Nurse Follies: Merry Kissmyass!

Usually, hospitals are quiet on the holidays. Most folks have the good sense to stay away from the hospital for Christmas, and put off going to the doctor until after the holiday. It seems that only the truly sick and twisted remain on the reservation. That includes the staff.

Not so much this year.

So far, my holiday shifts have sucked and they have sucked hard. The diagnosis du jour is detox off of whatever the patient happens to consume the most of. Often leaving them deranged, psychotic assholes. One even attempted to strangle a staff member. So, we tied their ass down. Docs were not overly concerned. Why should they be?? It wasn't their air supply that was threatened. I called to complain to the Bosshole about the impropriety of it all. He told me to just keep him posted.

And speaking of residents...do the higher-ups select the dumbest fucking residents on the planet to fill in for the holidays leaving the smart ones to stay at home and enjoy a day off with their families?? I can't count how many times I've made the incredulous "You can't be serious" face.

And the unit smells like someone lit a campfire somewhere. It's not smokey, just smelly. A drug-seeking patient complained that the smell was causing them pain and could they have some more narcotics?? Nice try, Toots. Denied!

This hasn't been a good night. I'm submitting a list for Santa to add to his naughty list.

1. Drug-seekers
2. Alcoholics
3. Stupid residents
4. Crackwhores
5. Bosshole
6. That twit down in Admitting

The only thing that made me laugh was seeing Indy run around dressed like one of the Keebler elves. So much red and green on one person should be outlawed.

I have hope that Christmas night will be better, but I'm not going to hold my breath. Maybe I should, then I could pass out and have a legitimate reason for calling in.

Bad Wheel

Gorgeous, isn't it? Just so you know, I don't normally have cankles. That's how swollen this puppy is. My toes look like those little sausages you get in a can, that aren't really sausages, and you only eat when you have a nostalgic moment. Or at least that's when I eat them. Just don't read the ingredients. Lips and assholes...

Anyway...

I went in for my follow-up appointment, for my ankle, which is roughly the size and shape of a zeppelin. I had to wait over an hour before anyone saw me. Assholes.

The doctor rolls in, examines my foot, does a couple hmphs, and gives his ruling. Because he's a workman's comp doctor, you don't get opinions and suggestions, you get rulings that's based on how fast they can get you back to work. There are some people in the world that make a living off of getting injured on the job. They must be masochists or something. I think the best reason to avoid getting hurt on the job would be to avoid the Occupational Health office.

Anyway, no pushing or pulling or patient transfers, or anything involving an object more than 15lbs. I work on a floor where having a patient that tips the scales at 500lbs is old hat. There isn't too much on my floor that weighs less than 15lbs, and that's including the bullshit that Bosshole spreads around on occasion.

The doctor said I could return to work with these restrictions. I called Bosshole to let him know of the latest and greatest, and he had no idea I was even injured in the first place.

You know, someday, my eyes are going to stick to the back of my head because of all the eye rolling I do.

Anyway, after relaying the restrictions, he couldn't understand what the big deal was and why I needed such stringent restrictions. I mean, I still had one good foot to work on, right?? Right!?!?!

This should end well.

Super Klutz, RN

So, I was at work last night. It was going to be a decent night...my third, I had the same patients I had all weekend. I was planning on a nice, quiet evening.

Well, we know what happens when you make other plans, now, don't we???

I was walking down the hall to get report from the day nurse when she mentioned something to me. I did a little jig to express my pleasure, felt my ankle roll, and I toppled over. On my ass.

My ankle felt a little sore, but I was more embarrassed than anything. A couple of nurses appeared, we laughed it off, I got up, put my shoe back on, and limped to the back desk. When I sat down, my ankle began screaming. I just shrugged it off. I roll my ankle often because I lack the coordination to walk and breath air at the same time. I'd just walk it off, take some Tylenol, and I would be fine.

I finished getting report, happened to look down at my throbbing foot, and almost fell out of my chair. It looked like someone stuffed a baseball in my sock.

Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck!!!

So, I called Smo (who was charging), she looked at my foot, and it was decided that I probably should go see the friendly folk in the ER.

NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

A replacement nurse comes, and I gimp down to the ER. Go through the whole triage thing, taken back to a room, and seen by a nurse, a doctor, some dude with a computer, a radiology tech and her portable x-ray machine. They determine that my ankle is not broken, just badly sprained. I get a splint, a prescription, a note, and told to go home.

This morning, the swelling has gone down, but my ankle is still fairly tender. I finally get to use those crutches I bought my my surgery and didn't need. At some point, I have to go back to the hospital to be seen by the friendly folks in Occupational Health.

What do we learn from this, kids? That I should never make any effort to spontaneously dance ever again. It's hard to believe I did the drill team thing my senior year in high school and not manage to break my neck. I did, however, look cute in the short skirt.

Pondering...

I have DSL through AT&T. With that, comes all the perks of having a supercharged Yahoo account, which includes Flickr.

At least until January.

I got the dreaded email so many other AT&T users got...the salad eating days of the Flickr account users will be coming to an end, and we will all be demoted back to the crappy standard free service, unless of course, we want to pay a yearly subscription fee to maintain what we have enjoyed up until now.

I'm conflicted.

I like Flickr. I have a lot of pictures on Flickr. My files are rather large, so Flickr takes every last bit of my large files, likes it, and doesn't utter one complaint. Because if it did, there would be hell to pay.

I'm talking about picture hosting. Focus, people!

Anyway, I think I may want to pay for the "upgrade", but on sheer principle, the asshole in me wants to give them the universal one-fingered-salute and tell them to take their service and put it where the sun doesn't shine.

In the end, I will probably end up paying for an account. Unless someone can direct me to free hosting that is equally awesome as Flickr Pro.

Things That Make My Blood Run Cold

A text from Redneck Brother, inviting me to his house in St. Joe, for New Years Eve.

"Come for beer, food, pool, karaoke and more"

If he'd quit putting "karaoke" in his invites, more people might actually be inclined to attend.

Meanwhile, I need to find something to do for NYE so I have a legitimate excuse to decline.

Any suggestions???

*#%$!!!

As I was getting ready for work, some little nagging voice in my head told me to check the car. It's not that I constantly have voices in my head, and if I did, I don't always listen to them. But this was the voice of intuition, telling me that because I haven't driven my car all week, and it has just sat in the garage, perhaps I should check to make sure that it was good to go for the commute.

With 30 minutes until I usually leave for work, I went out the garage and inspected the car. Sure enough, I had a flat tire.

Intuition is a pretty good thing.

I called Mom and asked if Mr. Recommendation could bring his air tank over when he got home so I could air up the tire. Shortly after 6pm, Mom called to propose I just take her car to work. She hasn't been released by her doctor to drive, and I have been shuttling her around in Lil Red (her Jeep) all week (hence the no-driving of the PT).

So, I brought Lil Red to work. Truth be told, I've grown quite spoiled driving Lil Red. Automatic starter, four-wheel drive in the snow, sitting high enough to see all that lay before me on the road. And, it's red. Bright red.

I've been wanting a new car, and leaning towards something with four-wheel drive, but I won't make a move towards acquiring said new car until later next year. There's some bills I'd like to pay off first. Namely, the high credit card bill I racked up on vacation.

I'm still not feeling the Christmas mood, even after shopping all week with Mom. I'm having a family dinner the weekend after Christmas (due to working the entire holiday), and I wonder if the visiting children will be confused because there is no evidence of Christmas in my house. I've heard it muttered that Christmas is for kids, and so I wonder if that really is true. I miss that feeling that there was some sort of magic in the air of December.

On a much happier note, I brought some of my island coffee to work. Tonight's round of the fragrant brew comes to us from the Cayman islands. Smells like Kona, but it's not. The bag says it's rum-flavored, but it doesn't taste rummy either. It's just tasty. I'm also eager to sample the coffee I brought back from Jamaica, and maybe that coffee I may or may not have smuggled back with me that may or may not have come from Cuba.

I love coffee. I hate the embargo.

Hump Day Blather

I took Mom in for her follow-up appointment. As nice as the docs are, I still find it frustrating that you have a total wait time of almost 2 hours, only for your actual face-to-face doctor time not to exceed 10 minutes. Gah!

So, we sat in a dark, little waiting room. (It's kept dark for the patients who have had their eyes dilated.) There are a couple televisions, but all they play is education materials that pertain to the eyeball. Mom and I are the youngest people in the waiting room.

I run hot and cold with the senior crowd. In a professional setting, they are sometimes difficult. Personally, I love them. I like talking to them, listening to them reminisce about stuff. What I find really charming is watching the old, married couples. You can always tell the ones who have married forever. Not only do they look a like, but it's almost like watching two halves of one whole. A planet and it's orbiting moon. A right hand and a left hand. With the concept of "starter marriages", quickie divorces, and people who just don't want to work at relationships, old marrieds are a dying breed. Literally and figuratively.

I only want to be married if I can join that elite group.

Anyway...

As we were sitting in the waiting room, the Eyeball Channel features mom's doctor, who is relatively young, Latino, and ridiculously hot. Dr. Ridiculously Hot Latin Man is blathering about something to do with eyeballs.

An old woman sitting next to us mutters under her breath, "He's a handsome little devil..."

Five other women (including my mother) agree a little too enthusiastically. The husband of one offers, "He's a nice guy." I smirk to myself because I'm fairly confident that none of the women in that waiting room, aged 33 to 100 did not have his niceness on their minds.

It was that cute, little, Latin ass. Grrrr.

Old doesn't always mean dead, people.

After our ten minute visit with Dr. RHLM, we go to lunch to the newly opened Corner Cafe in Independence. It was their very first day of business, and half of Jackson county showed up for lunch. It was fabulous lunch, and I recommend it to everyone. After that, we do some light shopping and then go home. Exhausted.

I've only started my Christmas shopping. I had Mom's gift all planned out until Mr. Recommendation told me he bought her the same damn thing. Thankfully, I had an epiphany and thought of the next best gift. Evar!

So, tomorrow, we shall resume the shopping and hopefully I won't hate humanity by the end of the day.

Update

Mom had her eye surgery today. It went better than we expected.

Thanks, all, for your well-wishes and good thoughts.

Quirky Me

Candice tagged me for this meme listing 6 quirky things about themselves. Incidentally, if you haven't read Candice's blog, hop to it. Insanely hysterical. Nurses are pretty funny.

I'm not really quirky. In fact, me and quirky are not two words that usually go in the same sentence...unless the words "is not" is sandwiched between them. Quirky is used for perky people. Me...I'm just an odd duck.

But, I guess I do have some strange idiosyncrasies that most people would call quirky if I was Meg Ryan or Hannah Montana.

1. I have a strange texture-hate-thing with onions. I can tolerate them if they are fried to beyond a crisp. However, onions love to be crunchy and slimy at the same time. When I bite down on an onion in it's preferred state, I somehow get the feeling that I'm eating bugs (namely roaches), and I start to gag. It's easier to just say I hate onions than have to explain the texture thing.

2. My personal report sheet at work has to be immaculate. I have to write things down in a certain order, in neat handwriting. If there are a lot of things scratched out, or just garbage all over the page, my night is completely shot. My coworkers think I'm neurotic about it. I am.

3. I'm a watch whore. In this day and age that less people wear watches (thanks to cell phones), I apparently try to single-handedly keep watchmakers afloat. I don't know exactly how many watches I own, but it's a pretty good-sized number. Most of my watches are Fossil, but I did splurge on myself this vacation and buy a Citizen Eco-Drive watch. I'm slowly working my way up to a Rolex, WHICH I will own before I die.

4. I'm strange when it comes to my neck. It's a fairly sensitive place, and for that reason, I can't stand to wear turtle neck shirts, any type of jewelry that is tight on my neck (like chokers and short necklaces). However, it is my most favorite place to be kissed.

5. The month of December is my least-favorite month.

6. I'm obsessed with trailer park life. If I drive by one, I crane my neck to see if I can spot anything interesting. It's like watching an ant farm for the NASCAR crowd.

7. Some classical music makes me cry...so I try to listen to it when no one else is watching.

So, I just tag whoever wants to do this. You know who you are!

Fah-rah-rah-rah-rah, A Christmas Meme

In the nature of the giving/receiving season, I thought I would try to get out of Grinch Mode and do this meme.

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags?
If I have the time, I will wrap. I'm pretty handy at wrapping, unless the gift is odd-shaped. If I'm in a hurry, or the gift is odd-shaped, into the bag it goes.

2. Real tree or Artificial?
I like both. I'd prefer to have a real tree each year, but it always ends up dying before Christmas in spite of my almost heroic efforts to keep it alive. I like the smell of a real tree, but hate the needles. Artificial only if it is pre-lit.

3. When do you put up the tree?
When I'm in the mood, but not usually before Thanksgiving. Usually, I'm not in the mood, and I don't put up a Christmas tree.

4. When do you take the tree down?
When I get around to it or it becomes a fire hazard. Or sometime in March. Another good reason to not put up a tree in the first place.

5. Do you like eggnog?
Yes, but only in small amounts, just plain without any adult additives.

6. Favorite gift received as a child?
A red bike so I could ride to school instead of walk.

7. Hardest person to buy for?
My mother. She always says "nothing" when we ask, leaving us to try to figure out what to give her.

8. Easiest person to buy for?
Me. When I want something, I buy it. In terms of others, buying gifts for Toys 4 Tots is pretty easy.

9. Do you have a nativity scene?
No, unless I make one out of the numerous snowman figures I have packed away somewhere.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards?
Neither. I always say I'm going to mail out Christmas cards, but I never do.

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received?
Something given to me by an aunt on my dad's side of the family. I don't remember what it was, but I remember that I didn't like it.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie?
A Christmas Story. My life's dream is own a leg lamp.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas?
Christmas Eve

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present?
I plead the 5th.

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?
Honeybaked Ham

16. Lights on the tree?
Sure...

17. Favorite Christmas song?

O Come Emmanuel...and only if sung by men's choir.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home?

If I'm not working, usually stay home. If I have to travel, it's usually no more than 50 miles away.

19. Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer?

Dasher, Pole Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Dumbass, Blitzed and Clyde

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning?

My family's old tradition was one gift Christmas Eve (and it was usually new pajamas), the rest on Christmas morning. If I have kids and stuff, I'll resurrect that tradition.

22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year?

How retailers cram it down our throats in September.

23. Favorite ornament theme or color?

I like my Hallmark ornaments, but Christmas lights are my most absolute favorite.

24. Favorite food for Christmas dinner?

See question 15

25. What do you want for Christmas this year?

A leg lamp and a festivus pole.

A Letter to KC Meteorologists

Dear Weather People of Kansas City,

You guys suck.

You went on about KC getting one inch of snow, but now, we are told that at least 3 inches fell in Kansas City.

Most women (and some men) will tell that there is a big difference between 1 inch and 3 inches.

Sometimes, I think you use the Redneck Weather Forecast Module to get your weather information. You know the kind...you hang it outside. If it's wet, it's raining. If it's covered in cold, white stuff, it's snowing. If it's gone, someone stole it and you need to get another one.

Go back to school so you can get it right, assholes.

Sincerely,
Those Required to Drive in This Crap

Ship Happens: Irie, Mon!!

For our last port of call, we went to Jamaica. I've never been to Jamaica before, so I didn't know what to expect.

I'm kind of weird when it comes to islands. I prefer the poorer, more under-developed islands, like Roatan as opposed to the developed, bursting with money islands like Cayman. I find the main difference is in attitude. It just seems that the people who inhabit more financially strapped places are more gracious. Their friendly demeanor more genuine, instead of Cayman where it seems they are nice to you if you buy something, and maybe just cordial when you decide not to. If you can see through the poverty, you can see the pride of life these people have.

Having said that, I fell in love with Jamaica in less than a day.

At any rate, we booked an excursion that would have us being driven to a remote village, a drop-off point by a river, where we were given personal tubes to float down the river on. Our group had about twenty or so for this river tubing tour. It was a short tour, to last only 1.5 hours, allowing for everyone to return to the ship to do with what they pleased. This is important to remember.

So, our group takes a little trip through the island, our tour guide giving us some interesting factoids about the island along the way. We arrive at our starting point, given our tubes, plopped into the river by the guys who ran the tour, and then everyone began their float all at once so we stayed in a group. We encountered some rapids, which were just scary enough to be fun. At one point, I ended up perched on a rock while the rest of my group passed by. One of the tour operators had to help extract me from the rock because it's almost impossible to do when you are sitting in a big inner tube (they had flat bottoms made of fiberglass so no one got ripped a new one).

One lady overturned and had to be assisted back into her tube, which consisted of the tour guide hoisting her up in a bear hug. It looked all kinds of wrong, and I'm sad I didn't get a picture.

At the halfway point, we stop and there is a plank you can jump off into deep water. I was standing around with everyone when I see Mom dart up the stairs to the plank, and leap off into the water. I sigh, take off my hat and sunglasses and walk up the plank. I can't be shown-up by my own mother. So, I jumped off the plank, screaming as I did so. Thankfully, I didn't lose my bathing suit.

After a brief rest, we plop back into our tubes. The tubes we assigned as such: small boobs=small tubes, big boobs=big tubes. Indy told the tour guide that I would probably need two tubes. Ass.

We float down river the rest of the way and board our buses. We're looking forward to going back to the ship to change into dry clothes, and venturing out on our own.

Remember that 1.5 hour timetable???

Well, apparently someone decided that immediate shopping was in order. Instead of returning those who wanted back to the ship, the bus takes us to a shopping plaza where half the van is puzzled and wondering what the hell is going on. The other half, belonging to some halfwit that grandly proclaimed herself to be El Presidente, happily charge off the van and scatter like roaches. Tour guide tells us that the bus will leave in forty minutes.

I don't know what El Presidente was president off. I decided it must be the Village Idiots. She was one of those John Public Vacation Assholes because she loudly announced that "no one tells El Presidente what to do". Apparently, this was in reference to the forty minute shopping window that she personally deemed insufficient.

An hour later, the unhappy people (including myself), are waiting in the van while El Presidente are her cabinet are meandering around the plaza, buying cheap souvenirs and t-shirts that shrink ten sizes after the first wash. Had our tour made mention of a shopping excursion, we would have come better prepared. As it stood, we hadn't known, and we each came with no more than $20 each, which in Jamaica, will buy you a bottle of water and a post card.

Mutiny afoot on the bus as we wait, and wait, and wait. We attract the attention of the bus driver and tour guide and tell them that if they don't take us back to the ship, we are going to hijack the bus and drive ourselves. They immediately went to find El Presidente.

From my experiences, when faced with an unhappy situation, most people will quietly grumble to themselves and then to each other, instead of a direct confrontation with the offending party.

None of those people were on my bus that day.

When El Presidente and Cabinet boarded the bus, they were met with loud hisses, boos, some profane name calling (from my mother), and general insults about ignorance, inconsideration, and overall retardedness.

El Presidente tells us that it's our fault for not shopping. From there, a bad situation get worse. One passenger announces that she's a psych patient and pissing her off is not a good idea. I think this could have been a precursor to an insanity defense. It was certainly heading in a direction where one would be needed.

So, El Presidente and her gang has officially pissed everyone off because BY GOD they are on vacation and BY GOD they are going to get their shopping done at the expense of everyone else who had made other plans!!!

Meanwhile, the tour guide is pondering how to make the Jamaican "No problems, Mon!" philosophy diffuse the situation. The only thing that would have helped would have been a big ganja doobie. Sadly, none were available on our bus.

After much yelling and name calling, the bus finally arrives back to the ship. A couple more insults cast. El Presidente makes a scathing remark about one passenger's size, which is completely irrelevant to the day's events and totally uncalled for. So, I tell her to go fuck herself as I get off the bus. I don't know if she heard me, but it certainly felt good to say. Up until that point, I hadn't said anything because I was too engaged in observation...

And planning an escape route.

Valuable time wasted, we haul as back to the ship long enough to grab dry clothes and money, and haul ass off the ship so we can get crappy souvenirs, too. We would have liked to have spent some time in Margaritaville, but El Presidente saw to that. Incidentally, we saw El Presidente there, and we had very colorful ideas that involved her ass and a parrot.

On a happy note, I got some Jamaican rum. My Rums of the Caribbean collection is looking rather healthy. Indy did not buy any rum, but he was offered some weed, which he declined. I spoke with a guy in my cruise group, and he mentioned that he spent the day sitting on the beach getting baked...in every sense of the word.

I'm fairly confident that his excursion (mental and physical) was a lot more relaxing than mine.

That night, because Mom and Co. were too tired from the days events to go to the group 70's party, I went by myself. I met up with some folks who read this blog, and after a couple glasses of Grey Goose and cranberry, I dubbed them my Blog Bitches. The one guy who kept my glass full of GG and cranberry, hadn't read my blog, but promised to become one of my bitches when he got back home.

Sadly, the rest of the night comes to me in fuzzy bits and pieces. At one point, I made the announcement to everyone in the martini bar that I sold sex toys.

Also sadly, I paid dearly the next morning. I'm very glad the cabin steward kept our toilet meticulously clean, and considering my cabin mate, that was no small feat.

Despite the bad things that happened, I still love Jamaica. I do plan on going back to stay for a week-long vacation. Maybe then I spend a couple days getting baked on the beach.

By the sun, of course.

Ship Happens: Monkey Overboard!!

Instead of me blogging about the events of the ship in chronological order, I'll just blog about the events that still stand out to me and then cap it off with a big, steaming pile of a cruise review for those who actually read those sort of things. Besides, I mentioned on my Carnival comment card that I would be posting a review on my blog, in the event they actually check it, I don't want to come off a liar.

So anyway...now I shall speak of the Monkey Incident.

We had spent the day in Grand Cayman. This was my third trip to Grand Cayman, and unless you are dive certified, your options are limited.

1. You can go out to Stingray City and swim with the stingrays without the risk of ending up like Steve Irwin.

2. Or, you can take the "island tour" which has you going to Hell...which is a town the size of a postage stamp. This is ironic because the only thing in Hell is a post office that you can mail crap from so you can mail postcards from Hell to all your friends, which arrive weeks after you get home from vacation. This island tour also takes you to the Tortuga rum factory, which really isn't interesting because you don't get to see how they make the rum, it's basically just a big souvenir shop with a shitload of rum products. The next stop on the island tour is a walk across the street from the "rum factory" to the "turtle farm" and you can see sea turtles in various stages of growth. The final stop is to be dumped off shopping district of the island, where you can shop, shop, shop along with thousands of other tourists because five ships are in port that day.

The rest of the excursions are just variations of what I have listed above, or you can just go to the beach and vegetate on a towel for a couple of hours.

At any rate, we had booked the Stingray tour because Mom and Co. and never done it. However, the weather made the seas rough, so all water tours were cancelled. We opted to just go shop, then go back to the ship.

It was there that I bought rum. More rum. Some expensive perfume. And some rum cake.

We go back to the ship, do lunch, and eventually, we leave. Indy is in the shower enjoying the hand-held shower nozzle. I'm standing on the balcony, watching the ship plug away from the island, when suddenly, a four-foot inflated monkey wearing a t-shirt wafts by my balcony. I watch as it slowly floats down to the water, and is carried away by the wake of our ship. The departure of the monkey was witnessed by everyone who happened to be standing on the starboard side balconies at that time.

I go back inside the cabin and minutes later, the ship lists sharply to the side. I think we're going to do a barrel roll and haul ass back out on my balcony. If the ship is going under, I sure as hell do not want to be stuck inside my cabin when it does. On the balcony, I hear the alarmed voices of other passengers while our ship makes the mother of all U-turns. From there, the ship starts doing figure-8's in the ocean. Indy pops out of the bathroom to ask if the ship just turned onto it's side, or did he just imagine it?
Shortly after, the cruise director re-Todd, comes over the speakers and announces to those who may have noticed something different, that the ship was engaged in whatever ships do when there is a passenger overboard, and that there is a whole succession of things a ship has to do when this sort of thing happens.

Annoyed, I call the pursers' desk and inform them that it was not a person going overboard, but an inflated monkey. The purser tells me that at least a dozen people have also notified them, and thanks.

Eventually, it is confirmed that the man at sea was really a monkey at sea, but because of maritime law, they still have to account for everyone on the ship, so would we please go down to the lobby and swipe our boarding cards so we can resume our cruise?

I don't know if I mentioned this, but there were just over 3000 passengers on that ship. Two card reader machines. One lobby that can hold about 300 passengers, cramped. Almost everyone makes a mad rush to the lobby.

Almost.

The Assholes didn't show. Assholes who paid good money for their vacation, abandoned all manners, class, and reason at home, and BY GOD, they were going to do what they want, when they wanted because BY GOD, they were on vacation. Yes, you find MANY people like this on cruise ships. They are easy to pick out because they are always cutting in line at the buffet. These same assholes collectively decided that they would check in on their own time, and screw everyone else.

Anyway, three hours later, our ship is STILL at a complete stop, twenty miles away from Grand Cayman. So are three of the other ships that were in port that day because due to maritime law, all ships must come to a complete stop and stay there until the issue is resolved, one way or another. Meanwhile, the captain of the ship is getting pissed. You can tell this by the sound of his voice when he keeps making announcements about those who hadn't checked in. When the number got less than 50, he started listing names. Less than 20, he started listing cabin numbers.

So, we've got a ship full of annoyed passengers because we are sitting like ducks in water. The casino is shut down. The gift shops are in complete disarray due to the hard right turn we made earlier. To top it all off, our captain, who is Italian, sounds like he's going to go all Sopranos on some asshat.
Finally, the short-bus patrol check in (probably at the urging of everyone else, I'm sure there were threats involved), and the ships in the area can resume their courses. However, we've lost 3 hours of sailing time, so the captain has to haul ass to make up for it so we can reach Jamaica in time. For the rest of the night, the ship is pitching and yawing because some botards on vacation couldn't tear themselves away from the buffet long enough to check in.

Salad-tossing Douchebags. I hope they caught Norwalk virus.

I'm not sure what became of the woman who actually owned the monkey. Rumors were rampant that she would face charges, get fined, and/or possibly be banned from cruising Carnival again. It's not like she tossed the monkey on purpose, it blew off her balcony. But, those rumors proved to be false, and the monkey incident became the long-running joke for the remainder of the cruise.

But I am glad that I forgot to pack the inflatable sheep.

323?????

That is how many blog posts I have to read on my reader because I read no blogs on my trip. Internet minutes is expensive on a cruise ship, and their computers run about as fast as the ship does...which isn't very fast.

You people really ought to consider hobbies aside from blogging.

I just got home from my vacation.

I'll blog later and bring you up to speed on the events.

Ship Happens: Sea Blather

Here I am, on a 10,000 plus ton hunk of iron, complete with room service and mini bar, hauling ass in the Caribbean. Currently, somewhere just north of Cuba. Tomorrow is a "sea day", which means all 4200 of us are trapped on the ship, surrounded by water, with only the Hairy Chest contest to keep us from being bored.

We arrived in Florida on Thanksgiving, went to pick up the rental, found out we needed something bigger to accommodate all the luggage we brought. Luckily, the GPS didn't work so we had a good excuse to upgrade. Not to mention we couldn't figure out how to start the car with the push-button ignition. It's trickier than it sounds.

After switching to an SUV, and finally figuring out how to program the GPS, it proceeds to get us lost right away. After numerous U-turns, we finally make it to the interstate, and to our hotel, where we will spend the first three days of our vacation.

Highlights of this part of the vacation include: not having to cook a turkey, getting lost, going to a butterfly house and having a lorikeet bite my boob (he managed to slop nectar out of the cup and down my cleavage), going to a porn store with my mother, and not getting killed driving in Florida.

We board the ship on Sunday, which is magic. I love cruising for the simple fact that you get to visit lots of places, and your hotel room goes with you wherever you go. What I hate about cruising is the masses of asses that also travel with you. I've learned that I hate large groups of people in little places. Mealtime on the Lido deck is the worst. I swear, by the end of the week, I'm going to completely lose my shit and cause an international incident.

Today, we visited charming Key West, which is well known for it's magical power of recharging old people and making them run circles around you. Rather than do the traditional pub crawl, we opted to do some shopping. We did manage to walk down Duvall street, which is their big pub hub, and got to see folks drunk before noon. We had lunch at a place called Red Fish Blue Fish and I finally got some delicious calamari and probably the best mojito ever.

Initially, the weather was overcast, dreary, and somewhat rainy. By the end of the day, when I have blisters on my feet and I'm perilously close to becoming a raging bitch because it took Indy 2 hours to decide on which watch he wanted to buy, the sun was shining and the sky was blue.

Yes, Indy did come with me, and he is my cabin mate. It would appear that his main goal for this trip is to gas me out of the cabin and into my mother's cabin. Now, I can belch with the best of them, but I lack talent when it comes to farts. So, for 6 days, I get to try to figure out how to shove a dryer sheet in his crack without him noticing.

Dinner has been entertaining, and I have developed a small crush on our Turkish Matre`d. What can I say? I have a thing for the dark-haired male persuasion, especially when rocking a sexy accent. The uniform helps, too.

Now, it's another evening winding down. Tomorrow is formal night, and I will be doing something that few people get to witness, and that is me wearing a dress. It's not that I don't like to wear dresses...it's just that I don't have a lot of opportunities to wear them.

I'm told that temps will be in the 70's-80's. I also hear that there is snow waiting at home. I try to bring a little sunshine in the lives of friends and family back home by sending little messages via cellphone. I think the collective response can be best summed up by Redneck Brother when he responded with this simple phrase:

Kiss My Frozen Ass.

Greetings!

Hi there.

I'm currently in Florida where the temps are in the high 70's. I'm currently wearing capris and my flip flops.

So, here's a shout-out to those in KC. I hear you guys have a 50% chance of snow on Sunday.

I'll blog more later. Right now, I need to go do vacation-related stuff.

Keep warm!!

The Bastard Holiday Known as Thanksgiving

When I was a kid, you celebrated holidays in chronological order. Halloween filled with costumes, candy and whatnot. Then, you moved on to Thanksgiving, which really isn't a big deal when you are kid...just an excuse for the entire family to come over for dinner. Then, you moved on to big finish of the year...Christmas.

You didn't go and fuck things up by putting up your Christmas tree before Thanksgiving!!!

I personally like Thanksgiving. I like having the family together for a big meal. It used to be, you didn't need an excuse to get the family together for dinner, you just did. Now, in the era of fast food and frozen dinners, various meetings and whatnot, families don't eat together...unless it's a holiday. Or sitting in the living room, watching some crappy reality show, while eating KFC.

So even though Thanksgiving is now viewed by a lot of people as the precursor to the Black Friday Sales, I want to wish everyone out there a big happy Turkey Day. Eat your turkey. Enjoy your family. Rejoice in the origins of the holiday and hug an Indian (foreign or domestic).

And stay away from Aunt Lois' green bean casserole. If the dog won't eat it, it's probably not safe for human consumption.

What Happens When You Piss Me Off On a Bad Day

With vacation coming close, Mom and I are rushing around, getting junk done. Tonight, we went out and bought a couple more things. While we were out, Mom lamented that she needed to pick up her prescriptions from Hellmart. Ordinarily, I avoid Hellmart so close to a holiday because that's when EVERYONE ELSE goes there. However, with the invention of the drive-thru pharmacy, mingling with the huddled masses can be cut down to a minimum.

But that didn't mean we wouldn't wait anyway.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one with the brilliant idea, as there were three cars in front of me. No matter, we could wait. Not everyone was as patient as I was, a couple cars pulled out of the line and sped away in a huff.

Except the douche bag behind me.

We finally got our turn after a 15 minute sit and stew moment, and we were instructed to wait by the harried pharmacist. I can only imagine what the line inside the store looked like. I think we waited a good 15 minutes before he asked who we were picking up for. Another 5 minutes, and he sends a slip of paper to sign.

Meanwhile, douche nozzle behind me grows impatient. I'm guessing he had a Viagra prescription he needed to pick up.

Mom signs her paper and sends it bacl. We wait another 10 minutes. While we wait, we are discussing the first things we will do when we board the ship.

Douche nozzle honks his horn.

Excuse me? Two days before a major holiday, everyone is getting their 'scripts refilled so they can go out of town without worrying about running out, plus half of Jackson county is as Hellmart AT THE SAME TIME, and this ass clown thinks honking is going expedite matters. Inside his small, corn-fed, pea-brain, he apparently thinks I can control how fast the pharmacist works.

I can't even make the pharmacists at my own hospital work faster. What the hell am I supposed to do with Walmart Pharm D???? Run inside and personally put my foot up his ass????

Mom gets her meds, signs her receipt, and sends it back to the pharmacy. Finally, we can leave. I put the car in gear just as Asshole honks his horn again.

"Excuse me for a minute." I tell Mom calmly. I put the car back in park, roll down the window, extend my arm out, showcasing the one-fingered salute for a solid 15 seconds because he was obviously a little slow, pull my arm back into the car, roll up the window, put the car back in gear, and drive away.

Had I been irate about it, I would have calmly got out of the car and given this ass clown a reason to need medication. As it was, I was tired, hungry, and it really wasn't worth the effort. I had contemplated just sitting there for an additional 5 minutes, but that wouldn't have been fair to the 2 other cars behind us.

I do try to be considerate of other people, you know.

Good Thing I'm Leaving the Country...

I'm unhappy today.

I don't know if it's because I was sick (better now). It's not like I had a bad weekend or anything. Actually, I think it's probably a culmination of things.

I'm unhappy because Bosshole doesn't value me as much as he values a BSN. Well pardon me if I didn't have a parental teet to suck on while putting my own ass through college. Not everyone can go to a four-year university. And there is nothing wrong with community college.

I'm unhappy because I know a friendship is coming to an end on a simple matter of trust. I don't trust them, and without trust, there is nothing.

I'm unhappy because I can't get into the classes I need for next semester. Is Statistics really that popular???

I'm unhappy because my gym progress isn't progressing as well as I would like. I really need to quit comparing myself to other girls. I've got a lot going for me, even if most other guys don't know it.

I'm unhappy because my WoW character keeps dying, and I'm starting to grow weary of searching for my corpse.

I'm unhappy because I think I'm permanently damaged and incapable of having a normal, healthy relationship.

I'm unhappy because I have a shit ton of stuff to do before I leave. Cleaning the entire house would be one of those things. Giving Sam a bath would be another. And packing.

I'm unhappy because after 15 years, I still struggle with things in my past, while my brothers have fared better. Anniversaries blow. So does introspection.

Maybe it's just a case of the blahs. Maybe a week away will do me some good. I'll come home all nice and tan and ready to hate the world once more.

At least I'll have brought good coffee home to enjoy while I do so.

NOT. HAPPENING!

It would appear I've been afflicted with the same GI bug that's hitting most everyone else at work.

I go on vacation this week.

What a load of crap!!

Literally!!!

The Ideal Gift For Those Who Have Everything

Last year, I posted an offering for the Mormons Exposed calendar. I now realize that the year is drawing to a close, and now people will be needing new calendars to keep track of the 2009 year.

With that in mind, I present a nugget of gold with this gay 29 year old in Memphis who has his own calendar.

For $14.99 plus $5 shipping, you can own the Chubby Mikey calendar. He's totally nude...not that it matters because his 530lbs covers everything. Think about it...if you can't see his winkie, can you imagine when the last time was that he did???

Now, I'm going to try to figure out who to buy this for. Everyone in my immediate circle is on the short list.

Christmas is coming!!

Annoyed...

Here at work.

Annoyed.

Will blog about it later when I'm sure I'm not going to go nuclear.

That may take a while.

Hank the Tank: 9 months

Life with a growing saint bernard is interesting. Hank is full of love and he's eager for attention. A very easy disposition, but he loves to be the center of attention.

Now, at 9 months of age, he weighs roughly 100lbs. Give or take a few. His father weighs 200lbs, his mother around 160. Did I mention that it takes almost 2 years for a saint bernard to reach their maximum weight?
When Hank commits to a spot for napping, you may as well resign yourself that he's just there until he's done because it takes some effort to get him to move. Unless, of course, you entice him with cheese. Or anything else that is remotely edible. Thankfully, he's what they call a "dry mouth". Which means he only slobbers after eating or drinking. Any other time, no drool.
Hank has never met a food he didn't like. He's even managed to eat a couple things that were not meant to be eaten.

I've been keeping a mental tally of everything he has decimated. A garden hose, the big spindle that the garden hose was on, a rake, a shovel, a welcome mat, a little plastic kiddie pool, 2 gas hoses for the bbq grill, and various little odds and ends. I powerful storm caused a 7 foot tree branch to fall in the back yard. Hank had reduced it to wood chips within 3 days. So, I know if I ever have a need for mulch, I know I just need to give him some wood.
When Brother moves out, he's going to owe me so much crap, he'll probably have to take out a loan.I can't be a hater, though. Could you stay mad at this face??
After all, he's still just a baby.

Nurse Follies: The Things That Make Nurses Smile After a Long Shift

Pretentious Resident enters the unit with the strut of a guy who thinks he's teh shit.

Only he's sporting the most hideous of fauxhawks. But it's not a trendy one that only has a little height. At it's tallest point, it stands 6 inches off his head.

Did I mention he's Indian???

Remember when you were a kid, and you were in the bathtub, and you'd soap up your hair and stand it straight up??? Yeah, that's what this guy looks like.

It's hard work to keep your guffaws in check until PR leaves the unit. You can seriously hurt yourself if you're not careful.

Just Listening...

Guns 'n Roses will finally release Chinese Democracy in a few days. Finally. After fifteen years of broken promises...FINALLY.

For those who may want to buy the cd, but worry about shelling out money for a steaming pile of crap (St. Anger, anyone?), the band has posted the album on their myspace page.

Another nurse, after listening, pointed out that the new album is mostly Axl Rose screaming. I countered that Axl Rose screams in all his albums, so at least he's being consistent.

In high school, our French club went to France the summer before our senior year. While at a museum, they saw Axl Rose, all short and surly, wearing a flannel shirt, and smelling like hadn't bathed in years. My best friend, who didn't even know who he was, was not impressed.

I still haven't decided if I'm going to buy the new album.

Are you?

Playing the 'craft

A while ago, some ICU nurses were singing the praises of WoW (World of Warcraft to you non-computer geek folk). I had heard of this game only twice before. Once featured on a South Park episode, the second being while I was in nursing school. Student-Nurse-Know-It-All was having issues with her husband playing the game all the time. All. The. Time. It wasn't any wonder. If I was married to a pug-faced troll, I think I would want to hibernate in front of a computer game, too.

Anyway, a bunch of ICU nurses played the game, and I should join them because it was so much fun and blah, blah, blah. So, I bought the game, but my computer at the time sucked hard, and not in a good way. With the coming of the new and improved computer, I was finally able to download the game and begin to play.

Yes...it is very fun. You get to pick the kind of character you play, design their look, give them a name (mine is a latin name for naughty parts). You get to interact with people all over the world. Go on quests. Earn stuff. Kick ass. And die. You get to die. A lot.

I've lost count how many times I've died. Fortunately, in WoW, death is not permanent. It's simply a matter of figuring out where you last saw your corpse and retrieving it.

As in life, my WoW character is a complete klutz, as evidence by all the stupid ways I have died.

Some examples:
- I fell out of a Zeppelin just as it was getting ready to dock.
- I fell out of a tree, about 200 feet, into water that was only 3 feet deep.
- I accidentally backed into a large, deadly, purple spider while trying to sneak away from a smaller, less menacing one.
- I fell off a cliff trying to see how high it was.
- Bitch slapped by some bloated marshmellow creature while I was spying on the undead. Bastard just snuck up behind me. I think it farted before it killed me.
- Getting killed by my target because I was healing them instead of smiting them.

I don't play the game often. Usually, after dying five times in a row, I get disgusted and quit playing. My character is not strong offensively, and more of a healer. For one of my professions, I decided to become a tailor. It was that, or cooking.

So, if you want to play with me, come find me in Silver City...stuck at level 13.

I'll make you a pair of pants.

Your Thought for the Day

Boobs are not meant to be the color of boiled lobster.

They should not feel as though you just had them boiled either.

It kind of hurts.

Nurse Follies: Uhhh...What?!?

Last night sucked great, big donkey wieners.

The paging system went on the fritz and we could not get a hold of any doctors. We almost had to resort to sending smoke signals just to get a suppository order.

Maintenance came with their little cart in tow, telling us that they needed to strip parts off our ice machine so the parts could be used in the operating room on Monday.

WHAT!?!?!

Apparently, in the ENTIRE hospital, our ice machine is the ONLY one that has this part. We're going to be without an ice machine for 3 days for surgery.

Did I mention that the needed parts came from an ice machine??

Natrually, we have an abundance of patients who are only allowed to eat ice. But they can't have ice because our ice machine was stripped of parts needed to run the heart bypass machine/snow cone maker.

Spiffy.

Oh, Deer

I've just heard that Brother scored him a deer using his "funny" gun...which is an old revolver with a scope attached.

We made fun of him at constructing such an oddity.

Would he really need a scope to shoot at point blank range??

Now, we're never going to hear the end of it...

However, this does mean tasty venison steaks and summer sausage on yonder horizon!

Christmas is Coming...Bleh

So here we are...November. Just over a month away, it will be Christmas.

I have been scheduled to work both Christmas Eve and Christmas, and this saves me from another noteworthy family fiasco like last year. Really, I couldn't stomach another round of family karaoke. That sort of thing needs to alternate. Once every five years works for me.

Because I am working both Christmas holidays, I will get the following weekend off. This excites me more than the holidays. I plan on doing stuff that you can only do on weekends, and that I usually miss out on. I don't know what those things are, but I will be soliciting suggestions. Maybe a gathering of friends might be in order.

I also have New Years' Eve off. So, if you would like to incorporate me into your festivities, let me know.

At any rate, I haven't done diddly squat as far as Christmas shopping goes. I probably should make an effort to do it, and not wait until the last minute and just be wiener and give everyone gift cards. I should probably consider buying a tree of my own, and not have to resort to borrowing Indy's anorexic tree. However, the presence of a 100lb saint bernard does give me pause. I've seen him take a 7 foot tree branch and reduce it to mulch. What if he decides to eat the Christmas tree?

I figure I will get most of my shopping done on vacation. Who doesn't like Jamaican rum? It's a pity there is an embargo on all things Cuban. I know a couple people who would love a Cuban cigar.

If I don't find anything suitable on vacation, there's always sex toys.

Agh!

I spent only half the usual allotted time in the tanning bed. And I burned anyway.

Boobs, butt, legs, back, shoulders, face.

I hate fake baking.

Vacation Prepation Begins

Yeah, I know that vacation is a few weeks away, but as I always say: Luck favors the prepared.

Thus far, I've managed to buy some new clothes on clearance. You know, because it will be cold here, and I will be baking my ass off closer to the equator. Thankfully, stores are all to happy to get rid of their summer stuff, and I am all to happy to oblige.

In preparation for vacation, I've discovered a latent obsession: travel-sized items. It's like crack to me. Toothpaste, mouth wash, deodorant. The bigger the selection, the happier I am. You can find just about anything in travel-sized.

It's not like I'm a size-queen or anything. I don't like everything to be small.

Just ask Starbucks.

My most awesome find came today at CVS when I found they sold the little bottles of Tide. One bottle will wash up to 4 loads of wash. On the ship, you have to mortgage your house for one box of detergent that will wash, maybe, one full load.

This evening, I had my first session of tanning. As a rule, I avoid the sun unless slathered in SPF 500. This is why I look younger than I really am because I don't look like a saddle. Plus, as pale as I am usually, the sun isn't my BFF. However, a trip to the Caribbean mandates fake baking, lest I want to spend the entire week of my vacation holed up in my room with an industrial sized bottle of Aloe. Even with a base tan AND sunscreen, I usually fry. Somewhere in my family tree, there is an albino, I just know it.

At any rate, Mom and I both got tanning packages, and tonight was the first night. I picked one of those stickers that you stick on yourself to see just how tan you get over time, but just like tattoos, I couldn't figure out where to put it. So, I chucked the sticker. Any hint of color on me, people are bound to notice without the help of a little white heart on my body.

I baked for 7 minutes, and I still feel the burn on the backs of my legs and my face. I will so happy when I don't have to fake bake anymore. Some people are addicted to it. You usually can pick those people out of a crowd because they look like Oompa Loompas. Either that, or they are featured on Hot Chicks with Douchebags...as the "hot chick" or the douchebag. Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference, particularly in California and Florida.

I'm mentally ready for vacation, but not even remotely close to being prepared physically. I have to make lists. Lists of what to pack. Lists of what to do before I go. Lists of home improvement projects for Mr. Recommendation while I'm gone. Even a list of lists I need to make.

I'm probably going to need a vacation to recover from vacation.

That's what Mardi Gras in New Orleans is for!

Legal At Last!

Today I slept in as late as I damn well pleased. Got up, showered, dressed, leisurely drove to the DMV. There was a line, but a short one. Long enough for me to stand and take in my surroundings.

A little sign posted told me to make out my check to MODOR (Missouri Dept of Revenue). Someone drew a little "r" in there, so now it read MOrDOR. Oddly appropriate considering one of the ladies behind the desk did remind me of Gollum.

I have decided that no matter your socio-economic standing, race, gender, creed, age, etc...the DMV makes EVERYONE look downtrodden. Is it the lights? Is it the vortex of despair that is maintained by those who work there that suck us in??

(Really...have you ever seen one of those people actually HAPPY to be working there???)

You could go in there wearing a designer suit, $1000 pair of shoes, talking on your Crackberry, and in the harsh atmosphere of the DMV, look like you just came from a homeless shelter.

No one looks good at the DMV, which is why we all look like crap in our driver's license photo. I'm starting to believe that is deliberate.

So, now, I'm legal to wander the streets of KC in my car. Woo hoo!

Grrr

After I got all my crap straightened out to get my car tags renewed (and believe me, it was quite the cluster fuck), I made a point to get up early (before 9am), to be the first one at the DMV.

I was not on the first one there, I was the ONLY one there.

Happy Veterans Day.

A Fitting End for a Crappy Weekend

Nothing caps off a bad weekend than coding one of your patients.

Twice.

Right around shift change.

You could say it was a salmon kind of weekend.

Bust your ass to get upstream, only to get screwed and die in the end.

Ugh!

Nurse Follies: A Dog Named Doctor

Sometimes, I think it would be a swell idea to get another dog and name him Doctor.

Then, I can go home after a bad night at work and kick the Doctor.

I can lock the Doctor up in a cage.

I can dress the Doctor up in a bumble bee costume and point and laugh. Or I can take him to the groomer for the most ridiculous haircut, only to take him to the dog park so other people can point and laugh at the Doctor.

I can leer at the Doctor and tell him that he's really, really dumb. The Doctor would just lick his own ass to prove my point.

I can feed the Doctor food that smells like ass and tastes even worse.

However, I like dogs better than I like most people. No dog deserves to be treated that way.

So, instead I will stick with the voodoo dolls.

Concerts and Culture

I'm considering getting tickets to go see Lion King. Problem is, I can't find anyone else that's interested in seeing it. Would just a little culture be that painful?

I want to go see Trans-Siberian Orchestra this season. I'm pretty much the only person in Kansas City who hasn't gone.

I'm also considering buying tickets to see AC/DC. However, the cost of the tickets give me pause. Metallica wasn't that expensive AND I got the album with the ticket. Plus, I don't know anyone who wants to go see them.

But Willie Nelson is coming to town later this month...and I REALLY like him. Almost as much as I like Elvis.

I'd rather eat a dirt sandwich than go see New Kids on the Block. I hated them back when they were actually kids, and my feelings have not changed. The girls who used to wait at the bus stop with me would squeal and jump as they talked about how cute they were. They also dissected each new episode of 90210. I wanted to punch them in the throat.

Decisions, decisions!

A Tale of the Undecided Voter

I usually reside in the middle, with leanings to the right. I loved McCain, thought he was a great man, and in 2000, I was ready for him to be our president. When he announced his candidacy for 2008, I was excited. Here was a man who usually did what made sense, and not just because it was expected of him by the GOP.

Then, something changed and McCain became the very thing he despised about his party. I still clung to hope. Then, he (or rather, his party) selected Caribou Barbie as his running mate. I balked, but still hoped. Then, I heard her speak. She had the mental capacity of cole slaw. I was insulted, but yet I still held out hope that McCain would pull his head out his ass, ask Palin to step down, so he could select the running mate he wanted, and not the running mate the GOP thought would sway my vote just because she had a vagina.

This country is broke. Literally and figuratively. We are despised by other nations. We are in wars and no one can give a clear reason as to why. Families are losing their homes. People are losing their jobs. Socialism exists today only for the wealthy, while the debt of capitalism is passed along to the lower and middle class. Don't believe me? Take a closer look at the bailout plans.

Sure, some people voted for Obama because he was black, but on the same token, some people didn't vote for him because he was black. One is just as wrong as the other.

However, there are people who voted for him because they know that the current way of doing things is obviously not working. They voted because they finally got fed up with not being heard. They voted because they know that the country that we are today, is not the country that our forefathers had in mind when they penned the Constitution. They voted because they know that people should not fear their government, but the government should always fear it's people.

This election reminded the government as to why.

I voted for Obama, not because I'm some young idealist who expects unicorn and rainbows with the Obama administration. I voted because I look at the country today, and it makes me sick to see what has become of it. I voted because I'm tired out or nation being whored out in the name of greed and malice by men in secret combinations who are above the law of the people who elected them. I voted for Obama because it was my one chance to say, "Enough!"

It amazes me to see just how powerful a democracy of the people can be. It astounds me that government heard my voice. This election was historic on many levels, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. I think if George and Ben could see us today, they would nod their heads in satisfaction as if to say, "That's how it's supposed to work!"

I don't know what the future holds, but I do have a pretty good of what will happen if we stay on our present course. You only need to look to the histories of other great civilizations to know how they fared. This country is in such bad shape, it will take years to restore us to greatness. Obama may not be the be-all, end-all solution, but he felt like a good place to start.

I will do what is asked of me by this administration if it means our country will be better for it. If it means that I don't have to watch people die anymore only because they don't have sufficient health care. If it means that children will have access to a good education. If it means that all Americans truly do have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness regardless of race, creed, gender, or socioeconomic status.

Because that is what it means to be an American.

So, yeah, I voted for Obama.

What of it?

Gearing Up for Letting My Hair Down

Vacation is just weeks away!

I purchased new luggage, some new clothes.

I still need to get my hair done. I also need to get my pasty ass into a tanning salon. I'm not too thrilled about that last part. However, I don't want to spend the majority of my vacation tending to a blistering sunburn...even after wearing SPF 500. I'll burn even with a base tan, but not to the point where I'll be incapacitated, spending the entire week holed up in my room wearing, well, nothing.

The countdown has commenced.

So, be sure to keep your eyes open for the new installment of "Ship Happens".

Bleh

I sold my soul to the devil so I could have Sunday night off.

Now, he's come to collect in the form of me working tonight.

Bleh.

I Came, I Saw, I Voted

I got up around 9am or so, dressed, drove to the local voting station and did my civic duty. The lines were long...for the A-O crowd. Lucky for me, my last name comes towards the end of the alphabet. While the lines extended all the way out the door, I bypassed all of them and went up to the table that had the later letters. Absolutely no wait.

Which leads me to think that if I marry, I'm going to have to find someone with a name that begins with the letters P-Z, or just hyphenate my name...which would cause me to spend five minutes just signing a check.

After voting, I stopped by Krispy Kreme for my civic duty donut. Civic duty is hard work, and I earned that donut. So did the thirty or so other people who were also there to collect their donut. Cars were stopped out in the street waiting to turn into the Krispy Kreme parking lot. No empty parking spaces. It was crazy.

I had lunch with my friend, Trish, and we ate at Noodles and Company at Zona Rosa. It's is for pasta what Chipotle is for burritos. Or something like that. It was tasty, and I will go back someday.

After lunch, I stopped by the store for camera batteries (as I drained mine at the Chiefs game). I came home and discovered that I made a colossal boneheaded mistake, of which I may or may not blog about later. Despite my IQ and wit, it's things like this that remind me that underneath it all, I'm still a blonde.

So, tonight I shall be out among the masses, watching the election results among friends. This is a historic time, and I want to witness as much of it as I can.

Game Day

Ahhh...the Chiefs game. Where to begin???

I managed to get home from work in the morning, changed into jeans and a Chiefs shirt. I took my vitamins and fought the urge to just lie down and snooze for a minute. I went over to Mom's house, where the others arrived, and we set off for our day's adventure.

But not until we stopped by Starbucks for something caffeine-charged. Starbucks was insanely busy with other people who were going to the game. In true fashion, they fooked up my beverage, but at that point, I didn't care. I drank it anyway and was grateful for it. Some cities don't even have a Starbucks.

Across from Starbucks, sat a very busy McDonalds with a flurry of activity. I don't know what, but three cop cars pulled up, and one officer jumped out of his car packing an AK or whatever assault rifle sponsored by the Independence PD. A couple minutes later, he walked, dejected, back to his car. There would be no gun play today.

From there, drove to the stadium and found our tailgating party. Because I had been awake for a while, I was in full-on crab mode. Realizing I forgot my hat, I went to one of the little tents that sold Chiefs crap and bought another hat. I'm sure I paid too much for it, but I didn't care. I had a new hat, and I was happy for the time being.

I love hats the way some women love shoes. Even if I do look like a Make-a-Wish kid when I wear them.

Light tailgating ensues by our group and we enter the stadium. Our seats are out of the sun, which defeated the need for the hat.

At least Belly Guy didn't have to worry about getting a sunburn. (I wonder how much lint that belly button can hold?)

Apparently, it was Armed Services Day at Arrowhead, and they had a bunch of guys in their uniforms. Pre-game, they walked around the stadium, which was cool because people would go down to the field and shake their hands as they walked by. In the parking lot, I witnessed strangers approaching these military folks just to tell them thanks.

That's the sort of thing that makes me proud of my fellow Americans. However, during halftime, they had a group of new recruits take their oath. So, while they are standing on field, hands raised, reciting the oaths that set the course of their lives, which may or may not end in the ultimate sacrifice, some asshole Chiefs players are practicing their throws and kicks. Would it really have been that much of a hassle to not do that while these kids were taking their oaths??? I mean, I understand that you need to warm up because you're million dollar job could hang in the balance, but it was rude to do it while some 18 year old was standing right there taking an oath to die for your douche nozzle ass if that is what was required.

I have half a mind to write to someone and bitch about it.

I'm willing to guess that this is when Karma decides to show up and crap on the team for the second half. Serves them right.

At any rate...

The Chiefs Cheerleaders wore something to get into the spirit of the day.

It didn't help their dancing. Here, they all try to fart to the music. I just assumed this because of the smell.

At the beginning of the game, the Chiefs actually looked like an NFL team. The crowd, burned a million times over by this team, actually got excited because it really did seem like we'd actually win a second game this year. Then, of course, Herm Edwards decided to use the junior varsity squad of some random high school for the second half, and the team blew a big lead, losing in sudden-death overtime by a field goal. Way to go, dumbasses.

I bought a big pretzel for myself and Mom. They were $4 each, and apparently left over from last season. I couldn't even eat half of the shriveled up thing. I contemplated sending a message to that Chiefs hotline they have set up when fans have a concern or complaint while in the stadium.

The section we were in featured many regular season ticket holders. The two guys in front of us had apparently been sitting there since Arrowhead was first built. Everyone seemed to know them, and they really were nice. They truly did have team spirit, even though the Chiefs reside in a constant vortex of suck.

However, there was a woman who sat behind us that screeched like a pterodactyl. So much, that our ears were ringing. It was horrible, and I wanted to turn around and punch her in the throat if it meant shutting her up. It was almost as bad as that lady who "sings" for the Chiefs band.

Anyway, the Chiefs, in keeping with their time-honored tradition in showing that only a Dyson can suck harder, lost the game. Shocking. Everyone leaves the stadium, some cursing Herm Edwards as they did so.

So,the dejected fans go home in their respective mode of transport.

And the Chiefs players go home in theirs...

Santa goes back to the North Pole to try to work on getting the team a new coach and general manager for Christmas. Maybe even a new defensive line.

After we finally extracted ourselves from the traffic, we went home. We had dinner at Fuddruckers, and I came home and went to bed. Awake from 4pm Saturday, finally going to be at 7:30 pm Sunday night. EXHAUSTED.

The day wasn't a complete wash, though. I got a new hat. AND...and day that I get to see Elvis is an automatic good day.

So Tired

I've been awake since 4pm yesterday. All that time, plus an extra hour...I'm EXHAUSTED.

I worked last night, had a crappy shift, stayed up all day for the Chiefs game...which I shouldn't have to tell you how that turned out. Had dinner with the fam, and now I am home. All I can think about is sleep.

I couldn't put out if I wanted to. In fact, I'm pretty confident I would sleep through it.

However, I did take pics at the game. I'll post a more detailed review tomorrow. Or whenever I happen to wake up.

Beans, Beans, the Musical Fruit

After the Halloween party I had on Wednesday (which was fun, and not nearly as wild as the Christmas party...which I'm okay with), I had a HUGE amount of leftover hot dogs and baked beans. So, I did what any resourceful person would do...I cut up the hot dogs and mixed them with the beans. Brother wasn't interested in eating them. There's only one other way to efficiently get rid of leftovers without having to resort to feeding them to the saint bernard: take them to work.

When I got to work, I was somewhat dismayed to see that our very own Lothario of Farts was working. Not that he's a bad worker, but we know him to frequently pass gas.

It's almost at will.

And extremely toxic.

And paint peels off the walls.

I only know of one other who can match his talent, and he has already transferred to another floor.

I'm just going to say that it used to be that when these two worked together, I'd have to frequently watch my back because their favorite hobby was cornering me somewhere and ripping ass, leaving me nowhere to escape. ~shudder~

At any rate, it seemed that this was the wrong night to bring a big bowl full of beanie weenies to work.

For lunch, the entire staff helped themselves to bowlfuls of my fabulous, yet ill-fated concoction. Even Indy stopped by for some.

I suspect that the mass fiber intake will make itself manifest in a few hours. I can only assume that some confused patients are going to be blamed for the smell. They are confused and cannot defend themselves.

Such cruelty!

Meanwhile, I'm sitting here, armed with cucumber-melon scented spray.

Luck favors the prepared.

Happy Halloween!!

I just want to wish everyone a safe Halloween. I'll be working, so I won't have to dish candy out to the little beggars. Meanwhile, the hospital should experience an influx of stupid people, so it's not like I'm totally going to miss out on the holiday.

By the way...this ass isn't mine.

Crappy Halloween Candy Explained

I don't know too many kids who didn't like the whole trick or treat aspect. Unless you count the times you wore a flimsy costume and it was sub-zero temperatures. And it was rainy. If you don't remember the cheesey kid costumes made of vinyl that had a cheap mask that only had little pinholes to see and breathe out of, you don't know that was the trick or treating equivalent of walking up a hill, both ways, in six feet of snow.

Trick or treating was a gamble. You had a chance of either scoring some really good stuff, like Snickers bars, or the REALLY good stuff: something homemade...like cookies, cupcakes or popcorn balls (before the poison candy scare of the 70's and 80's...WHICH I REMEMBER!!).

Then there are the times the pendulum swings in the opposing direction and you got the coup de grâce in the form of those nasty, orange circus peanuts. Maybe you'd get the occasional health conscientious person who would slip you an apple, which sucked because they were usually brown in spots and inedible anyway. Sometimes, you'd get pennies. PENNIES! You'd go home and count up seven cents in pennies, and curse because you can't do diddly squat with seven pennies. If you were my brothers, you'd take your rotten apples and pelt them at the houses that gave you the pennies.

You always remembered the houses that gave you the awesome booty so you return there next year. You also made a mental note of who gave away crap because you would avoid the house as if there were a registered sex offender sign in the front yard for future Halloweens to come.

I was at the store, buying some stuff for the party, when I wondered into the Halloween candy isle. There, I observed a couple, married long enough to where they started to look alike. The husband was picking up bags of candy, and his wife was telling him whether he should put it into the cart. He picked up a bag of assorted Hershey's stuff. Everything in the bag was good and desirable to any kid. The wife made a face.

The husband picked up a bag of some weird off brand, filled with crap that I wouldn't even eat if stranded on a deserted island.

"That candy is gross." The wife proclaimed. "Put it in the cart."
The husband was puzzled.
"If the candy is gross, why do you want to give it to the kids?"
The wife looked at her husband as if he had just asked where babies came from.
"Because the kids will eat it. I won't. Nothing with chocolate!"

I wanted to tell her that, no, the kids will not eat it. And by passing that shit out almost guarantees a flaming bag of dog poo on your porch by the end of the evening.

So, is this why people pass out crappy Halloween candy to trick or treaters? I used to think that it was a financial issue, but this was disproved as I had seen wealthy people dish out shit and pennies, while the lesser affluent had the decency to give out M&M's.

People give out shit because women lack self control? If they bought the good stuff, they would snarf down every Payday and Reece's Peanut Butter cup, depriving the cold, shivering trick or treaters their reward from a night of begging. Then, having no decent candy to hand out, would resort to giving out Peeps or something equally horrifying as a substitution.

In conclusion, I implore you to think of the children this year as you go to buy your Halloween candy. If you don't like children, at least think of your house and how you don't want to spend this weekend trying to get the toilet paper out of your trees because you lack the self control to refrain from eating the 102 piece assortment of chocolate bars. Don't punish the children because you are a compulsive candy eater and a cold, heartless bastard besides.

Please, think of the children. Just say no to NECCO wafers.

Bang on the Drum All Day!

With the passing of the Metallica concert, it had got me thinking about my own musical background.

Back in my formative years, I always wanted to be in band. I was a premeditated band nerd. However, my family wasn't exactly rolling in the dough to buy me a new instrument of my choice, so my options were limited.

I was weighing my choices. Some instruments, the school provided. They were the big, brass ones: tuba, baritone, french horn. My grandfather, a huge classical music aficionado, encouraged the french horn. "It's a beautiful instrument," he lamented. Beautiful instrument AND I could use the school horns. Everyone wins.

So, Heather begins to play the french horn. The school had extra horns, so they gave me one to take home to practice on. Mom's face fell when I lugged the big case through the front door. After a couple weeks of practice, my parents beseeched me to practice immediately after school, before they came home from work.

"It sounds like a moose in heat," my mother complained.

Undaunted, I continued through the year with the french horn. Our first year band experience culminating in a huge concert which featured every band, starting with middle school, and graduating all the way up to high school symphonic band. My parents took their place, among the throng of other parents who probably wished they were somewhere else, on the bleachers in front of the 6th grade band, my band.

There's a funny thing about french horns. Yes, they are a beautiful instrument, if the person knows how to play it. However, first year band nerds can't play their way out of a paper bag, the french horn is limited to the pah-pah, proceeding the oomp of the tuba while the rest of the band eeks out some semblance of a melody. My parents, sitting in the bleachers, noticed that was all I played.

Shortly after that concert, my parents found a used drum set for me. I approached my music teacher (who was somewhat of an ass) and asked if I could switch instruments. He never really liked me, and to this day, I don't know why. Anyway, he grudgingly said I could switch, but I had to learn the drumming fundamentals, on my own, during summer break. He would, in no way, help me catch up to the other drummers in the section.

Ass.

So, during the summer, I taught myself how to play the drums. I taught myself traditional sticking, modern sticking, the rudiments of percussion. The level of difficulty increases because there was no internet at the time. None. Popular kids carried pagers, which looking back in retrospect, I realize was retarded.

I spent my summer sitting on my front porch...sticks, practice pad, and book. It got to the point that I would play on anything, with anything: butter knives on the dining room table being my second favorite (the knives had good bounce). It drove my mom bananas. It's the curse of living with a drummer...the constant tapping.

School began again, and I nervously walked to band. My teacher, still the consummate asshole, stood with his arms folded, wanting to see what I had learned. In less than fifteen minutes, I checked off an entire year of competencies, even putting me ahead of the ones who had started the previous year.

Prodigy.

During the next couple of years, the teacher learned to respect me. He even began giving me lessons on how to play the trap. While there are girls in drumming, a girl behind a full trap set is still uncommon, especially back then. I took to it like a fish to water.

The summer before my junior year, my parents divorced, and my father moved us to live in Nebraska. By then, I was a full-fledged band nerd (but drummers were the cool ones), and I decided that I wanted to be a music teacher.

I had come from a band that won awards right and left. I had moved to a band that routinely tied for last place. It was awful. My first day of band, I damn near ran out of the room crying, it was so monumentally bad. To make matters even worse, the "1st chair drummer" had all the choice spots, leaving the rest of the section doing peripheral percussion...triangle, tamborine, cowbell, or whatever SNL made fun of at the time.

Later that year, the our section leader suffered an injury to his arm at a wrestling meet. At the time, we were preparing for our spring concert. A couple of the songs featured the trap. RayK, our music teacher, peered into the drum section and looked at the other three boys, "Which of you is going to play Todd's part?"

The other three male drummers in our section just looked at each other and shook their heads. They didn't know how to play a trap. I looked at the other girl in my group and she shook her head. I stood up, grabbed my drumsticks and took my seat behind the set. RayK's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to play."
"You know how to play that thing?"
(eye roll) "Yes"
"Play me something."
I scowled. "Just start the band and I will join in."

Meanwhile, the rest of the band had turned in their seats, eyeing me with doubt. Still the new girl, still the relative unknown. RayK shrugged and raised his baton.

At the end of the song, everyone turned in their seats, eyebrows raised. I just smiled sweetly.

After the spring concert, I was known as that "Little Girl Who Plays the Drums". People even pointed at me at the local gas station/supermarket. Farmers!

So now, I'm in my mid-thirties. I haven't touched a set of drumsticks since high school, but I still tap out cadences on occasion. The urge to play is still as fresh as it was back then. It wasn't until I watched Lars Ulrich play, that I realized just how much I missed it.

Which is why I'm considering buying a drum set. Everyone needs a hobby, and it's better than snorting blow.

So, if you hear banging coming from my house, pay no mind. At least it's not a french horn.

...OUCH!

So, I woke up this afternoon. Showered, puttered, put some leftover turkey in the microwave to heat up for dinner. While in my bathrobe, I thought I had an hour to kill, so I went to check my email.

I looked at the little clock on the screen and it read 5:45pm. Odd. I blinked. I usually leave for work just after 6.

So, I went back to my bedroom and looked at my alarm clock. I read 4:45pm. I took my wrist watch off the dresser and eyed that. It agreed with the computer. Then, I realized what had happened.

I have one of those "smart" alarm clocks. It automatically sets itself in the event of a power outage, and daylight savings time. So, at some point, it turned itself back an hour, perhaps thinking it was DST.

From there, I turned into Hurricane Heather, frantically running to iron my wrinkled scrubs, dry my hair into a somewhat pleasing configuration, take my vitamins, get dressed. I put the reheated food back in the fridge...no time for dinner. Maybe Brother ate it when he got home later.

Now, I'm at work, grumpy. My neck is sore. Apparently, head banging does have an age limit, and I exceed it. My voice is all soft and raspy. My eyes still red from standing in a big cloud of green smoke. At least my ears are no longer ringing.

I signed up to work extra on Monday, and am regretting I did. I'm hosting a work Halloween party this week at my house, and I still have a TON of stuff to do before then, including shopping, cleaning the house, and finding a costume to wear. Maybe I can wear my pirate costume from last year. Arrr.

Death Magnetic

Unlike The D. I went to the Metallica concert last night. Plans to go to this concert were set the minute they announced they were stopping here. Brother, being awesome, bought the tickets and I arranged my schedule so I could go. We both like Metallica. In fact, while all my other female counterparts were putting posters of New Kids on the Block (or whatever retarded pop star was worshipped at the time) on their walls, I was listening to Metallica.

For the few months preceding the concert, Brother would just randomly burst out with the words "Fuckin' Metallica!" and then go about his business. I guess you could say he was really excited.

So, Brother's friends, 'bert and his wife, uh, Ernie, came to our house. We rode in the Jeep with 'bert driving, and me giving directions from the back seat. We arrived a little over than an hour before the show started, and we found parking right across from the Sprint Center. Sure, we had to pay $15 to park there, but it was still a pretty choice parking spot.

Once inside, I immediately sought out a souvenir stand and bought an overpriced concert shirt, and a beanie for Brother. Because I'm an awesome sister like that.

The Sword opened the show. I'd never even heard of this group before, but I must say they were pretty good. Apparently, they are going to open for Metallica for the entire tour. I might be inclined to buy their cd.

After The Sword, Down took the stage and played. While they were good, they made quite a few comments about buying their crap so they can make money. Whatever. They are not who we came to see.

The layout of the Sprint Center had the stage in the center of the floor, audience surrounding. Standing room around the stage, but we had seats not far from the action. They had smoke machines peppered throughout. I think this was done on purpose for those who partake of "herbal refreshment", so that they would blend in. However, it was hard to miss the thick, green fog that permeated the air. Around the stage, the lighting rigs were set up in large casings that were shaped like the coffin that graces their new album cover. The casings would drop, tilt, and spin. Included was an impressive laser light show, tons of spotlights, and fire. You can't have a hard rock concert without fire.

Then, Metallica's little symphonic intro played and the entire arena went nuts. Metallica takes the stage and the show begins. They played some music from their new album, plus plenty of old fan favorites...Enter Sandman, Master of Puppets, Seek and Destroy, Nothing Else Matters just to name a few. How must it feel to have a career that spans decades, to still be relevant to this day, and have arenas full of people singing your songs back to you?

Thankfully, they didn't play anything from St. Anger.

I know Metallica makes a shit-ton of money, but it's very evident that they still enjoy what they do. After 25 years, they still sound good. The energy was electric. All different types of people were there, just enjoying the music...baby boomers, young kids, the trailer park crowd, white collar peeps, and everything in between. No political messages, no talk of elections, economy, or whatever troubles plague the news. Just a good band playing to thousands of screaming fans.

James Hetfield better than ever. Lars Ulrich, still considered a douchebag to many, is probably one of the best drummers I've ever seen. His big, orange drum set was on a lazy-Susan type stage that rotated. So, for a couple songs, I had a really good vantage point to watch how he played. Amazing.

They didn't allow cameras, but everyone was taking pictures with their phones. Myself included. I tried to get a couple sound clips to share, but after the concert, I listened to them and realized that my phone isn't really that great and I should think about upgrading. I know I sent a lot of texts. Lucky you if you got one.

Overall, a phenomenal concert, finally ending just after 11pm. If watching the concert wasn't fun enough, it was watching Brother jump around and play air guitar. There's a guy who really, REALLY loves Metallica.

So now, my throat is raw from yelling and cheering. My ears are still ringing.

All well worth it.

Fucking Metallica!!!!