Stream of conscious rambling from a sleep deprived nurse with English degree leanings. Either that or the psychological trait known as flight of ideas...it's a toss up.
"Deferred success?" Maybe if students would study the material and gain knowledge for the sake of an education instead of just passing a test, they wouldn't be demoralized by the word "fail." And if "fail" damages those poor little psyches so much, how about just using "did not pass?" Imparts the tone you're looking for without the false sense of succeeding without effort. Frankly, my kids are going to hear "fail" or better yet, "flunked" if indeed they do. They are big enough candy asses as it is.
28 November 2009
The Senior Chief, the primary wife and I were bonding over funny songs about the Navy. This might be my favorite. Besides being being soooo true, it has quite a jaunty chorus. NSFW language BTW.
Wait until I show him the one about the Chiefs. Bwahahahahahaaaa!
Not only did Booger play a well adjusted, caring, compassionate principal but Jesse "The Body" (and former governor of MN) Ventura is not only back on WWE, but he is also a conspiracy theorist with his own show, and Steven Seagal still states that he works in movies. Good thing he still has that day job. Seriously. If Steven Seagal pulled me over, I'd think I was being punked.
Movie choices for the night: every Alien movie ever made from the classic Ridley Scott, to Alien Resurrection which just made me go, "Whaaaat??" Or, the gayest tribute to Big Navy ever. Can you say homoeroticism? I chose the Alien extravaganza because a) I've always been more in to the Alien movies than Top Gun and b) it's just depressing to see how much hair Anthony Edwards lost and how much weight Val Kilmer found.
Although, this is a fine version
Last Thursday was parent teacher conferences and, after last year, I was concerned that SoS's conference would just be a giant, how do I say, BITCH-FEST about my kid. I had myself so spun up running scenarios and counters to supposed criticism that I snapped the toilet brush handle while cleaning. I was DREADING this conference and was prepared to either shift him into another classroom or turf him out to my friend in BFE who home schools her three boys (that she had in less than 3 years..go Big Navy! And stay out at sea so she can get a break from being knocked up! I guess that's what the tubal is for. :D ) I dressed in an outfit quite unlike my usual hang around the house jeans and oversized t-shirt. I had on cords, a fitted shirt, jewelry, heels, and all the makeup I could fit on my face. This, for anyone who knows me well, is full battle rattle. I might has well have been wearing an IBA. Every time I looked at the dog he rolled straight to his back and put all four feet in the air. I took this to mean I had achieved the look I was shooting for.
I roll up to the school 15 minutes early and spent the next 10 trying to cleanse my aura, enhance my calm and basically not fly in there and rip the balls off the first person I saw. Which, had that been a woman, would have been difficult to be sure. I walk to SoS's classroom and pace back in forth until it is my turn. When I go in I frostily say hello, sit down with meaning, and geared up for the riot. It was completely anti-climactic because his teacher actually likes my kid! I about went all Sally Fields on her; "you like him! You really like him!" Good grief, what a relief to have someone know your kid is a challenge and like him anyway. The only problem I really had was with the reading specialist who showed me his test results where he couldn't segment or blend words. I informed her that we do Hooked on Phonics at home and that the night before he used letter cards, segmenting and blending to spell the words I told him. She said, "Well, we did the testing in the beginning of November, so things may have changed." Ummm, that was 19 days ago. But, whatever. SoS's conference was a full 30 minutes. FB has a male teacher and he looped from 4th grade. His conference might have been 10 minutes if I count the time for his teacher to move to the back of the room and find the report card. "Yeah, he's doing fine. Working on his spelling." *crickets* I guess I'll go then.
The other night I walked into FB's room to say goodnight, confiscate all video games and, once again, inform him I can hear him cleaning out his closet when he is supposed to be sleeping so he should stay in bed to save us all the aggravation, and I saw What's Happening To Me? lying on the carpet. This and Where Did I Come From? have been pretty standard bedtime fare for my kids since day one. I am a nurse after all, and an L&D nurse to boot. My kids are gonna have the information they need, with strong caveats that they are not to share this information with friends who may have parents who don't share my philosophy of transparency in the sexuality department. But I digress. The next day we were at the Y for swimming lessons. We use the family dressing rooms because I can't trust SoS to go in the men's without causing a riot, fire, famine, or at least taking 2 hours to get out of the shower. This family togetherness doesn't bother FB because, well, shame is a scarce commodity in our house and FB has yet to discover middle school modesty. If it weren't improper, I'd probably still prance around nudelet the way I do when they aren't here. Except for the fact that FB could no longer form a sentence or bring his gaze above chest level when he was 6. Okay! No more barging into my bedroom or bathroom unless I have foundation garments on at the very least! (And if you're wondering, SoS hit that stage at about 4. Precocious.) And I digress again. My point is, as I am trying to hurry these children along, my back to FB to give a little privacy, he asked me a question as I was picking SoS's suit up off the floor. On reflex I turned my head and OMFG! The kid has pubes! At first I thought it was lint from the towel, but the Y uses white towels. My mind refused to grasp this concept of the impending maelstrom of puberty, despite the complete man growth under his arms. I must be delusional, low blood sugar, psychotic even to have imagined such a thing on my sweet little 10 year old. Surreptitiously, I glanced again. Nope. Didn't imagine it. I need a vodka with a valium chaser. Needless to say, today FB went to the men's dressing room while I ran herd on SoS in the family changing room.
I, of course, have to share this with all and sundry (obviously). My dear friend said, "Well, you know GMC (her son) told me that it isn't good if your balls are squishy." What the hell? Apparently, after my talk of testicular cancer with FB (neighbors of my parents' had a grandson lose a testicle at 15 to testicular cancer), and how testicular checks should be a regular occurence (and wasn't THAT fun to teach: this bag is your scrotum, the two little balls inside are your testicles and if you are ever talking to me that is what you call them. Not jewels, not balls, not marbles, not eggs..just testicles. All this while FB laughs insanely. Single motherhood. yay.), he decided to be the voice of prevention and told GMC to pick one day a month to check his junk. I think the American Cancer Society should give him a kickback. Or maybe there's a merit badge he can achieve. Oh, and two girls, who may or may not have been in middle school, apparently asked him out. FB, in true fashion, didn't say anything and just walked away. We'll work on graciously declining invitations once I'm sufficiently medicated.
From day one, SoS has been like this. Happy-go-lucky, smiling, loving little boy and one of the reasons I still breathe in and out. This kid loves to laugh and most of his antics are for the sole purpose of crackin' up! He's always thought his brother was the neatest thing since beer in a can as well.
He came flying into this world at 3:03pm; 7 pounds 8 ounces. I was so wiped out from working the night before I didn't remember telling the records specialist what his name was, and was sure his birth certificate was going to read "Baby Boy Pichler."
He's seven today.
Look at that awesome Spartacus butt chin!
When I was younger, seven years took an eternity. The last seven years took about 13 seconds.
11 November 2009
We've been passing around recipes at work faster than a two dollar hooker passes around the clap (nice image!), and last night I made "40 Cloves and a Chicken." You cut up a whole chicken, (which is a nightmare for me because it sounds like an episiotomy. Or an episiotomy sounds like cutting up chicken...whatever, it's foul. Heh. Foul. Heh.), then you bake it in the oven with thyme, olive oil and 40 cloves of unmolested garlic. If you hassle the garlic, it releases the essential oils and becomes strong enough to lift a car off a baby, but it you gently peel it and then roast it, it is delightful. I wasn't really hungry last night, so I didn't want any of the chicken or anything else I made for the boys, but I did eat 38 cloves of roasted garlic. I will never have a cholesterol problem again.
Got a phone call from a patient who said she was contracting and her cervix felt different, "like I can get a finger in it, where before I couldn't." What the hell? I told her to lay down, drink some water, and keep her fingers out of her vagina...she's gonna cause problems. Then she informed me that her husband first noticed it while they were having sex...la,la,la,la,la,la,la......keep HIS fingers out of your vagina then; I don't need these kinds of phone calls! And where the hell was my charge nurse; she's supposed to field this crap! It's one of the reasons I don't do that damn job anymore. Like the phone call in the middle of the night that started, "Hi, I just got off my husband..." Really, lady, stop. I don't think I want want to hear anymore. But she went on and then I was sure I didn't want to hear anymore.
Had a patient in triage today with a maternity shirt that read, "Maybe NOW he'll marry me." Huh. Well, honey,....huh.
I like this. And it includes the Coasties, who frankly, don't get near the respect they deserve. Thank a vet. And I don't mean the person that cares for your four legged children.
I have found myself trying to go off the grid. Stupid winter. Left to my own devices I would wrap myself in my flannel sheets, flannel pjs, sweatshirt, comfy socks, and stay in bed all day with my window open and a jet engine sized fan set at 11 blowing in my face. The blegh/meh is compounded by the feeling that everyone is telling me if I were a better parent, SoS wouldn't be such a challenge. I hate to tell 'em this, but that kid was a challenge in utero and his personality is not going to change. Besides, you do all this shit by yourself and see how much you like it. What may have been challenging with two parents becomes a hair pulling, drug seeking fun fest by your little lonesome, so thanks for the support. Anyway, enough of that.
I had a party the night before Halloween and found a costume labeled "Dramatic Witch." With such a description I had ideas of an Elvira like ensemble (without the cleavage down to my navel) and scrutinized the picture on the front. Black dress, handkerchief hem that came to right below the knee, bodice cut to show scant cleavage...okay, I can do this. Then I put this thing on and the front of it came high-thigh. So, dramatic witch equals trampy witch? I see. Paired with back seam fishnets and earrings I could hula hoop with, I'm sure it screamed "Lookin' to get laid!" But since I am essentially still the chick who was afraid to skip church to go to the beach (although I had no problem changing into my suit at 70 miles an hour down the freeway in a Ford Fiesta) I was a tad uncomfortable. So in my usual fashion I just became louder and told more jokes. I topped this whole rig with a giant feathered witch's hat that had netting and little spiders sown into it. Which seemed apropos as there are cobwebs growing about my person. A friend's husband dressed up as Lt. Jim Dangle and he looked exactly like him. They got pulled over on the way home and the State Patrol asked him to step out of the car because they needed to differentiate her boozed out smell from his. When he stepped out, the cop about peed himself laughing and then called his partner over to look. No idea if they let him off the hook.
I was a tad more sedate on Halloween itself, where I just wore my motorcycle leathers and a huge, curly, black and white wig with dreadlocks. That is the warmest I have ever been on a Halloween. I may have to be a biker chick every year from now on.
Took the kids to their well child appointments and found out FB is 61 and 3/4 inches tall. His mother is 61 1/2 inches tall. He hasn't stopped laughing like a loon since. He wears a 32/30 in jeans. My dad is 6 feet and has the same sized inseam. I told FB to ask Grandpa why he's so much taller if their legs are the same length. Dammit, I'm going to have some fun with this too.
We have changed our visitor policy to only 2 people allowed during labor and no one under 18 allowed on the floor unless they are the pregnant couple. That's gone over like a turd in a punchbowl. We also have to wear masks during patient care until 10 days past our piggy flu vaccination. That's if you can find one. The prison had it before our hospital did. I HATE having my mouth covered...I think it's because I talk so much and so fast that I suck the mask into my mouth and nose and feel like I'm going to suffocate. Not the best feeling for someone who is claustrophobic.
The dog has a squeaky toy he loves. It's a pig. He went through two cows and after the last evisceration, I couldn't find another cow. He found the pig to be an acceptable substitute. FB has named the pig "Swine Flu." He now talks incessantly about Knucklehead McSpazatron having Swine Flu. And then laughing like a loon. He is his father's child.
Had a nice little patient the other day who was, let's face it, a bit of a princess. You're pregnant, not incapacitated. And you're not in labor so, do you really need someone with you in the bathroom? She goes in the bathroom and insists on her hubby coming with her and closing the door. A bit later he opens it and says, "I'm getting gassed out in here." She took a dump and insisted on him staying with her until she finished wiping. Let me just tell you, there are some parts of yourself that should remain a mystery in your marriage! There wasn't a day I left the door open and I refused to let the hubster. Needless to say, I was standing there with my nurse face on when she came out, but on the inside I was screaming, "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me????" She then went to wash her hands (thank goodness, don't get me started on how nasty 99% of my patients are) and her hubby says, "You have a sticker in your butt crack." Her blood band was obviously on the wrist of her "wipin' hand" and one of the stickers had come off. He then proceeds to go after it. To the point he spread her cheeks apart, while she washed her hands, and picked it off! I would have donkey kicked his ass into the next county. But we have already established her boundaries are different from mine.
One of my cute, young co-workers offered some beef jerky to one of our doctors. No big, except it happened to be our Indian, Hindu doctor. Yay cultural sensitivity for us! I about had a stroke trying not to laugh.
I'm trying to figure out how 5 retired nuns and a priest cut through the security fences on Bangor. I bet there are people with "stars upon thars" who are pissed. I love how one of the protesters said they were "hidden in plain sight." Erm....never mind. So they cut through the fences around the Strategic Weapons Facility, get surrounded by Marines and then have the balls to complain about being kept on the ground and hooded for hours. Beats being shot though, doesn't it? Since this is a place where "deadly force" is authorized. That means getting shot for all you nutbars who thought breaking into a nuclear weapons facility was a fine idea. And what would possess them to put their blood in baby bottles? I mean I get what they are trying to say with the symbolism, but yuck.
I made a fine dish called "Shot and a Beer Pork Stew." Now have to explain to the kids why there is beer in the fridge. Never mind the te-kill-ya in the cabinet.
Found a video of some girls from my alma mater getting roughed up a bit
Around the 0:37 mark is where I would have opened a big can of whoop ass. Poor little Molly Mormons need some Molly Hatchet in their makeup. I need to travel back to Provo and introduce them to righteous anger. No, I am not condoning dirty play, but I can guarantee that after that I wouldn't have just lain on the ground. I may have been red carded the hell out of the game, but I'm sure she would have known I disapproved of her actions.
