WTF?-apalooza!

Strange day. Work was the same as always with the exception of having a resident who had never seen the E=mc2-surgery-on-speedballs specialty of Dr. Bigdaddy and his cohort Mr. Weird. I overheard a series of conversations that just made me wonder.

Example the first: overheard on the way to the parking garage. Let me set the scene: A sunlit tableau with our three players in a small group, not unlike 3 flies on a pile of horse apples. They are a hospital employed "flashlight cop," some yutz from maintenance, and some dude in half a pair of scrubs that probably works near the incinerator or elsewhere inhaling toxic fumes as he makes his minimum wage. The following is the part of the conversation I heard:

Unidentified one of the three (cuz at this point I just wanted to GET TO MY CAR!) ".....he had a sawed-off shotgun in his backpack, didn't he?

Flashlight Cop: "Yeah, he did."


Maintenance Yutz: "I wish I'd have known that when I first seen him."


Really? And what, pray tell, would you have done? One wonders what magical crime fighting tool you would pull from your maintenance utility belt to disarm him. Especially in light of the fact that you yahoos can't seem to grasp the concept of why it would be "bad" to turn off our power when we have a patient that is breathing by virtue of an electrified machine. ("Well, the generator will turn on in a minute or two.")


Example the second: In the return line at my favorite "burn up some money" store, the young lady in front of us on her cell, with more hardware in her face than the engine compartment in my car: "Like, he beat him up, and like, then he went to jail, cuz I guess he like, had a concussion." (other person undoubtedly responds) "Well, like yeah! I told him, like, you can't go around hitting people." While I share her concern that there are people getting angry enough to sock others and cause head trauma, I was deeply troubled by her working vocabulary. What was it, 1500 words? Read a book, hon. Or at least skim "Increase Your Word Power" in Reader's Digest.


Last was just the fact that I put $93 in my gas tank today. Nice going, Einstein. Get rid of the paid off minivan with gas mileage of about 21 for the shiny trinket with the MPG of 15 on a good day. Way to make a responsible choice. I could try to find somewhere that sells E85 and at least salve my conscience that I'm doing my part to decrease the dependence petroleum based products. But, that would require me to overcome my basic laziness, I probably can't find anything local anyway, and then I would be uptight and fuming the rest of the night, thereby exacerbating my already raging insomnia.


Last thing on this ramble, then it's off to find something productive to do... three of my favorite people I've never met are on their way home(s). Big sigh of relief and Happy Trails to LT Nixon, Suspect, and Toy Soldier. If you've never perused, you've missed something. I've really enjoyed reading their posts. For fun click on the links in the sidebars, but I'd stay away from Tucker Max (notice: NO hyperlink) unless you want to spend a few days trying to figure out how to scrub away the images his writing has burned into your frontal lobes. Godspeed, fellas!

What's In A Name?

I've been thinking. Dangerous territory, I know. But it has come to my attention that the designation "Number One Son" may be misconstrued as me having a trifle more regard for one child over the other. This thought had been niggling the back of my brain for some time and then two co-workers questioned the background of "NOS" within the space of one week. Thus, I have decided to change the alias of my first born to, well, First Born. Simple enough. SoS will remain SoS. It is apt and fitting, especially after today. But that is another story.

I have now assuaged my conscience, and given relief to my friends regarding my children. I have also diverted the alternate reality of SoS standing in a tower on some college campus, high-powered rifle at the ready, screaming "Mom loved him best!" at the top of his lungs. Either that, or he would become a some "splatter artist" painter expressing his angst and suffering for his craft. Whatever.



Conversation with SoS after being sprung from solitary confinement this evening:

"Mama, guess what I'm going to do at Albertson's?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna let you get me a secret toy."

"Are you now?"

"Yeah, but don't tell FB, it'll be a secret toy!"

Memorial Day

It's not just about barbecues and baseball folks.

Pain

I am tired of man's inhumanity to man. I want to understand how we can't just be decent to one another. How is it that, in a difference of opinion, or conflict we as humans can't just treat one another with simple respect? How can someone look at a person and not realize we are the same, and not treat that person better than one would a rabid dog? Do you know how hard it is to watch someone's life implode in front of you? To sit there and realize that person's life has now taken a turn from which they may not recover? Knowing that the soul-searing ache you feel is not even a fraction of the deepening avalanche, the crush of despondency that the person is experiencing? All you can do is grit your teeth, attempt to buoy up this individual and hide your own fears in the face of theirs. It is a energy sapping excercise in mental exhaustion.

My cure was to visit Michael the Extremely Gay Hairdresser (fine job as usual) and hammer back 4 pieces of dark chocolate with chili peppers. I then came home and passed out on the couch for two hours with a warm cat on my lap and a laughing dog at my feet. How is it our little 4 legged shadows can sense our need? Thank goodness they do.

Then there is always my little Downey Flake and the Dance of the Irrepressible White Boy. Never fails to cheer me up. Enjoy.

Karma

Those sneaky, underhanded finks that supervise me suckered me into being in charge. At least one of them should have known better, but being truly selfish beings, as we all are, deigned to let me just screw everyone over. My night shift harbinger-of-the-Apocalypse karma has followed me, but is usually confined to triage. Today, the day shift got a decent taste of the pain that is my life in charge. I took a floor with two patients on it and turned it into a carnival of angst that had my eye twitching in a mariachi frenzy.

Breakdown of my day:

Number of ill calls: 5 (including both scrub nurses, one of which was a patient. I say get that girl on terb pump, stick her in a wheelchair, and get her ass back out on the floor)

Number of scheduled C-sections: 2

Number of admits: 17 (that's two an hour, you say? Not so bad, you think? Yeah, too bad they come in by 3s and 5s, all thinking they are gonna have a baby and take forever to get out the door.)

Number of phone calls received: 4300 (this is not so much hyperbole as perception)

Number of times I wished I still drank: 8600

Number of f-bombs dropped: oh, thousands

Number of patients transported via ambulance by Sister Hospital that doesn't deliver babies but whose ER doc checked said patient's cervix and stated she was in labor: 1

Length of stay of above said patient: 2 hours (determined she was not in labor in 15 minutes. The last hour and 45 minutes waiting for some of the Dilaudid and Phenergan that Sister Hospital ER gave to wear off. Let me go there next time something hurts!)

Number of Samoan prisoners from the jail with cute Sheriff escorting: 1

Number of times cute Sheriff graced us with his presence at the desk for no reason: about 20 (he may have known he was cute.)

Number of people who said I couldn't be in charge anymore: 7

Number of staff on today: 9 (including me and I was one of the above 7)


Well, hell.

Tomorrow, my day off, I will be attending Skills Lab and learning about a monitoring system that will be in place bright and early my next day at work. That would be Friday. Nothing like getting that training in in an expeditious manner. Reminds me of my 11th grade physics teacher who would bemoan our abysmal test scores and then realize she hadn't taught us what she had tested us on. That's thinkin'!

After the love that is Skills Lab, I will be heading over to my post-op evaluation. I assume the appointment will go as follows:

Skeletal General Surgeon: "Well, it's been a week. When did you take the dressings off?"

Me: "A few days ago" (like 5)

SGS: "And when did the steri-strips fall off?"

Me: "A few days later." (forcibly, the next day)

SGS: "All looks well. You can now resume vigorous exercise if you wish."

Me: "That will be nice." (started running and lifting again 3 days ago)

I am so non-compliant. If I were my own patient, I would kick my ass.

I have been so very....anxious...agitated...what is the word I'm looking for? Ah. Time for some retail therapy. Since my last foray netted me a big ol' car that requires me to use a step ladder to wash the hood, and a big ol' payment to go with it (hello, conspicuous consumption!), I will settle for visiting Michael the Extremely Gay Hairdresser! I will be putty in his hands to mold and form as he pleases! Well, my hair will be anyway. That will have to suffice or I will have to break the hermetic seal on my birthday lipstick!

Non-sequitor from NOS at 0530 this morning as I went in to wake him up:

Me: "Good morning, sweetie."

Bleary-eyed NOS: "You have 20 muscles in your hand."

Me: (sound of crickets) "...Okay!"

Doubting Thomases

This post is for all you who think calling my cherubic, blonde-haired, blue-eyed son "Spawn of Satan" is a misnomer.

After a delightful morning in church where I was continuously amazed he didn't burst into flames as he put on an extraordinary demonstration of the wiles of a demon seed, and a fabulous mid-afternoon with him in his room, grounded for said display, SoS and NOS went outside after lunch to make the most of this very un-Pacific Northwest day playing in the sprinkler. I was cleaning up after lunch when cute and wet SOS came to the door:

"Mommy. I accidentally poopeded in the rocks."

Excuse me? "What?"

"I accidentally poopeded in the rocks."

"Did you poop your swim trunks?"

"No, in the rocks."

"NOS! How did he poop in the rocks?" (NOS explains while pantomiming pulling down his trunks and squatting.)

"WHAT?!? That's not an accident!!"

Cue enraged mom flinging hands above her head, losing her mind all over the kitchen, and further scarring her child's delicate psyche. Why did I reproduce without a complete genetics scan? Because this did not come from me. I defy anyone to find a little girl who would take a look at the pea gravel under the big toy 10 feet (!) from a bathroom and decide, "Hey. This would be a good place to take a dump!" Sorry. Ain't gonna happen.

Nothing for it of course, but to grab a wad of paper towels and clean it up. Good thing I'm a nurse and not a lot makes me hurl. I ask NOS where the load is and he points. Coincidentally, this is the same direction he is pointing the hose with the sprayer nozzle set on "interrogation." I come around the corner and he is hosing the turd. At this point the only thing that I can think to say is "Motherf--ker!" Loudly. In my head. This is not directed at my child, mind you, just the whole situation. There are times when that is the only word that will do.

"What are you doing?!?"

"I'm trying to clean it up."

"And do you see that it is actually making it worse?"

"...yes..."

"Then why are you continuing to do it?"

I may have to start drinking heavily.

(I just realized it's the 28th anniversary of Mt. St. Helens. Maybe there is some cosmic/karmic disturbance in the Force.)

Books for Soldiers

So, anyone who knows me, or has happened upon this blog, probably knows of my involvement in Books for Soldiers. See that little link up in the left hand corner? There ya go! Books for soldier is a program where the members of the military deployed in a war zone can write in and request books, music, magazines, or other items of which they might be in need. For instance, one of the groups I support on BFS is SSG Sean Abbott and his unit in Afghanistan. SSG Abbott is on his 5th (!) deployment, and is stationed in a remote area of Afghanistan where there is no PX and all mail and supplies are brought in by helicopter sling. Yikes! There are also members of the military who received little or no mail and their names have been submitted, usually by a friend or Commanding Officer, to BFS for support. These men and women are so grateful to know that their country not only knows that there are two wars being fought, but that we also remember those who are fighting.

Recently, I and the rest of the BFS volunteers received the following from Storm Williams, the founder of Books for Soldiers:

It Is A Bad Economy

Starting at the first of this year, BFS started a robust fundraising campaign here in North Carolina. We contacted small companies and some large companies you probably have heard of. To date, we have received a stack of letters that begin with "we deeply regret not being able to donate this year" and no cash. From our corporate donation campaign we have received a tad under thirty dollars from a philanthropy grants group in Winston Salem, NC. That was it, nothing else. Times are tough for all non-profit groups, food banks from all around North Carolina and across the nation are suffering from a lack of donations and a sharp increase of those in need. The article below arrived in my email today about a women's shelter closing because of a lack of donations.

http://www.the-signal.com/news/article/1356/

The Next Step

The BFS Board of Directors have discussed this problem for some time and have decided to have another go at fundraising. We are working on a different campaign aimed at companies in larger states - California for example. Every time we want to do fundraising in a state (cold call, direct mail, advertising) we need to file with that state's Secretary of State - filing in all states if prohibitively expensive so we have to pick and choose. In our last newsletter, we reported on the hacker attacks that coincided with our 5th Anniversary. Those DNS attacks didn't help our balance sheet. Our final IT bill from the datacenter for that week was a tad over $11,000. If you recall, the hackers brought down the whole datacenter just to try to kill us. The Board set a goal of $70,000 to raise by November 1st of this year. If that amount is not raised, the site will close on December 31st, 2008. If we cannot make the fundraising target, the Board will seek to sell the site to another 501(c)(3) and any new owner will need to be qualified - have the IT talent to run the site, the funding to keep it going and the funding for the required upgrades, both software and hardware. We would also stop accepting new OVs on November 1st and stop accepting new books requests from soldiers on December 1st, 2008.

What Does It Take?

*It takes a lot to run BFS on a monthly basis. The monthly funds required to run an operation like BFS are large. Here is a partial summary of where the donations go. All figures are a monthly average for 2007.

Books, DVDs, other carepackage items $1153

Postage $812

Rent $1600

Utilities $277

IT Services (server farm, hosting, bandwidth) $4258

IT Maintenance Contract $1500

IT Security Software License Fees $350

There are other things like broken computers, the occasional software purchase, insurance, pencils, toilet paper for the bathroom, etc. that we purchase. No one at BFS receives a salary. The BFS presence on MySpace, Flickr, YouTube are all free. Our presence in Second Life has also been donated. We will be disabling the uploading of photos in the next few weeks to save bandwidth....My hopes is that eventually we can raise more than the $70k survival goal. Last year our goal for 2008 was to move to a website design where the cumbersome OV process was performed online and searching and finding soldiers would be a breeze - subscribing to soldier requests is my favorite new BFS feature. Now we are just struggling to stay open.

How You Can Help

The ONLY reason we are open today is because of the OVs that have donated so far this year, but now I need to ask more of everyone.

1) Office party fundraiser - Coordinate a "Save BFS Day" at work and urge, beg, cajole your co-workers into coughing up something for BFS.

2) Have your company cough up some cash. We will send your company a formal donation request, just send us the company name, contact name and address and we will get it out right away. Send these requests to me personally (storm@booksforsoldiers.com)

3) Have your place of worship pass the plate (hat, kippah, whatever) for BFS. Consult with your church's leader about holding a "Save BFS Offering" one day this month. Checks should be made out to "Books For Soldiers." If they have any questions or concerns, please contact me directly to set up a call.

4) Visit our donation page and give what you can.

http://booksforsoldiers.com/donate.php

or by check:

Books For Soldiers 2008 Fund Drive

353 Jonestown Rd #123

Winston Salem, NC 27104

In Closing

I started BFS five years ago and fully expected it to be online for only six weeks, that is the length of time I thought it would take for our troops to finish up in Baghdad and come back home. I am also terrible at predicting who is going to win the next NASCAR race. If worse come to worse, it has been a good run - a great run in fact. In the first 6 months of operation, we collectively shipped over 400 tons of packages to the Middle East, that is when I stopped counting. We also built the largest English library in the Middle East - together with US soldiers at the Baghdad International Airport in the months following the fall of Baghdad. We have done a lot of tremendous work, made a lot of great friends and even a wedding or two! We have also lost a lot of friends and we have received way too many memorial flags. Either way, you can all be proud of what we have achieved. I promise that we will do everything in our power to meet our fundraising goals and will appreciate any help from you. Thank-you for your support, patience and hard work over the last 5 years. And most of all thank-you for your support of our troops.

Storm Williams

Founder

Books For Soldiers*

Legalese: BFS is exempt from filing IRS Form 990. Any financial information found here should not be considered as a replacement for IRS Form 990 or a supplement to an IRS Form 990.

There you have it. My PSA for BFS. Spread the word, hit up your companies philanthropy office for their contact person (I'm going to! And my dad's old company, and hey maybe I'll hand out fliers at the Maritime Parade..), or if you want and can, make your own donation. I do not mean to offend by this post, it would just be a shame to let this program and all the troops who depend on it to fade into history. Thanks for putting up with me. Back to our same Bat Channel of all me, all the time, soon. Because I'm that self centered!

Gallbladder, ho!

I'm back in the bosom of my house if not my family. My mother, wisely, decided to keep the boyoz for another night. More than likely a good thing. I have discovered I suck at being a patient. I wasn't a complete hag. In fact, I was very polite and nice. My goal is not to let everyone know I'm a nurse, despite having a friend pick out who was taking care of me. And picking out my anesthesiologist. Okay, so, I could have tried harder to hide it. Seriously, though, being wheeled to an OR on a stretcher, when you are the one usually doing the wheeling, is a hives inducing anxiety fest. It's probably a sign that I'm a control freak. I had to keep telling myself the same thing I tell my patients, "Keep your hands inside the ride until it comes to a complete stop." Luckily, there was some Versed handy, and my Dr. Good Drugs was no slacker on giving it. The last thing I remember was getting my ECG leads placed and that is okay with me! As it turns out, my Dr. Good Drugs was not one of the ones I requested, but still one of the good ones. My only request was "don't let me puke." And what a fine job he did of fulfilling my request.

Rolling into the recovery room is where things got interesting. The CO2 caused an uncomfortable feeling of *ahem* fullness. In my stupor, I was trying my best to get away from the sensation when I heard the nurse tell Dr. Good Drugs that I was agitated. I opened my eyes, he looked at me and said, "I can give you some more Versed to make you comfortable." Yeah, boy! After he left the nurse said, "Wow. He took care of you." That's right. It's not what you know, but who you know! And apparently we were both on the same wavelength of "better living through pharmacology."


Knowing what is going on can be troublesome when under the effect of narcotics. Drifting in and out of sleep, I could hear the pulse oximetery alarm going off. I would take several deep breaths and the damn thing would continue to ring. What the hell? I'm on O2 for crying out loud! I realized it the was the guy next to me after the 3rd time. They then wheeled in a lady who had just had her tubes tied. This gal was babbling like I always fear I will do coming out of anesthesia. (Not a good idea when you have surgery in your place of employment. Who knows what blackmail could arise?) She was loudly exclaiming how she loved her anesthesiologist, how she loved her doctor and how she would never get pregnant again. Did you know drugs destroy your filters? I started laughing and blurted, rather loudly, what I'm sure her nurse was thinking, "Oh shit." I then clapped my hand over my mouth, prayed that no one heard me and decided going back to sleep was the best for all.


Apparently I have become so chemically naive, that one Percocet will put me on my lips. When did that happen? Although, in my defense, I hadn't eaten anything since last night. Which then had me searching for saltines about a half hour after I popped said Perc. Mmmmmm. Percoceeeet. (Insert Homer gargling noise here.)

Once at home I slept through three On Demand movies. Luckily, the were the free ones and I'd seen them before. Today I didn't see Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, Earth Girls Are Easy, and Groundhog Day. Now that I am conscious, I'm enjoying The Holy Grail.

"Go away or I shall taunt you a second time!"

Thanks to all my friends and their well wishes. I look like someone took a mini-bat from the Mariners "Bat Night" and beat me repeatedly in a very specific location. Either that particular instrument was a bitch to wield, or I have piss poor protoplasm.

Oh, the humanity!

This is why my dad can no longer be allowed in my yard with landscaping tools:

Those are my chives! He weed-whacked my chives!!!

"Dad! You weed-whacked my chives!"

"I did not!"

"Yeah, ya did. Those green things at the edge of the deck next to the sage? Chives!"

"Oh. They looked like grass to me. You should have labelled them."

Issues

We all have a public and private self. The public persona is directed by social mores, puts on the cloak of responsibility and professionalism, and is socially acceptable. Our private self is the one known to our families and friends. The one that walks around for hours in sweats and bedhead and laughing maniacally at thoughts in your own head. The one that will send a Buttery Nipple into a room full of doctors during their Christmas party. The one who finds great satisfaction in yelling "motherf-er!" You know, that one.

We were going into Albertson's after a long day of work (read: I was tired and far too lazy to make food for my offspring....quick and handy, it is!), when I spied one of our dear anesthesiologists (very cute, freakishly white teeth) coming out. We started chatting and apparently SoS decided not nearly enough attention was directed at him, so he poked said anesthesiologist in the stomach, hitting his belt buckle. Dr. Good Drugs says "Hey, you hit my Superman belt." Such a statement was far too much for SoS and he jerked up Dr. Good Drugs's shirt. Mentally slapping my head, I pulled SoS back and apologized, "Sorry, he has no boundries." To which I recieved the reply, "Like mother, like son." Hey!

Almost 24 hours later I am involved in a day at work that would rival the seventh ring of hell, and my favorite (and personal) OB/GYN comes onto the floor. I greet her warmly and she asks, "How are you doing?" Before I can answer a co-worker says, "She's been swearing a lot." My doc then says, "This is different how?"

Somehow I get the feeling my personal persona has impacted my professional one.

And a Rockin' Mom's Day to you All

For all my girlies (and any poor soul who inadvertenly stumbled here and was sucked dry before you could escape), I give you the best mom tribute ever! I don't think I could be anymore eloquent than Mr. T. Thanks to LT Nixon for finding and posting this classic piece of fabulousness.

LT Nixon Rants: Happy Mother's Day From LT Nixon

WOOHOO!!!

Yay! Called in! It's tweaker-ific!

Tweaker wannabe.

As it turns out, they decided they didn't need me after all. One problem. I can't freakin' sleep! I don't know what kind of effect you get from meth, but if the soccer moms just want to be able to get more done, they should just try the straight pseudoephedrine. I may have slept for 40 minutes. And now I'm doing my tweaker impersonation: mopping the floor, doing laundry, answering email, and a little bloggin'. At 4 in the morning with no fatigue in sight. Perhaps taking the 12 hour extended release 3 hours before my intended bedtime was not the wisest choice. I'm expecting to be cleaning the baseboards with a toothbrush any time now. However, I can hear out of my right ear now.

On a good note: college roommate that I haven't talked to in years called last night. There is just something about talking to someone who knew you before you were respectable. Or semi-respectable...whatever.

The Zombie in Me

I am going in to work at 0300. I might get called in before that. I can't sleep. I'm tired, nearly exhausted, from the oh-so-fun day of being jerked around the unit and the late night last night, but can't quite seem to put myself over the edge. Is it the Sudafed? The 24oz can of Amp? My own freakin' insomnia that kicks in whenever it stays light past 8 pm? About 0500 this am, this will kick me in the ass, and I will start babbling like a squirrel on speed, becoming more manic as the hours pass, until I crash and wander the floor in a semi-comatose state praying for death and muttering "brains" under my breath. And it's my own fault. When will I learn? Apparently, the lure of filthy lucre (and wanting to spend time in my true atmosphere) is too great.

Nursing

What the world thinks nurses think:




What nurses think:


Or at least this one does. It's the 17 year old boy living inside me, I swear!

Oh, no.

During my pre-op I noticed a pamphlet called "Pruritis Ani." I leaned forward to confirm I saw what I saw. Now, I didn't think this referred to Anakin Skywalker (geek alert!), and the only "ani" I could think of was...really? That can't be right. This is the way my mind works: hippopotomus, hippopotomi. Elvis, Elvi. Anus...well, it would have to be ani wouldn't it? So, this pamphlet was basically saying "My ass itches." Or rather "My asses itch," because we are talking about the plural here. I then chuckled to myself, thinking that I was probably the biggest dork on the planet to come up with that as the definition. Then I noticed who published the pamplet. The College of Anal and Colon Surgeons. Ah.

What I learned in "The Multicare Difference" class is:

I f-ing hate Power Point.

There are some people who don't think there is a better use for their time.

Body language is amazing (you are both married to someone else...KNOCK IT OFF!).

Pickle is a funny word. Until it it used 85 times in a 15 minute period.

The only connotation of pickle I really care about is Jan's family's connotation of pickle.

A Woman's Fancy Lightly Turns to Thoughts of...

Moss and dog hair, really. I'm obsessed with both. And this is why(d0 tell!). As the trees began sending forth tender shoots and the flowers began to forgive me for my less than attentive efforts in their care last summer, I noticed that the front lawn was mightily green. It was also mightily spongy. Having walked on grass lo these many years., I am quite aware that sponginess is not a quality often seen in grass. For pooh! Nearly all of my front lawn was moss. I quickly hosed it down with my organic, safe-for-all-living-creatures-unless-your-pour-it-directly-into-an-orifice moss killer, lest my father, "King Chemical," feel the need to help. Not that I don't want his help, (well, really, I don't, he does stuff WRONG! Okay, different, but still WRONG!), but I'm very particular with what goes on my lawn. (Not to mention how the grass is cut and the fact that I move my plants out of the way as I edge as opposed to his carpet bombing method of "it shouldn't be there, anyway!") The difference between organic "Moss Aside" and kill-them-all "Moss Out!" is inherent in the names. "Moss Out" kills all moss to a paltry black grease stain on the lawn, enabling the homeowner to blithely overseed and go on his/her busy way. "Moss Aside" disturbs the moss's growing cycle just enough to give you a minor coronary event while raking it out of your lawn, as opposed to flirting with Pulseless Electrical Activity without it. One should not need to take nitro just to fit in with the Joneses and their lawn. So began the raking and the sweating and the cursing all Gig Harborites who were stay at home moms with husbands pulling down 6 figures, and nannies and yard people with lawns that resemble the 5th green at Augusta National. There are now sparsley covered spots in my lawn interspersed with flat out bald areas. Sprinkled over that is errant moss that escaped my efforts to gather it up. Screw it. I'm going to mulch it right back into the turf when I mow. I still haven't done anything about the crabgrass; I'm sure the Homeowner's Association is getting hives. I already underpaid my dues by $15, and the treasurer has been desperately trying to get ahold of me. Meanwhile, I have been desperately dodging his calls. I'll pay it fer pete's sake! What are they gonna do? Put a lien on my house for a lousy $15? Rat bastards.

The other bane of my existence is the male pattern baldness effect of shedding that is going on with my dog. My grandma didn't lose hair at this rate when she went through chemo. He is like that Peanuts character Pig Pen who walked around with a cloud of dust everywhere he went. Except in this case, it's dog hair. And this crap is everywhere! I find it in the most unusual places. Like the top of the dishwasher. Say what? It almost looks as though I've got a Rodentia Reservation on my kitchen floor after he gets up. Is that a rather large sized guinea pig? Oh, no, it's just a ball of hair that leapt to it's death from the dog's back.

My house looks like Hurricane Katrina got PMS and stayed awhile. I need to get another care package together, but I got so carried away with the last one I almost exceeded the gross national product of a developing country to send it. Maybe I'll just toddle off to bed. I live the Scarlett O'Hara philosophy of life: "Screw it. Maybe it will be fixed when I wake up." Or something to that effect.