing me room service, kissing my ass, and then leaving a fun towel animal on my bed to welcome me after a long night of wandering the ship.

No work! No Bosshole!! I won't even tell anyone I am a nurse. I will just tell people I work as a people greeter at Walmart.

A More Serious Post

I went in extra on Monday night because I was needed. I may be an asshole, but I am sympathetic to my fellow nightshifters when it comes to working short. So, I went in for the last 8 hours of the shift. As I entered the unit, all hell was breaking loose. Some naked black woman with an NG tube hanging out of her nose was screaming the song "God Bless America", and ranting about fighting for her freedom of religion. Yes, it is safe to say she had some mental issues.

The resident, who couldn't find her ass with her own two hands, was watching the drama unfold, not certain as to what to do. The police were called to help restrain the patient as I was barking orders to the resident. The police arrived and the patient began singing about how we called the "Po-Po" on her. Four restraints, and a shitload of Haldol later, all was quiet on the western front.

Ahhh, the joys of nursing.

Paul also worked that night, but was so busy running his ass off that he didn't have a chance to come see me. I talked with him the next morning, observing he was physically and emotionally drained. I had heard there was a pediatric code, but not aware of the outcome. Pediatric codes are ugly and frightening. This one was on 9 year old who was carried in unresponsive by the dad. The outlook was bleak.

It wasn't until 2 days later that I learned that I knew the dad. A quiet, soft-spoken man from church who never said a negative thing about anyone. I learned that today, the child would most likely be taken off life support.

I've been in the medical field in one capacity or another since I finished high school...which is to say a long time. I've witnessed death, life, a man running around in an orange sequined thong...but I have never had to watch a child die. I made the choice to remove life support from my own father when I was 18. I cannot fathom what it would be like to have to do it to your own child. I don't even want to try. Just thinking about it almost makes a part of me die inside...and I don't even have kids.

I've been thinking about this all day today. It's funny how when you work in a hospital, you hear about patients...and hearing about what is going on with them physically, you can accurately say, "they are going to die" without missing a beat. It never occurs to anyone that a miracle may happen and the person just might pull through. On one side, the spiritual part, I know that miracles do happen. On the other, the more pragmatic, scientific part...I know that there is no hope for this child, and she will die.

It's hard for me to figure out which is stronger even though I know what the obvious answer should be.

Kid Rock = Sex Symbol?

It seems that you have truly not made it to the bigtime unless you have your own sex tape out. Paris Hilton, Pam and Tommy Lee, Pam and Brett, Colin Farrell, that fat guy from Motley Crue...

Now, the country will be treated to the sex tape of, gulp, Kid Rock and Scott Stapp. Not separate tapes...

Together...

With a tour bus full of groupies (whores).

Everyone together...1...2...3...BLLLLAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

Kid Rock is now in court fighting the release of this tape by some business that is in the business of selling illicit sex tapes. I secretly think he is making such a big deal because he has a small penis.

I ask you...why would you make such a tape if you have no intention of no one ever seeing it...because you know, those things will always get out. The numerous tapes preceding should stand as witness to that.

And who the hell was holding the camera?!?

I also ask you...why in the hell would anyone pay money to see Kid Rock naked??? Hell, I would send money just to make certain he keeps his clothes on...and never procreates.

As for Stapp...well, what can we say for a guy who rose to fame initially in a Christian rock band? The same guy who only recently was arrested just before his honeymoon because he was being a drunken asshole at the airport. Stapp isn't making a big stink about the tape. He could be proud of his mangina, or he is too stupid to know any better.

Considering he was on a bus with a bunch of ho's and a naked Kid Rock, I'm inclined to believe in the latter.

An Hour of My Life...Wasted

I subscribe to Netflix. I put Duece Bigalow 2 on my rental list because I thought the first one was funny, in a sort of corny toilet humor way.

The second one sucked. I couldn't even finish the movie, it was so bad.

Why didn't anyone warn me??

Nurse Follies: The Psych Patient

I don't care much for working Psych. In fact, it was the most loathed subject in nursing school. I remember breaking out in hives and having digestive problems for the entire semester I had to take it. After I took my psych final, I vowed to never work in that field ever.

Of course, that doesn't mean the psych floor can't come to you. The following story is such an instance.

I was a relatively new nurse at the time, fresh off orientation, and scared shitless.

I get report and the nurse tells me about the guy in room 27. He is a very tall, very large, manacing-looking black man. He has an extensive psych history, and that day, was having homicidal-suicidal ideation.

Excuse me? I ask the day nurse to clarify.

The patient, whom I will call Big Ed, was admitted for something that I don't even remember right now, but it was something that required cardiac monitoring...which brought him to my floor. That day, he had been saying he wanted to kill himself, and goes on to demonstrate his need by wrapping the phone cord around his neck and tries to strangle himself. He is given a sitter (someone who constantly sits in the room and monitors them for their safety). He then tells the sitter about his plan to attack a nurse in hopes the cops will shoot him.

Fantastic. Did I mention that I was a very new nurse??

So, my night begins. I assess my patients, saving Big Ed for last. He is pleasant enough. I ask him if he is still feeling like hurting himself. He says no, but he is hungry and can he have some toast? Sure! I get him some toast, thinking he is not going to be a bad patient at all. Heather is going to have a good night.

An hour later, the sitter sticks her head outside the patient's room and is frantic. Big Ed is trying to kill himself. I rush into the room and find Big Ed sitting in bed trying to cut his wrist with the plastic butter knife he got with his toast. I was annoyed that the sitter didn't take away his knife after she put the butter and jelly on his toast, but I reached over and plucked it out of his hand.

"Big Ed, these knives won't even cut through butter."

Not exactly therapeutic nursing communication, I know.

A frustrated Big Ed sulks while laying in bed. I deem the situation to be under control and then proceed to my evening med pass.

An hour later, I am approached by another aide who tells me that Big Ed is threatening to leave. I go to his room and find him fully dressed in overalls. We have a different sitter now, and she is doing a pretty good job of calming Big Ed down, but he is still saying he wants to hurt someone so the cops will shoot him. I call the psych doctor. She comes to the floor and looks at his chart.

Me: He is threatening to leave.
Doc: He can't leave. He's a danger to himself.
Me: I know that technically he can't leave, but if he makes a run for the door, no one is going to stop him.
Doc: Well, you can't let him leave.
Me: He's a very large, psychotic man. As far as I am concerned, he can go anywhere he likes.

The psych doctor is clearly not impressed with me, but I don't care. I value my life more than her opinion.

More commotion comes from room 27. I investigate and the patient is escalating. He is now telling us that he is definitely going to strangle a nurse so the cops will shoot him. The sitter is now standing in the doorway of the room, ready to bolt. I rush back to the psych doctor.

Me: He needs something to calm him down.
Doc: I'm not ordering anything because sometimes meds make it worse.
Me: Well, I'm also going to call the hospital police up here.
Doc: You can't call the police, it will only upset him further.

Right then, the charge nurse appears and announces that the police will be called because the patient is threating violence towards the staff. It would be in the doctor's best interest to go to the patient's room and try to talk him down. She grudgingly goes. We call the police.

Meanwhile, I follow the doc back to the patient room. He is very agitated. She starts talking him down, and it seems to be working until out of the clear blue, he has an outburst. He gets on his bed, on his knees, and points a large, beefy finger right at me.

"I"M GOING TO KILL A NURSE!!" he screams.

My sitter, let's out a terrified squeal and runs out of the room, leaving me and the doctor behind. The doctor is very calm and collected. She should be, she is a doctor and no one is threatening her life.

I, on the other hand, am about ready to soil myself.

The doctor takes leave of the room when it is apparent that this patient is now officially out of control. I'm not an idiot, I follow her out. Big Ed follows us out and starts pacing the halls like a raging bull. The other nurses begin rushing around and closing all of the other patient room doors. The psych doc, in all her infinite wisdom, decides that maybe the patient could use some medication, and please would I go get some?

This is a relief to me. Not only because Big Ed is going to get the meds he needs, but also because I now have a reason to lock myself in the med room.

The police show up. I hear the collective groan of the rest of the nurses on the unit because the two officers they sent were women. One officer, casually slips on a pair of gloves (in case she has to touch the patient...which is standard practice). She puts them on in such a manner, you would think she is preparing to pull a rabbit out of Big Ed's ass. Then, like one of those guys who direct airplanes at the airport, she directs Big Ed back to his room.

"Sir," she says firmly, "Go back to your room. It is the safest route."

For a moment, I thought he would go ballistic and she would have to use her taser (which is what the nurses were sort of hoping for)...but Big Ed finally goes back into his room where he escalates even further. He begins to get violent so the two police officers, the nursing supervisor, and the psych doctor proceed to hold him down in bed. Arms and legs flailing everywhere from all parties involved.

And here I come. I am holding a syringe with something that is going to make everything all better...I hope.

Unfortunately, the patient is covered with bodies, and moving...so I can't give the shot. The psych doctor wants me to just plow the needle into his thigh, through the denim. The nursing supervisor vetos this. More wrestling ensues until I spot a patch of flesh.

Apparently, the rest of the staff were watching this through the observation window. To this day, they tell me that I sort of dove in holding my syringe like Norman Bates.

After the injection, the patient subsequently calmed down. We demanded the medical doctor clear him to go to psych. He didn't want to at first, but he caved with six angry nurses glaring at him. It also helped that the nursing supervisor threatened to call the attending. Residents hate it when we do that.

From what I understand, the patient had another episode on the psych floor the following morning. From what I also understand, the Big Ed had been banned from returning to a few larger psych hospitals because he assaulted staff. This is information they don't tell you when the patient is admitted to your floor.

And so goes my first memorable experience as a new nurse. One of many notables which I may chronical later.

Where, oh where, have the smart people gone?

I don't consider myself a feminist, but sometimes I think there should be a new feminist movement. Not aimed at the idea that we can be just as good as men, but rather aimed at women who embarass everyone else without a Y chromosome.

I never considered myself a Pink fan either, but her newest song, "Stupid Girls" is quite catchy, and has a pretty good message. If you haven't heard it, or seen the video, I suggest you do just so you have an idea of what I am talking about. Stupid girls reign the media, and I see them by the truckload at the AMC. Fourteen year olds dressed like whores because that is cool and trendy. Those girls will grow up to appear in the latest Girls Gone Wild.

Usually I think the Stupid Girls are somewhat amusing...but even then it gets old after a while.

Which could explain why I don't watch a lot of television. Everytime I see an image of Paris Hilton or Jessica Simpson, I swear I lose 10 IQ points.

Nursing Station: The Showdown

I have the dubious misfortune of being the charge nurse tonight.

Even being the world's biggest asshole has not prevented us from being shafted in terms of staffing and admits. Nursing office complains that they have had three pages of call-ins for this weekend (some sort of flu), they have pulled one of my nurses to float to another floor, leaving us short. Plus, we have gotten more than the lion's share of admits for our floor...most of the bullshit admits that can go to other floors.

To make the whole charging experience even more rewarding, four people have called in for day shift.

I tell you, charging is simply not worth the extra $2 an hour.

An almost full floor with half isolation patients. Only 5 nurses on days to cover (they usually get 7), and no telemetry techs. Nursing supervisor tells me they have no nurses to float, so at 5am, I get to call everyone who is not scheduled and try to persuade them to come in on their day off and work.

From personal experience, I know how easy it is to say no at 5am. But I am used to being told no, so it really won't bother me any. Besides, it's not my shift. (See, I am an asshole!)

So, when the day crowd rolls in, and I get to tell them that they have to work short this morning because there is no one in the float pool, and none of their coworkers want to come in and help out, they will inevitably proceed to bite my head off because as the charge nurse, I am supposed to magically pull extra staffing out of my ass.

The only thing that makes this remotely rewarding is that I get to call the Bosshole and wake him up at 5am on a Saturday morning, and tell him that we need him to come in and work because we have no staff.

I don't even need the $2 more an hour to do that. That is something I would do for free.

I'm a bad person.

Is it wrong I still find great amusement in the fact that our VP shot a friend while hunting quail? With friends like that, who needs snipers?

We should send him to Iraq...

Today, the target, I mean, lawyer was released from the hospital looking like someone beat his face with bag of hot quarters. His comment to the press? To apologize to the Vice President.

Am I missing something here? Is he sorry he didn't die? Is he sorry he didn't contribute more to the Republican party?? Is he sorry he is a lawyer??

I remember my brother shooting me with a pellet gun (it hurt like hell), but I don't remember me apologizing to him for it.

Thursday Blather

My mother discovered the gym last month, and she has been gung ho ever since. She turned 51 in January, and claims she's "not going down without a fight"...which is a good attitude to have.

At any rate, she likes to go to the gym when she gets off work, and she likes to drag me with her.

There are two types of people in this world: those who love to work out, and those who despise it. I guess I would put myself in the latter category. Not because I'm a couch slug, but rather because getting dressed and going to a gym to sit on a bike doesn't really appeal to me. I'm more of a get-out-and-go-stuff person. Walking in the park, playing volleyball...I'm all for it.

Mom loves to go to the gym. She says it makes her feel energized after she spends an hour on the treadmill. She's one of those people.

So yesterday, and the day before, I went to the gym with Mom. She likes to spend the majority of her time on the treadmill. I start out on the bike, then do some weights, then finish off on the elliptical machine. I got a little overzealous with the weights, and now my arms are so sore, I can't hardly lift them over my head. I have a friend who has offered to give me a massage for my sore muscles, but whenever we make a plan, paying clients always come before freebies...so there is a downside to having a friend who his a massage therapist. I offered to pay, but he usually refuses.

Today, I am just blathering. It's wet and cold outside. I'm inside in my warm new pajamas that Kant's mom made while I was in Atlanta. Tonight, Mom and some of her coworkers are going to "Girls Night Out"...which roughly translates to Happy Hour somewhere. I have an open invite. Also, Paul was going to call to see if I was needed to go help paint a room. The plans for my Thursday night hinges on if he calls or not.

Paul is known to flake out on me, so it could be safely assumed that I will be serving as my mother's designated driver tonight.

Valentine Carnage!!

Mom and I went to Wally World after she got home from work. I typically try to avoid the Land of Sam during the peak hours of 4pm and 8pm for the sheer fact that everyone else goes there when they get off work. However, not everyone is fortunate to have my schedule, so I am forced to enter into mayhem because my mother works normal hours along with 75% of the Kansas City workforce.

We had to park in Kansas again then hike to the store. Inside, I think everyone who resides in the Northland could be found in the Valentine isles. Cards, chocolates, stuffed animals were flying off the shelves. Mom charged in like she her life depended on it. She had to buy stuff to hand out to some coworkers.

I could say that Valentine's Day sucks, but then I would sound bitter just because I am single and no one is going to lavish me with Russell Stover chocolates and some pink fuzzy gorilla on V-Day. I've never been a huge fan of V-Day, even when I was dating someone.

You should lavish your loved ones on more than just one day a year. My parents will give each other lovey-dovey cards just because. My stepdad has been known to stop his car on the side of the road to pick wildflowers just to take home to my mother. People shouldn't have to be reminded by Hallmark to tell people how much they love and appreciate them on one particular day. And the bastards at Hallmark shouldn't have the power to make anyone feel like a schmuck if they don't give their significant sweetie a card on February 14.

But I hope everyone has a Happy V-Day. I hope that single people don't feel inadequate, and that they don't need to be dating someone to feel validated. I hope everyone remembers to tell their loved ones "I love you" on February 15.

I hope they have the good chocolate marked down on Wednesday.

There's a punchline here somewhere...I just know it!

Dick Cheney goes hunting for birds.

Dick Cheney shoots his hunting partner instead.

His partner also happens to be a lawyer.

Noooooo!!!!!

In an effort to prove to the general masses that all nurses are consumed with their careers, my hospital has a committee for everything. The Uniform Committee, The Hospitality Committee, The Toilet Paper Committee. There is a committee to suit everyone's needs. We not only get the satisfaction of participating in decision making that affects our day-to-day employment, it also looks impressive on our job resumes.

I used to be on the Education Committee for my floor. Then, some crazy nurse took it over and became the Education Committee Gestapo. Collective interest in the education committee subsequently diminished to the point where the Nazi Nurse was running the entire show. She would come in early to offer an inservice on something she really didn't know a lot about, and we would devise ways of sneaking off the unit so she wouldn't catch us.

Another committe popped up, and for the longest time, no one really was interested in joining, myself included. I had a stroke of brilliance and emailed the bosshole...offering myself up for Committee B, if I could be released from the Education Committee. My request was granted, and I was given a new lease on life.

Until I found out that Nazi Nurse also recently signed up for the same committee as well. While my coworkers find great amusement in my misery, I am back to the drawing board, plotting a strategy that will enable me to have little contact with Nazi Nurse if all possible.

This isn't fair, and I feel this is a subtle war tactic from the bosshole. He is trying to show that he can be a bigger asshole than me. Of course, this is an impossible feat, to which all my coworkers will attest.

There can be only one...

Filed Under U for Utterly Stupid

A few snowflakes blew into Kansas City this morning, and rendered the entire city incapacitated. I got out of work this morning and began the slow crawl home.

Some retard, in a very vintage car, thought it would be a grand idea to go off-roading around the 39th street area. If he were to run into anything, his car would be a total loss because no parts in the world exist to repair the car. He was having a big time spinning his wheels and sliding all over the place in a car I am fairly certain I saw on a Waltons episode once. He almost ran into me twice. The second time, I gave him the finger...which was rather difficult considering I was wearing mittens at the time.

Home At Last

I got home Thursday afternoon after a long day of flying. Thursday morning, we got up at the butt-crack of dawn and went through the gauntlet of hell that is Atlanta morning traffic. Hugs and kisses later, I was deposited curbside at the Atlanta airport. I check in, I take the tram to my terminal, I stop by Starbucks for the biggest charged drink I can get my hands on. I got to my gate and settle in my seat when some unruly 3 year old saunters over and takes the straw out of my drink. Dad scoops up the little darling and takes him away...with my straw. I go back to Starbucks and get another straw.

As I am sitting there, I call Paul to make certain his ass is out of bed (because he told me to). He tells me about his uncle's funeral. I'm looking out the window watching all the planes come and go when my plane pulls up to the gate. I gasp. Paul asks me what is wrong and I tell him that I am flying out of Atlanta on a John Denver Airplane. We're talking the smallest commercial plane ever. Paul assures me that I will be fine, but does mention he will pray for my safety.

I board the bus with wings, and my seat is in the very back of the airplane. I lean over and look down the isle, and I can see buttons in the cockpit. The plane is that small.

The lady seated next to me is a Hurricane Katrina Refugee. She tells me about her experience in New Orleans, I understand half of it due to her thick accent. She was on her way to Houston to see the rest of her family who was taken there. She laments that she is now having to start over and get a job. Hurricane Katrina happened 6 months ago, and she is only now starting to seek gainful employment.

We arrive in Houston without incident. I go to the gate my ticket tells me to go to for my connecting flight, but the info on the board reflects another plane. I do a little searching and find the right gate. Much to my dismay, my next flight is on another little aircraft powered by hamsters. I call Paul to make certain his ass is out of bed (it wasn't) and I complain more about flying on the Little Plane That Could.

The flight from Houston to Kansas City passes with little fanfare. I collect my luggage, and no Paul. Ever after two phone calls, he is still late. He calls my cell phone to tell me this, so I wait for him.

After he picks me up, we decide to get something for dinner. Dinner was good. As I am looking through my purse for some chapstick, I come to the horrible realization that I don't have my keys. I pale. Paul asks me what is wrong and I tell him that I think I have left my keys in Georgia. A couple calls to Atlanta confirm this. Fortunately, I have another set at home. Unfortunately, I can't get into the house to get them. I call my mother who comes home an hour later and lets me into the apartment. Kathryn tells me that she will drop my keys in the mail. Paul goes home with a new pair of pajama pants.

So ends my harrowing trip home. Not very exciting, I know. I will probably not fly Continental again, even though they offer better onflight snacks than American.

Coretta Day

Today was Coretta Scott King's funeral and the city of Atlanta came to a standstill right around lunctime.

Thousands attended. It took 4-5 hours for the people to actually make it into the church where the funeral was being held. The funeral itself was almost 6 hours long. Five of those hours it took to get to the eulogy.

The Longest. Funeral. Ever.

I hope they remembered to pack a lunch.

Right about now, the funeral procession is tying up rush hour traffic. Those who had the misfortune of missing the funeral and made the commute to work, should be getting home right around midnight.

I hope they remembered to pack a dinner.

The funeral program was 28 pages long. I know small town phone books that have less pages.

It was broadcasted on television and radio. Now, the news is rehashing the event...so in case you missed it during the day, you can catch up on it at night. For those who missed General Hospital, you will have to wait until 1am to find out what happened with the virus-plague that is terrorizing Port Charles.

Stevie Wonder sang. Ordinarily, I like Stevie Wonder...but he sounded like he was constipated. Poor Stevie Wonder. Did you know that prolonged periods of immobility will cause constipation? If I had to sit through a 6 hour funeral, I probably would be constipated as well.

And what funeral would be complete without Old Fred and his gang showing up to protest. What they were protesting at Coretta's funeral, I don't know. Probably the usual...God Hates Fags, God Hates America, blah, blah, blah.

God Hates Fred.

Someone needs to round up the entire clan beat their collective ass.

So ends Coretta Day.

Heather Goes Deep South

So much for a blogging vacation.

I thought I would be able to get out of blogging while I was here in Hotlanta. As it turns out, Kant's family have a computer, so I thought I would just drop an update on my week for those who care to read it. If you don't care to read it, just click on that "next blog" icon somewhere on this screen.

We made it here to Georgia with little fanfare, unless you count Kant's mom jumping up and down in the driveway when we pulled in. We left before the buttcrack of dawn on Friday. I usually try not to get up before 10am, 9am if I can possibly help it. So, imagine my excitement when I found out I had to be ready to go by 6:30am.

We drove through Missouri to St. Louis. Then, down through Illinois to Kentucky, where we stopped in some little podunk town called Kattawa. While we were there, we went to this restaurant called Patti's, home of the ginormous porkchop. All the workers were wearing pioneer type garb, and everyone had an accent. Our waiter was rather cute, very soft spoken, and an accent that reminded me of another southern boy who tends to tickle my fancy from time to time. Kant and I were trying to figure out a way for him to sit down and read us the menu with his cute little southern accent.

The next day, we drove through Nashville. Yee-haw. We drove throught the moutains of Tennessee, where a semi damn near ran us off the road. Bastard. We drove through northern Georgia, then ended up in Sugar Hill, Georgia. Home of more subdivisions than you can shake a stick at. Kant and I pondered for a moment the fact that we were now in a Confederate State. Did that mean she was a Yankee transplant? I didn't think so...Missouri was a buffer state, and could therefore go either way.

Since being here, I have been to church with Kant's family, which was a nice experience for Southern hospitality is no myth. I went to the Outlet mall with Kant. We went to this totally awesome store called Ikea. Really cheap home furnishings. However, the store is set up in such a manner that you can't find anything. I think I will just buy online from them from now on. If I do manage to go to another store in my lifetime, remind me to wear more comfortable shoes.

Everything you have ever heard about the traffic in Atlanta is true. All traffic, all the time. Yesterday, it snowed (so apparently I didn't escape crappy weather). It only snowed in the morning, huge flakes the size of golf balls. It snowed for about a minute, then it just rained for the rest of the day. Georgians drive crazy, even in the rain.

Did I mention I'm terrified of being in a car in the rain, particularly the passenger? Anyway, we had to go through downtown Atlanta to go to the Ikea store, and I was in the backseat...curled up into the fetal position and sucking my thumb. That has no reflection on the driver...I'm just that scared of riding in the rain.

So, I have been spending money here and there. I've been trying to buy mostly stuff I won't find in KC. Because I have seemingly bought too much stuff already, I am going to ship it home via UPS. I'll get my box, and it will be like Christmas all over again.

This is my Georgia adventure thus far. Today, we are going to some touristy place. I'm hoping to find boiled peanuts there. Schools are letting out early for Coretta Scott King's funeral...but somehow I don't think most of the students will be attending. King's passing and subsequent passing-activities are a really big thing down here right now because all these famous people and politicians are in town. I think everyone is all in a lather because Oprah is here.

So now I go and do other stuff. I hope everyone is having a great week.

A Weeklong Hiatus

I won't be blogging for the next week as I am going with Kant as she makes her big move to Hotlanta, I mean, Atlanta. I come home in a week, and hopefully, the cold weather that the gay weatherman keeps telling us about will have passed.

I might actually even score some boiled peanuts while I am there...

If it looks, smells, and acts like a date...it was one.

The Kansas City Star ran a long series on being single in Kansas City. It pointed out what all singles in Kansas City have known all along...

Being single in Kansas City sucks ass.

Thank you, Captain of the Obvious!

I'm peaking over into the land of 31, and most of my peers are either: married, been married, or are getting married. On my floor, most of the nurses are now getting engaged...not to mention they are at least 5 years younger than me. I used to have this mental countdown: married by 27, kids by 30. Right at the time I graduated from nursing school, I pretty much said "screw it" to the pressure of getting married. I now had a solid job, with a good income, and I really only needed a man around the house to mow the lawn and take out the trash.

Being LDS, I know more than my share of women who were chomping at the bit to get married. It's the Mormon way! I remember one girl commenting that she would rather be dead than 35 and not married. I remember that many a young girl held the following sentiments:

"Why should I go to school and get an education when I am just going to stay home and raise kids?"

"Why should I buy a house when my husband will do that?"

"I'm not going to do any travelling because that is something I will do when I get married."

It pretty much boiled down to this: they refused to get out and live life until that gold band was on their finger. Now, I'm not a feminist by any means, but even that is enough to make me want to go burn my bra (and given my proportions, I would be fined for having a bonfire within city limits).

But I digress...

Any single person with a brain will tell you that the dating scene in KC is rough...unless you want to drop your standards and settle for a high school dropout who is missing half his teeth, has poor hygiene, wears a mullet, and has a Dale Earnhardt shrine.

After quite a few bad experiences with dating, it is safe to say I have become quite selective. So, when I do go out on a date, rest assured that the guy I am with is of somewhat exceptional nature, in my opinion.

Take Tuesday for example.

I went out with this guy I've had a slight crush on for a while. The day was a raincheck for him flaking out on my last week due to some gastric ailment that was making it's rounds. At any rate, we've been talking on the on the phone on a pretty regular basis, almost daily. We've gone out together for different events and whatnot. Nothing physical has happened, and no DTR (define the relationship).

So, he comes to my house. He has no idea how to get anywhere north of the river, so I drive. We go to this place, we go to dinner (he pays), then we go here for some fun and games (he pays). We go back to my house where I get a hug and he goes home...it's now 6pm. The evening started more around 1pm....which could quite possibly be the earliest date I have on record.

After giving it a lot of thought, I ask him the next day what to call our adventure...

Me: Was it a date?
Him: ...Not sure...what do you think?
Me: (totally chickening out)...I dunno...
Him: How about an outing?
Me: An outing?
Him: Yes, I'm still trying to get over the whole "not dating from work thing" (yes, we work together. It's a big hospital...so shut it)
Me: ...an outing...
Him: Some habits die hard...
Me: (thinking) What in the hell does that mean?

(If there is a guy out there who can translate this conversation for me, I'm all ears...)

I discussed this with Kant further and she thought the outing explanation was bunk. "Sounds like a date to me." I agreed. So, when I talk to him next, I'm going to tell him that we went on a date...and he can take that, put it in his pipe, and smoke it. If he concedes it was a date, then he will have gotten past his "dating from work" issues. See how easy that was! Quick, painless, and no blood was shed.

I've liked guys in the past who have given me the blowoff with such self esteem boosters like: "I thought you liked me, but then I thought you got better" and "I'm looking for the full meal deal, not just the chicken nuggets" and "I think of you more as my little buddy".

Funny how the same guys who told me this years ago, are now knocking at my door wanting a second chance, inviting me to go to swingers clubs and stuff.

So, it is safe to say that I am a bit gun-shy when it comes to dating and the opposite sex. Not to mention the cards are stacked against me because I am:
a) single
b) over 30
c) Mormon.

In conclusion, dating sucks in Kansas City. You married people just don't know how easy you have it. You think we get to have all the fun...but we still have to take out our own garbage.

Tis the Season of the WWE

It's that time of year again, for the Well Woman Exam. It sounds nice and aesthetically pleasing, doesn't it? The Well Woman Exam? It conjures up images of flowers and ads for feminine hygiene products.

It's probably called that because "We're Going to Split You in Half and Make You Beg for a Sex Change" is somewhat of a frightening name and might discourage countless women from going to see the doctor. Not to mention, I'm sure the folks in medical billing would have a problem trying to code it.

Today was my lucky day. I loathe this day...but not as much as I loathe going to see the eye doctor. But the hate is still there nonetheless.

I got to the office, and wait in the waiting room, which is decorated with a bunch of multicolored leaves. I am finally called back to the exam room where they weigh me (lost 7 lbs...yay!), tell me to strip down in my birthday suit...but I can keep my socks on. Oh, thank goodness for socks!! As if wearing my socks will make me forget that everything else is exposed to Mother Earth.

The nurse practitioner comes in and we blather about this and that...anything I can think of to put off the inevitable. Finally, she is wise to my antics and orders me onto the table. I get the obligatory breast exam.

Yup, they are still there.

She then pulls out the stirrups and her little nurse helper comes in. I slide down the table and place my sock-clad feet into the stirrups, rendering myself in a very vulnerable position. I suddenly wish there was something on the ceiling I could look at, besides little dots.

Then, the NP pulls out the speculum. My blood runs cold and my thighs clamp shut with the force of an F5 tornado.

For those of you who have not had the good fortune of meeting a speculum, it's sort of like the Jaws of Life...for your vagina. My doc used to carry the metal ones. Now they just have the plastic. Why is this important? Well, remember back in the day of junior high science class?? Remember how metal conducts heat?? Plastic...not so much. Even though they keep these small torture devices in a warming drawer, they chill within seconds of pulling them out of the warming drawer. With this cold object, the NP puts it where cold objects are not meant to go...

A few minutes after peeling me off the ceiling, they are able to continue the exam.

The NP then turns the knob that causes it to spread. Three clicks and I'm fairly certain I've been spread wide enough to park a Pinto. Then, then NP takes this wooden stick (which looks like a boat oar from where I'm sitting) and scrapes. She warns me, "You might feel a cramp..."

After peeling me off the ceiling for a second time, they are able to continue.

The speculum comes out with little fanfare, then the NP announces that she is going to check my ovaries. Now, there is really only one way to get to the ovaries without making an incision into my pelvis.

And that is all I am going to say about that...

After everything is said and done...my eyes become uncrossed and my blood pressure goes back down, the NP tells me to have a nice day. I don't see how my day could get much worse.

Men are so lucky. They don't have to go through anything like this. They don't have to have mamograms, they don't have to do Well Man Exams. If they had to go through what we go through, rest assured that they would come up with a wand or something the could just wave over your pelvic region. Bleep...normal. Bleep...you have genital warts. Bleep...you have chlamydia. There would be no need for the speculum.

And men wonder why women are so bitchy all the time.