The Cat From Hell has become extremely loving and sociable. After 11 years of his tyranny, I can't tell if he is on his way to The Happy Hunting Grounds or if he has finally made the decision to slay us in our beds in the dark of night.

Last week, when the kids were on Mid-winter Break, yet another excuse for teachers in our district to have a week off (and yes, Spring Break will be coming up in a couple of weeks, the kids and I went to Michael The Extremely Gay Hairdresser to get coiffed. Michael decided that we needed to start trending my hair into a blonde, chunky bob. And so he has started the gradual transition. The First Born only gets the very tippy ends of his hair trimmed, to maintain the cool teenage long hair look (heaving a sigh of relief that Justin Bieber has now shorn his famous locks) and the Spawn of Satan likes his hair military short, so, in his words, to avoid the need to scrub a lot to get his hair clean. This also precludes the need to comb, style, or really, manage his hair in anyway whatsoever. I am fine with SoS's hairstyle choices because he looks cute with his hair like that and if it gets too long he starts hacking into it with a pair of scissors. So Michael cut his hair to his specifications; not bootcamp shorn, but short enough to not cause any problems. I had this Monday and Tuesday off and worked Wednesday. SoS came to say goodnight Wednesday night while I was brushing my teeth and, as I leaned over to kiss him goodnight, I noticed some light colored spots on his head. Upon closer inspection, I realized that he had cut his hair to the scalp for a major part of the top of his head. Had this been the first time this had happened I would have handled this situation with some sort of decorum and calm. As this was the third time, in a year, I sort of, um, lost my shit, shall we say.

I yelled about how I had paid good money for a haircut just last week and why did I bother if he was just going to hack into his hair, why did he hack into his hair, he looks like an idiot, did he really want his friends to make fun of him because they will, I should just shave his head if this is what he was going to do and WHAT WAS HE THINKING?!? He in turn was bawling, he didn't know why he did it, he didn't want his head shaved and so on, so on, so on. There was a pile of hair on the bathroom floor, in the garbage and, for some reason, all over the toilet. I stomped downstairs and got the clippers, stomped back upstairs and bent his head backwards over the sink while I shaved him. The clippers need to be sharpened and they caught on his hair, pulling his head back as I went along his scalp. With every pull SoS exclaimed, "Ow! Why does it hurt?" I pointed out that if he had left well enough alone, he would be pain free and in bed by now. Because of the havoc he wreaked, I had to shave his hair down to the point where he no longer looked as if he were suffering from a bad case of mange. Which, is to the scalp. Meanwhile the First Born is taking a shower behind us and out of the corner of my eye I see him get out of the shower, dry off, and, without making eye contact, slink into his bedroom to get dressed. He then came out, brushed his teeth, said goodnight, and went straight to bed without our usual conversation about not reading in bed after I have declared lights out. He was just trying to avoid being caught in any crossfire, I'm sure. Mama was lit and he was toeing the line to avoid my notice. SoS got into the shower to rinse the hair off, got out and tried to explain his position. Unfortunately for him, I wanted to part of any words coming out of his mouth, dried him off in a manner that may have removed skin and then made him find his scissors while I stood there and continued to vent my spleen. This is when I noticed the piles of hair in the bedroom as well. Personally, I think my children will require therapy at some point in their lives. The only question is how soon and on whose insurance.

Stolen from Outlaw 13. But a pretty cool watch.

Things were a bit lightweight today (avoiding the word that dare not speak it's name, you see.  I still have to go back tomorrow), so I thought I'd actually indulge in trying to update my training record.  Which contains exactly two items.  My refusal to bow to the demands of the man continue!  One item I needed to complete was "Immunization Training."  Apparently, nursing school and twelve years of direct patient care holds no water with the DoD when it comes to believing that I am competent to give an immunization.  But hey!  I get 15 Continuing Education Units when I finish!  Yay!  Totally not worth it when it took 7 hours to complete four out of the eight pre-tests, modules and post-tests that I am required to go through and place in my training record of suffering. 
Here's a verbatim quote from module on anaphylaxis:

Most people who have esperienced an anaphylaxis reaction will want to prevent it from happening again.

MOST people??  So there are people out there who love the thrill of anaphylaxis?  The swelling, the rash, the the difficulty breathing is as good as a bungee jump to these people?  (Reminds me of that bastard 10th dentist who doesn't recommend sugar-free gum.  Is he trying to pay off his Tuscan villa by promoting dental caries?)

During the influenza module I was reading about transmission and the following conversation ensued:
Me: "Children spread disease like wildfire; they're bug factories."
Anonymous Resident: "Especially those immunocompromised kids.  Those little bastards can shed forever."
Me: (maniacal laughter) "I have to write that down.  That might even be a blog post.)
Anonymous Resident: "Can you refer to me as 'an anonymous resident'?"

We all have our light and dark, our yin and yang. I'm just not sure if everyone else's are as wildly divergent as mine. I can swing from borderline freakish OCD at work, to horrifyingly stereotypical Gen-Xer slacker-from-hell once I hit the sweet, sweet chaos of home. If I have a patient with more than one IV line, I look like a squirrel on crack gathering the last known nuts for winter as I untwist, untie, and un-macrame. I am completely focused on each line being separate and identifiable from bag to hub, including labeling every pump and port. And then, then I can relax.

My slacker-from-hell persona usually shows up during sone kind of cleaning activity. Specifically, my broiler pan. I have a love/hate relationship with my broiler pan. I love the ease of broiling, but it can be a pain in the ass. If you spray the pan with nonstick spray, you have to be careful not to spray anywhere else because then you broil the spray into a sticky mess that is hard enough to cut glass and requires a sand blaster to clean. And if I don't use cooking spray, the meat us pretty much spot welded to the broiler by the marinade, sauce or it's own tasty juices. So, I'm then stuck soaking, scrubbing and swearing at the broiler until it's clean. Sometimes, I scrub until it is as smooth and shiny as the day I first laid a piece of succulent beef on it. (mmmmmmm succulent beef.) The flop side of this is that I think to myself, "Self, these suckers are 15 bucks max at Target." And then I go dump it in the trash in blissful satisfaction without the need to clear the SOS soap out from under my nails.

Where am I going with this? I broiled up Bamabi the other day and have finally decided that the broiler has soaked long enough. I just need to decide which me I'm going to be. Tough decision. Perhaps I should sleep on it some more.

He just got his Tenderfoot badge in Scouts. And this is what he wore to his Court of Honor.  Obviously, I was at work or this shit wouldn't have happened.  It's like only wearing your thong and push-up bra during your wedding.  Jeez.

Okay, one more!

Those are some screaming little chickies!

I've been working like a dog non-stop, my house is trying to implode on itself and I have a tweener who still can't grasp the concept of turning in his homework on time.  Is it any wonder I forgot to send my niece a birthday card (with moolah!  Oh, well, she'll forgive me.  Because there will be moolah!) and forgot to write a post about Elvis' birthday!  Good grief this is becoming a habit!  So here, another of E's songs from that luscious '68 comeback special.  Yum-O!  (Put any connotation on that "O" you would like, there!)