I just read a report that police arrested 20-some teens for drinking at a party. While teens drinking is not unheard of, the story should be enough to illustrate just how stupid Johnson county kids are today.
Police go to a Leawood home on a report of a wild party. They find teens drinking, give them a warning, and most the kids leave. Police deem the situation handled and leave.
Police are called again for the same house later that night and return to find that most the teens who had left, had returned, and were still drinking. Then, the arresting begins!
I find it somewhat amusing that after the po-po pay you a visit, you would even consider returning to the scene of the crime. The teenage girl who was hosting the party is a tard for letting them back in. The parents (who were out of town at the time) are retarded for producing such stupid offspring. But this is Leawood we are talking about here...so it should be no surprise that no one was called to the mat in the first place (had it been anywhere else, arrests would have been made the first visit, in addition to strip searches and drug sniffing dogs).
(On a side note: Leawood cops are not so generous as to give you a warning the first time you are caught going 2 miles over the speed limit. Nope...big, fat ticket for you!)
I'm sure the parents of the teenager will be thrilled when they get home. I think their anger won't stem from the fact that their teen had a party while they were away and was doing illegal things and stuff, but because it's all over the news, with the street address PLUS pictures of the house.
Oh, the shame and embarassment!!! Now everyone in KC knows what crappy parents they are.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The Unwanted Houseguest
No...I'm not talking about my mother.
This weekend, my brother brought the little family over so we could go have breakfast. That was the plan anyway. Mom said John and Co. would be here early so we could go to breakfast and I would still have time to sleep before work.
My brother, in true form, didn't show up until 2:30pm.
At any rate, we went out and had dinner, and came back home. I got ready for work, then left, had the longest night ever with little sleep under my belt, then came home dog-ass-tired. Ever been so tired that you couldn't fall asleep? I had to medicate myself just so I could.
Sunday evening, before I went in to work, Mom mentioned there was "an incident" Sunday night. She goes on to say that John found my cat, George, outside and brought him back in. As Mom was cleaning the kitchen, she heard George growling, and thought that Sam was tormenting him again, and didn't think anything of it. George kept growling, and finally it dawned on Mom that George doesn't growl at Sam...so she went to my room to investigate.
George was sitting on my bed, and his evil twin, Not-George, was sitting on the floor. Mom chased Not-George around until she caught him, and then put him back outside. My brother had brought in a stray, mistaking him for my cat.
Now, my room smells bad. Idon't know where it's coming from, but I am stripping everything and washing it just in case. I am shampooing the carpet. I am scrubbing the walls. I am burning incense and candles.
I'm going to kick John's ass next time I see him.
This weekend, my brother brought the little family over so we could go have breakfast. That was the plan anyway. Mom said John and Co. would be here early so we could go to breakfast and I would still have time to sleep before work.
My brother, in true form, didn't show up until 2:30pm.
At any rate, we went out and had dinner, and came back home. I got ready for work, then left, had the longest night ever with little sleep under my belt, then came home dog-ass-tired. Ever been so tired that you couldn't fall asleep? I had to medicate myself just so I could.
Sunday evening, before I went in to work, Mom mentioned there was "an incident" Sunday night. She goes on to say that John found my cat, George, outside and brought him back in. As Mom was cleaning the kitchen, she heard George growling, and thought that Sam was tormenting him again, and didn't think anything of it. George kept growling, and finally it dawned on Mom that George doesn't growl at Sam...so she went to my room to investigate.
George was sitting on my bed, and his evil twin, Not-George, was sitting on the floor. Mom chased Not-George around until she caught him, and then put him back outside. My brother had brought in a stray, mistaking him for my cat.
Now, my room smells bad. Idon't know where it's coming from, but I am stripping everything and washing it just in case. I am shampooing the carpet. I am scrubbing the walls. I am burning incense and candles.
I'm going to kick John's ass next time I see him.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Yay for the PT!!
I finally got my trusty car back. I took the rental, a lovely Nissan Murano, back from whence it came. I was sad to see it go, until I remembered it cost almost $50 to fill the tank before I took it back. Plus, it had Johnson County plates on it, and I felt my driver's IQ drop by 10 points everytime I started. I was compelled to engage in naughty driving habits like not using my turn signal, cutting people off, and driving like an overall idiot.
So, good-bye, Murano, in the past 3 weeks I have known thee, I'm afraid my affair with you must end. You are too high maintenance, and my one and only PT has come home.
I'm such an auto whore.
The manager of the rental place recognized me immediately. Oh, look, the Surly Lady, he must have thought. I'm not sure why he did it,but he gave me a card good for 20% off my next rental PLUS a free upgrade. Maybe it's because he had a weakness for crabby redheads.
I picked up my PT, but visually scrutinized it before I drove her home. I blanched when I saw part of the blue pinstripping had not been replaced. So, now I have to call Adjustor Guy on Monday and find out why. And for some reason, my satellite radio isn't working. The outside is a nice, shiny black, and when you sit in it, you can still smell the paint.
Which put me in a relatively giddy mood by the time I arrived for work.
However, there is evidence that grubby mechanics had been in my car. That will be fun to clean off, plus I need to figure out how they molested my satellite radio.
Overall, I am glad to have my car back, and now I am $700 poorer. Sure, the PT doesn't have the power the Murano had, but it is better on gas, and I will have the last laugh at those beady-eyed little soccer mom's as they are filling up their SUVs at Quick Trip.
So, good-bye, Murano, in the past 3 weeks I have known thee, I'm afraid my affair with you must end. You are too high maintenance, and my one and only PT has come home.
I'm such an auto whore.
The manager of the rental place recognized me immediately. Oh, look, the Surly Lady, he must have thought. I'm not sure why he did it,but he gave me a card good for 20% off my next rental PLUS a free upgrade. Maybe it's because he had a weakness for crabby redheads.
I picked up my PT, but visually scrutinized it before I drove her home. I blanched when I saw part of the blue pinstripping had not been replaced. So, now I have to call Adjustor Guy on Monday and find out why. And for some reason, my satellite radio isn't working. The outside is a nice, shiny black, and when you sit in it, you can still smell the paint.
Which put me in a relatively giddy mood by the time I arrived for work.
However, there is evidence that grubby mechanics had been in my car. That will be fun to clean off, plus I need to figure out how they molested my satellite radio.
Overall, I am glad to have my car back, and now I am $700 poorer. Sure, the PT doesn't have the power the Murano had, but it is better on gas, and I will have the last laugh at those beady-eyed little soccer mom's as they are filling up their SUVs at Quick Trip.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Family Blather: Redux
In one of the few instances in my life that I can remember, I am powerless and helpless. I, being the one who is always in control, must sit on the sidelines. I'm not cheering for anyone, and you might be able to say I am rooting against certain forces at work.
Mom moved in with me back in September after her house sold. The premise was that she would stay with me during the week and work, while going home on the weekends, all the while looking for a job down there. When the move first occurred, there were some things we all understood because she told us: she hated her current job, she was looking forward to being down at the cabin full time, and there was nothing wrong in her marriage.
The other day after grocery shopping, Mom decided to drop a big bomb on my head. She was no longer in love my stepdad, and was wanting out. She said that is was such a weight off her shoulders to tell me this. Yes, weight off her shoulders, and directly onto mine.
For the past couple of months, I figured something was amiss. She would take small quirks about my stepdad and pick them apart as if they were great human flaws. She was spending a significant time on the computer and being secretive about it. She was dressing differently. She was wearing more makeup (this, my brother had to point out). It was as if the world shifted on it's axis. Something was wrong, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I knew it because I have felt it before.
She says she's not doing this because she thinks the grass is greener in Singleland (where I seem to be a permanent resident). She denies that there is a third party. She loves her job so much, and she can't wait to advance.
I find all of the above to be bullshit, despite what she says.
Yes, there is a third party. I know this because she has been careless enough to leave her instant messages on my computer. Some mornings, when I get up to go read the news, that is the morning greeting I get: my mother telling some stranger over the internet how much she loves him, and denying the fact that she is even married. I fairly confident she has talked with this guy over the phone, but whether they have met in person...I don't know. I don't know if I want to know.
When my mother and my biological father separated, my mother went the route of the party girl...and I got to hear about her antics from a lot of kids at school. I hated her for it. I hated her for leaving her kids with a monster, so she could go out partying. She left my father because of his excessive drinking and womanizing...only for her to go out and do the same thing (but with men). It took me a long, long time to get over that.
When I was about 15, I remember that my parents went out one night and came home late. I remember being awake and sitting at the top of the stairs and listening to them argue. I remember Mom crying to my Dad that he didn't love her, and asking him to tell her that he did. So, I sat there on the stairs, my fist in my mouth, silently willing my Dad to tell Mom what she wanted to hear, just thinking that it would make everything better. Well, Dad never said anything...he just went to his room and passed out, leaving Mom sobbing in the living room.
I'm 31 years old now, and once again, I feel like that 15 year old sitting on the top of the stairs. My mother has taken my father's place in this little scene, and my stepdad is now the one who just wants his wife to tell him that she loves him.
My stepdad...who has never hit her, never cheated on her. He stills calls her Darlin'. He is the one who took my brothers in when my father died. He's been more of a father to us than our real father. He's a great person, and when my mother married him, her children were relieved. She had said she found her soulmate.
Most women go their entire lives looking for the very thing my mother is going to throw away for some illusion she has created for herself...because she thinks that life should be more exciting for a 51 year old. She's so wrapped up in her job now, but I can't tell her that no person on earth died wishing they had spent more time at work. I think your job is just something that pays the bills, but shouldn't define you as a person.
In some ways, I feel horrible guilt, and I don't know why. I have always, ALWAYS taken a hard line against adultery in marriage, and it's made worse when it happens close to home. Even if nothing has happened, the concept of it happening is just as bad...if you do it in your heart, you're just as guilty.
I feel immense sadness for the man who only wanted to take care of his wife, the one I have come to know as my Dad. I feel immense anger at my mother for the collision course she has set us on...and I am powerless to prevent.
And in some ways, I feel as though I am losing my father all over again. I am reliving things I shouldn't be. I'm finding that I am starting to have doubt in marriage, but the one thing that saves me is thinking about Kathryn's parents.
I don't know if this is something appropriate to write, but sometimes, it just helps me to see my words. Plus I thought that maybe somebody out there might have some words of advice, or even encouragement. Lord knows I need it right now, because right now, I feel as though I carry the weight of the world on my back...all the while wearing a brave face.
Mom moved in with me back in September after her house sold. The premise was that she would stay with me during the week and work, while going home on the weekends, all the while looking for a job down there. When the move first occurred, there were some things we all understood because she told us: she hated her current job, she was looking forward to being down at the cabin full time, and there was nothing wrong in her marriage.
The other day after grocery shopping, Mom decided to drop a big bomb on my head. She was no longer in love my stepdad, and was wanting out. She said that is was such a weight off her shoulders to tell me this. Yes, weight off her shoulders, and directly onto mine.
For the past couple of months, I figured something was amiss. She would take small quirks about my stepdad and pick them apart as if they were great human flaws. She was spending a significant time on the computer and being secretive about it. She was dressing differently. She was wearing more makeup (this, my brother had to point out). It was as if the world shifted on it's axis. Something was wrong, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I knew it because I have felt it before.
She says she's not doing this because she thinks the grass is greener in Singleland (where I seem to be a permanent resident). She denies that there is a third party. She loves her job so much, and she can't wait to advance.
I find all of the above to be bullshit, despite what she says.
Yes, there is a third party. I know this because she has been careless enough to leave her instant messages on my computer. Some mornings, when I get up to go read the news, that is the morning greeting I get: my mother telling some stranger over the internet how much she loves him, and denying the fact that she is even married. I fairly confident she has talked with this guy over the phone, but whether they have met in person...I don't know. I don't know if I want to know.
When my mother and my biological father separated, my mother went the route of the party girl...and I got to hear about her antics from a lot of kids at school. I hated her for it. I hated her for leaving her kids with a monster, so she could go out partying. She left my father because of his excessive drinking and womanizing...only for her to go out and do the same thing (but with men). It took me a long, long time to get over that.
When I was about 15, I remember that my parents went out one night and came home late. I remember being awake and sitting at the top of the stairs and listening to them argue. I remember Mom crying to my Dad that he didn't love her, and asking him to tell her that he did. So, I sat there on the stairs, my fist in my mouth, silently willing my Dad to tell Mom what she wanted to hear, just thinking that it would make everything better. Well, Dad never said anything...he just went to his room and passed out, leaving Mom sobbing in the living room.
I'm 31 years old now, and once again, I feel like that 15 year old sitting on the top of the stairs. My mother has taken my father's place in this little scene, and my stepdad is now the one who just wants his wife to tell him that she loves him.
My stepdad...who has never hit her, never cheated on her. He stills calls her Darlin'. He is the one who took my brothers in when my father died. He's been more of a father to us than our real father. He's a great person, and when my mother married him, her children were relieved. She had said she found her soulmate.
Most women go their entire lives looking for the very thing my mother is going to throw away for some illusion she has created for herself...because she thinks that life should be more exciting for a 51 year old. She's so wrapped up in her job now, but I can't tell her that no person on earth died wishing they had spent more time at work. I think your job is just something that pays the bills, but shouldn't define you as a person.
In some ways, I feel horrible guilt, and I don't know why. I have always, ALWAYS taken a hard line against adultery in marriage, and it's made worse when it happens close to home. Even if nothing has happened, the concept of it happening is just as bad...if you do it in your heart, you're just as guilty.
I feel immense sadness for the man who only wanted to take care of his wife, the one I have come to know as my Dad. I feel immense anger at my mother for the collision course she has set us on...and I am powerless to prevent.
And in some ways, I feel as though I am losing my father all over again. I am reliving things I shouldn't be. I'm finding that I am starting to have doubt in marriage, but the one thing that saves me is thinking about Kathryn's parents.
I don't know if this is something appropriate to write, but sometimes, it just helps me to see my words. Plus I thought that maybe somebody out there might have some words of advice, or even encouragement. Lord knows I need it right now, because right now, I feel as though I carry the weight of the world on my back...all the while wearing a brave face.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Family Blather
Monday night, we found out that my brother was having a disagreement with the missus. Mom and I wondered what they could be fighting about. Tuesday night, he elaborated.
For Valentine's Day, my brother gave his wife a pair of earrings to the tune of $300. She was wearing them to the hospital when she was going to have Peanut, but the docs made her take them off prior to surgery. The nurses taped the earrings to some paper, and secured them inside a drawer in the room. (Had it been me, I would have sent the earrings to the hospital vault for safe keeping, but I digress...)
The c-section goes without incident, and everyone returns to the room. Surprise, surprise...the earrings are gone. So, some nurses as well as my brother and Kelli's sister tear the room apart looking for the earrings. They were never found, and until now, it was just assumed that someone from the hospital took them.
Until now...
I guess Kelli's sister came over to their house the other day actually wearing the very exact earrings. John and Kelli didn't mention anything to her at the time, but they will. The disagreement stems from how they are going to approach her. No matter what tactic they use, she will deny it, and there will be contention. Also, stealing is not new for this woman as she has stolen from her son's girlfriend. She also works for Sam's Club in St. Joe...so it stands to reason that she probably steals from them as well.
If that doesn't scream White Trash, I don't know what does. My brother spends money on something he really couldn't afford, and this loser just comes along and takes it while her younger sister is in the surgical room. Tacky, tacky, tacky!!
If it were me, I would just call the police and be done with it...but I am an asshole. I would make life very, very hard for the theif in question. You don't steal from your own family.
I told my brother that Kelli's sister is not welcome into my house because I can't nail everything down. Mom and I have decided that if we go anywhere, and she is in the vicinity, our valuables are getting locked into the car.
For Valentine's Day, my brother gave his wife a pair of earrings to the tune of $300. She was wearing them to the hospital when she was going to have Peanut, but the docs made her take them off prior to surgery. The nurses taped the earrings to some paper, and secured them inside a drawer in the room. (Had it been me, I would have sent the earrings to the hospital vault for safe keeping, but I digress...)
The c-section goes without incident, and everyone returns to the room. Surprise, surprise...the earrings are gone. So, some nurses as well as my brother and Kelli's sister tear the room apart looking for the earrings. They were never found, and until now, it was just assumed that someone from the hospital took them.
Until now...
I guess Kelli's sister came over to their house the other day actually wearing the very exact earrings. John and Kelli didn't mention anything to her at the time, but they will. The disagreement stems from how they are going to approach her. No matter what tactic they use, she will deny it, and there will be contention. Also, stealing is not new for this woman as she has stolen from her son's girlfriend. She also works for Sam's Club in St. Joe...so it stands to reason that she probably steals from them as well.
If that doesn't scream White Trash, I don't know what does. My brother spends money on something he really couldn't afford, and this loser just comes along and takes it while her younger sister is in the surgical room. Tacky, tacky, tacky!!
If it were me, I would just call the police and be done with it...but I am an asshole. I would make life very, very hard for the theif in question. You don't steal from your own family.
I told my brother that Kelli's sister is not welcome into my house because I can't nail everything down. Mom and I have decided that if we go anywhere, and she is in the vicinity, our valuables are getting locked into the car.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Bad night...go away!!
I knew I should have gone into real estate.
Last night was one of the worst nights ever. It only could have been made worse had someone actually died. At the hands of a staff member wouldn't have counted.
I go to work, Starbucks in hand. Report. A few assessments. Then, some leisurely voice wafts through the halls.
"Code Gray. Code Gray."
Yeah, the weather was crappy. So, we begin pushing people out into the hall. (A code gray indicates severe weather.) The ones we can't move, we pad them with pillows because in the event a Dodge Dakota is hurled through one of the windows by a twister, the patient will be protected. Halfway through our moving-into-the-hall business, a more frantic voice comes over the PA.
"CODE GRAY! CODE GRAY!!"
We finish pulling people out of the rooms, and into the hall, closing all the glass doors behind them. One little old lady is zipping around in a hospital gown on her red motorized scooter. The only thing missing is pizza and a circus midget.
For 45 minutes, everyone is sitting around, chatting excitedly about tornados. Meanwhile, the nurses are still running their asses off. Sweat is rolling down the back of my neck. If I had balls, I'm sure I would have been sweating there as well.
The Code Gray is finally cleared and we are allowed to move patients back into their rooms. A large swarm of patients who can walk, in addition to the visitors, exit the unit so they can go downstairs, go outside, and look at the weather.
These are probably the same people who slow traffic down just to look at a car accident.
I immediately am accosted by a patient who wants drugs. DRUGS!! She demands that I knock her out so she can sleep. Believe me, I would like to...but we simply don't do that on my floor. She goes bananas and starts to scream and yell. I want to go jump off the helipad. I give her everything she has ordered, plus some extra I was able to beg the doctor for, and she is still not happy.
Patient: Where's my husband!?!
Me: He went home to check on your house. He will be back in the morning.
Patient: NO! I want you to call him and tell him to come back.
Me: I'll see what I can do.
I step out of the room and seconds later, she hits her call light. I go back inside.
Me: Do you need something?
Patient: Did you call my husband?
Me: No, I haven't even been out of your room long enough to.
Patient: I want you to call my husband!!
Me: (nearing the point to annoyance) I can't call your husband if you are constantly calling me to come into your room.
Patient: Call him from there! (pointing at the wall)
Me: Where?
Patient: That phone right there!! (jabbing a finger in the air for emphasis)
Me: There's no phone there.
Patient: Yes, there is! Right next to that dog!
Me: Your husband said he wanted to get some sleep so he could come in early in the morning. Don't you want him to get some rest?
Patient: No! I don't care about him sleeping! He needs to come in RIGHT NOW!
No wonder the national divorce rate is almost 75%.
Sighing, I take leave and look over the patient chart. The husband has left express orders not to call him at home unless it is an absolute emergency. After spending a couple hours with his wife, I can see why he wouldn't want to be disturbed. One of the residents from ICU saunters over to where I am seconds shy of having a nervous breakdown and asks me if I am torturing patients. I want to poke his eye out with my ink pen.
The rest of the night sucks in grand fashion. A very large person damn near passes out and almost smooshes me. Unable to hit a panic button, the staff is alerted by my muffled cries for help.
By 2 am, the entire staff was a herd of raging crab asses. I was the team captain. To entertain themselves, my colleagues decide I am pregnant and gush about my wedding plans.
I am neither expecting or engaged. Both would decidedly require an act of God.
A couple visiting Respiratory Therapists overheard the banter. So, I am fairly certain my big news will be housewide by the end of this week. I fully expect a phone call from Paul by Monday. I think was assigned to be the father/groom anyway.
By the grace of God, 7 am rolls around. We blast through our reports and run for the time clock like someone announced George Clooney was in the hospital lobby wearing only a loin cloth. I decide I am hungry, so I stop by the cafeteria to grab something to take home. Standing in line, I am dismayed to see the biggest, dumbest, douchebag of a resident standing in front of me. While he blathers on about something, I am fighting the urge to push his head into the pot of oatmeal, and hold him there until he stops thrashing.
Now, I am home. My bed is calling me, and I am going to go and try to forget this whole night ever happened. Hopefully, tonight will be a better night.
Last night was one of the worst nights ever. It only could have been made worse had someone actually died. At the hands of a staff member wouldn't have counted.
I go to work, Starbucks in hand. Report. A few assessments. Then, some leisurely voice wafts through the halls.
"Code Gray. Code Gray."
Yeah, the weather was crappy. So, we begin pushing people out into the hall. (A code gray indicates severe weather.) The ones we can't move, we pad them with pillows because in the event a Dodge Dakota is hurled through one of the windows by a twister, the patient will be protected. Halfway through our moving-into-the-hall business, a more frantic voice comes over the PA.
"CODE GRAY! CODE GRAY!!"
We finish pulling people out of the rooms, and into the hall, closing all the glass doors behind them. One little old lady is zipping around in a hospital gown on her red motorized scooter. The only thing missing is pizza and a circus midget.
For 45 minutes, everyone is sitting around, chatting excitedly about tornados. Meanwhile, the nurses are still running their asses off. Sweat is rolling down the back of my neck. If I had balls, I'm sure I would have been sweating there as well.
The Code Gray is finally cleared and we are allowed to move patients back into their rooms. A large swarm of patients who can walk, in addition to the visitors, exit the unit so they can go downstairs, go outside, and look at the weather.
These are probably the same people who slow traffic down just to look at a car accident.
I immediately am accosted by a patient who wants drugs. DRUGS!! She demands that I knock her out so she can sleep. Believe me, I would like to...but we simply don't do that on my floor. She goes bananas and starts to scream and yell. I want to go jump off the helipad. I give her everything she has ordered, plus some extra I was able to beg the doctor for, and she is still not happy.
Patient: Where's my husband!?!
Me: He went home to check on your house. He will be back in the morning.
Patient: NO! I want you to call him and tell him to come back.
Me: I'll see what I can do.
I step out of the room and seconds later, she hits her call light. I go back inside.
Me: Do you need something?
Patient: Did you call my husband?
Me: No, I haven't even been out of your room long enough to.
Patient: I want you to call my husband!!
Me: (nearing the point to annoyance) I can't call your husband if you are constantly calling me to come into your room.
Patient: Call him from there! (pointing at the wall)
Me: Where?
Patient: That phone right there!! (jabbing a finger in the air for emphasis)
Me: There's no phone there.
Patient: Yes, there is! Right next to that dog!
Me: Your husband said he wanted to get some sleep so he could come in early in the morning. Don't you want him to get some rest?
Patient: No! I don't care about him sleeping! He needs to come in RIGHT NOW!
No wonder the national divorce rate is almost 75%.
Sighing, I take leave and look over the patient chart. The husband has left express orders not to call him at home unless it is an absolute emergency. After spending a couple hours with his wife, I can see why he wouldn't want to be disturbed. One of the residents from ICU saunters over to where I am seconds shy of having a nervous breakdown and asks me if I am torturing patients. I want to poke his eye out with my ink pen.
The rest of the night sucks in grand fashion. A very large person damn near passes out and almost smooshes me. Unable to hit a panic button, the staff is alerted by my muffled cries for help.
By 2 am, the entire staff was a herd of raging crab asses. I was the team captain. To entertain themselves, my colleagues decide I am pregnant and gush about my wedding plans.
I am neither expecting or engaged. Both would decidedly require an act of God.
A couple visiting Respiratory Therapists overheard the banter. So, I am fairly certain my big news will be housewide by the end of this week. I fully expect a phone call from Paul by Monday. I think was assigned to be the father/groom anyway.
By the grace of God, 7 am rolls around. We blast through our reports and run for the time clock like someone announced George Clooney was in the hospital lobby wearing only a loin cloth. I decide I am hungry, so I stop by the cafeteria to grab something to take home. Standing in line, I am dismayed to see the biggest, dumbest, douchebag of a resident standing in front of me. While he blathers on about something, I am fighting the urge to push his head into the pot of oatmeal, and hold him there until he stops thrashing.
Now, I am home. My bed is calling me, and I am going to go and try to forget this whole night ever happened. Hopefully, tonight will be a better night.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
One Less Thing to Have to Worry About
I have been somewhat worried about the whole hotel debacle for our precruise stay. Thus far, the cruise coordinator of our group has yet to hear anything from the asshats at Ramada, which makes me think they are trying to ignore us in hopes that we will just go away. So, I did what any girl in my position would do...
I cried to my mother.
Being the nurturing maternal type she is, she contacted one of her good friends (who happens to be a travel agent) to see if there was anything else available. After a day of searching, Renee finally found me a hotel in Boca Raton (some 24 miles north of the airport) at a fraction of what the crappy Ramada wanted to gouge me for, plus she secured me a rental car at no additional charge.
It pays to have connections.
I have to remember to buy Renee something fun while I am on my trip because she is the most awesome travel agent to roam the land. I'll go to her for any of my travel needs. What to bring? I will be visiting Tortola...home of Bicardi Rum. Or maybe some Jamaican coffee...
Meanwhile, I referred some of my fellow cruisers her way in hopes that Renee can work some mojo for them (sans the free rental car).
So, if anyone out there is looking for a travel agent, email me and I can send you Renee's email.
I cried to my mother.
Being the nurturing maternal type she is, she contacted one of her good friends (who happens to be a travel agent) to see if there was anything else available. After a day of searching, Renee finally found me a hotel in Boca Raton (some 24 miles north of the airport) at a fraction of what the crappy Ramada wanted to gouge me for, plus she secured me a rental car at no additional charge.
It pays to have connections.
I have to remember to buy Renee something fun while I am on my trip because she is the most awesome travel agent to roam the land. I'll go to her for any of my travel needs. What to bring? I will be visiting Tortola...home of Bicardi Rum. Or maybe some Jamaican coffee...
Meanwhile, I referred some of my fellow cruisers her way in hopes that Renee can work some mojo for them (sans the free rental car).
So, if anyone out there is looking for a travel agent, email me and I can send you Renee's email.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Hair Blather
I usually don't pimp anything on my blog, but I will make an exception this time.
I went and got my hair done yesterday. I get it done, like clockwork, every 6 weeks. My natural color being a very pale blonde; my current color a very sassy red. At the end of 6 weeks, I start to get strange looks because my roots are showing. Most people can't figure out why a blonde would want to be any other color besides blonde.
I suppose it's the same reasons a lot of you dark-headed folks out there want to be blonde. I don't buy into the brand that blondes are the most desirous in all the world. It's just a hair color, people. You can be desirous and have fun no matter what your hair color is. I can't help but get annoyed when I see women out there who are obviously not a natural blonde, but go to great pretenses that they are...even though the black roots are waving hello to me. There are a lot of people out there who look like crap with blonde hair. I, sometimes, even look like crap with my natural hair color, which is why I occasionally shift to red in the colder months.
Sometimes, you just have to forego what the popular consensus is on beauty, and go with what works best for you.
Sometimes, I go red just so I won't look anemic in the winter. Everyone I work with says I should just keep the red on a more permanent scale, but it's a pain in the ass to maintain. I suspect with my next visit we will slowly introduce the blonde back into my haid in the form of highlights. I've been vigilant about not getting a lot of sun damage, so I will probably look pasty all summer as well, which means the red will probably stay in one form or another.
I took a page from Kant's book about being out in the sun. I figure I still have time to avoid looking like a weathered prune when I am older if I just avoid the sun damage now. I think it's working...no one buys it for one minute that I am 31.
At any rate, I love going to get my hair done. The girl I see, I have been seeing her since she finished cosmetology school. In fact, that is where I found her. She did awesome things to my hair, just as a student, and when I tell her what I want, she seems to know exactly what my vision is. She is awesome...as any of Kant's family will probably confirm as I have them going to see her as well.
So, I am here to say that Amy is the the best gal in Kansas City to do hair. Her salon Lady Luck Hair Parlor is in Westport. She doesn't have a website up yet, but there is one in the works. She can work magic with color and hair, not to mention she's just the sweetest girl you could ever meet.
Go see Amy...and tell her that Heather sent you!!!
I went and got my hair done yesterday. I get it done, like clockwork, every 6 weeks. My natural color being a very pale blonde; my current color a very sassy red. At the end of 6 weeks, I start to get strange looks because my roots are showing. Most people can't figure out why a blonde would want to be any other color besides blonde.
I suppose it's the same reasons a lot of you dark-headed folks out there want to be blonde. I don't buy into the brand that blondes are the most desirous in all the world. It's just a hair color, people. You can be desirous and have fun no matter what your hair color is. I can't help but get annoyed when I see women out there who are obviously not a natural blonde, but go to great pretenses that they are...even though the black roots are waving hello to me. There are a lot of people out there who look like crap with blonde hair. I, sometimes, even look like crap with my natural hair color, which is why I occasionally shift to red in the colder months.
Sometimes, you just have to forego what the popular consensus is on beauty, and go with what works best for you.
Sometimes, I go red just so I won't look anemic in the winter. Everyone I work with says I should just keep the red on a more permanent scale, but it's a pain in the ass to maintain. I suspect with my next visit we will slowly introduce the blonde back into my haid in the form of highlights. I've been vigilant about not getting a lot of sun damage, so I will probably look pasty all summer as well, which means the red will probably stay in one form or another.
I took a page from Kant's book about being out in the sun. I figure I still have time to avoid looking like a weathered prune when I am older if I just avoid the sun damage now. I think it's working...no one buys it for one minute that I am 31.
At any rate, I love going to get my hair done. The girl I see, I have been seeing her since she finished cosmetology school. In fact, that is where I found her. She did awesome things to my hair, just as a student, and when I tell her what I want, she seems to know exactly what my vision is. She is awesome...as any of Kant's family will probably confirm as I have them going to see her as well.
So, I am here to say that Amy is the the best gal in Kansas City to do hair. Her salon Lady Luck Hair Parlor is in Westport. She doesn't have a website up yet, but there is one in the works. She can work magic with color and hair, not to mention she's just the sweetest girl you could ever meet.
Go see Amy...and tell her that Heather sent you!!!
Monday, April 10, 2006
This Morning...
Sitting at Quick Trip after work, next to the gas pumps.
The rental is on empty.
Thumbing through the owner's manual trying to figure out how to open the damn gas door.
Sheesh!
The rental is on empty.
Thumbing through the owner's manual trying to figure out how to open the damn gas door.
Sheesh!
My Public Service Announcement for this Quarter
This month, the hospitals in KC are running a special on those who decide that they don't want to go on living. I've talked to other folks who work at other hospitals, and they report an increase in suicide attempt patients. I did some digging, the rate for suicide increases in the spring. Does it have anything to do with tax season? Are the Jackson county folks starting to feel despair for voting "yes" on the stadium initiative??
I once read a joke: How to Tell You Are in the Medical Field. One of the items said, "If you feel like there should be a book called Suicide: Getting it Right the First Time." As of late, I'm finding I agree with that more and more. I am also fighting the urge to actually write the book and distribute it to the Greater KC area.
While I recognize that there are sick people out there who are in need of help, and their attempt is a cry for that help...I (along with a majority of the medical community) am amazed at how many people out there attempt end their pain and suffering with a shit ton of Tylenol. TYLENOL!
People...Tylenol will not kill you...at least not right away. You want to know what happens? I'm going to tell you, but I am mostly going to hit the highlights.
You take an amount that exceeds the dosage amount on the bottle. We avoid giving more than 4 grams a day to any single patient, and somehow, you manage to take 26 grams, which is the equivalent of 80 pills. At some point, you either tell someone what you did because you changed your mind, or someone figures it out. At any rate, the ambulance is called, and you are taken to the ER. Now this is where the fun begins.
The happy nurses in the ER proceed to cram and NG tube up your nose, down your throat, and into your stomach. This tube is not small. After the tube is placed, they squirt this black stuff which is the consistency of cream of wheat into the tube. This black stuff is active charcoal and will absorb anything you have in your stomach. It smells exactly like charcoal, so when they are finished, you will smell like you just came from a family barbeque. We call this procedure a gastric lavage. To the layperson, you have just had your stomach pumped.
You are sent to the ICU, then to the floor because you are not dead. You have too much Tylenol in your system so the docs order something called Mucomyst. Sound gross? It is. We mix it in cola to try to mask the taste. It doesn't help. We bring you a small cup with the Mucomyst cocktail and tell you to down it like a shot because we know that you know how to do that. You bring the cup to your face and recoil because it smells like we just dumped the contents of a turtle bowl into the cup...but you drink it because we are assholes and we don't take no for an answer. That and the fact that we had to smell this stuff full strength in the med room while we were preparing it...and it is the vilest, most foul-smelling stuff on the planet. You get to drink this at least every 4 hours, which means we have to smell it every 4 hours. We make you drink this stuff until the Tylenol levels in your blood come down.
What? You're starting to turn yellow? Oh yeah...Tylenol is very toxic to the liver, particularly in high doses, and you have done lots and lots of damage to your liver in a very short time. Your abdomen hurts, you start to bloat. You are in liver failure. Your ammonia level is off the charts, so we drag out the lactulose.
Lactulose, while it does not taste as bad as Mucomyst, the expected effects are much, much worse. We have to pull that ammonia out of your blood, and that happens with lots, and lots of diarrhea. If you are too out of it to drink the lactulose, we will either put another NG tube in and give it to you that way, or you get it in enema form, which could be every two hours. You will crap so much, you will almost expect your liver to be sitting in the toilet when all is said and done.
If you are one of the lucky ones, your liver will recover with little to no residual. If you are not so lucky, you will go into End Stage Liver Failure. I suppose you could try to get another liver, but the last I heard, people who deliberately overdose on Tylenol and kill their liver, are not candidates for a new liver. Instead, you will keep turning yellow to the point that you practically glow in the dark. Your mental faculties will take leave, you may bleed out internally, but eventually, you will die...which is pretty much what your goal was to start with. It can take a few days, or it can take months. It's not pretty, and it's not peaceful. It is a horrible, horrible way to die.
(And don't even think about trying this with Advil because you will only suceed in destroying your kidneys. Which means you be on a first-name basis with the nurses at the Dialysis Center. You will retain fluid, you will have high blood pressure, and your 3 gallon of milk a week habit is going to come to a screeching, grinding halt.)
I think it would be easier to just forgo the Tylenol overdose altogether, and seek help for whatever is making you depressed enough to make the ultimate selfish decision.
In conclusion: QUIT TAKING SO MUCH DAMN TYLENOL!!
I once read a joke: How to Tell You Are in the Medical Field. One of the items said, "If you feel like there should be a book called Suicide: Getting it Right the First Time." As of late, I'm finding I agree with that more and more. I am also fighting the urge to actually write the book and distribute it to the Greater KC area.
While I recognize that there are sick people out there who are in need of help, and their attempt is a cry for that help...I (along with a majority of the medical community) am amazed at how many people out there attempt end their pain and suffering with a shit ton of Tylenol. TYLENOL!
People...Tylenol will not kill you...at least not right away. You want to know what happens? I'm going to tell you, but I am mostly going to hit the highlights.
You take an amount that exceeds the dosage amount on the bottle. We avoid giving more than 4 grams a day to any single patient, and somehow, you manage to take 26 grams, which is the equivalent of 80 pills. At some point, you either tell someone what you did because you changed your mind, or someone figures it out. At any rate, the ambulance is called, and you are taken to the ER. Now this is where the fun begins.
The happy nurses in the ER proceed to cram and NG tube up your nose, down your throat, and into your stomach. This tube is not small. After the tube is placed, they squirt this black stuff which is the consistency of cream of wheat into the tube. This black stuff is active charcoal and will absorb anything you have in your stomach. It smells exactly like charcoal, so when they are finished, you will smell like you just came from a family barbeque. We call this procedure a gastric lavage. To the layperson, you have just had your stomach pumped.
You are sent to the ICU, then to the floor because you are not dead. You have too much Tylenol in your system so the docs order something called Mucomyst. Sound gross? It is. We mix it in cola to try to mask the taste. It doesn't help. We bring you a small cup with the Mucomyst cocktail and tell you to down it like a shot because we know that you know how to do that. You bring the cup to your face and recoil because it smells like we just dumped the contents of a turtle bowl into the cup...but you drink it because we are assholes and we don't take no for an answer. That and the fact that we had to smell this stuff full strength in the med room while we were preparing it...and it is the vilest, most foul-smelling stuff on the planet. You get to drink this at least every 4 hours, which means we have to smell it every 4 hours. We make you drink this stuff until the Tylenol levels in your blood come down.
What? You're starting to turn yellow? Oh yeah...Tylenol is very toxic to the liver, particularly in high doses, and you have done lots and lots of damage to your liver in a very short time. Your abdomen hurts, you start to bloat. You are in liver failure. Your ammonia level is off the charts, so we drag out the lactulose.
Lactulose, while it does not taste as bad as Mucomyst, the expected effects are much, much worse. We have to pull that ammonia out of your blood, and that happens with lots, and lots of diarrhea. If you are too out of it to drink the lactulose, we will either put another NG tube in and give it to you that way, or you get it in enema form, which could be every two hours. You will crap so much, you will almost expect your liver to be sitting in the toilet when all is said and done.
If you are one of the lucky ones, your liver will recover with little to no residual. If you are not so lucky, you will go into End Stage Liver Failure. I suppose you could try to get another liver, but the last I heard, people who deliberately overdose on Tylenol and kill their liver, are not candidates for a new liver. Instead, you will keep turning yellow to the point that you practically glow in the dark. Your mental faculties will take leave, you may bleed out internally, but eventually, you will die...which is pretty much what your goal was to start with. It can take a few days, or it can take months. It's not pretty, and it's not peaceful. It is a horrible, horrible way to die.
(And don't even think about trying this with Advil because you will only suceed in destroying your kidneys. Which means you be on a first-name basis with the nurses at the Dialysis Center. You will retain fluid, you will have high blood pressure, and your 3 gallon of milk a week habit is going to come to a screeching, grinding halt.)
I think it would be easier to just forgo the Tylenol overdose altogether, and seek help for whatever is making you depressed enough to make the ultimate selfish decision.
In conclusion: QUIT TAKING SO MUCH DAMN TYLENOL!!
Friday, April 07, 2006
Ramada Sucks!
In preparations for my cruise next year, I booked a hotel room in Ft. Lauderdale. Yeah, so I booked it almost a year in advance, but the cruise also happens to set sail on Superbowl weekend, which will also be in the area. This is important because I always fly in a day early so I don't miss the boat. The fact that is it also Superbowl weekend is important because all hotels and other businesses see big, fat dollar signs and hike up their rates to obscene figures. I secured a room (along with most everyone else cruising in my group), at a decent, pre-Superbowl rate at a Ramada in Ft. Lauderdale. Just a bare bones, no frills hotel.
Then, the big-wig bastards at the hotel pulled our reserved bookings. Out of the 40 rooms we booked, our agent was able to scramble and re-secure 13 of those rooms at a slightly more inflated rate than I originally booked. I don't know if there is some sort of legal loophole that enables them to do this, but we have people looking into it now. For the time being, we are told that if we still want the 13 rooms, perhaps we can bunk up with other people in our group so we can camp out for an even cheaper rate. $155 between 4 people is, what, roughly $40 a person?
Even so, I am still hacked. I've got a separate travel agent looking into finding alternative hotel arrangements, preferably NOT at any Ramada. I'd much prefer staying at a Marriott-based hotel because I always get good service there, but I doubt I can find anything less than $150 a night.
However, I am open to any suggestions to help out in this matter. Does anyone have any frequent hotel points they care to donate??? A guest house on the beach I could stay at for the night???
Anyone??
Then, the big-wig bastards at the hotel pulled our reserved bookings. Out of the 40 rooms we booked, our agent was able to scramble and re-secure 13 of those rooms at a slightly more inflated rate than I originally booked. I don't know if there is some sort of legal loophole that enables them to do this, but we have people looking into it now. For the time being, we are told that if we still want the 13 rooms, perhaps we can bunk up with other people in our group so we can camp out for an even cheaper rate. $155 between 4 people is, what, roughly $40 a person?
Even so, I am still hacked. I've got a separate travel agent looking into finding alternative hotel arrangements, preferably NOT at any Ramada. I'd much prefer staying at a Marriott-based hotel because I always get good service there, but I doubt I can find anything less than $150 a night.
However, I am open to any suggestions to help out in this matter. Does anyone have any frequent hotel points they care to donate??? A guest house on the beach I could stay at for the night???
Anyone??
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Taking One for the Team
It's no big secret. I have a human quaalude for an aunt...and it just gets worse the older she gets. She used to be somewhat fun when she was younger, at least she kept her opinions to herself. While I respect that everyone has their own distinct and unique opinions, it is never a good thing to voice those opinions to make other people feel bad so you can feel superior.
My mom's half sister, and the oldest, she sort of established herself as the matriarch of the family, and apparently it went to her head. As everyone has grown up, they have moved away, gone on to live productive and busy lives while she stays in the same place, and life has seemingly stood still for her. Big life decisions are made without her input. I'd like to think that she is somewhat bitter that everyone has moved ahead, leaving her behind.
My aunt is also the inventor of the Guilt Trip.
With that in mind, I spoke with her yesterday on the phone and got the same song I always hear: Woe is me. Everyone moved away and no one calls me. No one comes to visit. Your mother doesn't even come to see me since she moved away. No one loves me. Blah, blah, blah.
As I have been sick, all my mental faculties were still not at peak form, I felt sorry and promised I would take her to lunch today.
What in God's name was I thinking?
I got up this morning, got dressed, drove the 50-some miles north. Picked her up, and she immediately began harping on my driving. I'm not a bad driver. I always wear my seatbelt, which she always associates with bad driving.
Aunt: Plan on getting in a wreck?
Me: Not today. Why do you ask?
Aunt: You are wearing your seatbelt.
Me: I always wear my seatbelt. It's the law.
Mind you, I'm still driving the rental, which is bigger than my PT, and certainly has more power than my PT. I'm still trying to get used to the fact that one nudge of the gas pedal, and it takes off. I cross an intersection with no incident, and Aunt grabs the "Oh crap" bar with much dramatic flair.
Aunt: Are you trying to kill me?
Me: No, the car just has more power. We are perfectly fine.
Aunt: Well, you take off like a rocket. I don't want to be thrown out the front window.
Me: You should wear your seatbelt, then you won't be thrown from the car.
For the rest of the trip to the restaurant, she procedes to point out every stop sign, what every speed limit is, all the while glancing at at my speedometer to make certain I am not going 1 mile over the speed limit.
Lunch passes with little fanfare at a truckstop that she picked out. I scarf down my food in an attempt to make lunch pass by faster. It doesn't. Aunt takes her time. Meanwhile, she picks apart my life. She manages to insult my profession, insult my friends, and makes me want to drive off a bridge.
Overall, an average visit. The things we tolerate in the name of family.
I dropped her off, and then sped out of town, my good service done for this quarter. I called Mom at work when I got home and told her about my good deed, and how she needs to do something really, REALLY nice for me.
A month of Starbucks would be great.
My mom's half sister, and the oldest, she sort of established herself as the matriarch of the family, and apparently it went to her head. As everyone has grown up, they have moved away, gone on to live productive and busy lives while she stays in the same place, and life has seemingly stood still for her. Big life decisions are made without her input. I'd like to think that she is somewhat bitter that everyone has moved ahead, leaving her behind.
My aunt is also the inventor of the Guilt Trip.
With that in mind, I spoke with her yesterday on the phone and got the same song I always hear: Woe is me. Everyone moved away and no one calls me. No one comes to visit. Your mother doesn't even come to see me since she moved away. No one loves me. Blah, blah, blah.
As I have been sick, all my mental faculties were still not at peak form, I felt sorry and promised I would take her to lunch today.
What in God's name was I thinking?
I got up this morning, got dressed, drove the 50-some miles north. Picked her up, and she immediately began harping on my driving. I'm not a bad driver. I always wear my seatbelt, which she always associates with bad driving.
Aunt: Plan on getting in a wreck?
Me: Not today. Why do you ask?
Aunt: You are wearing your seatbelt.
Me: I always wear my seatbelt. It's the law.
Mind you, I'm still driving the rental, which is bigger than my PT, and certainly has more power than my PT. I'm still trying to get used to the fact that one nudge of the gas pedal, and it takes off. I cross an intersection with no incident, and Aunt grabs the "Oh crap" bar with much dramatic flair.
Aunt: Are you trying to kill me?
Me: No, the car just has more power. We are perfectly fine.
Aunt: Well, you take off like a rocket. I don't want to be thrown out the front window.
Me: You should wear your seatbelt, then you won't be thrown from the car.
For the rest of the trip to the restaurant, she procedes to point out every stop sign, what every speed limit is, all the while glancing at at my speedometer to make certain I am not going 1 mile over the speed limit.
Lunch passes with little fanfare at a truckstop that she picked out. I scarf down my food in an attempt to make lunch pass by faster. It doesn't. Aunt takes her time. Meanwhile, she picks apart my life. She manages to insult my profession, insult my friends, and makes me want to drive off a bridge.
Overall, an average visit. The things we tolerate in the name of family.
I dropped her off, and then sped out of town, my good service done for this quarter. I called Mom at work when I got home and told her about my good deed, and how she needs to do something really, REALLY nice for me.
A month of Starbucks would be great.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Election Day: The Aftermath
Today. The day after the big election. In a result that probably stunned everyone, Jackson county voters were split on their big decision.They voted yes to the renovations and no to the rolling roof. I think they voted yes to the first initiative because they were being told that they were really voting whether to keep the teams in KC. A scare tactic, and they bought it hook, line, and sinker.
Idiots. It was a game of chicken and you guys bailed before your car shifted out of first.
But hey, I don't live in Jackson county, so I don't have to pay for it. Crappy attitude to have, I guess...but they asked for it, and it's not like they didn't get a warning.
As for the rolling roof, I suspect it will pass eventually. That tax initiative will be put on the ballots until voters get sick and tired of hearing about it, they will just pass it to make it go away.
It will be the nagging girlfriend you give an engagement ring to just to shut her up.
With all the money the sports teams make, is a damn shame they don't want to chip in for the rolling roof.
Think about that the next time you pay $30 just to park there.
Idiots. It was a game of chicken and you guys bailed before your car shifted out of first.
But hey, I don't live in Jackson county, so I don't have to pay for it. Crappy attitude to have, I guess...but they asked for it, and it's not like they didn't get a warning.
As for the rolling roof, I suspect it will pass eventually. That tax initiative will be put on the ballots until voters get sick and tired of hearing about it, they will just pass it to make it go away.
It will be the nagging girlfriend you give an engagement ring to just to shut her up.
With all the money the sports teams make, is a damn shame they don't want to chip in for the rolling roof.
Think about that the next time you pay $30 just to park there.
Monday, April 03, 2006
We'll pick you up...LATE!
I worked last night, it was boring. However, I started having a scratchy throat Saturday night and just chalked it up to allergies. Seasonal changes, pollen, mold, etc. It happens.
Last night, I spent the evening sneezing and blowing my nose on tissue that was roughly the equivalent to sandpaper. By morning, my nose was so red, I looked one of my alcoholic relatives on my father's side of the family. My voice was raspy. My throat on FIRE. I was running a low grade temp, and I was EXHAUSTED. I was looking forward to going home and going to bed because I was so tired, but I had to stay up til 10am because that was when I was to take the car in to the shop.
I had it all worked out: coffee with Paul, clean out the car of anything I might need during it's absence, take the car to the shop, go get the rental car, go home, go to bed. A plan that was beautiful in it's simplicity.
Coffee went accordingly. So did the cleaning of the car. With 15 minutes to spare, I just drove down the road to the body shop and turned my poor, dented little car over. Then, I waited...and waited...and waited for the Enterprise people to come pick me up so I could go get a rental. It's their slogan. "We'll pick you up!" (I know this because Kant used to work for Budget rental, and that was one of the biggest complaints from their customers.)
After waiting 40 minutes, the receptionist took pity on me and called Enterprise, who assured her that someone was on their way. Some fat guy came over to tell me that I needed to say something about their lateness and maybe I would get something to compensate. Go away, fat guy.
The driver finally arrived and took me to the rental center. Tired, sick, sulking...I sat stone-faced in the seat while the Crispy Christian station played on the radio. I secretly prayed that God would smite me dead at that given moment.
I am deposited at the rental center and I go to the counter to prepare for my pickup. I calmly asked if there was a mix-up with my ride, and the manager told me they had been busy, blah, blah, blah. He did assure me they would make things right. I feel a little better. Then, the crusty woman who was processing my information announces she is not giving me a car because my driver's license is expired.
Shit.
I call Trish and almost cry. She says she will come and get me. Crusty lady says they can take me back home if I want. I tell her no, because I have to go get a new driver's license...and I REALLY don't want to hear some preacher yelling on the radio again. Trish arrives in 15 minutes, but not before the manager takes pity upon me and gives me a cup of coffee. Or maybe he thought I was going to go postal. I call Mom and give her an update. She laughs like it's the funniest thing she has ever heard.
First stop: home. I have a hard time stumbling through the house looking for a utility bill (because we now have to have one when we renew our license as proof of residency). Then, I can't locate my passport. I can't find a birth certificate. I can't locate my social security card. I dump out two drawers, and three baskets before finding my passport and a gas bill from two months ago (I pay all my utilities online).
Trish then drives me to the DMV, the last place where anything goes right, and there is no line. I do the obligatory eye exam. Yes, I am a registered organ donor. Yes, I would like to register to vote. No, I don't want to donate a dollar to the Transplant Network, they already have dibs on my kidneys and my pancreas. Just give me my damn license!
She takes my picture. I'm still wearing my wrinkled scrubs. My face is pale. I look like a bag of chewed up assholes, and dirty feet. I'm sick, I'm tired, I'm extremely hostile. I get my license and my pic looks horrible. I look like I am all bloated like Jerry Lewis, and in need of a blood transfusion. Six years I get to deal with this fugly picture.
I wonder if they do retakes...
And I am not going to show you my license picture, so don't even bother asking!
Trish takes me back to the rental place where I go back inside...still hostile. Crusty lady isn't there, which was probably a good thing. A young guy helps me get processed. He blathered about insurance options, but none of it registered in my sleep-deprived brain. I just pointed to an option and grunted. He then leads me out to the parking lot, where I almost expect to find a Ford Pinto waiting for me. With the way my day is going, I figured that Enterprise has a car like this just for crabby people like me. Rental boy tells me to pick a car out. Some people like to relish such a decision and pick out something much nicer than what they usually drive.
I just point to a champagne colored vehicle in the corner and grunt. I'm fairly certain I'm drooling at this time.
Given my mental state, I am still amazed that they let me drive away with one of their cars.
I came home, got into my toasty pj's and settled into the bliss that is my bed. I'm just about ready to fall asleep when someone knocks on my door.
I charge to the front door and wing it open, ready to rip the head off of who was on the other side.
Too bad it was a police officer...
He was investigating a break-in that occurred last night across the street. How reassuring! Thousands of dollars of tools were stolen from an empty apartment that was being remodeled. Did I see anything suspicious? I tell him that I work nights, and wasn't home, so I didn't see anything (but smelly wounds and a patient pissing on the floor).
He presses further. Not anyone carrying a large circular saw? A truck that would be used to load stolen goods in?? Someone walking around late at night who looked like he didn't belong???
What part of working night shift do you not understand, Barney?!?
I resist the urge to take his taser and give him a jolt in his nutsack. A few more questions along the same lines, he goes away. I vow that if he is ever my patient, I am going to stick the biggest catheter I can find down his penis.
This is why cops should never piss off nurses.
I stop by the bathroom on my way back to bed and proceed to cough up my right lung. Out of curiousity, I shine a light into my mouth and examine the back of my throat. My tonsils red, angry, and are covered with white pockets. Fantastic! A shitty Monday isn't complete without a case of strep throat.
Luckily, I had a bottle of antibiotics in my cabinet that I was saving for such an occasion. I also took some lovely Tylenol with Benadryl so I may be put into a coma for the remainder of the day.
I just want to sleep and forget this day ever happened.
Last night, I spent the evening sneezing and blowing my nose on tissue that was roughly the equivalent to sandpaper. By morning, my nose was so red, I looked one of my alcoholic relatives on my father's side of the family. My voice was raspy. My throat on FIRE. I was running a low grade temp, and I was EXHAUSTED. I was looking forward to going home and going to bed because I was so tired, but I had to stay up til 10am because that was when I was to take the car in to the shop.
I had it all worked out: coffee with Paul, clean out the car of anything I might need during it's absence, take the car to the shop, go get the rental car, go home, go to bed. A plan that was beautiful in it's simplicity.
Coffee went accordingly. So did the cleaning of the car. With 15 minutes to spare, I just drove down the road to the body shop and turned my poor, dented little car over. Then, I waited...and waited...and waited for the Enterprise people to come pick me up so I could go get a rental. It's their slogan. "We'll pick you up!" (I know this because Kant used to work for Budget rental, and that was one of the biggest complaints from their customers.)
After waiting 40 minutes, the receptionist took pity on me and called Enterprise, who assured her that someone was on their way. Some fat guy came over to tell me that I needed to say something about their lateness and maybe I would get something to compensate. Go away, fat guy.
The driver finally arrived and took me to the rental center. Tired, sick, sulking...I sat stone-faced in the seat while the Crispy Christian station played on the radio. I secretly prayed that God would smite me dead at that given moment.
I am deposited at the rental center and I go to the counter to prepare for my pickup. I calmly asked if there was a mix-up with my ride, and the manager told me they had been busy, blah, blah, blah. He did assure me they would make things right. I feel a little better. Then, the crusty woman who was processing my information announces she is not giving me a car because my driver's license is expired.
Shit.
I call Trish and almost cry. She says she will come and get me. Crusty lady says they can take me back home if I want. I tell her no, because I have to go get a new driver's license...and I REALLY don't want to hear some preacher yelling on the radio again. Trish arrives in 15 minutes, but not before the manager takes pity upon me and gives me a cup of coffee. Or maybe he thought I was going to go postal. I call Mom and give her an update. She laughs like it's the funniest thing she has ever heard.
First stop: home. I have a hard time stumbling through the house looking for a utility bill (because we now have to have one when we renew our license as proof of residency). Then, I can't locate my passport. I can't find a birth certificate. I can't locate my social security card. I dump out two drawers, and three baskets before finding my passport and a gas bill from two months ago (I pay all my utilities online).
Trish then drives me to the DMV, the last place where anything goes right, and there is no line. I do the obligatory eye exam. Yes, I am a registered organ donor. Yes, I would like to register to vote. No, I don't want to donate a dollar to the Transplant Network, they already have dibs on my kidneys and my pancreas. Just give me my damn license!
She takes my picture. I'm still wearing my wrinkled scrubs. My face is pale. I look like a bag of chewed up assholes, and dirty feet. I'm sick, I'm tired, I'm extremely hostile. I get my license and my pic looks horrible. I look like I am all bloated like Jerry Lewis, and in need of a blood transfusion. Six years I get to deal with this fugly picture.
I wonder if they do retakes...
And I am not going to show you my license picture, so don't even bother asking!
Trish takes me back to the rental place where I go back inside...still hostile. Crusty lady isn't there, which was probably a good thing. A young guy helps me get processed. He blathered about insurance options, but none of it registered in my sleep-deprived brain. I just pointed to an option and grunted. He then leads me out to the parking lot, where I almost expect to find a Ford Pinto waiting for me. With the way my day is going, I figured that Enterprise has a car like this just for crabby people like me. Rental boy tells me to pick a car out. Some people like to relish such a decision and pick out something much nicer than what they usually drive.
I just point to a champagne colored vehicle in the corner and grunt. I'm fairly certain I'm drooling at this time.
Given my mental state, I am still amazed that they let me drive away with one of their cars.
I came home, got into my toasty pj's and settled into the bliss that is my bed. I'm just about ready to fall asleep when someone knocks on my door.
I charge to the front door and wing it open, ready to rip the head off of who was on the other side.
Too bad it was a police officer...
He was investigating a break-in that occurred last night across the street. How reassuring! Thousands of dollars of tools were stolen from an empty apartment that was being remodeled. Did I see anything suspicious? I tell him that I work nights, and wasn't home, so I didn't see anything (but smelly wounds and a patient pissing on the floor).
He presses further. Not anyone carrying a large circular saw? A truck that would be used to load stolen goods in?? Someone walking around late at night who looked like he didn't belong???
What part of working night shift do you not understand, Barney?!?
I resist the urge to take his taser and give him a jolt in his nutsack. A few more questions along the same lines, he goes away. I vow that if he is ever my patient, I am going to stick the biggest catheter I can find down his penis.
This is why cops should never piss off nurses.
I stop by the bathroom on my way back to bed and proceed to cough up my right lung. Out of curiousity, I shine a light into my mouth and examine the back of my throat. My tonsils red, angry, and are covered with white pockets. Fantastic! A shitty Monday isn't complete without a case of strep throat.
Luckily, I had a bottle of antibiotics in my cabinet that I was saving for such an occasion. I also took some lovely Tylenol with Benadryl so I may be put into a coma for the remainder of the day.
I just want to sleep and forget this day ever happened.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Work Errors in Your Favor - Collect $1500
I've been stewing about this for the past year.
When I reached my 1 year anniversary, I was told by another nurse that all the new grads got two separate raises. One promotional for us making it to somewhat seasoned nurse status. The second one a mandatory cost of living increase. Much to our dismay, we only got the former. Bosshole was relatively new to the game, and I was met with a blank stare when I asked about the second increase.
Life went on, but I never forgot about that second raise.
At the dinner the other night, we started discussing the second raise. My suspicions, it turned out, were founded. However, everyone I talked to also claimed they received no such raise either. The cost of living increase was the equivalent of Bigfoot. Everyone had heard stories about it, but no one had actually ever seen one.
I emailed the Bosshole about my concerns, and he called HR. HR reports they are in the process of compiling a report of everyone who has missed getting raises. Mandatory raises. Housewide, affecting hundreds of employees, dating as far back as a year, sometimes more. Bosshole even remarked that he was shortchanged on a raise. When they figure things out, we will be getting backpay for what is owed. I figured mine out, and I should be getting something to the tune of $1500.
When you initially get your raise, it seems paltry on paper...but not getting it for an entire year can certainly add up.
The bitch is that it will count as income for 2006, putting me in a higher tax bracket. Great! As if Uncle Sam wasn't sticking it to me enough as it was.
With my newfound wealth, I plan on putting it all towards my Caribbean trip. So much for funneling it back into the American economy.
In other news, the asshats who run my apartment complex sent someone over to cut down the tree that shades my patio. Bastards. Now, I have no shade for the summer, not to mention the tree served as a good privacy tool to guard against the pot smokers that live in the building next door. They also cut down a pretty weeping willow that is next to my building. I don't know what they have against trees, but it really pisses me off.
I hate apartment life.
When I reached my 1 year anniversary, I was told by another nurse that all the new grads got two separate raises. One promotional for us making it to somewhat seasoned nurse status. The second one a mandatory cost of living increase. Much to our dismay, we only got the former. Bosshole was relatively new to the game, and I was met with a blank stare when I asked about the second increase.
Life went on, but I never forgot about that second raise.
At the dinner the other night, we started discussing the second raise. My suspicions, it turned out, were founded. However, everyone I talked to also claimed they received no such raise either. The cost of living increase was the equivalent of Bigfoot. Everyone had heard stories about it, but no one had actually ever seen one.
I emailed the Bosshole about my concerns, and he called HR. HR reports they are in the process of compiling a report of everyone who has missed getting raises. Mandatory raises. Housewide, affecting hundreds of employees, dating as far back as a year, sometimes more. Bosshole even remarked that he was shortchanged on a raise. When they figure things out, we will be getting backpay for what is owed. I figured mine out, and I should be getting something to the tune of $1500.
When you initially get your raise, it seems paltry on paper...but not getting it for an entire year can certainly add up.
The bitch is that it will count as income for 2006, putting me in a higher tax bracket. Great! As if Uncle Sam wasn't sticking it to me enough as it was.
With my newfound wealth, I plan on putting it all towards my Caribbean trip. So much for funneling it back into the American economy.
In other news, the asshats who run my apartment complex sent someone over to cut down the tree that shades my patio. Bastards. Now, I have no shade for the summer, not to mention the tree served as a good privacy tool to guard against the pot smokers that live in the building next door. They also cut down a pretty weeping willow that is next to my building. I don't know what they have against trees, but it really pisses me off.
I hate apartment life.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Nurse Follies: The Drug Inservice
You always hear the stories about how drug companies splurge to send docs on fancy vacations and such if only they prescribe their drugs. Enough people of note complained about how it was unfair, and so the drug companies sort of put the kibosh on such extravagant spending. At least that is what they say. Drug companies still seduce docs with favors, don't be fooled. Somewhere out there, a doctor is sunning himself in Tahiti because he is going to prescribe a shit ton of Prevacid...whether anyone needs it or not.
At best, nurses would get ink pens and note pads. Sometimes, the drug rep brings would bring us donuts...which is all consumed by the day shift. All the night shifters get is an empty box with a few crumbs and a pathetic "sorry". Bastards.
There is one exception. We have a drug rep for a company who makes an IV drug we use a lot of. We use it, because it works, and not because we all have matching keychains to show for it. This drug rep feels that nurses should be included because we are the ones who have to push this stuff while the residents of are off banging some young student nurse in a broom closet somewhere. This drug rep hosts big dinners at nice restaurants that I don't ordinarily go to, and we just have to listen to a speaker for about 30 minutes.
Most people will sit through 30 minutes of George Bush reciting Shakespeare if there is a free dinner and open bar involved.
So, I went to last night's "inservice". The first one I have been able to go to. The only person from night shift (on my floor) to attend them at all. This time, it was held at Ruths Chris Steakhouse, which is one of the better known places for steak in the KC area. I'd never been there before, but I had always heard good things. What better way to try out a restaurant when someone else is paying for it?
I met up with some colleagues and we seated ourselves into the room. From the looks of things, we are going to be crowded in like sardines. Oh well, it's free. Waitstaff come out of the woodward and begin pouring wine. I remember my last experience with wine, so I order something else. Nurses begin pouring in, and they immediately set to drinking.
Nurses can put away the liquor. Don't let anyone tell you different.
So comes the appetizers, the salad, then the speaker...which was like watching paint dry. He drug out the Power Point presentation. Buzzed nurses pretend to be interested in what he is saying, while working on their 4th glass of wine. He finishes and everyone claps like trained circus seals. Even the drug rep who put this event together agrees that he wasn't the best speaker in the world.
Then come the entrees (The steak was fabulous...and I am all about red meat.), the dessert, coffee. During the entire time, the nurse seated next to me is drinking his weight in wine. With each glass, he is getting louder, and louder, and louder. At one point, he gropes my leg and begs me to go to Greece with him.
Did I mention that this guy is twice my age??
I avoid giving him the response he wants, which makes him try even harder. What could possibly be more important that going to Greece? I tell him I have a couple trips to the Caribbean in the works. To this, he scoffs and then speculates that I prefer the Caribbean trip because of the possible penis size involved of whomever is going with me.
Can we say inappropriate? Not to mention, just plain gross. The other nurses (all my coworkers) at our table are shocked. My unit educator looks as though she is going to throw a steaknife and lodge it between his eyes. The guy decides he needs more wine, yelling and waving his empty glass in the air. To our dismay, the waiter actually keeps filling it.
The room clears out except our table. The drug rep is visiting us because we are her favorites. Suddenly, Chester the Molester turns white as a sheet, starts sweating profusely, and makes a bolt to the bathroom. I am secretly elated. Everyone else thinks he's having a massive cadiac event and three of them haul ass to the men's bathroom to see if he is okay.
Damn nurses have to over-analyze everthing.
They come back and report what I had suspected all along...he just barfed up the free steak dinner he just consumed (which was a waste of a good steak). After 15 more minutes, he doesn't return to the table, and we are getting ready to leave anyway, so everyone goes to the men's bathroom to check on him. We find him leaning against the sink, puffing on a big cigar, and listening to the bathroom music.
The picture of class.
Afterwards, my unit educator declares that she is not going to another inservice if Chester the Molester is going to be there. I declare that if I go to another event, someone else is going to have to sit next to him.
One nurse makes an observation that somewhere, there is a man who can't afford his meds because of the dinner that we have just consumed. Way to bring down the mood, Human Quaalude!
Despite Drunky Drunkerson, the evening was a nice break from donuts and ink pens...although I was disappointed they didn't have any pens to give out.
Some habits die hard, I guess.
At best, nurses would get ink pens and note pads. Sometimes, the drug rep brings would bring us donuts...which is all consumed by the day shift. All the night shifters get is an empty box with a few crumbs and a pathetic "sorry". Bastards.
There is one exception. We have a drug rep for a company who makes an IV drug we use a lot of. We use it, because it works, and not because we all have matching keychains to show for it. This drug rep feels that nurses should be included because we are the ones who have to push this stuff while the residents of are off banging some young student nurse in a broom closet somewhere. This drug rep hosts big dinners at nice restaurants that I don't ordinarily go to, and we just have to listen to a speaker for about 30 minutes.
Most people will sit through 30 minutes of George Bush reciting Shakespeare if there is a free dinner and open bar involved.
So, I went to last night's "inservice". The first one I have been able to go to. The only person from night shift (on my floor) to attend them at all. This time, it was held at Ruths Chris Steakhouse, which is one of the better known places for steak in the KC area. I'd never been there before, but I had always heard good things. What better way to try out a restaurant when someone else is paying for it?
I met up with some colleagues and we seated ourselves into the room. From the looks of things, we are going to be crowded in like sardines. Oh well, it's free. Waitstaff come out of the woodward and begin pouring wine. I remember my last experience with wine, so I order something else. Nurses begin pouring in, and they immediately set to drinking.
Nurses can put away the liquor. Don't let anyone tell you different.
So comes the appetizers, the salad, then the speaker...which was like watching paint dry. He drug out the Power Point presentation. Buzzed nurses pretend to be interested in what he is saying, while working on their 4th glass of wine. He finishes and everyone claps like trained circus seals. Even the drug rep who put this event together agrees that he wasn't the best speaker in the world.
Then come the entrees (The steak was fabulous...and I am all about red meat.), the dessert, coffee. During the entire time, the nurse seated next to me is drinking his weight in wine. With each glass, he is getting louder, and louder, and louder. At one point, he gropes my leg and begs me to go to Greece with him.
Did I mention that this guy is twice my age??
I avoid giving him the response he wants, which makes him try even harder. What could possibly be more important that going to Greece? I tell him I have a couple trips to the Caribbean in the works. To this, he scoffs and then speculates that I prefer the Caribbean trip because of the possible penis size involved of whomever is going with me.
Can we say inappropriate? Not to mention, just plain gross. The other nurses (all my coworkers) at our table are shocked. My unit educator looks as though she is going to throw a steaknife and lodge it between his eyes. The guy decides he needs more wine, yelling and waving his empty glass in the air. To our dismay, the waiter actually keeps filling it.
The room clears out except our table. The drug rep is visiting us because we are her favorites. Suddenly, Chester the Molester turns white as a sheet, starts sweating profusely, and makes a bolt to the bathroom. I am secretly elated. Everyone else thinks he's having a massive cadiac event and three of them haul ass to the men's bathroom to see if he is okay.
Damn nurses have to over-analyze everthing.
They come back and report what I had suspected all along...he just barfed up the free steak dinner he just consumed (which was a waste of a good steak). After 15 more minutes, he doesn't return to the table, and we are getting ready to leave anyway, so everyone goes to the men's bathroom to check on him. We find him leaning against the sink, puffing on a big cigar, and listening to the bathroom music.
The picture of class.
Afterwards, my unit educator declares that she is not going to another inservice if Chester the Molester is going to be there. I declare that if I go to another event, someone else is going to have to sit next to him.
One nurse makes an observation that somewhere, there is a man who can't afford his meds because of the dinner that we have just consumed. Way to bring down the mood, Human Quaalude!
Despite Drunky Drunkerson, the evening was a nice break from donuts and ink pens...although I was disappointed they didn't have any pens to give out.
Some habits die hard, I guess.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
A Cause for Tubal Ligation
I don't get it.
I consider myself a pretty open-minded person. Well-balanced. Calcium fortified. I come from a diverse family. I come from artistic stock.
But I just don't get modern art.
On occasion, the artsy-fartsy area of KC will have some sort of art exhibit. I went to one years ago. All the little studios opened up to show their stuff. Some even offered free wine (No, I didn't sample any.) Some of the things I saw, I liked. There were things I didn't like, which I suppose is the beauty of art. However, I don't understand how one person can paint one universal object, and try to tie in as many ideas to that one object.
Artist: This is a representation of my mental and physical anguish while I was having an extremely painful menstrual cycle, all while lamenting the loss of my boyfriend, who cheated on me with a stripper. He also took my cd player.
Me: It's a picture of an apple and a loaf of bread.
I like going to the Nelson. I like looking at most all the paintings, but the older stuff. I tend to steer clear of the Modern Art exhibits because they bore me, and I don't want have to sit there and try to figure out what a painting of a black square is supposed to represent. My mother, who won scholarships to attend art school, who can draw, paint, and write poetry, doesn't get modern art either.
I always hear about starving artists. Having seen some of their work...I can see why they are starving.
Today, my eyes were damn-near burned out of my head this morning when I saw this posted on one of the news sites I check.
This is some artist's rendition of Britney Spears unleashing her DNA upon the world...on a bear skin rug. He claims it's symbolic of Pro-Life.
I consider myself a pretty open-minded person. Well-balanced. Calcium fortified. I come from a diverse family. I come from artistic stock.
But I just don't get modern art.
On occasion, the artsy-fartsy area of KC will have some sort of art exhibit. I went to one years ago. All the little studios opened up to show their stuff. Some even offered free wine (No, I didn't sample any.) Some of the things I saw, I liked. There were things I didn't like, which I suppose is the beauty of art. However, I don't understand how one person can paint one universal object, and try to tie in as many ideas to that one object.
Artist: This is a representation of my mental and physical anguish while I was having an extremely painful menstrual cycle, all while lamenting the loss of my boyfriend, who cheated on me with a stripper. He also took my cd player.
Me: It's a picture of an apple and a loaf of bread.
I like going to the Nelson. I like looking at most all the paintings, but the older stuff. I tend to steer clear of the Modern Art exhibits because they bore me, and I don't want have to sit there and try to figure out what a painting of a black square is supposed to represent. My mother, who won scholarships to attend art school, who can draw, paint, and write poetry, doesn't get modern art either.
I always hear about starving artists. Having seen some of their work...I can see why they are starving.
Today, my eyes were damn-near burned out of my head this morning when I saw this posted on one of the news sites I check.
This is some artist's rendition of Britney Spears unleashing her DNA upon the world...on a bear skin rug. He claims it's symbolic of Pro-Life. I think it was the only opportunity this man will ever have at touching Britney's boobs. God only knows what he did to this sculpture before he took it to the gallery. Considering the position, one can only guess.
I suspect that a majority of the people who will flock to see this 
sculpture are men...only because they want to see what is on the other end of this statue. I've read it's her son's head poking out...which makes this all the more nauseating.
They should drag this out when Sean Preston turns 18. That's one hell of a party favor!
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Sickness is not pretty...neither is this post.
I haven't been feeling well the past two nights...to the point that I have called sick to work last night and tonight as well. It's one thing to call in for a social life, it's something entirely different when that social life consists of just you and the toilet.
One of the day coordinators tried to make me feel guilty by saying the floor was left short because I called in. I would gladly trade in going to work and dealing with the drama that goes on there, instead of praying to the Porcelain God. Whatever. It wasn't even a good guilt trip anyway.
I hate to think this is directly related to what I consumed at the Home Show. I really hate to directly relate it to the Mexican dinner I had following (because this restaurant is one of the better places for a good chimichanga). The Mexican food probably was the guilty party, but not because it was bad...but for the simple fact that my GI system and spicy foods are no longer on speaking terms, and haven't been for a couple years now.
At any rate, after two days of homesteading on the Toilet I Loathe, my chocolate starfish feels like someone poked at it with a firebrand. It hurts to sit on something that is not shaped like a donut. I was skeptical to eat or drink anything because I knew I would see it in minutes, out of some orifice or another. On top of the Angry Anus, I also have bad reflux...which culminated this morning in one symbiotic act of me choking on stomach acid...
All over my 800 thread count sheets.
My last set of clean sheets, I might add.
Miserable, sore and crabby as hell, I had to go out today and wash all my sheets so I could have something to sleep in. The scowling redhead at the apartment laundrymat...that was me. On a brighter note, everything washed out without a stain.
While I was out, I did manage to stop by the nearest store and buy out their supply of Imodium. I have consumed so much of that stuff, I shouldn't have active bowel sounds until Cinco de Mayo.
Paul called, and I tried to guilt him into coming over and taking care of me (because friends are supposed to be all concerned and helpful). Mom migrated home for the weekend. Apparently, my guilt trips also suck because he wouldn't bite. He had other plans to go off with nonsick friends and get some culture...in the form of some symphony. I told him that I had been composing symphonies all day in the bathroom, but he still wasn't interested. There would be cheesecake involved in the other outing.
All I have is Velveeta cheese in the fridge and not a nacho in site.
I'm a nurse, and I rush to take care of sick people. When I am sick, people flock away in droves. What's the deal with that??
One of the day coordinators tried to make me feel guilty by saying the floor was left short because I called in. I would gladly trade in going to work and dealing with the drama that goes on there, instead of praying to the Porcelain God. Whatever. It wasn't even a good guilt trip anyway.
I hate to think this is directly related to what I consumed at the Home Show. I really hate to directly relate it to the Mexican dinner I had following (because this restaurant is one of the better places for a good chimichanga). The Mexican food probably was the guilty party, but not because it was bad...but for the simple fact that my GI system and spicy foods are no longer on speaking terms, and haven't been for a couple years now.
At any rate, after two days of homesteading on the Toilet I Loathe, my chocolate starfish feels like someone poked at it with a firebrand. It hurts to sit on something that is not shaped like a donut. I was skeptical to eat or drink anything because I knew I would see it in minutes, out of some orifice or another. On top of the Angry Anus, I also have bad reflux...which culminated this morning in one symbiotic act of me choking on stomach acid...
All over my 800 thread count sheets.
My last set of clean sheets, I might add.
Miserable, sore and crabby as hell, I had to go out today and wash all my sheets so I could have something to sleep in. The scowling redhead at the apartment laundrymat...that was me. On a brighter note, everything washed out without a stain.
While I was out, I did manage to stop by the nearest store and buy out their supply of Imodium. I have consumed so much of that stuff, I shouldn't have active bowel sounds until Cinco de Mayo.
Paul called, and I tried to guilt him into coming over and taking care of me (because friends are supposed to be all concerned and helpful). Mom migrated home for the weekend. Apparently, my guilt trips also suck because he wouldn't bite. He had other plans to go off with nonsick friends and get some culture...in the form of some symphony. I told him that I had been composing symphonies all day in the bathroom, but he still wasn't interested. There would be cheesecake involved in the other outing.
All I have is Velveeta cheese in the fridge and not a nacho in site.
I'm a nurse, and I rush to take care of sick people. When I am sick, people flock away in droves. What's the deal with that??
Friday, March 24, 2006
The KC Home Show
Yesterday, Paul and I went to the Home Show. I've never been there before...I don't own my own home (yet). Paul is a homeowner, and had been blathering that this show was a great thing to do. It was his idea to go, which should be shocking because he's not the planning type when it comes to outings.
We meet down at the Plaza because it is somewhat of a central location, and relatively close to Bartle Hall. Paul sniffs at paid parking and says he has a better place to park...absolutely free! He drives to his top secret spot and sees that everyone else in KC had the same idea. So we go further. Ten blocks later, we find a spot and make the LONG hike to Bartle Hall.
Men don't like to pay for parking anymore than they like to ask for directions.
The Home Show has 650 vendors, selling everything from siding to kitchen spice. Upon entering, we notice a big banner proclaiming "Free Wine Tasting Area". Paul thinks this is the best place to start off. We are immediately seated by an older gentleman who at some point had been eating crackers because it was still wallowing around in his mouth. He produces 3 bottles of white wine (all with very low alcohol content), and these little cups that are the exact shape and size of the plastic med cups I use at work. Each cup will hold 1 oz of fluid. We sample each of the wine. Cracker Man produces 3 bottles of red wine. We sample those. He brings out this smaller bottle of some Irish cream type beverage, and we sample that at least 3 times to make sure we like it, and decide it was the tastiest of the drinks. It would go really good on vanilla ice cream.
Paul starts giggling uncontrollably.
I'm not scared because my high tolerance for alcohol is world renowned. I did ten shots of tequila on a beach in Mexico and it didn't even phase me! I'm impervious to inebriation, which I owe to coming from strong alcoholic stock!!
Apparently, wine is a bird of a different color; not to mention that I failed to eat breakfast that morning. Soon, I'm giggling also...for no apparent reason. I calculated that we each drank approximately 9oz of the wares they were peddling...which is just over 1 cup.
Flying high on wine samples, I am ashamed to say we ended up buying a case of wine (which cost well over $200). Paul is the big wine fan, so he can manage, but what is the hell am I going to do with a half a case of wine???
Christmas presents!!!
After that, we stagger down an isle and look at insulated doors, some siding, a gadget that keeps your basement dry. Paul is seduced by something called a Garden Weasel. I meander over to the booth that is selling Crocs. I buy the purple ones because I like purple and I can wear them to work. Paul buys brown ones because he doesn't want to appear uncool and untrendy.
I move on to look at Soy candles while Paul spends almost an hour talking to some guy about buying a shed. I buy a candle. Paul walks away empty handed.
We tour a designer home and Paul almost soils himself when he finds out it is a modular home. I learn that there is a difference between a modular home and a mobile home. I feel enlightened.
We are free from the aftermath of the wine tasting station when we come across a concession stand. The pink slushy foo-foo drink looks good so we each get one. I am only able to drink about a third of mine because it looked better than it tasted, so Paul finishes it off after he is done with his.
Surprise, surprise...he's sauced once more. Once again, I find myself in the position of the sober person leading the drunk people to safety.
We stop at a both and this girl is selling those sticky roller things that collect pet hair off your clothes (of note, it is called a Mr. Sticky). I have an interest because I own a small, furry zoo. Paul stands next to me, swaying back and forth. The girl invites someone from the audience to "touch her Sticky". Paul begins laughing...loudly. The girl either is either that dense or she's just ignoring the obvious, because she doesn't understand why he is laughing. She resumes her sales pitch and tells us that if we buy the regular Sticky at the show, we get a compact Sticky for the car, and WAIT... we also can get the guy for the big jobs: The Big Sticky...on a Stick!
At this point, another vendor walks by Paul (who is barely able to compose himself) and he mutters, "I thought she was calling me by my nickname." Paul doubles over, laughing insanely, with tears streaming down his face. Everyone is amused by the drunk guy in the corner who is a about ready to pee his pants. Paul sings loudly that he is officially drunk. Everyone looks at me as if I am responsible. I just shrug.
I bought the Sticky Roller and all his friends. I also bought a mop, a rubber broom, a couple baking pans, almost purchased a knife set, and picked up a bunch of free crap. Paul buys just as much as I did, plus he comes a hair away from adopting a Greyhound.
We stayed until the show ended, which was 9pm, 3 hours later than we had planned to stay...and we didn't even look at everything. In a matter of 8 hours, we purchased a shit ton of things and were carrying it around like pack mules. My feet were very, very tired, and I was starting to get cranky.
By the end, Paul had overcome the power of the foo-foo drink. I pale as I realize that not only is it butt-cold outside, but we have to carry all this junk we bought TEN BLOCKS AWAY to his car, in the dark, downtown KC. I petition that we should call a cab, but my petition is denied and we hike back to his car, looking like we just robbed a band of Merry Maids.
After a nice Mexican dinner, I am deposited back to my car, and I go home. Paul calls to make sure I made it home okay, and lets me know likewise. I announce that next year, I am going to shell out the $7 to park closer.
And I am not going to stop at the wine tasting table ever again!
We meet down at the Plaza because it is somewhat of a central location, and relatively close to Bartle Hall. Paul sniffs at paid parking and says he has a better place to park...absolutely free! He drives to his top secret spot and sees that everyone else in KC had the same idea. So we go further. Ten blocks later, we find a spot and make the LONG hike to Bartle Hall.
Men don't like to pay for parking anymore than they like to ask for directions.
The Home Show has 650 vendors, selling everything from siding to kitchen spice. Upon entering, we notice a big banner proclaiming "Free Wine Tasting Area". Paul thinks this is the best place to start off. We are immediately seated by an older gentleman who at some point had been eating crackers because it was still wallowing around in his mouth. He produces 3 bottles of white wine (all with very low alcohol content), and these little cups that are the exact shape and size of the plastic med cups I use at work. Each cup will hold 1 oz of fluid. We sample each of the wine. Cracker Man produces 3 bottles of red wine. We sample those. He brings out this smaller bottle of some Irish cream type beverage, and we sample that at least 3 times to make sure we like it, and decide it was the tastiest of the drinks. It would go really good on vanilla ice cream.
Paul starts giggling uncontrollably.
I'm not scared because my high tolerance for alcohol is world renowned. I did ten shots of tequila on a beach in Mexico and it didn't even phase me! I'm impervious to inebriation, which I owe to coming from strong alcoholic stock!!
Apparently, wine is a bird of a different color; not to mention that I failed to eat breakfast that morning. Soon, I'm giggling also...for no apparent reason. I calculated that we each drank approximately 9oz of the wares they were peddling...which is just over 1 cup.
Flying high on wine samples, I am ashamed to say we ended up buying a case of wine (which cost well over $200). Paul is the big wine fan, so he can manage, but what is the hell am I going to do with a half a case of wine???
Christmas presents!!!
After that, we stagger down an isle and look at insulated doors, some siding, a gadget that keeps your basement dry. Paul is seduced by something called a Garden Weasel. I meander over to the booth that is selling Crocs. I buy the purple ones because I like purple and I can wear them to work. Paul buys brown ones because he doesn't want to appear uncool and untrendy.
I move on to look at Soy candles while Paul spends almost an hour talking to some guy about buying a shed. I buy a candle. Paul walks away empty handed.
We tour a designer home and Paul almost soils himself when he finds out it is a modular home. I learn that there is a difference between a modular home and a mobile home. I feel enlightened.
We are free from the aftermath of the wine tasting station when we come across a concession stand. The pink slushy foo-foo drink looks good so we each get one. I am only able to drink about a third of mine because it looked better than it tasted, so Paul finishes it off after he is done with his.
Surprise, surprise...he's sauced once more. Once again, I find myself in the position of the sober person leading the drunk people to safety.
We stop at a both and this girl is selling those sticky roller things that collect pet hair off your clothes (of note, it is called a Mr. Sticky). I have an interest because I own a small, furry zoo. Paul stands next to me, swaying back and forth. The girl invites someone from the audience to "touch her Sticky". Paul begins laughing...loudly. The girl either is either that dense or she's just ignoring the obvious, because she doesn't understand why he is laughing. She resumes her sales pitch and tells us that if we buy the regular Sticky at the show, we get a compact Sticky for the car, and WAIT... we also can get the guy for the big jobs: The Big Sticky...on a Stick!
At this point, another vendor walks by Paul (who is barely able to compose himself) and he mutters, "I thought she was calling me by my nickname." Paul doubles over, laughing insanely, with tears streaming down his face. Everyone is amused by the drunk guy in the corner who is a about ready to pee his pants. Paul sings loudly that he is officially drunk. Everyone looks at me as if I am responsible. I just shrug.
I bought the Sticky Roller and all his friends. I also bought a mop, a rubber broom, a couple baking pans, almost purchased a knife set, and picked up a bunch of free crap. Paul buys just as much as I did, plus he comes a hair away from adopting a Greyhound.
We stayed until the show ended, which was 9pm, 3 hours later than we had planned to stay...and we didn't even look at everything. In a matter of 8 hours, we purchased a shit ton of things and were carrying it around like pack mules. My feet were very, very tired, and I was starting to get cranky.
By the end, Paul had overcome the power of the foo-foo drink. I pale as I realize that not only is it butt-cold outside, but we have to carry all this junk we bought TEN BLOCKS AWAY to his car, in the dark, downtown KC. I petition that we should call a cab, but my petition is denied and we hike back to his car, looking like we just robbed a band of Merry Maids.
After a nice Mexican dinner, I am deposited back to my car, and I go home. Paul calls to make sure I made it home okay, and lets me know likewise. I announce that next year, I am going to shell out the $7 to park closer.
And I am not going to stop at the wine tasting table ever again!
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
God Bless Full Coverage!
I drove all the way out to Independence to get my car looked at. I must confess, I was pretty nervous about it because I had never been through the whole process before, and Paul was constantly telling me that my car would be totaled.
He was very hopeful because he wanted me to get a Charger.
At any rate, the closet claims office was out in Independence, which is a good 40 minute drive from my house, with traffic and all.
I was directed to park my car in the little garage, and some big guy who was the claims adjustor came out. The look on his face said it all, "Holy shit."
Well, it turns out that my car wasn't totaled. The damage on my car came to just under$4300. The insurance company will pay for anything they didn't find, not to mention a rental car for me while my car is in the shop...which I am told will be about 2-3 weeks. Most everything will have to be replaced on it. So much for paintless dent removal.
I was pretty relieved when I came home, not to mention my Tim and Faith tickets came in the mail (they are now hidden in a secure location).
Overall, it's been a good day. Clean laundry, they didn't tota my car, and concert tickets.
He was very hopeful because he wanted me to get a Charger.
At any rate, the closet claims office was out in Independence, which is a good 40 minute drive from my house, with traffic and all.
I was directed to park my car in the little garage, and some big guy who was the claims adjustor came out. The look on his face said it all, "Holy shit."
Well, it turns out that my car wasn't totaled. The damage on my car came to just under$4300. The insurance company will pay for anything they didn't find, not to mention a rental car for me while my car is in the shop...which I am told will be about 2-3 weeks. Most everything will have to be replaced on it. So much for paintless dent removal.
I was pretty relieved when I came home, not to mention my Tim and Faith tickets came in the mail (they are now hidden in a secure location).
Overall, it's been a good day. Clean laundry, they didn't tota my car, and concert tickets.
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