30 August 2009


I've finished day 5 of 6 straight that I am scheduled to work and they have been 5 of the most hellish days of my career. Well, today wasn't too bad. Actually had time to answer some email during work. First time I've even logged into my email since I started this run of days. Had another postpartum hemorrhage with the same anesthesiologist and scrub nurse and I came in to help. Because now that we've done three of these in a month and a half; we're getting pretty damn good at them.  This chick actually had a blood pressure the whole time, so it was really no big deal in the grand scheme of things.  My point here, is I feel like I could be a cast member in anyone of my favorite zombie movies.  Scratch that.  Only in the ones where the zombies shuffle along.  I don't have the energy to move faster than that and I don't feel the need to communicate more than moaning with an occasional grunt for emphasis.
Night all.

25 August 2009

Geek Heaven!

October 2nd baybeeeee!

And classic Van Halen? I'm in love!


(541): my math teacher staples burger king applications to failed tests

He sounds like Mr. Hand. Awesome!

24 August 2009

23 August 2009

A week from Tuesday

A week from Tuesday this will be reverberating through the house at seven in the morning, waking those boys up for their first day of school. Listen and imagine it concert loud with mama dancing around the house.....

With a mom like me they will either be drawn to strong women or deathly afraid of them.
I have spent the last two days shampooing carpets. When I bought this house I had a toddler, a healthy husband and a well behaved cat. So, I put beige carpet throughout the house except in the family room where I put oatmeal colored Berber. That was probably not smart. Seven years later, I have two kids, a dog I have housebroken and a cat who regularly gets pissed off and uses my carpet as a litter box. My color scheme for the carpets can now be considered certifiable. Nurses are germaphobes; this is is an indisputable fact. After being forced to take microbiology, swabbing common items and appliances and then watching whatever critters grow to apocalyptic proportions, you would be too. This is why I would rather tumble down a flight of stairs, arms flailing like the most uncoordinated of dancers with St. Vitus' Dance than touch a handrail. Shopping cart handles are a hyperventilating thrill ride. Don't judge me. My point here is that shampooing my carpets has put me into a tailspin of ocd-ism. For all my comments of the house being a wreck and it looking as though my children are being raised by wolves, I do, fairly regularly, clean my house. Not that you could tell from what is reclaimed from the carpet shampooer. Yikes. And since I paid the gross national product of a developing country for my vacuum cleaner, why the hell could I knit an afghan from all the dog/cat hair I'm getting. Yerg. I'm covering everything with plastic. Including the kids.

Did you know on this date in 1775 King George declared that the American colonies were in open and avowed rebellion?

And he would have been 39 today:

How'd ya like a pair of these?

The Flexaril is kicking in...

21 August 2009

Why I Love My Job

I am precepting one of our LPNs who finished her RN degree and got a job with us. Today we walk into our patient's room (20 years old, 3rd baby, different fathers for all three kids, delivering only a year after a C-section for eclampsia that left her in a coma for 2 weeks) and the first thing we both noticed was she had pretty much the entire town in her room and there was a guy, around my age, with a shirt that said, and I quote, "It's not going to suck itself." Never say our client base isn't classy. It also turns out that this oldish piece of scrotum may have been the father, while the patient's boyfriend was there for moral support. And then, after several hours of everyone staring at her exposed "glittery hoo-hah" and PHOTOGRAPHING it, she started to nurse the baby and that room cleared out faster that a government building in an anthrax scare. So...y'all have no problem looking at this girl's vulva, but whip out a boob and put it to THE USE FOR WHICH IT WAS INTENDED, and then you get uncomfortable and discreet? Really? Okie, dokie. See, this keeps my life happenin'. If I worked in the City Of Big Computers and Airplanes, I'd be bored out of my mind. Nothing like that happens there.

In other news, I saw District 9 with my pops tonight while the mama llama drug FB and SoS to Shorts. I think I got the better end of the deal. Good flick, that.

16 August 2009

I have had quite the week. We have been busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest at work and the gear up for school has me cranky. Delirious, but cranky. I went out with the Nav and the Nav's wife on Friday before the great push to Bahrain. The Nav decided that having his legal wife and his second wife together for any length of time, especially when buckets of alcohol are involved, equals an incredibly loud time. We ended the night playing pool where I exhibited my mad skillz...like scratching on a break. Pair that with an incredible bank shot that I'm not even sure Fats Waller could have made, and I am the semi-Rain Man of billiards. The Nav is usually completely impressed by the amount of food his wives can put away, but that night he put us to shame. Some kind of bizzaro alternate universe was happening. I expected to see evil Superman any minute.

I have a thought. How about if you are bat-shit crazy and just a miserably, unhappy person, you take your psych meds before you come to the hospital? And make sure your crazy ass parents take theirs as well. It just makes everyone's life so much easier. This gal was nuts and a generally unhappy person. Her attitude pissed off Dr. Good Drugs (Handsome Silver Haired Devil version) and I've never seen that happen in 10 years. His brother, yes; him, never. She complained about the beds, the contractions, the pressure, the IV, the BP cuff, and so on, ad infinitum. When I set her up for her epidural (the first of two she would get) and explained that the BP cuff would go off every 5 minutes her reaction was "Jesus Christ! Every five minutes? Why?" I remained professional, on the outside and cursed her name on the inside, and once again explained about the need to keep her and her baby safe. She was "tired of this! It was two days of MADNESS!" Lady, that kid is still on the inside; you don't KNOW madness! Later, after she was comfortable, I told her to rest and her response was, lifting her arm, "How am I supposed to do that with this cuff on my arm??" I breezily replied, "Try your best!" and blew out of the room for awhile.

My plans to go out Friday night fell through and I was rather relieved. I had grand thoughts of mowing the lawn, cleaning the carpets, painting my nails, and folding laundry without child interference. I threw the gas can in the back of the car and went to the gas station. I must not have tightened the cap down, because very soon I started to feel a little light headed and loopy. Who needs to drink when they can huff gas fumes in an enclosed car? I came back home, hammered back some sushi, folded some clothes and painted my nails. I then turned on a movie and waited for my nails to dry. This was at 1800. I woke up at 2330 and decided the rest of my plans went to shit, so I may as well go to bed.

Speaking of movies, I found The Presidio on OnDemand and is it just me, or is Mark Harmon getting hotter as he ages? NCIS is one of my favorite shows (and not just for him), but you be the judge:
Mark Harmon then:

Mark Harmon now:

And how about this: graduate cum laude from UCLA, saved two teens from burning to death in a car wreck outside of his house, played quarterback for UCLA, father won the Heisman in 1940 for playing for the University of Michigan, and his grandfather was SecNav during WWII and a vice presidential nominee in 1936. One of his sisters was married to Ricky Nelson so he is the uncle of the band Nelson. And he's married to Pam Dawber who is not only beautiful, but nice according to all reports. Bitch.

So a sign I'm going to hell; the patient I was bitching about earlier tried to check out on us today. She wasn't my patient today. She delivered and started pouring blood. They attempted to get the placenta out, only got fragments and went back for a D&C. By the time she got to the OR, she was not responding to stimuli, they couldn't get a BP or a pulse. She poured blood off her bed all the way down the hallway, by the way. We had ICU nurses and two anesthesiologists, arterial and central lines going in, blood being poured in as fast as we could, Bakri balloon placed, all the fun you could imagine. The blood, platlets and plasma weren't coming as fast as they should because the blood bank only had one person working today. I'm sorry, are we a LEVEL FREAKING I TRAUMA CENTER OR NOT???? I guess trauma doesn't happen on the weekends. I hate to tell the administration, but staffing in the blood bank is not where you should try to cut expenses. This chicks arms were mottling; she was actively trying to cash out on us. She got transferred up to the ICU and I asked if anyone had put the collection balloon on the Bakri. No one knew about it, so I grabbed one and ran to ICU, one of the nurses in the room asked "Is this too much bleeding?" From what I could see at the time I said "Not really." Then I picked up the end of the Bakri tubing and the blood was pouring out onto the bed. "That right there IS too much bleeding." I hooked up the bag, immediately got 200 ml in the bag and ran to call her OB/GYN. The ICU doc in charge was very nice, but getting a little worried, as was I. The OB doc came in, asked for another med we give for hemorrhage, which I gave, and then she asked for another one.. I looked at her and said, "I think we need a hyst." By this time we had 400 mls in the bag and it was still coming. Our OB/GYN asked the ICU doc if the patient was stable for transport and he said, "The alternative is her bleeding out here in the room, so, yeah." We trucked her down to the OR where I had to crawl under that damn sterile drape to deflate the Bakri, and then stayed to check off more blood, platelets and plasma, as well as fetching suture, her original nurse ran for blood, and the OR nurse did everything else. At one point her hemaglobin went to 2.8 and her hematocrit went from 28 to 8. Yes, her hemaglobin was 2.8 and her crit was fucking 8! That shit will put your sphincter factor at about 10.9. All total before I left she got 10 units of blood. 4 six packs of platelets and 4 units of plasma. And she was still in the OR when I left. Her nurse did such a good job running her ass off even though she hates this shit. Good news is the patient's crit went up to 24. W00t! And I made a comment that maybe the hypoxic brain injury would sweeten her personality. So, yeah, I suck and I'm going to hell, but I'll have friends there. Now I'm suffering adrenaline backlash and I want to sleep for a week..unfortunately, I still have a lawn to mow, oil to change, kids to raise, etc. Dammit.

11 August 2009

Have you ever washed your face so fast that your pinkie went up your nose? I jammed mine so far up my right nostril I think I scratched my brain. At the very least I have a to scale trench of Marianas dimensions in my poor little mucous membrane. That's what I get for trying to be a girl and grow my fingernails past the quick. Not that I was planning to go cave diving with them, but you understand where I'm going here.

Why do all the people working the membership desk at the YMCA look as if they could stand a few hours on the stairmaster? I went to sign the kids up so I could get them in swimming lessons with people who are actually interested in teaching them to not drown instead of hooking up with one of the other instructors later, and, in my usual fashion, got suckered into joining myself. And it wasn't because the membership chick asked if I was over 30. I gave her the fish eye with my over sized t-shirt, no make up, and hat head and said, "I'm over 40." Her "you look so young!" didn't win any points and my goal was to get the hell out of there and finish my errands. So I signed up to shut her up. It was only 20 extra dollars, but let's get real. When am I ever going to go to this place? Stairclimbers, bikes, treadmills and ellipticals bore the hell out of me, I'm not running on a track,(kill me now) and, while I might be interested in the free weights, there are too many sweaty douchebags-in-training for me to ever do it. I'll stick with cussing Tony Horton at 4 in the morning, thanks. And what's with the teeny boppers in the Hooter's t-shirts? Her parents must be so proud!

The Nav and the Nav's Wife got back from Navy school in Rhode Island and if their extremely young marriage can withstand being locked in a small motel room together for a month with no relief, it can withstand trauma of biblical proportions. Although, the first night back the Nav was shipped off to a strip club in another state and I fed mass amounts of alcohol to the Nav's Wife. Girl time and your own body weight in frozen booze will bring any relationship back from the brink. I'm almost sure of it.

07 August 2009

Almost As Awesome As Michael-The-Extremely-Gay-Hairdresser

fail owned pwned pictures
see more Fail Blog
Got a low census day from work today and I left the kids at daycare so I could clean the house and revel in the cleanliness for a few hours. Instead, I ate a tuna/onion/cheese/tobasco sandwich and took a nap. Equally productive, I guess. The 0400 get up and work out regime kicks my hinder at the end of the week.

Was party to this conversation today:
SoS: "Mommy, you need to get married again."
Me: "I do huh?"
SoS: "Yeah, because you're all alone except for us."
FB: "She has us; that's enough." (I think this comment is a direct response to me yelling yesterday that the two of them make the house look like there are nine nomads living here with a herd of bison)
Sos: "We need a sister."
FB: "Maybe you need a sister, but I don't. Sisters are annoying." (Hey! I'm a sister you punk!)

04 August 2009

The one draw back of trying to turn your ass into something you can cut diamonds on is that it freakin' hurts. I can't bend, climb stairs, or think, really. I might get a few odd looks if I spend tomorrow at work saying "Oh, my Gosh, my ass hurts." even half as many times as I said it today. Someone might take it the wrong way. Coupled with massive bruises on my arm and ribs from slipping off the tailgate of the giant diesel truck owned by Dear Friend and Senior Chief, I'm in the market for some pain relievers.