It Lives!!

Yesterday, in honor of the technical beginning of summer and all, I thought I would fire up the grill and make ribs. Yes, delicious, juicy, BBQ ribs. There is a method to the madness of making awesome ribs. My mother has it down to a science, to which she has passed along her secrets to me, and to the lucky women who end up with my brothers. Indy has sampled the ribs, and he is now obsessed with them. Not enough to make an honest woman out of me, but if he hears that ribs will be served at Mom's house, he can usually wrangle an invite out of someone.

So, last night, with ribs ready to go, I went out to the grill and tried to light it. No go. Even with a full tank of gas, the damn thing still wouldn't fire up. After much swearing and cursing, I gave up and finished my ribs in the oven. Because there is nothing better than running a hot oven in your house when it's 500 degrees outside.

The ribs were still good, but not the same.

This morning, I toiled, tickled, and cajoled the grill, and finally, I got it to fire up. It's amazing what one can accomplish when you turn the gas tank on.

Let the grilling season commence!

Nurse Follies: Heterosexuality Confirmed

I called Dr. Dum-Dum to notify him that his patient wasn't producing any urine. None. A severe non-compliant diabetic, the kidneys were marking their farewell tour. And headlining the event, was a pretty bad UTI. I even did a preemptive bladder scan that showed that the patient's bladder was drier than Betty White's vagina.

"Put a catheter in," Dr. Dum-Dum suggested. "So we can measure how much urine she makes."

Because residents are new, and sometimes need a little help, I gently explained that the patient was not making any urine, and therefor, would not be any to measure. And introducing a foley would not encourage her to make any. Not to mention it's not a good idea to put a foley in someone who already has a UTI. Dr. Dum-Dum wanted to press forward because even doing a stupid thing is apparently better than doing nothing at all. I followed the phone call by pounding my head on the desk. Not only was this UTI patient in renal failure, she also weighed close to 400lbs.

If that doesn't cap off the shittiest week over, I don't know what does.

Because I believe in sharing the joy, I enlisted our newly minted Unit Coordinator to help. She blanched when I told her what we were doing, and who we were doing it on. Baptism by fire, I always say.

So, we gathered what we needed, said good-bye to our families, and entered the room.

If some random staff member would have walked into the room at the time, the sight that would have greeted them is as follows:

- Bed raised in slanted position with feet on the air. Every single light in the room turned on.
- Four hundred pound patient holding her belly up away from her No-No Area.
- Two RN's, in yellow isolation gowns, glistening with sweat. You can't see where there hands are. You don't know want to find out.
- Short blond RN is scowling, and possibly looking like she's going to bust out into sobs. Foley catheter tube in one hand, she's muttering about not being able to see anything.
- Bad smell permeating the room.
- Unit Coordinator looking bewildered.

By some divine miracle, I got the catheter in. I really couldn't see where it was supposed to go as the No-No Area looked more like the Fantastic Caverns in Springfield. I'm sure if I would have shouted my name into her vagina, it would have echoed back. At the end, I just hoped for the best and that the catheter maybe had some sort of homing device that would find the bladder, which is where it ended up.

The patient did share later that she hadn't had sex in two years.

ARRGGGHHH!!!! Why in the HELL would you tell your nurse something like that? It's not like I needed to know. You're not on a gynecology floor with a bad STD and I want to know your sex history. I, nor the nachos sitting in my stomach, didn't want to know this little gem of information. Later, I was left with the very unsettling feeling that I may have been her two-year drought-buster, for as close and involved as we were with that catheter placement.

Guys like to think that all women fantasize about being with other women. When you deny this, they accuse you of being a liar. It can be safely said that experiences like this, reaffirm my staunch heterosexuality. I'm all about the penis. And only about the penis. And there is not one thing wrong with that.

On a side note, last week can kiss my ass.

Fine By Mid-September

I once read something about the time it takes getting over a relationship is about half the lifespan of the relationship itself. Whether this is recommended, or an average, I can't remember. I know people who dated briefly, but the experience left them so devastated, it took a significantly much longer time to get back to their old self. Then, there are some people who are in long-term relationships, and immediately hop back in the dating saddle before the sheets get cold on their bed. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

I don't think this will take years to get over. But it will certainly take more than a day or two. When you stop thinking in your typical, single way, and think more like the other half of a pair, it can be challenging to switch back. I still find myself reaching for the phone to drop a "Good morning, sunshine!" text.

But I will thank those brazen few who have offered to be my rebound. Way to take one for the team! It feels good to know that men still find me a desirable creature, especially when you just found out the guy you thought you would grow old with apparently didn't agree with that sentiment.

So, I give myself until September to clear the air. I may get it done before then. For now, I'm stuck with a work schedule that I created because we made summer plans. I found another canoe buddy for my canoe trip. The cruise is still full steam ahead.

Life goes on, and big things eventually become footnotes.

Back to the Daily Grind

After what I will always remember as one of the "crappiest weeks ever", I will be going back to work. I'm grateful for the distraction.

At least there, I am monetarily compensated for being treated like dirt.

Now is the winter of our discontent.

I don't know why I always forget it. I don't know why when I remember, I almost pee myself with excitement. The annual Kansas City Shakespeare Festival is here! AND they are featuring King Richard III.

I remember when they used to two plays each festival, and it would alternate every-other-day. Now, they have whittled it down to one play. Oh well. It's still Shakespeare. It's still free. And if you can stand the heat and humidity of the Midwest, it's fun. Not to mention you can bring your own cooler of beverages.

So, grab a blanket, your favorite wine, some cheese, and join me for great literature set in motion.

Today Was a Better Day

Yesterday was Water park Wednesday. What this means, is that I have to put on a swimsuit and go to the local water park with Sis-in-Law-in-Transit, and her two brood. The things we do for family! It's not a horribly bad experience, and the people watching is choice. Besides, I get to cuddle my niece and nephew. Monkey (the nephew), is starting his Terrible Twos and has faster mood swings than a bipolar woman going through menopause. The Little Lady, however, is so cute, and she smiles at me when I talk to her.

Anyway, in light of recent events, I didn't want to go. But then I thought I was okay to go. Then things sort of blew up that morning, and I didn't want to go, but I already said I would. So, off to the water park I went. And I was pretty much a human Quaalude while I was there. Sometimes, all you want to do is sit in a lawn chair, and stare at the ants on the ground as they try to move someones discarded nacho chip from one end of the sidewalk, to the other.

Today, I went to see my friend, Kant. The last time I visited her, she was in the hospital due to a toxicity related to one of her anti-rejection drugs she was taking. She had a big, fat seizure, and was a space cadet for the days that followed. She was still squirrely the morning I visited, but she was animated. It was a huge improvement from the time I saw her before that, when she barely had enough energy to sit on the couch, and maybe watch ants move a nacho chip.

She recently started peritoneal dialysis at home, which I am not overly familiar with. I must say, that it has agreed with her so far, she looked great. She hadn't been quite herself for a while, so it was heartening to see her in such a state. She showed me her PD getup, which was impressive, and I am impressed with the way her family has adapted.

We went to lunch at a local Mexican restaurant. She noticed the tremors in my hands, and I reluctantly admitted that I hadn't eaten nor slept soundly since Monday. She turned on her Mom-voice, and I got "the lecture".

I like being around Kathryn, and I feel guilty because I haven't been more readily available. I feel grateful to have someone like her in my life. Many people go their entire lives without having such a friend, someone who really gets you. Who knows what you are thinking just by one raise of the eyebrow. One who knows all your flaws and loves you anyway. One who listens to you go on and on about your crappy personal life, and listens without dropping cliches just to make you feel better. She's a true friend, and we can go a while without talking, but then reconnect and things just pick up like they were before. She is truly one of my best friends, and that is why I will be starting the testing process for a donor match fairly soon. I wouldn't do this for just anyone.

At any rate, lunch was great (it wasn't the el craphole that is in Raytown). She took me and my propane tank to a place in Parkville to get it filled. (I used to be able to get it filled for $10. Sadly, the price went up to just under $20...which sort of defeats the purpose of going there now.) We did some therapeutic shopping (I got flip-flops). Overall a good day with friend who is a constant reminder that no matter how shitty your life seems, there are always good things to get out of bed for. You just have to open your eyes and see them.

Nurse Follies: Pulling the Plug

I grew up watching Diff'rent Strokes. Everyday. After school. I wasn't such a hardcore fan that I maintained vigil after Gary Coleman died, but when things that you closely associate your childhood with die, it's just another nail on the coffin of your childhood and innocence.

Anyway...

Gary Coleman's life is a sad tale. From what I read, pretty much everyone the guy encountered in his life took advantage of him in some form or another. A lucrative childhood career, and not much left to show for it in his adult life.

So, Gary takes a tumble, is rewarded with a brain hemorrhage as a result. His borderline mentally retarded ex-wife, has him taken off life support two days later.

Gary Coleman had named his ex DPOA. I can respect that she was within her full legal rights to make the decisions she made in regards to his care.

However...it now comes out that he apparently had an advanced directive, outlining that he wanted everything done to prolong his life.

The business of Advanced Directives and DPOA and all things pertaining to them are huge gray areas, and I think I would rather eat at a dirt buffet than deal with them, but yet I am exposed to it more often than I would like. I remember a patient that came in with the most impressive Living Will I have ever seen. Detailed, it outlined to the letter what they wanted, and what they didn't want. We knew exactly where the person stood on life-saving antibiotics, life-sustaining drugs, feeding tubes, ventilators, everything. This person also had terminal cancer. He knew he was going to die, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. He was realistic about it. Every day he spoke with doctors and reaffirmed his wishes. His supportive wife at the bedside, who was also his legal DPOA, also promised to uphold them in the event he could no longer speak for himself.

His children, however, were not on the same page.

Daily, as his condition worsened, the grown children became more and more frantic. They wanted all the stops pulled to save Dad. They begged the doctors, social workers, and their mother. The husband, having mentally checked out, was no longer able to speak for himself. The wife remained resolute, despite the fact that her children were turning against her. They screamed. They tried guilt. They approached staff to try to sway them to their cause (which made us really uncomfortable).There was talk of trying to get the DPOA changed. The wife never wavered.

I wasn't there the day the man died, but I heard it was pretty dramatic, and even the nurses who were working that day were traumatized. There were harsh words, screaming, cursing, threats, and even a physical fight broke out between a couple of the siblings. The wife just remained at the beside, an old woman who had just lost the love of her entire life, and watched as her family disintegrated before her very eyes.

My heart still breaks for this woman.

You may wonder what this has to do with Gary Coleman. Well, I'm getting to that.

So many times, I see patients come in, and they invoke the DNR-DNI. It means if their heart stops beating, or they stop breathing, we let them go. Along the course of their stay, they add components. Yes, I will take the antibiotics. No, I do not want a feeding tube. Yes, I will take this life-sustaining drug...but only for a short while. Usually, the family respects the wishes. Sometimes, they don't. Once that patient enters into a state where they can no longer speak on their own behalf, the DPOA, now large and in charge, can revoke all the previous wishes. Just. Like. That. Only a few times have I seen doctors advocate strongly and refuse, but most go along with it for fear of being sued. I've seen DNR-DNI patients "die", and have their family scream at us to code the patient. If the DPOA is one of them, we have to do it. Patient's own wishes be damned.

You may ask yourself, what is the point of establishing an advanced directive if some asshole family member is just going to revoke it at that one crucial moment? It would seem kind of pointless to even have one to start with if that is going to happen. For staff, it's pretty deflating.

I read an article once about a woman, who had a large family, made her DPOA an unrelated third party, I think it was a lawyer she may have known. Someone who would truly stand firm and defend what she wanted, without their judgement being clouded by emotions or the pleas of family members. I thought this was a pretty good idea, actually. You can make anyone a DPOA, if you are within sound mind. They don't have to be related to you. They don't even have to be a close friend. It could be someone that you trusted enough, knowing that they got your back, right up to the bitter end.

Back to Gary Coleman.

If the story has merit, and he truly did have an advanced directive that said "do everything", then that means his DPOA...his ex-wife who has the intellect of a dog turd, went against his wishes. While his prognosis was bleak, and chances of recovery were slim, and I personally feel that death was a better alternative than spending the rest of your days in a persistent vegetative state, it apparently was his wishes to do so. No matter what reasons she may have had to pull the plug, his ex-wife should have honored those wishes.

This Week Is Off to a Crappy Start

Problems with Oz. I don't know what to think. The war between trust and intuition rages. I can't help but feel that the rug is about to be pulled out from under me.

An Explanation

So, a good percentage of you are wondering why I took the blog private. Well, I shall tell you.

In light of all the crap going on at work, and believe me when I say, my little facebook faux paus was small taters compared to the fuck ups of the others, it did get me thinking.

My blog, somewhat anonymous, really wasn't. I never revealed myself, my employer, and other big identifiers, but if one truly had a deep burning passion to out me, it probably wouldn't be too hard to do. Usually, I don't give a flying rats ass, but because there are people out there who would love nothing more than to make others miserable, I really couldn't take the chance. My job, while a great source of blog fodder and general amusement, is also my livelihood. My employer has already demonstrated that they are more than willing to fire anyone who paints their establishment in an unfavorable light. No matter if it's true. Not even if they are directly involved. We can't have people believing that any bad thing could happen within the hallowed halls of ACME Hospital, where each patient gets their own rainbow and unicorn, nurses are fresh and happy, there's no such thing as a bad day, and no one dies.

Many of my coworkers are aware of my blog. They enjoy reading it. However, some were getting sloppy and reading it at work. I know this because I would hop on a work computer to chart, and my URL would magically appear. My site counter would also show visitors from ACME Hospital. While I don't care about who reads my blog, I do care about what their intent is. It would be naive of me to believe that everyone reads it for entertainment value.

So, I have made my blog private. Down the road, when the blog is forgotten by those who are out of "the loop", or if I get a different job, or if I move away, or if I suddenly become a millionaire and become a professional vacation-taker, the blog will become public again. Right now, I just feel better about this. Creating my own little sanctum, where I can truly write what I want...which is why I started this blog in the first place. In the end, it's all about me.

Welcome to my inner sanctum.

The Chinese Have Invaded the Blog!!

What. The. Expletive!

I read a post from my friend RCH about Chinese comments left on her blog. I didn't think much of it until I started seeing them on my blog. Posted in Mandarin or whatever fuck language it is. I can read Japanese, not Chinese. There's a big difference between the two, and I find it insulting.

And usually, there is a link embedded in the comment. And it's porn-related.

So much for word verification protecting us from spam. I hate spam. Far too salty and makes my toes swell.

I may have to go to comment moderation now. As long as your comment is written in English, and you're not trying to get me to visit your porn site, or whatever crap you are trying to peddle, it will be posted. It's the only thing I can think of to thwart the little fuckers.

Nurse Follies: The Facebook Incident

I know my postings have been sparse. I blame facebook. It's worse than Twitter, of which I never post anything on. I can go, post a brief blurb of my daily life, and look at the pictures someone posted of their dog or their vacation. Or their dog on vacation.

Everyone loves facebook, including people I work with. A few pranks, however, and some staff have found themselves filing for unemployment. Because of such things, I have been careful to edit what I say because no one is anonymous on facebook. Your name is on there for starters. Some pictures. Some people even post their employer AND contact information...which is why harmless pranks can get you in trouble because employers get embarrassed. You can't embarrass The Man and not expect retribution.

So much for free speech.

After a particularly harrowing shift, and a crazy patient who would randomly shout out obscenities, I went home, the sound of said obscenities echoing in my head. Some days, I go home and hear IV alarms long into the morning. Or call lights. Or that patient who underwent a colonoscopy and has been farting all night long. On a whim, and my own personal computer, I left a status update that was the favorite quote of the night from my obscenity-shouting patient, and only the quote. No patient identifiers. Posted off the clock. From my own home computer. My facebook page makes NO mention of ACME Hospital. Safe as houses, right?

Eh...apparently not.

Bosshole charges in one night, some weeks later, prompted by a call from his pet charge nurse who apparently unloaded every incident that happened that night. How one night nurse was mean and yelled at her. How I had casually perused the job postings board while waiting for that same charge nurse to give me report. To state the obvious, no one particularly likes this charge nurse, who will throw you under the bus at the drop of a hat.

After the "mean" nurse is summoned into the Bosshole's lair to account for her meanness, I am summoned. Bosshole, calmer after hearing the story of what happened and feeling better about life on the unit, roots around his desk and pulls out a sheet of paper. It is a screenshot of my facebook page, the patient quote highlighted in orange, and he stares at me expectantly, waiting for my explanation.

So I point out that it was posted on my own time, my own computer, and doesn't violate any confidentiality laws and my page in no way ties me to my employer. Got anything else? No, but Bosshole cautions that ACME Hospital watches out for stuff like this, and they would prefer if we just didn't mention anything about work. At all.

He then goes on to grill me about my looking for another floor to transfer to, which really wasn't a big secret, but I am annoyed that I wasn't the one to tell him personally. (But to his credit, we had a very nice discussion about my happiness on the floor and my future there.)I'm just annoyed that it had to come from someone who apparently has nothing better to do than to look for ways to get people in trouble in an effort to make herself look better. The same person who directed him to my facebook page. I know this because Bosshole indirectly told me who it was (I have days of extreme smartness).

That person now has a sparkling nickname, given to her by a couple colleagues (I can't take credit), that is in no way appropriate for me to say on this blog. But the C-word may be involved. You know....that word.

As a result, I made some changes to my facebook. I removed a huge chunk of my coworkers from the list, save for a few. After hearing what happened, others followed in my footsteps and did the same thing. Some of my removed friends were alarmed, but upon hearing the story, understood, and not-at-all shocked as they are very familiar of the antics of She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Nicknamed.

Another change was my occupation. You see, I'm not a nurse anymore...on that medium, anyway. Instead, I adopted an occupation that has no ties to the medical field. So, if you happen to be my friend, and see posts relating to agriculture, now you know.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some goats to milk.

Katina

She's fast becoming one of my most favorite comedians of all time.

GB Explained

A long time ago, I started this blog as another way of journaling, letting off steam, making sense of crap going on in my life, or just entertaining myself. Along the way, people started to read, and I made friends, and more people started to read. Initially, I didn't care who read the blog. I still don't. However, I do feel the need to explain a couple things so some person with the IQ of lettuce doesn't read a post, and assume I'm talking about them. In my line of work, I meet a lot of people, and at least half the population is stupid and vain and naturally going to think it's all about them and their ingrown toenail.

Don't assume that it was you I wrote about when I observed a patient picking his boogers and eating them for dessert. My stories have spanned the ages, and to protect the identities of the intellectually challenged, I have taken creative liberty...changed genders, ailments, time lines. Hell, some posts I create and publish weeks, months, and on occasion, a year after the fact. Some of the stories, are told to me by other nurses, and published with their permission. This isn't just a blog about one nurse, it's about many. As far as the stuff written about my personal life...that's still mine. Sort of the way ideas and events in a book are changed when they make a movie out of it. Things are different, but the idea is still the same.

The crux of this is why I haven't been posting as much as I used to. I'm still trying to figure out what to do. Create another blog and start from scratch? Make this blog private and press forward? Just stop blogging altogether and let Big Brother win?

Life is full of tough choices. It's enough to make me want to take a nap. I think I will do just that.

Hell Hath No Fury Like Bored Federal Agents

Yesterday, Oz went about his daily life, and then came home to find federal agents in his apartment parking lot, waiting for him. Some were from the IRS, some from our very own Department of Homeland Security. There were six total. They knew exactly who he was, what he looked like, what he drove, and where he would be that day.

To describe Oz, would be to describe pretty much any vanilla Midwesterner. Pasty white guy with blue eyes. Who can also happen to leg press 760lbs. He's plays in kickball games, socializes, and is generally well liked. No, he doesn't have his own militia.

At any rate, G-men corner him in the parking lot, and not in a friendly manner I may add, and grill him about death threats he apparently lodged against the IRS. They had electronic transmission that served as proof of these threats, they claimed. That he had a gun, and he was going to shoot IRS agents. They were not pleasant, and Oz got the distinct impression from their tone and body language, that they were hoping he would do something aggressive. They were itching for a fight.

After twenty minutes of grilling, in an apartment parking lot, now with a audience, the G-men leave.

After some thinking, Oz realized just how all this came to pass...a crazy ex-girlfriend. A while ago, voicing frustration over the IRS and taxes, he cracked a joke about how taking out the IRS wouldn't be such a horrible thing via phone text message. Who doesn't make sarcastic jokes of that nature? Every day, lots of people do, and yet it is because most of us are rationale people, we never act on what we say. I joke that I'm going to toss myself off the helipad at work, but I have no plan on actually doing it. It's simply a matter of letting off steam.

Apparently, now even cracking jokes at the gubment's expense is against the federal law. We know this because Oz's special visitors reminded him of this more than once.

Big Brother is alive and well. Too bad they don't have the intelligence to investigate those who call in tips that White and Nerdy is reenact the Matrix shootout at a federal building. Otherwise, they would know that the tipster had a well documented psych history, lengthy stays in said nuthouse, and a scary obsession with her ex-boyfriend, despite not having contact with him for months and months. Oh...and she is the one who owns the gun. Maybe they need to look into that...why Crazy Ass is allowed to have a gun in the first place.

Obviously, Oz is furious. His belief that the government looks after its own decimated. Further research, by Oz, reveals that government agencies routinely harass people like this, and that Oz is far from an isolated case. When I tell people about it, their jaw drops. Obviously, his story is much more detailed than my second-hand information. So, he is writing about his experience, and when he is done, I will post the link from my blog.

We're told that the government works for the people. That the politicians should fear the people who elected them to office. Turns out, the government could give two shits about John Q Taxpayer. We are a dystopian country, only most people don't realize it yet. Our founding fathers would be appalled.

Canada is looking better and better everyday. I'm sure they need nurses there, too.

Beauty in the Eye of the Beer-holder

This is my niece. One of two. The latest and greatest offspring of Brother & Co. I have yet to come up with a nickname for her, but I'm sure one will come to mind at some point. Anyway...isn't she the cutest thing you have ever seen? I thought so. She was adorable when she came into this world, and she gets cuter with each passing day. She's quick to smile, and she melts my cold, hard, bitter, heart. Not enough to make me want one of my own. I'll settle for fawning over her.

All babies, some would argue, are cute. Most people may agree, and those are the ones who have never seen an ugly baby. I was schooled early in life, so I know that ugly babies exist.

My uncle, on my father's side, and his wife had a second son, for which they gave him multiple names. People...children only need one middle name (if any at all). You don't need to honor every single member of your family by adding their names to your poor child. (You also don't need to combine your names for one very Utah-Mormon sounding first name...but that is for a different post.) As a side note, I once knew a guy who had eight names in his full name. I shit you not.

As luck would have it, some distant relative passed away shortly before my aunt gave birth, so Uncle Carl felt the need to name their son in honor of said distant relative. Hence, Archie Wayne Willis Blah Last Name. That's right...a first name, three middle names, and our already long and odd last name. We just took to referring to him as A&W...or Rootbeer.

Mom got pictures in the mail of Rootbeer, and with a smirk on her face, she handed them to me.

"OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT THING?!? KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!"

This infant had a face that could stop a fleet of Somali pirates. He was ugly...times ten. Three-day Ugly. Fugly.

Sadly, as the child grew, his looks did not improve. It got worse.

I was looking through family pics posted on Facebook, marveling at how my male cousins ended up looking like their father's when they were older. If there is one truth I have recognized with my family's gene pool, is that the men do not age well. They may be cute as kids, but get to their late 40's, they start looking like those goblins from the Harry Potter series.


Sadly, this is true for some of the women. I can only hope that I have enough of my mother's genes to thwart that.

I've decided that this serves a purpose. They have to be cute in their younger years as to attract a mate. Then, when they turn into goblins, their mates will already love them enough (or strapped with enough kids) that they have no choice but to stay. In looking at my brothers, Redneck Brother stands the highest chance of being afflicted with the family curse. Tattoo Brother looks more like Mother, so maybe he will escape the curse.

Me too.

GB Out and About

Last night, my friend Stewie invited me to some bevvies at Grand Street Cafe. The weather was perfect, I nabbed Mother and off we went.

I'd never been to Grand Street Cafe, but we sat outside in the inviting patio area, had great food, great drinks, fun conversation. Overall, a great happy hour. I will be going back.

Not one flash mob to be seen...but it was a Monday, and a school night.

Mother did admit to being nervous about going to the Plaza area, on the heels of all the media coverage of the roving band of ill-tempered teenagers. (Tony provides ample links and plenty of racially-charged goodness on his blog, just so you can get up to speed.)

Mother wondered if flash mobs spelled a certain doom for the Plaza. So much money runs through that place, it's hard to imagine that people would just abandon it the way they did Westport (thankfully, people are returning there).

Naturally, everyone is making it a race issue. Let's just address the big elephant in the room, shall we. You can't have 700-1000 black teenagers gathering in one spot, being general pains in the ass without someone noticing that they all happen to be black. That's like someone rolling over your foot with their wheelchair and trying to ignore the fact that they are in a wheelchair. Let's face it, white people aren't nearly as brazen, in fact, we're pretty boring. The last time a large group of white people orchestrated their own flash mob, all they did was have a pillow fight (Oz totally went and his cuteness can be spotted in pics....but I digress.)

What really needs to be brought to the forefront, is that they are teenagers...obviously bored.

As a general rule, I hate teenagers. Uncoordinated. They smell bad. They eat a lot. They are mean. They revere the entire cast of Jersey Shore. They are the reason I can't go anywhere without seeing the toothy, short-bus grin of Justin Bieber (who is this kid?!?). Every summer, I am pained that they are not in school, instead left to terrorize adults with their bad driving, bad music, and god-awful fashion sense. I rejoice when the school term begins.

A glob of bored teenagers is a bad omen. Unless they happen to be Mormon. Those, you can usually get to rake your yard in the name of a service project. But big groups of teens = bad. Right up there with flag-waving, tea-bagging Rednecks.

What I want to know, while everyone is all in a lather over the rioting teens, is where the hell are the parents? I know there are some parents out there who don't give a flying rats ass. But with around 1000 kids, that's a lot of parents who have washed their hands of the evil-doings of their spawn. I want to hear from some of those parents, but chances are pretty good they will puff up their chests, lament of the goodness of their precious snowflake, and demand that the gubment do more to entertain their bored kids, instead of dragging them home by their ear and making them do their homework.

Another thing I want to know, is what the appeal is to going to some stuffy shopping area, just for the purpose of acting like a boil on the butt of society? Especially since the reward appears to be a face full of pepper spray.

And lastly, the most important question that no one has asked in light of these riots, "Won't anyone think of Cheeseburger Jerry??"

Nurse Follies: Ummm...Yuck!

Part of the nursing job entails wound care. It can be as something simple as a blister (don't pop them!), and can be as complex as a deep, gaping maw which requires more than one person to do. I call those the "It Takes a Village Dressing Changes".

I kind of like wounds. Not enough to branch into the field of wound care nursing, but it's something interesting to look at.

One such wound was that of an unfortunate individual with gangrenous feet. Dressing changes, twice a day. It was painfully obvious (to everyone but the patient), that these feet were toast and it's days attached to the patient were numbered, but we still had to unwrap, clean, slather with extra-special cream, and re-wrap once a shift.

Gangrene is nasty. It looks nasty. It smells nasty. An Internet search of gangrene will reward you with images that will haunt you, and pretty much decimate your appetite for the remainder of the day (unless you are in the medical field).

Now, I consider myself as having a strong constitution for such things, and the first two times I changed the feet, things were pretty uneventful. The only residual was some nausea I had for a few hours following because the smell was that bad (the stinky Easter flower sitting at the desk didn't help either). The next time I changed the dressing, I was smart and wore a mask, having rubbed a bar of Dial soap on the inside before putting it on. I'll take the smell of Dial soap over rotting feet any day.

And so I'm plugging along, first foot done. A tech who was assisting me was holding the leg, the patient watching in interest, and I'm carefully cleaning off the old cream so I can put on new fresh cream. And then it happened. A toenail fell off and landed on the bed.

The tech and I both looked down at the black, rotten, toenail, solitary on the bed sheet, forever parted from the piggy that went to the market. We looked at each other. We looked at the patient who didn't realize that his feet were falling apart in wet, disgusting hunks and chunks. Silently, I quickly slathered on new cream, wrapped the feet, and disposed of the offending toenail. All the while, bile is rising in my throat. The tech looked stricken.

The Dial soap did not help my nausea that day.

For the remainder of the shift, I was traumatized. Someone would ask a question, I would answer, and then immediately follow up with, "Mr. Bob's toenail fell off." The unit educator came in early and asked how I was. I replied, "Mr. Bob's toenail fell off."

Some things seen, cannot be unseen.

I am reminded of the story I had heard about a lady who had gangrenous feet, had been home one night watching television, when she decided to cut off her dead, dried, shriveled, black toe with a pair of kitchen shears (those suckers will cut through most anything). She then decided to go to the ER, and brought the severed toe in a sandwich bag. I don't know why. Was she hoping the surgeon could put it back on? Was it meant to be a trophy of her Midwest Can-Do Attitude that she felt the need to share with the staff? I never heard the answer. In truth, I didn't want to know. I was still trying to figure out what she was thinking as she was cutting away at her toe as she watched Dancing With the Stars.

All this talk of gangrene is making me nauseated. I'm going to stop right now.

Finally, A Cure!!

My friend, Oz, does not appreciate my sarcasm. Different strokes, for different folks, I say. Oddly enough, he still likes to be around me, even though I can see him cringe every time I spout off something dark.

Sarcasm, it would seem, is as part of me as my hands, or feet, or my big boobs that Oz likes to stare at.

And then I discovered there may be a cure for my sarcasm. I found it on Dr. Grumpy's site. There's hope for me after all. (clicky to embiggin)
So, the question is, should I take it???

Nurse Follies: Quote of the Week

At the end of a rather harried shift...

Me: I think I will go apply at McDonald's this morning.

RN: I think I'm just going to become a stripper. There's more dignity in it.

I Didn't Forget!!

So, my big 35th birthday was Sunday. We had a group outing to Hamburger Mary's on Saturday because most people work on Monday morning. The plan was to go have dinner, then go to another location and burn the place down.

It would appear that Alzheimer's-Riddled Mother Nature had other plans and dropped 10 inches of snow on KC. Dinner went well (I will post a review later), the other half of my plan didn't materialize because the streets were shit.

I have issued a rain check for debauchery. Particularly on a night where there is no snow and the weather is pleasant.

Sunday, Mom and Mr. Recommendation treated me to a champagne brunch at V's (another review later), which was absolutely awesome, and probably the best brunch in KC.

Later, I had a nap. It was glorious. That evening, I got to hang out with a special friend. Aside from the weather, I'd say a good birthday weekend.

I'm 35 years old. Funny, I don't feel like I should be 35. No, not like those women who desperately cling to their youth by patronizing a plastic surgeon, and raiding their teenage daughter's closet. When I look in the mirror, I see the fine lines around my eyes and mouth as badges earned for enduring. I don't know what 35 is supposed to feel like, but it doesn't feel any different than 25. Age is just a number. Attitude is everything.

And you probably thought I forgot about my toy giveaway. I didn't. I'm not tech savvy enough to use one of those computer name things. Hell, I'm still looking for screenshots I saved last year. Instead, I wrote down the names, tossed them in the infamous purple boonie hat, and drew the winner. Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

Oh? You probably want to know who that is, huh??

Ok.

Utah is in for a surprise drop of sex toys, because Beckle the Freckle has won the drawing. Wootness!! So, Beckle, you shall be getting an email from me, and I will be shipping you a box full of all kinds of naughtiness.

Just don't tell the Mormon church it was from me.

Better Luck Next Time!

So, I didn't win the blog makeover giveaway thingie. Oh well...win some, lose some. I went to check the winner to see what their blog was about. Well, I really couldn't tell you what it was about...I fell asleep part way in.

Night shifters...we're so unreliable.

At any rate, I guess we are stuck with the white (or rather, off-white, or maybe more grayish than white) on black until I can procure my own blog master (or mistress) that won't charge me my left kidney for a complete overhaul. Or even someone who can be paid in sex toys. Money is so common...why not be compensated with the gift that keeps on giving!

That being said, I am still holding my Pleasure Chest Giveaway. Now, I am opening up entries for whomever wants to enter. The ones who selfless pimped my blog, you get three extra entries, which puts you at a definite advantage.

I've been putting together the Pleasure Chest, and I must say that it's looking pretty good. I tend to overdo with things like that...which can only mean good things for the winner.

So, if you want to enter, just leave a comment. And I will announce the big winner on my birthday...March 21, which used to be the First Day of Spring, until some asshole scientist decided that the first day of spring was March 20. Whatever. In my book, the first day of spring will always be on my birthday. How else am I supposed to remember when it is when I'm a senile senior citizen?

I didn't do anything spectacular for St. Patrick's Day. I thought about going out with the masses of asses and drink green-colored beverages so I can have green urine later. But then, I remembered I'm not Irish, and I have a birthday I need to save my reserves for. Instead, Mom and I enjoyed Mongolian BBQ. Because nothing says Happy St. Patrick's Day like a steaming plate of stir fry.

Time to go to bed...I've got work to prepare for!!

Wanted: A Kickass Makeover...And You Can Help!!

My colleague, Candice, has a totally awesome blog that I'm obsessed with. She is bitingly sarcastic, crude, funny, witty, and intelligent. I think we are related. It's probably good that she lives in Texas. So much awesome cannot be contained in one state. Just ask Chuck Norris.

More to the point, she got a nifty blog makeover. I found myself envious, because I'm not overly blessed with html-fu and can't craft an equally snazzy layout. Then, she announced a blog makeover giveaway and I got excited. Let's face it, the only thing eye-popping at GB is the title. I've already heard enough bitching about the white-on-black writing to give me hemorrhoids, to which none of my coworkers are willing to help take care of.

I think many of you would agree I think some sprucing up here. Not to toot my horn, but this blog has been linked from a few sites for new or aspiring nurses (the site was supposed to encourage them...I still don't know why my blog was linked as it would seem to have the opposite effect). This blog has been linked from Fark (probably the greatest moment in this blog's life). It's been linked from a couple national news sites. Plus, I am confident that it is the bane of a certain Extreme Home Makeover Recipient who is currently running for public office.

Such a special site should have a special look to go with it. Don't you agree?

Besides, Candice promises that I will get laid more if I get a new blog layout. Toys can only get you so far, people!

So, you may be wondering how you can help. (No, not by offering lay-services.)

Well, you can leave a comment as to why you think I need a new blog layout. Sure, you can go over to her site and enter for your own blog (and I will pretend to not notice). But by leaving a thoughtful and passionate plea, you will also have a chance at doing yourself a big favor.

How?

Well, for everyone who submits a comment, they are entered into a drawing for a cache of toys so you can really do yourself a big favor later. And I'm not talking Legos. I almost feel like an idiot for having to clarify this point, but as sure as I sit here, someone is going to be wondering...these toys/accessories are new and unused.

Even if I don't win the contest, you still come out the winner. Over and over again. Hell, it could even prove an interesting evening for more than one person should you decide to share your spoils (if you are into that sort of thing...not that there is anything wrong with it).

Is this bribery? Perhaps. Am I shameless? Absolutely! But I've been meaning to have a toy giveaway, and this seems like a good kill-two-birds-with-one-stone opportunity.

To be entered, you need to leave a comment on this blog letting me know you pimped me out. On the 21st (my birthday!), I will take the names and make Indy draw one out of a hat. I will then send you an email and soon your prize will come in the mail. Not everyone can make the claim of having the ability to deliver orgasms to your doorstep. I can.

Good luck and may the schwartz be with you...and me as well!

Drink Tea and Pee! (Out Your Ass)

(Disclaimer: This post is all kinds of full of TMI. However, at General Blather, we are all about normal body functions, and some not-so-normal. Consider yourself warned.)

Indy and I made our annual pilgrimage to the KC Home Show a few weeks back. I am happy to report that I didn't make any big water feature purchases this year. I did get another rubber broom, and few other little handy gadgets that my life as a homeowner is obviously incomplete without having, and of course, the complimentary yard stick that gets handed out to everyone. I think I have three or four of them. I may have used one once to hang a couple pictures on the wall. Usually, I just use them to smack Indy around with.

Don't worry...he likes it.

This year, there was a lady who had a booth featuring all kinds of loose leaf tea. I love tea. Probably more than coffee. I'm trying to drink more tea because of all the added health benefits, not to mention because my Starbucks habit was getting a bit ridiculous. At any rate, Indy wandered off to talk to someone about patio furniture, and I perused the tea offerings. She had a couple samples to actually try. All the teas she sold, she had in little glass jars so people could smell them. The actual purchases were in sealed, foil bags. So, no one was in danger of going home with a dried booger in their tea.

Because she was running a special, I bought four bags of different kinds of tea. Three of them green (with strawberry, raspberry and cherry), one rooibos (a cinnamon vanilla mix). I decided to take a packet, and my little steeping ball, to work and drink tea instead of the four-am coffee or soda.

Oh. My. God. Never before had something so delicious passed my lips. That Saturday, I drank three 12 ounce cups of hot tea. Sunday night, I had the same. I even shared with coworkers, who also agreed that my new discovery was the complete, and absolute, shit.

And speaking of...

Green tea is a funny thing, and something I failed to remember, a natural laxative. I wasn't drinking it to lose weight or be regular...I drank it because I loved the stuff!! So, imagine my surprise at waking up Monday afternoon with an emergent need to run to the bathroom. Where I frequented the better part of Monday evening, and all day Tuesday.

By the time Tuesday night rolled around, I was practically in tears because my little brown one-eye felt like it was on fire. I refused to eat anything because I knew at some point, I would have to digest it. The terror-alert at Casa de Blather had gone to red...as did my toot-hole (I assume).

I stopped the mass consumption of the tea, and only drink it sparingly. A cup here, a cup there. So far, everything has been smooth sailing with no relapses. I still will order more tea, because the strawberry kicks ass. So does the raspberry. The cherry...not so much.

So, let this be a warning to you. Green tea is not to be trifled with. There's a reason that Asian cultures drink it in little cups.

~Shudder~

Nurse Follies: Another PSA

After consulting with a firefighter friend of mine, I thought I would pass along this public service announcement...because I'm all about saving lives and stuff.

In the event your house catches fire, it is never recommended that you extinguish the flames by peeing on it.

Especially if the fire happens to be an electrical one.

You may now go about your day.

The Audacity of Stupidity

I was in the middle of a Warcraft raid today when I heard the helicopter buzzing around the neighborhood. Sometimes, we will hear it, and it goes away within a few minutes. I did note, that the helicopter seemed to be buzzing around longer than usual.

Later this evening, I found out why. To make a long story short, some douche bag thought it would be a good idea to hold a knife to his own mother's throat, while police officers had guns drawn on him. The situation ended when a sniper shot the 18-year old, killing him.

Mr. Recommendation happened to overhear some women commenting on the event. No words uttered about what kind of boy would use his mother as a meat shield. No admonishment for a son who would put a knife to his own mother's throat. No...all the contempt was saved for the police, who shot this young boy.

"They be knowin' he wouldn't hurt his Momma!" one exclaimed, to the agreeance of the other mother hens standing nearby.

No, ma'am. They really don't. They only know that this 18 year old has a penchant for holding people up with weapons. They don't know what he likes to do in his spare time (aside from holding people up with weapons). They don't know whether he's strung out or mentally ill. All they know is what they see in front of their face...and that is a young man holding a knife to his mother's throat. Police are trained to anticipate worst-case scenarios and try to prevent them from happening. Nurses and doctors are trained the same way.

Sure, we would like to think that kids don't kill their parents, and parents don't kill their children, but we hear stories all the time that refute this. Who's to say that had police waited, assuming he "wouldn't hurt his Momma", we would be hearing that he slit her throat and her exsanguination was caught on live television?

I can't wait for the outcries to pour in, because it's only a matter of time. How Little Johnny was a good boy, on his way home from church to see his mother, when he was gunned down for no reason. All he had in his hand was his trusty Swiss army knife he got when he was awarded his Eagle Scout. Gunned down by heartless cops who have nothing better to do than shoot harmless Precious Snowflakes.

You know it's going to happen. Get your popcorn ready.

The State of Health Care

With all the debates and stories and general wharrgarrbl concerning health care, has anyone bothered to notice that no one asks doctors and nurses what they think?? We're on the front lines, we have a better idea of the battlefield than some dickhole working at BendOverAndTakeItUpTheAss Insurance Co. Or even heads-up-their-asses politicians who don't have to worry about such things as copays and insurance caps.

In what could very well be one of my most favorite blogs, Dr. Grumpy posted this. Sickly Taxpayer isn't the only one who gets screwed over by the government.

The health care system is broken. I think it can be safely assumed that our government has no interest in fixing it. They have bigger fish to fry...like gay marriage.

Back In Iowa...

I just found out today that a guy I knew, and used to attend church with, passed away a couple weeks ago. He was only 3 years older than me. Died in his sleep.

Truth is, I hadn't talked to him in years, unless you count a sporadic hello on Facebook. He was a nice guy. In the years I knew him, I don't know that I ever saw him mean to anyone. He was always chatty, and he always had some story that pertained to Iowa. He was from Iowa, and it was always, "Iowa this, and Iowa that..."

The Iowa stories did wear on you after a while.

Life marched on...I stopped going to church. He moved back to Iowa. We were not the closest of friends where we continued lines of communication. The friendship diminished into something more along the lines of "He was this guy I knew once..."

But it still doesn't make his passing any less shocking.

A nice guy, who left behind devoted parents and siblings. A ginormous patchwork quilt of friends. And a metric shitload of Iowa stories.

Rest in peace, Andy.

Valentine's Day Can Suck It

My contempt of Valentine's Day is legend. I still stand by my belief that you should shower the object of your affection on a regular basis, just not one day. It's true, that there are a lot of people out there (mostly women), who think of Valentine's Day as a sort of measuring tool to see how much their siggy other lurves them. The bigger, more expensive show of affection, the more the intended object is loved. In fact, there is a scientific calculation that states that the amount of love is directly correlated to how many people have seen said Valentine offering. Kind of like those butt-assed expensive weddings that cease to be about the couple getting married, and more for show for everyone else. See! He loves me! He mortgaged his house and sold a kidney to finance this display of affection!!

True, had things worked out with Mr. Perfect, there might be some semblance of observation of this day. Oh, who am I kidding. I have to work the entire weekend. Any sort of Valentine Day observation would be me going to his house between shifts and offering him a Valentine's Day hummer or something. Sacrificing sleep for his personal pleasure would have spoke volumes of my commitment. On the same token, I would suspect he would have done something pretty special because he was one of those hopeless romantic types. Perhaps he would have cleaned my house. That would have been awesome.
But on a side note, at least I won't have to observe March 14th. And I do happen to make a killer steak. His loss.

Someone at work had the hair-brained idea of having a locker decorating contest for V-Day. Only one nurse got excited as she was one of those newlyweds that's still overly excited about being married. She said she would put pictures up of her honeymoon, and win, because there's nothing more romantic than honeymoon pictures. Barf.

I'll try not to be depressed this Sunday, and dwell on regrets. I'm working things out in my own way to get over him. It's much easier, and more entertaining, to be a bitter woman than to be clinically depressed. Hell, maybe I will even get another cat.

So, happy unimaginative, consumerist-oriented, and entirely arbitrary, manipulative and shallow interpretation of romance day. You suck.

I Want My Meh-TV

I remember when MTV made it's first debut. I loved it. If I had a choice, I would watch it ALL. THE. TIME. I loved the music. Loved the videos. Nina Blackwood? Kurt Loder? Downtown Julie Brown? Yes! Yes! Yes! Big chunks of time dedicated to nothing but music videos. All Music, All the Time. Then, they started adding shows, but those shows still centered on music videos, so I went along with it. Headbangers Ball, The Grind, Club MTV.

Then, they introduced Real World, which had nothing to do with music. The genesis of reality television, teenagers ate it up by the truckload. I was lukewarm about the show because it seemed to be an hour of angst-ridden, adult-wannabes whining about how they were misunderstood.

At some point, MTV realized that they could crank out more of this drivel, and those chunks of music videos just kept getting smaller and smaller.

A look at MTV today illustrates why foreign countries would like the United States to be consumed with nuclear fire. You have a couple of shows that glorifies unwed, teenage mothers. A couple shows that offers a glimpse into the lives of spoiled teenage brats, and the pussified helicopter parents who pander to them. A show that tries to convince everyone that being a Guido douche bag is actually cool and something everyone should strive for. The flagship Real World is still being broadcast, but probably should change the name to The Gay, The Angry Minority, and The Skanks and Douche Bags Who Shag in the Hot Tub.

Hell, I can't say as I blame them. I currently would like New Jersey to be bombed off the face of the earth as a result.

So, it came as no surprise to me when MTV decided to revamp the logo and completely drop the Music Television part. They haven't been about music in years, why mislead people with false advertising?

So, if MTV doesn't stand for Music Television anymore, what does the M stand for? I thought of a couple suggestions:
Mediocre
Meh
Merde
Moronic
Miscreant

What are some other good ones?

New Shoes!

My nursing clogs finally gave up the ghost, with the assistance of Lucy. So, I went out and got a new pair of shoes. After talking with various nurses, I originally thought I would go to the MBT route. Sure, they are uglier than Nick Nolte after an all night binge, but I am willing to give up snappy looking for comfort. However, I balked at the price tag.

Then, Skechers came out with their version, with the price tag hanging around $100...which is much easier to swallow than $250+. So, I drug Mother to Kohls where I got my first pair (which would happe to be the ONLY shoe in the store that wasn't on sale). While there, I thought about the time that we went shopping there, and it immediately put me in a funk. Damn him!!

Anyway...


So, here are the new shoes. A little ugly, a little snappy. Usually, I only wear sneakers to the gym, but I'm willing to try this out and see how I like it. They are supposed to help your posture, improve joint pain, shape up your butt, etc. etc. All I know is that the first night I wore them, my gimpy knee protested having to walk normally for once. My hip may have offered some sympathy.

What Happened...

I know some of you may wonder what transpired after my last post regarding my relationship. I'd like to thank the well-wishers and such. Your support did mean a lot to me.

Well, I did reach out to him, directed him to the post in question, but the damage was already done. While I have trust issues, he apparently did as well, and there were just some things he couldn't work around. He'd waffle between wanting me, and then not wanting anything to do with me.

It confused me. It made me hopeful. It broke my heart.

I ended up saying the wrong thing. Or doing the wrong thing. I was afraid to be myself. He became hardened and my apologies landed on deaf ears.

In the end, I have nothing to show but a confirmed belief that fairy tales don't exist. There is no such thing as a happy ending. Maybe for some women...but not me.

I guess it could be said that we weren't well matched. We were too much alike, and that was ultimately out undoing. We were both stubborn jackasses not willing to give an inch. I will now always wonder and blame myself.

This is a horrible place to be.

Get Thee Hence, Child of Satan!

I went to Sweet Tomatoes with Mother tonight. While standing in line, a woman and her young daughter were eyeing the potato salad. The mother commented that the salad had bacon, to which the daughter went on a big, dramatic tirade about the evils of bacon.

"Why do they have to go and ruin everything with bacon!?!?!"

Bacon! The magical food!! Bacon! It makes more people happy than Prozac. Bacon! Is there anything bacon can't do??? I'm fairly confident, that somewhere in bacon, resides the cure to cancer.

It was not normal to have such loathing of bacon. Truly, this was a child of evil. Only evil could hate bacon with such a passion.

I came this close to turning around and chastising the girl, but then it occurred to me that she could have been Jewish. That is the only exception that bacon-hating is okay. All others are damned to a lifetime of tofu.

Oy!

Wanted: One Gently Used Kidney

My bff Kant has been sick for the past couple of weeks. One of those weeks she spent as a guest in a local hospital, which shall remain nameless, but I think is a colossal shit hole. Don't let the flat-screen televisions and crown molding fool you.

Back in the day, before I possessed the infinite knowledge that nurses have, I really didn't know what was what in the land of renal function. Now, with Kanty in the hospital, I was able to look at the numbers. I knew what was coming, but if I hoped I was wrong.

My hunch turned out to be correct. Kant, after twelve years of a successful kidney transplant, is now in kidney failure. She will go back on dialysis, and back on the waiting list for a new kidney.

Meanwhile, I will be testing to see if I am a compatible donor. A person, so good and selfless as Kathryn, needs to hang around as long as possible.

So, keep your fingers crossed that everything turns out okay, and that one of my kidneys would be happier in Kant.

Uhhh....

There's a meme-thing going around on Facebook where you go to Urban Dictionary, and type in your name and then copy the first entry about you. Predictably, the first entry is the definition of the plant I'm named after. I scrolled down, curious, and found this:

Usually blond with big, brown intense eyes. An amazing friend and very
sympathetic. Good listener and gives good advice. You can usually trust them
with anything. Very sweet girl who is faithful, but not innocent. Cares very
much about the person they love, but just doesn't know how to show it. Not a
whore, but somehow tends to be amazing in bed. Really knows how to seduce a guy and turn them on. Beautiful face, cute, fun, and bubbly personality with a
bangin' body. Knows how to have fun, and is a little bit of a trouble maker.

Save for the whole "bangin' body" part, I'd say that's a pretty accurate description. Now, I just wonder if it was an ex who posted it.

Google Is Spying On Me!!

Some friends were looking up addresses on Google Earth. Where their parents lived, where they lived, etc. Out of curiosity, I told them my address and they plugged it in. There was my house, in all it's glory. Oprah sitting in the driveway, slowly working on the permanent oil stain she would leave to remember her by. Garage door wide open.

"Who's that in the front yard?" someone asked. I peered closer.

Ack!! At the same time the Google Earth Camera drove by, I happened to be doing yard work, right in front of the huge elm tree that shades my entire front yard. My ass for all the world to see.

I wonder if I can get them to come back and shoot a different picture. Preferably, one that didn't have me in it.

I Can't Stop Looking at This

It was posted by Cara on her blog. Reading it gives me some comfort.

But not much.

The Belated, Much Anticipated Christmas Party Post!

Redneck Brother is something of a social creature. He plans BBQ's, gatherings, parties, whatnot. I guess he and I are a lot alike in that respect. He is generous to invite the Big City Family (us) to his functions. However, he does have one bad habit...he usually waits to invite at the last minute. Because he lives 45 minutes away, and people work odd hours (leaving little time to find someone to work for you), we almost hardly ever get to go. Because we are not able to attend all of the events, I'm confident that Big City Family has earned the reputation of "High Falutin' Snobs With Their Fancy Book Learnin" by the family of my sister-in-law.

So we told Redneck Brother, we can only attend his events if he gives ample notice. He took our words to heart, because three months before his "First Annual Blended Family Christmas Party", everyone got invites in the mail...party, Santa, dinner, and ~shudder~ karaoke.

Not wanting to endure this alone, I sought out an escort. Indy is an avid people-watcher. Not to mention he never met a meal he didn't like. So, one chilly Saturday night, Big City Family plus one, set out to the sprawling metropolis of St. Joseph, Missouri. I have it on authority that St. Joseph boasts the very first trailer park in the state of Missouri.

Immediately upon arriving, I get lost and we end up in a more seedier part of town because no one in St. Joe believes in putting numbers on their buildings. Making a quick u-turn, I finally find the place. Right next door to this place.

The location was a little banquet hall which also serves as a meeting place for some local union. Redneck Brother had initially reserved it for a wedding reception for a cousin of his wife (which I think is ridiculous to foot the bill for a cousin of a spouse), but for whatever reason, the wedding was postponed and so Redneck Brother came up with the Christmas party idea. At any rate, the hall was just an moderate-sized square room with a stage on one end, and stacks of folding chairs on the other, where all the children set to climbing over in a contest to see who could get sent to the hospital first.

And there was zero ventilation. And smoking was allowed. In a non-ventilated room with children. You know, normal people would have stepped outside to smoke. But you have to remember, that most of these people are denizens of the trailer park, and are governed by a completely different set of mores.

Indy was immediately sorry he didn't bring his inhaler.

The invite told everyone to bring their kids, because this was a blended family event. They even had a section where you could put your little ones.

Everyone came in their festive holiday best.

And what redneck holiday gathering would be complete without the appearance of the resplendent mullet?

Redneck Brother cooked a metric shitload of meat, which was very good, because folks in my family are talented cooks that way. So, the charge was put on everyone else to bring side dishes. And people answered the call.


And all was going well until Chester Molester showed up, who is really Redneck Brother's former brother-in-law, but for whatever reason, the guy still buzzes around the family. Now, I don't know that he's a molester...he just puts off that vibe.

Anyway, Chester saunters up to the food table, lit cigarette in hand, and starts picking food out of dishes...with his bare hands, and eating right there at the table. And just like that...dinner is over for Big City Family Plus One...which disappoints the hell out of Indy because he doesn't consider it a good meal until he's had at least four plates. Why that man doesn't weigh 500lbs, I will never know.

Mr. Recommendation revealed to us later that he earlier, he spotted Chester sitting at a table mining for gold. That's it to say, he was picking his nose. And you know guys like that only get soap on their hands is when they are in the shower (if that). Even later, we mentioned all this to Redneck Brother, who wasn't surprised, and told us that is why he waited to open the food trough until we arrived.

At any rate...

So, here comes Santa, of whom I am convinced was a homeless guy my brother paid to wear the Santa suit for an hour.

We made Mother go and sit on his lap. She came back, reporting he smelled of stale cigarettes, and had really, REALLY bad breath. I think she may have felt a little dirty. I hope Santa didn't touch her in her No-No Zone, because he did look a little shifty.

And look! Dessert is now ready. And for those who can't be bothered to leave their cigarettes unattended for two seconds, someone was thoughtful enough to put an ashtray at the dessert and beverage table.

And finally, to cap off the night, out comes the karaoke machine, and as expected, Mullet Man got up and grunted through a Garth Brooks song. It was then that Big City Family Plus One made a hasty retreat.

It sounds like the Redneck Christmas Extravaganza is going to be an annual event. To prepare, we are going to bring a shit load of Purell, a portable air purifier, and we're going out to eat before we get to the party. Because it is a Prime People Watching Event of Epic Proportions, I may just raffle off tickets to be my date.

Other Things That Happen Late at Night

I don't usually watch late night television. Hell, I don't normally watch television. But I am up on the whole Conan-Leno thing. Sucks that Conan got the short end of the stick, but I'm sure he will come out of this okay.

So, in honor of Conan's departure, I have found some fun nuggets to share. I laughed pretty hard, so I may have to check out Conan when he goes to his new home...wherever it may be.

Nurse Follies: I Can Be a Good Preceptor, Too!!

Last night, I precepted a much cooler, less arrogant nurse. She's fabulous and will be a good addition to the night crew.

And to reward her, I made sure she had the Pants On the Ground song in her head. For a twelve hour shift. Because it's a snappy little tune, and everyone should have a snappy little tune in their head while they work.



I'm sure she was very appreciative and will thank me later.

Nurse Follies: THE Notebook

Not everyone can be well versed in medical jargon, so part of the nurse's job is to be to translate doctor-speak for patients. Why doesn't the doctor do it? Well, nine times out of ten, patients won't ask the doctor what certain words mean for fear of looking like an idiot. Some doctors like to use big words, and it annoys the patient, often leading them to wonder why they don't talk "like normal people". I explain that doctors frequently use the big words because they are still paying for them.

At any rate, it's not uncommon for patients and/or family members to write stuff down. This can be to either ask the nurse to translate it later, or to relay to family members and friends who call. (There's a big difference between lobotomy and lobectomy.) Sometimes, families will write stuff down so they can do their own research later. All of this is good and fine as having information is a good thing...as long as it's from a reputable source.

Oprah Winfrey's website is not a reputable source.

Then, there are those who come armed with THE Notebook. This innocuous little spiral-bound book is the biggest weapon in the family's arsenal...to them anyway. That notebook gets handled more than Lindsey Lohan at a coke party. Whenever anyone walks in the door, out comes the little notebook, and little ink pen. With beady eyes, the family member scribbles every little move you make. Every single word you say. It becomes a minute-by-minute transcript of the entire hospital stay, right down to the corn the patient ate for lunch, and subsequently deposited into the bedpan later that day.

You may wonder why someone would go to such lengths? Apparently, ambulance-chasing lawyers like that sort of thing when the family decides to sue you for their loved one getting pneumonia when you refused antibiotics and pulmonary treatments on their behalf. Or that their coffee was cold. Or that you gave your family member the Swine Flu because you didn't have the good sense to keep your ass at home. Or that they would like a big settlement so they don't have to go back to work at Taco Bell.

But what family members don't realize, is that nurses and doctors have their own little notebook, too. In the form of the patient chart, which becomes their permanent record. Nurses and Doctors should chart thoroughly anyway, but the appearance of THE Notebook, tends to make staff engage in hyper-vigilant, or as I like to call, defensive charting.

What Family Wrote
12:35 pm...Nurse Polly Perky came into room. Gave Mom medicine (lists off specific medicine). Nurse Perky listened to Mom's chest. Mom farted. Nurse then checked Mom to make sure she didn't shit the bed. The fart smelled really bad, and I requested tests to be done to find out why. The nurse refused.

What the Nurse Charted
1235 RN went to room to see pt, give scheduled meds. Family member at bedside eating large amount of pork and beans from local BBQ place. Pt reassessed, no changes from previous assessment. Denies pain/discomfort. Family member passed large amount of flatus, stated that the patient did it. Questioned pt, who refused passing gas. Flatus had bad smell, family member demanded further testing. RN explained that flatulence could not be tested as it was impossible to send specimen to lab. Family member upset that room now smells bad. RN offered room spray to family member, who accepted. Family demanding free cola from pt nutrition room. RN directed family member to the vending machines by the waiting room, stated that nutrition room contents were for patients only. Family member stood up from chair, noted brown stool-like substance running down leg. RN offered towels, and use of shower in pt bathroom. Family member accepted.

What the Family Member Wrote
745pm Nurse Sally Stern came into room. She ordered us to leave the room while we were visiting Dad, and called police to kick us out. She was rude to us because we are poor. Dad started to cry.

What the Nurse Wrote
1945 RN entered room and discovered family members drinking beer and smoking methamphetamine. Pt currently on 15L high flow oxygen. RN told family members this was unacceptable behavior, and asked them to leave the room. Family became belligerent, threatening staff by stating they had a gun and would come back and "shoot everyone". Security notified, immediately arrived et arrested family members. Dad became emotional, later told nurse that his family often does drugs around him, that they take his social security money and spends it on drugs and alcohol, and that he never gets his prescribed medicines at home because he has no money for the co-pays. Even said that the son beats him on occasion. Social Worker notified. Family barred from unit per pt request. Security notified.


Besides the obvious difference in the two, THE Notebook goes home with the family, subject to be amended at any time. Our charting stands once we hit the ENTER key. Oh sure, you can go back and edit, but the computer shows that too.

I hate THE Notebook. Most people do. It doesn't scare us. It pisses us off because we know that we have to now chart every single little minute detail, which takes us away from taking care of our other sick patients.

Assholes.

Learn Something New Everyday

Did you know that once you create a profile on Match, they will not let you delete it? I spent 30 minutes the other day trying to get the site to permanently purge my account. Finally, I just put the profile on "hide" and cancelled. I then get an email from them saying that my profile will be active for one year, and in the event there is no activity on my end, only then will they delete the profile.

So, when an ad on television for Match boasts their membership numbers, they are also including profiles waiting to be deleted.

Dickholes.

Heather Fucks It Up Again

My relationship disasters are legend. They have gone from mild amusement/annoyance, to a mind fuck so severe, that it took years to get over it. As a result, I have developed some pretty serious self-defense mechanisms that up until now, I have always thought beneficial. Now, I have come to realize they are to my detriment.

I recently met a guy. We started to see each other. He was perfect. It was as if some grand architect took my exact specifications as to what I wanted and needed, and then plopped the finished product into my lap. I felt that for all the bad things I have gone through in my life, he was my reward for enduring. It was an amazing feeling. And it scared the hell out of me.

He said all the right things. Got my humor. Made me think. Challenged the way I viewed things. We liked the same things. Believed the same things. The Laurel to my Hardy. The Good Cop to my Bad Cop. All the while, I would look at him and wonder, "How could something so magnificent be meant for me?" Things like this never happen to me. Guys crawl over me to get to whomever is sitting next to me. I've met sheep all the time who later revealed the wolf within.

Surely, I thought, this rug will be pulled out from under me. And so the defense mechanisms kicked in.

He told me there was no rug. No other shoe that would be dropped. He is old-fashioned in his thinking in that his word is his honor, and a handshake is a binding contract. Men like him do not exist in this day and age where everyone is out for themselves. Only hipster-douche bags who will tell you whatever you want to hear to get what they want.

But he told me to trust him, and on the periphery I did, but deep in my brain, came that voice that flipped the red-alarm and reminded me that I've heard this all before, and it ended very, very poorly. Don't get hurt, it warned.

And then came the doubts. And the baseless scenarios played out in my mind. If nothing but to start building up that wall that would protect me from what would be certain disappointment. He didn't understand it, when he had been honest with me. His word should be good enough, then why was I not believing him?

Then, a breakdown in trust occurred. Not that he didn't trust me...he trusted everything I said. But apparently, I didn't trust him. And therein lies my greatest flaw, the one thing that keeps me from having what I want the most. My inability to trust. And it stems all the way back to the 18 year old that realized that her own dad thought that death was a better alternative than living and watching his children grow. Because if you can't trust your own father, isn't everyone else just going to jump ship and bail on you as well?

And I recognize that. And it kills me when I think of all the personal relationships that I have subconsciously sabotaged as a result of it.

Where does that leave me now? I may have ruined my one chance at being happy, and I have no one to blame but myself.

So here we are. I'm damaged goods, and he is at home coming to this realization, that the idea of "us" is not worth the effort. I wish I could convey the feelings in spoken words that so easily come to me on paper, because then I wouldn't sound like such a dithering moron.

I would love to just open up and let someone in. I would love to have that peace that I have been searching for. I long for it as a parched man longs for a drink of water.

Maybe I am truly destined to be alone.

Wait...Wut?

I damn near fell out of my chair when I saw this. Willie Aames, so broke he had to sell off all his possessions in a yard sale, is in a reality show for famous people who are broke, will now start his own financial planning office.

Isn't that like Octomom working at a Family Planning Clinic? Paris Hilton teaching Abstinence classes? Sarah Palin being president of Mensa???

I'll stick to burying my money in the back yard in pickle jars.