The Kitchen Project Revealed!

I know you've been waiting patiently for it. The kitchen is not completely finished, but I thought I would post pics of what has been done so far.This is the kitchen, before I moved in. Note how the countertops were a golden-rod type color laminate. At some point in history, something thought this actually looked good...which leads me to believe that people in the early 80's were colorblind. Also note the plain white tile backsplash which are also used for the insides of bathtubs and showers. Blah sink (with partially clogged valves which made for horrible water pressure). Drop in stove. Blah island.

Instead of posting all the pics I took during, I'm just going to post some after pics.New items of note: porcelain tile backsplash, Gemini range, laminate counter tops. I had originally wanted concrete countertops, but the time crunch didn't allow for it. I'm pretty happy with my choice in color, even though Mr. Recommendation wasn't certain about it at the beginning.
This is the new sink. Black granite, but it feels more like slate. It was significantly bigger than the old one. In fact, a half an inch bigger, and it wouldn't have fit. Mr. Recommendation replaced all the plumbing stuff below, so now I have water pressure. The new faucet is brushed nickel, as well as the sink drains, and that skinny thing on the left is my spout for the reverse osmosis water. Note: the small accent tiles behind the sink.This is the new and improved island. Mr. Recommendation extended it by 10-12 inches so I can have a couple stools for an eat-in breakfast bar. He used three large tiles, four smaller accent tiles (same as what is behind the sink), and then surrounded it with the beige tiles. The brackets you see below are what stabilizes the top so no one has scambled eggs in their lap. The not-quite finished product. As you can see, I've taken some of the hardware off the cabinets and am preparing to paint everything white. Right now, it's more an off white. With the red I have painted my kitchen and dining room in, it makes the off-white look even more yellow.Almost makes you want to come over for a bologna sandwhich, doesn't it? Coincidentally, Mr. Recommendation is available for hire. Email me for more info. There isn't anything that this guy can't do.

A Town Worthy of a Darwin Event

I rolled my eyes when I read about that town where a large number of teenagers got pregnant, making a pact to do so. Just when I think the pubescent demographic couldn't get anymore retarded, stuff like this happens and completely blows my mind.

So, if terrorists decided to drop a bomb on this entire town, I think they would be doing the world a favor. So many stupid pro-creators, living in one small area, is just asking for a Darwin event to help thin out the herd. Especially that one girl who got pregnant by a homeless guy. Ewww. This baby is pretty much screwed. How does one cope with the fact that you mom was a blatant whorette who slept with some homeless guy so she could get pregnant??

When I was a teenager, yes, teen pregnancy existed, but it was still considered something of a major screw-up. I don't want to say it was a "dirty little secret", but it was. The teenage moms were certainly not proud of it. They just had their babies, quietly. If they were lucky, they had supportive families and they were able to finish high school. There was no in-school daycare. Girls did not get pregnant just because they thought babies were cute and they would like have one, and having a baby shower and get free shit would be totally awesome. No, pregnancies usually happened because birth control failed or they just didn't use any.

The stigma of being an unwed pregnant teenage mother was enough to terrify me into not having sex when I was in high school. I had a great, big fear of the penis. (A fear, that I am happy to report, that I have overcome.) I think the stigma that came with being an unwed pregnant teenager was enough for most girls to take extra measures to prevent it, or just abstain from sex altogether.

I don't know when the stigma of pregnant teenagers changed. It's not a big deal anymore (of which I think is bullshit). Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I still believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with society being okay with a 16 year old getting knocked up. Girls, lacking the maturity to care for a hamster, are getting pregnant because they think it will be fun, or it will fill some kind of void in their lives, or because some dumbass celebrity did it and it would be so cool, or for some other asinine reason.

Whenever I read about the Pregnancy Pact and the details that are emerging, I just can't wrap my mind around it. I don't even want to think about what is going to become of these babies. It's a sad story, and it makes my hope for humanity die just a little bit more.

Tuesday Blather...It Is Tuesday, Isn't It??

Today was a fun-filled day, starting out by visiting the Fifth Circle of Hell again. They isolated my knee stiffness problem to some nodules formed on my tendons, not to mention that my hamstring is completely useless right now. So, Happy Helperton of the physical therapy department, proceeds to work out those nodules. Manually. I thought I knew what pain was. I was wrong. She tried to be cheerful during the process. People should never be cheerful when purposely inflicting pain. It pisses people off and they just want to kick you in the head. Four years of nursing has taught me this valuable lesson.

From there, I go to the Pull My Knob store to inquire about hinges. I want to replace the ugly brass looking ones with white, only they don't sell my kind of hinges in white. I ask the guy what he would suggest. "Paint 'em" he says. Butthole.

From there, I go back home and eat a bologna sandwich. That's all I have time for as I get back into my car and head out to BFE, Johnson County for my one month follow-up.

My appointment was at 1:30. When I get there (on time), I find the waiting room is filled with people. All there to see one doctor, who happens to be the guy who operated on my knee. This doesn't bode well.

An hour and a half later, I am starting to see white spots, I'm so angry. Just when I'm about to go to the front desk and go postal, I'm called to the back. The nurse is all chipper and asks me how my day is going. Seriously?? I only grunt a reply. She doesn't say another word. Her intelligence belies her looks.

(Honestly, if I have an appointment, I expect to be seen within 15-30 minutes upon arriving. If you don't plan on seeing me for an hour, then make my appointment for an hour later. This is the one thing about doctors that pisses me off. They overbook. It's a travesty, and if I did my job in such a manner, someone would probably die.)

Another 30 minutes waiting in an exam room, and I finally get to see my doctor...who tells me that all the stiffness, the pain, the angst, the nodules, the crying at beer commercials...it's all perfectly normal, and it could be at least 2-3 months before I will notice how well the surgery worked. He writes me an order for a brace to wear at work, and some more Percocet, and blows out of my exam room, having been in there for less than 10 minutes.

I finally get to go home. Too tired to cook, I offer to take Brother for a quick dinner at the nearby Chinese restaurant. He accepts. We go. We eat. We come home to find Mr. Recommendation and the Rocket Scientist leveling my kitchen oven so that when I bake cakes, they are not five inches on one side, and one inch on the other.

I take a two hour nap, wake up, pop some Percocet, ice the knee, and seal the grout in the kitchen. For those who have never sealed grout while on Percocet...it's just as boring a job as it would have been without the Percocet. You know, just in case you were wondering.

The kitchen is almost complete. Tomorrow, I shall begin painting the cabinets. It's going to be a magical experience, I'm sure.

I'll post pics soon.

Fuck You, George. RIP

George Carlin, one of the best comedians ever, has died. One of the few comedians I actually liked because he originally funny. His voice was instantly recognizable. His humor was smart.

When I was in college, I had to take a speech class. During this class, we were asked to give speeches on various things. There was this one girl, who annoyed the hell out of me. She was a wannabe hippy...didn't use soap, dressed in hemp, and all that other crap. For our comedic speeches, she chose to do hers on swear words. Basically, she just stood in front of the class and spewed "fuck" and "shit" in no context whatsoever. It just wasn't funny, and the laughter heard in the classroom was more of the embarrassed variety. Most everyone was embarrassed her speech sucked something awful. I felt bad for the Muslim girl who sat in front of me.

Number one rule of public speaking...know your audience.

I, however, was incensed. As far as I was concerned, only one person could speak solely on swear words, and it actually be funny...George Carlin. I wanted to walk to the front of the class and smack her upside the head, then take a metal comb through her dreadlocks. That would teach her for defecating on an American Icon.

So, the as the world wakes up today, it will find itself a less amusing place to live because George is gone. Prudes everywhere may breathe a sigh of relief. Today, I challenge every one of you, in honor of his memory, to drop the "f-bomb" in conversation.

Godspeed, George Carlin. Heaven just got a whole lot more interesting.

Today

I went to the Fifth Circle of Hell, I mean, Physical Therapy. I did the standard exercises, and continued to bitch after we were done. Physical therapists are accustomed to patients bitching. I wanted to be heard. I was pissed. How is it that it's been three weeks, and I still feel as crappy as I did before the surgery?? Absolutely no improvement.

Resigned, the therapists take a look at the offending part of my leg. After pushing on a couple spots, and being rewarded by my shrieks of pain, they deduce that I have an severely inflamed tendon. Duh! I've only been complaining about it since I set foot in your office.

So, they slapped some goo on the back of my leg and put some sort of little tool on it that emitted ultrasonic waves. For the first time in a long time, I can bend my leg, on my own, without screaming obscenities in various dead languages.

From there, I went and had lunch with my BF Trish, and was reminded why I don't have children. They are good kids, really, but I lack the capacity to understand and communicate on their level. One of which engaged in word salad. Often, I had to ask Trish to translate.

After lunch, I went to her house and they showed me their Wii...which rocks. I'm totally going to get one. Maybe later in the year, like after my vacation. Those bitches are expensive, and I still have two bathrooms to remodel. Maybe I will settle on Guitar Hero until then...

Right now, I'm waiting for the pain meds to kick in so I can go take a nap and see just how well that ultrasound thingie worked. The biggest portion of discomfort I feel is when I'm trying to sleep. Meanwhile, Brother is downstairs, cleaning and mopping up all the Hank slobber. Once in a while, I'll hear him tell Dr. Phil what a douche he is, because that is what happens to be on television.

Just another day at Casa de Heather.

Medicated!

I ran out of pain pills over the weekend. At first, I thought I would be fine. I thought wrong.

At the beginning of the day, my leg would be okay. Not 100%, but definitely on the mend. I'd do my little exercises that the Devil, I mean, my physical therapist told me to do. Then, I'd run an errand or do something that required walking. By the end of the day, my knee would be stiff, and I would be miserable. When I would go to bed, my entire leg would be throbbing in agony, and I would get ZERO sleep.

Today, I called the Dr's office to get a refill. When I told the office nurse what was happening, she explained that cases like mine usually experienced pain at night because the gimpy leg hadn't figured out that it was time to unwind and rest. So, it was in constant active-mode.

This would have been useful information THREE WEEKS AGO!!

So, I now have a new bottle of pain meds, some sleeping meds to help knock my ass out at night, and a new outlook on life.

Tomorrow, is another day.

As the Canoe Turns: The Eagle Scout

My friend, Kant, wrote a post that reminded me of some of my antics back in my church singles' group days. Inspired, I felt the need to revisit, especially since the season of canoe trips has begun.

Back in the day, I was an organizing little butterfly. One of the things I liked to organize was group canoe trips. The first year I did it, we had a small handful of people (around 12 or so). The second year I did it, the number was between 25-30 people. The next year, I opened up the invite to the church singles in JoCo, and that number exceeded 50. Each year, more and more people would leave their brains at home.

Take Eagle Scout, for example. He was a third generation Eagle Scout. I know this because he reminded us ALL THE TIME. (Someone once said Eagle Scout just stood for "My Mom Did It", but I can't remember who...) To make things even more enlightening, ES served as some sort of "Canoe Counselor" for camp. Which he apparently felt made him the expert canoer on the trip. Throughout the day, he would attempt to offer canoe pointers to anyone he thought needed them, one of which resulted in Kant and her sister's canoe being wrapped around a fallen tree stump in the first turn of the float.

I'm surprised someone didn't lodge an oar up his ass, but it is important to note that by the end of the day, his canoe had tipped over more times than anyone else. And everyone hated him.

Back at camp, it's time to start the campfire. It had rained the night before, so everything was still somewhat soggy, even though it had been hot and sunny all day. Redneck Brother and myself are pretty proficient at the camping game, so we were working to start the fire. ES, in all his infinite Eagle Scout wisdom, decides we are moving too slow for his taste, and produces a can of white fuel. Despite our protests, ES proceeds to douse a generous amount of gas on a giant pile of wood, then pour a small trail leading away from said wood. By this time, everyone is pissed off at him, and we watch as he lights the beginning of the trail-o-gas. Because the nature of this gas is somewhat more volatile than regular gas you get at the pump, it's fumes are also extremely flammable. Aside from a line of fire going across the campsite, the fumes also ignite and travel up ES's legs and shorts, burning all the hair as it went. He screams like a little girl and everyone else fights the urge to breakout in thunderous applause. Disgusted, Redneck Brother takes his matches away calls him a dumbass. ES's little stunt, of which I had to explain to the campsite's owners why there was a big scorch mark on the grass, not only was dangerous, it didn't work.

Later that night, after a dinner of the standard camping fare: hot dogs, chips, beans, roasted marshmallows, ES disappears to his truck and returns with a guitar. Everyone else is looking at each other as if wondering, "What the hell?!" but because this is a group of Mormons, it's more along the lines of, "What the heck?!"

ES tries to play and lead everyone in singing church hymns, which goes over like a lead balloon. Then, he just decides to entertain us by playing and singing himself. Redneck Brother, who has had all he can stomach for one day, tells ES that if he continues to play, the guitar is going to be pitched in the campfire.

Dejected, ES adjourns to his tent. For the remainder of the weekend, he whines that no one likes him. I have no idea why that was.

From what I hear, he found a girl dense enough to marry him. Poor thing.

Dear Botoxed Prune-Faced Old Crone,

I'm fairly certain you were more than aware that you cut in line, in front of me, at the Independence Costco today. You, in your fugly orange flowered wrap around skirt and matching shirt, and enough makeup on to spackle my bathroom, just walked right in front of the strawberry blonde with the noticeable limp. You were carrying your big-assed box of four items, apparently felt that because you had less, you deserved to go before me. Or maybe it was because you thought you were dressed better. Or maybe you're just one of those people who think your better than everyone. Maybe you happen to live in Leawood.

For whatever reason, you dared not look in my general direction, probably because you could feel my Glare of Death penetrating the back of your old, wrinkled neck. Had you just looked and offered an apology, or even the lame, "I didn't notice you there" excuse, I could have let it slide. But no, you just stood there, ignoring the woman who looked very pained and annoyed because she had a severely hurting leg, and had run out of pain meds two days prior.

I almost opened up a can of verbal whoopass on you, but out of respect for my mother (who was with me) I didn't. I could had made a scathing remark about me deferring to snooty old women because their time on earth is limited and are always in a hurry, but I didn't.

I also didn't say anything because I noticed of the four items you had purchased, three of which were dog treats. (A jar of peanut butter for the weekends was noticeably absent.) I realized that all you have to go home to are your little yapping dogs named Fifi, Fluffy, Sugar Poo, and Buffy. And that you probably were married at some point, but your husband got tired of being married to a snooty sea cow and ran off with his much more attractive secretary. At least she took it up the ass.

As you literally hauled ass out of the store (probably to avoid me going postal on your wrinkled ass), my Mother looked at me and said with the sage wisdom of someone who has been on the planet longer than me, "What a bitter old bitch!"

So, have fun with your dogs. Meanwhile, I will bide my time and wait for you to come in with some botched plastic surgery or something old-people-related. Pay back's a bitch and I am RN. That's means I possess the knowledge to make you have a really bad day.

Angel of Mercy, my ass.

Sincerely,
Heather

Good Think I'm Not Married Then!

-9 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Thoughts On Father's Day

Through my years of reading, my vocabulary is pretty big. I'm usually the one that pulls out the five dollar words in conversation.

In the past 15 years, there is one word. The simplest word. Probably the very first word most babies will say. The word that crosses my mind frequently, but it rarely crosses my lips.

Dad.

Almost Complete

Thursday night, Mr. Recommendation and Rocket Scientist stayed until 11pm putting the tile back splash up. The following morning, they came over and grouted and installed the sink while I slept. When I got up, the only things that remained was finish getting the new sink installed, and bringing the new stove from the garage to the kitchen.

The cabinets will be started on next week. It's a completely separate project that will not render my kitchen incapacitated, not to mention this will be more a hands-on project for me, whereas Mr. Recommendation will now start on building the custom counter top for my island. I will only be able to work on the cabinets during the week as I am now back to work full time. (So, Faith, if you are still interested in helping, let me know.)

The new stove, as awesome as it is, comes with a fat owner's manual that I will need to read before I make any attempt to cook on it. Too many bells and whistles confuse my house. I have ordered Brother to not use the oven until he's been through the inservice.

The new sink, also awesome, was a lot bigger than I thought when I bought it. If it had not divider, it would comfortably seat a midget for bathing. A half an inch bigger, it would have been too big to install.

The back splash rocks. When I initially picked out the tile, I think Mr. Recommendation didn't think they completed project would all go together. He pleasantly surprised at how well it does, and commends me on my eye for color. Mom's the artist in the family, I'd like to think I inherited it from her.

I will be posting pictures of the end result as the kitchen project is completed, but I have been taking lots of pictures during the entire process. I just got a new digital camera that I'm infatuated with. I actually like taking pictures again.

Hank the Tank: 4 months

He's growing like a weed. Just this morning, we took him to the vet for his next round of vaccines, and we weighed in at a robust 46lbs. I'm sure he would have weighed more if he would have gotten breakfast before we left.
Brother has been training him to walk on a leash. Whenever he would get out the front door, he would make a beeline over to Mom's house. For the longest time, I figured that he just liked the attention from "Grandma". Later, she revealed to me that whenever he would come over, they fed him string cheese.
The housebreaking has gone really well. We've had zero accidents for a while, unless you count the time he puddled on Mom's kitchen floor. We think he was just excited about the cheese.
Brother has been teaching Hank to "speak" when he wants a treat. While this might be a cute trick, Hank now barks whenever someone is eating. Even a bowl of cereal.

A little more benign trick would be to "shake" or "high five", which he does well with those beefy paws of his.
Hank still loves to play, and when he's not playing with Sam, he's trying to chew on feet. He especially likes to chew on mine when I am attempting to go down the stairs in his favorite game of "Make the Lady Fall Down the Stairs".
The vet also told us that he is now cutting his adult teeth. I told Brother to "hide everything". I haven't figured out what I'm going to do about the larger pieces of furniture.

His poops are getting bigger, and his land mines are easier to spot in the back yard. I don't walk in my back yard barefooted.
Not anymore.

A Fair Warning

No one, and I mean NO ONE. Better call me between the hours of 9pm, and 10pm. I will be watching the season finale of Top Chef.

And if you do call, not only will I not answer the phone, I will curse you with neverending impotence. That, and lifelong constipation. I have friends who are witches. All it takes is one phone call.

You've been properly warned.

Introducing...Toph's Triage

Toph got his blogging start here, on General Blather, by hand-selecting the videos I would feature (that feature is now defunct on this blog, rest in peace). I always knew it was a matter of time before he left the safe confines of my nest, to go on and start a blog of his very own. I knew this would happen for a couple of reasons:

1. He's smart.
2. He's funny.
3. He can write complete sentences.

Granted, you don't need to have all three of these qualities to have a blog. Hell, I can think of a handful of bloggers (none of which I link to) who have none of these characteristics, and still have a blog.

If your blog is retarded, I won't link to it. Policy. (However, if you don't have a retarded blog and I have not linked you, that only means I haven't discovered you yet.)

At any rate, I've worked with Toph for a couple of years. He started out as a tech, finished nursing school and became an RN. Now, he's transferred off of Hell (i.e. the floor I work on), and onto greener pastures (i.e. the Emergency Room). Sure, I'm sad to see his fine ass, ahem, I mean...him go. Work on my floor will now be very, very boring in his absence. (Who else am I going to relay stupid movie quotes with??)

Without further delay, I present Toph's Triage. Give him a break because his blog is in it's infancy, and while he may not post with the fervor of a certain chronic masturbator that lives in his mother's basement, his posts are worth reading. Join him on his journey into the belly of the beast.

It should be an entertaining ride. I call dibs on a window seat.

Blowing My Wad and Other Blather

Life without a kitchen is hard. Brother and I are living off of anything that either doesn't need to be cooked (i.e. bologna sandwiches), only needs to be reheated in the microwave, or whatever Mom happens to be cooking that night. We take advantage of that last one as often as we can.The original plan was to just keep the existing stove and replace it with what I wanted down the road. However, in the land of home improvement, once the old stove came out, a new one had to go in it's place if I was to get a new one at all.I've always loved the Maytag Gemini, ever since I first seen one at Kant's house. I've lusted for this oven for YEARS. However, I've always stopped short of buying one because I've balked at the price tag, not to mention I lived in an apartment until a year and a half ago. Paying well over a grand for an oven seemed silly when you could get a new oven that worked just as well for around $500. Granted, it wouldn't have the dual ovens, it would still bake you delicious homemade Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies.

I've always gone by the mantra, "If you are going to go for it, go big, or go home." I figured that if I absolutely had to have an oven, I may as well get the one I want the first time around. However, Kansas City is home to a very awesome animal known as the Sears Outlet Warehouse. In this place, you'll find all new appliances, some discontinued, some with a scratch or ding here or there...all for drastically reduced rate. AND, they come with original warranties.

So it was at this magical place, that I found my dream oven. A black Maytag Gemini Dual Oven Smooth Cooking Surface (with five burners) Stove. Retail: $1400. What I paid: $800. They had three, so I picked out the one that had the least noticeable cosmetic flaw, which would be a tiny white scuff mark on the side, which will not even be visible once it's slid into the cubby that has been prepared for it's arrival.

The only downside to buying from Sears Outlet is that they don't deliver. So Mr. Recommendation has to go pick it up tomorrow.

While Mom and I were out and about, we stopped at this place to look for new cabinet pulls for the kitchen. The name of the store is Locks & Pulls. I, on the other hand, kept forgetting the name, so often referred to it as the "Pull My Knob" store. Yes, the sales clerk really liked that one. He said they were originally going to name the store "Knobs and Knockers", but thought they might attract the wrong kind of clientele.

What currently exists are these awful brass looking pulls that's supposed to look like a suitcase strap or something equally retarded (I can't understand why you'd want to switch those out! ~Jeff, Salesclerk). What I selected was just a plain black door pulls. I bought 30 of them, which only set me back $50. I had anticipated spending closer to $100.

As of now, the backer board is in place, and the counter top is currently sitting in the basement, waiting to be installed tomorrow. Sink, faucet, tile work will be done this weekend. Next week, we shall begin constructing the custom built island surface which will be extended an extra 10 inches so I can have a eat-in breakfast bar.
All I know is that if this no-cooking policy continues, Brother is going to suffer a breakdown due to lack of frozen pizzas.

House of Destruction

Actually, that would just be my kitchen.

Mr. Recommendation and The Rocket Scientist (his teenage son), came over this morning to begin tearing out the old kitchen stuff. Shortly after beginning, Mr. Recommendation manages to slice his finger open on a piece of aluminum trim. After inspection, I point him to the nearest hospital for stitches and a tetanus shot.

A few hours later, he returns and work has resumed. As of now, they have ripped out all the old tile (some assclown installed bathroom tile as the back splash). The oven has been pulled out. The kitchen is a complete and utter disaster. Hank, being the helpful sort, is trying to do his part in keeping things somewhat neat by eating the drywall.

I've been gimping around still. I have been doing the exercises that physical therapy suggested, but my right leg is still incredibly weak. My left leg has been overcompensating for the right leg for so long, my left leg is twice as strong as the right. It's going to take a while for the right leg to catch up. I've been icing my knee down frequently, and I have noticed a big decrease in the swelling. It's still pretty depressing that I can't really do a lot right now. Stairs are still a challenge, and I damn near cried when Sam got out and ran away (he came back 15 minutes later) only because I couldn't run after him. I relish the day I can start swimming. I find that a lot more interesting than the boring leg lifts PT has me doing.

Knee surgery sucks. Don't ever do it unless you absolutely have to.

Pack Your Knives and Go (Cut Your Wrists)

In the land of reality television, there is really only one show I watch religiously. That is Top Chef. For those of you who don't know, Top Chef is a cooking show which pits chefs against each other for a grand prize through various cooking challenges. I started watching during the middle of season two, and here we are now with season four. It took me a while to warm up to the new chef-testants, but now I have my favs, and my most hated.

First...I want to have Richard's babies. Or at least practice. Lots and lots of practice.

Second...As much as I love Richard, I'm pulling for Stephanie to win. Tonight's episode pretty much clinched that for me. Besides, if Richard is upset about not winning, I will make him feel better.

Third...I used to not like Andrew, but he's grown on me. Like mold. I liked him the instant he said "culinary boner". I've yet to use that in conversation, but the opportunity has yet to present itself.

And last...Lisa is the biggest crunt to ever curse a kitchen.

Why she is in the final three, I will never know. She must have made a deal with Satan. Or maybe she's one of those people who have the kind of luck where they fall into a bucket of shit (probably something she cooked) and comes out with the Hope Diamond in hand. She's consistently been in the bottom for worst dishes. She never takes responsibility for the crap she churns out. Not to mention blaming other people. Greasy McBitchface is only in the top three by sheer dumb luck. I can list at least 9 other chefs on that show who were far more deserving to be there...even that one chick who was the very first to be eliminated.

Grrrr.

So, in case you are wondering where I will be, I will be over at the Television Without Pity site, bitching more about tonight's episode on their message boards.

Tuesday Blather

I went to my follow-up visit with the ortho doc today. One of his nurses got out the suture removal kit to take out the stitches in my knee. The first one she pulled hurt like a bitch, and I seriously thought about kicking her in the head. She sheepishly said sorry and tried a different technique for pulling out the others. They didn't hurt at all.

Doc explained what was wrong with my knee...something about my patella being out of place and messing everything up for the other knee components. Damn patella. He said the swelling (which is HUGE) should go down in three months. So much for continuing my career as a leg model this summer.

This afternoon, Mr. Recommendation, Mom, and myself went to Home Depot to survey their tile offerings, only to find out they really don't have much to offer. So, we went down the road to Lowes, where the selection was much better. I settled on a nice beige tile in two different sizes, a couple accent tiles, and the crap you use to put tile in place. And because I was getting 10% off my purchase, I went ahead and bought a bamboo framed mirror for the master bath (because I'm keeping with the Asian theme).

So far, I've spent roughly $800 for materials for the kitchen. Whatever tile I don't use, I will be using for the bathrooms. Beige is aesthetically pleasing, especially when you are trying to take a poop.

On Thursday, we will be going back to pick up the counter slabs and some lumber for trim, and the big kitchen project will commence this weekend. I'm not sure how much help I will be, but I will be doing the cabinet work (and Faith, I'm totally taking you up on your offer).

I will be taking pictures as we go along. Expect a small pictorial when we are finished.

Tonight, I engaged in a time-honored tradition of Pork Chop Tuesday. What is PCT, you might ask? Well, it all started when Kant lived here and every Tuesday, she would make pork chops, usually with rice, and mushroom soup gravy. Everyone else would come over and bring a side dish. She did this practically every week.

I'm not as consistent as her, so I host PCT once a quarter, or something like that. I had bought a crap-ton of pork chops and needed to use them. So, we had pork chops (so tender they were falling off the bone), the obligatory cream of mushroom soup gravy, sweet corn on the cob, fresh melon, and rolls. I bought this organic multi-grain rice at Costco, so I used that. The rice was good, but I think for PCT, I will just stick to plain white rice.

I've spent the rest of the evening watching the storm and listening to my ipod. Metallica (pre-St. Anger) and lightening storms are the best ever. Ever.

Now, the pain meds are kicking in. I'm going to bed to rest up for more exciting adventures, much like today's. If life gets any more exciting than this, I don't know what I will do.

Nurse Follies: Professional Courtesy

Brother borrowed the PT the other day and discovered I had a parking ticket wedged between the windshield wiper and the glass. Because it slid down past that black part of the windshield, not to mention I hadn't used my windshield wipers at that point, I hadn't discovered the ticket. The ticket was dated for the 28th of May, the day after my surgery. I remembered that I took some cupcakes in for Toph's last night on our floor. Yes, he's moving on to a larger dating pool, aka, the Emergency Room.

Naturally, I was pissed. I parked the car in front of the hospital because I was on crutches, and there was no way in hell I was going to park a mile away and try to gimp to the main building, while carrying cupcakes.

I guess I could try to speak with Barney Fife and Gang to see if they would rescind the ticket...but it's only for $20, and it seems like a lot of grovelling for $20. I could ask Legal Beagle to see what he can do about it, but I'm fairly confident that what I would be asked to do for payment is more than I'd be willing to do...at this time. Besides, Legal Beagle needs paying jobs...not hand ones.

I may call and speak with someone, but I'm sure it will go nowhere and I will ultimately have to pay the $20. I'll just make sure to remember that in the event Barney or any of his cronies have to be a patient on my floor. This is why it is in their best interest not to ticket nurses. The nurse you ticket today could be the same nurse putting in your catheter tomorrow. A moment of professional courtesy could mean the difference between something smaller than a pencil versus something the size of a garden hose...being shoved into your pee hole.

Police officers, generally, don't ticket nurses for this very reason. There are some who won't because they are married to nurses (it's pretty common), and they know their wives will kick them in the nuts or not put out for a while...or both. Yes, there are some pricks who ticket nurses (as Smo found out recently) because they either haven't heard the rule, or are one some sort of power trip. We're just waiting for the day when they are wheeled to our floor. Waiting.

I remember a while ago, I was at a friend's apartment getting ready for a church-sponsored singles Halloween party. I got some extra scrubs, some footies, hair caps, and stethoscope and we went dressed as, you guessed it, nurses (I was too lazy to be creative that day). While we were getting ready, I was telling my friend about this professional courtesy that existed, for the most part, and she called bullshit.

Fast forward to the end of the night when were are on our way home, my friend (Michelle) driving. She exits the highway and does a "California Rolling Stop", unaware that the county po-po was around the corner. A couple blocks away, and only right around the corner from Michelle's apartment complex, he pulls us over. Asks to see Michelle's license and asks, "You nurses?"

Now, I wasn't technically a nurse at the time. I was taking classes for school, and I worked as a nursing assistant at a hospital. I just nodded. Michelle, who was going to school to learn how to reupholster chairs in snooty fabric for people who have more dollars than sense, remains quiet.

At this time, Officer Friendly tells us his wife is a nurse and asks where we work. I tell him where I work (I didn't lie). Michelle still remains quiet. Officer Friendly and I chit-chat a little on where his wife works, what field she works in, blah, blah, blah. Finally, he says he's going to run the license, and he will be right back.

Minutes later, he returns and announces that Michelle's license has been revoked due to some issue with insurance papers(it all proved to be a filing error later). Coupled with driving without a licence (which she didn't know about at the time), failing to come to a complete stop, and speeding, Officer Friendly tells Michelle that by rights, he could arrest her and take her to jail.

"However," he says, "I won't do that to you because I don't ticket nurses, and my wife would kill me."

He gives Michelle back her license and sends us on our merry way. I wait until we are back at her apartment before I do my little "I told you so" dance.

So, if you are a cop, or are friends with one...please pass along this PSA: The nurse/medic/firefighter you ticket today, could be the person literally saving your ass tomorrow.

And we never forget a face. And we will tell ALL our friends.

Monday's Musings

The weekend was unremarkable. I didn't have to work, and it was still unremarkable. I spent a majority of the weekend in a drug-induced stupor. Saturday night, I geared up for bed the way I usually do: take my pain meds, put on pj's, fill ice bag and strap it to my gimpy knee, go to bed.

I woke up later that night, sleeping in a big, ice cold wet spot. Further inspection would show that my ice bag gave up the ghost and emptied it's contents. The bandage on my knee was soaked, as was my pj's and the bed. So, at 2am, I had to get out of bed for damage control. Still tired, I just threw some towels on the bed, and slept on top of them. With the passing of my ice bag, I've resorted to using a bag of frozen peas.

So if you ever are in need of an ice pack and don't have a proper one, use frozen veggies.

This afternoon, I had lunch with Indy (at his passive insistence) while his car was getting serviced. When Mr. Recommendation came home, we went to Home Depot and I bought a new sink (black granite), new faucet (brushed nickel), and various parts that will go to the plumbing below. Today's visit, I spent just under $500. We have a plan for a custom built island, and I've decided on the counter tops and tile for the back splash. I haven't even purchased supplies for that yet. Demolition to the kitchen will resume by the weekend. I'm really, REALLY stoked. Except about the painting. I'm still burned out from all the painting I did when I first bought the house. However, for the kitchen to be complete, the cabinets must be painted.

Anyone handy with a paintbrush??? I pay in pizza and beer.

On a side note, my conversations with Legal Beagle are becoming more and more, uhh, scandalous. I really need to be a good girl. With him, I can't seem to help it. He brings out the best/worst in me. Take your pick.

Someone needs to come and save me from myself.

Drug-Induced Blathering

My apologies to all who have sent well-wishes and such my way, and they would appear to go unacknowledged. That's not the case. My day brightens when I get a text from someone, or someone stops by. It's nice to know that people think of me, even if I might be in too much of a fog to reply.

As of late, me and my new little Percocet friends have been playing post-op games. Our most favorite being "Naptime" in which I take my meds as prescribed, and then go sleep for half a day. Get up, pee, repeat. Sometimes, Flexaril will join in the festivities.

Let's face it...when you have a bad wheel, there's not a lot you can do other than sleep. It's kind of depressing, actually.

My least favorite post-op game is called "Constipated". That one is not too hard to figure out.

After my surgery, I felt well enough to walk around the house without the crutches. I rejoiced in knowing my knee was fixed, and other than the extreme nausea, it was all cake. I even got two loads of laundry done!

Unfortunately, I forgot that the post-anesthesia euphoria was short-lived, and I woke up with a stiff, painful knee. So, it was back to the crutches. I spent an entire day trying to get my leg to bend 30 degrees.

I was able to shower 48 hours after surgery, and while trying to do it while standing on one leg was a challenge, washing my hair was a near-orgasmic experience. I felt NASTY.

As the days have gone by, so have the Percocets. I've managed to somewhat retire the crutches and am gimping around the house unassisted. I've been doing some of the exercises I remember from my physical therapy days, and the strength is returning to my leg. I wrap and re-wrap the knee in the bandages, pile ice bags on it, and avoid resting my leg on pillows like the doctor instructed me. I'm nowhere near 100%, but I'm getting there slowly. My knee is incredibly swollen and bruised, but I can already notice a difference for the better.

However, with the lack of activity in my life, I've been on the grumpy side, and I did snap at Brother for something really stupid. Hopefully, he understands that this is all residual of surgery, and things will return to normal in a month or so. Say, when I get my life back.

Mr. Recommendation and I have been talking, and we are ready to start work on the house again. Actually, he would do most of the work, and I would write the checks to Lowes and Home Depot. I'm pretty excited about my tentative projects, mainly being all three bathrooms and some kitchen stuff. I suspect tomorrow will be the first salvo of my new bathroom campaign.

Still talking to my old friend (of whom I will refer to as Legal Beagle on this blog). I've been sort of feeling down lately, and he inadvertently reminded me that I'm a fierce, sexy woman that possesses the ability to drive men wild. Granted he is a lawyer, and lawyers are specially trained to say all the right things at the right times, it was nice to hear. Usually, guys crawl over me to get to whomever is sitting beside me, but in my own special way, I am also a force of nature. Sensual and tough. Witty and sexy. Princess Diana in public and Carmen Luvana behind closed doors.

It's how I roll.

And if some guys out there can't see that, then that is their loss. While I may appear invisible to some, I'm a beacon to others...and I shouldn't blame myself because some guy is a dumbass and wouldn't know a good thing if it came up and slapped him upside the head with a dead salmon.

As for Legal Beagle and myself...we're still just talking. Mostly just talking about how awesome it was when we were dating three years ago. He's seeing someone else right now, but it's nothing serious (or so he tells me). I'd like to hope that maybe there is a second chance on yonder horizon. The only reason we stopped seeing each other in the first place was because of the time demands of his new job, not to mention he just wasn't ready to go straight into a serious relationship after being freshly divorced. I'm not pinning my hopes on anything, but rather just taking things as they come. I can only worry about the things I can control, and there are plenty of those things to keep me occupied for a while.

Besides, the conversations keep me pretty happy for the time being. And I'm pretty content knowing that I still haunt his dreams. Not too many women can claim to affect a guy like that. I, however, have it in spades.

I'm starting to feel the meds kick in, so armed with my ice bag, I shall go to bed.

Recovery

I'm home from surgery. Actually, I've been home since 11:30 or so, but I just went to bed and snoozed. I'm still tired. I'm still trying to clear the anesthesia from my body, and I can't decide which sounds better...eat that cheeseburger that's sitting in the microwave that I only took one bite of earlier, or just go throw up. Both sound good to me right now.

I've had a handful of surgeries requiring general anesthesia. I have to say, this is the most difficult when it comes to the anesthesia. I feel like shit.

So, I drive us all the way to BFE to the hospital, hauling ass on I-70 going 80-85mph. We decided to take the PT instead of Mom's SUV because it would be better on gas. And afterward, Mom would drive it home. More on this later.

I check in, fill out some paperwork. I pee in a cup so they can run a pregnancy test. Mom's eyes get big like paper plates when the nurse tells me this. Predictably, I'm not with child. Nurse puts in the IV (which hurts like bitch). Not meaning to toot my own horn here, but my IV's don't hurt when I put them in because I'm good like that. Not all nurses have mad IV skillz like me.

At any rate, she starts IV fluids and leaves the room. Almost instantly, I get really nauseated, and I get this funny tickling sensation in my throat. I cough like I'm going to expectorate a lung. It was really, really weird. By the time nurse returns, the episode has passed. Anesthesia doc and my ortho doc come in a talk to me. Ortho doc draws a smiley face on the knee he's supposed to work on.

I selected this particular orthopedic doctor for two reasons: A) he was highly recommended and B) I used to work with his mother...and she highly recommended him for 7.5 years. So, before ortho doc leaves my room, I tell him that if he botches this procedure, I'm going to rat him out to his mother.

A quick Versed push, and I'm wheeled to the O.R. By the time I get to there, I feel the effects, but I'm not all giggly like I usually am with Versed. I'm strapped onto a table, and then I'm out like a light.

The next thing I know, nurse is waking me up. Why can't they just let you sleep as long as you want, I don't know. It's not like they were busy today. I'm given the obligatory crackers and juice and Fentanyl. Less than an hour later, I'm ready to go home. Still groggy. Still grumpy. Mom goes to get the car.

As I'm sitting in a wheelchair outside the hospital, Mom proceeds to back the car right into a small concrete column. It results in a few scratches and she feels bad. I guess there is a big difference between driving a Jeep Liberty and a PT Cruiser.

En route, we stop at a pharmacy to fill my prescriptions, stop by McDonald's for something to eat. Still nauseated, I can only manage one bite before I wrap it back up to save for later. And it now sits in the microwave, waiting.

For the most part, my knee doesn't hurt. They ended up repairing the torn cartilage, and doing a tendon release. I should be able to return to work in two weeks. The best part...no physical therapy.

However, I still feel like crap. Nauseated as all get out. I've always heard of patients who get sick post-op, but have never experienced it until now. Oddly enough, I only feel gross when I'm out of bed, which I take a sign to stay in bed for the rest of the day.

And I'm going there right now.

Countdown...

It's almost 2:30 in the morning. I should be in bed, alarm set to ring at 5am. I've taken a shower, complete with antibacterial Dial soap. I stopped eating and drinking around midnight.

Surgery day has finally arrived.

Mom will be driving me to the hospital. Actually, I opted to have my procedure at a smaller, satellite hospital. As much I may like the hospital I work at, the surgery department doesn't instill a lot of confidence in me. With my luck, I'd go in for simple knee surgery, and come out with a colostomy bag.

Doc: We fixed your knee, but we did accidentally perforate your colon.

Smo already said she would burp my colostomy bag for me if that happened. I don't know how many people have had experience with colostomies, but the gas they pass has a smell so heinous, the mere thought is giving me heartburn right this minute.

That is the sign of a true friend.

Today, Mom and Mr. Recommendation grilled out. I made delicious pasta and fruit salads. Afterwards, we played dominoes. It was a good night. The only setback was getting ass-raped at QuikTrip to the tune of $52. To fill a PT Cruiser. That big a screwing and no kiss? Would it be too much to hope that the American oil tycoons experience impotency so bad, that their penises shrivel up and fall off the first time they tried to correct it with Viagra??

At any rate, I should be back online when the anesthesia clears and I am coherent enough to be trusted around a computer.

Wish me luck!!

QuikTrip Wedding Revisited

I didn't go the QuikTrip wedding. As much as I wanted to, I had to work that night and it was simply too far for me to drive there, feast my eyes on the spectacle, drive all the way home, and then try to squeeze a nap in before I went to work.

Lucky for me, I have friends who went. Indy, for lack of better things to do, not to mention that the opportunity to observe such a event rarely presents itself, dressed in his best camouflage shorts and t-shirt, went. AND he took his camera.

More on that later...

When I posted about the wedding, there was a certain anonymity to my post. No real names and a vague location. I figured that if the happy couple wanted to out themselves, they would.

And they didn't disappoint.

A family member sent a email to the Johnny Dare show spilling all the details, first and last names. The couple did not send this email. The couple were annoyed, especially the groom, who didn't want his wedding to turn into a circus.

Let's pause while we wrap our minds around this: the couple was getting married at a gas station, and the groom didn't want it to become a circus.

~scratches head~

A day or two later, the anti-circus groom sends an email to the Johnny Dare show, whoring himself out for free stuff under the guise of "wedding presents". Johnny promises they will send someone from the station out to the wedding. Surprise, surprise...they didn't. No word on any freebies.

In all it's ghetto fabulous glory, Indy calls me periodically, giving me updates. He's absolutely giddy, and I'm fairly confident he had a boner. All the while, snapping pics with his digital camera. Pics of the arch, pics of the minister/judge (who had never married anyone at a gas station before), pics of the donut case inside the store. Indy is snap happy with a camera...which we discover will work to the favor of everyone involved.

Because this wedding has not one ounce of any discernible professional planning, the photographer is a friend with a nice camera. Her father dabbles on the side as a photographer. He gets paid to take pictures. However, he can't make it to the wedding. Dumbass Daughter volunteers to take the pics because she "knows how to do it".

After the wedding ceremony is complete, Dumbass "Photographer" goes to change the film in the camera, and discovers she can't get the film to rewind. Further scrutiny reveals that she loaded the film backwards (of which I'm still trying to figure out how this is possible, because there is only one way film will go into a camera).

End Result = No wedding pictures.

Oh! But wait!! What about that guy in the green camouflage shorts that was taking pictures? And just like that, Indy goes from being Missouri Rubbernecker, to Wedding Photographer.

Pictures will be forthcoming, as soon as Indy figures out how to load them on his computer. He's a techtard, but coming along slowly.

(If anyone in blogdom also attended this blessed event and took pictures, email me (or the pics) to headhurt at hotmail dot com.)

Hump Day Blather

I met up with my friend Trish for lunch today with her two sisters, who are always fun to hang around. I don't have any sisters. I wish I did, because boys are kind of gross. Since I grew up in a house full of testosterone, I throw punches like a boy (instead of hair pulling like girls do). I can dismantle objects and put them back together. I can also belch the National Anthem.

So, in light of my sisterlessness, I do have a few pseudo sisters. Trish being one. Another one being H.C. (So, if Brother fucks it up with her, I'm totally kicking his ass...)

At any rate, lunch with Trish and the girls = fun afternoon. After that, Trish and I went and got pedicures where the lady who did mine proceeded to cut my toe off with her clippers. Seriously. There was blood. Needless to say, I won't be going back.

I spent the remaining afternoon with Mom. Another salad outing, plus a brief excursion to the grocery store. I cleaned the kitchen, and did some laundry. If I were pregnant, what I am doing would be considered nesting. But I am not pregnant. I am having knee surgery next week, and I would like to coast the rest of the week with a clean house.

I think the knee knows the jig is up. It's been hurting especially bad this week. I look like I'm mentally challenged whenever I go up and down the stairs. As if approaching stairs is as difficult as quantum physics. What the hell was I thinking when I bought a house with stairs???

I think it's safe to say my ACL is shot. And not a moment too soon. I can't wait for it to be fixed so I can start doing things I like. Swimming. Roller blading. Biking. Walking up and down stairs.

On a much more cheerful note, I've managed to reconnect with an old friend, and it feels good. Real good. Maybe it's one of those things coming full circle. Give me a month and I will know for sure.

American Botards

I don't watch American Idol. Even though I go to great lengths to avoid watching this show, I still am subjected to it.

So, we are now down to the final two...The Utah Mormon vs. That Kid That KC Has Been Cramming Down My Throat. I read somewhere that his old house is for sale, and the realtor is even actually using that as a sales feature.

You too could sit on the very toilet that David Cook's bare ass sat on!!

Really tough choice. My loathing of Utah Mormons has been well documented (when I see a picture of the Dad, I start looking for sharp objects). And if I hear the name David Cook mentioned one more time, I'll barf. Really. He looks like he combed his hair with a pork chop.

Why can't the Westboro Baptist Church picket this show? They could say God Hates America, and that is why we now have Simon Cowell, Batshit Crazy Paula, and a plethora of fame whores willing to sing my ears into a full-on hemorrhage.

I'm rooting for a Scud missile to hit the theater just as they are about to announce the winner.

Only then would I actually start to like the show.

A Study in Ghetto Fantastic

H.C. called me yesterday, frustrated.

Her cousin (Big Ed) will be getting married over Memorial Weekend. They had a lovely day planned. Wedding and reception at Table Rock lake. Big Ed (who is a fluffy female), calls to announce a change in plans. The reception will still be down in the Branson area, but the details of the wedding has changed. Instead of the lovely backdrop of Table Rock lake, the backdrop of the nuptials will now be the familiar red backdrop of a well-known insitution...i.e. QuickTrip.

What. The. Hell.

Big Ed and her beloved are both employees at QuickTrip and figured it to be charming to have their wedding there. They selected one in JoCo (somewhere off Blackbob) because "they have pretty landscaping".

Of course, the PTB at Quick Trip have a colossal boner and plan on putting pictures of the event in their corporate newsletter. However, they have asked that those who are attending the wedding to please carpool because they still need the space for their paying customers.

"You guys can always take the bus!" I happily suggested.

Naturally, I had some questions. Will corporate kick in some munchies after the wedding? If so, don't go with the corn dogs. They're nasty. The taquitos aren't too bad, I guess. A far better choice than the eggrolls.

You hear about couples having their wedding in strange and unusual places...but I always figured either one or both parties were mentally retarded.

Understandably, H.C.'s head is about to explode. Top this off with the fact that she has to wear the ugliest orange bridesmaid dress on the planet. If I were in her shoes, I think I would fake my own death and go to Mexico. Because you know, while this event makes a valiant effort to be solemn and touching, some asshole is going to be in the immediate background, pumping $4/gallon gas.

Indy has volunteered to be that asshole. He also plans on taking his camera.

Brother and I were discussing this ad nauseum yesterday. Our family has done some pretty spectacular fucked up stuff...but this really, really takes the cake. Redneck Brother's bowling alley reception cannot hold a candle to getting married at a gas station.

At any rate, I'm strongly encouraging that Brother go to the wedding (as he and H.C. are dating). And not to forget to take the camera. Meanwhile, he needs to locate one of those t-shirts that look like a tuxedo on the front. He has one week to do it.

So, if you are planning a staycation next weekend, and are looking for something interesting to do, stop by the QuickTrip off Blackbob around 1:30 next Friday and wish the newlyweds well.

Take lots of pictures for me...and don't eat the corndogs.

Monday's Musings

Brother reports that he shot a big raccoon that was hanging out on the back porch this weekend. He let Hank outside and saw the big monster just as Hank did, and was able to drag Hank back into the house by his tail before the creature decided to shred the Saint Bernard. From there, Brother tossed some bread on the deck, armed himself with his trusty Red Ryder BB Gun (and possibly dressed in his Real Tree cammo), and waited. The raccoon, unable to resist the aroma of day-old Wonder Bread, came out from his hiding spot where he met the business end of Brother and the BB gun. Brother also has a 45, but felt it might make too much noise in our fairly quiet neighborhood, especially with all the cops who live around me. Besides, leveling a 45 at a raccoon is like using a Sherman tank to hunt a deer. Overkill.

The raccoon, hit somewhere in the neck, ran away, scaled the 6 foot privacy fence, and escaped to the neighbor's yard, where, I assume, he died a slow painful death. Later in the evening, Brother spotted a smaller raccoon emerging from under the deck. However, his previous escapade caused him to waste his entire load of pellets, and he was rendered the impotent hunter for the rest of the evening.

Don't you guys ever learn to pace yourselves???

So now I am considering hiring someone to come and trap my very own wildlife sanctuary that resides in my back yard. Then, they can be released elsewhere. Far, far away from my house. Opossums, raccoons, bunnies. God only knows what else is living under my deck. Some nights, I look out the window and almost expect to see Al Sharpton crawling out from behind the chiminea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yesterday was Mother's Day. Because I had to work, I really couldn't do much for Mom to celebrate. I did, however, call her. She was rather glum. Some further scrutiny revealed that Redneck Brother had not called. We attributed this to the fact that he borrowed money from Mom about three weeks ago, and has yet to pay her back. When she loaned him the money, the agreement was that he would pay her back the following week.

I love my brother, but I think he could use a good kick in the head. The only time he calls is when he wants something. Since he figured out that the First National Bank of H-Train had closed, he hasn't called. Brother is fearful to talk to him because he knows he'll be hit up for something.

Deep down, Mom thinks that she was a horrible mother, and that is why Redneck Brother is an inconsiderate asshole. I tell her that is not the case, but rather, he is just a shit-head. A trait inherited from father's side of the family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I came home this morning to a GINORMOUS Bow-Flex occupying the other spot in the garage. Apparently, Brother bought this monstrous torture device from a guy he works with, for a fraction of what they actually sell for. It's supposed to go in the basement, but I have my doubts because the basement has a low ceiling. Brother says he's measured and it will fit. However, I wonder if the fit is contingent on how many holes Brother can cut into the ceiling. There's already a punching bag affixed to a joist, courtesy of Brother. Directly in front of where the television is supposed to go. Men have no concept of floor layout and interior design.

At this rate, he's not going to have any room for a bed if he keeps adding to his own personal gym. He'll be stuck in the guest room forever. I guess if the trade-off is a home gym in my basement that everyone can hang clean clothes on, I can live with that.

Friday Feast: The Late Night Fridge Raid Edition

Appetizer
When someone smiles at you, do you smile back?
Yes, but it's probably a weak attempt at a smile. I don't usually like to smile unless I mean it.

Soup
Describe the flooring in your home. Do you have carpet, hardwood, vinyl, a mix?
My upstairs is carpet. Crappy linoleum in the bathrooms (which will be switched out for porcelain tile). Downstairs in the living room is cherry pergo, and the rest is parquet. My basement is multicolored foam tile.

Salad
Write a sentence with only 5 words, but all of the words have to start with the first letter of your first name.
Heather Has Heard Happy Horns.

Main Course
Do you know anyone whose life has been touched by adoption?
Not people, just animals.

Dessert
Name 2 blue things.
Caribbean water. My ink pen.

Shrimp On The Barbie!

Wednesday night, I hosted a bbq at my house, mostly those who attended were nurses. I didn't go to the great lengths of preparation I did with the Christmas party, as this was an intimate gathering.

Hot Commodity (formerly known as No-Nick-Named Friend) came early to assist with any preparations. By that time, I had made meat patties out of a butt-load of ground beef. You know the kind, it comes in a big tube. I asked Brother if he would go fire up the grill because he's handy like that. Brother disappears, only to return minutes later to announce that my propane tank is empty.

Shit.

So, H.C. and myself go to 7-11 and exchange tanks. We drive back to my house. Brother fires up the grill. The grill burns hot, so I turned it down to it's lowest setting. Wait. When I am confident the grill is ready, I put the patties on.

Funny thing about gas grills. Each one is different...like snowflakes. I knew my old grill well enough, and I could cook anything on it with delicious and flavorful results. Then came big, shiny grill, courtesy of Mr. Recommendation. Brother has used it more than I have, I've only cooked on it twice, and it was just steaks. I really don't know this grill. It's a stranger to me. When I approach it, I swear it recoils like a scared dog.

Not even five minutes later, I open the lid and a wave of fire shoots out the grill. I immediately check my eyebrows because I am certain they have just burned off my face. The hamburgers, once big patties of red, ground beefy goodness, are now little black meatballs. They are also on fire.

Brother comes out and makes fun of the meatballs. I'm pissed. The lowest setting on the grill, and it torches my hamburgers. Ever. Single. One. They are not even remotely edible. I can't just serve hot dogs at my bbq, so I need to find replacement burgers, and fast.

So, H.C. and myself go to Hy-Vee and buy some of their pre-formed hamburger patties from the meat counter, but not before laughing at the guy at the meat counter for dropping his frozen sausage. (Don't you just hate it when your sausage slips out of your hand?~H.C.)

When we return, most of my guests have arrived. A platter with the charred burgers sit on my counter. So, naturally everyone has to put in their smartass remarks. I give Brother the replacement burgers, and goes to work cooking them on the grill that apparently hates me. It loves Brother. It hates me.

Aside from the hamburger incident, the gathering was a good one. No one barfed in my rock garden, or anywhere else around the house. Everyone loved on Hank, who was just eating it up. Our new unit educator showed up, and she turned out to be hilarious, and a fine addition to our floor. Brother and H.C. made out (because they are dating). And the police were not called.

A successful gathering. Can't wait for the next one. I will try to befriend the grill before then.

Gah!

I drove all the way to work today because I am on an interview committee and we are interviewing nurses for a new leadership-type position that just opened. I did not apply for it. It's day shift, and I am not that crazy. Yet.

So I get all the way there, and Bosshole tells me the interviews are tomorrow. Last night at the AHA fundraiser dinner, he told me it was today. So, what's it going to be?? He brought up an email he sent two weeks ago that said Wednesday. I'm such a botard.

It wasn't a completely wasted trip, I got an earful of hot gossip, not to mention a new coffee mug in honor of Nurses Week.

Yes, it's Nurses Week. I like roses, imported chocolate, and Starbucks. Plan accordingly.

I came home, decided to mow the lawn....regretted mowing the lawn when I was done. I have officially decided that Brother gets the mowing job now, in addition to trash duty. To his credit, he did sweep and mop the living room this weekend. He's quite handy, and he surprises me from time to time.

Tomorrow night, I'm hosting a small bbq in honor of Tweener finishing nursing school. Just a handful of nurses will be coming. I'm sure it won't escalate to birthday proportions. Just nurses, burgers, and hot dogs. Oh yes, that karaoke machine also.

Right now, I'm kind of tired, so I think I will take a nap. Tonight, I will finish cleaning the house, and make a late night trip to the grocery store.

More later when life starts getting interesting again.

Monday's Musings

I went to see the doctor this morning to discuss the MRI findings. Of course, I knew the findings because I took it upon myself to look up the results at work. It's my own medical record, so I can access it all I want.

At any rate, I have significant cartilage tears, and what the doctor calls "a funny looking ACL". I could go home and think about when I want surgery. I declined the thinking and asked for it to be scheduled immediately.

This living with pain and not being able to do anything fun is a bunch of bullshit. Let's get this fixed already!!

So, I am scheduled for knee surgery number five at the end of this month. It's only a scope, but I'm hinging my hopes on the simplest of procedures. I don't want that other surgery he was talking about.

On my way home, I called Indy to commiserate, and he didn't recognize me on the phone. Instead, calling me someone else's name, or rather, pet name. He blamed it on Ambien. I called bullshit on the lame Ambien excuse.

Me: Who's Princess??
Indy: It's not important.

I hung up on him after he told me I needed take a chill pill. A Monday, another scheduled knee surgery that is going to set me back three weeks, and a guy for who can't even come close to being honest with me because he's a chicken shit.

It's shaping up to be a stellar week. Thank God for pain meds.

Seven Deadly Sins

Wrath
Who did you last get angry with? Indy...but it was short-lived
What is your weapon of choice? boat oar
Would you hit a member of the opposite sex? Yes, and I have.
How about the same sex? Absolutely. Fair warning: I punch like a boy. No hair pulling for me!
Who was the last person who got really angry at you? Indy...I seem to notice a pattern emerging
What is your pet peeve? people who don't try
Do you keep grudges, or can you let them go easily? I have inherited my father's ability to carry a fantastic grudge for infinity.

Sloth
What is one thing you're suppose to do daily that you haven't? go to the gym
What is the latest you've ever woken up? 7pm
Name a person you've been meaning to contact, but haven't? My stepdad
What is the last lame excuse that you made? The gel isn't working!
Have you ever watched an infomercial all the way through? Yes, and I drooled on myself out of sheer boredom.
How many times did you hit the snooze button on your alarm clock this morning? It was Sunday afternoon, and I hit it four times.

Gluttony
What is your overpriced yuppie beverage of choice? Venti iced white mocha with extra espresso and a shot of almond. Almost $5
Are you a meat eater? I loves the meat.
What is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting/outing/event? Countless shots of tequila on a beach in Costa Maya. Nothing happened. I didn't even get so much as a buzz. Mom on the other hand...
Are you comfortable with your drinking and eating habits? No...but that's a work in progress.
Do you enjoy candy and sweets? Not as much as I used to
Which do you prefer: sweets, salty foods or spicy foods? Some spice
Have you ever looked at a small house pet or child and thought, "lunch"? Uhhh...no.

Greed
How many credit cards do you own? 2
If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it? Make more with it and travel
Would you rather be rich or famous? Rich
Would you accept a boring job if it meant that you would make megabucks? Define boring...I can make anything fun.

Pride
What's one thing that you have done that you're most proud of? Bought a house.
What's one thing you have done that your parents are most proud of? Everything
What thing would you like to accomplish late in your life? Retire in the Caribbean.
Do you get annoyed by coming in second place? No...I usually don't care.
Have you ever entered a contest of skill, knowing you were of much higher skill than all the other competitors? No
Have you ever cheated to get a better score? Maybe...
What did you do today that you're proud of? Came to work without calling in.

Lust
How many people have you seen naked (not counting movies, family, strippers, locker rooms)? It didn't mention anything about my job...so I would say hundreds.
How many people have seen you naked (not counting physicians, doctors, family, locker rooms, or when you were a young child)? Considerably less, and that's the way I like it.
Have you ever caught yourself staring at the chest/crotch of a person of your chosen sex during a normal conversation? Meat grazing? Guilty!
What is your favorite body part of a person of your gender choice? hands and neck
Have you ever had sexual encounters (including kissing/making out) with multiple persons? Just kissing, just once, and I'm not discussing it further.
Have you ever been propositioned by a prostitute? Not that I am aware of.

Envy
What item of your friends would you most want to have for your own? Smo's hot tub.
Who would you want to go on "Trading Spaces" with? My mom.
If you could be anyone who existed in the world, who would you be? Angelina Jolie.
Have you ever been cheated on? Yes...it sucks.
Have you ever wished you had a physical feature different from your own? I wish I had a smaller body.
What inborn trait do you see in others that you wish you had for yourself? Those people who are always lucky.
What deadly sin...Do you do the most often?Lust
Do you do the least often?Envy
Is your favorite to act on?Lust, but I don't act on it very often, if ever.

Tagged: Anyone else who wants to do this...

Friday Feast: Under the Wire Edition

Appetizer
What was your favorite cartoon when you were a child?
-The Simpsons

Soup
Pretend you are about to get a new pet. Which animal would you pick, and what would you name it?
-A Munchkin cat. Regular sized body, short stubby legs. The wiener dogs of Catdom.

Salad
On a scale of 1-10 with 10 being highest, how much do you enjoy getting all dressed up for a special occasion?
-Depends on the occasion. On formal nights, I love to get dressed up to the nines. It's a big difference from wearing scrubs.

Main Course
What kind of music do you listen to while you drive?
-Whatever is on my ipod...which is a wide array of music.

Dessert
When was the last time you bought a clock? And in which room did you put it?
-Last year in August. It was an alarm clock for Brother's room.

One Man's Junk Is Another Man's Treasure

I had a roomie once, who was black, and she insisted that one of the biggest differences between black people and white people was that black people would never buy other people's crap at yard sales.

I disagreed. I pointed out the owners of one McMansion who were hosting a yard sale, were indeed, African American. She pointed out that while the owners were black, everyone who visited their garage sale to buy their unwanted stuff, was white.

Whatever. No one can turn down a bargain. I don't care what color you are. It's like trick or treating for grown-ups.

Now, some people do have attitude against garage sales. I'm not one of those people. In my younger years, Mom and I used to get up BEFORE the butt-crack of dawn on a Saturday, and drive around town looking for the best bargain of the day. It was almost a sport. Get up too late, and all the good stuff is gone, and you are left picking over fake flowers, baby clothes, and 8-track tapes.

Today, the sprawling metropolis of Gardner had their city wide garage sale. Indy was also among the masses who was featuring a sale from their garage. So, Mom and I decided to pay him a visit and see what else we could find.

Gardner was crawling with bargain hunters, particularly Indy's cookie-cutter JoCo subdivision. We stopped by his place first, where he say perched at a table, eating from the largest bag of peanuts I have ever seen. After scoping his offerings (peanuts not included), Mom and I moved along to other houses.

My day's take included some snowman Christmas dishes, a John Grisham book, a caddy to use when I grill out. a Galileo thermometer, and probably the best item: a karaoke machine (which will come in handy when I entertain). Mom scored some tomato cages, a purple princess tree for Mr. Recommendation's daughter, a dryer plug, and some other odds and ends.

There are a couple peeves I have with some folks who host garage sales. One, would be people who only set out five items. No one is going to stop if you only have five items, because if you expect someone to go to the trouble of parking their cars and actually getting out, you'd better make it worth the effort. If you have so few items, make nice with a neighbor and see if you can add your crap with theirs.

Second, there are the people who are extremely proud of their crap. Realistic people have garage sales to get rid of the mountains of crap they have accumulated, to make room for more crap they will acquire in the future. Other people have garage sales in an effort to make money. You can tell this because they price used things close to what they paid for it brand new. They are very proud of their junk, and it shows with their pricing. Guess what? You're not going to get retail for your used George Foreman grill.

Another peeve would be those people who obviously put no effort into preparation. They just put their crap out in piles and boxes. Instead of any sort of organized sale, it looks like the garage took a binge, and then barfed it's contents all over the driveway.

You can always count on finding the same things at garage sales: barely used exercise equipment, odds and ends that were new in the 70's, and baby crap. If I had a baby, I could clean house...but I don't have a baby, so I'm not interested in the tens of thousands of car seats, as far as the eye can see.

At one point, I'm gimping down the sidewalk, relishing the purchase of something I will later think is the most retarded purchase ever, and I stumble over driveway, coming down hard on the bad wheel. Exquisite pain shot up my right leg and I let loose a string of profanities that would make Eddie Murphy blush. Bargain hunting was most decidedly over at that point. It wasn't until I got home and slammed my finger in a window, did I forget all about my knee pain.

I've been inspired by the garage sales to go and start preparing for my own. I have a ton of crap, as does Mom and Mr. Recommendation. We have decided to have our garage sales at the same time. If there is nothing better than a big garage sale, it's two big garage sales right next to each other.

And not one baby sock in sight!

Hank the Tank: 12 weeks

Hank is growing by leaps and bounds. I swear, he goes into his kennel at night, and comes out five pounds heavier in the morning.Sam keeps busy trying to establish his Alpha-ness over Hank. He only has a couple more months of this as Hank will outweigh him. As of now, Sam only has fifteen pounds on Hank.Hank's favorite place to hang out and chill is currently under the dining room table. When it is time for bed, I have to crawl under the table and pull him out as we have not learned the "pen up" command yet. However, we are working on that.Hank, like most any teenage boy, is little body, but all legs and feet. He's unbalanced and uncoordinated and falls over himself with little encouragement, or just a slight draft.Hank still has some of his puppy features, but he's starting to emerge true to his breed. He still has puppy breath, unless he's gotten into something disgusting. He's now started to drool, especially after eating. He'll eat non-stop if allowed. And, instead of cute puppy turds, his poops are now starting to resemble that of an ottoman. Some Saint Bernards tend to run on the small side. I get the feeling that is not going to be the case for this guy. If this is his paw at twelve weeks, I can't imagine how big they are going to be fully grown. Hank still likes to play, especially with Sam. He is very inquisitive of his environment. This lands him in hot water all the time. The rest of the time, you can usually find him sleeping.Overall, a nice addition to the house. Now, if he would just fall in line with the housebreaking.

Boat Update

I put the boat up for grabs on Craigslist, and so far, I've had three nibbles of interest. One almost doesn't count.

On my ad, I did say I would consider a trade for personal water craft. So, interested party number one says he is interested in trading his wave runner for my boat. I've seen pics of the PWC. Not bad.

Second interested party, is just interested in maybe buying it. I will speak to them on Monday.

Third party, is interested in buying the boat, but wants to know if I will take payments. WTF?? I don't even take payments from family members, much less strangers I don't know. I sent a kind reply...I'm only accepting cash or cashiers check for the full agreed purchase price. Sorry...thanks for the interest.

My name's Heather. Not Bank. It took me years to get this notion through to Redneck Brother.

I Spoke Too Soon

I awoke to the sound of a train at 1:30 this morning. Only it wasn't a train. It was another storm that meteorologists in the area, while jerking off over all the damage, can't decide if it was a tornado, or a "microburst".

Brother and I were discussing the fact that we had never even heard of a microburst until our grownup years. Just another new thing added in the quest to pussify America.

At any rate, my neighborhood sustained no damage, just leaves blown out of trees. Down the road, a gas station had it's roof blown off. A couple trees knocked over. For the most part, everyone is okay.

The first storm was the huff. The second one was the puff. I stand corrected.

The Calm After the Storm

The sirens were very loud. Probably because they are not far from my house.

The alleged tornado...MILES away.

This storm was all huff and no puff. Kind of like most of the men I know.

I stayed up and watched Sixteen Candles. Still a great movie!

All this excitement has worn me out. I'm going to bed.

Thursday Blather

Today, I had to go have an MRI on my knee. I've had an MRI before, so I knew what to expect. Fortunately, I'm not one of those people who are claustrophobic.

I sat in that little tube for an hour, with only my head poking out. MRI's have gotten a lot more quiet, but they are still loud. I asked for ear plugs, and at some point, I dozed off.

Afterwards, I went and had dinner with Red, who has returned to KC from her Arizona adventures, only to decide to return this weekend. To be fair, she only came back to see if things between her and her boyfriend would work out. It only took 3 days. Most couples I know drag it out for months before they throw in the towel.

So, Red is leaving, and I am sad. My work buddy gone, and I won't be getting that sweet referral bonus they give for recruiting nurses. Looks like I'll have to find another sucker, I mean, nurse.

While we were in the restaurant, news stations are going apeshit about the storm. Looking out the window, we only see that green cast that comes before a house is deposited on some unsuspecting witch. As we were leaving the restaurant to our respective cars, the sirens started blaring. I hauled ass out of there.

I made it home without incident, but making sure I hit every single red light from Fairway to Raytown.

And now the sirens are going off here. Shit. I'll be back later.

Heather Goes to Hillbilly Hell

With the aftermath of the divorce, Mom still had a shit load of stuff down at the cabin. Because it was an amicable split, my stepdad was nice enough to keep her stuff stored until she could go and collect it. That time was today.

After working for 8 hours, I rode down to the lake for an additional 2 hours in the longest. Car ride. Evah! In a white minivan. I shudder just thinking of it.

When we got there, we began the task of loading up boxes. My stepdad and his new, and very insecure girlfriend, arrived a little later, and helped.

Just an aside...while no one faults Stepdad for having a girlfriend, his selection leaves people scratching their heads. She's insecure to the point that she routinely calls Mom at work to make sure she doesn't want to get back together with Stepdad. And the entire time we were at the cabin, she wouldn't let Stepdad out of her site. At one point, I thought she was going to drop trou and piss on his leg. You know, to mark her territory.

And one more thing...a 50-something year old woman with a big hickey on her neck just screams high class. I told Mom later that she probably demanded that Stepdad give it to her before today. So she can showcase the fact that they indeed have sex. And the fact that I just typed that makes me want to go bleach my brain.

But I digress...

I haven't talked to my stepdad in a year. I feel bad for not calling him. I just never knew what to say. Stepdad has been more a father to me than my actual dad. I'm a crappy stepdaughter. I'm sure his feelings were hurt, which makes me feel even more guilty. Not to mention it doesn't help that Indy likes to remind me that I haven't called him. Jackass.

Anyway, I thought we were doing fine with the loading of the boxes, until Stepdad points out the dozen or so plastic totes in the garage loft. Meaning, a second trip is in order at some point down the road, and probably with a moving truck.

A loaded van, we depart, taking a shortcut through the sticks back to the main highway.

This particular area, notorious for meth activity. You will drive through the country and find many different types of homesteads, the most popular being the mobile home. But just because you live in a trailer, doesn't mean you can't have pride in home ownership. Clean up your yard, for Godsakes!! One trailer, trash all over the yard, had the words "Stay Out!" and "Beware of Dog" spray painted on the side of their house. Spray painted. With black paint. Probably from Walmart.

I'll get a picture of it next time I go down there.

Mom and I stopped in Clinton for lunch, where we had a tenderloin sandwich so big, it needed it's own plate. As tasty as it was, it was simply too big.

The bottom half of the bun is being smothered under the tenderloin.

On the way home, we spot a night club in the middle of nowhere, painted florescent orange. It used to be white, and used to be a farmers market. They also used to sell live bait.
So, if you are ever in the middle of nowhere, and have a hankering for classic rock. The Blazing Longhorn is there for all your drinking needs.

Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliot are standing by.

(B)reak (O)ut (A)nother (T)housand

When I bought the boat, I was hoping to capture those memories I had as a kid, boating with my family. And those times I did take it out on the water, jumping waves, and the spray of fresh water in my face, I felt close to my father. It was exciting, and I loved it.

However, I've come to realize I hate actual boat ownership. Which is why I'm now putting it up for sale. It's too much of a pain in the ass to maintain. If I had a significant other that was a boat enthusiast, it might not be so bad, but to be a single female with a boat...ugh. I can't even begin to describe how much it takes just to put the thing in the water by myself.

So, here it is. A 1989 Sunbird Corsica. 4-cylinder Ford inboard/outboard motor. which was completely overhauled 3 years ago. Top speed, 35 mph. It can easily pull skis, inner tube, etc. The interior could use some work in the form of re-upholstering, but the transom is solid. The trailer is very good, and I have an extra spare tire for it.
Maybe down the road, if I have an S.O. that is another boat enthusiast, I might try owning another boat. Or maybe I will just get a waverunner. Right now, I just don't want to deal with it, and I'd hate to see it sit any longer. My stepdad would like to see me go ahead and fully restore the interior, but I just don't have the heart for it anymore.

Make an offer. You can email me, or just post your email in the comment box and I will contact you.