Thursday, December 10, 2009
"Let's go to the mall!"
So, Mom wanted to go and look for Christmas gifts. And we did, in the sub-arctic temps. Shockingly, I found a parking spot relatively close to the building so we wouldn't risk dying from hypothermia.
I don't particularly relish going to any shopping mecca around this time of year, but if I do, I try to make the best of it. I demanded a visit to the pet store. What can I say? I like animals more than people on most days, and a trip to the pet store always makes me happy. It used to be, before I set foot in a pet store, it had to be established that I would not leave there with anything that had a heartbeat. The one time this rule wasn't put in play, I came home with Sam.I was a little disturbed to see that a surgery center specializing in weight-loss procedures was right across from the pet store. A surgical center. At a mall. Who in the hell thought that would be a good idea???
"Okay, kids. Billy, you go to Hot Topic and get your goth wear. Rachel, you go to Victoria's Secret for underwear. I have to stop off at Bath and Body Works before I go have surgery on my stomach. Afterwards, we'll meet in the food court."
Anyway, we go into the pet store, and the puppies are actually awake and playful. Mom and I coo and squeal at the little furballs. They are so damn cute, especially the big, fluffy Newfoundland pup they had. One lady was standing in front of the kennel with the golden retriever, her nose pressed against the glass, bawling her eyes out.
"I used to have one of these!" she cried. Mom and I started feeling sorry for her. It's always hard when you have a pet that passes away.
"...when I was seven years old!" she finishes. Mom and I stop feeling sorry for her. Now, she's turned into Creepy Lady, crying in a pet store about a dog you had thirty years ago.
But you never know, she may have been having some odd reaction to the anesthesia from her weight loss surgery she just had fifteen minutes ago.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Nurses Week, they have little events to make us feel warm and fuzzy.
For Christmas, we get a gift card to a local store. Not enough to buy Christmas for your entire family, but it's enough to defray the cost of Christmas dinner. Wouldn't more be great? Sure! But with a hospital our size, one can't possibly expect them to dish out significant bonuses to all their staff. Hell, the place would go bankrupt!
So, imagine the ire when it was revealed that our hospital did in fact give out some bonuses to a small percentage of nurses. Only certain nurses, in a certain department. Not in management positions. Just regular floor schmucks like myself. To the tune of $1500 per nurse.
In these economic times, some nurses have had to be the sole breadwinners for their family because their spouses didn't end up in a profession that was recession-resilient. I'm sure those nurses would love to get a bonus like that so they can ensure that their families can have a good Christmas. But instead, you get a select few who get to take home $1500 check, while everyone else gets a $35 gift card to Bob's Food Mart.
It hardly seems fair, does it?
But can you imagine what work is going to be like after this revelation? How would you feel if you were the gift card recipient working with the tool who doesn't do anything more special than you do? Or how would you like to be the bonus recipient, working amongst your angry coworkers who would like to see you fall down an elevator shaft??
This should be as well-received as a five year old fruitcake.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
But in crashing into the defenseless fire hydrant, it opens a pandora's box of secrets into his alternative life. Tiger Woods a serial cheater? No, say it isn't so!! Who ever heard of a multi-million dollar athlete married with multiple girlfriends?? Inconceivable!!
I'm going to guess that the imprint of the nine iron on the side of his head tells us that he didn't have an "agreement" with his wife.
Is this really news? Is this really worth obsessing over??
Tiger, perhaps you should google Steve McNair, mm'kay? Dumbass.
And golf still isn't a sport.
Friday, November 27, 2009
But there I was, standing in my shower trying to wake up at 0400. We weren't shooting to arrive when the doors opened. I'm not a complete masochist. But to get somewhere and still maybe catch, err, something.
So, Mom staggers over and bleary-eyed, we get our caffeine fix before our first stop, Target. We both agreed that Walmart was ground zero, and should be avoided at all costs. Especially the one by our house. It draws the crazies on a regular day. I can't imagine what it would look like on Black Friday.
We get to Target around 0530, and park five miles away. All the 31-inch flat panel televisions are gone because they only stock five of them. I noticed that the cheap stuff was gone, but there was always a comparable item overstocked and ready for you to take if you paid just a little more. Whatever, Target, I'm onto your little game.
I manage to get a couple dvds, a digital picture frame, and something to decorate my mantle with.
Next stop, the mall. Parking sucks, but we take it up the ass anyway. We clean out Bath and Body works of various gels and lotions because women like that sort of thing.
After that, we agree to take a breakfast break at Dennys.
Right around the corner, is KMart. Parking still sucks, we're stupid and go inside anyway, where the place looks like a tornado swept through it. More people than we encountered anywhere. I find a pre-lit tree and some new pajamas. I love pajamas. These are black, silky ones that are pimpin' like Hugh Hefner, but they are women's pajamas. But if Hugh saw them, he'd say, "That's pimpin!" I have bawdy pajamas, too, but I like to switch things up. Most days, I prefer to be the hammer instead of the nail.
From there, we stop at Big Lots, and see nothing impressive. Moving along!
In the car, we discuss Walmart and decide to go, but the new one in Raytown. Sure, it may be smaller, but there appears to be less a risk of getting shanked in the toy isle. By the time we roll over, the parking lot doesn't appear dire, and we actually find a spot relatively close to the actual building. As we walk in, we overhear two cops talking about the shoplifter they just caught.
It is at Walmart, I find a similar tree to the one I just bought, but for $35 less. And a picture frame one inch bigger than the one I bought at Target, for the same price. Shit. I hate it when that happens.
Legs numb, walking zombies we have turned into. Mom and I buy some stuff, and right now I can't remember what I bought, but I'm sure I felt I needed it at the time. Anyway, we retreat to home where I immediately crawl into bed and pass out.
Black Friday, you are done and I hardly remember ye. I'm going back to bed.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
But, there are the ones who start out cute as a button, but then turn on a dime and scare the hell out of you. Take the 80-year old lady who was admitted for an electrolyte imbalance.
Little Old Lady: Honey-child, do you have a husband?
RN: No, not married.
LOL: Oh, so do you have a boyfriend then?
LOL: Oh! So you've given up the pussy then!!
LOL: I know my pussy is old, but it still makes the men holler, dear Jesus!!
RN: (still speechless)
LOL: At the last hospital I was at, a worker there became my friend. He held my hand just a little longer. Looked at me a little longer.
RN: (regaining composure) Oh?
LOL: Yeah...we were going to do it! Just didn't have a place to go. But, oh boy, I would've gotten on top of that! He had a nice ass.
RN: (composure lost)
LOL: Uh huh! I used to be married, you know.
RN: (wearily) You did?
LOL: Yeah...I had me some good dick back then. I love me some good dick!
RN: (jaw hits floor)
LOL: (dry humping the air) Yes, Lord have mercy! I need to get me some dick soon or I'm going to have to rape someone.
LOL: (looking at television) Look at that guy. Yes sir, I bet he gives good dick!
For the duration of her stay, we get to hear strange noises coming out of her room. A quick peek into the observation window shows that she is alone, but we avoid going in there unless we are summoned. Soon, the sound of her call light strikes fear into the hearts of the staff. She watches television, and we occasionally hear her appraisal of the potential sexual prowess of whomever is on the screen. The Sham Wow guy, Billy Mays, people on MTV, and some televangelist with a mullet. We try to warn ancillary staff before they go into the room, but the lab tech still slips through our fingers.
LOL: (eyeing lab tech) Mmmm, you're pretty fine.
Lab Tech: Uhh, thank you?
LOL: Yeah, you need to get all the pussy you can while you are here, Lord have mercy!
No one was safe. She announced to the nurse tech who was bathing her that she was doing a stellar job washing her pussy. I think that tech has quit nursing school and is now applying to work at Sonic.
Was it mere coincidence that I, who sells sex toys, be assigned this patient?
I contemplated, briefly, sending Bosshole in there to speak with her about sexually harassing our staff. But then, she'd probably do her own sexual assessment of him, and no one wants to hear that. The poor chap's head would explode.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Because I'd slap this woman halfway through the conversation. My hats off to those who do work in the ER. Generally, people like this aren't admitted (unless, according to the recently published Harvard Study, you have insurance), but occasionally one slides through the cracks and they get to have me for their nurse. People like this make nurses re-evaluate why they became nurses in the first place. Some doctors, too.
And you wonder why you have to wait four hours to be seen in the ER? It's schmucks like this that hold up the line. I wish I could say that patients like this are rare, but they are not. There's enough of them to spawn an entire race. Skin-color irrelevant. They belong to the drug-seeking demographic.
(Shamelessly poached from Dr. Grumpy, who poached it from someone else. Go check out Dr. Grumpy's blog!!)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
But the peer pressure waxes strong with Mother, so I orchestrated a trade at work, and got the day off.
Mother said I could bring a guest, and my attempts to invite one were met with incredulous looks and transparent excuses (none of my single friends wanted to go either). So, not only does childless, husbandless me get to go to the circus, I also get to go stag.
It was a morning show, starting at 10am. Mother said we had to be ready to go at 8:30 am. Now, working nights since I graduated high school, I tend to stay up late. Not by choice, but because my internal clock is wired for it. So, I finally go to bed around 5:00 am, maybe get in a light nap, and then roll out of bed at promptly 8:00 am.
Scowling, I meet the women and children in the driveway, and we go downtown. For some reason, I was under the impression that this was a Barnum and Bailey type circus. It wasn't until we got into Municipal Auditorium, and I spotted a bunch of men in the classic burgundy fez, that I realized that it was a Shriner's Circus.
I don't have anything bad to say about the Shriners. When I was a newborn, I had a defect that required me to wear a cast and braces the first year of my life. The Shriners paid for it. Because of the Shriners, I can walk like a normal person (unless I've had something to drink). However, as I was sitting in the stands, watching the pre-circus festivities, I couldn't help but wonder just who was going to be on the trapeze. Some old guy in tights and a fez?
Thankfully, it turns out that they have a, ahem, real circus come and do the circus type stuff. The Shriners are left to dress as clowns and sell you anything that isn't nailed down. This includes these light-up wands that play music. They had some that looked like laser guns. Some looked like butterflies, some looked like light sabers. Each you would have to put a second mortgage on your house to buy. But parents were buying it all.
Anyway, I'm sitting in the stands (which were pretty good seats, actually), and am observing. In front of me, they are giving elephant rides for $10. You get to ride the elephant around the little ring twice. That's $5 a lap. Over on the other end, they are giving pony rides for $5. You get more than two rotations (maybe three), but you are going around so fast, I expected small children to be airborne by sheer centrifugal force.
There's a bungee jump thing in the corner, and I don't know how much they were charging per bounce. But the one thing that caught my eye was the Titanic Slide.
What. The. Hell? Am I the only one who finds this disturbing??? Apparently not, because parents were shelling out dollars so their kids could slide down the deck, much in the same manner that the actual Titanic passengers did when the ship was plunging into the frigid waters of the Atlantic. I'm surprised they didn't have a little quartet of kazoo players near by playing, "Nearer My God to Thee".
So, the circus actually begins with the ringmaster singing some cheesey little opening song, with a handful of girls dressed in skimpy Vegas showgirl outfits. One had a bad case of muffin top.
The lights dim and the Shriner clowns play a game with the audience, or rather, those in the audience who bought those spinner lights. They told everyone turn them off, and then on the count of three, everyone turn them back on. Exciting! This served no purpose other than to shame the cheap parents who didn't buy them for their children. Disappointed cries could be heard throughout the arena.
The first act is the tigers and the smell of pee fills the air as hundreds of children wet themselves with excitement. Sis-in-Law says it was tiger pee that I smelled, but I know better.
I'm not one of those freaky PETA people, but I felt bad for the tigers. I don't know if it was because such a graceful, beautiful thing was not meant to be a circus act, or it was just being in this particular circus, but I found myself wishing one would swallow the head of the trainer. Is that bad?
And so the circus goes in standard fashion: trapeze, high wire, Shriner clowns, trampoline, guys on bikes in a big metal ball, Shriner clowns, jugglers, some people playing drums half as well as I do, dancing bears, Shriner clowns, and various other acts that I refer to as Stupid Human Tricks. Oh, and some lady was shot out of a cannon. Big Finish!
The worst part? Not one beer to be found during that entire event. I asked a vendor why, and she sniffed, "This is a family event." So!! I would think that for such an event is when you need beer the most! Oh well. If they charged $2.50 for a can of soda, I imagine you'd have to sign the title of your car over for a bottle of Bud Light.
Financially drained, everyone files out of the auditorium, with their sugar-laden hyped-up children, all waving their little spinning light wands that probably died by the end of the day. Or turned up missing at the hand of the parents who were tired of listening to the same tune over and over and over again.
I hope the next baby who has to wear braces on their legs, understands the sacrifice I made on their behalf. I sat through a Shriners Circus so that they may walk.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
November, it would appear, is a Man's Cancer Awareness Month. Instead of coloring everything one color, it was decided that the best way to bring awareness to the cancer of men's dangly parts and internal plumbing, was for the menfolk to grow a porn stache.
Meesha has been chronicling his facial pube journey. Chipotle has thrown his face fuzz into the cause as well.
(On a side note, porn stache's scare me. The Boy had some weird facial hair style thing going on for a while. He looked like an ice cream truck driver. It gave me nightmares. Thankfully, he caved to the online tauntings of his friends and got rid of it. However, the image is forever seared in my mind...)
But it got me thinking. Men will wear the pink to support the boobie cause. What can women do to return the favor in kind?? Not all women were blessed with the power to grow a full stache. I mean, I have one rogue hair that likes to crop up on my chin, but even if I allowed it to grow, you still couldn't see it because it's so dam light. It's not enough to be effective! It lacks impact! It just doesn't convey to the world that I support the men folk in their fight against dangly part cancers!!
Then it came to me. While most women may not grow hair on their faces, we do grow hair in other places.
So, in observance of Men's Cancer Awareness Month, I propose that the women of the world unite and stop shaving for the month of November. Legs! Armpits! Delicate girly parts!! The more hair, the more you can show your support of our brothers in their cause.
And if you have questions about how to avoid shaving, ask our European sisters for pointers.
Hair cuts are still acceptable. We're not total barbarians.
So, toss those razors, ladies! Let Operation: Fuzz for Cancer commence!!! Do it for the health of the special men in your lives!! Fathers, Husbands, Boyfriends, Brothers. Show them we are in the trenches with them, right by their side!!!
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
It finally occurred to me that she could be in heat.
This might explain why she pounces on Sam each morning when I let them out. Sam, who has been fixed since he was a little boy, clearly has no idea what to do with the ladies. Bewildered, he just looks at her, then me, then her, almost as if pleading for me to save him from the wanton trollop.
Then, she routinely flops over onto her back with her legs in the air. May as well attach a sign to her ass that says, "Free! Help yourself!!" And she has that look.
You know that look. You see that look in the eyes of countless females at the Power and Light District.
I have since scheduled an appointment to get her girly parts fixed.
Meanwhile, I'm going to have a talk with her. Just because she's not getting her needs met, doesn't mean she needs to act so desperate. She can take a page from my book and GET SOME SELF CONTROL.Damn horndog.
The odd thing, the woman wanted to know what I was putting out. Uh...crap I don't want that I can't put out on regular garbage day. No, she wanted specifics. Like I know every little thing that goes. I usually just blow throw the house picking stuff at random to toss. So, I just covered the basics of what I knew already earned a spot. I'll find a couple surprises to leave out there as well.
The laundry room is almost complete. The tile floor is done, walls painted, ceiling repaired, re-textured, and repainted. New sink. New light fixtures. It's going to be glorious when it's completed. Pics will be forthcoming.
Halloween was a general bust around my neighborhood. I bought a shitload of candy (which I am told is an actual unit of measurement), and only had 12 trick or treaters. Not counting Mom who came over with a paper bag over her head. I just enticed her into the house with promises of candy and my puppy.
Of those 12, only 3 came without costumes. Grr. Halloween is simple. You wear a costume, you get paid in candy. It isn't rocket science. A couple girls showed up bathed in glitter. I don't know what they were supposed to be (Christmas ornaments??), but at least they tried. No-costume Boys got DumDum pops.
So now I have a shitload of candy. I'm slowly dishing it out at work because those nurses will eat anything you put on the break room table. Next year, I may just forgo the trick or treaters, and find a nice party to go to instead.
I'll dress as a Christmas ornament.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Is the economy so bad that people have to resort to this?? I hate people who do this kind of crap...steal from people who work really hard to get what they have, only to have some pinhead skulk over in the middle of the night and help themselves to what they didn't earn, and not theirs.
This girl is probably one of the sweetest girls you could ever meet, so it really sucks that this happened to her.
And for that reason, I can only hope the tire blows out while car is being driven down 435, flips over, and the robbers end up with limbs missing.
Or they can just burn in the car fire.
Nope, this week, I'm having a huge allergy flare-up. I really need to see an allergist so they can do that allergy test to tell me exactly what makes me so miserable. It's probably George. And oxygen.
So, I've been sneezing all over the place, and working down in the laundry room makes it worse because of all the drywall dust and general dust I'm stirring up in rearranging the garage and storage room. But I have to help because that is part of my home remodeling arrangement with Mr. Recommendation (I probably should invest in some masks...or just appropriate some from work.) With the sneezes, come the snotty nose and I have rubbed said nose off down to a little nub (even with fancy-schmancy tissues with lotion). Anyone know who Michael Jackson used to get his fake noses from? I figured I could pick out a cute little button nose instead of the board straight Nordic nose I inherited from my father's side.
Funny thing about the sneezes. I get a couple good ones in, strong and loud because I can do that in my own home, and it makes my spine tingle. I haven't decided if I like it. I probably need a spinal alignment. I'll just add it to my list of crap to do.
I've been reading up on the plague, I mean, swine flu. Wichita is getting hit pretty hard, and it's only going to come to Kansas City and make for a long, miserable winter for health care workers. I didn't realize that a variation of this flu made a big splash in the 70's-80's, which is why you see the younger people getting hit harder than the older folks. Most the older folks have already been exposed and have some sort of immunity. Us young'uns...not so much. I'm sure it doesn't help that the younger generation has been fed antibiotics as an after school snack for every sniffle since birth. Plus, if you have some sort of respiratory issue, you're really in for a kick in the ass if you catch this one. If ever were a good reason to quit smoking, now would be a good time to start.
I called my mother and asked her if I got sick with it when I was younger, in hopes of not having to take the vaccine. I wasn't, and she's making me get the vaccine. My mother making her 34 year old RN daughter get the H1N1 vaccine. Sheesh. She may be small, but don't piss her off.
I still stand by my original opinion that this flu isn't any worse than regular flu. I guess more people are taking notice because it's targeting young people. Regular flu kills tons of old people every year, and yet it barely registers even a blip on the radar of the media. Won't anyone think of the old people???
Wash your hands. Cough in a hankie. And for God's sake, if you are sick, stay the fuck home! No matter if you have garden variety flu, swine flu, or Klingon flu.
This morning, I woke up way early and decided to make a trip to Hellmart, which surprisingly, was nice and quiet and deserted, save for the workers who were stocking the shelves. I bought way too much Halloween candy. I bought some good candy for the kids who actually wear costumes this year, and then Dum Dum pops (get it?) for those who don't bother...but that is a rant best saved for another post.
I think I will go back to bed for a little nap before going shopping for new frilly unmentionables. Good bra shopping is serious business, and I need to be well rested and completely focused when I go.
Friday, October 23, 2009
I do this because I want people to be empowered, and I want the right information to get out there.With that in mind, this website was brought to my attention by some of my other sex-toy sling colleagues. The Netflix of sex toys, it is Rent-a-Dildo.com.
I didn't stutter. You read that right.
The premise is exactly like Netflix. You pay a monthly fee, you pick out a toy, and it comes to you "clean". You keep the toy for as long as it blows your skirt up, and when you are done, you send it back and they send you the next toy in your queue.
Who the hell thought of this? What the hell were they thinking? And most importantly, what drug were they on when they thought this would actually be a good idea????
So, let's say Earl McDumbass and his wife Twila are wanting to add spice to their sex lives. They go to Rent-a-Dildo (I shudder every time I type that) and pick out the double-ended, two-foot pink jelly dong. It arrives. Earl and Twila get their freak on with said toy for two solid weeks. After that time, the DETFPJD has lost it's luster and Earl remembers that the next item on their list is a replica of John Holmes' Butthole -o-Pleasure. Earl and Twila send the DETFPJD back to the headquarters, and anxiously await the arrival of their new toy.
Did I mention that Twila and Earl might bathe once a week? And that Earl has anal warts? And Twila has herpes? And the single wide trailer they reside at The Mayfair is held together by Elmer's Glue, duct tape, and mouse poop.
So, DETFPJD goes back to headquarters where it is allegedly cleaned, sterilized, and repackaged to be sent out for the next eagerly waiting client...your grandparents.
You know, I once had a nursey friend tell me about a patient she took care of that used to go dumpster diving in a college town. On one of their DD safaris, the woman came across some student's discarded Mr. Willy. She hurried home with her treasure, and after cleaning it with soap and water, proceeded to tickle herself into the throes of rapture.
Months later, she ends up with a severe case of rotten crotch and cervical cancer.
Your parents instill in you the values of sharing, but in life, there are certain things you probably should not share...underwear, toothbrush, needles, and sex toys. You buy these things brand new, and when they wear out, fulfill their need, you discard them. Sex with people and with toys are a lot alike in the respect that you don't who or what they came in contact before you entered the picture. I don't care how well they claim to clean it...would you like to get your rocks off with a rabbit who's previous user had some mutant AIDS strain that was impervious to most standard disinfecting agents???? Sure, they guarantee the cleanliness, but would you really want to take that chance???
Overall, Rent-a-Dildo is probably the most retarded idea. Ever. And I say that because even a Downs Syndrome person would look at it and say, "That's fucking retarded!" Because it is. It's retarded, and disgusting, and the people who came up with this idea needs to have their heads examined.
But they are not accepting paying customers yet. Right now, it's in Beta testing. With any luck, the company never gets off the ground. However, if you are an adventure-seeking moron, feel free to sign up for email updates so you can be among the first to get in line and await your turn to have a go with the replica Jenna Jameson Poonanny!!
A Netflix for porn would be a better idea, but I don't know of anyone that sticks a dvd in their vagina or ass for a thrill either. But then, I don't work in the ER, so I'm privy to all the shit they pull out of orifices there.
For $20 a month, you can build up your own arsenal of pleasure without the risk. Hell, I will even sell them to you.
For the time being, I'm going to go throw up.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Plus, I'm making white sangria.
So, we have chocolate, toys, and a wine-based beverage. All the things a girl could possibly want, all under one roof.
I really need to finish cleaning the house. And I need to run to the store and buy a few last-minute things.
Instead, I'm here on the computer, blogging about it.
There's no shame in my procrastination game.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Anyway, they go to Liberty and they run a mono test. Negative. They run a strep test. Also negative. They tell her she's going to be discharged and sent home.
But wait, the boyfriend interjects, you didn't test her for swine flu.
Well, it turns out that the girlfriend didn't have insurance. And the test to diagnose H1N1 was too expensive to do on someone who didn't have insurance, and therefore, they refused to do it.
Have a nice day!
Fuckers. I've always disliked that hospital.
Anyway, last I knew, the boyfriend was going to take her to another hospital, one that actually gave two shits about treating sick people and not about money, and hopefully she won't infect anyone else in her travels to seek care.
But what about the law that says a hospital can't deny treatment because of your ability to pay? That only applies to emergent cases. I'd wager that while Liberty will initially treat the uninsured, they immediately ship them to another hospital once they are stable. I don't have to bet money, I've talked to people who have witnessed this firsthand.
Cock sucking assholes.
I'm happy I work at a hospital where we treat anyone, regardless of their inability to pay. I've never once heard a doctor deny treatment to someone because they were uninsured. I've never heard of a patient get preferential treatment because they had better coverage.
So, here's to you, Liberty Hospital. May you choke on your own self-righteousness and may your entire administrative staff get struck down with the clap. Or better, the swine flu.
And may your insurance plan not cover the cure.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
He was dressed in jeans, running shoes with no socks, and a button-down shirt. Sounds okay, right? Well, it would have been fine, and I probably wouldn't have noticed him in the first place if he had his shirt buttoned. Now, I'm not talking about all the way up to the top button, but for the love of God, all the way down to your belly button isn't acceptable either. But there it was, chest fuzz for all the world to feast upon. The only thing missing was the heavy gold chain. Oh, and to further cement his douche bag look, he left the cuffs on his shirt unbuttoned so they would flop around when he waved his hands in the air. You know, because nothing says hipster cool like a guy who dresses to impress in sloppy Guido wear. I bet money he spent at least an hour in front of the mirror before his big date perfecting his "I don't care about being trendy" look.
He kept glancing at me, probably because I have special Douche Bag Radar. And big boobs.
So his date, you know the type...looks like every other girl who goes to Power and Light and doesn't have an original thought bobbing around in their head. I don't know why Guido was trying so hard, it was painfully obvious she was going to put out at the end of the evening.
Even though he totally took her to Sweet Tomato on their first date.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
But I had to work the ENTIRE weekend, postponing my meet and greet with the new beebs because I was coerced into picking up an extra shift. That Smo is a hardass. My training in the fine arts of hardassdom is coming along nicely.
So, last night, I finally got to meet her. She's so tiny. I don't remember Peanut being so small, but I guess she was. My joy at my new niece can only be eclipsed by watching Brother interact with her. She's like a little planet, and he's a moon that orbits around her.
Brother, having been under the disinct impression that he could not produce children, is beside himself with the new hybrid. Covered in tattoos and piercings, people's first impressions of him are generally not favorable. But when people get to know him, they discover that he's probably one of the most generous and friendly people you could ever meet.
He's using words like adorable, and beautiful, and precious. Words I don't ever remember him using, to describe his daughter. His daughter. He holds her like she's made of fine china and regards her with a reverence I've never seen him exhibit. I feel sorry for the boys who come calling for her when she's a teenager. She's definitely going to be a Daddy's Girl.
It seems like yesterday he was riding around the neighborhood on his bicycle, and I was vigilent, making sure Redneck Brother didn't pick on him. My baby brother. It speaks volumes to a person when the baby of the family is having babies of his own.
As for me? Holding little Kaylee, it made me think of my own biological clock. I don't really hear it, so it's not like I'm one of those child-driven women. I'm 34. Is having a family of my own still possible? I'm not even dating anyone seriously. Is it something I even want? Mom suggested I just find a donor and have one, but I still consider myself old-fashioned that I'd really like to have the Dad present. Marriage and all that stuff...if I decide to go that route.
So, while I remain perched on the fence, I will just enjoy having nieces and nephews. At can at least spoil them and then send them back to their parents house. As for the latest addition to the clan, she's a night person. Sleeps all day, howls all night.
She takes after her aunt that way.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Note the irony. An internet search will reveal the mountains of batshit crazy this women is. I'll leave it to you for when there is nothing good on television. It would almost be funny, until you consider that her attitude promotes the kind of mentality that gets people killed.Jon and Kate. He's a self-centered douche bag, she's a soul-sucking bitch. Together, they make me want drive a go-cart headfirst into a semi truck. No discernible talent (unless you count having a clown-car for a vagina a talent), and yet they are celebrities. Why? WHY?? One can only hope they die in nuclear fire, and their children can be taken care of by loving people who aren't interested in whoring them out for a paycheck. And while that nuclear fire is burning hot, toss in the entire Kardashian clan, everyone who is on a reality show on MTV and VH1. And ABC. And Fox. Oh hell, just toss them all in. But save Top Chef.
Oh, and Kate, I had that same fucking hair style TEN YEARS AGO! Only I wore it better.
Glenn Beck. If you looked up douche bag in Webster's Dictionary, I'm fairly confident you would find this asshat's picture instead of a printed definition. Actually, douche bag is being too nice. They haven't created a word yet that totally encompasses what a complete tool this guy is. Until then, I will have to settle for every other derogatory adjective I can think of.
A friend of mine, the one who wanted me to have NSA sex with him in exchange for a Q'Doba burrito because he happened to have a coupon, is a hard-line conservative. Probably the only person I know who listens to Rush and Mike and enjoys it. He readily admits he likes Glenn Beck because he's an entertainer. No, Bill Cosby is an entertainer. Garth Brooks is an entertainer. This guy is an asshole. The self proclaimed voice of moral clarity and reason, he once called up a colleague's wife and made jokes about the miscarriage she had a few days prior. Yup, quality entertainment! But this guy has thousands of devout fans, even crazier than he is. Beck is also the kind of guy that promotes hysterical, ignorant frenzy amongst the redneck crowd that gets people killed.
Maybe Glenn Beck and Orly Taitz ought to take their legions of batshit crazy followers and relocate to a small island in the Pacific. With lots of grape Kool-aid.
And they can take Jon, Kate, and those Go-Daddy Girls with them.
Tonight, I went to the lovely Ms. Janet's house for a chocolate tasting party. It was so good, I booked one. I figure I can make a bunch of sangria, and if the chocolate presentation ends early enough, I can bust out a small demo of my goods.
Chocolate. Sangria. Toys. It's the Ladies Essentials Trifecta! Let me know if you want to go, I'll send you an invite.
Haven't heard much out of The Boy lately. He goes through what I have dubbed "Dark Moods", so I just let him have his space. He knows I care and am concerned, and am here if he needs an ear and a shoulder. He may not feel the same way I feel, but I just decided to own my feelings. I can still love someone without them returning the favor. I can still worry, and rejoice, and want the very best for someone else without any expectations. It's all part of my human experience.
So suck it.
I'm not afraid of much, but depression, in any magnitude, scares the hell out of me given my past experiences with family members who have been affected by it. It makes me relive painful things and touches the darkest corners of my heart, and it almost debilitates me with terror and anxiety that makes me afraid to answer the phone when it rings. I try not to think of it, I don't like where my mind goes, and it makes me go into my own "Dark Mood". Normally, I can snap out of it, but just going there, and that feeling of helplessness...
And speaking of phones, my cell phone service is not working. I'm not overly thrilled, and I've already spoken with the pinheads at AT&T. They tell me my phone should be working, but it's not. So, if you have been trying to call me (and I know everyone has been trying to call me because I'm so desirable), have patience.
I managed to snag the attention of the guy who does the lawn of one of my neighbors. He also does landscaping and offered some great suggestions of my backyard that doesn't involve grass. Because my backyard looks like Afghanistan, there's not much hope for any type of grass to grow under such large trees, a huge yard of mulch might be an option....with various flora and fauna that can grow in a desolace. I'll spend the winter trying to come up some something awesome. Meanwhile, the new Grass Man (who has a degree in horticulture ftw!), will be coming over next week to work on the front yard.
I will have a lush lawn somewhere on my property!!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I actually know a couple people who got the "swine flu", they stayed home, they followed doctor's orders, and now they are fine. No one panicked. No one died. This isn't the Black Plague.
Mom was telling me that her work rolled out a new policy regarding the swine flu. In a nutshell, it says if you are sick, stay home. If you come to work sick, you'll get in trouble.
But at her job, you don't come in, you still get in trouble. It's like that at a lot of places. Sure, they may puff out their chests, fluff their feathers, and make a big show at how you should think of your coworkers and not come to work, infecting them with your illness. However, you get sick and actually follow their "policy", I guarantee you that a write-up regarding your crappy attendance will be waiting on your desk when you return. Not to mention, in these hard economic times, people are scared of losing their jobs. Hell, there are people who have been waiting months on unemployment for your job to open up. Employers know this. You are easily replaceable.
And this fear, I think, is why the sickness spreads. Sick people will show up at the jobs they are terrified of losing, and before the end of the day, they have left their little microbes all over the office. The company can at least say, "Hey, we told them not to come in", absolving them of any guilt.
So, people, just be smart about the whole flu thing, and take your lead from medical professionals who are NOT PANICKING. Not the media who would have you convinced you should wrap your house in cling wrap and fill it with Dial soap and Isopropyl alcohol.
Wash your hands. When in doubt, wash your hands. Bored? Wash your hands. Nothing good on t.v? Wash those hands. Carry around hand sanitizer because there are some people out there who are allergic to soap and water. Or they belong to a religion that prohibits hand washing immediately after using the bathroom (ewww). Hand washing is the number one proven method for preventing illness. Nursing fundamental 101, and I have the rough, chapped, ugly hands to prove it.
And for godsakes, DON'T PANIC!!
Thursday, September 17, 2009
I went to the doc today, and I have bilateral ear infections and possible sinus infection and my Eustachian tubes are still blocked (collapsed). Sweet! So, I got a more meds to clutter up my medicine cabinet with.
Nothing to report. Hopefully, I won't be pulling an all-nighter.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
After battled the parking lot that is weekend Branson traffic, we finally made it to our hotel. Checking in, we were given two room keys. Keys...not swipe cards. Two keys with big hug key fob that had our room number on it in large, gold print. You know, in case someone found it and wanted to come help themselves to our crap.
Hungry, we walked next door to the Fall Creek Catfish and Steakhouse. I failed to notice on the sign the phrase, "Home of the Tossed Roll".
I don't consider myself afraid of a lot of things, but I discovered my fear at flying food. I don't know if there is a phobia for this, but I sat, wide eyed and in terror whenever the guy who was missing his front teeth popped out the kitchen with this bowl of hot bread. My hands gripped the table, I avoided making eye contact with him for fear of being pelted with warm, yeasty rolls. I may have even broke out in a cold sweat.
After dinner, we decided to turn in early because we had to be at the dive site at 0830. At least we wouldn't have to get up early to shower.
The next day, after an unremarkable complimentary continental breakfast with bad coffee, we hauled ass to the dive site, which was a rocky beach area at Table Rock Lake. Stewie and I were assigned to Divemaster John. After donning our wetsuits, and strapping out ten tons of gear, we waded into the lake. Water pea-green and visibility about 3 feet, unless you happened onto a spot where everyone churned up the silt, then you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.
All day, we would take turns going underwater, demonstrating our skill competency, and then go on "tours", which entails your divemaster leading you around the dive area, looking at various landmarks. And by landmarks, I mean rocks covered in green slime, and little sun fish. The fish were kind of fun as they would swim up to you and take a nibble, and as a result, I have some fish hickeys on my legs and arms.
We did 3 dives that day. After all was said and done, and some Happy Helpertons lugged our gear up to the car, we went back to the hotel, showered, and decided a visit to the local Stone Hill Winery location was in order before dinner.
A short tour and three cases of wine loaded in my car later, we went and had dinner with rest of our diving group. Thankfully, no food was airborne.
Sunday morning, another mediocre continental breakfast, we met up at the dive site again. Two more dives followed by tours of green slime-covered rocks. By noon, everyone was certified to scuba dive, and I was rendered partially deaf due to the full ear blocks I experienced. Apparently, I'm special because I couldn't get my ears to clear the pressure correctly. Plus I had some sinus issues that left me, on more than one occasion, a scuba mask full of blood. My own blood. Which usually isn't a good thing if you plan on someday diving where sharks freely roam.
We made it back home in record time. Since having been back, I've acquired a nasty sinus infection and my ears are still blocked. I have purchased so many meds containing psuedofed, I'm sure CVS now thinks I have a meth lab in my house.
But I still can't hear shit. Whenever I have to talk on the phone, I'm apparently yelling. Because I have no equilibrium, I frequently get dizzy and stagger all over the house. I'm having some pretty bad ear pain, I hope I didn't rupture my ear drum. That would suck.
My doctor appointment is tomorrow morning.
But isn't diving fun?!?!?!
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
E-Harmony had a promotional deal for the Labor Day weekend where you could communicate for free for the entire weekend. Then, you will meet your soul mate and bowling partner (according to the commercials, anyway).
I joined eHarmony once. I went to nursing school with a girl who had met her husband through that site, and he was a nice guy. I had been out of my serious relationship for a while, and I thought why the hell not?
How it works, is that you spend an ungodly amount of time answering a shitload of questions about you, your ideals, core values, mission statements, and all those snappy catch words that are usually reserved for work resumes. But this was your dating resume, which is much more important that any career because you are applying to be a soul mate. So, after answering a gajillion questions, the eHarmony gnomes process your answers and spits out a list of people they feel you match up with.
Now, I don't consider myself a social pariah, but apparently, eHarmony thought so. Okay, so maybe the matches didn't meet my own personal expectations, and some might argue that is why I fail at the dating scene...my standards are set way too high. eHarmony was apparently telling me to lower mine, because if I did, my dating options were limitless as long as I didn't consider good dental hygiene a priority as well as a college degree.
eHarmony, knowing that I was a nurse, apparently thought my singleness would be cured by putting me with guys who apparently needed a nurse. I had to check to make sure I didn't accidentally hit the wrong button and navigated to a private duty nurse website. Some guys have a secret desire to be with a woman who knows how to work a pole. My matches had a blatant need for a woman who could work an IV pole.
My membership with eHarmony was short-lived. I never did meet anyone from that site. The final straw was the guy who wanted to meet in person, but said I had to drive because his disability wouldn't allow for it. However, his mom would be more than willing to drop him off somewhere. I work as nurse, I don't particularly care to be one when I come home as well. Unless it calls for me to wear these...
Fuck you, eHarmony.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
At any rate, I go to my last class, which is classroom lecture, followed by the test. Some 85 multiple choice question test. As we sat in the little classroom, that weird guy kept clucking throughout the entire thing, but worse. This time, it was cackling. Periodically, he would call out letters, and then at one point, he started laughing. It even alarmed the children. The adults just had to work harder to ignore him. I resisted the urge to go stab his throat with my ink pen and toss him into the swimming pool.
I think it was safe to say that what his problem was had little do with ADD, and more to do with stuff that only Librium can help with.
Needless to say, I passed. And so did Stewie! We decided to strike while the iron is hot, and book our open water dive for next month.
Hopefully, The Clucker won't be in our group.
Anyway, the garage called me yesterday. The garage guy said, "Well, the good news is that is was a bad blah-de-blah switch and we can fix it."
Great! Oh, but wait, there's bad news. The announcement of "good news" always comes paired with "bad news". Like they have make sure you are aware of which is good, and which is bad.
Mechanic: Good news! It's a blah-de-blah switch and we can fix it.
Me: Good...er, what's the bad news?
Mechanic: That part is on back order.
Me: For how long?
Mechanic: Indefinitely. Chrysler has about 3000 of them on back order.
Me: So what does that mean???
Mechanic: It means you are going to have to go without headlights.
Me: I can't do that! I work nights, for crying out loud!!
Mechanic: Well, I was able to locate a used one for you.
Mechanic: It's going to cost you just under $300.
Me: Sheesh! Do they provide complimentary lube?
Mechanic: No, an oil change is extra.
So, it is agreed that they will put the used part in the car when it comes in, because used is better than nothing at all...especially since there are over 2000 other schmucks out there waiting for the same part.
The weekend rolls around, and I pick up the car on Sunday. I have working headlights, but no turn signals. While in Johnson County this wouldn't be seen as an issue, not having turn signals make me nervous. I call the shop on Monday to report my findings, and I can literally hear the mechanic deflate on the other end of the phone. I am told to bring it back to the shop the following morning.
Wednesday, I speak to the mechanic who tells me that another hard-to-find part they procured was also faulty, but they have found ANOTHER part, and it will be in two days. Magic!
Friday, I call the shop and mechanic tells me that the part came in, but it was the wrong part and we are now back to square one waiting for a part to be shipped from somewhere. Anywhere. He is as exasperated as I am. My only option is to drive my car around JoCo style and wait for the call that my Holy Grail of parts has arrived.
Which happened to be 30 minutes after I got off the phone. The mechanic is ecstatic that the car is now fixed and he can now get it out of his shop and I can stop calling to harp on him. I'm just happy that I will be getting my car back and I can quit borrowing Mom's car.
So, I picked it up this weekend. The headlights work, the turn signals work. However, my fog lights don't work because the multifunction switch doesn't have the turn-cranky option for fog lights.
Damn you, Chrysler! Damn you to hell! For all those bailouts you just got, the least you can do is give me a new car that you don't make replacement parts for because you can't afford to because no one is buying your overpriced turds that break down once you get one mile away from the dealership. Not to mention you owe so much money, that your vendors refuse to make even one rubber band for you until they get what you owe, and other vendors won't even touch you because they know you have an aversion to paying your bills.
It's sad to think that I wouldn't have nearly the problems if I owned a foreign car. Which will probably be my next vehicle purchase.
And the one after that.
And the one after that.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The guy came this close to having me go over and poke him in the eye with my ink pen. Stewie guessed he had ADD. I surmised that he was probably going to have a nurse-induced head injury by the end of our scuba training.
Afterwards, Stewie and I went to the Blue Grotto for beverages and snacks. Because it was a Monday, and later in the evening, it wasn't that crowded. We opted for a table inside. Ordered some food, and spent the rest of the evening chatting about life, scuba, lamenting relationships, work, and a host of other things that escape me for the time being.
The food was great. The ambience was great. The place was gorgeous. The establishment had a mod and trendy feel with coming off all douche-baggy. However, at the bar, a butterfaced blond wearing clothes that would have looked better on a Hannah Montana fan, was completely hammered and had wrapped herself around her boyfriend. When someone behaves so inappropriately at a place where you expect to see grown-ups behaving like grown-ups and not strippers, it's hard to hard to not look...but I found my eyes wandering over to her and her apparent disregard for decorum. Her eyes met mine a couple times and apparently thought I was going to make a play for her boyfriend, because then it got worse. At one point, she pulled up her shirt and flashed him (mine are bigger), checking his tonsils to make sure they were still there, and I think she may have started dry humping his leg.
At some point, he reached his hand up under her skirt. Maybe he was studying to be a gynecologist and needed practice. I don't know, and I don't care. I only hoped he would wash his hands thoroughly before touching anything else.
Now, I don't consider myself a prude in terms of sex and sexuality. On the contrary, I have pretty impressive freak flag. However, I come from the school of "Lady on the streets, freak in the sheets". There is a time and a place for everything, and playing Finger bang in someplace other than Erotic City...not cool.
Have some dignity and save that crap for a venue that doesn't serve food to it's patrons. Or at most drinking establishments in Westport....I hear they like that sort of thing there.
After we watched Skanky McButterface being carried out by her boyfriend (of the evening), we stayed and gabbed a little more with the other staff...all of whom witnessed the behavior, and admitted that it was standard for her. And that she was married. But the guy who was checking for pubic lice wasn't her husband.
This just gets better and better!
Other than the Porn Show, my experience at Blue Grotto was pleasant, and I would definitely visit again. The establishment can't be faulted because some of it's patrons might have the couth of Funkhouser's wife, so I'm sure my experience was an isolated incident (I hope).
At any rate, Stewie and I said our goodbyes, and we got in our cars. Mine smelled suspiciously like burning wires, and my headlights wouldn't turn on. Because I'm terrified of being in a burning car, I flag Stewie down and she drove me home. So, in the morning, I have to go take my car in the shop and hope they have it fixed by the time I have to go to work.
Electric work on a car is rarely cheap. I'll make sure to take some extra lube when I go to pick it up.
Meanwhile, I'll just hope and pray that it doesn't spontaneously combust in the parking lot.
AND I'll practice relaxing my sphincter muscles.
Monday, August 10, 2009
I've always wanted to take proper scuba classes since I did a resort dive during a visit to Cozumel. A resort dive is basically where you get a 30 minutes crash course hitting the hot spots of scuba. Then, you go an do a dive that may be 30 feet underwater...tops. All while you are being led around by your "dive master" who has to babysit you because in 30 minutes, you can't possibly know what the hell you are doing underwater. Our "dive master" Pedro spent move of the dive staring at my chest. The other guy could have ran out of air, and I'm fairly confident that Pedro wouldn't have noticed.
At any rate, as crude a dive as it was, I was hooked on the whole idea of venturing underwater. I've been blathering about taking classes since then, but then life would always get in the way, and my plans would go back on the list of crap I wanted to do, whenever I would get around to doing it.
Recently, my friend and coworker Stewie and myself decided to pull the trigger and take scuba classes. She finally put foot to ass and now we are in the midst of learning what could be the most expensive hobby I have ever decided to take up.
First night, I was expecting it to be strictly classroom stuff, but found out at the last minute that we would be venturing in the pool. I was forced to shave my legs, which wasn't overly terrible when you compare it to the fact I'd been eating baked beans all weekend. I'm sure the bubbles and the smell would distract from the fact that you look like the missing link.
We strapped on 1000lbs of gear and ventured into the pool. Now, when I say I'm not a mouth-breather, I'm not making a statement that I don't belong in the unwashed hippy demographic. I breathe in and out of my nose...usually. Scuba demands you become a mouth breather because your nose is holed up on some mask that fogs up every two minutes because chlorinated water and diving masks are not on speaking terms.
Mask on my face, I pop the regulator in my mouth and submerge. I immediately have a small panic attack and am hyperventilating underwater. Apparently, I'm not alone as my entire class is producing copious amounts of air bubbles. The instructor observes that we are using our air at an alarming rate.
The second night is strictly pool time, and I do much better with the breathing. However, the water is cooler for some reason, and everyone is blue by the time the class ends, some 3 hours later. We learn the art of jumping into the water from the side of the pool while packing a bazillion pounds of gear. It doesn't help that we carry some extra weight to weigh us down because some of us are more buoyant than others.
Boobs float. Who knew!
I also discovered that I have the talent that enables me to jump out of my fins and leave them on the side of the pool.
The instructor (cute but unfortunately married) is somewhat of a hardass. I can appreciate it, though. Scuba is one of those things that if you miss the smallest detail, you drown. He gets annoyed when our attention strays, so I try not to piss him off. I get the impression that the guy has a fury you don't ever want to be the lucky recipient of. Sort of like mine.
Right now, I'm looking for a wetsuit that won't make me look like 20lbs of sausage stuffed into a 10lb neoprene wrapper. It's a daunting task as most wetsuits are designed for women who still have to wear training bras...even into their middle age. The world is not kind to women with large sweater kittens, unless you are a porn star. From what I understand, they prefer to spend most of their time writhing around on a beach naked, rather than going underwater to look at brightly colored fish.
Now, we are almost halfway done with our classes. Stewie and I are already talking about open-water dives, possible adventures we can go on. I'm trying to talk my mother into taking classes, and I think she wants to. I'm trying to talk all my other friends into taking classes. More than one dive buddy is never a bad thing.
Come dive with me! I promise I won't eat any baked beans before we go.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
If you feel the need to visit, a small group is fine...maybe bring some flowers or balloons. IT IS NOT APPROPRIATE to bring your party's alcoholic trough and set it up in the CONFERENCE ROOM. If someone else had seen that spread, and assumed it belonged to the staff, we would have CNN camped out in the hospital lobby.
I can see it now, Nurses Getting Sloshed While Caring for Your Sick Mother....details at 10.
And when we tell you that you can't have your party in our hospital, don't act all surprised like this is news to you. WHAT HOSPITAL ALLOWS YOU TO HAVE DRUNKEN FRAT PARTIES ON SITE?????
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!?!?!?1!?
The shallow end of the gene pool...I work there.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I started with the garage.
After going through the boxes of crap that came from my old storage shed, I set aside a bunch of stuff earmarked for the garage sale. Lots of stuff from my younger days that I no longer need. I also pitched a bunch of stuff as well.
The sad part, is that after toiling all afternoon, I'm not even close to being done. Four days off from work (including a rare weekend), and all I have to show for it is a pile of old clothes, costume jewelry, and ugly picture frames.
So if you need me, I will be in the garage.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
After I woke up, the house was quiet, seemed bigger, and a lot more empty.
All this means is that I can go back to sleeping naked again. Woo hoo!
On a more somber note, some of you may have read about the recent developments at the Harley Davidson plant. The Boomers are aging, and it appears they are the main driving force behind Harley's success. Everyone else (i.e. younger people) are buying less expensive bikes. So, unless Harley comes out with a line of motorized scooters, I doubt their sales will return to the pinnacle of their glory days.
At any rate, Brother was one of the many, many employees who were given their notices. Laid off...permanently. On the cusp of moving into a new house with a pregnant girlfriend. As worried as I am, they are unconcerned. They have a better idea of their finances than I do, so I will try to take a page from their book and not worry about it so much. Old habits are hard to break, I've been worrying about that boy since forever.
Also this afternoon, I woke up to an empty driveway. Meaning...Oprah was gone! Brother finally found a buyer for the truck. Finally! I did a celebratory dance in the vacated spot where the truck used to sit. Tomorrow, I shall lay down in the same spot and make dirt angels in the runoff that has accumulated in the year it sat there. My neighbors, who have had to look at that ugly thing as well, convinced I was single-handedly making their property values plummet, probably had a small stroke when they noticed the truck was gone.
Of course, with the eyesore of the truck being gone, you can't help but notice that my lawn looks really, really sad.
If grass were hair, my yard would look like Donald Trump's head.
The beautification projects around here are without end.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Things have been crazy lately. Brother and Co. moved in at the beginning of this month, along with Hank (who now tops the scales at 150lbs), and Vick (a terrier). Combined with my four-legged brood, there is dog hair everywhere, and the chorus of barks is enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
George is stressed out and losing clumps of fuzz.
Having the nephew around is handy. He started walking, in my house. He toddles around with his arms in the air, mouth open to a big toothy smile. He's cute, that kid. And he appears to like me. I kinda like him, too. His crib is in my office, and when he sleeps, I can't be in there because it distracts from his sleep. And he sleeps a lot. So, my computer time has been drastically reduced. I suspect to be homesteading more frequently next week as Brother and Co will be moving to their new and improved humble abode this weekend. Woohoo!!
I also like the baby momma. We've hung out, and I've discovered that she and I are a lot a like in temperment and attitude. Poor Brother!
I just observed my 5-year anniversary at work. Today, the Bosshole made a big production out of presenting me with my gift, which was a watch...to add to the 20 or so watches I already own. I can't complain...it was that or tools.
Nothing new in the personal life department. I still carry a torch for a certain someone, and we still talk periodically...sometimes on an intimate level. I get the feeling he is depressed, and it depresses me that he feels this way and I wish I could help. I don't like it when people I care about are unhappy...because I'm powerless to do anything. On a more amusing note, I became jealous when there was some flirting going on from a colleague, directed at him. (She, who so nonchalantly admits to cheating on every boyfriend she's ever had. Dating a girl like that is the emotional equivalent of putting your peener in a meat grinder...but it's not my peener.) I was amused that only a couple small words would illicit such a strong response from me. I generally don't get jealous. I just try not to give a shit. But I will admit to a powerful urge to reach over and punch her square in the cake-hole.
I may be an asshole, but I am still a woman, after all.
I did manage to book another cruise for 2011. Yes, it is very far from now, but I have all year next year to pay for it. Besides, I have a tentative trip to Vegas planned for next spring (No, I'm not getting married!), plus something else that I can't remember off the top of my head.
So, life is kind of a in a holding pattern for now. But I'm still breathing. Just so you know.
Friday, July 03, 2009
When I was a kid, I loved Michael Jackson. LOVED him. I remember when I brought the Thriller album home. I would spend hours listening to that album, gazing at the album cover. In fact, I even had the Michael Jackson doll.
That's how far back I go.
For my generation, also known as Generation X, Michael Jackson's music was the sound track to our lives. He was the King of Pop long before the genre of pop became a punchline.
So, imagine my shock when I flipped on CNN last week to hear them talk about him being rushed to the hospital with cardiac arrest. My tingly nurse-sense told me that the outcome wasn't going to be good...but it was still stunning when it was announced that he died.
I never did buy into the molestation stories. So many things just didn't add up. But this post isn't about whether he did or didn't. Hell, I'm not even going to get into his apparent self-loathing, he inability to emotionally evolve into a mature adult, or even go into the fact that I think Joe Jackson ought to do humanity a favor and drive himself off a cliff.
This post is about the fact that so much of my young life was woven with his music that had nothing to do with how much money he made, what he drove, the bling he wore, and how many bitches he had. His music usually had a good message, and he didn't come off like a complete douche bag when he sang it.
To say that when he died my childhood died, would be a disservice because I left my childhood behind me a long time ago, and am painfully reminded of my adulthood every time I make my mortgage payment. But his death, to me, does make me remember the innocent girl I used to be, before horrible things happened...and when those horrible things did happen, I was always able to seek the safe confines of music for comfort. Michael Jackson was one of those safe outlets.
So yeah, I'm a fan of his music for a lot of reasons. And for those reasons, I do mourn his passing. Yes, he may have died a drug addict, but most celebs are shooting up something anyway, and no celebrity should be looked upon as something to aspire to. At least this guy actually contributed something other than beaver shots and bad reality television. It is possible to admire the music, yet pity the man who created it.
He died as strangely as he lived. His death proving to be every bit a circus that his life was, and it makes me glad I live in relative obscurity.
Hopefully he can find in death, what he could not find in life.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
But I digress...
Anyway, here is his ridiculous response to my tirade yesterday (I didn't edit for spelling and grammar...sorry):
I let the public hear what reporters & cops do unguarded.~Sigh~
Never did I mention race. Only those caught up in the tape and people from the
suburbs mentions race. They try to defend the people on the tape by saying that
people cope with bad thing with humor. I never said anyone did anything wrong.
However, if those murder victims were my relatives I would not have liked the
tone of the way these two professionals were acting. I hear about crimes &
get letters from killers who tell me in great detail how they kill people. I
don't joke about it. I blog about all crimes in the KC area. I have even solved
some crimes of people of various races. I just want to stop the violence.
Although, it is clear to me that this city cares less about the victims of from
certain areas. I can't imagine the tone of the cop & the repoter being this
way during the Kelsey Smith case. In fact I would put money on it. All the
people making judgements are defending their point of view. I never sad anything
about race. Listen to this blogger here. She attackes me for letting the public
hear the truth. I would not want cops & reporters flirting with each other
at anyone's crime scene. They should be doing their damn jobs only. This blogger
has never stepped out into to any community to make a difference. I bet you this
tape will change somethings. You see, I have the power to do that. People get
jealous of me for that reason. Say, what you will. When I am on TV things
happen. I don't just show up march, pray & leave. People hate that. People
can't handle the truth like this blogger.
And therefore, I'm not going to argue the finer points of Al Sharpton Lite's humble post, because at the end of the day, I still feel good about what I do and that I don't need letters and accolades to know that I make a difference, his neighbors will still be laughing at him, and Alonzo Washington is still a giant douche.
I guess I should thank him. I got a whole five more hits today on my blog!!
Meanwhile, I will just hole myself up on my house, stewing in my big vat of jealousy...and laughing my ass off.
In a nutshell, he plays an audio recording between a police officer and a reporter at a homicide scene. The tone is jovial, light, one could say there are flirtatious undertones between the officer and the reporter.
I can't speculate on the reporter because she was more than likely trying to fish a hot angle for her story by acting more news model than news reporter. Instead, I'm going to offer defense to the officer for being so light about the situation. Alonzo speculates that the tone would be more somber had the crime been committed in a more affluent (i.e. white) neighborhood.
I'm here to say with authority, that it would have made zero difference.
Police came upon a scene with three dead adults, and one dead child. All were murdered. Now, I've never had to come into a murder scene, but I have been engaged in situations with dying patients that evolved in such a matter that doesn't constitute a "normal death process". To be more specific, exsanguination. I've also had the misfortune of seeing a child die during my nursing school rotation. I'm here to tell you, both things can leave someone scarred forever if they have no good way of coping with it.
A lot of times, we use humor to do it. Okay, so it's not your average David Letterman humor. Hell, it's not even humor no comic would dare touch. It's dark. It's dry. It puts our minds in a safe place so we don't go insane with the reality that screams, "OH MY GOD, AM I REALLY SEEING THIS! IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?? JESUS, HOW CAN I STOP IT? I CAN'T STOP IT!!"
From the outside looking in, an observer may think people like us as cold, callous, uncaring, but the truth is that we need our tools for coping so we don't go home and put a gun to our heads later. Sadly, not everyone who works in health care, law enforcement, first responders has developed these defense mechanisms. They either hit burnout and suffer a breakdown, harm themselves, or adopt a nasty addiction.
So, this cops flirts. Big deal. I'm sure it was a much welcome distraction from the fact that he had just seen a murdered 3 year old and 3 murdered adults. These are the things that stay with you, much like the face of that dead child from my nursing school days stays with me so many years after the fact.
We need to disassociate or we go insane.
In conclusion, Alonzo can just shut his pie hole about something he clearly knows nothing about and go back to what he does best: looking like a cheesey douche nozzle in front of a camera.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
This...I just can't wrap my mind around it.
Very few things haunt me. This video is one of them.
This just doesn't make sense...
I just can't...
She was sixteen...
Her father by her side...
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The old bat blanched, stated she was not going to come down on the price. However, she was magnanimous enough to offer to finance whatever the bank would not on a ten year note.
Brother & Co politely declined and said they would find a different house, to which the old coont said she would just sell the house to someone who couldn't get financing through a bank, so she could get what she wanted for the house.
It's always heartwarming to know that there are people out there who will fuck over the less fortunate the first chance they get. I can only hope that people like this die a slow painful death at the hands of the most incompetent medical staff on the planet.
Anyway, Brother & Co. resume their search, and look at a couple foreclosures. In doing so, they have become well versed in the shark-infested waters that is known as Foreclosure Real Estate.
There are reputable Realtors out there. Like the one I used. Then, there are those Realtors who only deal in foreclosures. Reputable agents refer to these people as "bone collectors" or as I like to refer to them as "the ambulance chasers of the real estate market". They collect foreclosures like Paris Hilton collects STDs, then they play buyers, in hopes of squeezing every last dime out of them. Brother & Co. have had one bad experience with a foreclosure, and one with a short-listing, which is five seconds from becoming a foreclosure. These agents are nice, until they know you have a brain and can do you own homework. In fact, any of the offers they get, I'm fairly confident they don't submit to the bank until they get the offer that will garner them the most money. Brother's agent contacted one bank after not hearing anything from the other agent for an extended period of time, only to have that agent finally call and angrily berate them for "going over my head."
Some people, like the nasty old coont that owns the house Brother currently lives in, is still under the impression that they can get old market prices for their homes. The housing market is an entirely different animal. In fact, my house was just assessed at 30K less than it was 3 years ago...for a grand savings of $89 on my taxes. Bastards.
So, while Brother & Co. continue their search for their dream home, pre-certified letter for financing in hand, they are learning that this isn't a buyers market like they were told, but are at the hands of unscrupulous agents who are only out for themselves.
Meanwhile, they have to be out of their house by the end of June. At that point, they will be guests at Casa de Blather for a short spell until they do find a house that they won't get hung out to dry on. Three adults (one pregnant), 1 toddler, 1 cat and 4 dogs. I don't mind them staying. It beats having them being bled dry by the Wicked Witch of Raytown i.e. their current landlady.
Good thing I have a well-stocked liquor cabinet.