Welcome Home to Me!

It's just after midnight, and I am up waiting for Paul (not dating!) to call me and let me know he made it home in one piece. I told him he could crash at my house, but he wanted to sleep in his own bed. I suspect he didn't want to listen to another night of me snoring. Ten nights of listening to me snore was probably a bit much. What can I say? I snored to drown him out.

So, our ship got into Ft. Lauderdale before the butt-crack of dawn Sunday morning. We packed the last of our items, said good-bye to the cabin, ate one last time at the community trough, and debarked the ship. Standing outside until we found a shuttle that would take us to the hotel because in all my infinite wisdom, I figured that by staying an extra day, we would avoid the massive crowds of people at the airport, all returning from their cruises.

Whatever! Over the course the weekend, twelve ships rotated out of Ft. Lauderdale and Miami...but more on that later.

We stayed at the Holiday Inn at Ft. Lauderdale Beach. What a shithole! We arrived around 11am. Now, I understand that all hotels have check-in time in the afternoon, but usually, you can get a room if you happen to get there early. Not with this place. We were able to leave our luggage in the little bellhop closet and go find lunch, walk on the beach, take some pictures, etc, etc. We returned to the hotel around 2:30. No rooms were ready, and no one was getting checked in until their check-in time of 4pm. The lobby was full of luggage and cranky cruise passengers. One couple even had their emailed confirmation in hand, promising early check-in, but were told they would have to wait until 4pm like everyone else because their room was a "special room" and wouldn't be ready until 4pm. No apologies, but plenty of smartass comments from the staff at the front desk. One guest was ready to climb over the front desk and throttle the scrawny kid named Derek who was being a ginormous dickhead. Apparently, in Ft. Lauderdale, customer service is merely an option. At one point, the entire front desk staff retreated to the back to get away from the angry mob that they created.

Now, I consider myself pretty easygoing when it comes to vacations and such. I'm not nit picky as some people are who think their entire stay is ruined if they see one discoloration on the carpet. However, this place was a shithole. The floors were so nasty that Paul almost passed out when I kneeled on the carpet to dig around in my suitcase. Mold in the bathroom. Hair on the washcloth that Paul swore up and down was a pubic hair. Bad! Bad! Bad!

Needless to say, I won't be staying at a Holiday Inn again. I'm also going to post a review on Trip Advisor.

Rain began pouring down in Ft. Lauderdale that evening, so we ordered pizza to be delivered to the hotel. It sucked, too. We were starting to notice a trend.

Exhausted, we turned in around 8pm. Paul began snoring immediately. I noticed that the first person to fall asleep fared better because if you didn't fall asleep first, you would never get to sleep because the other person's snoring would prevent it from happening. In my sleep deprived delirium, I called my mother's cell phone and left a message which consisted entirely of Paul snoring. The next day, I spoke with Mom who told me she almost called her phone company to complain she was getting obscene phone calls.

Monday morning, we got up, got ready, gathered our crap, caught a shuttle, went to the airport. This is where those twelve cruise ships I mentioned come into play. Hundreds of people! Lines everywhere!! People were getting agitated and mutiny was imminent. We got there around 12:30pm, and actually made it to the gate 10 minutes before our plane started boarding around 3:20. Some people actually missed their flights.

AirTran sucks. I shall never fly with them again either. I should have listened to Kant when she told me they were awful. Their seats are roughly the equivalent of a wooden box with a thin layer of toilet paper spread over it. You try sitting on that for 3 hours straight and see how you like it.

After a layover in Atlanta, we made it home around 9:30 pm to snow. A far cry from 80-some degrees and sunshine. The ride home was harrowing. All I could imagine was us sliding into someone or something, and the airbag blowing up in my face.

So now I am home. I have a new fireplace mantle, courtesy of The Boyfriend (I'll post pictures later). Mom cleaned the house. Mom and The Boyfriend cleaned the garage so now you can park two cars in there instead of just one.

Screw unpacking...I'm going to bed. It's going to be so nice to snore myself to sleep.

Ship Happens: Visiting the Armpit of U.S. Territories

Monday we woke up late, only to realize that we didn't catch the memo about setting our clocks another hour forward, so we missed the group excursion to go down the big water slide on the cruise ship...and group photo. We also missed breakfast, which is a tragedy because anytime you miss a meal on a cruise ship, it is equivalent to of a garden-variety Catholic miss having tea with the Pope. I'm just saying, that's how serious some passengers take chow time.

So, I am currently two hours ahead of everyone back home. It's around 9:30pm where I am now, still tending to my sunburn. Which means everyone is still freezing their asses off in Kansas City around 7:30pm.

Monday night, we stopped in San Juan, and were slated to remain there from 5pm to Midnight. Most all the shops had closed for the night. All the other shops that stayed open all sold the exact same thing. I must say I wasn't overly impressed with San Juan. Garbage everywhere emitting a mixed bag of smells...none of them good. We saw a guy who was stoned into the next time zone passed out in a doorway.

Our friends wanted to visit Senor Frogs...which is a drinking establishment of the most unique kind. This is the place people like to go to because they know that by the end of the night, someone is going to have their clothes off. Everything there is butt-ass expensive. You'd have to mortgage your house for a plate of nachos.

At any rate, Kristi and Kevin ducked into Senor Frogs. I didn't feel like getting tequila served to me in a squirt gun, so I decided to go back to the ship. Paul (we're still not dating) followed. We had pizza from our hangout in the back of the ship (Aft for all you nautical folks). Aside from learning that everyone's garbage looks and smells the same regardless of your nationality, it was a relatively unremarkable port.

Today, we landed at St. Thomas. Butt. Ass. Expensive. A regular bottle of Aquafina...$3. We booked an island tour which landed us on a beach, where the skies opened up and it rained. Some people ran out of the water and under the bar canopy. I suppose it was because they didn't want to get wet.

Also, folks in St. Thomas drive on the wrong side of the road. Everyone drives like they live in St. Louis, but on much more narrow roads, and a winding mountainous terrain. I feared for my life more than once.

Right now, Paul (not dating!) is back in the cabin, snoring to his heart's content. I stopped by the ship's shop and bought some really good perfume because I couldn't find a watch I liked.

Tomorrow, we are going to be in Antigua. Thursday we will be in Tortola. Two days at sea and then we are home. If you guys had snow, I hope you have the decency to have the roads clear upon my return.

Ship Happens: Where Mondays are Good Days

Of course, any day on a cruise ship is a good day.

After having no sleep for well over 24 hours, we made it to Ft. Lauderdale. We flew on AirTran, which has the most uncomfortable seats in the entire airline industry. During my layover in Atlanta, I kept seeing people wearing Chicago Bears colors, so I started thinking I was in Chicago. That's how tired I was. Thankfully, I was able to take a nap during our Atlanta to Ft. Lauderdale flight. No one bothered to wake me up for the pretzels, leaving me propped on my little polka-dotted travel pillow I bought at Walmart on the way to the airport, drooling on said pillow, and apparently snoring. I can't verify this because people are prone to lying when it comes to me snoring.

In case you were all wondering...Paul came with me on this trip. And no, we are still not dating. Of note, he snores...very, very loudly. I've had to hit him in the head with my travel pillow on more than one occasion. At least his snoring sort of drowns out the Piano Bar that is directly below our cabin.

We are currently hauling ass at a speed of 20 miles and hour (or whatever that translates in to nautical miles), and should reach San Juan around 5pm, where we will be staying until midnight. I have no idea what we will be doing in San Juan because most all the shops will be closed when we get there. I suppose we could check out a local restaurant or something...or just meander around and hope we don't get mugged. Another couple (a nurse I went to school with and her husband), have also joined us on this trip. So, there is safety in numbers. Unless they are both shitfaced.

Current temps...somewhere hovering just above 80 degrees. A few clouds in the sky. We sat outside yesterday as it was a Sea Day, and predictably, I got sunburned...bad. I'm about as red as the lobster that graced my dinner plate last night. So much for pre-tanning before cruising. It was about as effective as the Pull and Pray Method.

Thus far, the cruise has been entertaining. I'm trying not to be on the go all the time, but instead relaxing. We're also involved in a Murder Mystery Cruise, so everyone has been asking me if I am having an affair with the Cruise Director, not to mention if I've been having sex in the lifeboats. With a name like Hedonistic Heather, I suppose I would be suspect.

We only set sail Saturday night, and already I feel like I have been on this ship for a week. I'm not ready to come home, though. I've heard about the temps in KC...and I kind of like hanging around in my swimsuit and purple boonie hat for the time being.

I'll post my pics when I get home, but I thought I would drop a line to everyone to let them know that I haven't fallen off the boat. Everyone has been really nice, the food has been great, and the company somewhat entertaining. I'll post a more comprehensive review of my trip with I get home and don't have to pay $.55 a minute to be online.

I'm now going to go drink something out of a hollowed-out coconut. The tea here is nasty.

Preparing for Vacation

I was unable to go out and run any errands yesterday due to crappy streets, which forced me to engage in a sort of scramble today. I have a feeling I won't be getting much sleep between now and the time my plane takes off...which will be 7:30am tomorrow.

First, I met up with Trish and we had lunch at Applebees. From there, we parted ways and I made my way over to Zona Rosa where I did some more shopping for crap I thought I would need, but in all truthfulness, probably don't. While I was perusing through the underwear, I overheard the two girls working there making calls. Earlier in the day, one of sales girls had her credit card stolen as someone snuck into the back room and helped themselves. By the time she had realized it was stolen and called the CC company, the perps (there were three) had already made stops to Dicks, Barnes and Noble, and Toys R Us. I don't know how much they had charged, but the girl was freaking out.

I got me thinking...

Doesn't anyone bother to check ID anymore?? Any plastic I have has "CHECK ID" in black marker written on the spot where I am supposed to sign my name. Do you know how many times I have used it, and no has even bothered to ask...even after seeing that on the back of the card. And when they do ask, I almost feel like I need to thank them for asking.

There should be a rule. Stores who do not ask for identification will be responsible for the charge if that card turns out to be stolen. While this wouldn't prevent all credit card fraud, it would help decrease it. The skankmuffins who stole that card today would not have been able to make any charges because they wouldn't have had enough to time to create matching identification.

I hate people who steal like that. I hate that they steal what other people work so hard for, and have no remorse for doing it. You can't argue that they steal to survive, because last I checked, Toys R Us offered nothing that would fall under the "necessities of life" category.

At any rate, I am now preparing to go out and squeeze one last tanning session in, get my nails done, and go buy another doorknob. I got all my laundry done, so all that is left to do is pack, and prepare the house for Mom's visit. Mom is looking forward to staying at my house, but I did inform her of the cardinal rule of Case de Heather.

NO SEX IN MY BED UNLESS I AM IN IT!!

"That's okay," she said. "I'll just wait until you get home."

I shall wash, but shant ever be clean.

Hump Day Blather

I got up late today because I didn't get to sleep until late last night. I bought an iPod last week, so I have been all about putting stuff on it. I bought the 30gig one, so I can put LOTS of stuff on it. Maybe I can toss a couple tv shows then I will have my own on-flight entertainment.

And so far, I have almost 3000 songs, mostly ripped from cd's I currently own and never listen to anymore.

So, I get up late and peek out the window to see more snow. I had no idea we were supposed to get it, but I'm happy to leave it behind come Friday. Of course, I still have to go out and get some last-minute things either this afternoon, or tomorrow. I still have to pack, and clean the house.

Last night, I was doing laundry at 10pm. Now, instead of the ceremonious Laundry day, I just go to the laundry room off the garage in my bare feet and pajamas, toss some clothes in, and turn the washer in. IT'S THAT SIMPLE!!!

So, I did just that. Only when I went to go back upstairs to the warm part of my house, I found that the door had locked behind me. Shit. I sat on the steps and tried to figure out what my course of action would be. Front door was locked. Back door was locked. No keys, not even to the car. No cell phone. I considered going to my neighbor's house at 10:30pm to ask if I could use their phone, to call my mother and have her come and let me back in...but I was in my pjs, no shoes, and it was butt-ass cold outside. Not to mention it was 10:30 at night.

Then it dawned on me. I have a crap-ton of handyman stuff in my basement, courtesy of The Boyfriend. Surely I could find something that I could use to break into my own house. A crowbar, a hammer, a battering ram...

I poked around and found something that looked as it might be able to do the trick...a rubber coated mallet. I took it to the door, eyeballed the doorknob. Then, I began to tap it. Then, I upgraded to hitting it. Then, I was full-on beating the piss out of an old doorknob, adding a Amazon woman war cry for good measure. After a couple really good swings that would make the Strongman Contest take notice, the doorknob, now bent in half, gave up it's hold on the door and the door popped open. I took my power drill and finished uninstalling the knob. It was a piece of crap and only had one key anyway.

So, a trip to Lowes will be in order before I leave. I'm going to have another key made to hide in the garage so this never has to happen again. If I don't get it installed, perhaps The Boyfriend (someday to be upgraded to Husband 3.0) can install it while I am away. He's going to be here building a new mantle for my fireplace, and he seems to enjoy all that handyman stuff.

Now, I must go and try to pack more than just a snorkel...which is the only thing that is taking space in my suitcase at this time.

Nurse Follies: Beating a Dead Horse

I was somewhat disappointed to see that Barbaro got dead this week. It's not like I was one of those tards who sent bouquets of organic carrots and a Get Well card, and I had a global meltdown upon hearing the news which rendered me incapacitated for the rest of the day. But I was sort of hoping that after all that hard work, it wouldn't be in vain.

But, in the end, he got dead...going to the great Winners Circle in the Sky. Now, they can either cremate him and ceremoniously spray crop his ashes over some prestigious racetrack. Or they can just use a backhoe and plant him somewhere on his ranch, where thousands of people who have nothing better to do with their time can go and place flowers, balloons, and toy stuffed horses on his gravesite.

I can't really say I am heartbroken. When you think about it, this horse got better healthcare than most humans. Somewhere out there, someone without insurance is sick with something pretty awful. Unable to go to the hospital for care because they can't afford it. You should ask them how they feel about a dead horse.

The other day, I went and picked up my perscriptions, and the cost of my copay had doubled. One again, the morons in the Human Resources department fucked up my open enrollment and signed me up for the crappy health plan instead of the one I wanted.

Way to go, asshats!

On my way home, I thought about it. Paying almost $100 a month for drugs suck ass...but I can afford it (even though I can think of a million other things I could spend the money on...like socks). I'm one of the few fortunate ones. What about those who aren't so lucky? Fixed income, insurance so crappy that they may as well not have any, monthly med expenses that are out the wazoo. Somewhere out there, people, is someone who is making the choice between food to eat, and medications to keep them healthy. And speaking from my own observations at work, those people chose the food over the meds. I get to see them later when they are brought in to the hospital because the conditions their meds are supposed to treat, are staging a coup on their body. "Noncompliant" is the name they are given. Not because they want to be, but because they have no other choice.

Even people with good insurance sometimes get the shaft. Someone I know went to MD Anderson for treatment. They accepted his insurance, and his family had to shell out thousands and thousands of dollars in addition to it, and the outcome was no better than if they would have just remained with their local specialists.

Money rules medicine.

I don't have a solution to this problem. Maybe universal healthcare would work. It's an issue I will keep close tabs on this election. I really don't give a flying rats ass whether gays can marry or not when I think about major medical decisions made by some douchebag in an insurance office, and not the doctor providing the treatment.

Make Me Pretty!

In one week, I will be leaving this cold-ass weather (today was't too bad, actually), and planting my ass on a cruise ship heading for 80 degree temps. I can smell the sunscreen already.

Feel free to envy me all you want.

In preparation for my big trip, I am turning the house upside down to find stuff I will need to take, buying new stuff when I can't find them, and most importantly, getting my hair done.

After a week or so of trying to get a hold of my hair dresser, she finally called me back. She had sold her business to two other girls working in the shop because she didn't want to deal with the stress of ownership. Then, the two girls turned around, stab her in the back, and gave her the boot. Whores!

So, Amy came to my house to do my hair. I can't complain. I got to wear my crappy, but comfy, lounge wear. Go barefoot. Get my hair done. All the while listening to the Margaritaville station on satellite.

Meanwhile, the neighbor kid comes over and asks if he can play with Sam in my backyard. I don't mind because it wears the dog out so he will just lay around the house for the rest of the night and leave the cat alone. The neighbor kid chases Sam around the yard, they play fetch, life is good, until something else catches his eye through my kitchen window...

A white lady with foil in her hair. A shit ton of foil. And the other lady who is applying the foil, well, she's covered in tattoos. As I am sitting on the stool, Amy and I both realize this 13 year old kid has stopped playing with the dog, and is just watching us through the kitchen window...and laughing.

I'm sure this will be a very animated tale at the family dinner table tonight.

Amy finishes the highlights and quick trim before departing. Now, I am basking in the glow of newly highlighted hair. I've visited the tanning salon a couple times now, so I look healthy. Not the pale, pasty girl from before.

I'm going to look smoking hot on this trip. Other people better take notice.

Nobody's Answering

With the whole move and stuff, I've experienced an influx of phone calls from numbers I don't even know. It never occurred to me why this was until the other day.

I changed numbers, so I would need to re-register on Missouri's Do-Not-Call List.

So, I did. However, it won't take effect until April 1. For the next 2 months, I have to sit through countless calls of assholes trying to sell me everything from carpet cleaning to banjo shows for little retarded kids. Swell.

I'm afraid to even answer the phone. We know they don't hear you the first ten times you say no. Maybe I could answer the phone and pretend I am in the middle of having sex. There's all kinds of shenanigans one can do to get even with telemarketers.

Suggestions welcomed.

Adventures in Homebuying: The Dining Room

Okay, I know I promised to post some pics and stuff. So, here I am...posting pics and stuff.


This is the dining room as I bought it. Allow me to point out the butt-ass-ugly 80's light fixture. The entire dining room and kitchen was painted this very blah beige color. It wasn't until I started painting that I understood why. You see, the original color wasn't this. It was something so hideous, it pains me to even acknowledge it on this blog.

I'm not one to dis on green, but what the hell were the previous owners thinking?? Lime green?!? Judging by the old color of the great room, and the current color of the hall bath, it is entirely possible they were colorblind.

Let me be the first to say that red is a horrible color to have to paint. Most colors, two coats will do...but not red. Four coats later, I am still finding spots I need to touch-up. I originally was going to paint the entire dining room red, but after doing the top half, I said "screw it" and painted the bottom half Sauteed Mushroom. After that, I painted the trim white, it was originally cream.

Then, moving day arrived and the movers moved my stuff into the dining room. My current table and three chairs is something I have had for a while. Sometime this year, I am going to have a new dining table and chairs built to match the china hutch.

Check out the new light fixture. It's brushed nickel, and doesn't remind me at all of mall bangs.

The Finished Product!

Mom 3, Heather 0

Mom and the boyfriend came buy to drop off stuff at Heather's U Store It. I'm housing various items until June, and I get a new mower in exchange for it. I have a big backyard, so I can't complain. It's not like I have immediate plans for the basement.

Boyfriend pulls me aside and whips out this little white box.

Uh-oh.

Boyfriend opens said box to reveal a ring who's diamonds (more than one) are roughly the size of large grapefruits. I ask if the ring means what I think it means, and he answers to the affirmative, providing my mother gets a divorce. He then asks what I think and just shrug and give the very generic, "whatever makes her happy" response.

Mom calls later that night and wants to know why I didn't tell her about the ring (apparently he presented it to her over chimichangas at the Salty Iguana). I didn't know I was supposed to tell her, but she wants to know what I think. Again with the "whatever makes you happy" response. At this point, I don't have an opinion. Okay, maybe I do, but I am just too tired to share it. I don't think this is the response my mother is looking for, but it's pretty much the answer she is going to get. I just don't care as much as I probably should. You do your thing, and I'll do mine and everyone is happy.

Would it be bad if I hoped they just ran off somewhere and eloped? My brothers don't know...what are they going to think when they find out? Probably much the same way as I am...just realize she is a grown-up and can make her own decisions, shrug and move on with life.

So, this will make my mother's third marriage. His fifth. I guess at first you don't succeed...

All this has made me pretty skeptical about marriage. Maybe I won't do it at all because no one takes it seriously anymore. Kind of sad, actually.

Looks like I'm now going to have eleven step-brothers and sisters. Crap...I'm going to have to start sending out Christmas cards.

Nurse Follies: Download This!

With the revolution of technology, the world of medicine was bound to follow. Everything is tied to computers. Surgeries are done with robotic arms. We rely so heavily on technology that some people wonder if a machine will take over our jobs someday.

Unlikely. I can't imagine any hospital shelling out millions for a machine that wipes ass when nurses are still cheaper. I can't imagine a company designing such a robot. They would see it as a waste of money because, again, nurses are cheaper. Besides, wouldn't want to get shit on a multimillion dollar robot.

Yes, we are overworked, and underpaid. Oh sure, you can make over six figures doing what I do...but you've got to work 80 hours a week to do it. I don't know of any person that has that kind of intestinal fortitude. There's a reason we only work 3 days a week. Any more than that, the number of crazy nurses in psychiatric wards would grow exponentially. In case you haven't read, the number of dedicated psych beds are decreasing as specialized facilities/hospital wings are being closed. Can you imagine a world where thousands of crazy nurses are out roaming the streets? With the knowledge we possess, you should be breaking out into a cold sweat just thinking about it.

Why else do you think cops are so nice to us?

Back to my original point...health care and technology.

My workplace is gearing up to go live with all computerized charting. Actually, everything we do will somehow tied to computers...from medications, to procedures...everything. The idea that by going to all computerized stuff, it will eliminate all things paper, whereby decreasing the chance of breaches in patient privacy and blah, blah, blah. Today, they were having a vendor fair so we could go and inspect what the nerd herd, I mean, computer committee is looking at in terms of what to put in our hands. The items up for scrutiny were various laptops/tablets being pimped out by various companies, handheld devices, and staplers (I got a free one from one of the vendors).

They were also going to be giving away door prizes: two laptops, digital camera or two, and some golf equipment. Why else do you think I'd drag myself out of my warm house into the freezing ass cold? It certainly wasn't for the fruit and cheese platter they had for vendor attendees. (But the meatballs were rather tasty...)

So, I go. I am given a clipboard and a sheet of paper and I am supposed to go around to the various vendor stations to inspect the products, ask questions, and fill out a survey as to which ones I liked the best. After the first 5 laptops, they all started to look the same. Then, I come to the Panasonic people and they have this little laptop that is all dressed up like it's about to go camping...rubber bumpers and the whole nine yards. I, with two O.R. nurses remark that it looks like a sturdy little guy, and we are invited to drop it. The other nurses decline because they are candy-asses. I shrug, pick up the laptop, and give it a heave-ho to the floor, where it bounces a foot in the air, before landing with a clatter. The Panasonic guys are impressed. The nurses are mortified. The $4,000 laptop is still running, and it immediately goes to the top of my favorites list.

I go to another station where one nurse is closely examining another laptop. It's obvious she doesn't know a whole hell of a lot about computers because all she can bitch about is that the stylus pops out of the left side of the computer, and she's right handed. I roll my eyes and the company rep tries not to laugh out loud.

The last station I visit is the stapler lady. A older female MD is in the room, and doesn't even look at me, even though I said hello. Whatever. Some women docs (not all) have attitude against nurses...like they are trying to distance themselves so far from us, that they won't be confused for one of us. Heaven forbid a doctor gets mistaken for a nurse! You don't encounter these hateful women too often, but you do encounter them.

After an hour and a half of looking at computers, I leave with my free mini stapler, a water bottle, various pens and a sticker announcing to the world that I voted on my favorite computer. No one will find out who won the door prizes until after tomorrow because the fair ends tomorrow night.

If I win a golf club, I'm going to be pissed.

Another Bad Week Off to a Good Start

Working my fourth night, overtime, having only 4 hours of sleep, and I was swindled by a secretary to do it. I can't wait to call her at 2am and ask where the paperclips are.

This morning, I drove home, and the snow was coming down in big, fat flakes. Here comes the blizzard! I stopped by the store and just decided to do all my grocery shopping because I figured I would be holed up in my house for the next four days.

After driving home, putting away all my crap, and taking a quick "wash the germs off me" shower, I finally settled into bed around 10:30.

Around 2:30, a friend stops by because he happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to see the house. Midway through the grand tour, he realizes that he's already seen this house, back in April, when he was looking to buy one. A quick visit, and he departs. I peek outside and see that the doomsday blizzard that was predicted turned out to be just the same twelve snowflakes blowing around. How typical.

A little after 3pm, the secretary from my floor calls, telling me that a nurse has called in, leaving the night crew in dire straits, and can I come in? I tell her that I can come in at 11pm. She tells me they are really short. So, I cave and agree to come in at 7pm. From there, I go back to bed thinking I may get to squeeze in an hour nap before I have to get ready for work. Whatever.

Mom then calls. Can Boyfriend bring stuff over Wednesday night to store in my basement? I agree because he's giving me a $400 lawnmower that's never been used in exchange for a few months storage space, and it has already been decided that I'm easy when it comes to appliances and power tools. Mom then blathers about him taking to her Barbados in May on a yacht because he's going to be teaching some people how to scuba. My only words of wisdom: Don't fall off the boat.

I barely close my eyes when the alarm goes off. Defeated, I shower, warm something in the oven for a quick dinner, get dressed and come to work. I enter the floor and check the staffing to see who called in. Instead of the situation painted to me by the secretary, the picture I see isn't nearly as desperate, and I could have come in at 11pm without causing any hardship to my coworkers. I give the secretary the finger and announce to the entire floor she is now on my "list".

To top it off, I get an email from my realtor: a water bill still in the name of the real estate company that sold the house, and a notice telling me that they are going to turn the water off Tuesday. When I closed on the house, I called all the utility companies to have everything transferred to my name: gas, water, electricity. The lady at the water company didn't strike me as being a mental giant, but she assured me that she had all the information needed and would get it passed along to the person who takes care of such matters. This didn't happen.

So now, I have to try to locate someone with a half a brain working in the Water Department of Kansas City (and considering it is City Hall, that might take all day) tomorrow, and rip them a new one. I'm going to be tired, cranky, and primed for delivering ass-chewings in the morning. If I did my job as crappy as they do theirs, all my patients would croak. Every. Single. Night.

But what can you expect, they are products of the Kansas City, Missouri School District.

A Fine Ending for a Fine Week

Well, it would appear that winter has finally caught up with us...and it sucks.

I had planned on leaving for work earlier than usual, stopping by the store first for a can of Reddi Whip. Paul called around five pm and insisted that I leave for work right then and there. Reddi Whip be damned.

I left closer to 5:30pm, only stopping at the gas station to fill up the car in the event I got stranded. They didn't carry Reddi Whip.

I-70 hadn't even been close to being cleared, much less salted. The MoDot trucks (five of them) parked on the side of the highway, probably having donuts and drinking coffee. Meanwhile, traffic is moving at a crawl, and sliding all over the place. I almost bought it on the Manchester Bridge, then again at the Jackson curve. My top speed was just under 30mph. Some SUV's would blow past me like I was sitting there in park. I did notice most of their plates were from Johnson county. That figures. Dumbasses.

I made it to work, and for the better part of the night, we're golden. Then, I get a patient who is, for lack of a better way of saying it, "circling the drain". I can only hope the patient's family gets here before the patient transfers to the Eternal Care Center. That's what we call a Negative Patient Outcome, people. Ideally, I'd like them to hang around and wait to expire after shift change because I still suck at filling out the paperwork, but my spider sense tells me to get my pen ready.

I spoke with Paul earlier to tell him I made it to work okay (because he's secretly in love with me and worries about me more than he would like to admit), and he was celebrating in his achievement of home made refried beans. I've never made homemade refried beans. I've never known anyone to make homemade refried beans. To me, it's just easier to open a can and scoop them out. But I'm not a hater, and I can't begrudge anyone who wants to delve into making refried beans from scratch. I get to sample the finished product this weekend as he brings them to work.

It's arctic-ass cold outside. I'm so excited for the drive home. Hopefully, the roads will be in better shape because I have no desire to bunk at the hospital for the day. I don't think the residents will be too willing to share their bunks with the nurses...but then again, I could be mistaken. From what I understand, some of the residents have already bunked with some of the nurses.

Be safe, and keep warm!

Back On!

I'm offline for a week, and Kansas City goes to pot. What. The. Hell. I'm inclined to think that all the news I missed (because I get all my news online), is a direct correlation to the apocalypse.

Kansas City maybe getting a hockey team? Didn't we have one already? Didn't they suck (just like every other team in Kansas City)? Does the mere fact that hockey will be playing in a brand new arena make people want to come see them more than they did when they played in an old one?

Hockey? Zzzzz. At least KC is being consistent with the bringing in of mediocre teams. The Penguins should feel right at home here...

And it's not that I am a fair-weather fan. I think they are all a bunch of over-priced whiners all the time.

All week I have been wondering what the hell happened to 97.3. Used to play music, now they are a sports talk channel. I liked 97.3, they played a wider variety than 98.9 did...who only played interviews with D-list celebs, Buck Cherry and pandered to the Meth Crowd.

Looks like it's back to satellite radio.

The Things We Leave Behind

All weekend, all I could think about was making a pot of potato soup. I don't mean to brag, but I make awesome potato soup. This was going to be a special event!

I bought all the things I would need for my special potato soup, get everything home, begin to assemble my preparation tools. I reach for my trusty, lifetime guaranteed Pampered Chef stockpot, and come face to face with the horrible realization that I accidentally left the stockpot back at the apartment...along with two saucepans of the same maker, and a Fiestaware dutch oven.

I made a point to remember the stupid breadmaker, but forgot the very things that make my life worth living.

After my global anxiety attack, I calmed myself down by telling myself I would call the apartment complex in the morning and inquire about my cookware. I know for a fact that they don't even begin to turn over vacated apartments until months after the tenant has left. The River Oaks apartment complex is that crappy (don't ever move there). Not to mention they are going to have to completely gut the place oweing to all the water damage their neglected leaks had caused.

So, I called the management office first thing in the morning. The lady who answered the phone got all hateful with me because I moved out in the first place...even though I went through the appropriate channels to do so: gave them the required noticed, cleaned the apartment, and was an overall model tenant (the police were never called to my place...NOT ONCE!). How dare I buy a house and not want to live in a crappy apartment complex that has seemingly turned Section 8!

In a nutshell, I don't get my cookware back. After getting different stories about it, she finally settled on the "we already cleaned out your apartment" excuse. Bullshit. My butt-ass expensive cookware is now in the hands of some peon who has NO IDEA what they have in their possession. Do they know how I had to practically whore myself out to people to buy kitchen gadgets so I could get those pots and pans for HALF their purchase price?!?

It has made me sick. SICK. SICK. SICK!! I will replace them, there is no question, but the thought of how much money I am going to have to shell out for them...again. I'm going to have to host a Pampered Chef party so I can get them at a discount. That's also the part that makes me sick.

It doesn't help matters that Paul likes to remind me about my loss whenever he wants to see me have a nervous breakdown about it...which is almost daily.

Not a red-letter week for Heather...and it's only mid-week.

I'm still waiting for my new modem, which should arrive either Wednesday or Thursday. Being without the internet has been terrible. Especially since now I am getting down to final planning of vacation details, and I still have a ton of crap to do before I go. Even the idea of getting ready for vacation is stressing me out, and I am blaming the move for it.

I just want to curl up in the fetal position somewhere and nurse a really big Dr. Pepper in crushed ice.

Here's to a New Year

Forgive my tardiness in blogging. I assembled my computer this week, only to find that the modem crapped out somewhere between the apartment and the house. Now, I am just waiting for my new modem, which should arrive sometime next week.

New events...

I have satellite! And being able to watch real TV is everything I thought it would be. Thus far, my happy ass is camped out whenever Law and Order is on. SVU is my favorite, but Criminal Intent ranks a close second.

New Year's Eve went off without anything too terribly exciting happening...unless, of course, you don't count your mother drunk dialing you as exciting. She did...twice.

Me: Hello?
Mom: (slurring) How's my baby girl?
Me: Uhhh...fine.
Mom: Have you got everything unpacked?
Me: No...that's what I am doing right now.
Mom: Is the fridge still in the garage?
Me: Yes.
Mom: I'll help you move it.
Me: You can't move a fridge up a flight of stairs.
Mom: Yes I can! (hiccup)
Me: Have you been drinking?
Mom: (proudly) Yes!
Me: What?
Mom: Beer
Me: How much have you drank?
Mom: Hold on...
Me: (hearing the sound of things being tossed around) What are you doing?
Mom: I'm looking in the garbage can to see how many beers I drank. (pause) Nine!!
Me: (heavy sigh)

Mom blathers incoherently for about five minutes before I begin to somewhat understand what she is saying.

Mom: My emotions are just all jumbled right now!
Me: (flatly) Why are your emotions all jumbled?
Mom: Because I fell in love again!!!
Me: (groaning somewhat loudly) Okay.
Mom: Yeah, I know you say "okay", and I know you are a strong person, and not weak and stuff...but someday you will be my age...
Me: Okay.
Mom: You'll see.

I cite the huge amount of work I have to do and beg off the phone, but not before Mom promises (threatens?) to call me after midnight to wish me Happy New Year. I secretly curse Paul for bailing on me in favor of a family gathering. As promised, she called again five minutes after midnight, and slurs her Happy New Year greeting.

Obviously, the highlight of my evening.

I didn't make any resolutions this year...unless you count unpacking, and other general home improvement stuff. I hung my very first set of blinds on Monday. It took me all day to do it, but the other three went up in a relatively short amount of time considering I knew what I was doing by then. The refrigerator has also made it's way to the kitchen with the help of three strong guys. While I measured the height and width of said fridge before I bought it, I failed to check the depth, and now that ginormous beast of ice and cold sticks out a good six inches, and somewhat blocks the doorway into the kitchen. Anyone exceeding 300lbs will have to get to the kitchen through the dining room. I should post a disclaimer for that in the house.

Now, I have to get out of unpacking mode, and get into vacation mode. I have to start pulling out clothes for warm weather, start packing, tan, and finish booking shore excursions.

I really, really need this vacation.

Adventures in Homebuying: Moving Day

Moving day came and went with much fanfare.

I feel as though I have been weared, teared, and dehaired. Only a cheerleader on prom night could have legs that hurt worse than mine right now.

The movers were scheduled to be at the house between the hours of 11am and 1pm. So, imagine my surprise when I found them parked in front of my building at 10:30am when I returned from dropping the furballs off at the house.

Someone once wished that I had good-looking movers...

Now, I'm not saying they were ugly. I will say they had, uhhh, charming personalities and leave it at that. When one let out a loud belch right in the middle of my living room, I could pretty much tell I was dealing when men of high caliber.

The moving company scheduled me for a four-hour move. The movers had my stuff packed in the truck in just under an hour. We were making great time! Heather was going to have this done under the two-hour window!!

Then, we got out on the highway. General flow of traffic on I-70 is maybe 65 mph. Because the moving truck wanted to follow me (I have no idea why they didn't have a map to my address), I had to drive what they were driving. I don't think we made it past 50mph. It took longer to get to my house, than it did to load or unload it.

So much for my two-hour window.

The move took 4.25 hours and just under $500 because I had a coupon for $25 off. Thank God for the Yellow Pages.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I unpacked a few boxes and tried to coax George out from hiding. Trish came over to see the house, then a friend from work came over to he me unpack. We got all the dishes unpacked, and many other boxes moved to storage, before I threw up my hands in surrender...two hours after my knees did.

I'm surrounded by boxes. George has been sticking to me like Velcro because he's traumatized. My fridge is still in the garage, and I have to go to the garage when I want a slice of cheese. I'm trying to orchestrate a mass effort to bring the fridge into the kitchen, maybe Monday night.

My New Year's Eve plans fell through because my partner-in-crime got a better offer (sometimes, I don't know why I even bother...). I've been invited to a party, but I think I will just end up staying home for the night, unpacking, and trying to figure out where to put everything.

I won't have my computer up and running until Wednesday when the phone guy comes to install a jack in my designated office, the same day they are coming to install a satellite dish. Yes, you heard me.

Heather's going to get to see real television so she can watch all the crappy reality shows, too!

FRAGILE: It Must Be French

I'm surrounded by packed boxes, large yellow garbage bags filled with junk I'm not taking with me to the new house.

I'm nowhere close to being finished.

For one thing, I've run out of boxes. I think I am going to have to go to the house and unpack some more so I have more empty boxes to use, all without actually having to buy more for tomorrow.

I packed away all my dishes today. Finally, a good use for The Star. I probably went through 4 newspapers just wrapping anything fragile. My hands black from all the ink. I hate having dirty hands, so it drove me nuts and I had to go wash them every time I looked at them. I tried not to look at them as I was packing.

I had to venture into the Bowels of Hell (Walmart) to get more packing tape. I stopped and picked up a chicken dinner because I packed all I needed to cook with. Naturally, everyone else was at Walmart, and they all converged at the isle where all the holiday stuff is marked down. Unfortunately, the packing tape was next to that isle.

Tonight, I have to dismantle the daybed in the spare room. Try to toss as much crap into yellow garbage bags. Unplug the television from all the other electrical stuff it's plugged into. I haven't decided if I am going to make it a late night, or early morning. The movers should be here between 11am and 1pm.

I've marked every box with breakable stuff FRAGILE in red ink. I hope the movers see it. I hope the movers can read. I would be very sad if any of my Fiestaware was broken.

I also tried to get my Internet service switched over to the house...which proves to be as complicated as brain surgery. Why can't the website just have a simple method for doing it, rather than spend 30 minutes searching the site for a phone number to just call. Then, everything is automated when you call so you don't get to speak to a live person.

I'm done bitching. Time to get back to work.

The Grinch That Slept Through Christmas

Christmas is over...thank goodness!

I don't know if it was just me, or did the stores seem a little overzealous in their holiday marketing? I particularly hated the Toyota commercial on the radio, especially when the women shouts out "Sienna!"

I worked both Christmas Eve and Christmas night, and sleeping in between. I didn't go spend any time with family. I didn't call anyone. Aside from the fact that there was no traffic while driving home Monday morning, it was pretty much just like any other day. Because of the moving situation, I didn't put up any Christmas decorations, and I have a TON of decorations. I didn't feel in the Christmas mood, sort of disconnected from it. Christmas is a religious holiday, and it seems that with each passing year, society moves further and further away from that.

Will I burn in hell if I say I don't like Christmas? Actually, I just hate what it has become, and I don't particularly feel like celebrating the commercial side of it anymore.

Next year, I think I am going to put up a Festivus pole in the front yard, and maybe a small one for inside the house.

Later in January, I'm going to have a nice dinner at my house with the family. Kant's family always has a birthday party for Jesus: a nice dinner at home where the family dresses in their Sunday best. I don't know if there is a birthday cake involved.

Sounds like a good idea to me.

Adventures in Homebuying: The Last Days

I have just made an appointment with Two Men and a Truck to come move the big crap in my house this Thursday. So, until then, I have to scramble to put everything small in boxes. Depending on how speedy they are will determine if I have them take the boxes. I don't want to exceed the two hour window I am paying for. To help expedite the process, I am also going to disassemble everything so all they have to do is put it in the truck.

Did I mention I work until Tuesday morning? It's going to be a fun week! I'm fairly certain that the rest of the painting I will be doing at the house will have to happen after I move it. Oh well...it's just touch-ups anyway.

Initially, I was going to rent a truck and have friends help, but with it being during the week, and a holiday one at that, I didn't like the idea that I didn't have any concrete commitments. Besides, most everyone will either be working or out of town. As much as I hate the idea of dropping a few hundred for movers, I have come to the conclusion that I really don't have much of a choice.

Only one more week of apartment life. One more week until I can give Bloated Single Mother the finger. No more laundromat! No more shared parking!

NO MORE!

A Mormon, a Catholic, an Agnostic and a Gay Man Walk Into a Strip Club...

Tuesday...was the work Christmas party. It was held at The Granfalloon this year, and not someones house...which means that no one got rip-snorting drunk and passed out on top the coat check.

It was a sedate gathering, to say the least. That will probably never happen again.

We had the room until 9pm, which was far too early for some folks to call it a night, so a group of us went over to Cafe Trio where folks sipped on martinis such as the Paris Hilton (Pink Panties), the Mel Gibson (Passion of the Fruit), Courtney Love (Liquid Cocaine), and the Betty Ford (non-alcoholic).

It is there that folks either a: sober up or b: get further sauced. One person gets so tanked she announces to the entire restaurant that big boobs were no laughing matter. An extra person arrives, who is the girlfriend of Agnostic's brother. She is oblivious to the fact that her boyfriend is currently on the Plaza with some other chick.

Moving right along...

So, Cafe Trio closes, and the four remaining (see title) stand around wondering "what's next?". The Agnostic thinks its a swell idea to go visit a strip club. Everyone else looks around, bewildered. Because we are too chicken-shit to say no, we go along.

The place is called Temptations. It's a strip club. We pay $19 cover charge for something I can go home and look at for free. The place is dark, and has a seedy feel. Agnostic is the only one who feels at home. The rest of us feel like we're on an alien planet wondering, "What is God's name am I doing here?"

We find a table and plant ourselves. Agnostic is surveying the spread (literally), the rest of us are trying not to make eye contact with anyone. A dancer wanders by and tells us we are going to have a good time.

Uhhh...okay.

So, the dancers do what passes for dancing: shake their ass, grab their boobs, wave their va-jay-jay in the faces of various patrons for dollars. ONE DOLLAR BILLS! I think I'd still prefer dress as a man dressing in drag and lip sync Dolly Parton songs for dollars, thank you very much.

Gay Man and myself are talking quietly, mostly discussing what these girls could have done in life that have landed them here. Catholic (Paul) goes between listening to us, and watching the girls climb the stripper pole. He is the first one to notice when one dancer uses the pole before cleaning it off from the previous dancer. He's somewhat of a germ freak.

The geeky looking dancer with glasses grabs Agnostic by his sweater and drags him back in to the VIP room, leaving us sitting there with his cell phone. Thanks a lot, asshole. The phone continues to ring, and we see it's from Agnostic's brother's girlfriend. She calls ten times. Apparently, she has found out about boyfriend's evening activities on the Plaza.

If Bruno were to draw a comic strip according to our experience, it would show me, Paul and the Gay Guy (who is a great friend of mine) sitting at a table, and we'd all be thinking different things.

Paul: I wish that one would come out and smack her ass again...but she needs to clean the stripper pole first.
GG: This confirms that I am totally all about the penis.
Me: White faux wood shades would look really good in my kitchen. I need to add that to my Lowe's list.

After fifteen minutes, Gay Man announces he likes penis and therefor he is going to go home, leaving Paul and myself sitting there, watching Agnostic's phone ring every five minutes. Various girls come out and do their little, ahem, dance. One thing I have noticed, is that not only am I the ONLY female patron in the establishment, I have the biggest boobs of EVERYONE there...including the dancers. Most of the dancers look like the women you see in National Geographic. It's kind of sad. Apparently, stripping doesn't make the kind of bank that can afford a boob job.

At one point, a dancer walks up to me and asks me if I want a dance. I politely tell her that I'm fine, and thank her for asking. Thirty minutes later, another dancer approaches me with the same question and gets the same response. I look over to Paul and observe that no one has offered a dance to him. Some guys just can't get a break.

Agnostic's phone continues to ring from the brother's girlfriend, and I am two seconds away from throwing the damn thing across the room when Agnostic emerges from the VIP room. Thankfully, this means we can leave.

Agnostic tells us that the Geeky Stripper is actually a sweetheart. What?!? He just spent over an hour in the VIP room, giving her money so she would dance and talk and Godonlyknows what else. If she were a sweetheart, she would have done it for free. His comment elicits the biggest eye roll from Yours Truly.

Finally, we leave. It's hard to say who was happier to go...me or Paul. Grilling him later, Paul confesses that strippers do nothing for him as you never know where these women have been before you came along. Besides, he's more a hands-on kind of guy...

I've never, ever going to EVER go to one of these places again. However, if any good can be extolled from it, I can always tell my daughter (if I have one), or even my niece that if you don't do your homework, you'll end up dancing in a strip club with boobs that look like they have been rolled over by a Zamboni.

Another good thing...I totally had to rewrite the opening segment in my book because I had the strip club sequence ALL WRONG.

If a Fat Girl Screams in an Empty House, Do the Appliances Laugh at Her?

Excited, I took over some dirty linens to the house to wash in my very own washer and dryer. Ahhh...just saying that gives me warm, fuzzy feelings: my very own washer and dryer.

Before I could do laundry, however, I had to hook up the washer and dryer. Not too hard...hot water hose goes to hot water spout, cold water hose goes to cold water spout, plug it in, wash clothes.

So, I started my first load and was alarmed that I had no hot water running into the washer. Logic would tell me that certainly there is some sort of knob or something that I turn on so the hot water can go to the washer, right?

I disappear into the storage room that houses the furnace, hot water heater, and all those other things that run a house behind the scenes. After poking around, I see a red lever which looks like it is piped into the utility room where the washer sits. I turn the lever and I hear water begin to run. Awesome.

I hop up the stairs to the utility room where I poke my head in the washer. Still no hot water. Then where is all that water running to? I thought. Maybe I would just peek around the house and try to find out.

First place I looked was the kitchen, where a fountain of water is shooting out of the ground, spraying the cabinets, the walls, and pretty much soaking everything that is in the kitchen. I scream and run downstairs and make a mad dash to shut off the red lever. Apparently, that lever controls the water that is meant to go to the refrigerator for the filtered water and ice maker. Well, at least I know that works, and when the time comes to turn on the ice maker, I'll know exactly which lever to push.

So, I go to Lowes and purchase a Shop Vac. I have a feeling I'm going to be using it a lot.

My water mess cleaned, I decide to just wash in cold water and turn the washer back on. Now it has hot water, and it apparently had nothing to do with anything I did.

The dryer worked without incident of fire, only I discovered a shirt and pair of black socks, the owner being Ridiculously Hot Guy. I think he did this on purpose because he, like all other guys, noticed that I have a really cute butt and wanted to see it, I mean, me again.

Or not.

I did two loads of laundry without flooding or burning the house down. I call that I good day. I also managed to paint a second coat to the red in the dining room and kitchen (red is a bitch of a color to paint), and paint the mushroom color to the bottom third of the dining room wall. I did a small section of the blue (Calvary) in the great room and decided it was too dark, so now I am going to just paint the entire great room the same mushroom color. Tomorrow, I will do just that, in addition to the touch-ups on the red, and start on the white trim in the kitchen and dining room.

I'm sick of painting.

Proud Owner of Large Appliances

I decided to give Craigslist another chance and found a listing for a black fridge, in my price range. I emailed right away and the seller responded that I was the first person of many to reply, and he would let me have first crack at it.

So Friday, I drove to his house to check out the fridge. When he opened the door, the first thing that popped into my head was, "What fridge?" He was hot. Ridiculously hot.

God bless Craigslist!

I decided to buy the fridge (and the fact that the seller was hotter than donut grease had nothing to do with that decision) and promised I would return the following day with the means to transport said fridge from point A to point B.

I enlisted my little brother, Mike, and told him to rally as many extra hands as he could find.

The next day, Mike, 'bert and 'bert's Dad arrive with a trailer. Immediately, they set to carting out the fridge in my apartment kitchen. I ask them what they are doing, and tell them the fridge in question is a million miles away in Stanley, Kansas.

So, we trek to middle-of-nowhere and Ridiculously Hot Guy is there. Apparently, my brother has reading my expressions down to an art and he proceeds to say every possible thing to embarrass me in front of Ridiculously Hot Guy. Did I ever mention that my brother minces words about as well as I do?

Larry, Darryl, and Darryl (i.e. my brother and his cronies) in addition to RHG, work to move the massive fridge out to the trailer. I stand by, admiring the strong arms of RHG.

Fridge loaded, RHG presents Mike and the Boys the only two things that he kept in his fridge: a large jar of whole pickles, and almost a half a case of Bud Light. Mike decides that RHG is acceptable enough to date his sister, and shifts his matchmaking gears into overdrive.

RHG mentions that no one has bought his washer and dryer from him, and I immediately jump on him, er, I mean, the window of opportunity to have a washer and dryer of my very own. After inspecting said washer and dryer, I tell Mike and the Boys to load them up with the fridge, which they do.

"Is there anything else in the house you want to sell me?" I innocently ask RHG. Mike practically snorts beer out of his nose. His golden opportunity has arrived.

"What's with all the sexual innuendo, Heather?" Mike asks loudly. I blush ten-thousand shades of red. Bastard. I'm certain RHG now thinks that my family is a bunch of retards. The sooner we can leave him alone, the sooner he can feel better about humanity.

With sad heart, we leave RHG's house and trek to mine. I frequently check my rear view mirror to make sure I don't see a large, black refrigerator tumbling down the highway. We arrive to my house where my brother does his time-honored tradition and proceeds to pollute one of my bathrooms. 'bert uses the other bathroom. My house wins Mike's Seal of Approval because the toilet didn't overflow.

For now, the fridge sits in my garage until I can replace the copper water line for a steel-braided one, and have enough manpower to move the fridge from the garage to the kitchen. But...the important thing is that my search is over, and I now have the exact fridge I have been wanting for my kitchen. The washer and dryer an added bonus.

It was as if it was meant to be.

Moving Sucks

I didn't go to the house today. Rather, I opted to sleep in a little bit longer, and dedicate myself to packing as much crap tonight as I possibly can.

My organized, systematic way of packing: all items packed in specific boxes according to room, use and priority, has now given way to just throwing everything in boxes and marking "room misc" with black permanent marker.

Now that I have a washer and dryer, I can even start lugging dirty laundry over and do it there.

I'm also hungry. I have food, but that food is smaller parts to bigger food (such as casseroles) and I don't have all the parts to make one big food. I am refraining from making any big grocery store excursions because the more stuff I buy, means the more stuff I have to cart across the Greater KC area. But I am hungry. So, I'm going to have to buck up, go out, and buy a frozen pizza or something. There's only so long a person can live on grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup....even though a grilled cheese sandwich is always a good thing.

Tomorrow morning, I will go to the house and finish painting the dining room. I'm doing it in a color called brick red and I have some Bill Brauer prints that will look stellar against the red walls. My mother thinks it's too much red, and says kitchens and dining rooms should be light and airy. That might be true...only if you plan on decorating in country cows and ducks. Brick red dining room with white trim (chair rail, plate covers, etc), brushed nickel light fixtures and the adjoining kitchen with the same brick red color above the white cabinets, black appliances, and either black or marble-ish concrete counter tops.

I also have my work Christmas party to go to tomorrow night. I said I would go, but I guess it just depends on how much I have left to do on the painting, and how I am feeling on the matter. As of late, I've been feeling rather bitchy, and I have just attributed that to all the stress of moving. I'd hate to go to the Christmas party and tell off everyone there, especially that annoying one staffer who has the common sense of a Chia Pet.

I'm never going to move...ever, ever again. It's too emotionally draining.

Time to go find that pizza.

Sometimes, Death is Better

I managed to catch some of the Chiefs game last night while I was working. Patients were distressed. Blood pressure meds had to be increased.

If one didn't know any better, one might think that Lamar Hunt really died from embarassment.

Remembering When: Braces

A poster on a cruise message board I frequent solicited advice from other posters because their children were on the verge of getting braces. It made me think about my experience with braces only three years ago. You see, when I was a kid, my parents couldn't afford braces. While I didn't have horrible teeth, there was a degree of crowding on the bottom set because there were too many teeth for such a small mouth. I got the braces before I went to nursing school, wore them for a year, then they were taken off leaving the straightest, whitest teeth you could ever come across (insert joke here).

I won't lie. The experience was probably one of the most painful I have ever voluntarily committed to myself. Ever.

But I digress.

When I was in high school, I used to have a part time job working as a dietary aid at the local nursing home. I never did the cooking. Basically, I did the cleaning, helped serve the residents, and help the cooks in whatever they needed to do.

Why is this important? Let me tell you...

My teeth hurt solid for the week after my spacers were put in. Then, I had to have teeth extracted by an oral surgeon because my mouth is too small to accommodate a full set of teeth. THEN...the ortho put the actual braces on. All in all...I think my mouth ached for an entire month.

After a week of eating just soup, I got pretty sick and tired of it...even though there is a vast variety of soups out there. Plus, you can only go one for so long eating soup and mashed potatoes before you hit burnout. I was hungry for real food. I was perusing my freezer, lamenting at all the tasty things I had in there and could not eat because of the chewing factor, when suddenly I remembered my days working in the nursing home kitchen.

You know where I am going with this, don't you?

You can make ANY food edible in a pureed form. Just because some of the rockin' seniors can't actually masticate, doesn't mean they can't enjoy tasty food.

So, I drew on all my infinite knowledge of pureed food prep and gathered the essential tools: food processor, milk, fish sticks and Velveeta cheese.

I am somewhat embarrassed to say it, but that was the best pureed fish sandwich I have ever tasted. Coincidentally, it was the only pureed fish sandwich I have ever tasted. It sure beat chicken noodle soup all to hell.

In the event I have children, and they have the misfortune of requiring braces, I can rest easy knowing they won't have to suffer through countless bowls of tomato soup and jello like their peers. As long as I have a working food processor, they can join the rest of the family at mealtime without staring longingly at our plates.

They can enjoy what we are enjoying...all without unnecessary chewing.

Tales of the Homeowner: Remodeling Burnout

I never thought I would say this, but I am burned out on Lowes. It seems I am there on days I don't have to work, and sometimes twice in one day returning or exchanging stuff that was the: wrong color, wrong size, just plain wrong.

Last night, Paul came over to help me return the bamboo shades I bought for my bedroom that were too small. I measured, then I forgot what the measurements were (I didn't write them down), then guessed when I purchased the blinds. Mom and "the boyfriend" were at the house Sunday to do handyman stuff, including hanging the shades, when it was discovered they were too small. Mom had taken both shades out their respective boxes, then couldn't get them to go back into the boxes.

I managed to successfully roll up one shade and put it back in the box. Not so much with the other one. I just had to settle for taking the rolled up shade, empty box, and everything else back to Lowes.

We exchanged the shades, picked out paint for the great room, kitchen and dining room, looked at refrigerators, bought new light fixtures for the great room, dining room and entrance way, and wandered around the store. After that jaunt, we stopped by my house to drop everything off, before returning to our respective houses.

Today, I returned to Lowes to actually buy the paint and various painting items. Four gallons of paint: two in Sauteed Mushroom, one in Calvary, the last in Brick Dust. I hope my house doesn't look like crap when we are finished. Paul says my color choices are dark and depressing, so my house will be dark and depressing. I told him to fear not, I would simply place a Prozac salt lick at the front door so people could take a swipe before they came in. Problem solved!

Tonight, I'm going to pick up the Mom and drive to the house where we will start painting. The boyfriend will come later bearing turkey enchiladas and a tall ladder for reaching those hard to reach places for painting. In my mother's case, that would be anything higher than five feet.

Friday, I am going to go look at a fridge offered on Craigslist. Less than a year old, and black, and with both an ice maker and water thingie. The guy is moving to California and the apartment he is moving to has a fridge, and therefor doesn't need one. In the event I buy it, I just need to figure out how in the hell I plan on getting it to my house. A 26 cubic foot side-by-side fridge won't exactly fit into the back of a PT Cruiser.

Now, I am just finishing up the laundry I have been neglecting for the past two weeks, then I shall take a shower before picking up the Mom.

I'll post before and after pics of my painting progress.

Because Mondays Usually Suck

I sat in report with a nurse this morning when she got a call on her cell phone. Her daughter called to say that the family dog got out of the yard and was hit by a car that morning and died. The nurse was very distraught. The dog had been in the family for 12 years.

I thought about Sam and I thought about how sad I would be if that had happened to me. I may bitch about him a lot, but I also bitch about my brothers. You bitch about those you love.

Anyway...the asshole who hit the dog (which was a rather large one) just kept driving, even with the daughter standing right there.

So, if you are the douchebag who ran over the German Shepherd on Rainbow this morning and didn't bother to stop, I hope you contract an STD.

When I got home, I looked up the number of a pet cemetery not too far from my apartment and relayed this information to the nurse. After perusing the website of said pet cemetery, I must say I am now depressed.

I gave Sam an extra treat this morning and a scratch behind the ears.

A Mormon Walks Into a Gay Bar...

Last night, a bunch of friends from work wanted to go out and have some drinks, possibly get sauced. Because I practically dwell in Dry Land, would I be willing to be the designated driver?

Okay...

So, I went. I picked up everyone else (who met at a central location) and off we went. First stop, Tomfooleries on the Plaza where two more people met up with us. Six of us total.

Everyone had a drink and we listened to the cover band, which wasn't bad, actually. It was there that one of the girls had an idea to go to this one place that has a show everything Thursday. It also happened to be a gay bar. I thought Missy B's, but it was a place called Tootsies.

Okay...

So, I drive the gang there, and we go in to this somewhat obscure entrance. If you didn't know what it was, you wouldn't be able to figure out just by driving past it. One dollar cover charge and everyone bellied up to the bar. As a designated driver, I got my non-alcoholic beverages at no charge. YESSSSSSSS!

Drinks in hand, we settled at a table in the far back corner of the room. Lots of girls running around, some looked like boys, and some looked, uhhh, normal. The show started and there were a couple female impersonators and there were a couple male impersonators. They stood on the stage, lip-syncing a song, maybe dancing, and visiting the people who came up to the stage waving dollar bills. Is this what they all do? Just lip-sync and collect money? Hell...I can do that! Of course, there is the the issue that I look nothing like a boy and have no desire to. Besides, what would I do with "the girls"?

Maybe I could dress as a man trying to impersonate a woman. All it would take is lots of make-up, a big wig, and a very loud dress.

I could lip sync something by Dolly Parton. I could rake in the dough!

That would take care of part of my mortgage.

It is something to consider...

At any rate, three of us six actually got up to dance after the show, leaving me and two other sitting there, slurping on our beverage of choice, watching our surroundings, trying to keep our expressions in check. One of the female impersonators wanders over to our table, which I have come to think of it as "the straight table". I think he/she could tell we were not exactly in our element. We tried to compliment the entertainer, but what do you say to a female impersonator exactly?

Nice fake boobs? Great job lip syncing? Awesome wig? What method do you use to rid your legs of all that unwanted hair??

Shortly after that, the we decided to leave. The other three were going to stay because they were having a good time.

It wasn't that it was because it was a gay bar. I come from the live and let live mindset. I think for me (and the other two echoed my sentiments) it was just because I'm not much of a barfly. I don't care for the smoke, the loud music gives me a headache. I'm just getting old. I have different ideas for fun with friends that doesn't include trying to figure out who is male and who is female.

So goes another life experience I can add to the "been there, done that" list.

December 6

I spent the entire day yesterday...painting and doing whatnot in my new house. This driving back and forth from apartment to house is bullshit, but I want to have most all the painting done before I move my furniture in. Mom came over, as did Paul (who did a stellar job installing the new outlet covers) and of course, "the boyfriend".

At any rate, while I was painting, I would give thought to the day and it's significance. Thirteen years ago on December 6, 1993, my father died. While it seems kind of odd to remember such a thing and reflect upon it every year for most people, some things sort of stay with you. The circumstances surrounding his death are not average, and it took a while for things to get back to some semblance of normalcy after he died. My brother wouldn't even recognize his birthday (December 5th) for many years afterwards because the memories were just to painful to revisit. Even I still have a difficult time talking about it. I've only uttered the words once in public in front of strangers, and I don't plan on doing so now. It is something I have only discussed with very few close friends, and those people for whom telling the story is only relevant to their situation. To this day, I can't discuss what happened without my voice breaking.

Someday, I will have the courage to write it...but not this day.

As time has passed, the sting has waned to some degree, but the pain truly never goes away. Where there was anger, is now replaced with sadness and pity. Somedays, I can't remember my father's face, and other days it will just come to me as clear as if I had seen him yesterday. The same with his voice.

It still makes me cry.

I wonder what he would think if he could see his kids now, and how they turned out. Sometimes, I have questions I want to ask that I know he would have the answers to...like why my car makes a certain noise, and what's the best way to get up on waterskiis. I wish he were here so I can take him to my new house and have him tell me about all the things I could do, and how he could help me do them because he used to build houses...and we could do those things together. But most of all, I want to see that look in his eyes...the same look he would get when I brought home an award for band, or speech, or something I accomplished that made me stand out above all others. That look of pride that a father can only have for a daughter.

This December 6th passed with little fanfare, but lots of green paint. "The boyfriend" went around and pointed out all the things I could do to my new dwelling, and offered to do it for me...but it wasn't the same. He seems nice enough, but he's not my dad.

For one thing, my father would have never pissed in my back yard instead of going into the house to use the bathroom...and soap.

Whatever...

On a dismal day, it's always good to have loved ones around (or at least people you love even if they don't reciprocate) to remind you of all the good things that are still here and worth hanging around for.

The Boyfriend

I took Mom to see the house last night. She got all teary and blathered about how proud of me she was and stuff. I suppose all moms do that, even if you are a shithead. Are mothers proud of their children if they deal in meth? Only if they successfully cook it without blowing the house up, I suspect.

Mom talked a little more about "boyfriend" as I have come to think of him. Because the story of "the boyfriend" is so amusing to me, I have to share. I swear, I can't make this stuff up.

Mom met "boyfriend" while they were working together, but he no longer works where she is working. Instead he works for another company that sends him to other countries as part of his job...but that is neither here nor there. However, if I catch wind that he's going to Germany, I'm giving him a list which includes chocolate, coffee, and Haribo gummi bears (yes, I know I can get them here, but they are not the same...trust me).

Boyfriend is in his 50's. I knew he had four sons, all of which who were gay. However, I didn't know that those four sons were part of the cumulative eleven children that this man has sired. Eleven. He's not Mormon, and he's not Catholic. He's just not wise to the advances of birth control.

Perhaps the most amusing part is the story of the gay sons. Two sets of twins, they are. Boyfriend is also a twin. At the age of sixteen, he goes to some Twin Convention and hooks up with a girl there (also a twin). The product of their night of passion produces twin set #1.

The following year, boyfriend returns to the Twin Convention and hooks up with the twin sister of the girl he hooked up with the year before. End result = twin set #2.

So, you've got two sets of twins. Half-brothers, as well as cousins. I bet that was a really fooked up family day at school. It almost sounds like a bad Ray Stevens song.

Boyfriend is currently in the process of a divorce, which is interesting because so is my mother. For a relationship to work, you must have things in common, I guess.

If Mom marries this one, it will be her third marriage and his fifth. I suppose the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. My grandmother was married at least three times, maybe four, and produced six children. I'm going to have to lay claim to my father's genetics on this matter. While his side of the family are raging alcoholics, most of them are still married to the original spouse. Maybe that's why they drink so much.

As for me, I only plan on doing it once. I figure that if I marry later in life, I can at least croak from old age before the word divorce has the chance to be uttered.

Getting the House Ready

I got up early yesterday despite being tired. I have a lot to do and a relatively short amount of time to do it in.

So, I got up and loaded the car with some boxes...and the dog. We took off to the house where I unloaded the car while the dog went apeshit in his new space. However, I did note that Sam doesn't fare well on hardwood floors. Not at all. He was sliding everywhere, falling over. It was pretty funny. I let him out into the back yard where he proceeded to do things I've only seen Michael Flatley do...preening, leaping and prancing. He would run in circles, then throw himself into a snow drift.

After a while, I went to Lowes and proceeded to purchase everything I needed (or thought I needed) to start painting. I decided to start with my bedroom and purchased paint in a lovely, and aesthetically pleasing shade of green. I also had to buy a can of primer to help cover that nasty "goldenrod tea" color that currently is gracing the halls of the bedroom. The can I found in the closet read "goldenrod tea". I call it "baby poop yellow".

I also started buying some essential tools (wrench, pliers, hammer, etc) for my new house, as well as a nifty project ladder, and new inards for the toilet in the master bathroom because it takes an hour for the tank to fill and never stops running.

Today, I took all my purchases, in addition to some boxes, to the new house where I unceremoniously dropped a full gallon can of Fiji green paint on my left foot.

OUCH!

I taped off the bedroom and primed it. The whole thing. Today. My arms hurt, my legs hurt. I hurt, and I am exhausted. Who knew painting was such tough work? My bedroom is now a lovely shade of seafoam green, and tomorrow I will paint it it's permanent shade.

As an encore, I returned to Lowes and found a new ceiling fan, some electric outlet covers in brushed nickel, and a pair of awesome mahogany bamboo shades for the windows. I'm so excited. My bedroom is going to be, for lack of a better term, the shit.

But I have decided that I don't care much for painting.

On a side note, I cannot figure out how to light the hot water heater. I followed the instructions on the side of the tank, but it didn't work. There must be a gas valve somewhere that is turned off, but fear not, someone is coming over tomorrow to light it for me. I don't want to mess with it too much.

I have an aversion to being blown up.

Fame Whore(s) Alert!

Not really a newsflash, I know.

I remembered how the world rejoiced when Britney announced she was kicking Fed-Ex to the curb. Even those who hated her, were secretly relieved and rooting for a kick-ass comeback. Everyone loves it when the underdog comes out on top.

If this is Britney's way of blazing on the comeback trail, she needs to hire a new PR manager.

And Lindsay Lohan, too? The three of them together is like watching a cracked-out, estrogen-infused version of The Three Stooges. Considering none of the three actually have any discernible talent (aside from showing their community poon to the world), I'd be remiss if I didn't agree that at least they are in shared company.

After all, water does find it's own level.

I don't think I've been this nauseated since I ate my cousin's nasty homemade chicken noodle soup...and that was some serious projectile vomiting, people!

The only way it could possibly get worse is if they decided to collaborate on music together. I shudder at the mere thought of it.

So, can we please round these, ahem, splooge buckets and send them far, far away. Iraq sounds nice. Put them right in central Bagdad wearing nothing but red, white and blue.

Who would ever guess that K-Fed would turn out to be the classy one...