Beauty in the Eye of the Beer-holder

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Me too.

GB Out and About

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nurse Follies: Ummm...Yuck!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dial soap did not help my nausea that day.

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

Some things seen, cannot be unseen.

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

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

Finally, A Cure!!

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

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

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

Nurse Follies: Quote of the Week

At the end of a rather harried shift...

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

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

I Didn't Forget!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok.

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

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

Better Luck Next Time!

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

Night shifters...we're so unreliable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How?

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

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

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

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

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

Drink Tea and Pee! (Out Your Ass)

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

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

Don't worry...he likes it.

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

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

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

And speaking of...

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

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

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

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

~Shudder~

Nurse Follies: Another PSA

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

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

Especially if the fire happens to be an electrical one.

You may now go about your day.

The Audacity of Stupidity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The State of Health Care

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

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

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

Back In Iowa...

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

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

The Iowa stories did wear on you after a while.

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

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

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

Rest in peace, Andy.

Valentine's Day Can Suck It

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

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

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

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

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

I Want My Meh-TV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are some other good ones?

New Shoes!

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

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

Anyway...


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

What Happened...

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a horrible place to be.

Get Thee Hence, Child of Satan!

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

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

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

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

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

Oy!

Wanted: One Gently Used Kidney

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

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

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

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

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

Uhhh....

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

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

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

Google Is Spying On Me!!

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

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

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

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

I Can't Stop Looking at This

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

But not much.

The Belated, Much Anticipated Christmas Party Post!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone came in their festive holiday best.

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

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


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

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

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

At any rate...

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

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

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

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

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

Other Things That Happen Late at Night

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

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

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

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

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



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

Nurse Follies: THE Notebook

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

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

Oprah Winfrey's website is not a reputable source.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Assholes.

Learn Something New Everyday

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

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

Dickholes.

Heather Fucks It Up Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I am truly destined to be alone.

Wait...Wut?

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

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

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

Nurse Follies: Back at My OTHER Job...

Dear Experienced Nurse New-Hire,

For veteran nurses, it is understood that you have work experience. Otherwise, the term "veteran nurses" wouldn't exist. You go to work at a new facility as a veteran nurse, it is assumed that you already know fundamental nursing things. Dependent on your previous work history, there may be some degree of expectation that you have a working knowledge of a nursing specialty: ER, ICU, Cardiac, etc.

Your new coworkers may ask you upon the first time of meeting you where you worked before, they are just curious, or making idle conversation during down time or lunch break. Then, it is appropriate to expound on your resume. You can wow us with your experiences, about the time you saved a patient from the brink of death with your ingenuity, a Styrofoam cup, and some duct tape.

However, a little humility goes a long way.

Constantly telling us about your other job wears thin. Especially when you are using it as a comparison to show us that we are doing it all wrong. We don't care. If we did care, we'd work for the crap hole you just came from. And if the other place was so damn perfect, why did you leave them to come work for us in the first place? Oh right, you're other employer is hemorrhaging money and is this close to closing.

At the beginning of the shift, I was gracious. And patient. And fun. I didn't lecture you on nursing, because you've been a nurse longer than I have. I wasn't there to teach you nursing. I was there to teach you ACME Hospital's way of doing things, which apparently is different than the way they do it at Bob's Community Hospital because you were mentioning it every ten minutes. I let it slide because I thought you were nervous. However, when you decided to pick away at how I do things, how I governed the floor when I was in charge because it's not how you do it when you get to be charge nurse, I decided I didn't like you.

So, do not act surprised when you come to me to point out another thing we are doing wrong and openly stating that it's a horrible policy/practice, and I wryly reply, "Oh, that's just because we suck around here."

Twelve hours of this, you got lucky...I only snapped at you once. What you didn't see were my coworkers keeping sharp objects out of my reach.

To orient a new hire, we get paid $2 more an hour. That's $24 extra for one shift, but after taxes is probably closer to $20. So, for twelve hours, I had to listen to, "At my other job..." and was compensated with $20 and high blood pressure.

NOT worth it.

So, thank you, for reminding me why I don't like training new hires. Have fun with the rest of your employment at ACME Hospital, Vortex of Suck (according to you).

Sincerely,
Your Preceptor/Charge Nurse.

Snowgasm My Ass

I'm somewhat amused by the panic that this "blizzard" has created. Every time I see the 2-3 inches of snow on the ground.

I spent my early childhood in Denver, Colorado. I was there when the worst blizzard on record for Denver occurred on Christmas Eve. I remember waking up Christmas morning, looking out the window and seeing our entire neighborhood buried in snow. Buried. You couldn't even see where the cars were parked. Later that day, Dad and the manly men of the neighborhood got out and shoveled little paths from house to house. Like a maze.

As far as us kids were concerned, it was the best Christmas break. Ever.

So bring it on, Mother Nature. I've seen worse.

Bring it!

Speak of the Devil...

I haven't spoken to hardly any members on my Dad's side for almost 17 years. For those who are keeping score, that would be since my Dad died.

Ever wonder how long I can carry a grudge? A well-deserved grudge? This would be my longest, and it's against family members. Namely, the aunts and uncles on my father's side. The cousins, I have no animosity towards. They were far too young when, as my father would say, "Shit went down".

So, imagine my mild surprise when I stumbled upon a post from a cousin on Brother's facebook page announcing that his mother (my aunt) died last summer. His father (my uncle and Dad's brother) wasn't doing so hot.

Call me a cold-hearted bitch, but I'm ambivalent. You may as well tell me a stranger died to get the same reaction. Sorry.

The cousin in question, sent me a message, demanding to know why I have the same last name as his. Only with lots of spelling and grammar errors.

"My father gave it to me" I replied. I then asked him if he knew who I was. Nope.

Funny, you're talking to my younger brother on facebook. After spelling it out to him (I'm your COUSIN), he still didn't have a clue. Whatever, dude.

So I asked him what he was up to. He tells me about the other aunts and uncles I really don't give a shit about anymore. Then, he tells me that he's been to prison...twice. He's got to be in his early 20's.

My family.

How GB Spends Christmas

Growing up in the Mormon church, one thing that is huge deal to the flock is the genealogy and doing work related to it. It was normal, everyday conversation for someone to speak of working on their family tree, and discovering that they were related to Queen Elizabeth, President Abraham Lincoln, Madame Curie or some other great person in history that did great things.

I'm convinced that if I dug in deep into my ancestral background, you would find that I am somehow related to Larry the Cable Guy or Roseanne Barr.

You may wonder why I bring this up. Well, I'm going to get to that in a minute.

I do bag on the White Trash demographic quite a bit. But the way I see it, I can and be without guilt. Because within my family tree, lies enough Whiskey Tango to sell out a Garth Brooks concert. Mostly on my Dad's side. If you were in northern Kansas, southern Nebraska, and chucked an empty Milwaukee's Best can, you would hit someone I am related to.

You still may be wondering why I mention this. Well, it's a disclaimer of sorts. You know, before anyone harps on me for making fun of NASCAR Nation. I am somewhat of an ex-patriot. I can speak the language. I understand the customs.

And I die a little inside knowing this.

With that in mind...I will share with you my Christmas activities. Stay tuned.

So It's 2010

Yawn.

I'll be back into the posting saddle shortly.

Happy New Year!

GB Goes to Hell...Again

At this time, there are five words that strike fear into my heart and makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"Let's go to the mall!"

So, Mom wanted to go and look for Christmas gifts. And we did, in the sub-arctic temps. Shockingly, I found a parking spot relatively close to the building so we wouldn't risk dying from hypothermia.

I don't particularly relish going to any shopping mecca around this time of year, but if I do, I try to make the best of it. I demanded a visit to the pet store. What can I say? I like animals more than people on most days, and a trip to the pet store always makes me happy. It used to be, before I set foot in a pet store, it had to be established that I would not leave there with anything that had a heartbeat. The one time this rule wasn't put in play, I came home with Sam.I was a little disturbed to see that a surgery center specializing in weight-loss procedures was right across from the pet store. A surgical center. At a mall. Who in the hell thought that would be a good idea???

"Okay, kids. Billy, you go to Hot Topic and get your goth wear. Rachel, you go to Victoria's Secret for underwear. I have to stop off at Bath and Body Works before I go have surgery on my stomach. Afterwards, we'll meet in the food court."

Nice!!

Anyway, we go into the pet store, and the puppies are actually awake and playful. Mom and I coo and squeal at the little furballs. They are so damn cute, especially the big, fluffy Newfoundland pup they had. One lady was standing in front of the kennel with the golden retriever, her nose pressed against the glass, bawling her eyes out.

"I used to have one of these!" she cried. Mom and I started feeling sorry for her. It's always hard when you have a pet that passes away.

"...when I was seven years old!" she finishes. Mom and I stop feeling sorry for her. Now, she's turned into Creepy Lady, crying in a pet store about a dog you had thirty years ago.

But you never know, she may have been having some odd reaction to the anesthesia from her weight loss surgery she just had fifteen minutes ago.

Nurse Follies: How to Create a Hostile Work Environment

From what I can tell, most nurses enjoy working at Acme Community Hospital (my employer). We occasionally get fed. We sometimes get free ink pens and coffee mugs. Administration will take us for walks and pat us on the head when we are good. We are routinely de-wormed, de-loused, bathed, and dropped into a nice warm flea dip twice a year (the ER nurses get this more often because they have greater exposure to the greater unwashed).

Nurses Week, they have little events to make us feel warm and fuzzy.

For Christmas, we get a gift card to a local store. Not enough to buy Christmas for your entire family, but it's enough to defray the cost of Christmas dinner. Wouldn't more be great? Sure! But with a hospital our size, one can't possibly expect them to dish out significant bonuses to all their staff. Hell, the place would go bankrupt!

So, imagine the ire when it was revealed that our hospital did in fact give out some bonuses to a small percentage of nurses. Only certain nurses, in a certain department. Not in management positions. Just regular floor schmucks like myself. To the tune of $1500 per nurse.

In these economic times, some nurses have had to be the sole breadwinners for their family because their spouses didn't end up in a profession that was recession-resilient. I'm sure those nurses would love to get a bonus like that so they can ensure that their families can have a good Christmas. But instead, you get a select few who get to take home $1500 check, while everyone else gets a $35 gift card to Bob's Food Mart.

It hardly seems fair, does it?

But can you imagine what work is going to be like after this revelation? How would you feel if you were the gift card recipient working with the tool who doesn't do anything more special than you do? Or how would you like to be the bonus recipient, working amongst your angry coworkers who would like to see you fall down an elevator shaft??

This should be as well-received as a five year old fruitcake.

Shocking News is Shocking

Everyone is all agog at the Tiger Woods and the steaming pile of crap he has found himself in. And all he did was crash into a little fire hydrant.

But in crashing into the defenseless fire hydrant, it opens a pandora's box of secrets into his alternative life. Tiger Woods a serial cheater? No, say it isn't so!! Who ever heard of a multi-million dollar athlete married with multiple girlfriends?? Inconceivable!!

I'm going to guess that the imprint of the nine iron on the side of his head tells us that he didn't have an "agreement" with his wife.

Is this really news? Is this really worth obsessing over??

Tiger, perhaps you should google Steve McNair, mm'kay? Dumbass.

And golf still isn't a sport.

Black Friday: Into Mount Doom

Well, by some wild hair I apparently had up my ass, going out early for the Black Friday sales seemed like a fine idea. I don't know why. I perused the Black Friday offerings online, and there wasn't any one thing that made me think, "I gotta have that!!!" Not. One. Thing.

But there I was, standing in my shower trying to wake up at 0400. We weren't shooting to arrive when the doors opened. I'm not a complete masochist. But to get somewhere and still maybe catch, err, something.

So, Mom staggers over and bleary-eyed, we get our caffeine fix before our first stop, Target. We both agreed that Walmart was ground zero, and should be avoided at all costs. Especially the one by our house. It draws the crazies on a regular day. I can't imagine what it would look like on Black Friday.

We get to Target around 0530, and park five miles away. All the 31-inch flat panel televisions are gone because they only stock five of them. I noticed that the cheap stuff was gone, but there was always a comparable item overstocked and ready for you to take if you paid just a little more. Whatever, Target, I'm onto your little game.

I manage to get a couple dvds, a digital picture frame, and something to decorate my mantle with.

Next stop, the mall. Parking sucks, but we take it up the ass anyway. We clean out Bath and Body works of various gels and lotions because women like that sort of thing.

After that, we agree to take a breakfast break at Dennys.

Right around the corner, is KMart. Parking still sucks, we're stupid and go inside anyway, where the place looks like a tornado swept through it. More people than we encountered anywhere. I find a pre-lit tree and some new pajamas. I love pajamas. These are black, silky ones that are pimpin' like Hugh Hefner, but they are women's pajamas. But if Hugh saw them, he'd say, "That's pimpin!" I have bawdy pajamas, too, but I like to switch things up. Most days, I prefer to be the hammer instead of the nail.

From there, we stop at Big Lots, and see nothing impressive. Moving along!

In the car, we discuss Walmart and decide to go, but the new one in Raytown. Sure, it may be smaller, but there appears to be less a risk of getting shanked in the toy isle. By the time we roll over, the parking lot doesn't appear dire, and we actually find a spot relatively close to the actual building. As we walk in, we overhear two cops talking about the shoplifter they just caught.

It is at Walmart, I find a similar tree to the one I just bought, but for $35 less. And a picture frame one inch bigger than the one I bought at Target, for the same price. Shit. I hate it when that happens.

Legs numb, walking zombies we have turned into. Mom and I buy some stuff, and right now I can't remember what I bought, but I'm sure I felt I needed it at the time. Anyway, we retreat to home where I immediately crawl into bed and pass out.

Black Friday, you are done and I hardly remember ye. I'm going back to bed.

Nurse Follies: NOT Appropriate!!

Sometimes, cute little old ladies are endearing, when they are not worrying about they are two minutes late from having their scheduled bowel movement. They are so cute, you just want to put them in your pocket and take them home and bake them prune cookies. Other times, not so endearing as they are mean as a pit of rabid dogs. Look into the history, and it's not shocking to find that they are retired nurses.

But, there are the ones who start out cute as a button, but then turn on a dime and scare the hell out of you. Take the 80-year old lady who was admitted for an electrolyte imbalance.

Little Old Lady: Honey-child, do you have a husband?
RN: No, not married.
LOL: Oh, so do you have a boyfriend then?
RN: Yeah.
LOL: Oh! So you've given up the pussy then!!
RN: (speechless)
LOL: I know my pussy is old, but it still makes the men holler, dear Jesus!!
RN: (still speechless)
LOL: At the last hospital I was at, a worker there became my friend. He held my hand just a little longer. Looked at me a little longer.
RN: (regaining composure) Oh?
LOL: Yeah...we were going to do it! Just didn't have a place to go. But, oh boy, I would've gotten on top of that! He had a nice ass.
RN: (composure lost)
LOL: Uh huh! I used to be married, you know.
RN: (wearily) You did?
LOL: Yeah...I had me some good dick back then. I love me some good dick!
RN: (jaw hits floor)
LOL: (dry humping the air) Yes, Lord have mercy! I need to get me some dick soon or I'm going to have to rape someone.
RN: Uhhh...
LOL: (looking at television) Look at that guy. Yes sir, I bet he gives good dick!

For the duration of her stay, we get to hear strange noises coming out of her room. A quick peek into the observation window shows that she is alone, but we avoid going in there unless we are summoned. Soon, the sound of her call light strikes fear into the hearts of the staff. She watches television, and we occasionally hear her appraisal of the potential sexual prowess of whomever is on the screen. The Sham Wow guy, Billy Mays, people on MTV, and some televangelist with a mullet. We try to warn ancillary staff before they go into the room, but the lab tech still slips through our fingers.

LOL: (eyeing lab tech) Mmmm, you're pretty fine.
RN: (flinches)
Lab Tech: Uhh, thank you?
LOL: Yeah, you need to get all the pussy you can while you are here, Lord have mercy!

No one was safe. She announced to the nurse tech who was bathing her that she was doing a stellar job washing her pussy. I think that tech has quit nursing school and is now applying to work at Sonic.

Was it mere coincidence that I, who sells sex toys, be assigned this patient?

I contemplated, briefly, sending Bosshole in there to speak with her about sexually harassing our staff. But then, she'd probably do her own sexual assessment of him, and no one wants to hear that. The poor chap's head would explode.

Because Sausage is for Southern People

I heard this on the radio the other day. I almost pissed myself because I was laughing so hard.



Enjoy.

Nurse Follies: Why I Refuse to Work in th ER

Because I'd slap this woman halfway through the conversation. My hats off to those who do work in the ER. Generally, people like this aren't admitted (unless, according to the recently published Harvard Study, you have insurance), but occasionally one slides through the cracks and they get to have me for their nurse. People like this make nurses re-evaluate why they became nurses in the first place. Some doctors, too.

And you wonder why you have to wait four hours to be seen in the ER? It's schmucks like this that hold up the line. I wish I could say that patients like this are rare, but they are not. There's enough of them to spawn an entire race. Skin-color irrelevant. They belong to the drug-seeking demographic.

(Shamelessly poached from Dr. Grumpy, who poached it from someone else. Go check out Dr. Grumpy's blog!!)

Under the Big Top

Over a month ago, Mother told me to reserve such-and-such date because there was a family outing to the circus. The circus. What 34 year old, never-been-married, womb dried and shriveled up barren female, wants to go to the circus?

But the peer pressure waxes strong with Mother, so I orchestrated a trade at work, and got the day off.

Mother said I could bring a guest, and my attempts to invite one were met with incredulous looks and transparent excuses (none of my single friends wanted to go either). So, not only does childless, husbandless me get to go to the circus, I also get to go stag.

It was a morning show, starting at 10am. Mother said we had to be ready to go at 8:30 am. Now, working nights since I graduated high school, I tend to stay up late. Not by choice, but because my internal clock is wired for it. So, I finally go to bed around 5:00 am, maybe get in a light nap, and then roll out of bed at promptly 8:00 am.

Scowling, I meet the women and children in the driveway, and we go downtown. For some reason, I was under the impression that this was a Barnum and Bailey type circus. It wasn't until we got into Municipal Auditorium, and I spotted a bunch of men in the classic burgundy fez, that I realized that it was a Shriner's Circus.

I don't have anything bad to say about the Shriners. When I was a newborn, I had a defect that required me to wear a cast and braces the first year of my life. The Shriners paid for it. Because of the Shriners, I can walk like a normal person (unless I've had something to drink). However, as I was sitting in the stands, watching the pre-circus festivities, I couldn't help but wonder just who was going to be on the trapeze. Some old guy in tights and a fez?

Thankfully, it turns out that they have a, ahem, real circus come and do the circus type stuff. The Shriners are left to dress as clowns and sell you anything that isn't nailed down. This includes these light-up wands that play music. They had some that looked like laser guns. Some looked like butterflies, some looked like light sabers. Each you would have to put a second mortgage on your house to buy. But parents were buying it all.

Anyway, I'm sitting in the stands (which were pretty good seats, actually), and am observing. In front of me, they are giving elephant rides for $10. You get to ride the elephant around the little ring twice. That's $5 a lap. Over on the other end, they are giving pony rides for $5. You get more than two rotations (maybe three), but you are going around so fast, I expected small children to be airborne by sheer centrifugal force.

There's a bungee jump thing in the corner, and I don't know how much they were charging per bounce. But the one thing that caught my eye was the Titanic Slide.

What. The. Hell? Am I the only one who finds this disturbing??? Apparently not, because parents were shelling out dollars so their kids could slide down the deck, much in the same manner that the actual Titanic passengers did when the ship was plunging into the frigid waters of the Atlantic. I'm surprised they didn't have a little quartet of kazoo players near by playing, "Nearer My God to Thee".

So, the circus actually begins with the ringmaster singing some cheesey little opening song, with a handful of girls dressed in skimpy Vegas showgirl outfits. One had a bad case of muffin top.

The lights dim and the Shriner clowns play a game with the audience, or rather, those in the audience who bought those spinner lights. They told everyone turn them off, and then on the count of three, everyone turn them back on. Exciting! This served no purpose other than to shame the cheap parents who didn't buy them for their children. Disappointed cries could be heard throughout the arena.

The first act is the tigers and the smell of pee fills the air as hundreds of children wet themselves with excitement. Sis-in-Law says it was tiger pee that I smelled, but I know better.

I'm not one of those freaky PETA people, but I felt bad for the tigers. I don't know if it was because such a graceful, beautiful thing was not meant to be a circus act, or it was just being in this particular circus, but I found myself wishing one would swallow the head of the trainer. Is that bad?

And so the circus goes in standard fashion: trapeze, high wire, Shriner clowns, trampoline, guys on bikes in a big metal ball, Shriner clowns, jugglers, some people playing drums half as well as I do, dancing bears, Shriner clowns, and various other acts that I refer to as Stupid Human Tricks. Oh, and some lady was shot out of a cannon. Big Finish!

The worst part? Not one beer to be found during that entire event. I asked a vendor why, and she sniffed, "This is a family event." So!! I would think that for such an event is when you need beer the most! Oh well. If they charged $2.50 for a can of soda, I imagine you'd have to sign the title of your car over for a bottle of Bud Light.

Financially drained, everyone files out of the auditorium, with their sugar-laden hyped-up children, all waving their little spinning light wands that probably died by the end of the day. Or turned up missing at the hand of the parents who were tired of listening to the same tune over and over and over again.

I hope the next baby who has to wear braces on their legs, understands the sacrifice I made on their behalf. I sat through a Shriners Circus so that they may walk.

Hair for a Cause!!

Unless you have been living under a rock, everyone knows that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Out come the pink ribbons. And soup cans. And spatulas. And everything else that is made pink so you don't forget to save the boobies!

November, it would appear, is a Man's Cancer Awareness Month. Instead of coloring everything one color, it was decided that the best way to bring awareness to the cancer of men's dangly parts and internal plumbing, was for the menfolk to grow a porn stache.

Meesha has been chronicling his facial pube journey. Chipotle has thrown his face fuzz into the cause as well.

(On a side note, porn stache's scare me. The Boy had some weird facial hair style thing going on for a while. He looked like an ice cream truck driver. It gave me nightmares. Thankfully, he caved to the online tauntings of his friends and got rid of it. However, the image is forever seared in my mind...)

But it got me thinking. Men will wear the pink to support the boobie cause. What can women do to return the favor in kind?? Not all women were blessed with the power to grow a full stache. I mean, I have one rogue hair that likes to crop up on my chin, but even if I allowed it to grow, you still couldn't see it because it's so dam light. It's not enough to be effective! It lacks impact! It just doesn't convey to the world that I support the men folk in their fight against dangly part cancers!!

Then it came to me. While most women may not grow hair on their faces, we do grow hair in other places.

So, in observance of Men's Cancer Awareness Month, I propose that the women of the world unite and stop shaving for the month of November. Legs! Armpits! Delicate girly parts!! The more hair, the more you can show your support of our brothers in their cause.

And if you have questions about how to avoid shaving, ask our European sisters for pointers.

Hair cuts are still acceptable. We're not total barbarians.

So, toss those razors, ladies! Let Operation: Fuzz for Cancer commence!!! Do it for the health of the special men in your lives!! Fathers, Husbands, Boyfriends, Brothers. Show them we are in the trenches with them, right by their side!!!

A Girl's Got Needs!!

Lucy has been acting funny lately. She chatters in her kennel. And by chattering, I mean it's not a bark, and not a whine either.

It finally occurred to me that she could be in heat.

This might explain why she pounces on Sam each morning when I let them out. Sam, who has been fixed since he was a little boy, clearly has no idea what to do with the ladies. Bewildered, he just looks at her, then me, then her, almost as if pleading for me to save him from the wanton trollop.

Then, she routinely flops over onto her back with her legs in the air. May as well attach a sign to her ass that says, "Free! Help yourself!!" And she has that look.

You know that look. You see that look in the eyes of countless females at the Power and Light District.

I have since scheduled an appointment to get her girly parts fixed.

Meanwhile, I'm going to have a talk with her. Just because she's not getting her needs met, doesn't mean she needs to act so desperate. She can take a page from my book and GET SOME SELF CONTROL.Damn horndog.

Hump Day Blather

I just got off the phone with the city people to schedule a bulky item pickup. November is full, so I get to unload my junk sometime in December. I'm sure there will be 3 feet of snow and ice on the ground when I have to cart it out of the garage and at the end of the driveway.

The odd thing, the woman wanted to know what I was putting out. Uh...crap I don't want that I can't put out on regular garbage day. No, she wanted specifics. Like I know every little thing that goes. I usually just blow throw the house picking stuff at random to toss. So, I just covered the basics of what I knew already earned a spot. I'll find a couple surprises to leave out there as well.

The laundry room is almost complete. The tile floor is done, walls painted, ceiling repaired, re-textured, and repainted. New sink. New light fixtures. It's going to be glorious when it's completed. Pics will be forthcoming.

Halloween was a general bust around my neighborhood. I bought a shitload of candy (which I am told is an actual unit of measurement), and only had 12 trick or treaters. Not counting Mom who came over with a paper bag over her head. I just enticed her into the house with promises of candy and my puppy.

Of those 12, only 3 came without costumes. Grr. Halloween is simple. You wear a costume, you get paid in candy. It isn't rocket science. A couple girls showed up bathed in glitter. I don't know what they were supposed to be (Christmas ornaments??), but at least they tried. No-costume Boys got DumDum pops.

So now I have a shitload of candy. I'm slowly dishing it out at work because those nurses will eat anything you put on the break room table. Next year, I may just forgo the trick or treaters, and find a nice party to go to instead.

I'll dress as a Christmas ornament.