Later today, I may be welcoming a new housemate. On a trial basis. If all goes well, it may be a more permanent arrangement.
Most of it depends on if Sam and George like her.
Keep your fingers crossed.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Something to Get Your Week Off to a Good Start
You can't go wrong with Drag Queens!
(Definitely NOT safe for work!!!)
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
An Odd Stalker for Me
Redneck Brother's latest hotness is giving my phone number out for referrals for various shit, usually involving some sort of financial transaction or another. While I don't mind being a Happy Helperton when it comes to giving referrals, I do take exception when he fails to pay for whatever he bought, and then the bill collectors start calling my house.
So, it's policy at my house to not answer any phone number that I don't recognize.
However, with the ushering my new business venture, at one point, I did feel the need to put my home number as a contact number, in the event someone wanted to book a party or buy a vibe. Then I decided that it would be too hard to discern my calls from Redneck Brother's calls, I changed my contact info to my cell phone.
Last year, when I first signed up for Passion Parties, a woman from Chicago called me. I figured her to be an interested lead, but definitely out of her area. She asked me who I was, and then I started asking her about if she was interested in booking a party. She got confused, and then I realized she just dialed the wrong number. I hung up, went on about life, and forgot about that phone call.
A couple months later, I started getting calls from the same number, and she started leaving very vague messages, "I know who you are" and "I be knowin' what you did". Yes, she said that. Her grasp of the English language was astounding.
I only talk to crazy people at work, and only because I'm paid to do it. So, I never answered her calls, and I never returned them. I figured she'd get bored, and move on.
Then, the messages became even more strange as she said she would send me texts (to my land line), and that she knew what I was doing with her husband.
What!?!
Today's message really brought it home, and it actually pissed me off. She ranted for a good ten minutes on how she knew about my affair with her husband, and how I need to stay away from him. And something-something about my fiance coming to her house and blah, blah, blah crazy talk.
Did I mention that this ghetto fabulous mental giant is calling from Chicago? I think I was in Chicago once...WHEN I HAD A LAYOVER AT THE FUCKING AIRPORT!!!
When I first got this number, I had some calls asking for some girl with a very ethnic name. Maybe Ghetto Wife thinks I'm whoever that chick was. Pissed off and fed up, I redialed her number (it was on my caller ID) and left her a message. I said I didn't know her, didn't know her husband, and I sure as hell didn't want to know either of them. I have saved every message she has left, and if she continued to call me, I would have her up on harassment charges so fast, her head was spin.
And then I told her to have a nice day. I didn't want to be rude or anything.
Hell, who knows if she'll get pissed and call back. If she knows this douche is cheating on her, why doesn't she just dump his ass instead of calling and harassing the very last woman on the planet who avoids married men like the Plague???
I'll probably get a new, unlisted number, and just not give it to Redneck Brother (he has my cell). In the meantime, if Ghetto Wife calls back, I may just tell her I'm a lesbian and tell that unless her husband has a golden vagina, they both can go fuck themselves.
You know what I sayin?!
So, it's policy at my house to not answer any phone number that I don't recognize.
However, with the ushering my new business venture, at one point, I did feel the need to put my home number as a contact number, in the event someone wanted to book a party or buy a vibe. Then I decided that it would be too hard to discern my calls from Redneck Brother's calls, I changed my contact info to my cell phone.
Last year, when I first signed up for Passion Parties, a woman from Chicago called me. I figured her to be an interested lead, but definitely out of her area. She asked me who I was, and then I started asking her about if she was interested in booking a party. She got confused, and then I realized she just dialed the wrong number. I hung up, went on about life, and forgot about that phone call.
A couple months later, I started getting calls from the same number, and she started leaving very vague messages, "I know who you are" and "I be knowin' what you did". Yes, she said that. Her grasp of the English language was astounding.
I only talk to crazy people at work, and only because I'm paid to do it. So, I never answered her calls, and I never returned them. I figured she'd get bored, and move on.
Then, the messages became even more strange as she said she would send me texts (to my land line), and that she knew what I was doing with her husband.
What!?!
Today's message really brought it home, and it actually pissed me off. She ranted for a good ten minutes on how she knew about my affair with her husband, and how I need to stay away from him. And something-something about my fiance coming to her house and blah, blah, blah crazy talk.
Did I mention that this ghetto fabulous mental giant is calling from Chicago? I think I was in Chicago once...WHEN I HAD A LAYOVER AT THE FUCKING AIRPORT!!!
When I first got this number, I had some calls asking for some girl with a very ethnic name. Maybe Ghetto Wife thinks I'm whoever that chick was. Pissed off and fed up, I redialed her number (it was on my caller ID) and left her a message. I said I didn't know her, didn't know her husband, and I sure as hell didn't want to know either of them. I have saved every message she has left, and if she continued to call me, I would have her up on harassment charges so fast, her head was spin.
And then I told her to have a nice day. I didn't want to be rude or anything.
Hell, who knows if she'll get pissed and call back. If she knows this douche is cheating on her, why doesn't she just dump his ass instead of calling and harassing the very last woman on the planet who avoids married men like the Plague???
I'll probably get a new, unlisted number, and just not give it to Redneck Brother (he has my cell). In the meantime, if Ghetto Wife calls back, I may just tell her I'm a lesbian and tell that unless her husband has a golden vagina, they both can go fuck themselves.
You know what I sayin?!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Things That Make You Cry Out To Whatever God You Happen to Worship
I'm talking about orgasms, or more specifically, things that make you have one.
As some of you may or may not know, I sling vibes on the side. Some women get into it, and they make serious bank doing it. I got into it because I thought it would be fun, anything else is just gravy.
However, when I initially signed up, things in life started happening, and the whole sex-toy thing was sort of shelved while I dealt with life's little hiccups.
Now, I'm re-launching my business, starting with a Cinco de Mayo Party for the ladies. I sent out a bunch of Evites, so if you didn't get one, leave me your email and I will add you to the list.
Tonight, I went to a meeting. Apparently, they have them monthly. The featured speaker is one of those women who make bank. How serious? Well, her hubby now doesn't have to work, and now stays at home with the kids while she sells dildos. And did I mention she's earned at least a million dollars in the 9 years she's beeing doing it???
At any rate, the speaker was entertaining. I was amused to see a man-wife team of consultants. I'm sure there is a lesson there about a couple who sells sex toys together, has sex more often, or something like that. I personally wouldn't know.
Another thing at this meetings was the showing of the new items that were rolling out for the spring. Two of which being a lotion and a gel. The gel was to help mask the taste of...whatever. But honestly, if you don't have good hygiene, all the flavored gel in the world isn't going to mask the taste of anything. Even if that gel is bleach flavored.
The other item being an edible massage lotion.
They passed around a bottle of each for us to sample. I tasted the gel. It tasted like strawberries, just like the bottle said. Then came the lotion. Now, I was paying attention to the speaker, and sort of in lotion-autopilot. Because of the nature of my real job, the skin on my hands is fairly rough. I use a lot of lotion. You use a lot of lotion consistently for many, many years, some habits are just second nature.
With that in mind, I squirted a big, ol' blob of edible vanilla massage lotion on my hands and started rubbing it in. It wasn't until both my hands were completely covered, did I realize my pinheadedness. I kept rubbing my hands together until the lotion was pretty much absorbed, and I smelled like a great, big vanilla bean. I hope no one noticed.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that the lotion wasn't sticky, and made my hands soft, which saved me from having to run to the bathroom sink.
But now, as I sit here, after having washed my hands twice, I can help but suck my fingers because they still taste like sweet vanilla.
I'm going to buy some for my shows, but hold off for my own personal cache. Because my own personal product guinea pig has decided that he has better things to do than me, adding such things at this time seems like a moot point.
Besides, if I did buy it, all I would do is put it on my hands and lick my hands while I was playing WoW or something....which is not what Passion Parties had in mind when they developed the product.
But I will be more than happy to sell you a bottle of your very own, if you like.
As some of you may or may not know, I sling vibes on the side. Some women get into it, and they make serious bank doing it. I got into it because I thought it would be fun, anything else is just gravy.
However, when I initially signed up, things in life started happening, and the whole sex-toy thing was sort of shelved while I dealt with life's little hiccups.
Now, I'm re-launching my business, starting with a Cinco de Mayo Party for the ladies. I sent out a bunch of Evites, so if you didn't get one, leave me your email and I will add you to the list.
Tonight, I went to a meeting. Apparently, they have them monthly. The featured speaker is one of those women who make bank. How serious? Well, her hubby now doesn't have to work, and now stays at home with the kids while she sells dildos. And did I mention she's earned at least a million dollars in the 9 years she's beeing doing it???
At any rate, the speaker was entertaining. I was amused to see a man-wife team of consultants. I'm sure there is a lesson there about a couple who sells sex toys together, has sex more often, or something like that. I personally wouldn't know.
Another thing at this meetings was the showing of the new items that were rolling out for the spring. Two of which being a lotion and a gel. The gel was to help mask the taste of...whatever. But honestly, if you don't have good hygiene, all the flavored gel in the world isn't going to mask the taste of anything. Even if that gel is bleach flavored.
The other item being an edible massage lotion.
They passed around a bottle of each for us to sample. I tasted the gel. It tasted like strawberries, just like the bottle said. Then came the lotion. Now, I was paying attention to the speaker, and sort of in lotion-autopilot. Because of the nature of my real job, the skin on my hands is fairly rough. I use a lot of lotion. You use a lot of lotion consistently for many, many years, some habits are just second nature.
With that in mind, I squirted a big, ol' blob of edible vanilla massage lotion on my hands and started rubbing it in. It wasn't until both my hands were completely covered, did I realize my pinheadedness. I kept rubbing my hands together until the lotion was pretty much absorbed, and I smelled like a great, big vanilla bean. I hope no one noticed.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that the lotion wasn't sticky, and made my hands soft, which saved me from having to run to the bathroom sink.
But now, as I sit here, after having washed my hands twice, I can help but suck my fingers because they still taste like sweet vanilla.
I'm going to buy some for my shows, but hold off for my own personal cache. Because my own personal product guinea pig has decided that he has better things to do than me, adding such things at this time seems like a moot point.
Besides, if I did buy it, all I would do is put it on my hands and lick my hands while I was playing WoW or something....which is not what Passion Parties had in mind when they developed the product.
But I will be more than happy to sell you a bottle of your very own, if you like.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Spring Cleaning
Here at Casa de Blather, Spring Cleaning is in full swing.
Last Friday, I spent the day in the back yard trying to clean up last year's leaves, thousands of prickly balls from the sugar gum tree, and Hank's GINORMOUS cache of turds. I burned up the motor on my leaf blower due to over-use, causing the backyard to stink like an electrical fire for the rest of the afternoon. I raked for a short while, until Brother suggested I used Mr. Recommendation's leaf blower. So, I did, and now I've got two distinct piles of debris in the back yard: one pile with poop, and the other pile without poop.
Now, I just need to find someone to bag it. I wonder if that little neighbor boy is still looking for something to do this summer...
Brother moved out on Saturday, and is now settling in with Company in their own home, just blocks away.
Last night, I stayed up late and cleaned the hall bathroom, which Brother had been using as his own. Today, I took a vacuum cleaner to his old room, and I am shocked to say that the vacuum cleaner lived through the ordeal to speak of it. One little vacuum was not meant to suck up so much dog hair.
I suspect I will just convert Brother's old room back into a guest room. I've been contemplating taking on another roommate, but haven't reached any final decision on the matter. So, for right now, it's just:
Last Friday, I spent the day in the back yard trying to clean up last year's leaves, thousands of prickly balls from the sugar gum tree, and Hank's GINORMOUS cache of turds. I burned up the motor on my leaf blower due to over-use, causing the backyard to stink like an electrical fire for the rest of the afternoon. I raked for a short while, until Brother suggested I used Mr. Recommendation's leaf blower. So, I did, and now I've got two distinct piles of debris in the back yard: one pile with poop, and the other pile without poop.
Now, I just need to find someone to bag it. I wonder if that little neighbor boy is still looking for something to do this summer...
Brother moved out on Saturday, and is now settling in with Company in their own home, just blocks away.
Last night, I stayed up late and cleaned the hall bathroom, which Brother had been using as his own. Today, I took a vacuum cleaner to his old room, and I am shocked to say that the vacuum cleaner lived through the ordeal to speak of it. One little vacuum was not meant to suck up so much dog hair.
I suspect I will just convert Brother's old room back into a guest room. I've been contemplating taking on another roommate, but haven't reached any final decision on the matter. So, for right now, it's just:
Me...
Sam...
And George.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Thanks, But Noooooo
I, with half of the global population, am utterly addicted to Facebook. With the exception of those quizzes. Do I really care what Jane Austen character you are? What color of poop you should be?
If you like doing quizzes, that's fine, but as for me, I usually hide them from my site. After all, my life isn't enriched if I know what sort of breakfast cereal you were in a past life.
Anyway, I have almost 300 friends...and I know ALL of them. People I know from church. People I work or used to work with. People I know from school: grade school, high school, and college.
I've been able to reconnect with a lot of my high school friends. Since I graduated with a class of 27, that really isn't a much. I chat with them online periodically. I get the 411 on those I haven't talked to. I peruse their albums at their family photos and marvel that most all of them now have kids, especially since in my mind, I see them as I remember them on graduation day.
One classmate, who was my BFF during my stint in the middle-of-nowhere Nebraska. I guess I gravitated towards her because of her free spirit ways, which was sorely out of place there. She was from California, and her life didn't revolve around the conventional things that teenagers preoccupied themselves with. She's still that free spirit, and for that reason, and also because of her personal beliefs, I shall call her Druish Princess (insert Spaceballs joke here).
I was talking to DP the other night, and she noted my down-in-the-dumps mood. She suggested fixing me up with a friend of hers. As in a date. I was immediately alarmed, and for good reason.
DP once tried to play matchmaker my senior year. She had arranged a date for me for prom, despite my objections. When I demanded that she call him and cancel, she admitted that the guy had already rented a tux, and that she really didn't want me to go to prom by myself. This guy was a friend of her boyfriend at the time, and truth be told, I didn't like her boyfriend. I could only imagine what mystery date would bring. I relented, having been guilted into it.
Prom night arrives, and my date shows up. In all my particular preferences in boys, this guy was the furthest thing from them. He wasn't funny. He wasn't horribly intelligent. I think he could have been borderline mentally retarded. He reminded me of Stimpy.
So, prom night crawls by, and my classmates secretly offer their condolences because I was obviously miserable with a boring date that I didn't want in the first place. My annoyance with DP was short-lived. She meant well, but I told her that she should never, ever try to play matchmaker with me.
Fast forward 16 years to present day. DP wants to be helpful and get me out of my, whatever you want to call the disaster that is my personal life.
"You're matchmaking efforts with me haven't exactly worked out." I reminded her. Truth be told, I'm just simply not interested in boys right now. Or a relationship. Or anything.
"Oh, but he's great," she gushed. "He's like a younger John Cusack. And he's funny, but that dark, sarcastic humor like you. You two would get along great!"
"I really don't think..."
"He's really nice, he really likes comic books. I mean, he does have that dental problem, but he can say he doesn't have the money for a dentist since his Mom called and made the appointment."
"Uh, what?!?"
"What?"
"His Mom had to call and make his dental appointment??"
"Well, yeah. But it was just that one time."
"How old is this person??"
"Late 20's...why, what's wrong?"
Great. So, my high school BFF was trying to hook me up with a 20-something nerd with bad teeth. I'm fairly confident he was probably living in his mother's basement. I think DP sensed that this was a match that wasn't going to happen, and then quickly amended to, "I have to get you two together just to be friends."
Thanks, but I'll just stay at home with my cat.
It's not that I am a snob, but this just isn't my cup of tea. I have a career. I have a mortgage. I have a retirement plan (now worth just enough to buy breakfast at IHOP...for myself). I travel outside the continental U.S. I've never been to a comic book convention, and I couldn't even tell you what happened in the last two Star Trek movies.
FINALLY, I'm neurotic when it comes to teeth.
No. No. No. No. No!
Hopefully, DP lets the subject drop.
If you like doing quizzes, that's fine, but as for me, I usually hide them from my site. After all, my life isn't enriched if I know what sort of breakfast cereal you were in a past life.
Anyway, I have almost 300 friends...and I know ALL of them. People I know from church. People I work or used to work with. People I know from school: grade school, high school, and college.
I've been able to reconnect with a lot of my high school friends. Since I graduated with a class of 27, that really isn't a much. I chat with them online periodically. I get the 411 on those I haven't talked to. I peruse their albums at their family photos and marvel that most all of them now have kids, especially since in my mind, I see them as I remember them on graduation day.
One classmate, who was my BFF during my stint in the middle-of-nowhere Nebraska. I guess I gravitated towards her because of her free spirit ways, which was sorely out of place there. She was from California, and her life didn't revolve around the conventional things that teenagers preoccupied themselves with. She's still that free spirit, and for that reason, and also because of her personal beliefs, I shall call her Druish Princess (insert Spaceballs joke here).
I was talking to DP the other night, and she noted my down-in-the-dumps mood. She suggested fixing me up with a friend of hers. As in a date. I was immediately alarmed, and for good reason.
DP once tried to play matchmaker my senior year. She had arranged a date for me for prom, despite my objections. When I demanded that she call him and cancel, she admitted that the guy had already rented a tux, and that she really didn't want me to go to prom by myself. This guy was a friend of her boyfriend at the time, and truth be told, I didn't like her boyfriend. I could only imagine what mystery date would bring. I relented, having been guilted into it.
Prom night arrives, and my date shows up. In all my particular preferences in boys, this guy was the furthest thing from them. He wasn't funny. He wasn't horribly intelligent. I think he could have been borderline mentally retarded. He reminded me of Stimpy.
So, prom night crawls by, and my classmates secretly offer their condolences because I was obviously miserable with a boring date that I didn't want in the first place. My annoyance with DP was short-lived. She meant well, but I told her that she should never, ever try to play matchmaker with me.
Fast forward 16 years to present day. DP wants to be helpful and get me out of my, whatever you want to call the disaster that is my personal life.
"You're matchmaking efforts with me haven't exactly worked out." I reminded her. Truth be told, I'm just simply not interested in boys right now. Or a relationship. Or anything.
"Oh, but he's great," she gushed. "He's like a younger John Cusack. And he's funny, but that dark, sarcastic humor like you. You two would get along great!"
"I really don't think..."
"He's really nice, he really likes comic books. I mean, he does have that dental problem, but he can say he doesn't have the money for a dentist since his Mom called and made the appointment."
"Uh, what?!?"
"What?"
"His Mom had to call and make his dental appointment??"
"Well, yeah. But it was just that one time."
"How old is this person??"
"Late 20's...why, what's wrong?"
Great. So, my high school BFF was trying to hook me up with a 20-something nerd with bad teeth. I'm fairly confident he was probably living in his mother's basement. I think DP sensed that this was a match that wasn't going to happen, and then quickly amended to, "I have to get you two together just to be friends."
Thanks, but I'll just stay at home with my cat.
It's not that I am a snob, but this just isn't my cup of tea. I have a career. I have a mortgage. I have a retirement plan (now worth just enough to buy breakfast at IHOP...for myself). I travel outside the continental U.S. I've never been to a comic book convention, and I couldn't even tell you what happened in the last two Star Trek movies.
FINALLY, I'm neurotic when it comes to teeth.
No. No. No. No. No!
Hopefully, DP lets the subject drop.
Friday, April 17, 2009
I Have Syphilis!
And I got it from another woman!
(Ignore that thump you just heard coming from the west. He'll regain consciousness soon.)
My non-Utah Mormon friend, Beckle (mistress of Spoon! and master baker), asked me a while ago for my mailing address, as she wanted to send me something extra special. I emailed my addy, and waited. And waited. Then I just forgot about it until about a month ago when she emailed me and told me that my extra special surprise was en route, and she would explain the delay after I got it.
I figured it was going to be an Idaho Spud because we talked about it once and I mentioned I wanted to see one up close. A confection that supposed to look like a potato, but looks more like one of Hank's turds wrapped in oats.
Friends in Idaho tell me that Hank's turd would probably taste better.
Anyway, a week later, a box arrived from Think Geek, which has now become my most favorite online store for all my closet geek needs. I opened the box, and much to my delight, I found this.
My very own syphilis nestled in it's own petri dish!! You know you are nurse when you get excited to get SmTDs! (Snail-mail Transmitted Diseases).
Beckle then told me that she had purchased the little critters back in the day, but her four-year old daughter absconded with them. When Beckle discovered this, the daughter pleaded, and in the end, Beckle relented and let her daughter keep the syphilis, thinking she would lose interested in a day or two...which didn't happen. That girl loved her syphilis, kissing and snuggling it often. She would go around the house saying things like, "Thank you so much for giving me Syphilis, Mommy!" and "I'm going to sleep with Syphilis tonight!" and even showing visitors her syphilis, which in Utah, I'm sure went over very well.
Turns out, Think Geek has all these wonderful microbes available for purchase. Indy doesn't think it's funny, but I think it's hilarious. Especially since I'm going to be sending microbes out instead of birthday cards.
But for now, I think I may order the penicillin microbes, you know, so my syphilis won't be lonely.
(Ignore that thump you just heard coming from the west. He'll regain consciousness soon.)
My non-Utah Mormon friend, Beckle (mistress of Spoon! and master baker), asked me a while ago for my mailing address, as she wanted to send me something extra special. I emailed my addy, and waited. And waited. Then I just forgot about it until about a month ago when she emailed me and told me that my extra special surprise was en route, and she would explain the delay after I got it.
I figured it was going to be an Idaho Spud because we talked about it once and I mentioned I wanted to see one up close. A confection that supposed to look like a potato, but looks more like one of Hank's turds wrapped in oats.
Friends in Idaho tell me that Hank's turd would probably taste better.Anyway, a week later, a box arrived from Think Geek, which has now become my most favorite online store for all my closet geek needs. I opened the box, and much to my delight, I found this.
My very own syphilis nestled in it's own petri dish!! You know you are nurse when you get excited to get SmTDs! (Snail-mail Transmitted Diseases).Beckle then told me that she had purchased the little critters back in the day, but her four-year old daughter absconded with them. When Beckle discovered this, the daughter pleaded, and in the end, Beckle relented and let her daughter keep the syphilis, thinking she would lose interested in a day or two...which didn't happen. That girl loved her syphilis, kissing and snuggling it often. She would go around the house saying things like, "Thank you so much for giving me Syphilis, Mommy!" and "I'm going to sleep with Syphilis tonight!" and even showing visitors her syphilis, which in Utah, I'm sure went over very well.Turns out, Think Geek has all these wonderful microbes available for purchase. Indy doesn't think it's funny, but I think it's hilarious. Especially since I'm going to be sending microbes out instead of birthday cards.
But for now, I think I may order the penicillin microbes, you know, so my syphilis won't be lonely.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Beware of Pirates!
I'm a current events nerd, so I've been following the Somali pirate news with interest. And I'm baffled.
The Somali pirates have been doing their plundering for years, this much is understood. Boats that sail in those waters, run the risk of getting, uh, pirated. They know this. Everyone knows this. My dog even understands this, and he licks his own ass.
Wouldn't it make sense if those cargo ships, oh I don't know, tried sailing different routes??
Let's see...Lawless Somalia is full of pirates. So, let's sail close by their country! I'm sure nothing bad will happen!!
So, we have the victim. Big ass cargo ship weighing hundreds of thousands of tons because it's made with iron. And it's usually transporting something, whether it be oil, cheaply made household items from Taiwan, or cars that are made by auto manufacturers that are not a hair away from going belly up.
So the SS Lard Ass is moving across the ocean. Then come the dreaded pirates!!
Nope...not these kind of pirates. But if Johnny Depp wanted to board my ship, I would gladly permit it. Orlando is kind of a candy ass. He can just stand around perfecting his douche bag emo look.
Not these pirates either, although I'm sure the merchant marine career ladder would be very competitive if this were the case.
Hell...even these ass clowns would be an improvement, but they will not be plundering anyones booty anytime soon...unless it's their own.
No...the SS Lard Ass gets overwrought with these pirates.
Four wieners in a bathtub.
Think about it...third world pirates overtaking something as big as the SS Lard Ass with a rocket launcher that looks like it came from a Cracker Jack box, and assault rifles. It's like me trying to car jack a Hummer with a pellet gun while riding a skateboard.
Anyway...so up until now, the fearsome Somali pirates had a pretty lucrative deal. Hold ships hostage, demand insane ransom, wait for the ransom to be delivered, go home to macaroni and cheese dinner, or whatever it is Sally Struthers is peddling in their country. And the companies have been paying the ransom like Pavlov's dogs, which in turn encourages more piracy. The never-ending cycle of dumbassery.
And yet each time it happens, its a shocking development. Really?
Then they took American hostages, and suddenly the world noticed. We sent a armed-to-the-teeth-and-bomb-you-into-the-stone-age-destroyer, which is like sending a Sherman tank to take care of a rodent problem._-_close_up.jpg)
Undeterred, but probably secretly pissing themselves, the pirates crossed their arms, dug their heels into the ground, and puffed out their chest in defiance. They even sent other bathtubs to offer moral support, because, you know, there's strength in numbers.
It is widely known that the only thing that trumps a pirate is a ninja. Master Ninja Obama sent out the bat signal, and the U.S. sent out our very own special fleet of top secret ninjas.
We call them Navy Seals.
At the end of the day, we have dead pirates, a freed hostage, and other pirates vowing revenge. Arrrggggghhhh!!!
So, back to my original point. I do have one...I just wanted an excuse to post the picture of shirtless Navy Seals.
Anyway...
Obviously, various military escorts for every cargo ship is unreasonable. So, options are whittled down to a few. We can bomb Somalia (and hope Sally Struthers was there) and turn it into series of lovely touristy resorts. Or...we can retro-fit each SS Lard Ass with their very own missile launcher.
The U.S. could then inservice the crew members on how to use said big guns, for a nominal fee, of course. OR the companies could just hire someone from the military to man their big gun. That way, when a menacing bathtub is spotted, they can take care of the problem all on their own.
But then, it might just be easier just to have the cargo ships take a different route in the first place...
The Somali pirates have been doing their plundering for years, this much is understood. Boats that sail in those waters, run the risk of getting, uh, pirated. They know this. Everyone knows this. My dog even understands this, and he licks his own ass.
Wouldn't it make sense if those cargo ships, oh I don't know, tried sailing different routes??
Let's see...Lawless Somalia is full of pirates. So, let's sail close by their country! I'm sure nothing bad will happen!!So, we have the victim. Big ass cargo ship weighing hundreds of thousands of tons because it's made with iron. And it's usually transporting something, whether it be oil, cheaply made household items from Taiwan, or cars that are made by auto manufacturers that are not a hair away from going belly up.
So the SS Lard Ass is moving across the ocean. Then come the dreaded pirates!!Nope...not these kind of pirates. But if Johnny Depp wanted to board my ship, I would gladly permit it. Orlando is kind of a candy ass. He can just stand around perfecting his douche bag emo look.Not these pirates either, although I'm sure the merchant marine career ladder would be very competitive if this were the case.Hell...even these ass clowns would be an improvement, but they will not be plundering anyones booty anytime soon...unless it's their own.No...the SS Lard Ass gets overwrought with these pirates.
Four wieners in a bathtub.Think about it...third world pirates overtaking something as big as the SS Lard Ass with a rocket launcher that looks like it came from a Cracker Jack box, and assault rifles. It's like me trying to car jack a Hummer with a pellet gun while riding a skateboard.
Anyway...so up until now, the fearsome Somali pirates had a pretty lucrative deal. Hold ships hostage, demand insane ransom, wait for the ransom to be delivered, go home to macaroni and cheese dinner, or whatever it is Sally Struthers is peddling in their country. And the companies have been paying the ransom like Pavlov's dogs, which in turn encourages more piracy. The never-ending cycle of dumbassery.
And yet each time it happens, its a shocking development. Really?
Then they took American hostages, and suddenly the world noticed. We sent a armed-to-the-teeth-and-bomb-you-into-the-stone-age-destroyer, which is like sending a Sherman tank to take care of a rodent problem.
Undeterred, but probably secretly pissing themselves, the pirates crossed their arms, dug their heels into the ground, and puffed out their chest in defiance. They even sent other bathtubs to offer moral support, because, you know, there's strength in numbers.It is widely known that the only thing that trumps a pirate is a ninja. Master Ninja Obama sent out the bat signal, and the U.S. sent out our very own special fleet of top secret ninjas.
We call them Navy Seals.At the end of the day, we have dead pirates, a freed hostage, and other pirates vowing revenge. Arrrggggghhhh!!!
So, back to my original point. I do have one...I just wanted an excuse to post the picture of shirtless Navy Seals.
Anyway...
Obviously, various military escorts for every cargo ship is unreasonable. So, options are whittled down to a few. We can bomb Somalia (and hope Sally Struthers was there) and turn it into series of lovely touristy resorts. Or...we can retro-fit each SS Lard Ass with their very own missile launcher.
The U.S. could then inservice the crew members on how to use said big guns, for a nominal fee, of course. OR the companies could just hire someone from the military to man their big gun. That way, when a menacing bathtub is spotted, they can take care of the problem all on their own.But then, it might just be easier just to have the cargo ships take a different route in the first place...
Call Me Scooter
You know how dating a fat chick and riding a scooter are alike? Both are a lot of fun, but you don't want your friends to know you do it.
Or so they say...
I've recently experienced a disappointment. Shocking, I know. My life is fraught with such. However, this disappointment hits harder than even I anticipated.
So, I'd been seeing this guy. You can't really call it dating, but more of an arrangement. I've known him for a while, admired him. We were friends. Everything about him drew me in: his laugh, his intelligence, the flash of intuition on his face when he knew exactly what I was thinking. Knowing the kind of person he is, I knew that a girl like me stood zero chance. So, imagine my surprise when he sought me out. In the five months we saw each other, I always wondered why.
In a nutshell, we're not seeing each other that way anymore. I got the standby, "It's not you, it's me" line. Sure, we can still be friends. Hang out. Drink beer. Crack jokes.
Initially, I was cool with it. Deep down, I knew that it would never work out...not because I tend to gravitate towards the noncommittal, but because I was constantly waiting for him to end it. How could a guy like him possibly be interested in someone like me?
A long time ago, before we became involved, we were having a conversation and he had mentioned that his ideal was an 18-year old gymnast. While I am a work in progress, I'm no 18-year old gymnast. So, whenever I thought of this guy, that's what I thought of: 18-year old gymnast. When we were together, it raced through my mind: 18-year old gymnast, 18-year old gymnast.
Even though I'm smarter than most 18-year old gymnasts, I was comparing myself to that impossible standard. So when he says, "It's not you, it's me", what I hear is "You're not an 18-year old gymnast."
I know, I'm an idiot.
Back to the point...
I initially played it cool, because I thought I was okay with it. The arrangement ran it's course, and it was time to move on to other things. Bigger, better things. (like an 18 year old gymnast?)
However, the more I sit and think about it, the tighter my throat becomes, which is bullshit because I'm stronger than this. Right? I'm the hard ass. The rock.
Now I sit, filled with all these emotions that I've ignored for I don't know how long. I'm at a loss as to what to do with them. Maybe if I just turn my back on them, they will just go away, because acknowledging them out loud does nothing but make the situation worse for me.
Maybe I deserve this. I thought I could be noncommittal like a man. Emotionally stoic like one. I thought I didn't need anyone or anything. I pegged myself the non-marrying, non-children type (because I never thought it in the cards for me). I didn't need to be close to anyone, because after all, don't they just lie to you and leave you in the end? This, I learned from the master...my father.
But now I'm blubbering like a woman on the Lifetime channel. My feelings are raw, exposed, and there is not a damned thing I can do about it. It's the worst feeling in the world. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.
Do I really hate myself this much that I would allow this to happen??
I can't hate him, though. He didn't ask for this. He got exactly what he wanted, and nothing more as per the agreement. He's still the same great person, still way out of my league. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place. Then, I would still be admiring from afar, blissfully unaware at the depth and scope of my feelings for this person.
But now it's done, and I just need to pick up my heart which has escaped me, stuff it in a drawer, and soldier on through life, the way I have always done.
Or so they say...
I've recently experienced a disappointment. Shocking, I know. My life is fraught with such. However, this disappointment hits harder than even I anticipated.
So, I'd been seeing this guy. You can't really call it dating, but more of an arrangement. I've known him for a while, admired him. We were friends. Everything about him drew me in: his laugh, his intelligence, the flash of intuition on his face when he knew exactly what I was thinking. Knowing the kind of person he is, I knew that a girl like me stood zero chance. So, imagine my surprise when he sought me out. In the five months we saw each other, I always wondered why.
In a nutshell, we're not seeing each other that way anymore. I got the standby, "It's not you, it's me" line. Sure, we can still be friends. Hang out. Drink beer. Crack jokes.
Initially, I was cool with it. Deep down, I knew that it would never work out...not because I tend to gravitate towards the noncommittal, but because I was constantly waiting for him to end it. How could a guy like him possibly be interested in someone like me?
A long time ago, before we became involved, we were having a conversation and he had mentioned that his ideal was an 18-year old gymnast. While I am a work in progress, I'm no 18-year old gymnast. So, whenever I thought of this guy, that's what I thought of: 18-year old gymnast. When we were together, it raced through my mind: 18-year old gymnast, 18-year old gymnast.
Even though I'm smarter than most 18-year old gymnasts, I was comparing myself to that impossible standard. So when he says, "It's not you, it's me", what I hear is "You're not an 18-year old gymnast."
I know, I'm an idiot.
Back to the point...
I initially played it cool, because I thought I was okay with it. The arrangement ran it's course, and it was time to move on to other things. Bigger, better things. (like an 18 year old gymnast?)
However, the more I sit and think about it, the tighter my throat becomes, which is bullshit because I'm stronger than this. Right? I'm the hard ass. The rock.
Now I sit, filled with all these emotions that I've ignored for I don't know how long. I'm at a loss as to what to do with them. Maybe if I just turn my back on them, they will just go away, because acknowledging them out loud does nothing but make the situation worse for me.
Maybe I deserve this. I thought I could be noncommittal like a man. Emotionally stoic like one. I thought I didn't need anyone or anything. I pegged myself the non-marrying, non-children type (because I never thought it in the cards for me). I didn't need to be close to anyone, because after all, don't they just lie to you and leave you in the end? This, I learned from the master...my father.
But now I'm blubbering like a woman on the Lifetime channel. My feelings are raw, exposed, and there is not a damned thing I can do about it. It's the worst feeling in the world. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.
Do I really hate myself this much that I would allow this to happen??
I can't hate him, though. He didn't ask for this. He got exactly what he wanted, and nothing more as per the agreement. He's still the same great person, still way out of my league. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place. Then, I would still be admiring from afar, blissfully unaware at the depth and scope of my feelings for this person.
But now it's done, and I just need to pick up my heart which has escaped me, stuff it in a drawer, and soldier on through life, the way I have always done.
The Purpose of My Blog
I know my posts have been sporadic at best. The only reason I can give is that I've been censoring myself.
People I know read my blog. People I know personally, not just the wonderful blogging community that has embraced me.
When I started this blog, I started it with the purpose of it acting as my sounding board for my feelings. I find that when I write something down, I can revisit it later and it makes more sense because I can read it in 3rd person. Does this make sense?
In the act of censoring myself, I've lost my edge.
No more.
I'm going to try to go back to formula. I need this blog. I still need to vent my frustrations. I need to share the joy and pain in my life. I've decided that my own mental health can't take a backseat to someones sensitivities. I'm tired of keeping it inside. The beast wants to be released again.
You've been warned.
People I know read my blog. People I know personally, not just the wonderful blogging community that has embraced me.
When I started this blog, I started it with the purpose of it acting as my sounding board for my feelings. I find that when I write something down, I can revisit it later and it makes more sense because I can read it in 3rd person. Does this make sense?
In the act of censoring myself, I've lost my edge.
No more.
I'm going to try to go back to formula. I need this blog. I still need to vent my frustrations. I need to share the joy and pain in my life. I've decided that my own mental health can't take a backseat to someones sensitivities. I'm tired of keeping it inside. The beast wants to be released again.
You've been warned.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
A Tale of Two Lesbians: True Lurve
An update!
I think I had said that this story couldn't possibly get any more outrageous. I should never say things like that because it did.
So, Rosie gets released from the pokey on her own personal recognizance...which means she didn't have to pay bail, and just had to promise she would come back to court on her own to face the music. The landlord of the place the two lovebirds were renting had kicked them out, because when you cause that degree of trouble, a landlord has the option of giving you heave ho. In fact, the entire town of Podunk had essentially given our fighting lesbians directions to the fastest way to get the hell out of town and stay out because there is only so much a small, Midwestern town can take. Let's be honest...the fact that a dinky little town in the Bible Belt openly accepting the lesbian lovers is considered revolutionary (as these places are usually 10-20 years behind the rest of civilization), throwing drunken brawls, knives, and prostitutes is probably asking a but too much.
Our lesbian lovers find themselves homeless, so what's a girl to do? Rosie moves in with L-Ho and L-Ho's interim lesbian lovah.
And just like that, we have a threesome.
(Meanwhile, I have had a decent date in YEARS!! Hint, hint)
Rosie has since landed employment (doing what, I have no idea). L-Ho has resumed her gainful employment by staying on her back. I don't know anything about Third Party. And I don't want to either.
Because it's true luurrrvve, you will be astonished to know that Rosie is now sneaking around with another girl, and having her mother, my aunt, lie about it.
And because it's also true luurrrvve, L-Ho told Rosie that if she left her or found out there was someone else, L-Ho would kill her. Literally. Because that is how true luurrrvve works. Rosie has already demonstrated a disposition that could lead her to homicide, so why should it be any different for L-Ho. Water, it seems, has a knack for finding its own level.
Where can I find love like that?? Apparently, I'm doing it all wrong.
I think I had said that this story couldn't possibly get any more outrageous. I should never say things like that because it did.
So, Rosie gets released from the pokey on her own personal recognizance...which means she didn't have to pay bail, and just had to promise she would come back to court on her own to face the music. The landlord of the place the two lovebirds were renting had kicked them out, because when you cause that degree of trouble, a landlord has the option of giving you heave ho. In fact, the entire town of Podunk had essentially given our fighting lesbians directions to the fastest way to get the hell out of town and stay out because there is only so much a small, Midwestern town can take. Let's be honest...the fact that a dinky little town in the Bible Belt openly accepting the lesbian lovers is considered revolutionary (as these places are usually 10-20 years behind the rest of civilization), throwing drunken brawls, knives, and prostitutes is probably asking a but too much.
Our lesbian lovers find themselves homeless, so what's a girl to do? Rosie moves in with L-Ho and L-Ho's interim lesbian lovah.
And just like that, we have a threesome.
(Meanwhile, I have had a decent date in YEARS!! Hint, hint)
Rosie has since landed employment (doing what, I have no idea). L-Ho has resumed her gainful employment by staying on her back. I don't know anything about Third Party. And I don't want to either.
Because it's true luurrrvve, you will be astonished to know that Rosie is now sneaking around with another girl, and having her mother, my aunt, lie about it.
And because it's also true luurrrvve, L-Ho told Rosie that if she left her or found out there was someone else, L-Ho would kill her. Literally. Because that is how true luurrrvve works. Rosie has already demonstrated a disposition that could lead her to homicide, so why should it be any different for L-Ho. Water, it seems, has a knack for finding its own level.
Where can I find love like that?? Apparently, I'm doing it all wrong.
Friday, April 10, 2009
God Made Dirt, and Dirt Don't Hurt
Ever since the recent Sutherlands circular came in mail, I've been obsessed. For there, on the front page, they were advertising 40lb bags of top soil for 99 cents a bag. I've been needing some extra dirt for the yard, and have been looking for some to buy. Some people are really proud of their dirt, and they want an arm and a leg for it. All I want is to fill up the saint bernard-sized holes in the backyard, maybe with enough left over to plant some flowers or shrubs. My backyard, pathetic when I moved in, now looks like a war-torn third world country.
Tuesday night, Mom and I stopped by the hardware store. We walked around inside and out in the little greenery area, and found no dirt. I asked a salesperson about their dirt, and they informed me that they were sold out. However, they would be getting a truckload the following day.
Before I went to bed, I set the alarm bright and early (for me) so I could call the hardware store to see when this magical shipment of dirt would arrive. Three calls later, they finally nailed down a time for me as to when the truck would arrive.
So, imagine my disappointment when I got to the store, and discovered they had just sold out. It was an actual shipment they got, but rather dirt on loan from another store as they didn't anticipate dirt being such a hot item. Meanwhile, an old fart in front of me was yelling at the clerk, saying they promised they would have dirt that day, and they didn't, so they lied. Because, you know, he would have to wait longer for dirt to put in his yard, and thereby delaying the chance to yell at those damn kids for walking in it.
Old Fart stomped off in a huff. I meekly asked about when they would get more dirt, and she said they were expecting a big shipment the next day, but I should call before I drive over.
The next day, I called in the morning. No dirt. After lunch, I called and they were just unloading the truck now. Naturally, I hauled ass over to the hardware store, where there was already a small crowd, all wanting dirt.
Not taking any chances, I ordered 20 bags of dirt. All to be put in the back of my PT Cruiser. The store workers even raised their eyebrows when I handed them the receipt, but they loaded up 20 bags of dirt, 800lbs of it, in the back of my car. I suddenly looked like I was driving a low rider. Good thing I didn't ask for 30 bags like I was contemplating.
So, now I have the dirt, safe within the confines of my garage. I don't dare leave the bags outside...someone might steal my dirt. If you can't trust leaving your dirt outside, then what kind of world do we live in?
I fear this may have created a new addiction for me. Dirt. I'll probably be returning to the store to buy more dirt. Why have 800lbs of dirt when I can have 1200lbs???? All for $40.
This home owning business has made me sick in the head.
Tuesday night, Mom and I stopped by the hardware store. We walked around inside and out in the little greenery area, and found no dirt. I asked a salesperson about their dirt, and they informed me that they were sold out. However, they would be getting a truckload the following day.
Before I went to bed, I set the alarm bright and early (for me) so I could call the hardware store to see when this magical shipment of dirt would arrive. Three calls later, they finally nailed down a time for me as to when the truck would arrive.
So, imagine my disappointment when I got to the store, and discovered they had just sold out. It was an actual shipment they got, but rather dirt on loan from another store as they didn't anticipate dirt being such a hot item. Meanwhile, an old fart in front of me was yelling at the clerk, saying they promised they would have dirt that day, and they didn't, so they lied. Because, you know, he would have to wait longer for dirt to put in his yard, and thereby delaying the chance to yell at those damn kids for walking in it.
Old Fart stomped off in a huff. I meekly asked about when they would get more dirt, and she said they were expecting a big shipment the next day, but I should call before I drive over.
The next day, I called in the morning. No dirt. After lunch, I called and they were just unloading the truck now. Naturally, I hauled ass over to the hardware store, where there was already a small crowd, all wanting dirt.
Not taking any chances, I ordered 20 bags of dirt. All to be put in the back of my PT Cruiser. The store workers even raised their eyebrows when I handed them the receipt, but they loaded up 20 bags of dirt, 800lbs of it, in the back of my car. I suddenly looked like I was driving a low rider. Good thing I didn't ask for 30 bags like I was contemplating.
So, now I have the dirt, safe within the confines of my garage. I don't dare leave the bags outside...someone might steal my dirt. If you can't trust leaving your dirt outside, then what kind of world do we live in?
I fear this may have created a new addiction for me. Dirt. I'll probably be returning to the store to buy more dirt. Why have 800lbs of dirt when I can have 1200lbs???? All for $40.
This home owning business has made me sick in the head.
Monday, April 06, 2009
When Saying "I Love You" Just Isn't Enough
My friend, HC, alerted me this weekend to the fact that Brother would be giving her a tattoo. It would be her first, and Brother is very good at slinging ink. She emailed her idea to Brother, who was unable to print it off my printer, so she emailed it to me.
When I opened it, all that was there was a name. The name of her fiance. First and last. From what I can figure out from the email, she wants first name down one side of her torso, the last name down the opposite side. In cursive, you know, to make it classy.
I'm not one against tattoos. I like looking at them. And there is something about tattoos on a guy I find a bit of a turn-on. However, I do not have any ink. This is primarily of my fear to commit to one design forever, and ever. Because once it's there, its there until you cough up the money for laser removal. Maybe my fear of commitment is that intense.
Aside from my own personal aversion to tats on my physical person, even I am aware of the universal, and wide-held opinion that tattooing names on your body is seldom a good idea. The only exceptions being your kids, or your parents, or your pet if you feel strongly enough about it. If I conducted a survey on people who had their significant others names tattooed on their bodies, I would say very few of them would still be with that same person to this day. In fact, I think it could be proven that the durations of relationships can be scientifically measured from the moment the ink stains the skin, to the time the object of your art/affection is discovered with a transvestite hooker.
So much for love lasting eternal.
In a nutshell, it's just bad karma. However, it is good business for Brother, who does a lot of cover-up work for those people who's tattoos lasted longer than the relationship did.
So, when HC revealed to me her idea, I shared it with Smo (I was at work at the time). We both agreed it was a monumentally bad idea.
"My mom has the name "Charlie" tattooed on her," said Smo. "But my dad's name is David."
I relayed this information to HC, who blew off our concerns.
"My dad has the name Kerry tattooed on him," added Smo. "But my mom's name is Angie."
I also relayed this info to HC. Again she poo-pooed our concerns. When some people have their minds set on something, there is no changing them.
I went home in the morning and chided Brother for agreeing to such a job, and he just shrugged. He feels that while S.O. names are a horrible idea, if you want it bad enough, he will ink it on you.
Instead of a name, why not pick an object that represents this person, and go with that instead? An animal? A symbol? Hell, even a garden gnome, but just not a name.
For the love of God, HC!!! Anything, but a name!
When I opened it, all that was there was a name. The name of her fiance. First and last. From what I can figure out from the email, she wants first name down one side of her torso, the last name down the opposite side. In cursive, you know, to make it classy.
I'm not one against tattoos. I like looking at them. And there is something about tattoos on a guy I find a bit of a turn-on. However, I do not have any ink. This is primarily of my fear to commit to one design forever, and ever. Because once it's there, its there until you cough up the money for laser removal. Maybe my fear of commitment is that intense.
Aside from my own personal aversion to tats on my physical person, even I am aware of the universal, and wide-held opinion that tattooing names on your body is seldom a good idea. The only exceptions being your kids, or your parents, or your pet if you feel strongly enough about it. If I conducted a survey on people who had their significant others names tattooed on their bodies, I would say very few of them would still be with that same person to this day. In fact, I think it could be proven that the durations of relationships can be scientifically measured from the moment the ink stains the skin, to the time the object of your art/affection is discovered with a transvestite hooker.
So much for love lasting eternal.
In a nutshell, it's just bad karma. However, it is good business for Brother, who does a lot of cover-up work for those people who's tattoos lasted longer than the relationship did.
So, when HC revealed to me her idea, I shared it with Smo (I was at work at the time). We both agreed it was a monumentally bad idea.
"My mom has the name "Charlie" tattooed on her," said Smo. "But my dad's name is David."
I relayed this information to HC, who blew off our concerns.
"My dad has the name Kerry tattooed on him," added Smo. "But my mom's name is Angie."
I also relayed this info to HC. Again she poo-pooed our concerns. When some people have their minds set on something, there is no changing them.
I went home in the morning and chided Brother for agreeing to such a job, and he just shrugged. He feels that while S.O. names are a horrible idea, if you want it bad enough, he will ink it on you.
Instead of a name, why not pick an object that represents this person, and go with that instead? An animal? A symbol? Hell, even a garden gnome, but just not a name.
For the love of God, HC!!! Anything, but a name!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
A Tale of Two Lesbians: Breaking the Law, Breaking the Law!
Rosie and L-Ho moved to some podunk town so L-Ho could be closer to her family. (No word on if her john was also included.) Towns this small are almost always alike in the fact that there is NOTHING to them. You may have one gas station (usually a Caseys). One nursing home (which serves as the community's largest employer). And one drinking hole.
Anyway, Rosie and L-Ho move to Podunk, and Rosie is unable to find employment there because the local nursing home is under a hiring freeze. So, you have two lesbians, chilling out, and only one having a job that consists of them blowing a 60-some year old man, one night a week.
At some point, 60-some year old john decides he wants to broaden the time he spends with L-Ho. Rosie, who was okay with the one-night arrangement before, suddenly has a problem with L-Ho spending more time with this guy. This causes some general friction in Lovers' Paradise. Things boil until they culminate in the parking lot at the local bar where our two lesbians get into a heated argument.
Into the car, Rosie starts hitting L-Ho. They drive home, and the fight escalates. L-Ho's alcoholic mother shows up and Rosie, lacking any sense of decorum, continues to beat L-Ho. Alcoholic or not, most mother's won't stand for someone pounding on their kid, so A-Mom tries to intervene. Rosie, pops A-Mom in the face, breaking her nose.
Rosie continues her assault, this time choking L-Ho until A-Mom grabs a big, insulated Bubba mug and doinks Rosie over the head with it. Rosie, in turn, tosses A-Mom into a coffee table, causing A-Mom to break her hand.
Upon seeing her mother all bloodied and banged up, L-Ho exclaims to Rosie, "Why don't you just die! This is all too much!!"
With those words, Rosie disappears in the kitchen and grabs a big knife, goes back into the living and proceeds to slice her wrist, but not in the manner that actually does the job. More in the manner that demonstrates that you are a dumbass seeking attention.
"Happy now?" Rosie demands.
L-Ho's grandmother shows up, and L-Ho and G-Ma help A-Mom out, leaving Rosie to bleed all over the carpet. Rosie, calls a friend, explains what happens, and then passes out from the loss of blood. Phone-a-Friend calls 911, and the ambulance picks up Rosie. Her cuts deep, but not life-threatening.
The next day, the doctors clear Rosie to go home, but before she can make it to the exit, the local mental health people pick her up for an involuntary 3-day stay at the local nut hut, because slicing your wrists, even poorly, wins you a psychiatric evaluation.
After her 3 day mini-vay, Rosie is released and for some reason, goes to the police station, where the immediately present her with a set of bracelets and book her on assault charges. From A-Mom. Not L-Ho, because she lurrrvves Rosie and refuses to press charges.
So, now we have my cousin in the clink, L-Ho furiously working (on her back) to help pay for a lawyer. Meanwhile, L-Ho is shacking up with another woman, telling Rosie, "I'm in a relationship with this woman, but when you get out, baby, I'm totally with you."
To make things even more unbelievable, Rosie is now soliciting donations from family members for postage stamps and money on her books so she can call L-Ho. Oh, and because Rosie is without employment, and unable to pay her bills, would myself and my mother be willing to make her credit card payment??
Needless to say, we said no, but in exciting and colorful ways.
While the above situation might have some degree of dark, morbid humor...there is nothing funny about Rosie beating on people. I've always felt she had some sort of sociopath personality. She killed her mother-in-law's dog because she didn't like that it barked all the time...and you know how little old ladies are about their dogs. Deep down, Rosie is a dark person, and God only knows what she is capable of.
Which makes me glad she doesn't know where neither I nor my mother live.
Now, don't you feel better about your problems???
Anyway, Rosie and L-Ho move to Podunk, and Rosie is unable to find employment there because the local nursing home is under a hiring freeze. So, you have two lesbians, chilling out, and only one having a job that consists of them blowing a 60-some year old man, one night a week.
At some point, 60-some year old john decides he wants to broaden the time he spends with L-Ho. Rosie, who was okay with the one-night arrangement before, suddenly has a problem with L-Ho spending more time with this guy. This causes some general friction in Lovers' Paradise. Things boil until they culminate in the parking lot at the local bar where our two lesbians get into a heated argument.
Into the car, Rosie starts hitting L-Ho. They drive home, and the fight escalates. L-Ho's alcoholic mother shows up and Rosie, lacking any sense of decorum, continues to beat L-Ho. Alcoholic or not, most mother's won't stand for someone pounding on their kid, so A-Mom tries to intervene. Rosie, pops A-Mom in the face, breaking her nose.
Rosie continues her assault, this time choking L-Ho until A-Mom grabs a big, insulated Bubba mug and doinks Rosie over the head with it. Rosie, in turn, tosses A-Mom into a coffee table, causing A-Mom to break her hand.
Upon seeing her mother all bloodied and banged up, L-Ho exclaims to Rosie, "Why don't you just die! This is all too much!!"
With those words, Rosie disappears in the kitchen and grabs a big knife, goes back into the living and proceeds to slice her wrist, but not in the manner that actually does the job. More in the manner that demonstrates that you are a dumbass seeking attention.
"Happy now?" Rosie demands.
L-Ho's grandmother shows up, and L-Ho and G-Ma help A-Mom out, leaving Rosie to bleed all over the carpet. Rosie, calls a friend, explains what happens, and then passes out from the loss of blood. Phone-a-Friend calls 911, and the ambulance picks up Rosie. Her cuts deep, but not life-threatening.
The next day, the doctors clear Rosie to go home, but before she can make it to the exit, the local mental health people pick her up for an involuntary 3-day stay at the local nut hut, because slicing your wrists, even poorly, wins you a psychiatric evaluation.
After her 3 day mini-vay, Rosie is released and for some reason, goes to the police station, where the immediately present her with a set of bracelets and book her on assault charges. From A-Mom. Not L-Ho, because she lurrrvves Rosie and refuses to press charges.
So, now we have my cousin in the clink, L-Ho furiously working (on her back) to help pay for a lawyer. Meanwhile, L-Ho is shacking up with another woman, telling Rosie, "I'm in a relationship with this woman, but when you get out, baby, I'm totally with you."
To make things even more unbelievable, Rosie is now soliciting donations from family members for postage stamps and money on her books so she can call L-Ho. Oh, and because Rosie is without employment, and unable to pay her bills, would myself and my mother be willing to make her credit card payment??
Needless to say, we said no, but in exciting and colorful ways.
While the above situation might have some degree of dark, morbid humor...there is nothing funny about Rosie beating on people. I've always felt she had some sort of sociopath personality. She killed her mother-in-law's dog because she didn't like that it barked all the time...and you know how little old ladies are about their dogs. Deep down, Rosie is a dark person, and God only knows what she is capable of.
Which makes me glad she doesn't know where neither I nor my mother live.
Now, don't you feel better about your problems???
All Hat, No Cattle
I went to work last night, the weather community predicting a blizzard to world-ending proportions.
So, all night, patients and nurses a like stared out the windows, waiting for the first snow to fall. It never happened. We were rewarded by crappy rain in the morning.
Now, we have freezing rain over snow, which makes for a nice, slushy mess. Should make for a fun drive to work.
The weather community is doing all kinds of back-pedaling. They promised me 6-10 inches last night. What I got was 2.5 inches. Of snow.
I've known guys like this.
I'm going to use someones idea of weather predictions via Magic-8 Ball. The ball is just as accurate.
So, all night, patients and nurses a like stared out the windows, waiting for the first snow to fall. It never happened. We were rewarded by crappy rain in the morning.
Now, we have freezing rain over snow, which makes for a nice, slushy mess. Should make for a fun drive to work.
The weather community is doing all kinds of back-pedaling. They promised me 6-10 inches last night. What I got was 2.5 inches. Of snow.
I've known guys like this.
I'm going to use someones idea of weather predictions via Magic-8 Ball. The ball is just as accurate.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
A Tale of Two Lesbians: A Perfect Couple
There is a saying, fairly old, that you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. Or my cousin's case, your princess.
If there is one absolute that can be said of my Militant Lesbian Cousin Rosie, is that she can't find normal, decent partner...in either men nor women.
Her first husband, liked to wear women's underwear and lived life on the DL...that's Down Low for you innocent types. Even more to the point, he liked to play with other guys, then go home to his wife. He was a nice guy, but really had no business being married. Rosie claimed that he was too feminine for her tastes.
Second husband, Bubba, as I like to refer to him. Weighs probably close to one metric ton, and is a guard at a local prison for criminals. Not the hardened type, but more the kind with the soft, chewy center. Rosie ditched her first husband for this gem. In fact, Rosie and I once shared an apartment when she moved this ass-clown in then couldn't understand why I demanded that he pay rent also. I only went grocery shopping once, spent $100, and Bubba depleted everything in less than a day. A sloth of a man, I could never understand the attraction...between either of them.
First Lesbian Girlfriend...seemed normal at first, but almost 20 years younger than Rosie. They were together for years, their relationship fairly unremarkable. Then FLG left Rosie for another guy, but just long enough to get pregnant and go back to Rosie with the "look, we can be a family" pitch. Along the way, she may have also banged a couple of their other lesbian friends.
New Lesbian Girlfriend (in her early-to-mid 20's to Rosie's early 40's)...initially, talked up as the first normal person Rosie has been "in lurrrvvve" with. NLG makes nutritious meals so Rosie can shed some weight and be healthy. My Aunt boasts that NLG is the best thing to happen to Rosie. The rest of the family shrugs in indifference. What we are experiencing is some sort of Rosie's Bad Partner Fatigue.
NLG is gainfully employed. She works only one night a week, from the hours of 9pm to 5pm and makes between $400-$500. Sounds like a fairly sweet deal, right? Because that leaves her with more time to cook for my cousin.
Well...
NLG has a friend. A man in his 60's. And her job is to spend the night with this man.
One night a week. From the hours of 9pm and 5 am.
Chains and whips sometimes included.
"That's a whore," I explain to my mother when she told me.
"A dominatrix?"
"Nope...just a whore. In the big city, we like to call them prostitutes."
The best part? Rosie knew about this, ahem, job beforehand. And thought it was a pretty neat deal. That paid good money.
I sat down and calculated. That would make L-Ho pulling down between $50-62 an hour. I know nurses who make that, and they don't have to have sex with someone old enough to be their grandpa.
Another added bonus, one of L-Ho's exes had the HIV/AIDS. Anyone care to wager that condoms are not part of the equation for these weekly visits??
But to hear Rosie tell it, L-Ho is the best she's ever had...both in and out of the sack. She gushes that they are so good for each other.
If by good you mean a possible STD-carrying whore is the perfect partner, why not???
You know, sometimes, there are worse things than being single.
I'll shut up about my date drought now.
If there is one absolute that can be said of my Militant Lesbian Cousin Rosie, is that she can't find normal, decent partner...in either men nor women.
Her first husband, liked to wear women's underwear and lived life on the DL...that's Down Low for you innocent types. Even more to the point, he liked to play with other guys, then go home to his wife. He was a nice guy, but really had no business being married. Rosie claimed that he was too feminine for her tastes.
Second husband, Bubba, as I like to refer to him. Weighs probably close to one metric ton, and is a guard at a local prison for criminals. Not the hardened type, but more the kind with the soft, chewy center. Rosie ditched her first husband for this gem. In fact, Rosie and I once shared an apartment when she moved this ass-clown in then couldn't understand why I demanded that he pay rent also. I only went grocery shopping once, spent $100, and Bubba depleted everything in less than a day. A sloth of a man, I could never understand the attraction...between either of them.
First Lesbian Girlfriend...seemed normal at first, but almost 20 years younger than Rosie. They were together for years, their relationship fairly unremarkable. Then FLG left Rosie for another guy, but just long enough to get pregnant and go back to Rosie with the "look, we can be a family" pitch. Along the way, she may have also banged a couple of their other lesbian friends.
New Lesbian Girlfriend (in her early-to-mid 20's to Rosie's early 40's)...initially, talked up as the first normal person Rosie has been "in lurrrvvve" with. NLG makes nutritious meals so Rosie can shed some weight and be healthy. My Aunt boasts that NLG is the best thing to happen to Rosie. The rest of the family shrugs in indifference. What we are experiencing is some sort of Rosie's Bad Partner Fatigue.
NLG is gainfully employed. She works only one night a week, from the hours of 9pm to 5pm and makes between $400-$500. Sounds like a fairly sweet deal, right? Because that leaves her with more time to cook for my cousin.
Well...
NLG has a friend. A man in his 60's. And her job is to spend the night with this man.
One night a week. From the hours of 9pm and 5 am.
Chains and whips sometimes included.
"That's a whore," I explain to my mother when she told me.
"A dominatrix?"
"Nope...just a whore. In the big city, we like to call them prostitutes."
The best part? Rosie knew about this, ahem, job beforehand. And thought it was a pretty neat deal. That paid good money.
I sat down and calculated. That would make L-Ho pulling down between $50-62 an hour. I know nurses who make that, and they don't have to have sex with someone old enough to be their grandpa.
Another added bonus, one of L-Ho's exes had the HIV/AIDS. Anyone care to wager that condoms are not part of the equation for these weekly visits??
But to hear Rosie tell it, L-Ho is the best she's ever had...both in and out of the sack. She gushes that they are so good for each other.
If by good you mean a possible STD-carrying whore is the perfect partner, why not???
You know, sometimes, there are worse things than being single.
I'll shut up about my date drought now.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
A Tale of Two Lesbians: A Saga!
My cousin, whom I shall call Rosie, came out of the closet in her mid-30's. She had been married twice before, to men. The first husband, she left because he liked the company of other men. She left him for the slobbery, slovenly oaf that was her second husband. This fat manatee of a husband single-handedly made the local Chinese buffet rethink it's All-You-Can-Policy. Such is life of a Podunk prison guard.
In a ironic move that wasn't entirely lost to us, Rosie left her second husband for another woman.
I'm not the expert when it comes to "coming out", so I don't know what proper protocol is for newly minted lesbians in social situations. However, I'm fairly certain that making out with your girlfriend at your grandfather's funeral isn't listed under the Top Ten Things All New Lesbians Have to Do!
Rosie was brought up in a proper Mormon house, complete with Stay-at-Home Mom. Seminary in the mornings before school. Girls Camp. Family Home Evening. A temple marriage with her first husband. Sometimes, Rosie would brag that she had the best upbringing compared to mine...a Mom that worked two jobs because Dad was too drunk to go to his one. No church. No Girls Camp. Mom told me later that she was sometimes made to feel inadequate by her own sister because of the differences in upbringing. To this day, my mother still feels guilty, even though she has no reason to feel that way.
I only mention these things to give you a little backstory, and perhaps an inkling into the mind of my Militant Lesbian Cousin and her origins. You love her because she is family, but you also know she can't be trusted. I think every family has someone like that.
This weekend, Mother relayed a story that is so jacked, that there is no way that in my most creative imagination could have made the story up. And just when I thought the story couldn't get any better, it did. Because the story is so fabulous, I feel I must share it with the world. Sure, it's my family, but there are some things that shouldn't be kept secret. While the story is laughable, there is a dark undercurrent that deserves to be unmasked.
And so begins the saga (because everyone LOVES a saga!), of my lesbian cousin and the trainwreck that is her life. A trainwreck that she caused and can only blame herself for.
Enjoy!
In a ironic move that wasn't entirely lost to us, Rosie left her second husband for another woman.
I'm not the expert when it comes to "coming out", so I don't know what proper protocol is for newly minted lesbians in social situations. However, I'm fairly certain that making out with your girlfriend at your grandfather's funeral isn't listed under the Top Ten Things All New Lesbians Have to Do!
Rosie was brought up in a proper Mormon house, complete with Stay-at-Home Mom. Seminary in the mornings before school. Girls Camp. Family Home Evening. A temple marriage with her first husband. Sometimes, Rosie would brag that she had the best upbringing compared to mine...a Mom that worked two jobs because Dad was too drunk to go to his one. No church. No Girls Camp. Mom told me later that she was sometimes made to feel inadequate by her own sister because of the differences in upbringing. To this day, my mother still feels guilty, even though she has no reason to feel that way.
I only mention these things to give you a little backstory, and perhaps an inkling into the mind of my Militant Lesbian Cousin and her origins. You love her because she is family, but you also know she can't be trusted. I think every family has someone like that.
This weekend, Mother relayed a story that is so jacked, that there is no way that in my most creative imagination could have made the story up. And just when I thought the story couldn't get any better, it did. Because the story is so fabulous, I feel I must share it with the world. Sure, it's my family, but there are some things that shouldn't be kept secret. While the story is laughable, there is a dark undercurrent that deserves to be unmasked.
And so begins the saga (because everyone LOVES a saga!), of my lesbian cousin and the trainwreck that is her life. A trainwreck that she caused and can only blame herself for.
Enjoy!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
On Blowing Chunks (Not my Dog's Name)
(Warning: This post contains TMI. So, if you are grossed out easily, stop reading.)
Because I am no longer a full-time weekend person, and am now a part-time weekend person, I get to have some weekend shifts off. Of course, there is the pay cut that goes along with that, but we won't dwell on that, mm'kay?
I get my birthday weekend off, so in trade, I had to work last night. Midweek. It was odd. But do not fear, I had packed a tasty lunch of leftover corned beef and cabbage. The night was shit, mostly dealing with a resident who wanted to give a patient Mylanta for his chest pain, instead of say, NITROGLYCERIN!!! We argued back and forth on the patients heart rhythm, she thought he was normal, I said otherwise. I even took a poll from the other nurses, those who work in the tele monitor room, and we all agreed that this resident was an idiot. Her senior was brought in who sided with the nurses, and we got the patient squared away. Crisis averted!
But at least lunch was good.
Around 5, I started feeling blah. As time progressed, more and more blah. After I signed off, I sat in the break room. The nurses were descending on a box of bagels. I caught one whiff and my stomach turned. Another nurse was cleaning her stethoscope with alcohol, and the smell of it almost pushed me over the edge.
Of course, whenever any female is nauseated, comes the obligatory remarks of, "Are you pregnant?"
No, I'm not pregnant, and thanks for your concern.
In what could be the longest drive home, I fought the rise of bile in my throat, but I had a bag handy just in case I didn't make it. Finally, I pulled into the garage, rushed into the laundry room, and proceeded to expel everything in my stomach to the nasty toilet that resides there. Most everything that came up is undigested corned beef...that I ate six hours prior.
Funny thing about my tummy. If it knows something isn't right with the food I ate, the pyloric sphincter locks down and food goes nowhere but up from whence it came.
Having missed the toilet a couple times, I try to clean up my mess, trying not to start a chain of gagging in the process. Yeah, I got it all over my scrub top, too.
Strip down to my pajamas, crawl into bed, where my tummy is making it's displeasure known. Thirty minutes of intense abdominal pain that has me curled up in the fetal position and wondering if I should go to the ER, I stumble into the bathroom and launch my second salvo of pissing out my ass. So much, that I think my entire system is full of wretched, foul-smelling, cabbage byproduct. The smell is so rank, I immediately grab the garbage can and try to throw up my uterus.
Shooting out of both ends like some sort of Chinese firecracker of luck.
Meanwhile, Brother is in the back yard playing with Hank. He can hear my loud retching, and starts mimicking the sounds coming from my bathroom window. Asshole.
This passes, and I brush my teeth, drink some water, go back to bed.
What happens from the hours of 9am and 1pm is a vicious cycle: sleep for 15-30 minutes, feel the urge, go sit on the toilet, barf in garbage can. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I damn near cried when I found a bottle of Imodium in my medicine cabinet. Too bad it didn't help.
So, three pajama changes later, for various reasons, I think my entire GI system is completely empty. I manage to sleep for 45 minutes this time. My stomach still bitching me out. This has to be the worst case of food poisoning I have ever encountered.
I did what any normal person would do, I called my Mommy who will be bringing me beverages this afternoon.
And that is how I spent my Thursday. I'm exhausted due to lack of sleep. Thirsty, but unable to keep anything down. AND, I have a vomit-filled garbage can that I need to figure out what to do with. There's no way in hell I'm going to the gym tonight. I can't stray more than 6 feet away from a toilet without disastrous consequences. AND, the sheer force and magnitude of my barfing has rendered me looking like I have freckles because of all the popped blood vessels on my face.
To sum it up, I look like a shit sandwich.
How are you?
Because I am no longer a full-time weekend person, and am now a part-time weekend person, I get to have some weekend shifts off. Of course, there is the pay cut that goes along with that, but we won't dwell on that, mm'kay?
I get my birthday weekend off, so in trade, I had to work last night. Midweek. It was odd. But do not fear, I had packed a tasty lunch of leftover corned beef and cabbage. The night was shit, mostly dealing with a resident who wanted to give a patient Mylanta for his chest pain, instead of say, NITROGLYCERIN!!! We argued back and forth on the patients heart rhythm, she thought he was normal, I said otherwise. I even took a poll from the other nurses, those who work in the tele monitor room, and we all agreed that this resident was an idiot. Her senior was brought in who sided with the nurses, and we got the patient squared away. Crisis averted!
But at least lunch was good.
Around 5, I started feeling blah. As time progressed, more and more blah. After I signed off, I sat in the break room. The nurses were descending on a box of bagels. I caught one whiff and my stomach turned. Another nurse was cleaning her stethoscope with alcohol, and the smell of it almost pushed me over the edge.
Of course, whenever any female is nauseated, comes the obligatory remarks of, "Are you pregnant?"
No, I'm not pregnant, and thanks for your concern.
In what could be the longest drive home, I fought the rise of bile in my throat, but I had a bag handy just in case I didn't make it. Finally, I pulled into the garage, rushed into the laundry room, and proceeded to expel everything in my stomach to the nasty toilet that resides there. Most everything that came up is undigested corned beef...that I ate six hours prior.
Funny thing about my tummy. If it knows something isn't right with the food I ate, the pyloric sphincter locks down and food goes nowhere but up from whence it came.
Having missed the toilet a couple times, I try to clean up my mess, trying not to start a chain of gagging in the process. Yeah, I got it all over my scrub top, too.
Strip down to my pajamas, crawl into bed, where my tummy is making it's displeasure known. Thirty minutes of intense abdominal pain that has me curled up in the fetal position and wondering if I should go to the ER, I stumble into the bathroom and launch my second salvo of pissing out my ass. So much, that I think my entire system is full of wretched, foul-smelling, cabbage byproduct. The smell is so rank, I immediately grab the garbage can and try to throw up my uterus.
Shooting out of both ends like some sort of Chinese firecracker of luck.
Meanwhile, Brother is in the back yard playing with Hank. He can hear my loud retching, and starts mimicking the sounds coming from my bathroom window. Asshole.
This passes, and I brush my teeth, drink some water, go back to bed.
What happens from the hours of 9am and 1pm is a vicious cycle: sleep for 15-30 minutes, feel the urge, go sit on the toilet, barf in garbage can. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I damn near cried when I found a bottle of Imodium in my medicine cabinet. Too bad it didn't help.
So, three pajama changes later, for various reasons, I think my entire GI system is completely empty. I manage to sleep for 45 minutes this time. My stomach still bitching me out. This has to be the worst case of food poisoning I have ever encountered.
I did what any normal person would do, I called my Mommy who will be bringing me beverages this afternoon.
And that is how I spent my Thursday. I'm exhausted due to lack of sleep. Thirsty, but unable to keep anything down. AND, I have a vomit-filled garbage can that I need to figure out what to do with. There's no way in hell I'm going to the gym tonight. I can't stray more than 6 feet away from a toilet without disastrous consequences. AND, the sheer force and magnitude of my barfing has rendered me looking like I have freckles because of all the popped blood vessels on my face.
To sum it up, I look like a shit sandwich.
How are you?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Nurse Follies: The Economy Catching Up
It seems you can't do anything on the planet without hearing something about how the economy has turned into a Crapfest. I've been incredibly lucky to work for an employer that is still doing well financially, that our jobs are not in any immediate danger. Some would think that folks who worked in health care have it made, and I'm here to say that's not the case. Quite a few hospitals in the KC area are under a hiring freeze...which sucks for the new nurses who are graduating this spring. I've heard about more than one hospital laying off people in management, ancillary staff, leaving the floor nurses safe. But, I've also even heard of one hospital firing nurses for minor infractions. These same nurses who also happened to have reached the salary cap.
Coincidence? I think not!
Not to say that my facility hasn't felt the effects of the impotent economy. In an effort to cut cost, our hospital stopped stocking peanut butter.
Yes, peanut butter.
Our Kitchen Nazi was overheard praising the decision, citing that "too many people were eating it". God forbid the patients were eating the peanut butter! However, I'm unaware of other uses for peanut butter that would make the number crunchers happy enough to bring back the peanut butter. Its wreaking havoc on our patient satisfaction questionnaires. You should see the incredulous looks we get when we tell the patients why we no longer carry peanut butter.
However, we still do offer jelly. But just grape.
Hard to say what will be next on the chopping block. We already serve that nasty generic cola, and you can't get much worse than that. And crackers...BUT you do get a choice of Saltine or Graham.
But seriously, this past weekend, the house census was low. Lower than what we usually see, even during holiday time. Nurses were being cancelled, sent home early. This rarely happens. What's the deal? We know that less and less people are having their elective surgeries (i.e. joint replacements, boob jobs, etc), but it stands to reason that more and more people are just refusing to go to the hospital because they can't afford it. Whether it be because their insurance sucks and the co pays are insane, or they have no insurance, or they just can't afford the time off from work, especially in these hard economic times where one sick call-in can be the difference between having a job, and not having one.
I find a certain irony in working for the industry that will either be the salvation of the country, or the final nail in our coffin.
My heart goes out to those who are severely effected by the Second Great Depression. So much, that I almost feel guilty that I still have a job when so many others don't.
Coincidence? I think not!
Not to say that my facility hasn't felt the effects of the impotent economy. In an effort to cut cost, our hospital stopped stocking peanut butter.
Yes, peanut butter.
Our Kitchen Nazi was overheard praising the decision, citing that "too many people were eating it". God forbid the patients were eating the peanut butter! However, I'm unaware of other uses for peanut butter that would make the number crunchers happy enough to bring back the peanut butter. Its wreaking havoc on our patient satisfaction questionnaires. You should see the incredulous looks we get when we tell the patients why we no longer carry peanut butter.
However, we still do offer jelly. But just grape.
Hard to say what will be next on the chopping block. We already serve that nasty generic cola, and you can't get much worse than that. And crackers...BUT you do get a choice of Saltine or Graham.
But seriously, this past weekend, the house census was low. Lower than what we usually see, even during holiday time. Nurses were being cancelled, sent home early. This rarely happens. What's the deal? We know that less and less people are having their elective surgeries (i.e. joint replacements, boob jobs, etc), but it stands to reason that more and more people are just refusing to go to the hospital because they can't afford it. Whether it be because their insurance sucks and the co pays are insane, or they have no insurance, or they just can't afford the time off from work, especially in these hard economic times where one sick call-in can be the difference between having a job, and not having one.
I find a certain irony in working for the industry that will either be the salvation of the country, or the final nail in our coffin.
My heart goes out to those who are severely effected by the Second Great Depression. So much, that I almost feel guilty that I still have a job when so many others don't.
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