29 November 2010

I am in severe lust with Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs. He's snarky, sarcastic, articulate, and has a great singing voice. Ain't bad looking either.

Wonder if I could make him leave his amazing, beautiful girlfriend to be swept off his feet by a cranky mommy of two.....
I just found out Leslie Nielsen died on Sunday...that's what I get for working so much. In my mourning, I will now watch Airplane non-stop for the next 6 hours.

27 November 2010

The mama llama went to Idaho for Thanksgiving and, since I had to work this weekend, the boys went to stay with my niece.  The lack of children running around, combined with me leaving the house at 0600 and not returning until 2030 or there about, not to mention my overwhelming fatigue from being extremely busy and my normal status insomnia, has resulted in household goods not being put back where they normally would be.  There is clean laundry all over the coffee table, mail stacked on the kitchen table, and cedar chips from the dog houses on the deck all over the floor by the back door.  I didn't realize how far I had let things go, however, until FB came into my bathroom to say goodnight after the boys got back home tonight.  It wasn't until after he left that I hoped he's either really oblivious and/or extremely tired, because otherwise he couldn't have missed the fairly large purple penis sitting front and center on my vanity between the sinks.  Poor kid is going to have scars if he survives being raised by me.

17 November 2010

Awesome. Awesome Day.

You ever have one of those days where your brain just can't connect the dots?  Where tasks that should be mere muscle memory become like a monkey doing a math puzzle and even those that know and love you want to call you Blonde?  Everything I did today had me feeling like a complete airhead.  I was near to asking someone to blow in my ear so I could get a fill up.  I don't know if I am more sleep deprived than usual, suffering from the effects of sunspots or incipient senility, but I had problems today. 

One of the nurses came and asked me to evaluate her patient who was a post-op C-section with calf pain.  I went to the bedside, queried where the pain was, what it felt like, if she had been wearing her TED hose and SCDs, felt for heat, unequal swelling and checked for Homan's sign All were negative except for pain with gentle palpation.  I looked at both of her calves and they didn't appear to be any different in size/swelling, but, being the experienced high risk obstetric inpatient nurse I am (with the certification to prove it...HA!), I measured both calves.  And I measured them again.  And then a third time.  Then I did equal measurements on both legs from ankles to knees.  Now this was a large woman.  Her calves were nearly the size of my thighs, but I knew, just KNEW she couldn't be measuring 460cm on her right leg and 420cm on her left.  They didn't look that big or that different.  So I measured again.  And got the same result.  The clinical picture didn't fit the imperial evidence.  Hmmm.  Nonetheless, I paged her physician and told him of my findings.  He said, "There is how much difference between the two?"  I repeated my findings, adding, "I measured three times.  But she has no, and I mean NO symptoms other than the slight pain. "  He said he would be down in a few minutes.  I hung up and my synapse fired. I realized that since this tape measure was different from the one I'd used for the last 12 years, something was amiss. Back I went to the room and re-measured, this time looking closely at the numbers and realizing the line for the centimeters is where the decimal point would go.  So what I was reading as 46(line)0 cm would actually be 46(point)0 cm.  Could I be a bigger asshole?  Or a bigger airhead!  I knew what I was seeing and what my brain was perceiving could not be accurate.  (lets not get into me not saying, "gee, this doesn't look like an abnormally long tape measure...say one 4 meters long.").  Holy crap.  I'm retarded.  I beat cheeks out to the phone, re-page the doc and clarify my findings.  He replied, "I was hoping you read that wrong."  He proceeded to call me "460" for the rest of the night.  There are worse nicknames, I guess.  And at least it wasn't the middle of the night that I unleashed my stupidity on him.  I still can't wait until his ass graduates in July though.

Then, I came home to find my flag wrapped around the outdoor light fixture and the pole bent, tinfoil that the dogs got out of the recycle bin in the pantry chewed up all over the carpet, and a house at 53 degrees and a non functioning furnace.  So here I sit, blogging in a house only 10 degrees warmer than the November night with the gas fireplace trying to warm my children as the emergency furnace fixer guy tries to get me heat so at least my pipes won't freeze.  Again, awesome.  Awesome day.

ADDENDUM:  That no good, lousy, waste-of-space, ain't-worth-the-powder-it-would-take-to-blow-him-to-hell, motherfucking contractor of mine screwed me over AGAIN!  There is water in the bottom of my furnace from his half assed fitting job on the vent pipes.  There's not supposed to be water in the bottom of my gas heated, electronic ignition furnace you fuckstick!!  Yet again, I have been Corey'd!  That's what I'm going to use in place of the f-bomb from now on: "Oh, Corey!"  or "mother-corey-er!"  If it wasn't worth dragging his ass to court and the ensuing fees after 8 years in this house, I'd have to do it.  Shitballs.

14 November 2010

Once again, working in the medical field gleans a cornucopia of unusable knowledge.  We nurses were sitting around in the nurses station during a brief lull; the flurry of brand new dependents had ceased, charting was caught up, and no corpsmen had to be severely beaten around the head and neck just for the hell of it.  In short, a peaceful moment.  I was contemplating my next course of action with my patients, including how to keep a wonderful woman with a repeat c-section without Duramorph because of a "soft" morphine allergy and only marcaine and fentanyl spinal, and without a post-op PCA, from climbing the walls all night as she had to deal with that major abdominal surgery without long acting narcotics in her spinal or a button of love to push as needed when I heard, "How the hell would anyone know it was JESUS' foreskin?"  As you could imagine, my head broke the sound barrier swiveling on my neck to see just from whence came such a query.  A colleague is finishing her degree and one class, apparently, required her to investigate religious artifacts and relics and their meaning to the flock.  Why this is important in a nursing degree, I have no idea.  It seems that the Latern Basilica in Rome has the Holy Foreskin as one of its relics. During the Middle Ages there were reports of up to 18 different foreskin relics around Europe. That seems a bit much for an eight day old infant, even if he is the Son of God.  Apparently, various miraculous powers have been attributed to the Holy Prepuce including it rising into the heavens and becoming the rings of Saturn.  Also, it expands when held near a virgin.  We all began to make comments sacrilegious, blasphemous and all manner of other ous-es, until it was decided that we were getting a little off the chain.  Although, we all agreed that "hey, I have a miraculous foreskin." is the pick up line of the century, hands down.  There are pages and pages of Google results on this particular subject, so even though I haven't given the Savior's foreskin any thought at all, many people throughout history have.

In keeping with the strangeness of the topic, another colleague informed us that there is a Museum of Menstruation in Washington, DC.  The website claims, "discover the rich history of menstruation and women's health!"  No thanks, my history is more than enough.

05 November 2010

There Aren't Enough Drugs In The World

FB's bed is a wooden captain's bed.  Loft type bed with drawers underneath; you get the picture.  Being made of wood, it squeaks with every movement and it is very apparent when the boy is restless and having difficulty settling to sleep.  The other night I was downstairs and I became aware of squeaking above me.  The squeaking had a pattern...it was rhythmic, if you will.  RHYTHMIC SQUEAKING COMING FROM MY SON"S BED.  I began to hyperventilate and turned up the volume to drown out the sound of my worst nightmare. 

A few days later my mom dropped them off and said, "I walked into the bedroom last night and I don't know what FB was doing, but he was acting awful guilty." 

I will now go to my happy place and live in a state of denial for the next 10 years.