Return to Sender

For the past year or so, I have been getting emails from some people I don't know. What I do know, is that they live in Texas, and they are bigtime Crispy Christians. What is a Crispy Christian, you may ask? Well, it's someone who is so ate up over their religion, that they can't help but be all self-righteous about it. Back in the days when they had tent revivals, there was usually a big bonfire involved. Local townsfolk would go, get all excited about the faith du jour until the next revival came to town and they go all excited about that one. In some areas, black scorches marked the earth from so many revivals visiting in a short amount of time. Crispy Christians.

There is a saying that I recently heard, that I am absolutely in love with, goes as such:

I'm perfectly okay with people having faith. I'm perfectly okay with those who don't. I try to look at the person and base their merits on the person, instead of whether they go to church or not. Sure, there's churches out there who illicit they eyeroll from me. There's people out there who embrace their aetheism with such fervor that it almost seems like it's own little church. People have their free agency to do what the hell they want with their own souls/salvation/pasta sauce. I'm not going to tell you it's wrong. If you can live with it, and it makes you happy, and it's legal, then more power to you.

Anyway, back to my emailers.

I don't know how they got my email. I'm deduced that someone with my last name lives down in the Lone Star State, goes to their church, has an email that is similar to mine, or they had my email address long ago before they cancelled their service with that particular phone company. Whatever the case, I get emails about some Pastor's blog, bake sales, bible study groups, youth group crap, and all things pertaining to their church group.

Usually, I just delete the emails and move forward with life. But remember, these people are in Texas. Land of the George Bush Fan Club and corn-holing tea-baggers who would still swear that President Obama is a secret Muslin terrrorist set on turning this country into a socialist hell, where your daughters will be raped daily, and sons will be sacrificed to Allah on Sundays. Oh, and he's black.

Then, I started getting emails about the mosque in New York. Guess what? I don't give a shit where they want to put their mosque. If they own the property, they can build a big giant penis if they so wanted (for a Church of the Divine Orgy, perhaps?). Or I would get emails about how Obama is the Antichrist. The main thread of these emails consisted of this: Create Fear Through Ignorance.

If there is one thing I can't stand, it's ignorance. Especially when people chose to be that way, instead finding the facts and making their own opinions.

In true GB fashion, I've been having fun at the expense of those who would so brazenly send such emails. I've included historical accuracies laden with snark. Now, it would appear that I've hurt some feelings.

Boo. Hoo.

I think I have eliminated most of the offending email senders. Now, I'm getting links to their pastor's blog. What's a girl to do??

Algebra sucked, study hall was a blast, have a great summer and see you next year!

I graduated high school in 1993. I wasn't a popular girl. I wasn't part of the nerd herd. I wasn't even what you would call a jock (I was in track, but not gung-ho about it). My years in high school were not what I would call "the best years of my life". So, it was with supreme happiness that I graduated, and left all the bullshit behind me.

Some people, however, are unable to let it go.

You know the types. You may even work with some of them. Their glory days, the pinnacle of their existence, resides within the halls of some high school somewhere. They were usually popular, big man on campus. Everyone looked up to them. Everyone wanted to be them. They were the sun, and everything else were just little peon planets that revolved around them.

After high school, they tried to keep that momentum going, but learned pretty quickly that they were now little fish in an extremely large pond. No one cared that they had been homecoming queen, or quarterback. They became average people, like everyone else. And they hated it.

But then they found jobs, and because water rises to it's own level, they gravitated towards the people who were most like them. Lost souls still trying to recapture the glory of their youth. They travel in packs, joined at the hip at work in their own little cluster, usually talking about all the fun they had over the weekend. Loud enough for other people to hear and remind them that they didn't belong in the self-anointed popular crowd. Congenial only to their own little peer group, cold and aloof to everyone else. You might get a couple outside people who get sucked in, having never known that kind of inclusiveness before, they are now part of the the "cool kids"...some twenty years later.

It's pretty pathetic when grownups behave this way. It speaks volumes about the person when you realize that the best moments they ever had was during puberty. Not when they found the person they would spend the rest of their lives with. Not when they had kids of their own and experienced the joys of parenting. All their happiness can be tied to their high school days.

Up until now, I've been pretty fortunate to have minimal experience with, what I call, The High School Crowd. Sure, there were some immature types on the day shift, but I attributed that to the fact that they were still so young. Now, it would appear, that the Mean Girls have arrived on night shift. Rude to everyone but those within their circle. Unhelpful. Hateful. They make fun of everyone when they are out of earshot, for what they say, how they look, how they dress, or laugh at someone's wedding pictures. I'd almost bet money that these people were bullies when they were in high school. Being hateful just comes so easily to them.

At least if I am an asshole to you, it's because you did something retarded to a patient or left a mountain of work for me to do because you were to lazy to do it yourself. I'm an asshole, shit gets corrected, we move forward amicably and I will still invite you to my Christmas party. I'm not going to scoff at you because you got a promise ring. (Ironically, the nurse who was making the most fun of the ring just recently got dumped by her own boyfriend.)

It used to be, we had some pretty cool people who worked on my floor at night. We worked as a team. No cliques. No backstabbing. Just our jobs. It was a grown-up floor. We shared a genuine concern for each other. Now, mst of the cool people have moved on to greener pastures, leaving us with a couple assholes that are ruining the dynamic that once made us so great.

I made this realization this weekend when they worked together, and their actions caused an uneasy feeling on the floor. It would seem that I wasn't the only one who noticed. Another coworker was at the desk with me while the Mean Girls were sitting in a corner talking about some crap reality show that only teenagers watch, when my coworker quipped, "I feel like I didn't make the cheerleading squad." Even the day staff has taken notice, and they don't notice anything.

I graduated high school in 1993, and I left it there, only to be revisited at class reunions when gathered with classmates I actually liked, and we reminisce about how retarded we were. This is one of the many reasons that my time on my floor is limited. Soon, all the good nurses will be gone, and all that will remain are the Mean Girls, and a unit that will become known as Telemetry High School.

The Pussy and the Peeper

Shortly after the incident with Oz this June, I fell into a bit of a funk. I didn't want to do anything but stay home and wallow in misery. One day, Mother wanted me to go to the store with her. I opted out, but she wasn't going to take no for an answer, because nothing conquers depression better than a trip to your local Walmart. So, I schlepped on some clothes, and left the house.

On the way home, we drove by house with a sign out front that simply said "Free Kittens". Mother loves cats. In fact, we have an agreement that if she were to ever win the lottery, she would have her own ranch for unwanted cats. My end of the agreement would be that I would quit my job, go to veterinarian school, and open up a vet's office on the property. Most days, I generally like animals more than people. This is an idea I could get behind.

Mother's eyes lit up at the sight of the sign, and I asked her if she wanted to go see the kittens. She readily agreed, made a U-turn, and within five minutes, we were knee deep in tiny fur-babies.

Somehow, that day, I ended up taking one home. I hadn't planned on getting another one, even after Shasta died (I suspect I may have an allergy to cats). But here I was, cradling a little gray and white. Mother, tickled pink, wanted to bask her newest grandkitteh in gifts, so we stopped by PetCo.

Baby animals are cute, and people generally like to pet them. This includes PetCo employees. One such employee, commandeered the kitten as she directed us to the kitten food isle. I will be honest. Despite my training in the medical field, and despite the countless wieners and vajayjay I have seen, I can't tell the gender in baby cats. At least in dogs, you can tell just by where it is located. In cats, their junk is located in the same spot. To make it worse, it's covered in fuzz. So, I asked the employee if she could tell us what gender my newest house guest was. With much fanfare, she flipped the kitten over on it's back, spread the legs open, and announced it was a girl.

"And that is her VAGINA" she finished with flourish.

On the way home, the cat was given the name Sophie. A nice, cute, girly name. Little pink collar, little bowl with flowers. Everyone liked Princess Sophie. Including George.

Life went on at Case de Blather without incident. Mother would come and tend to my own little petting zoo on those nights I worked. The other day, she mentioned that she thought Sophie had strange anatomy.

"Are you sure Sophie is a girl?" she asked. I reminded her that the PetCo worker assured us Sophie was a female as evidenced by the presence of the VAGINA. Because she worked at a pet store, she knew what she was talking about. Right?

Sophie purrs for Mother all the time. Me, not so much. Her interaction with me is usually fraught with teeth and claws. Today, I caught her in a rather pleasant mood and she let me scratch her belly, purring the whole time. So, there we were, enjoying some nice, quiet parent-kitteh time when it happened. A little pink appendage, resembling a Christmas light bulb, popped out from her vagina. Now, I'm not a veterinarian (yet). but with my vast experience, I deduced that it wasn't normal for any female (human or animal) to have anything pop out of their vagina unless something went in there in the first place.

Princess Sophie was, indeed, a boy. Now what?

Mother thinks I should let the name stand and not tell anyone, like the gender is a dirty little secret. I, however, am having a hard time bringing myself to call the cat by a name that is ill-fitting. So, I've been trying to think of what to do. There really isn't a male version of the name Sophie. I took a poll, and got many different suggestions:

Pat

Chris

Phillip

RuPaul

Sophocles

Since I have started referring to, eh, Sophie as a "he", he has been much more friendly to me. Perhaps that is why the hostility. I guess I would be pretty annoyed if people kept thinking I was a dude, although I can think of at least two obvious signs I'm a female.

So, what to do about the name??