So, I had a date the other day.  This is an unusual event for me since I haven't had one since Super Hot Slice O' Cuteness left for all points Thailand, found the love of his life (whaddya mean it wasn't me??), and started to procreate.  This all started with a friend harassing her husband about what is wrong with men that don't see some bonus is being with a woman who has a freezer full of meat, no less than seven channels of ESPN, and counts Die Hard as one of her favorite movies, continued with a drunk doctor asking me at the Christmas party, "Why are you single?" (Because I asked for the thrill of being widowed?  What kind of a question is that?), and ended with a blind date.  Me, being me, became more anxious as time went on, let my imagination run wild and thoughts of a hundred horrors that could go wrong from me being 20 minutes late and him thinking I had stood him up (which happened on my first (blind) date with the man who became my hubster), to me suffering a tragic fondue accident that would lead this poor man to needing me to be incarcerated for severe nerdiness.

All this led me to ponder the gender differences in date preparation.  I'm sure his preparation began that morning with a close shave and taking a change of clothes in to work, with a possible freshening shower 15 minutes before he left to meet me.  Women, on the other hand, usually need a few days to prep.  For instance, about three days before, we look in our closet and realize we have absolutely NOTHING TO WEAR!!  Which requires a woman to do her best Darryl Waltrip impersonation on the way to buy at least one suitable article of clothing.  You know, dress to impress, but don't set the bar so high you have to reach that acme every single time you go out.  Then, two days before the date, you have to finalize the ensemble: coordinate the shirt, undershirt, pants, shoes, makeup, hairstyle, and jewelry.  Perfection.  The day before the date there is the microdermabrasion of the face, mud mask to draw out impurities and heavy duty, night time hydrating lotion to prepare the canvas of your face for the next night.  And let's not forget the pregame shaving of whatever needs it.  Whether it will be seen or not.  *ahem*  The day of said date is spent relaxing and finalizing your plan for cleansing, perfuming, primping and dressing. Voila!  Perfection personified!  Unless you're me. Then, in an effort to keep yourself from totally chickening out,  you spend the entire day cleaning like a meth addict on a three day binge, until you see your face in the granite counter tops and one could serve Christmas dinner off the baseboards.

I am a orienting a new nurse at work.  And when I say, new, I don't mean just to labor and delivery.  I mean new to nursing, fresh graduate, holy-cow-I-have-to-break-everything-down-to-it's-simplest-parts, new. I may be getting too old for this, because, much as I tell myself that I was new once, everyone learns at a different pace, she has a huge learning curve facing her, all I feel in my head is that I am Kevin Costner as Crash Davis in Bull Durham when he gets sent down to A ball and says, "Yeah, well, my triple A contract gets bought out so I can hold the flavor of the month's stick in the bus leagues. Well, fuck this fucking game!"  I wish I could find a clip for it, because it's just pure truth at this point.  I'm going to blame my attitude on lack of interest in my girly parts from anyone of the non battery persuasion and the stress of the holidays.  Yeah, that sounds good.

It is a fact universally acknowledged that, when it comes to my patients, I am a tad territorial.  Think nesting alligator territorial.  This is usually not a problem since everyone is aware of it, I do my job and do it competently, and I'm nice about my territorialism, until someone gives me a reason to not be nice about it.  I love my job and I know when I need help , which is why I decline offers of help until I need it.  I know how I like things done and I'm severely anal about how things are done.  Why that doesn't overflow into my home life I have no idea. In spite of all this, or in a vain effort to change the way I am, I get a lot of students, orientees, and preceptees.  Right now, I have a brand new grad that I am orienting.  Which means not only is she new to nursing and nursing process, she is new to labor and delivery.  So, I have to explain a pretty much everything and make sure she is understanding why I am doing something.  This is not a problem, other than the fact that I have to make sure I am telling her what she should do, instead of what I have found to be the most efficient way to do something.  Totally a case of "do as I say, not as I do."  Develop your own bad habits, because I don't want to be blamed for them! She's going to do fine, but has said a couple of times, "Do you think I could do more stuff?"  Yes!  I do!  But you have to tell me to back off, because if I see something that needs to be done, I'm going to do it! It will make me crazy not to.  So, that's our goal for next week, for me to back the hell up and actually let her do the patient care.  We've just got to work on time management a little more...

So, New Grad showed up on Wednesday wearing a mask.  She told me, "They said I should wear a mask in patient care, but I feel much better than I did yesterday and last week."  Awesome.  So, after close contact with her at the desk, (not to mention last week when she was completely INFECTIOUS) along about the end of the shift, I started feeling like caca-doody.  I had thought the constant tickle in my throat all day was from trying to kill myself drinking water on the way in.  But alas, it was not to be.  I went to bed, hacked my way through the night and woke up feeling as though I'd been dead three days.  I was working an 11-19 shift, so I went to buy some herbal wellness drops and some DayQuil.  I know it's a little odd to buy naturopathic remedies with mainstream meds, but I was desperate.  I'm sure the herbal stuff is more placebo effect than not, but whatever.  So, I down those, get to work where I, once again, have to park at the helipad.  The parking lot and the grass overflow were both full and I was thinking of ramming the fence to the softball fields when a gentleman, who had to be a retired chief, flagged me down for his spot.  And wouldn't let any of the other cars looking for parking as well, park there. :) I went in to work and immediately got a mask.  My orientee saw me and asked why I was wearing a mask at the desk.  I replied that I didn't want to infect anyone with the Black Plague, cuz I'm considerate like that.  Yeah, it was shitty.  What of it?  I spent the next 8 hours explaining that I was sick, I wasn't desiring to be an OR nurse, and no, it is not an effective muzzling tool.  I had a change of shift delivery which put me home in time to send the kids straight to bed.  I was coughing my lungs out, expecting to see my toenail polish at anytime, and wishing for some cough syrup with codeine.  It's great for uncontrolled coughs.  Hey! I thought.  I have Mucinex, which is guaifenesin (cough syrup) and I have Percocet.  That has to be nearly the same thing as guaifenesin and codeine, right?  Right! So, with my little nurse-y brain convincing me that it was totally okay, I hammered back the Mucinex and chased it with a Perky treat.  It wasn't until this morning as I popped more DayQuil, that I realized the Mucinex wasn't straight up Mucinex, but Mucinex Cold and Flu.  Which has acetaminophen in it.  As does Percocet.  And DayQuil.  A quick calculation brought to my attention that I was kind of pushing the lowered maximum daily dosage for ye olde acetaminophen.  So, then I did the standard medical professional thing and thought, "It's fine for me though."   I continued the cough fest throughout the day, which included taking tackling a cat on the kitchen floor so I could take him to get his rabies shot (how do they know it's time to go to the vet?? He's not literate, so I know he isn't reading it off the calendar!) and wrestling to freaks of nature to the groomer.  The DayQuil wasn't cutting it in that department, so then I started swilling Delsym straight out of the bottle like it was Jameson and I was at an Irish wake.  At this point, I now longer cared that it was a once a day dosing of two teaspoons and that gauging I hadn't exceeded that by "it didn't feel like two teaspoons in my mouth" probably wasn't the most accurate methodology.

Once in a while it's kind of fun to look at the stats and see what actually brings a person to the blog.  Here's one of the search terms: "booba bouncing while she rides cock."  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?!?!?

I was inventorying the kids' Halloween candy (read: pilfering their hard begged candy to feed my nefarious, and ginormous, sugar jones), when I ran across a bag of fruit snacks.  Fruit snacks?!?  Who the hell gives out fruit snacks?  Don't they know that they are treading a dangerous line, preventing middle aged women from getting a chocolate fix?  Seriously, if you give out fruit snacks, good for you for not bowing to commercial pressure and trying to stem the tide of childhood obesity in your own small way.  But, you suck, and it doesn't make you better than I.  So there.

My career choice, and the fact that I practice it in a part of the country/state I live in that likes to "grow 'em big," has resulted in chronic back pain that has escalated in the last 6 months to DEFCON 1 on the old pain scale.  (Not to be bothered with the FACES or numeric pain scale, I prefer to gauge my personal pain based on the defense level light board from WarGames.) I don't know why 14 years of hauling 200+ lbs of healthy womanhood and feti (plural of "fetus" that I just made up), epiduralized up to the nipple line (or "tittehs" as I have a tendency to say), would cause a condition that affects my quality of life, but it does.  I actually made an appointment with my well loved, but seldom seen, PCM, PCP, FP, GP, or whatever the hell we are calling them this week, to get a referral for physical therapy and/or chiropractic care (so I can continue to work, keep a roof over our heads, put food on the table, edification in my children's expanding minds, and keep FBs orthodontia from making us destitute), and not, I repeat NOT, to seek drugs as I think pretty much anyone I work with partially believes I am wont to do.  Methinks,  I wax Percocet poetic far too often.  Well, I received my referral, but I got meds without even asking.  Of course, these meds put me in the drool locker, thereby making them inappropriate to take at work.  That's not the only reason I can't take them at work, but it's a pretty good one.  So, when I get home after a rough day of helping women through the joy of childbirth and get all the animals, both bipedal and quadrapedal settled for the night, I get to pop my little cocktail of joy.  And spend the next 4-6 hours blissfully trying to scratch my skin off, but not really caring.

So, the Lawn Boy is still maintaining my lawn, but is no longer maintaining my lawn, if you get the way I'm drifting.  Seems that his life is a little too complicated and chaotic to have anyone else in it.  And I respect that.  His life is no different now than it was a year ago when we started this whole, whatever it is, but, okay, he feels what he feels.  I'm letting it go because I was widowed at 38 and know  life is too short to want someone who doesn't want me.  Got it.  Loud and clear.  So, I'm back to being me and the boys, doing what we do, and luckily,  I'm okay with being alone.  If it doesn't drop in my lap, it's probably not going to happen.  I work 12 hour shifts, I have a teenager and a tweener, and I have no time or energy left over for high speed pursuits. Although, I do miss having somebody just want to spend time with me, laugh, kiss, and oh, goodness, do I miss sex. Y'know...with someone else involved.  I get plenty one on one time.  Good thing batteries are fairly inexpensive.

I had a patient the other day that made me feel like I was back working at Big City Hospital.  She had no prenatal care that we could discern, despite her claiming that she had.  So, on a closing note, I just wanted to reiterate a few truisms from the labor and delivery world.  Ahem....

1. We live in the 21st century, not the 19th.  Records are electronic and easily verified.  By the time you tell me you got some care "in California" I have already received confirmation that you have never been heard of by any of the facilities you told me had seen you.

2.  Claiming we lost your records instead of confessing to no prenatal care also doesn't work.  Especially when the doctors you claim to have seen are on the floor and have never heard of you.

3. Please don't insult our intelligence when your "38 week" baby  is delivered and is clearly 33 weeks by saying we're wrong because there is no way you could have had sex when your husband was out to sea.  We are well aware that you can.  And did.

4. If you are a military dependent you should realize that we will get in touch with your husband's command and inform them that you had no prenatal care.  And then his ass is in a sling.  As well as yours will be when he finds out the baby is presenting as 33 weeks gestation.  See above.

5.  Screaming and breathing like you are giving birth to a Blue whale, will not put you into labor.  It will also not change your cervix from 2 centimeters.  Only labor contractions will do that.

6.  Simulating contractions while on the monitor will also not change your cervix.

7. We are professionals who look at fetal monitors A LOT. We can tell the difference between a real contraction and your little ab workout you are practicing in the triage room.

8. Throwing yourself on the floor, or better yet, out of the car at the gate and scaring the shit out of security without a person coming out of your body, RIGHT FREAKING NOW, does not impress us.  We will scoff.
9. Please remember what happens to post coital semen when you were not pregnant.  The same thing happens when you are.  Don't think your water has broken EVERY SINGLE TIME. If you insist on doing this, we will insist you stop having the sex.  Fair warning.

10.  If your water has broken, please let us know so we can best advise you.  Please don't stay home for two days, "because I didn't have contractions."  You will possibly come in infected and with a baby who is most displeased with its habitat and then every body gets cranky.

11. Remember I actually do love my job and it's my job to help you have the best labor/delivery experience possible, following your birth plan as closely as possible while still having a happy, healthy mom and a happy, healthy baby.  That is the ultimate goal.  Hospitals and the medical team are not inherently evil and do not look for every way possible to thwart your wishes.  Be informed, be flexible, work with your care team and make sure you fully understand everything that is being presented to you so you can make informed decisions with your care team.  If you believe our goal is to deprive you of your birth plan and discount your wishes, perhaps this is not the best place for you to deliver.

The Percocet is kicking in and I have to buy donuts tomorrow.  Good night.

Just in case there were any questions. It's still me. :)

It's September once again.  Only this September makes it seven years since Steve died; the same amount of time we were actually married.  The grief is seven years old, the healing is seven years old, the boys are seven years older.  And yet the rage is bigger and newer than ever.  I am angrier than I've ever been, but it's a weird anger.  It's there all the time, fermenting until some event or thought acts as a catalyst and it erupts like a psychic Vesuvius, flowing brief and hot until I can wrestle it underground again.  Isn't that what Mark Ruffalo said as the Dr. Banner in The Avengers? My secret is I'm always angry?  Yeah, that's my secret. I've warned my coworkers and my poor corpsmen to watch out for Queen Bitch of the Universe; she may be in attendance more often than not. Not that I want to be bitchy, or even plan to be.  But, I've already caught myself snapping at the kids (which, frankly, may be attributed to them really, really, REALLY needing to go back to school.  2 days, baby!), which I apologize for, and everyone, absolutely everyone, drives me insane!  Just the thought of them converting oxygen to CO2 makes me want to stab them straight in the throat.  *sigh*  Probably doesn't help that fate tried to beat the shit out of me by letting the young man I had great hopes of being with on a permanent basis decide that his life was far too complicated to complicate further. Kind of like, "I need some space.  Without you in it." (totally stolen from Jeff Foxworthy)  Gee, that's information that would have been a little more useful to me 6-8 months ago, rather than being dropped like a hanta virus infected rat.  And right at this time of year.  Awesome.  I drank myself into a good mood last night but woke up this morning with both my laptop and my wallet open.  That can't be a good sign. There's not too much more that I can pierce, since I do have to maintain a professional appearance, and my face is off limits.  As is my tongue.  I need to be able clearly articulate when I think a doctor is being a complete jackass.  I could stick a few more holes in my ears.  I'm desperately trying to avoid a major purchase, since I can pay off the Tahoe (another September extravaganza) in about 6 months. I am a pragmatic person 11 months out of the year, and then September rolls around and I kind of lose my shit.  Deep down I know I should get a grip and stay in control, but, as I may have mentioned before, I am a tad irritated.  

Me (explaining to her husband why my patient is comatose in between her contractions during her long, unmedicated labor): "It's mother nature's way of conserving energy so she can deal with her contractions and then have the strength to push."

Husband (gazing at wife who has abruptly awakened and is now breathing through contraction): "So, it's like sleeping with a snooze alarm."

Me: "Yeah.  A snooze alarm from hell."

I had a massage today and I swear my massage therapist was channeling one of the more motivated of the Gestapo elite.  I'm not so sure a "relaxation" massage should have me wishing for bamboo shoots under the fingernails because it would be less painful.  I've been having a lot of low back pain which is due, I'm sure, to 13 years of lugging epiduralized women around in bed, using equipment that was designed by a random engineer and not by someone who would actually use it (i.e. hardly functional and not nearly ergonomically correct), and packing half my life in my Big Ass Bag everyday to work.  One might think the BAB could be lightened, but I've tried and I can't.  I NEED everything in that bag like I need air to breathe. Honest.  Anyway, little Miss Mengele today suggested next time we work on my psoas and deep abdominal muscles but she warned me "it will be painful.  I just had it done and I screamed."  Awesome.  I'm already breathing like I'm in transition, let's add the sensation of crowning a 12 pound baby into the equation.  That should be fun.  I did feel better afterward, but then I screwed it up by staining the big toy.  You know, those big wooden play structures seen in all the best playgrounds and yuppie housing developments? Mine has been well loved and well neglected for the past 8 years.  Why not stain it when there's. more than likely only two years left before I tear it down, use it for firewood, and set up a bitchin' outdoor living room in it's place?  Lots of climbing up and down ladders, figuring out the best logistics so as not to paint myself, literally, into a corner, and cussing the amount of Solid Color Weatherproofing Deck and Fence Stain in Russet it takes to cover wood that has seen 8 years of Pac NW winters.  Sucks it up like a sponge.  Not to mention the amount of lichen that had grown on the roof of this bad boy.  I did attempt to do the responsible, anal personality I try to hide, thing and clean all of it off, but it proved more stubborn than I.  And as it's about 15 feet in the air at the peak, I think I can be forgiven for saying, "Fuck it!" and painting over all of the little symbiotic vegetation. (Before you judge, please reference the above "2 years before I trash it" explanation above.)

It was also 88 degrees today, which, for we poor Pac NWsters, is akin to living on the surface of the sun. Despite the level of SPF I slather on on a daily basis, my face looks like half of Richard Dreyfuss' in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. As I turn into Queen Bitch of the Universe the hotter it is (see, there are reasons I no longer live in North Carolina or Utah), I'm trying to convince myself it's actually cooler by watching Slap Shot and Fargo.  So far it hasn't lulled me into thinking my brains are not boiling in my head, but I remain optimistic.

The Senior Chief retired. This is a video commemorating his 22 years of service in the Navy. It never fails to make me tear up. I am so proud of him and so honored to be considered his "second wife." Congratulations, fair winds and following seas, Senior, and thank you for so many years of your service. Love you! (P.S one of my amazing corpsmen can be seen at the end) \

I love Mike Rowe in every way, shape, and form. And he just solidified it.

Mother of a teenager.  That should almost be a cuss word.  In fact, I may start using it as one.  Some may remember, that in FB's 5th grade year, some of the little girlies on the bus were found to be engaging in oral gratification for some of the boys.  This "in fellatio delicto" activity spawned a conversational tsunami of sexual and pharmacological rhetoric that I subjected FB to while trapped in the car on the way to see Michael, The Incredibly Gay Hairdresser.  This door having been opened, I thought perhaps I was free from revisiting the subject ( I seriously scarred him, I swear.) until the summer before he enters high school.  Which is next summer.  I may faint.  Refocusing on what I meant to write about, last night I went into FB's room to tell him it was time to ready for bed.  He was sitting at his desk, something he never does during the school year, by the way, writing something.  Something he didn't want me to see as he covered it with his hand as I walked in. Our conversation was as follows:
Me: "Hey, have you brushed your teeth and washed your face?"
FB: "Not yet." (Now moving his arm to fully cover what he was doing.)
Me: "You should get on that."
FB: "Okay." (Not moving from where he sat)
Me: (pause) "Like, now."
FB: "Okay" (Still sitting)
Me: (Backing cautiously out of his room) "Alrighty then."

I faked like I was going to my own room, and as he walked into the bathroom, ran back to his desk to see what exactly needed to be hidden from the all knowing eyes of the mommy.  I saw this: "Athena is the smartest, coolest, most beautiful..." and it left off where I had so rudely interrupted.  Now, I hardly thought he was composing an ode to the Greek goddess of war, so I assumed it was some little hussy that caught his eye.  I kid. (No.  Really I don't.  Any girl that catches his eye is assumed to be a hussy until proven otherwise.  Demon women!) So, as I went in to say good night I subtly questioned him regarding Athena.  And by subtly, I mean I sat on his bed and asked, "So, who's Athena?"  I am smooth.  After I discovered she was his friend from school (and actually in his grade and not some 15 year old from the Boys and Girls Club...yes, that has happened) my hackles relaxed enough to ask if he liked her.  Once we established he did, I reiterated my whole sex/love/responsibility talk but I added a new sidebar: "Bitches Lie." (And yes, I used that phrasing.  Don't worry; he couldn't believe it either.)  I informed FB that there are good girls/women who won't lie and manipulate, but there are a lot of them, i.e. "bitches," who will.  Then we had a little association game.  "I have a condom for you, don't worry."  Absolutely NOT!  Use your own, make sure the package isn't damaged and it's not expired.  "I've never done this before." Lie.  "I'm on birth control; we don't need a condom."  Big lie.  "I'm clean; you're safe."  Liiiiiiaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr!  I informed him my job is to keep him safe, he, meanwhile, has three jobs.  Stay true to himself, be safe, not make me a grandmother.  That's it!  That's all it takes!  Our next topic for "how badly can I scar my kid before his 18th birthday" is "don't stick your dick in crazy."  Thanks to Shelley V for the topic!

Me to midwife working the deck: "If I have a Mirena IUD, how will I know if I'm in peri-menopause?"
Midwife: "You won't. (pause) Unless you experience mood swings."
Me: *crickets* "So, I won't know." *hysterical laughter*
Co-worker I used to consider a friend to midwife: "Have you MET her??"

Of course, our first day of summer vacation was spent cleaning the house...my children love me Bwhahahahahaa!

My (work) Life in Vignettes

A co-worker showed this to me and now I am a tumblr subscriber solely for this blog.

They are all hilarious but check out putting a foley in a woman for the first time, driving a stretcher, and hanging blood.

Bwahahahaaa!

 Last Wednesday I didn't have to go in to work until 1100, so I was home to send my children off to school.  Wednesday's, in our district, are "collaboration days" where school starts an hour late so the teacher's can plan for the week, get caught up on work, and get together to brainstorm.  Or goof off and smoke reefer, I don't know.  On one hand, it has cut down on the amount of full days the kids are out of school for teacher workshop days.  On the other, they still had it this week,  it was the last week of school,  the last day of school was Thursday and  only a half day, and what the hell?  Don't get me started.  This is actually not the story of today's message.  The story is this:

I blearily came downstairs, let the dogs out, and started breakfast for the kids, since I was actually there to feed them breakfast.  FB was already downstairs, dressed and ready to go.  As was SoS, but he was asleep on the couch and had been when FB came down.  No idea how long the kid had been there since it was barely 7 am, I don't sleep all that well, and I know I was awake at 0600.  Whatever.  Still not the point.  After FB ate breakfast and went upstairs to brush his teeth, the dogs were ready to be let in.  I let in that freak of nature Labrador, and he immediately ran to FB's book bag and started rummaging around like a prize winning truffle hunting pig.  I walked over to find out what the deal-e-o was and he pulls two pieces of pizza out of this book bag. What the frick-a-frack-a-bunny-a-cracka? As I beat back this dog, FB comes downstairs.
Me: "Dude, why is there pizza in your bookbag?"
FB  "I wanted some for lunch."
Me:  "That's fine.  But a) you need to ask first; I would have let you and b) wrap it or put it in some kind of container!"

Yes, folks, my 13 year old son just shoved unwrapped pizza into his book bag along with what ever binders, textbooks, and whatever random homework he had to turn in for the rest of the year.  Good thing the last days of school are a complete waste of time

Okay. First, at least they are getting some exercise. Second, damn. I don't know if it's hilarious, disturbing, sad or a mixture of all three. I'm leaning toward the latter.

After ten years in this house, the need to refurbish and repair is starting to make itself known.  The facing boards on my deck, being placed by the world's most incompetent  contractor, have been refurbished as much as they possibly can, and are now on the "replace." list.  My father,  the only one I know with a truck that I can borrow, has recently finished his consulting job and is actually around so I can borrow said truck.  Fortuitous.  Of course, the exact time when I decide I absolutely must have those boards today,  without fail, otherwise my life will lose all meaning, my parents have taken a trip out of state to pick up car parts. With the truck.  I pulled the third row seating out of the Planet Killer when my BFF's son did my brake job and mounted my new tires (3 months ago) and if I fold up the second row seating, I've got about six feet of cargo space.  Nearly as good as a truck, I say to myself.  So, I toddle off to Home Depot (also known as the House of Orgasmic Bliss.  Seriously, I've come really close to having a moment in the power tools section. Yeah, I'm not much of a girl.), to pick up my 48 total board feet of lumber, sawhorses (cuz I need 'em), primer, paint, and whatever else strikes my fancy for this little project.  Did you know that an unaccompanied chick in a section of Home Depot most chicks don't frequent by themselves are viewed as interlopers?  Or, at least, that's the vibe (heh) I got.  It was bad enough getting the lumber (and loading eight 2x10x8s onto my cart by myself?!? what kind of freak am I?), but when I went into the hardware aisle to look for tie downs, good grief, you would have thought I figured out the secret handshake and moved into the He-Man Woman Hater's Club.  Of course, I could be wrong.

I'm going to demand a recall on my children.  There is a manufacturing defect that directly impacts their functionality.  Some virus that inhibits the respect and obedience programming is my guess.  Which also enhances the what-the-fuck-were-you-thinking behavior. Sad that you can't rely on quality workmanship anymore.  And I'm pretty sure the warranty is expired.  *sigh* 

You ever have one of those moments when you are joking around, more than likely trying to cajole someone into a better humor, and, without meaning to and really without knowing, you step over the line? Yeah, had one today. Didn't mean to, but I hurt someone who means a lot to me. I apologized profusely once I realized my comment was not funny to my friend, and my apology was accepted, I know sincerely accepted, but I just can't help but feel like the worst piece of shit. This friend is having such a difficult time, and now I feel as if I've been punching puppies. *sigh* I've been bordering on tears ever since. Blegh. Dumbass!

As predicted, said doctor was a complete asshole today. So, now I want 15 Tequila Fannybangers with a Klonopin chaser. I'll settle for the Klonopin washed down with some Pepsi Max; my total drug of choice.

I was speaking with Senior Chief's Wife about my day (read: venting unrestrainedly) when I mentioned I was going to buy a rototiller on Monday. And a tool bench. Because, most women buy clothes for retail therapy and I get wet walking into Home Depot. I said as much to SCW and she says, "And meat. Don't forget a freezer full of meat." To which I had to reply that I had no idea why no one wanted to marry me, I'm the perfect woman. I buy power tools for retail therapy and I have a freezer full of meat! What more could a guy want? I crack myself up!
It could be worse; I could be like this on a date:

Last night I made A Chicken and 40 Cloves

and, while I didn't eat any of the chicken, I did eat about 30 cloves. Did you know after eating 30 cloves of garlic, roasted or not, you will ooze garlic from every pore? That your mouth will taste like the inside of an old boot that has been buried in a compost pile and fried in castor oil? That your GI system, aged and cantankerous as your disposition, will crankily and with great malice aforethought, let you know it is most severely displeased? Because all this will happen. Conversely, I can't help but to have shaved a few points off that old total cholesterol. So, I got that going for me; which is nice.

FB is snow cave camping today and tomorrow with the Scouts. And when I say that, I don't mean they will discover some geologic formations that are cave-like in flavor and pitch their tents in said cave-like formations. I mean they are finding snow drifts, digging caves into them, and then sleeping in these caves. I, despite my outwardly calm acceptance of the circumstances, am freaking out. I have visions of avalanches, cave ins, frostbite, and all manner of mayhem. I'm sure everything will be fine. I plan to drink heavily.

While I was vacuuming today, SoS said, "Mom? Did you know it's a true fact that a man has to buy everything his wife wants? It's a true fact!" I had to cross my legs to stop from peeing while I laughed. I assure you, he did not get this idea from me, but I'm pretty positive he'll make some woman extremely happy with this attitude. He better find a damn fine job.

I will be working with one of my least favorite doctors for the next three days. *sigh* This man barely has the medical knowledge of your average ocelot. He can't pass his boards. He's tried three times. If I couldn't pass my boards I would be waiting tables, not practicing my preferred profession. He not only gets to practice but he gets promoted. Whatthefrenchtoast?? The last time he gave turnover to the oncoming docs and talked about ordering antibiotics on someone with normal WBCs for a postpartum surgical patient and wanted a catheter for Is&Os, because he thinks that's the only way you can keep track, after he left one said to me, "What are we treating?" My only response was, "Fuck if I know." Which isn't professional but I had already been dealing with this nonsense for several hours and I couldn't take much more. His own partner closed the door after he left and said, "What was that all about?" So, basically, what I'm trying to say is my weekend is going to suck bawls. I should go to sleep, but I'm actually watching The Three Amigos in an effort to retain some semblance of humor.

Happy Valentine's Day

If I ever get to have sex again, this will be my theme song. Well, except for the part about "my penis inside of her." I'd have to change the pronouns a little.

I was standing at the nurse's station the other day, minding my own business, checking out Facebook on my phone, lending half an ear to the TV in the waiting room with pundits spouting off about Iran and Ahmydinnerjacket, when one of my corpsman queried,"I thought we pulled out of that country?" What the actual fuck? I, being struck incapable of speech, had no response, but my co-worker, she of the no longer active duty by one month, said, "No. We have never been in that country. We just got out of Iraq." To which the clueless wonder replied, "Oh. I must get those two countries mixed up." At this point, I looked horrified at my co-worker and then had to look away so I didn't start laughing hysterically. I don't know if I was more horrified that this little corpsman didn't know how to tell Iraq and Iran apart when these two slices of baklava have been pretty much front and center in the collective conscious of our nation her WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE, or the fact that she's freaking ACTIVE DUTY and active duty corpsmen have a tendency to get shipped off to places like that. Good lord, girl, there is no excuse for that kind of dee-dee-dee!

Today, I went into the natural food store in town looking for sweet almond oil.  Why?  Because I had this wild hair to make some massage oil.  What for?  Who the hell knows?  A vague desire to massage and no opportunity to do so.  Thwarted in my all desires physical and mental.  Bummer.  Nice tangent.  Anyway, as I'm paying for my merchandise, and perusing all manner of vegan and organic treats at the front counter, it strikes me that it is a trifle incongruous to be in a natural food store and pull your wallet out of your big leather purse.  And when I say big, I mean BIG.  I could smuggle midgets out of the circus in this thing.  I mean, it's like throwing half a cow up on the counter.  I may have offended some sensibilities.  Ah, fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

Living with boys is so bizarre.  They smell.  They do incomprehensible things.  They smell.  How can someone come out of a shower and smell as bad, if not worse, than when they went in?  How can their bedroom be fresh and clean smelling when they go to bed and smell like the mouth of hell in the morning?  I keep a can of air freshener beside FB's room, so that, if I have to enter, I can hose it down first just so I won't keel over from the boy smell.  We've been going through a period here where they can't seem to lift the ring on the toilet to go to the bathroom and then end up peeing all over the seat.  Now, first of all, I demand that the toilet lids be shut at all times because I hate the look of the inside of a toilet, and do you know what gets aerosolized and floats onto your toothbrush???  Yuck.  And whether it's true or not, just yuck.  The point being, they have to lift the lid anyway, how hard can it be to lift the seat as well?  Especially since I've been drilling it into their heads since they were potty training.  So, now I make them come back to the bathroom, completely clean the toilet, and threaten them with sitting down to pee for the remaining time they live in my house.  You'd think it would sink in a little better than it has.  They are usually better for a few days and then I start to see some backsliding.  Usually when there is important video gaming is to be done.

When we came on shift this morning there was a drawing on the white board in the physician's room depicting a rather large laceration and repair that had occurred during a recent delivery.  In order to put everything into perspective, all landmarks are represented; i.e. anus, vulva, tears, umbilicus, etc.  This same white board is in full view from any position in the nurse's station.  The particular tear that was being discussed was a midline laceration that extended bilaterally into the sulcus.  Or sulci, perhaps in this case.  I am orienting a nurse to our unit who has OB experience, but not recently, and she mentioned she had never heard the term "sulcus."  So, I took her into the physician's room and explained the repair, pointing out the landmarks as points of reference, as in "The little starfish looking thing is the anus."  Several hours into the shift, I wondered aloud if maybe it was time to erase the illustration as I was tired of looking at that anus all morning, and my orientee volunteered to be the one to clean up the board.   A few minutes later, I noticed this:

Yeah, she left the anus, just for me.

Today was an incredibly slooooooooooooow day.  Six postpartum couplets and not one triage.  Not even a triage phone call.  None.  Nada.  Zero.  Zip.  Nolla,  Nothing.  Knitting runs rampant at the nursing station and one of our female corpsmen was teaching another how to knit, when she stated she couldn't remember what was "knitting" and what was "purling."  So, I clarified by stating, "knitting goes in from the front (meaning of the stitch) and purling goes in from the back."  Which wasn't a problem until the 17 year old boy living inside me kicked in and I started laughing hysterically.  When relaying this story to the night shift crew, one said, "So if you don't have a partner, does that mean you're crocheting?"  Hilarity ensued, much to the horror of the young corpsmen at the table.

Hey!  Yeah, remember me?  I still live here!  I can't quite commit to staying or going, posting or deleting the blog.  I'm going to try to be more consistent and see if I have anything left to say.  Not really sure why I started the blog in the first place, which leads one to wonder why I should continue it.  I don't work in the 'hood anymore, so my access to outlandish stories from pregnant, coked out, drug fiends has been severely curtailed.  Don't get a lot of those in Navy land.  A combination of extreme fatigue added to formulating my nefarious designs on the Lawn Boy's body and virtue and my brain  is  filled to capacity and unable to process anything right now.

Best advice ever given: