Beware of Pirates!

I'm a current events nerd, so I've been following the Somali pirate news with interest. And I'm baffled.

The Somali pirates have been doing their plundering for years, this much is understood. Boats that sail in those waters, run the risk of getting, uh, pirated. They know this. Everyone knows this. My dog even understands this, and he licks his own ass.

Wouldn't it make sense if those cargo ships, oh I don't know, tried sailing different routes?? Let's see...Lawless Somalia is full of pirates. So, let's sail close by their country! I'm sure nothing bad will happen!!

So, we have the victim. Big ass cargo ship weighing hundreds of thousands of tons because it's made with iron. And it's usually transporting something, whether it be oil, cheaply made household items from Taiwan, or cars that are made by auto manufacturers that are not a hair away from going belly up.So the SS Lard Ass is moving across the ocean. Then come the dreaded pirates!!Nope...not these kind of pirates. But if Johnny Depp wanted to board my ship, I would gladly permit it. Orlando is kind of a candy ass. He can just stand around perfecting his douche bag emo look.Not these pirates either, although I'm sure the merchant marine career ladder would be very competitive if this were the case.Hell...even these ass clowns would be an improvement, but they will not be plundering anyones booty anytime soon...unless it's their own.

No...the SS Lard Ass gets overwrought with these pirates. Four wieners in a bathtub.

Think about it...third world pirates overtaking something as big as the SS Lard Ass with a rocket launcher that looks like it came from a Cracker Jack box, and assault rifles. It's like me trying to car jack a Hummer with a pellet gun while riding a skateboard.

Anyway...so up until now, the fearsome Somali pirates had a pretty lucrative deal. Hold ships hostage, demand insane ransom, wait for the ransom to be delivered, go home to macaroni and cheese dinner, or whatever it is Sally Struthers is peddling in their country. And the companies have been paying the ransom like Pavlov's dogs, which in turn encourages more piracy. The never-ending cycle of dumbassery.

And yet each time it happens, its a shocking development. Really?

Then they took American hostages, and suddenly the world noticed. We sent a armed-to-the-teeth-and-bomb-you-into-the-stone-age-destroyer, which is like sending a Sherman tank to take care of a rodent problem.Undeterred, but probably secretly pissing themselves, the pirates crossed their arms, dug their heels into the ground, and puffed out their chest in defiance. They even sent other bathtubs to offer moral support, because, you know, there's strength in numbers.

It is widely known that the only thing that trumps a pirate is a ninja. Master Ninja Obama sent out the bat signal, and the U.S. sent out our very own special fleet of top secret ninjas. We call them Navy Seals.

At the end of the day, we have dead pirates, a freed hostage, and other pirates vowing revenge. Arrrggggghhhh!!!

So, back to my original point. I do have one...I just wanted an excuse to post the picture of shirtless Navy Seals.

Anyway...

Obviously, various military escorts for every cargo ship is unreasonable. So, options are whittled down to a few. We can bomb Somalia (and hope Sally Struthers was there) and turn it into series of lovely touristy resorts. Or...we can retro-fit each SS Lard Ass with their very own missile launcher.The U.S. could then inservice the crew members on how to use said big guns, for a nominal fee, of course. OR the companies could just hire someone from the military to man their big gun. That way, when a menacing bathtub is spotted, they can take care of the problem all on their own.

But then, it might just be easier just to have the cargo ships take a different route in the first place...

Call Me Scooter

You know how dating a fat chick and riding a scooter are alike? Both are a lot of fun, but you don't want your friends to know you do it.

Or so they say...

I've recently experienced a disappointment. Shocking, I know. My life is fraught with such. However, this disappointment hits harder than even I anticipated.

So, I'd been seeing this guy. You can't really call it dating, but more of an arrangement. I've known him for a while, admired him. We were friends. Everything about him drew me in: his laugh, his intelligence, the flash of intuition on his face when he knew exactly what I was thinking. Knowing the kind of person he is, I knew that a girl like me stood zero chance. So, imagine my surprise when he sought me out. In the five months we saw each other, I always wondered why.

In a nutshell, we're not seeing each other that way anymore. I got the standby, "It's not you, it's me" line. Sure, we can still be friends. Hang out. Drink beer. Crack jokes.

Initially, I was cool with it. Deep down, I knew that it would never work out...not because I tend to gravitate towards the noncommittal, but because I was constantly waiting for him to end it. How could a guy like him possibly be interested in someone like me?

A long time ago, before we became involved, we were having a conversation and he had mentioned that his ideal was an 18-year old gymnast. While I am a work in progress, I'm no 18-year old gymnast. So, whenever I thought of this guy, that's what I thought of: 18-year old gymnast. When we were together, it raced through my mind: 18-year old gymnast, 18-year old gymnast.

Even though I'm smarter than most 18-year old gymnasts, I was comparing myself to that impossible standard. So when he says, "It's not you, it's me", what I hear is "You're not an 18-year old gymnast."

I know, I'm an idiot.

Back to the point...

I initially played it cool, because I thought I was okay with it. The arrangement ran it's course, and it was time to move on to other things. Bigger, better things. (like an 18 year old gymnast?)

However, the more I sit and think about it, the tighter my throat becomes, which is bullshit because I'm stronger than this. Right? I'm the hard ass. The rock.

Now I sit, filled with all these emotions that I've ignored for I don't know how long. I'm at a loss as to what to do with them. Maybe if I just turn my back on them, they will just go away, because acknowledging them out loud does nothing but make the situation worse for me.

Maybe I deserve this. I thought I could be noncommittal like a man. Emotionally stoic like one. I thought I didn't need anyone or anything. I pegged myself the non-marrying, non-children type (because I never thought it in the cards for me). I didn't need to be close to anyone, because after all, don't they just lie to you and leave you in the end? This, I learned from the master...my father.

But now I'm blubbering like a woman on the Lifetime channel. My feelings are raw, exposed, and there is not a damned thing I can do about it. It's the worst feeling in the world. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.

Do I really hate myself this much that I would allow this to happen??

I can't hate him, though. He didn't ask for this. He got exactly what he wanted, and nothing more as per the agreement. He's still the same great person, still way out of my league. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place. Then, I would still be admiring from afar, blissfully unaware at the depth and scope of my feelings for this person.

But now it's done, and I just need to pick up my heart which has escaped me, stuff it in a drawer, and soldier on through life, the way I have always done.

The Purpose of My Blog

I know my posts have been sporadic at best. The only reason I can give is that I've been censoring myself.

People I know read my blog. People I know personally, not just the wonderful blogging community that has embraced me.

When I started this blog, I started it with the purpose of it acting as my sounding board for my feelings. I find that when I write something down, I can revisit it later and it makes more sense because I can read it in 3rd person. Does this make sense?

In the act of censoring myself, I've lost my edge.

No more.

I'm going to try to go back to formula. I need this blog. I still need to vent my frustrations. I need to share the joy and pain in my life. I've decided that my own mental health can't take a backseat to someones sensitivities. I'm tired of keeping it inside. The beast wants to be released again.

You've been warned.

A Tale of Two Lesbians: True Lurve

An update!

I think I had said that this story couldn't possibly get any more outrageous. I should never say things like that because it did.

So, Rosie gets released from the pokey on her own personal recognizance...which means she didn't have to pay bail, and just had to promise she would come back to court on her own to face the music. The landlord of the place the two lovebirds were renting had kicked them out, because when you cause that degree of trouble, a landlord has the option of giving you heave ho. In fact, the entire town of Podunk had essentially given our fighting lesbians directions to the fastest way to get the hell out of town and stay out because there is only so much a small, Midwestern town can take. Let's be honest...the fact that a dinky little town in the Bible Belt openly accepting the lesbian lovers is considered revolutionary (as these places are usually 10-20 years behind the rest of civilization), throwing drunken brawls, knives, and prostitutes is probably asking a but too much.

Our lesbian lovers find themselves homeless, so what's a girl to do? Rosie moves in with L-Ho and L-Ho's interim lesbian lovah.

And just like that, we have a threesome.

(Meanwhile, I have had a decent date in YEARS!! Hint, hint)

Rosie has since landed employment (doing what, I have no idea). L-Ho has resumed her gainful employment by staying on her back. I don't know anything about Third Party. And I don't want to either.

Because it's true luurrrvve, you will be astonished to know that Rosie is now sneaking around with another girl, and having her mother, my aunt, lie about it.

And because it's also true luurrrvve, L-Ho told Rosie that if she left her or found out there was someone else, L-Ho would kill her. Literally. Because that is how true luurrrvve works. Rosie has already demonstrated a disposition that could lead her to homicide, so why should it be any different for L-Ho. Water, it seems, has a knack for finding its own level.

Where can I find love like that?? Apparently, I'm doing it all wrong.

God Made Dirt, and Dirt Don't Hurt

Ever since the recent Sutherlands circular came in mail, I've been obsessed. For there, on the front page, they were advertising 40lb bags of top soil for 99 cents a bag. I've been needing some extra dirt for the yard, and have been looking for some to buy. Some people are really proud of their dirt, and they want an arm and a leg for it. All I want is to fill up the saint bernard-sized holes in the backyard, maybe with enough left over to plant some flowers or shrubs. My backyard, pathetic when I moved in, now looks like a war-torn third world country.

Tuesday night, Mom and I stopped by the hardware store. We walked around inside and out in the little greenery area, and found no dirt. I asked a salesperson about their dirt, and they informed me that they were sold out. However, they would be getting a truckload the following day.

Before I went to bed, I set the alarm bright and early (for me) so I could call the hardware store to see when this magical shipment of dirt would arrive. Three calls later, they finally nailed down a time for me as to when the truck would arrive.

So, imagine my disappointment when I got to the store, and discovered they had just sold out. It was an actual shipment they got, but rather dirt on loan from another store as they didn't anticipate dirt being such a hot item. Meanwhile, an old fart in front of me was yelling at the clerk, saying they promised they would have dirt that day, and they didn't, so they lied. Because, you know, he would have to wait longer for dirt to put in his yard, and thereby delaying the chance to yell at those damn kids for walking in it.

Old Fart stomped off in a huff. I meekly asked about when they would get more dirt, and she said they were expecting a big shipment the next day, but I should call before I drive over.

The next day, I called in the morning. No dirt. After lunch, I called and they were just unloading the truck now. Naturally, I hauled ass over to the hardware store, where there was already a small crowd, all wanting dirt.

Not taking any chances, I ordered 20 bags of dirt. All to be put in the back of my PT Cruiser. The store workers even raised their eyebrows when I handed them the receipt, but they loaded up 20 bags of dirt, 800lbs of it, in the back of my car. I suddenly looked like I was driving a low rider. Good thing I didn't ask for 30 bags like I was contemplating.

So, now I have the dirt, safe within the confines of my garage. I don't dare leave the bags outside...someone might steal my dirt. If you can't trust leaving your dirt outside, then what kind of world do we live in?

I fear this may have created a new addiction for me. Dirt. I'll probably be returning to the store to buy more dirt. Why have 800lbs of dirt when I can have 1200lbs???? All for $40.

This home owning business has made me sick in the head.

When Saying "I Love You" Just Isn't Enough

My friend, HC, alerted me this weekend to the fact that Brother would be giving her a tattoo. It would be her first, and Brother is very good at slinging ink. She emailed her idea to Brother, who was unable to print it off my printer, so she emailed it to me.

When I opened it, all that was there was a name. The name of her fiance. First and last. From what I can figure out from the email, she wants first name down one side of her torso, the last name down the opposite side. In cursive, you know, to make it classy.

I'm not one against tattoos. I like looking at them. And there is something about tattoos on a guy I find a bit of a turn-on. However, I do not have any ink. This is primarily of my fear to commit to one design forever, and ever. Because once it's there, its there until you cough up the money for laser removal. Maybe my fear of commitment is that intense.

Aside from my own personal aversion to tats on my physical person, even I am aware of the universal, and wide-held opinion that tattooing names on your body is seldom a good idea. The only exceptions being your kids, or your parents, or your pet if you feel strongly enough about it. If I conducted a survey on people who had their significant others names tattooed on their bodies, I would say very few of them would still be with that same person to this day. In fact, I think it could be proven that the durations of relationships can be scientifically measured from the moment the ink stains the skin, to the time the object of your art/affection is discovered with a transvestite hooker.

So much for love lasting eternal.

In a nutshell, it's just bad karma. However, it is good business for Brother, who does a lot of cover-up work for those people who's tattoos lasted longer than the relationship did.

So, when HC revealed to me her idea, I shared it with Smo (I was at work at the time). We both agreed it was a monumentally bad idea.

"My mom has the name "Charlie" tattooed on her," said Smo. "But my dad's name is David."

I relayed this information to HC, who blew off our concerns.

"My dad has the name Kerry tattooed on him," added Smo. "But my mom's name is Angie."

I also relayed this info to HC. Again she poo-pooed our concerns. When some people have their minds set on something, there is no changing them.

I went home in the morning and chided Brother for agreeing to such a job, and he just shrugged. He feels that while S.O. names are a horrible idea, if you want it bad enough, he will ink it on you.

Instead of a name, why not pick an object that represents this person, and go with that instead? An animal? A symbol? Hell, even a garden gnome, but just not a name.

For the love of God, HC!!! Anything, but a name!

A Tale of Two Lesbians: Breaking the Law, Breaking the Law!

Rosie and L-Ho moved to some podunk town so L-Ho could be closer to her family. (No word on if her john was also included.) Towns this small are almost always alike in the fact that there is NOTHING to them. You may have one gas station (usually a Caseys). One nursing home (which serves as the community's largest employer). And one drinking hole.

Anyway, Rosie and L-Ho move to Podunk, and Rosie is unable to find employment there because the local nursing home is under a hiring freeze. So, you have two lesbians, chilling out, and only one having a job that consists of them blowing a 60-some year old man, one night a week.

At some point, 60-some year old john decides he wants to broaden the time he spends with L-Ho. Rosie, who was okay with the one-night arrangement before, suddenly has a problem with L-Ho spending more time with this guy. This causes some general friction in Lovers' Paradise. Things boil until they culminate in the parking lot at the local bar where our two lesbians get into a heated argument.

Into the car, Rosie starts hitting L-Ho. They drive home, and the fight escalates. L-Ho's alcoholic mother shows up and Rosie, lacking any sense of decorum, continues to beat L-Ho. Alcoholic or not, most mother's won't stand for someone pounding on their kid, so A-Mom tries to intervene. Rosie, pops A-Mom in the face, breaking her nose.

Rosie continues her assault, this time choking L-Ho until A-Mom grabs a big, insulated Bubba mug and doinks Rosie over the head with it. Rosie, in turn, tosses A-Mom into a coffee table, causing A-Mom to break her hand.

Upon seeing her mother all bloodied and banged up, L-Ho exclaims to Rosie, "Why don't you just die! This is all too much!!"

With those words, Rosie disappears in the kitchen and grabs a big knife, goes back into the living and proceeds to slice her wrist, but not in the manner that actually does the job. More in the manner that demonstrates that you are a dumbass seeking attention.

"Happy now?" Rosie demands.

L-Ho's grandmother shows up, and L-Ho and G-Ma help A-Mom out, leaving Rosie to bleed all over the carpet. Rosie, calls a friend, explains what happens, and then passes out from the loss of blood. Phone-a-Friend calls 911, and the ambulance picks up Rosie. Her cuts deep, but not life-threatening.

The next day, the doctors clear Rosie to go home, but before she can make it to the exit, the local mental health people pick her up for an involuntary 3-day stay at the local nut hut, because slicing your wrists, even poorly, wins you a psychiatric evaluation.

After her 3 day mini-vay, Rosie is released and for some reason, goes to the police station, where the immediately present her with a set of bracelets and book her on assault charges. From A-Mom. Not L-Ho, because she lurrrvves Rosie and refuses to press charges.

So, now we have my cousin in the clink, L-Ho furiously working (on her back) to help pay for a lawyer. Meanwhile, L-Ho is shacking up with another woman, telling Rosie, "I'm in a relationship with this woman, but when you get out, baby, I'm totally with you."

To make things even more unbelievable, Rosie is now soliciting donations from family members for postage stamps and money on her books so she can call L-Ho. Oh, and because Rosie is without employment, and unable to pay her bills, would myself and my mother be willing to make her credit card payment??

Needless to say, we said no, but in exciting and colorful ways.

While the above situation might have some degree of dark, morbid humor...there is nothing funny about Rosie beating on people. I've always felt she had some sort of sociopath personality. She killed her mother-in-law's dog because she didn't like that it barked all the time...and you know how little old ladies are about their dogs. Deep down, Rosie is a dark person, and God only knows what she is capable of.

Which makes me glad she doesn't know where neither I nor my mother live.

Now, don't you feel better about your problems???

All Hat, No Cattle

I went to work last night, the weather community predicting a blizzard to world-ending proportions.

So, all night, patients and nurses a like stared out the windows, waiting for the first snow to fall. It never happened. We were rewarded by crappy rain in the morning.

Now, we have freezing rain over snow, which makes for a nice, slushy mess. Should make for a fun drive to work.

The weather community is doing all kinds of back-pedaling. They promised me 6-10 inches last night. What I got was 2.5 inches. Of snow.

I've known guys like this.

I'm going to use someones idea of weather predictions via Magic-8 Ball. The ball is just as accurate.

A Tale of Two Lesbians: A Perfect Couple

There is a saying, fairly old, that you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. Or my cousin's case, your princess.

If there is one absolute that can be said of my Militant Lesbian Cousin Rosie, is that she can't find normal, decent partner...in either men nor women.

Her first husband, liked to wear women's underwear and lived life on the DL...that's Down Low for you innocent types. Even more to the point, he liked to play with other guys, then go home to his wife. He was a nice guy, but really had no business being married. Rosie claimed that he was too feminine for her tastes.

Second husband, Bubba, as I like to refer to him. Weighs probably close to one metric ton, and is a guard at a local prison for criminals. Not the hardened type, but more the kind with the soft, chewy center. Rosie ditched her first husband for this gem. In fact, Rosie and I once shared an apartment when she moved this ass-clown in then couldn't understand why I demanded that he pay rent also. I only went grocery shopping once, spent $100, and Bubba depleted everything in less than a day. A sloth of a man, I could never understand the attraction...between either of them.

First Lesbian Girlfriend...seemed normal at first, but almost 20 years younger than Rosie. They were together for years, their relationship fairly unremarkable. Then FLG left Rosie for another guy, but just long enough to get pregnant and go back to Rosie with the "look, we can be a family" pitch. Along the way, she may have also banged a couple of their other lesbian friends.

New Lesbian Girlfriend (in her early-to-mid 20's to Rosie's early 40's)...initially, talked up as the first normal person Rosie has been "in lurrrvvve" with. NLG makes nutritious meals so Rosie can shed some weight and be healthy. My Aunt boasts that NLG is the best thing to happen to Rosie. The rest of the family shrugs in indifference. What we are experiencing is some sort of Rosie's Bad Partner Fatigue.

NLG is gainfully employed. She works only one night a week, from the hours of 9pm to 5pm and makes between $400-$500. Sounds like a fairly sweet deal, right? Because that leaves her with more time to cook for my cousin.

Well...

NLG has a friend. A man in his 60's. And her job is to spend the night with this man.

One night a week. From the hours of 9pm and 5 am.

Chains and whips sometimes included.

"That's a whore," I explain to my mother when she told me.
"A dominatrix?"
"Nope...just a whore. In the big city, we like to call them prostitutes."

The best part? Rosie knew about this, ahem, job beforehand. And thought it was a pretty neat deal. That paid good money.

I sat down and calculated. That would make L-Ho pulling down between $50-62 an hour. I know nurses who make that, and they don't have to have sex with someone old enough to be their grandpa.

Another added bonus, one of L-Ho's exes had the HIV/AIDS. Anyone care to wager that condoms are not part of the equation for these weekly visits??

But to hear Rosie tell it, L-Ho is the best she's ever had...both in and out of the sack. She gushes that they are so good for each other.

If by good you mean a possible STD-carrying whore is the perfect partner, why not???

You know, sometimes, there are worse things than being single.

I'll shut up about my date drought now.

A Tale of Two Lesbians: A Saga!

My cousin, whom I shall call Rosie, came out of the closet in her mid-30's. She had been married twice before, to men. The first husband, she left because he liked the company of other men. She left him for the slobbery, slovenly oaf that was her second husband. This fat manatee of a husband single-handedly made the local Chinese buffet rethink it's All-You-Can-Policy. Such is life of a Podunk prison guard.

In a ironic move that wasn't entirely lost to us, Rosie left her second husband for another woman.

I'm not the expert when it comes to "coming out", so I don't know what proper protocol is for newly minted lesbians in social situations. However, I'm fairly certain that making out with your girlfriend at your grandfather's funeral isn't listed under the Top Ten Things All New Lesbians Have to Do!

Rosie was brought up in a proper Mormon house, complete with Stay-at-Home Mom. Seminary in the mornings before school. Girls Camp. Family Home Evening. A temple marriage with her first husband. Sometimes, Rosie would brag that she had the best upbringing compared to mine...a Mom that worked two jobs because Dad was too drunk to go to his one. No church. No Girls Camp. Mom told me later that she was sometimes made to feel inadequate by her own sister because of the differences in upbringing. To this day, my mother still feels guilty, even though she has no reason to feel that way.

I only mention these things to give you a little backstory, and perhaps an inkling into the mind of my Militant Lesbian Cousin and her origins. You love her because she is family, but you also know she can't be trusted. I think every family has someone like that.

This weekend, Mother relayed a story that is so jacked, that there is no way that in my most creative imagination could have made the story up. And just when I thought the story couldn't get any better, it did. Because the story is so fabulous, I feel I must share it with the world. Sure, it's my family, but there are some things that shouldn't be kept secret. While the story is laughable, there is a dark undercurrent that deserves to be unmasked.

And so begins the saga (because everyone LOVES a saga!), of my lesbian cousin and the trainwreck that is her life. A trainwreck that she caused and can only blame herself for.

Enjoy!

On Blowing Chunks (Not my Dog's Name)

(Warning: This post contains TMI. So, if you are grossed out easily, stop reading.)

Because I am no longer a full-time weekend person, and am now a part-time weekend person, I get to have some weekend shifts off. Of course, there is the pay cut that goes along with that, but we won't dwell on that, mm'kay?

I get my birthday weekend off, so in trade, I had to work last night. Midweek. It was odd. But do not fear, I had packed a tasty lunch of leftover corned beef and cabbage. The night was shit, mostly dealing with a resident who wanted to give a patient Mylanta for his chest pain, instead of say, NITROGLYCERIN!!! We argued back and forth on the patients heart rhythm, she thought he was normal, I said otherwise. I even took a poll from the other nurses, those who work in the tele monitor room, and we all agreed that this resident was an idiot. Her senior was brought in who sided with the nurses, and we got the patient squared away. Crisis averted!

But at least lunch was good.

Around 5, I started feeling blah. As time progressed, more and more blah. After I signed off, I sat in the break room. The nurses were descending on a box of bagels. I caught one whiff and my stomach turned. Another nurse was cleaning her stethoscope with alcohol, and the smell of it almost pushed me over the edge.

Of course, whenever any female is nauseated, comes the obligatory remarks of, "Are you pregnant?"

No, I'm not pregnant, and thanks for your concern.

In what could be the longest drive home, I fought the rise of bile in my throat, but I had a bag handy just in case I didn't make it. Finally, I pulled into the garage, rushed into the laundry room, and proceeded to expel everything in my stomach to the nasty toilet that resides there. Most everything that came up is undigested corned beef...that I ate six hours prior.

Funny thing about my tummy. If it knows something isn't right with the food I ate, the pyloric sphincter locks down and food goes nowhere but up from whence it came.

Having missed the toilet a couple times, I try to clean up my mess, trying not to start a chain of gagging in the process. Yeah, I got it all over my scrub top, too.

Strip down to my pajamas, crawl into bed, where my tummy is making it's displeasure known. Thirty minutes of intense abdominal pain that has me curled up in the fetal position and wondering if I should go to the ER, I stumble into the bathroom and launch my second salvo of pissing out my ass. So much, that I think my entire system is full of wretched, foul-smelling, cabbage byproduct. The smell is so rank, I immediately grab the garbage can and try to throw up my uterus.

Shooting out of both ends like some sort of Chinese firecracker of luck.

Meanwhile, Brother is in the back yard playing with Hank. He can hear my loud retching, and starts mimicking the sounds coming from my bathroom window. Asshole.

This passes, and I brush my teeth, drink some water, go back to bed.

What happens from the hours of 9am and 1pm is a vicious cycle: sleep for 15-30 minutes, feel the urge, go sit on the toilet, barf in garbage can. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I damn near cried when I found a bottle of Imodium in my medicine cabinet. Too bad it didn't help.

So, three pajama changes later, for various reasons, I think my entire GI system is completely empty. I manage to sleep for 45 minutes this time. My stomach still bitching me out. This has to be the worst case of food poisoning I have ever encountered.

I did what any normal person would do, I called my Mommy who will be bringing me beverages this afternoon.

And that is how I spent my Thursday. I'm exhausted due to lack of sleep. Thirsty, but unable to keep anything down. AND, I have a vomit-filled garbage can that I need to figure out what to do with. There's no way in hell I'm going to the gym tonight. I can't stray more than 6 feet away from a toilet without disastrous consequences. AND, the sheer force and magnitude of my barfing has rendered me looking like I have freckles because of all the popped blood vessels on my face.

To sum it up, I look like a shit sandwich.

How are you?

Nurse Follies: The Economy Catching Up

It seems you can't do anything on the planet without hearing something about how the economy has turned into a Crapfest. I've been incredibly lucky to work for an employer that is still doing well financially, that our jobs are not in any immediate danger. Some would think that folks who worked in health care have it made, and I'm here to say that's not the case. Quite a few hospitals in the KC area are under a hiring freeze...which sucks for the new nurses who are graduating this spring. I've heard about more than one hospital laying off people in management, ancillary staff, leaving the floor nurses safe. But, I've also even heard of one hospital firing nurses for minor infractions. These same nurses who also happened to have reached the salary cap.

Coincidence? I think not!

Not to say that my facility hasn't felt the effects of the impotent economy. In an effort to cut cost, our hospital stopped stocking peanut butter.

Yes, peanut butter.

Our Kitchen Nazi was overheard praising the decision, citing that "too many people were eating it". God forbid the patients were eating the peanut butter! However, I'm unaware of other uses for peanut butter that would make the number crunchers happy enough to bring back the peanut butter. Its wreaking havoc on our patient satisfaction questionnaires. You should see the incredulous looks we get when we tell the patients why we no longer carry peanut butter.

However, we still do offer jelly. But just grape.

Hard to say what will be next on the chopping block. We already serve that nasty generic cola, and you can't get much worse than that. And crackers...BUT you do get a choice of Saltine or Graham.

But seriously, this past weekend, the house census was low. Lower than what we usually see, even during holiday time. Nurses were being cancelled, sent home early. This rarely happens. What's the deal? We know that less and less people are having their elective surgeries (i.e. joint replacements, boob jobs, etc), but it stands to reason that more and more people are just refusing to go to the hospital because they can't afford it. Whether it be because their insurance sucks and the co pays are insane, or they have no insurance, or they just can't afford the time off from work, especially in these hard economic times where one sick call-in can be the difference between having a job, and not having one.

I find a certain irony in working for the industry that will either be the salvation of the country, or the final nail in our coffin.

My heart goes out to those who are severely effected by the Second Great Depression. So much, that I almost feel guilty that I still have a job when so many others don't.

A Letter to AIG

Dear AIG,

I've read with boiling anger the articles which reveal to me the millions in bonuses you are paying out to the very people who have created the problem you find yourselves in.

These same people are your Best and Brightest?

So tell me, what did they do to deserve such large bonuses? Who's knob have they been polishing?

I got a bonus with my job. A gift card to Price Chopper. While I don't disparage the gift card (it came in handy for holiday dinner spending), I just want to point out that my job routinely involves me making decisions that could affect the life (or death) of a patient, and my annual income is probably what most AIG execs spend on a car.

I save lives. You help run our country's financial system into the ground. Tell me why you need those bonuses again?

My retirement plan is through AIG. I'm looking at moving it to another firm, just because I can't stand you that much and I can only hope you get sick enough that I get to be your nurse someday.

Fuck you and the high horse you apparently think you are entitled to ride on.

Sincerely,
General Blather

On Notice!

I don't like going to Walmart. In fact, I can think of ten other horrible things I'd rather do than go to Walmart...like a Well Woman Exam, a root canal, or a visit to the retina specialist.

But, I have a shitload of certificates of CEUs that need printing, and Brother's tattoo pics sapped all the ink out of my printer. AND, there isn't an office store close by I can patronize. There's only a Walmart.

So, I hurry back to Electronics and get my ink cartridges, the price causing my blood pressure to elevate. Then, I stop by the Pharmacy for some lube for the ass-raping I'm about to receive at checkout.

I get in the Express Lane (because I don't want to be at Walmart any longer than I have to), right behind Cleetus Jr. and Starla with matching hickeys. Nothing says upper echelon of humans more than His and Hers Hickeys! She's as big as a mobile home, sporting God-awful prison-bitch tattoos, and looking like she took a swan dive in a tackle box.

Their friend, Earl, is the one who is buying....an 89-cent roll of paper towels. He pays with a $100 bill. The check-out girl doesn't have enough change on her register.

My head explodes.

Another lady behind me, also sees this and hauls ass over to another lane, where the product of the Kansas City School District is there. I know this because the Express Lane is 20 items or less, and this lady had 50 items in her cart. I can't fault her...she obviously can't count.

Register Lady has to find someone to make change. Cleetus and Co. are left standing there, holding their Sam's Choice paper towels. My blood pressure goes up even more. I'm seething.

Fucking White Trash Mouth Breathers!!! GAH!!!!!!!!

I decide to go to a different lane, but not before I loudly tell the guy next to me that there is an obvious reason I avoid Walmart. He agrees with me. I cast my patented Disgusted Nurse Look to Cleetus and Co. before stomping to another lane. Had I stayed there, Officer Friendly stationed nearby would have had to get off his cell phone, and intervene.

Oh, and I had to pay $90 for printer ink. PRINTER INK!!!

I hate you, Canon.

I hate Walmart, too.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

You know, I never understood why some women would be complacent in a relationship where her partner abused her on a regular basis. In my nursing school psych class, we even spent a fair amount of lecture time going over this very thing. On paper, the theories made sense. In reality, I still can't wrap my mind around it. There is no excuse in the world that would remotely justify standing by some guy who routinely put your life in danger.

I can stand up for you if this was a first time incident and you dump the guy, never to speak to him again, despite the pleas and promises. You go back to him, you're on your own. Don't come crying to me the next time he breaks your nose, or arm, or ribs, or causes a brain bleed.

So, imagine my disgust upon hearing that Rhianna took Chris Brown back. Just when I thought my opinion of a woman couldn't go any lower, I read this.

According to a detective’s affidavit, Brown and Rihanna got into a fight after the Umbrella” singer checked her boyfriend’s cell phone and found a three-page
text message from another woman.

Brown pulled his car over and tried to push Rihanna out, but she was still wearing her seatbelt, Los Angeles police Detective De Shon Andrews wrote. He said Brown pushed Rihanna’s head against the window, punched her with his right hand, and then continued driving while hitting her, the affidavit states. He also bit his girlfriend on the ear, the affidavit states. At one point, Brown reportedly put her in a headlock and she nearly lost consciousness, the report says.

The affidavit was filed as part of a search warrant request for the phone records of Brown, Rihanna and her assistant. While beating Rihanna, Brown allegedly told her "I'm going to beat the s--- out of you when we get home, you wait and see." Brown allegedly threatened to kill Rihanna after she either left or pretended to leave a phone message with her assistant, telling her to have the police waiting at her house. He reportedly then said, "You just did the stupidest thing ever. I'm
going to kill you."

Andrews described Brown’s blows as causing Rihanna’s mouth to fill with blood. He also writes that Brown tried to choke Rihanna after she took the keys to his car away.

Really? Even after all this, she not only takes him back, but rumors swirl that she married the guy because she thinks that with him, she will have the Fairy Tale. What does this tell abused women everywhere? That it's okay for a guy to beat you? That he didn't really mean it and that he loves you? The darker the bruise, the deeper the love??

(I'm not talking about women who try to beat on a guy, then act all righteous when he pops her one in return. No, I'm talking about the guys who hit women for power and control issues. The guys who are too big a candyass to try to hit another guy, but rather take their aggressions out on the one who does his laundry. Raises his children. Maintains his home.)

It makes me ill. I don't listen to the musical offerings of either artist, but I'm sure as hell not going to start now. What kills me even more is how the Hollywood community is just rolling over and pretending it never happened.

So, dumb Umbrella singer, the next time your True Love actually succeeds in putting your head through a window, don't look to me for sympathy.

You have made your bed. Good luck sleeping in it.

On This Snowy Saturday...

Getting home from work was LOADS of fun. All roads, including the interstate, were untouched. Some assclown decided that when there is snow on the ground, red lights are merely a suggestion and almost plowed into me as I was crossing the intersection.

I-70 caked with snow, and not a plow is sight. However, there was the tool in the Ford truck who defiled it by putting low-profile dubs on his POS. Then had the audacity to wonder why his truck was spinning in circles in the middle of the interstate. He deserved a pecker slap just for doing that to an F-150, and rust holes big enough to fit my head through.

Let's not mention the 4 car pile up on I-70.

Or what about almost getting run off the road by a snow plow on Blue Ridge because he wouldn't get in his own fucking lane when he saw an oncoming car...me. Douche!

A city that works? My ass!!!

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler!!!

I love Mardi Gras! I may have mentioned it before, but I do.

I had planned on going to New Orleans this year for the festivities, and I was REALLY excited about it. But in the end, it just wasn't financially doable. With the bathroom remodel, a potential new roof this summer, not to mention that I spent more money than I planned on just a few months ago on my Caribbean vacation...my checking account was raising the white flag.

Toast and I were lamenting not being able to go this year (as she was also planning on joining us), and she was just going to "stay at home, make gumbo, and pout" for the weekend. I don't know how we got on the subject of St. Louis, but in an effort to salvage our plans, we decided to check out the Soulard Mardi Gras, because a trip less than $250 was much more reasonable than a trip that was escalating to $1000.Well Hell Michelle also joined us for a short-notice weekend jaunt to the Gateway to the West.

In a rental, we hauled ass to St. Louis on Friday, averaging 82mph, because there is only one good way to get to St. Louis...fast. We made a brief pitstop at Ozarkland, which is not so much a cheesey redneck souvenir shop, but an experience. Where else can you find a kitten on a shirt with the word "Missouri" bedazzled on the front? Or a resin of a confederate flag and a big mouth bass jumping over it? Pink cowboy hat with a rhinestone brim?With Toast fully mortified, and ourselves in possessions of fuzzy hats in Mardi Gras colors, we left Ozarkland behind, but forever to dwell in our hearts.

Finally in St. Loius, and driving around in circles, we finally found our hotel. A bus from Lawrence pulled up right when we were taking our luggage inside, and half the population of Larryville spilled out of the bus onto the sidewalk. Little tanorexic bleach blonds in Ugg boots and KU shirts. Jeebus, there is no escaping them!

Deciding dinner was in order, we boarded the metrolink (STL rail system), and rode the rail for an hour before we decided we didn't know where we were going, and just went back the way we came. Meanwhile, I saw across from a nicely dressed guy on his cell phone, explaining the concept of "dumpster diving".

"Yeah, you know what dumpster diving be?...Well, you go in those dumpsters and get stuff out that people throw away...You can find all kinds of food and stuff...The corn is okay because it has a husk, but apples aren't good...But I don't like that it's dirty...And there are mice and rats...Why can't the dumpsters be clean, yo!"

He was too well dressed to be homeless (his shoes alone were $300 pair). Too fashionably dressed to be a Freegan. But definitely not smart enough to realize that it's dirty because its a FUCKING TRASH DUMPSTER!!

Fun rail ride over, we found a nice little sushi place on the Landing called The Drunken Fish. If you are ever in St. Louis and have a hankering for some delicious sushi, check this place out.

At the end of the night, we retired to our room and rested for the big day-o-fun.

The next day, we bundled ourselves in layers because it was a robust 27 degrees outside. Thank God for the fuzzy hats!The parade lasted 2 hours, and we got pretty good parade watching spots, scored a shit-load of beads, and nary a nipple was exposed. After the parade, we waited another half-hour to use the bathroom, and walked around. Some of the key sights seen: a man in a kilt flashing people, a couple unremarkable boob flashings (mine look better), a dude pissing on a dumpster (cleaning it, perhaps?), and thousands of drunk people milling about. At some point, Michelle started counting Ugg boots because apparently, it's now required that you own a pair when you attend a college in the Midwest. For the boys, it's RealTree camo gear or a Carhardt jacket.Twelve hours later, she stopped counting at 340 pairs of Uggs, namely because we got tired of counting...and all the girls started looking the same and it was hard to keep track of who we counted and who we didn't. For Saturday's entertainment, Michelle and I sat in the lobby to watch, and possibly, make fun of the drunk, obnoxious people that rolled in through the lobby. We had free drink coupons to the hotel bar, but the bar had been closed early because the drunken KU botards were representin' to the point they had to close. Assholes.

So, we just sat and observed our own personal drunken ant farm. Of note:

-Cleetus and Co. did try to invite us up to their hotel room to "party". Michelle told them no, but if they waited ten minutes, some easy girls would return and they would be more than happy to help them out.

-Bubba yelled at me "Tits for Beads". I declined and observed that he looked like he had two of his own to look at.

-Drunken Lady hurts her ankle and falls down in the hotel lobby. She slurrily yells at the Barbie Clan in the corner for watching her, and me for smiling at her. In my defense, I wasn't smiling...I was smirking.

Because Michelle is a Librarian, and she has huge undercurrent of Geek Mojo, the biggest nerds in the entire hotel gravitate towards where we are sitting, with weak-assed jello shots in tow. Med Student Nerd is clearly not in his element among drunken Larryville, and excuses himself early. Law Student Geek and Architect Geek are equally unremarkable. But Michelle, who has drank 3 pink lemonade and vodkas while waiting for the Drunk Obnoxious People to arrive, has now turned into one.

So, during that time frame, she demands that one girl fall on her face, loudly debates whether one girl is a call-girl or just a rich college girl, calls one KU student gay (he pretty much deserved it), and yells at countless drunken college students for various infractions like playing the hotel piano poorly, having the douche-bag hair cut, wearing pajama pants, leaving their garbage in the lobby, being part of a group who's biggest aspiration was to have sex in the elevator, and just being boring.

Around 3am, I call it a night. As I cross the lobby to the elevators (which were up and running by that time), Michelle yells, "Fuck you and your Apple Bottom Jeans!"

Back in the room, Michelle has returned for a drink refill. Because I am done for the night and I have a big drive home to make in the morning, Toast is tagged in to watch Michelle for the second shift because we don't want Dangerboy to be mad at us if his wife gets arrested, although I am fairly confident that someone is probably going to punch her before the night is over. That shift only lasts an hour, and the Duo returns where Michelle unceremoniously genuflects before the Porcelain God. ("Prodigiously!" explains Toast)

It is now 4:45 am.

Later that morning, we prepare to leave, but not before a green Michelle spews like a KC fountain outside the elevators into a St. Louis newspaper. Who says print news isn't relevant???

We make it home without incident...carrying beads, memories, a bad hangover, and clothes that were put under boil order before they could be washed.

Aside from the college students behaving like, well, children who had found the keys to Mom and Dad's liquor cabinet, it was a fun weekend, but cold. It was so cold, I could've cut glass with my nipples.

An experience I may or may not want to repeat again. Cold being a factor, the college students being another. I'm told it's warmer in NOLA, and college students are easy to avoid if you stay off Bourbon Street. Toast and I discussed going to NOLA, maybe next year. We'll see what the new year and the economy bring.

Meanwhile, I will be at the blogger meetup tonight, handing out some beads. Flashing optional, but I may make you work for them.

And I'm Going For It!

My workouts have been relatively uninspired as of late. Spending 30 minutes on an elliptical machine is just not interesting to me. My workouts have always been more productive when I had something to work towards. Not a new, smaller pair of jeans, but more like an event. I've done a couple 5K runs in my past, and always enjoyed the training that went with them. I was working towards a goal, and I always felt a greater sense of accomplishment when I crossed the finish line.

I have friends who participate in triathlons, and have always been interested, but the idea of a full-blown Ironman scared the hell out of me. Then, I learned that triathlons came in all shapes and sizes. Then, I found this. After looking over the site, I found myself getting excited in the way I would get excited about those 5Ks I used to run in.

So, by God, I'm going to do it. I'm going to compete in my first triathlon.

This year.

Or die trying.

I have until August to get ready for it. Actually, there's a triathlon at Shawnee Mission Park some friends were telling me about that's in July. We'll see where I am as that date comes closer, but for now, I'm shooting for the Smithville event. I've been trying to drum up other ladies who might want to participate with me. After all, misery loves company.

I've always been a strong swimmer, as well as biking. However, the running might be the biggest challenge. I went to the gym tonight to swim, just to see how long it would take me to swim half the required distance. Aside from the goofing off with Mom, and gawking at a guy with the second finest ass I've ever seen, I did 250 meters in 30 minutes.

Pathetic, I know.

At this rate, it will take me an hour just to swim across the lake. And I'll be too exhausted to even get on the bike, much less ride the damn thing.

I know I have a lot of work ahead of me, but I've got some good mentors, not to mention my own cheering section, of whom I know will be there on August 1st, holding signs made in my honor, and roses to greet me when I cross the finish line.

Right????

Finally, something to work towards. The smaller jeans will just be icing on the cake.

Tales of the Homeowner: The Shower

When I bought the house, one of the things that clearly did not impress me was the shower. Apparently, the in the 70's, the one-piece units for bathtubs and showers were the new hotness. I can imagine the sales pitch touting the fact that you no longer have to mess with grout. What they failed to mention were that not only were these things butt-ass ugly, they also consumed more space than a regular tub/shower.To top it all off, it leaked into the downstairs laundry room whenever I used it. Which meant I really couldn't use it until it was fixed, and had to use the hall bathroom. The same one Brother uses.The only decent thing was the shower head...and that was something I bought and installed myself.And it didn't even have a door. Instead, I had to put up a shower curtain.

You can't just change out a shower the way you can just change out a light fixture. It takes a certain amount of time and preparation. I'd been agonizing over this shower since I moved in. It wasn't until I went to the Home Show last year and bought a shower panel, did a new plan formulate in my head.

It wasn't until these past couple of weeks, did we actually start working on it. It's my fault, I couldn't decide what I wanted. I'm sure it drove Mr. Recommendation nuts. When tile was purchased, Mr. Recommendation tore out the old one, where we found suspicious water damage coming from the roof, in addition to a 50 foot chain with no clear purpose, and a whole mess of old wasp nests. Nice!

First, the new shower pan went in. Then, the backer board was installed, building a little recessed area where I can put my soap, shampoo, razor, and maybe my foot when the need arises. The next item on the list was the tile. I picked out the color, Mr. Recommendation created the pattern. I'm not a micro manager with such things, and he has good taste, so I let him have creative liberties on the tile. I figured I would be happy with whatever he created.I was right.

The next item was the shower panel. The much celebrated, and apparently "ostentatious" by one person who saw it in the box, shower panel. Six fixed body jet goodness, overhead rainfall shower head, and handheld shower nozzle to get the hard to reach areas. One of the many great things about the new shower is that it freed up a good 4-6 inches of elbow or whatever room. From there, Mr. Recommendation installed the shower door is selected. My one regret is that I wasn't as mindful when it came to shower doors. I selected a pivot door without realizing that there would also be an overhead component of the frame that the door attached to. Now, tall people have to duck to get into my shower. Not that I have tall people who are going to go into my shower, but you never know. At any rate, I'm toying with the idea of converting it to a steam shower down the road, and the door will probably have to be switched out should I decide to go ahead with it. But for now, it works, and there's no more ghetto-fabulous shower!!Tah-dah! The finished product. Next week, we're going to start planning the rest of the bathroom. Mr. Recommendation has dropped some really good ideas. One of which being a heated tile floor, wainscoting, and a possible laundry chute from the bathroom to the laundry room. When the entire bathroom is completed, its going to kick some serious ass.My inaugural shower was everything I hoped it would be. I even bought a new puff for the occasion.

Mr. Recommendation is available for home improvement jobs, so if you are interested, drop him needaquote@live.com.

GB Housekeeping

I've been doing some rearranging with my links there on the right side of the page. I've not deleted any...even though Toph hasn't blogged since last year and I constantly ride his ass about it. Okay, maybe not constantly. More like once in a while.

When I see him.

If I happen to think of it.

He has really good work stories to tell, much better than mine. Maybe if you go over to his blog and we nag him together, he'll start posting again. I've tried to entice him to come to blogger gatherings with the promise of beer, but to no avail.

I moved some of the out-of-town folks where they belong. Added a couple. Anticipating moving one out-of-towner back to the local section as soon as she moves her ass back to KC.

So, if you don't see your link, let me know and I will add it. I used to click on every single link to check for updates. That is, until I found the wonderment that is the Google Reader.

On a side note, the shower is now completed, and my inaugural shower was everything I had imagined it would be. Brother calls the new shower ridiculous...too many nozzles for such a little space. Hah! I suspect he'll be sneaking in there to try it out some night while I'm working. Indy is already planning a day where he gets really dirty in his backyard, only to come over to use my shower later. My shower is going to the new hotness of KC. Everyone is going to want to visit.

I'll post pictures of the shower here shortly.

Later, dudes...

Happy Hallmark Day!

Ahhh...it's that time of year when people lose their minds and drop serious coin in an effort to fully express their love and appreciation for the object of their affection. Either that or further their cause to finally get laid by that special someone who may be holding out. My disdain for VD (Valentine's Day) has been well documented. If only for the fact that so much emphasis is put on the one day, and the rest go ignored. Dammit! I should be worshipped for the Goddess I am every single day of the year!! Save for some bank holidays. And doctors appointments. If you are going to spend money on someone, at least make it practical. I once dated a guy who gave me a little basket filled with stuff I liked and I actually wanted, like those little rings that make your eggs perfectly round for English muffins. The boyfriend is long gone, but I still have the egg rings and still use them frequently.

Indy spotted me at work, scribbled down a "Valentine Wish" on a kleenex, and chased me down the hall to present it to me with much flourish. I spent the remainder of the morning waiving the tissue around and announcing to everyone that Indy gave me VD. I might have left off the word "card".On a side note, this has been a strange week for me and the opposite gender. Earlier this week, I got a random message from the lawyer I dated briefly so many years ago telling me to delete him from my contacts because he was "in a relationship with a woman he loved". The weird part being that I haven't talked to him in a year or so since he gave me his number for referrals when he was unceremoniously dumped from his job as prosecutor after he got busted for drunk driving. I don't know what initiated this, I would assume that maybe all the exes got the same message. So, I just shrugged and did as asked, even though I had contemplated full disclosure by telling him that he sucked in bed and had a tiny penis.I'm pretty happy with my current personal life, none of which I will divulge at this time. I don't expect him to do anything for me today because that's not how we roll. If he did, I would almost expect his offering would require a couple AA batteries...and a can of Reddi-Whip.So, here's to another Valentine's Day. I think the best ones in my life were when I was a kid and we had fun Valentine's Day parties in elementary school. Before anal parents were created, you could still have home-baked treats brought in, and the rest of the afternoon was pissed away by eating said treats, swapping cheap Valentine cards, suckers, and red hots, and showing your ass because your mother had the misfortune of being the Class Mother for that particular party.

Those were the days!!!

On Notice!

Hey you, stupid Mother of the Year at Quick Trip on 40 and Sterling this morning. You, in the crunched up minivan.

Did you know it was 20 degrees outside this morning? I know this because I was freezing my ass off while I was filling up my gas tank.

You, on the other hand, wouldn't have known it because you sent your son out, who couldn't have been more than 10 years old, to fill up your welfare wagon. All while your fat ass stayed inside the warm minivan, shoveling muffins in your face. Your boyfriend, du jour, sitting next to you doing the same damn thing.

I saw you. I'm sure you noticed the blond in scrubs, giving you the glare of death. I hope those muffins gave you food poisoning.

That's all.

Pop Culture Blather and the Shower

Mr. Recommendation has been working hard on my new shower. Who knew such a small space could elicit such colorful language. And not in a good way. We'll not even talk about the water damage we found when we pulled out the old shower.

But at the end of the week, I have a lovely new shower. The only thing missing is the door, which is in the box in the garage, and I am told will take many hours to install because my tile is harder than the ACTs to Kansas City School District high school students, and drilling through such will take time and lots of specialized drill bits.

Because I'm an impatient sort, I wanted to try my shower out AS SOON as the sealant was dry. So, I put the shower curtain back up and took my new shower for a test run.

Thus far, I'm not impressed with the handheld nozzle. Something is rattling around in side it, so I suspect that could be the reason water just trickles out of it like piss out of an 89 year old man with prostate problems. Meh. I'll be replacing it. However, everything else...the fixed body jets, the overhead rainfall head...work beautifully. I can already tell I'm going to be spending some quality time in this shower.

Earlier, while Mr. Recommendation was working, I happened upon the NAACP Image Awards on television. Right about the time Mohammed Ali was being presented with his award. Was it just me, or did anyone else find that him sitting in that chair, shaking all over the place, extremely painful to watch? I cringed outwardly whenever the camera would pan to him.

I find the whole stink about Chris Brown somewhat interesting. First off, I don't even know who Chris Brown is, and I couldn't even pick out his song if I heard it. I do know that he beat up some other artist who happened to be his girlfriend, and that his "career" is at risk for going down the crapper. Radio stations are banning his songs right now, people are up in arms. Chris Brown should take heart and look at R Kelly. The man had sex with and pissed on a minor...and FILMED IT...and still managed to not get into trouble. AND...America still loves his music. Except me. I still think he's a pig.

Don't even get me started on the one-man circus that is Michael Jackson.

There's hope for Chris Brown yet. Even if it is true that his girlfriend gave him herpes.

However, I do hope that the next woman he slaps around has a good right hook. Or a cast iron skillet. Or a good right hook while holding said cast iron skillet.

Or just a good, old fashioned case of gonorrhea.

Somethings to Be Excited About

The master shower remodel is coming along swimmingly. Instead of a big, gaping hole filled with old insulation, a 50 foot chain with no purpose, and a myriad of little wasp nests, I now have an enclosed shower with customized tile job. Monday will be Grout Day. Wednesday will be Seal the Grout Day. Thursday will be Install the Shower Panel Day. And Friday will be the maiden shower of my brand new Car Wash Master Shower.

I'll post pictures. Not of me in the shower, but of the before and after shots of the shower. It will empty. Sorry!

I just got news that one of my BFFs is moving back to KC, which is very exciting stuff. Now, my movie-watching buddy will be here, and I will no longer be the last person that gets to see the new hotness of movies.

And in other news, Brother and Company made an announcement that they are expecting a bundle in the course of nine months. This was an unplanned event, because Brother apparently was under the impression he was unable to sire children. Well, all it takes is one little swimmer with Michael Phelps talent to prove that assumption wrong. Brother and Co. wanted to wait another month before telling folks outside the family, but he's apparently made an offhand comment on his Facebook profile about thinking of names. And he's told friends.

Brother, it would appear, can't keep a secret worth shit.

Everyone is excited. Twins run on the side of Company, so it is entirely possible that the one bundle of joy could be two. Hee!

So, I will be an Auntie again. Another grandchild for Mom, who will really get to hone in on he grand parenting skills because Redneck Brother and family live an hour away, and this batch of grandchildren will be close by. She's pretty much given up on me producing any grandchildren for her. I know this because she announced it to complete strangers on the cruise ship.

The only grandchildren I currently offer are the four-legged, furry variety.

Another Nostalgic Moment

I love Facebook.

Say what you will about Facebook being of the devil and whatnot, I love the fact that with Facebook, I've been able to get in touch with people I went to grade school with. Not the assholes who bullied me. But I did learn with a great deal of satisfaction that those same people now work minimum wage jobs working the local gas station schlepping iced drinks and cigarettes. And they said I would never amount to much!

Karma, it would appear, is a bitch.

Anyway, it was with Facebook that I got in touch of some of my former classmates from my high school days. One of which being the guy I had a HUGE crush on my senior year, but was too shy to do anything about. He wasn't the most popular guy, but he was an athlete and well-liked. And, he was blond. Back then, I was partial to blonds. Before I matured and moved on to not-so-tall, dark, and handsome.

Seeing his profile, made me think of what could probably be the most embarrassing moment in my high school career.

My senior year, I was a member of the drill team, dance team, spirit squad...whatever the hell they call it where you dance at halftime and don't cheer. We did not have an award-winning squad. In fact, the only thing that sucked worse was our marching band (that tied for last place in competition). That is why I tried out for drill team. Anything to get me out of marching with the crappy marching band without actually quitting band altogether (because I was still planning on becoming a music teacher at the time).

Because I was a saucy little package back then, and I had mad dancing skills, I made the team. I was issued my uniforms, and charged with the mantle of dressing in the little pleated skirt and shaking my ass for the entire town of Harvard, Nebraska on most Friday nights.

And speaking of the pleated skirts...we had to wear them to school on game day.

I was taking computer class, and my work space happened to be next to my crush at the time. His name was Tim. Tall, blond haired, blue-eyed, Basketball God Tim with a last name I still can't even spell right. It was game day, so I was dressed in my short pleated skirt. Did I mention it was short?

I went to push away from the desk to go get something from the printer when the wheel of my chair caught on the carpet, and backwards I went. The next thing I know, I'm on my back, feet in the air, barely-there red pleated skirt up, flashing those bright red matching bloomers, and Tim's face peering down at me.

If ever were a time where the earth could open up and swallow you whole, that would have been the most ideal time.

Our computer teacher asked if I hurt anything, and I just laid in that spot. Rooted by sheer terror and embarrassment, I answered, "Only my pride, sir."

I'm sure Tim didn't think much of it, but I was mortified, and remained so for the rest of the year. Nothing ever came of my crush. We graduated. We moved on, and Tim none the wiser. I became a nurse, and he became the very thing I loathe and despise...a physical therapist.

Just a fun little story I thought I would share, so if you excuse me, I need to make an appointment with my shrink.

Cap'n Tripps Revisited

Sick. That's what I am. The skin on my nose is chafed because of all the nose blowing I've been doing. Kleenex with lotion helps some, but not much.

I'm willing myself to feel better. I can't call in this weekend, otherwise that sucks up my PTO for my Mardi Gras trip.

If you need me, I will be in bed. Sleeping.

WTF???

That pinhead in California that just gave birth to 8 kids (which constitutes a litter, by the way). She has 6 kids already.

And she lives with her parents.

No amount of eye-rolling does this story justice.

So, I'll be going to work, because I have 14 kids to pay for.

Ten Minutes

I read a story that comes from Wichita about the, ahem, mother who prostituted her 5 year old daughter out so she would have money for alcohol and cigarettes. We're talking $6-$7 per encounter. As if this crime wasn't heinous enough, truth comes out that she did this very same thing with her other two daughters, who are now older.

Mere words cannot describe the intensity of loathing I feel towards this mother, and to call her a mother is painful and an insult to good mothers everywhere. No, it's probably better to just call this woman Uterine Slumlord.

I know we come to expect back behavior from Wichita, from the BTK killer to various other acts of atrocity that comes from a town that means "trailer park" in ancient Indian language, but this really takes the cake.

And let's not forget the case that's in my own back yard of the douche nozzle that sired 4 kids with his daughter, killed a couple and buried their bodies in coolers. They didn't live in Wichita, but they are from Harrisonville, of which I have on good authority, is a sister-city to Wichita.

Fact being that our laws are not as tough on people who abuse children, in all aspects of the word. So, I would like to offer up my time in dealing with these pathetic excuses for human beings. Ten minutes is all I would need.

Just ten minutes, me, a baseball bat, and Midtown Miscreant standing outside the door to bar anyone from interrupting me.

My Fuzzy Little Can of Pop

When I was 18 years old, I became engaged to a boy named Nick. He popped the question over pancakes at some restaurant, Christmas Eve morning. The story reeks of romance, I know.

My father had just passed away just over two weeks prior to this, and Nick had stepped up to a situation that, quite frankly, was an absolute cluster fuck. Even some of the strongest men would find themselves shying away from. It was because of this, I felt obligated to say yes. Oh sure, I loved him, but in that ridiculous teenage love that is infallible and will conquer any obstacles, save for the actual marriage itself when years down the road you are in your mid-20's, saddled with children you can't afford, a marriage you resent because you know you could have been more, and struggling to make ends meet on two or more minimum wage jobs.

At 18, in the sudden ancient wisdom that had just come crashing down on my shoulders just two weeks before, I knew this. And yet, I still said yes out of obligation, and fear of hurting Nick's feelings. After all that he had done for me, what business did I have to refuse?

Most girls dream of their wedding, and then that golden opportunity presents itself, they throw themselves into the planning of the event. It's supposed to be an exciting and fun time. However, two months into the engagement, I may have looked through one bridal magazine, may have tried on two dresses, and never even considered setting a date. Nick was deliriously excited to be married.

I, however, was not. Truth be told, I wasn't excited about much at the time. I was still living in a fog of masked grief and shock. My cousin, who is loud, opinionated, boorish, and unrefined, is also very observant. After watching me for weeks move about life in a subtle depression, approached me one day. In her usual, blunt manner, told me that she knew my heart wasn't into getting married. I shrugged off her concerns, not wanting to discuss it. She became annoyed.

"If I got you a cat, you'd probably love that cat more than you love Nick!!"

A week later, she showed up at my job with a box, and inside was a little gray and white furball. As much as I liked cats (my family had them growing up), and as cute as the little kitten was, I protested. Having a pet of my own came with responsibility that I wasn't ready to assume, and didn't want to. I had enough on my plate without trying to worry about caring for something that actually depended on me.

Despite my pleas, my cousin left the kitten with me and I took her back to my apartment. A day later, I called her Shasta. To this day, I don't know why.
So Shasta lived with me, and a few months later, I finally found the courage I needed to break things off with Nick. Shasta had nothing to do with my decision, but when I made the break, it was safe to say I liked the cat better. Nick, sensing a change in the tide, became more clingy and needy and desperate. The breakup was everything ugly that I feared it would be. Nick was devastated, and in my crippled emotional state, I was indifferent.
The reason I share this with you, is to try to explain why Shasta's death has affected me more than a pet's death might for most without coming off like some Crazy Cat Lady. You see, she was not only my cat, she represented a lot of things. She was the first thing I actually cared about in the aftermath of my father's death. In the past 14 years, she has been the one constant in my ever-evolving life. She was insistent on being held right after a shower because I didn't smell like anyone. Her little tail quivered when she was happy to see me. She could hold a grudge. She was quiet. She was sweet-tempered. Some of her biggest fans were self-proclaimed cat-haters. One of which being Mr. Recommendation the night she jumped on his lap while he was sitting on the toilet.When Mom lived with me a few years back, they bonded in a way that she never bonded with me. (I actually think she barely tolerated me most days.) It was Mom who started calling her Lil Shasta Roo...which evolved into Lil Roo. She never took up a lot of space, yet the house now feels empty without her. I know she's better off. I opted to have her cremated so I can plant her ashes with a new rose bush come this spring.

I know animals lack the ability for rational thought, but I do wonder if she thought I was a good owner. I'd like to hope so. I owed that much for helping me get through the rough spots in my life, and saving me from a doomed marriage.

So, here's to my Lil Roo and the 14 years she was my unjudging companion. May she be fat and happy on Rainbow Bridge.

My Inauggie Thoughts

Got up this morning to watch the inauguration. The vet called me before my alarm went off to tell me that Lil Roo didn't make it through the night. As sad as this makes me, she was a sick little girl, and is better off. I'll probably blog more on it later.

That being said, I went downstairs and watched the great, big, historic event to end all historic events. I found it endearing that Obama, clearly nervous, flubbed his lines on the oath. Other random thoughts in my head...

- Obama talks with his hands a lot, usually using the same gesture. It kind of annoys me.

- Yo Yo Ma is a God and we should all worship his cello.

- Aretha Franklin still sounds good...but what was with that hat???

- Not impressed with the "poet". I started to drool on myself halfway through her poem. Too bad Shel Silverstein is dead. He would have been much more entertaining.

- Inauguration Over, I think I'm ready for a nap.

POST-NAP INAUGGIE THOUGHTS

- Michelle's dress was bad. Hopefully, her gown will make up for it. If not, she needs to fire her stylist and get a new one.

- I knew I should have put Ted Kennedy on my 2009 list.

- I still can't get over Aretha Franklin's hat!!!

- Obama didn't flub up the oath, the judge did and Obama caught it. Which makes you wonder if Obama practiced the oath at home to the point of memorization.

- CNN really needs to tone things down a notch or two.

Nurse Follies: Be a Donor!

My friend, Red, called me the other night while I was at work. She hardly ever calls me at work unless she has established that I have the time to take a call. She didn't this time. That's how traumatized she was.

Red is currently in the Southwest doing the travel-nurse thing. In her travels, she has encountered many different things, but the latest and greatest took even me by surprise when she announced that she was the lucky nurse that got to do a fecal transplant that day.

Fecal what?!?!

For those of you intelligent people who don't watch Gray's Anatomy (apparently this very thing was featured on one of their shows when the characters weren't sleeping with each other), fecal transplant is the new hotness for treating c-diff, which is horrible unto itself.

I looked up fecal transplant and found mountains of data on it. Sometimes, the cure is worse than the disease, so naturally the doctors make the nurses do it. Poor Red. Morbidly curious, I asked her to elaborate.

First, she had to get a poop specimen from a healthy family member who hadn't taken any antibiotics within a certain time frame.

Let's stop right there. How is God's name do you broach this with the family?!?!?!? A concerned family member stopping by with a Pick-Me-Up Bouquet enters the room, only to have the nurse demand they go into the bathroom and produce a brown trout? Not quite the same as donating blood. At least with blood, you get to brag that you possibly saved your family member's life with your generous gift and everyone looks to you with respect. How are people going to look at you when you announce that you might have saved your family member's life because you ate chili that day and gifted them with big turd???

Anyway...

After receiving the brown gift of life, Red takes the specimen into the Poop Preparation Station and prepares it. This means making it into a "slurry". I don't want to know the details of this process, because it would mean I would never set foot in a Dairy Queen ever again.

Slurry process completed, Red strains the, ahem, slurry, leaving with a poop-tainted suspension, ready for transplant. From there, the concoction is administered via enema where the good bacteria in the donor battles the evil c-diff bacteria in the poor schmuck who has it.

In some cases, I am nauseated to say, it is administered through an nasogastric tube. If that is the case, you better hope and pray that the tube doesn't get dislodged during the administering, otherwise you'll belching up whatever your brother had for lunch that day.

After my phone conversation with Red, I relayed the information to my coworkers, whom a couple of them referenced the Gray's Anatomy episode (ugh). We don't do this practice at my hospital, but it's only a matter of time before some doctor who hates nurses is going to push for this to be implemented.

And that will be the day that I leave nursing and go teach for the Kansas City School District.

Take Note

Patrick Swayze went home after only being in the hospital for one week with pneumonia. One week of PNA for someone who is immunocompromised with chemo and has pancreatic cancer.

And the publicist's only comment is that he's "well enough to be released".

Sounds more like going home to die to me. Ask any nurse/doctor you know, and they will probably agree.

I'm going to go watch Dirty Dancing now.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Still Breathing...or Someting Like It

I know there has been some concern around KC Bloggyville about my lack of posts and activity as of late. My friend, Red, even called me to make sure I was doing okay because she reads my blog to keep tabs on me, and it's uncharacteristic for me to be so quiet. You know me, I always have something to say.

I don't really have any one good excuse, other than life sucks right now (from my perspective). Maybe it is a case of the winter blahs and I should probably park my ass in front of a light source as soon as humanly possible. I have all these emotions in me that are screaming to come out, but I feel like I don't have anyone to talk to about it. In times like this, I usually pour out my heart and soul into my journal, which was ultimately substituted for this blog. However, this blog has become a double-edged sword for me as a lot of people who know me consistently read it, and a lot of what I am feeling right now is highly personal, and I'm just not up for broadcasting that part of my life right now.

And for icing on the cake, my little cat is sick again. She spent a couple days at the vet's office, came home to me somewhat fixed and perky, but now she is sliding back into the problems that made me take her to the vet in the first place. I know of the decision that lies before me, but that doesn't mean I am prepared to make it.

So, do not be alarmed by my silence. I'm just trying to get my shit together. I'm not abandoning my blog, but just taking a moment to collect my thoughts and try to figure stuff out. I should be back on, as regular as XO on a healthy regimen of prunes and apple juice, spewing forth enough anger and malice to make you think twice before going to the ER with a hangnail.

Nurse Follies: Because Patients Have "Needs", Too

Humans are, innately, sexual beings. Hedonistic in nature, but having the wiring for reasoning and self control...for the most part. Which is why most people don't just stop and fornicate anytime, anywhere, with anyone. Of course, there are exceptions. You hear about these people all the time...prostitutes, most anyone under 35 who lives in Miami, Paris Hilton, and those people who are on the "Caught on Camera" shows.

Normally, when folks come to the hospital, they exercise their self control and refrain from doing anything remotely sexual while a patient. Think about it...hospitals are breeding grounds for nasty bacterial like MRSA, VRE, and microbes that haven't even been identified yet. Why, oh why, would you want to make the beast with two backs in a setting like that??? Not only is it unromantic, un-sensual, and un-erotic. It's just downright nasty.

However, there are those who leave all class at home. That's assuming they even had class to begin with. And it's never even a normal couple doing intimate things. It's the most fucked up situations that ultimately end up with the nursing staff having to seek help in the form of eye bleach and a partial lobotomy.

Like the time I walked in on a mother and her middle-aged daughter in the shower together. Naked. The daughter claimed she was helping her mom shower. NAKED!!!

Or the time a nurse stumbled upon a wife giving her husband a "mouth hug" while their young children stood sentry outside the door. To be fair, it could have been a dying man's last request because he did put in for the "God Consult" three days later.

Or maybe the patient whose daughter was thoughtful enough to bring in a vibrator from her own personal stash for Mom to use while she was there. Did I mention it was the daughter's toy?? She made a point to tell us that she "cleaned it real good" before she brought it in.

Or the chronic masturbator whose favorite pastime was to try to trick the nurses into walking in his room at the most opportune times. And he would leave his splooge towels laying everywhere instead of having the decency of tossing them in the hamper.

Or the girl who spooned with her father. In the bed. While she was hooked up to various machines. Not surprisingly, she was also a stripper.

Or the the time I walked in on man orally pleasuring his woman on the exam table. At a free health clinic. After we chased him out, I assisted the doctor with the pelvic exam on the woman. Her crotch smelled so bad from the various STDs she was hosting, I fainted. Literally. I never went back after that day. Because I was both embarrassed, and repulsed.

My hetero status was firmly cemented that day.

I'm a huge fan of sex. Obviously, I sell sex toys. (Did you know that a study conducted revealed that doctors and nurses have better sex than those who do not work in the medical profession? No?? It was determined because we are more self-aware than laypeople.) However, that doesn't mean you're going to catch me in the stairwell conducting a physical assessment on some lucky guy. Not even if I was there as a patient.

Some would argue that patients have needs, too, but really...why would you subject your nurse to the risk of having to witness any of it??? There's a right time and place for that sort of thing...none of which involve an environment where you can find traces of 25 different types of body fluids on your shoes...and that's just after walking through the cafeteria.

So for the love of God and all that is Holy...KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS AND WAIT UNTIL YOU GET HOME!!!!

So Excited, I'm Going to Piss Myself

Well, maybe not to that extreme. Or maybe.

Keeping with the tradition that I am usually the last to hear about anything, I just learned that Guitar Hero is coming out with a game based exclusively on Metallica. Sometime before the end of March, but just in time for my birthday.

The only person who I think will be more excited at this prospect (the game, not my birthday), will be Brother.

I'm almost tempted to go wake him up just to tell him about it.

Woo-hoo!!

Well Ain't That Just a Happy Crappy!

My tire has been going flat as of late, so Saturday, I dropped it off at the tire place. When it was ready, they called Mom so I would not be disturbed.

One new tire for a PT Cruiser...$130.

So, imagine my, uh, chagrin this morning when I got off work, came out into the buttass cold parking garage, to find that same tire flat.

Flat! Flat! FLAT!!!!

Pissed, I called Mom, who came and picked me up from work. Mr. Recommendation has an air tank we are going to fill and take with when they take me back to work tonight. I can only hope the retarded Parking Nazis don't ticket my car for taking up choice parking during the daytime.

And in the morning, I'm going to go blow the roof off of the tire place.

There are some moments that I encounter people in the business sector that provide service so heinous, that I wish they could come visit me on my turf, so I could give them a taste of their own medicine.