WOOHOO!!!

Yay! Called in! It's tweaker-ific!

Tweaker wannabe.

As it turns out, they decided they didn't need me after all. One problem. I can't freakin' sleep! I don't know what kind of effect you get from meth, but if the soccer moms just want to be able to get more done, they should just try the straight pseudoephedrine. I may have slept for 40 minutes. And now I'm doing my tweaker impersonation: mopping the floor, doing laundry, answering email, and a little bloggin'. At 4 in the morning with no fatigue in sight. Perhaps taking the 12 hour extended release 3 hours before my intended bedtime was not the wisest choice. I'm expecting to be cleaning the baseboards with a toothbrush any time now. However, I can hear out of my right ear now.

On a good note: college roommate that I haven't talked to in years called last night. There is just something about talking to someone who knew you before you were respectable. Or semi-respectable...whatever.

The Zombie in Me

I am going in to work at 0300. I might get called in before that. I can't sleep. I'm tired, nearly exhausted, from the oh-so-fun day of being jerked around the unit and the late night last night, but can't quite seem to put myself over the edge. Is it the Sudafed? The 24oz can of Amp? My own freakin' insomnia that kicks in whenever it stays light past 8 pm? About 0500 this am, this will kick me in the ass, and I will start babbling like a squirrel on speed, becoming more manic as the hours pass, until I crash and wander the floor in a semi-comatose state praying for death and muttering "brains" under my breath. And it's my own fault. When will I learn? Apparently, the lure of filthy lucre (and wanting to spend time in my true atmosphere) is too great.

Nursing

What the world thinks nurses think:




What nurses think:


Or at least this one does. It's the 17 year old boy living inside me, I swear!

Oh, no.

During my pre-op I noticed a pamphlet called "Pruritis Ani." I leaned forward to confirm I saw what I saw. Now, I didn't think this referred to Anakin Skywalker (geek alert!), and the only "ani" I could think of was...really? That can't be right. This is the way my mind works: hippopotomus, hippopotomi. Elvis, Elvi. Anus...well, it would have to be ani wouldn't it? So, this pamphlet was basically saying "My ass itches." Or rather "My asses itch," because we are talking about the plural here. I then chuckled to myself, thinking that I was probably the biggest dork on the planet to come up with that as the definition. Then I noticed who published the pamplet. The College of Anal and Colon Surgeons. Ah.

What I learned in "The Multicare Difference" class is:

I f-ing hate Power Point.

There are some people who don't think there is a better use for their time.

Body language is amazing (you are both married to someone else...KNOCK IT OFF!).

Pickle is a funny word. Until it it used 85 times in a 15 minute period.

The only connotation of pickle I really care about is Jan's family's connotation of pickle.

A Woman's Fancy Lightly Turns to Thoughts of...

Moss and dog hair, really. I'm obsessed with both. And this is why(d0 tell!). As the trees began sending forth tender shoots and the flowers began to forgive me for my less than attentive efforts in their care last summer, I noticed that the front lawn was mightily green. It was also mightily spongy. Having walked on grass lo these many years., I am quite aware that sponginess is not a quality often seen in grass. For pooh! Nearly all of my front lawn was moss. I quickly hosed it down with my organic, safe-for-all-living-creatures-unless-your-pour-it-directly-into-an-orifice moss killer, lest my father, "King Chemical," feel the need to help. Not that I don't want his help, (well, really, I don't, he does stuff WRONG! Okay, different, but still WRONG!), but I'm very particular with what goes on my lawn. (Not to mention how the grass is cut and the fact that I move my plants out of the way as I edge as opposed to his carpet bombing method of "it shouldn't be there, anyway!") The difference between organic "Moss Aside" and kill-them-all "Moss Out!" is inherent in the names. "Moss Out" kills all moss to a paltry black grease stain on the lawn, enabling the homeowner to blithely overseed and go on his/her busy way. "Moss Aside" disturbs the moss's growing cycle just enough to give you a minor coronary event while raking it out of your lawn, as opposed to flirting with Pulseless Electrical Activity without it. One should not need to take nitro just to fit in with the Joneses and their lawn. So began the raking and the sweating and the cursing all Gig Harborites who were stay at home moms with husbands pulling down 6 figures, and nannies and yard people with lawns that resemble the 5th green at Augusta National. There are now sparsley covered spots in my lawn interspersed with flat out bald areas. Sprinkled over that is errant moss that escaped my efforts to gather it up. Screw it. I'm going to mulch it right back into the turf when I mow. I still haven't done anything about the crabgrass; I'm sure the Homeowner's Association is getting hives. I already underpaid my dues by $15, and the treasurer has been desperately trying to get ahold of me. Meanwhile, I have been desperately dodging his calls. I'll pay it fer pete's sake! What are they gonna do? Put a lien on my house for a lousy $15? Rat bastards.

The other bane of my existence is the male pattern baldness effect of shedding that is going on with my dog. My grandma didn't lose hair at this rate when she went through chemo. He is like that Peanuts character Pig Pen who walked around with a cloud of dust everywhere he went. Except in this case, it's dog hair. And this crap is everywhere! I find it in the most unusual places. Like the top of the dishwasher. Say what? It almost looks as though I've got a Rodentia Reservation on my kitchen floor after he gets up. Is that a rather large sized guinea pig? Oh, no, it's just a ball of hair that leapt to it's death from the dog's back.

My house looks like Hurricane Katrina got PMS and stayed awhile. I need to get another care package together, but I got so carried away with the last one I almost exceeded the gross national product of a developing country to send it. Maybe I'll just toddle off to bed. I live the Scarlett O'Hara philosophy of life: "Screw it. Maybe it will be fixed when I wake up." Or something to that effect.