Pressing…

It’s just after noon on this Eve of the New Year, and our house is a buzz with the beginnings of cabin fever setting in for the children, as their excitement over the break from school is waning. 

These are some of the questions that I have been asked this morning and/or asked myself. 

The daily dealings in our household…

1)  Why does the dog continue to shit in the house?  *Really, Jobin?  Really?  What is the effing problem, dude?*

2)  Will he ever learn?  *Jack was easier to potty train than this furball!*

3)  How did I allow us to run out of toilet paper?  *Napkins, good toilet paper, do not make!*

4)  How do we tell if the hamster is a boy or a girl? 

5)  Now that we’ve Googled the procedure, who is going to be the one to check?  *Measure the distance between his butt-hole and his sex-hole?  WTF?  Definitely Jake…*

6)  Have we caused a sexual identity crisis in our rodent, by calling him a girl for a year, if he is indeed a boy?  *Yeah…probably not.* 

7)  Are we ready for the pubescence that is about to hit our household with our eldest child?  Will he survive it?  Will we survive it?  How will we survive it three times over?  Are there enough pharmaceuticals to be prescribed to deal with this upcoming trying time?   *Yeah..probably not.* 

8)  What’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner?  *Are cereal, goldfish, and popcorn suitable meals, because I’d rather be sleeping!*

9)  Can I eat the trifle that I made yesterday, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?  *Yes, I made a trifle.  I’m all kinds of fancy and sophisticated!*

10)  Did God die?  *Jack is quite the theologian, and loves to question his father and I on religion.  I always feel like it’s a test when he asks me…and I always feel like I fail.  Is Jack Jesus?*

Seriously?  I’m exhausted already!! 

Happy Holidays…

I didn’t do a Christmas card this year!

I know…ridiculous!

It’s my favorite part of the season.  The only thing I look forward to about Christmas, and I didn’t do it. 

I have been seriously bummed about it.  It was a combination of me being too busy with school, and then, too busy with photo shoots (read:  working on other people’s Christmas cards)…with a big fat helping of Jake being too scared that this year’s card wouldn’t be good enough! 

We cracked under the pressure, and didn’t do one. 

I was whining about it on facebook, and one of my buddies challenged me to whip one up real quick.  This is what I came up with on the spot…

Merry Whatever-it-is You Celebrate!!

Ghosts from Christmas past...

This one was written two years ago when I had much more time on my hands.  More time...but, the same amount of stress.  

Huh...an epiphany.  I should quit my bitching!!

Merry Christmas, dammit!

I'll spare you all a video of me singing this little ditty...Christmas is stressful enough already without you having my singing voice ringing through your ears this holiday. You'll have to sing these lyrics yourself!

On the 1st day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…a migraine that could bring a mammoth to his knees!

On the 2nd day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…two dozen houseguests, and a migraine that would bring a mammoth to his knees!

On the 3rd day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…three feuding children, two dozen houseguests and...DRUGS...I'm going to need drugs for this headache!

On the 4th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…four holiday parties, three feuding children, two dozen houseguests and a migraine that would bring a mammoth to his knees!!

One the 5th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…FIVE OVERDRAFT CHARGES…OMG, seriously? Are you F-ing kidding me??, four holiday parties, three feuding children, too many people to feed, and a migraine!!!

On the 6th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…six hours of sleep, FIVE OVERDRAFT CHARGES, four holiday parties, three kids that won't SHUT UP..., two dozen houseguests, and a labotomy...that's what I need for this headache!

On the 7th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…seven days on a beach…oh wait, no…I dreamed that...F$&*...six measly hours of sleep, five overdraft fees...looks like we'll be having this for dinner instead:

four holiday parties, three annoying children, two dozen houseguests, and a migraine!!!

On the 8th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…eight strands of lights, seven days on a beach...I wish!, six hours of sleep, five assholes at the bank, four holiday parties, three feuding children, two dozen houseguests and a migraine that would bring a mammoth to his knees! 

On the 9th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…nine thousand gifts to wrap, eight strands of lights that never work, seven days on a beach, six measly hours of sleep, all those overdraft fees, four holiday parties, three feuding children, two dozen houseguests and a headache...for the love of all that is sane and good...WHY AREN'T THESE DRUGS WORKING!?!

On the 10th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…ten TV specials, nine thousand gifts to wrap, eight strands of lights, seven days on a beach...yeah right, six measly hours of sleep, five overdraft charges, four holiday parties...”oh yeah, good to see you, too…how are the kids?…could you show me where your shotgun is!?!”...three awful children, two dozen houseguests and that horrible, horrible headache! 

On the 11th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…eleven pairs of pajama pants, ten TV specials...that clay-mation abominable snowman FREAKS ME OUT:

nine thousand gifts, eight strands of lights, seven days on a beach, six hours of sleep...i need more sleep, five...F#$% F#@% F#%#, four holiday parties, three little rugrats, two dozen houseguests, and a migraine!

One the 12th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…twelve bottles of cheap wine…it looks like this is the only way we’re gonna survive this, people...eleven pairs of pajama pants...you won’t see me in sequins or silk…it’s flannel for me, all season long, ten TV specials, nine thousand gifts to wrap, eight strands of lights, seven days on a beach...that's all I wanted...DAMMIT, six hours of not near enough sleep, five overdraft charges, four joyous parties, three nightmarish children, too many houseguests and a headache that will be the death of me!!!

Merry Christmas you guys!!!

Tis the season…

In the spirit of the season, the kids and I built a gingerbread house together last week…

And boy am I glad we did.  Because,  having just shot our wad on Friday, finishing up Christmas present buying, we are low on funds, and on groceries. 

So tonight, for dinner, my kids had Ramen noodles.  For dessert?  They ate part of our gingerbread house…

Damn, I love Christmas!

An education…

I’m not the only one in the family being educated in the healthcare field, as of today. 

My son, the 11 year old pre-perv, is currently…like, right now, as I type this…researching the topic of breast cancer.  I wrote out a few questions, like, “What is breast cancer?”  “How many women die each year from breast cancer?”  “Who is at risk for breast cancer?”  “What are the best preventative measures against breast cancer?”  And, “How do doctors treat breast cancer?” 

Now, if my boy still wants one of those DAMNED bracelets, maybe it’ll be for the right reasons. 

Wait…strike that.  He’s still a hormone infused boy. 

I guess, at least, he’ll be a boobie grabbin’ perv, who’s educated on the subject.  Offering breast exams, instead of just flat out grabbing them. 

That’s something maybe I could live with.

Maybe… 

He hearts boobies…

This is your fair warning…this is a rant!

*climbs up on this soapbox that someone conveniently left here*

Three weeks ago, my 11 year old boy asked me for an “I heart boobies” bracelet that are all the rage right now.  One like his friends have.  His 11 year old friends.  His 11 year old friends who, apparently, have parents that are cooler, hipper, and more into saving boobies than his mother is.

  Photo from here.

I answered the boy with a resounding…hell to the niz-o, and later, his father and I had a discussion. 

I expressed that I think the “I heart boobies” slogan…for lack of a better word in my vocabulary to accurately portray my feelings…is BOO-SHIT! 

BOO-SHIT, BOO-SHIT…BOO-SHIT!

I should rephrase that.  The slogan is cute.  It’s catchy.  My problem lies in the fact that it’s also catchy to the younger crowd.  Boys teetering on their “coming of age” who are just starting to find interest in the femalian fun bags, are now finding it cool, fun, and trendy to “heart boobies.” 

Don’t get me wrong.  I heart boobies.  I do.  They attracted an exceptional mate for my ass.  They fed my babies, and grew them to be healthy and rotund.  They make my shirts fit nicely.  They don’t cause me trouble.  And they’re errogenous, to boot!  I heart ‘em just as much as the next gal. 

I don’t, however, “heart” that my 11 year old finds it socially acceptable, (because of an inappropriate marketing ploy, IMO), to advertise and proclaim, that he, in all his pre-pubescent glory, “hearts boobies,” too! 

BOO-SHIT!!

In this little discussion I had with my “booby hearting” mate, I told him that I thought the slogan and the bracelets, when worn my young boys, was an invitation for sexual harassment.  IMO, it opens the door, for a young boy to say inappropriate things, possibly (read: probably) to a girl, with the convenient cloak of “I said it for the cause,” to cover his ass. 

BOO-SHIT!!!

I remember pre and pubescent boys.  They don’t need any excuses, or green lights, to be inappropriate with young girls.  They come up with plenty of ideas on their own to talk about, look at, oogle, and lust after boobies. 

They’re male mammals.  They have virtually one track minds. 

Fast forward to today, and me on this fucking soapbox…

I received a phone call from the Assistant Principal of the school, letting me know that my boy, and some of his friends were threatening girls, saying that they were going to “grab their boobies, because they heart them.”

Am I blaming my son’s misconduct on the campaign for “The Cure?” 

Hell no. 

It’s my job as a parent to teach my boy what is and isn’t wildly inappropriate.  I failed on this one, for sure. 

However, I do think that the bracelets did EXACTLY what I expected they would, right under my own nose.  They fanned the embers of a fire that will soon enough be raging, amongst those boys.  Those boys, just beginning to feel the twinges of becoming young men. 

“I heart boobies.” 

Innocent enough for you, or I, I suppose.  Notsomuch for the young girls who were threatened (thankfully, only threatened, and not assaulted) by my son and his friends. 

I firmly believe that those bracelets should be banned in schools.  I also think the gimmicks and marketing for something as serious and personal as breast cancer, should be chosen more carefully. 

More importantly, I should be a more vigilant parent, and use this as a way to teach him about those bracelets, what they mean, and what “hearting their boobies” means to the women who’ve tragically lost theirs to cancer. 

Boys…if they had boobies, they’d understand!

*soapbox dismount*

Thankful…

Cliché and corny, I know, but, I am. 

Thankful.

For these three kids here with me, who, I’m convinced, are the cat’s pajamas.  For real.
 

For the one who’s not here with me who taught me more about life in the 11 short months that I was given with him, than I’d have ever been able to learn on my own…in three lifetimes. 

And for The One, who works hard at a job that I know he doesn’t love, nor is he passionate about…so that his wife and kids (whom he is passionate about) can pursue their dreams. 

He’s amazing. 

So incredibly thankful, I am. 

For all of them. 

The Age-ed...

[Image from here]

I haven't thought too terribly much about what kind of nurse I want to be when I grow up.  I've always said that I just want to play the field before I settle down somewhere.  I don't want to be one of those people who swears that every single type of sick person in the world is the most fun to take care of.

Because one semester in, and pretty much one whole clinical rotation under my belt, and I can almost say with certainty that I don't want to work with the age-ed population.

It has nothing to do with their piss or their shit, either.  I can deal with that.  Piss and poo is a part of life, and I have no problem managing the biproducts of these patients' bowels.

It doesn't really have anything to do with that "old person smell" either.  That doesn't bother me so much.  It's funky, and it makes me wretch a little, but, I can handle that.  I'm a professional.

It has a little to do with the fact that they will never get any better.  That they have seen their "better days" and that it's all downhill from here, for many of them.  That's a tad depressing.  But, even that isn't something that I get hung up on.  I can forget about that.  I can even resume my life when I get home and continue taking it for granted.  And likely, when I am their age, and some hot shot student nurse is standing over my hospital bed, feeling a twinge of pain over the fact that my glory days are over, I'm sure I might regret that I didn't enjoy those moments of my life more.  No matter how crazy, or stressful, or endless they seemed.

C'est la vie...

They can be stubborn, they can be irrational, and they can be improper, but, those are actually my favorite things about the olds.

But, the thing that gets me about them...and what will likely keep me from working with them when/if I have a choice?  Is the fact that some of them are the most racist buncha mo-fo's I've ever been around!!

They have no problem saying that they're "used to having colored's take care of them" when the black lady that checked their blood sugar walks out of the room.  They see no shame in butchering the Spanish expression of gratitude, "grah-see-us" with their very white Southern drawls.  TO THE HALF PHILLIPINO PREGNANT CHICK, WHO JUST FINISHED A TWELVE HOUR SHIFT, SWOLLEN, AND TIRED, AND CONTRACTING, YET, NEVER BALKED ONCE AT ANSWERING THEIR EVERY BECK AND CALL ALL THE DAMNED DAY!!!  And they don't think it rude to ask the lady with the badge and thick Eastern Indian accent, "You're not from around here, are ya?"  Then proceed to yell, loudly, slowly, and offensively, "DOOOOO YOOOOOOOU EVEN SPEEEEAK ENG-LIIISH?"

They just leave me speechless sometimes!

They are so seasoned, and they tell great stories, they are walking history books, they have fewer teeth to brush, which I totally dig about them, and they've lived circles around my piddly ass...likely earning them the right to say whateverthehell they want.

But, damn.  They can be real assholes, the olds.

But, then again, can't we all?

Priceless…

Tuition:  $1500

Time spent away from the family:  40 hours/week

Antacids (likely needed for a developing ulcer related to stress):  $5

Being capable and qualified to handle the
piss and shit of the area’s sickest citizens?

PRICELESS!

It’s scary…

…how grown up this child is looking these days!

 
Terrifying, actually!

Life saver…

After coming off my happy pills back at the beginning of this year, I think I’ve adjusted fairly well.  No major issues to speak of, but, I have noticed a tad bit of anxiety, as of late. 

Rationally, I know much of it is my new schedule, and the stress of school, but, some of the anxiety was manifesting over little shit.

Like cups.

Not just one cup…I’m talking no less than 20 cups, that would be on my kitchen counter by the end of every day. 

I SWEAR it seems that my children get a new cup, for every fucking sip of water they ingest!  They must, for that is what the evidence shows at the end of every day, when my dishwasher is filled to the brim with a myriad of cups from around the globe. 

Some from Dickies barbecue down the street, in all shapes and sizes.  Kids cups from Chili’s.  Cups from Fuzzy’s taco stand.  Cups from Bourbon street that’s original purpose was not for milk.  Cups from a Cowboy’s game back in 2002.  Cups from Chuck E. Cheese.  My favorite cups from Rudy’s barbecue that we collect on our trips to Austin. 

All of them would be strewn across the counter by nightfall.  While I did, just a smidge, appreciate the nostalgia of it all, the daily plastic trip down memory lane…mostly it boiled my blood. 

I would rant and rave like a lunatic, day in, and day out…”ONE CUP…ONE CUP…YOU ONLY NEED ONE CUP FOR A DAY.  MAYBE TWO DAYS.  FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS SANE AND HOLY…ONE FLIPPIN’ CUP PER PERSON!  THAT’S FIVE CUPS…I JUST PICKED UP THIRTY-FREAKIN-SEVEN CUPS!!  WORK WITH ME PEOPLE!!”

They would listen to me wide-eyed, nod in agreement, and go get a cup out of the cupboard and get a drink of water.

On top of it all…the fights that would break out over one of the any given 37 cups that were on the counter. 

“MOOOOOOOOO-OM.  He just drank out of my cup!” 

“NO I DIDN’T!  The little Dickie’s cup is mine.  Yours is the big one.”

“NU-UH!!  Ave’s is the Fuzzy’s cup, YOURS is the big Dickies cup!”

This would go on for seemingly hours.  These cups were causing chaos, and I was at my breaking point.  I had to do something to save my sanity.  So, I bought these…

   
Color coded cups.  Jack is red.  Ave is blue.  Lil is purple.  There are only two of each.  While one is washing, the other is being used. 

No more fights.  No more fusses.  No more eighty seven cups on my counter each night.  Now, there are only these three.  These three aesthetically pleasing cups.

I’m an idiot for not thinking of it sooner…it’s just that no one tells you that you’re at risk for offin’ yourself over plastic flippin’ cups, when you become a mom! 

Back in the runnin’…

It looks like I might be back in the running for Mother of the Year for 2010.  After today, in fact, I’m in pretty good standing. 

Jake was working from home today, so we went out to lunch.  A friend that Jake plays ball with happened to be there with his wife, so we sat at the bar with them, on a Thursday afternoon, and kicked back a couple. 

That doesn’t exactly put me in the running, but, this next part does…

Jake’s phone rang and I noticed that it was the school.  Immediately thinking that one of my heathen boys were into trouble, I answered the call. 

It was actually Lily’s teacher.  Calling for our scheduled phone conference.  That I’d forgotten about.  Caught off guard, and pretending that I hadn’t forgotten about our appointment, I chatted with Lily’s teacher. 

When I hung up, it dawned on me that I’d just had a parent/teacher conference AT A BAR! 

At a FREAKIN’ BAR!!

I should start working on my acceptance speech now!!

I don’t care who ya are…

A big box of rubber penises is funny!

You can dress me up like a nurse, give me a stethoscope, teach me to auscultate, percuss, assess, and administer a transdermal injection…but, if you do it with a giant box of penises on the shelf behind you, I can promise you I’m gonna laugh!

Don’t think you’re above it, until you try concentrating on a lab demonstration with 50 glans penises of various shades staring back at you!!

It’s officially hopeless…I’m never growing up!

We pulled the trigger…

We got a new pup.  The gaping hole that was left in our lives when Tucker the Fucker ran away could only be filled by another weenie dog.  Or some sappy shit like that. 

This…

is Joben!

The name started out as a joke.  While we were thinking of great names like Capone, Pacino, and Mugsy, we joked that we should call him Joben, from this scene in “I Love You Man.”

We laughed about it, and started calling him Jobes, Jobey, and Joben on his first day with us.  The name stuck and began to grow on us. 

Now, it’s official!  His name is Joben, and we love him! 

Good lookin’ out, Mom…

The only thing more inappropriate than reading about a company making an attachment that will turn a child’s gaming system into an interactive sex toy…

Is your mother sending you the link!  Thanks for the heads up, Mom!!  ;)

Gold, Guns, Girls…

Guns…

My boys got a PS3 for their birthdays, and they are wrapped up in those damn shooting games.  Call of Duty, Modern Warfare.  One or the other.  Or both.  Or, are they the same thing?  Whatever it’s called, I don’t like it, really…but, apparently, my vote didn’t count. 

Girls…

You didn’t hear this from me, but, The One Who Knows Everything is now learning a few things about girls.  He has a girlfriend, whose hand he likes to hold on the bus!  Fuck me runnin…I’m gonna be a grandmother before long, aren’t I?!?

Gold…

I got nothing for gold, just the fact that I dig this song, and thought it was a clever title…

An unfinished post...

I found this post in my drafts, and completely forgot to post it.  In fact, as I looked back through my blog posts, I didn't post much about our week in Destin.  We had fun.  So much so, that we're planning to go back next year.  That's the gist of it, really.

Well, that, and this old, unfinished post...

Every evening in Destin, as our family splashed in the pool for the sixth consecutive hour, sunburned, salty, tipsy (at least Jake and I were) and tired from a whole day of soaking up the sun, families would parade by. Dressed in their best. Hair fixed just right. The kids and the husbands of this endless stream of families, wore obvious scowls.  They were likely less than thrilled about having to get gussied up for pictures on the beach.  The moms walked by,with a purpose, leading her family to their misery.  They wielded their cameras, their minds focused on getting that perfect shot of their families on the beach.

I've been that mom. I've been hired by that mom. I know how those pictures turn out.  It ain't pretty!

A short amount of time would pass, and upon their return from the shoot of doom, I could see the frustration in the faces of the mom's as they made their way off the beach with their fighting children and angry husbands.

I won't lie. I thought I need that perfect shot, too.  Every day I'd warn the kids, "Tomorrow.  Tomorrow, we're going to get out of our bathing suits and get a good family pic on the beach.  You guys owe me this.  I made you people, this is the least you could do!"  I even brought my tripod!

Night after night of watching the" pissed off picture taking mom parade", I decided that "perfect shot" just wasn't worth the trouble!  Well, that, and that after so many RedBull's and vodkas by the beach/pool, a girl can get pretty unmotivated.  And drunk!

I decided that relaxed pics were the way to go with my crew.

Here's the "perfect" family shot I got of my family at Destin...

This is the "perfect" shot, of my kids on the beach...

And Ave even manned the camera, so that Jake and I could cheese it up...

They're PERFECT, if you ask me!!

The Constitution…UPDATE!

I was sitting down to study, and somehow ended up on Facebook. 


I honestly don’t.  Know.  How!  I swear!  I plead the Fifth!!

I stumbled across my friend’s status that said, and I’m paraphrasing, “OMG.  I just found out that my kid learned about abortion in school last year, from his 4th grade science teacher!!”


Is this covered somewhere in Rowe vs. Wade?  That fourth graders shalt not be taught about abortion in  school?  I was under the assumption it was!!

I went on to read the comments, and I’m paraphrasing again, but, upon further investigation, her child reported that it was actually taught in Social Studies, and that the teacher explained, “that it (abortion) was wrong, because it would be killing one of God’s creations.”


Hold the frickin’ telephone!!!  I know this one’s covered somewhere.  It should be filed under the “Separation of Church and State” bit that’s always being thrown around.  I mean, how’s a faithless heathen like me, supposed to raise their children without the Lord, when they go around preaching it in our public schools??

Last night, an hour and fifteen minutes after I’d put the little dear to bed, I opened the door to my boy’s room.

“Hey,” I whispered.  Loudly.  Loudly enough to wake him if the answer to the next question was no!  “You awake?”

Sleepily, he said, “Yeah…what?”

I sat down on his bed and told him I had a question about the fourth grade.


I’m pretty sure that the Statute of Limitations for the actual event that inspired this questioning had long past, and everything I learned from this interrogation would never hold up in a court of law, because of this.

I asked him if he’d ever been taught about a pregnant woman having the baby removed from her belly if she doesn’t want it, or if he’d heard the term abortion.  I asked him if he’d ever been taught about God in school, or if any of his teachers have ever said anything like, “That would be wrong, because that would be like killing one of God’s creations.”

He answered all of my initial questions with a sleepy, “Nuh-uh,” and those started to make me feel a bit better that he wasn’t being preached to with my tax dollars.

I went on to explain why I thought those things were a big deal.  That talking about abortion with a fourth grader is not cool, and that talking about God in public schools is never cool.  I explained why, and went into a little spiel about that good old “Separation of Church and State,” and the difference between public and private sectors.  He relayed comprehension of our conversation, when he asked, “So, is that why my cousin who goes to private school can have classes like Bible, and we can’t, and he doesn’t have to take the TAKS?”


I should add, those standardized tests are straight from the Devil.  And if the Devil is actually a fallen angel, then where is the “Separation of Church and State” there, huh?!?  HUH?!?  HUH!!!!!

I told him that he was exactly right, and that I appreciated him talking to me about this so late, and listening, and sorta answering my questions.

I wrapped the ill-timed conversation up neatly, with a, “Did your teachers ever talk to you about sex, or anything like that?”

Even in the dark, I could see the kid blush as he said, “UH…Nooooooooooooooo!” 


At this point, the conversation had clearly gotten waaaaay too weird for him, and my boy plead the Fifth!!

I tried to explain that he would be learning about it very soon, and that I had learned a lot about it while studying to be a nurse (and banging his Dad…which, I appropriately left out!), and told him that if he had any questions about it, he could surely come to me! 

He said, “Nah…I think we’ll learn that stuff when we’re in high school.  Like, when we’re Seniors, or something.”

I kinda laughed and said, “Ooooooooh no, Buddy.  You’ll learn about it A LOT earlier than that!!”

Curious, he asked, “Why do you say it like that?”

“Oh.  Just.  You will.  I just know it.”  I stammered.  Then, I plead the Fifth, thanked him for his candor, and kissed him goodnight. 

Again!

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::UPDATE:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Good news!  They were not teaching/preaching about abortion and God at our school!  Yay!!  I don't have to raise hell!!  My friend emailed me, telling me that she talked to her son a bit more, and was able to get more of the story, and it was actually in church that he learned about abortion!  Which I find a bit ironic...go figure!!  Reason # 246 why we don't go to church!!  I'm kidding...kind of...

Ned’s dead, Baby…Ned’s dead…

So, I was in skills lab today, and we were practicing vital signs.  It was a real gas, I tell ya. 

We took turns pretending to be patients, then we’d switch, and we’d get to pretend to be nurses.

Right now, that’s all this feels like…pretend.  Like an elaborate game of dress up!!

This morning, I was pretending to be the patient, and Ned, a fellow classmate from the Middle East (I don’t really know if/why that’s relevant, but, just imagine his thick Middle Eastern accent, it makes the story cooler!) was palpating my brachial pulse. 

Don’t tell my husband, okay?

Ned was palpating, I was kicking ass at my role, laying in the bed…and after several minutes longer than it should’ve taken my dear friend Ned, he said, “Nikki, I think you have too much adipose tissue.  I can’t feel your pulse.” 

Using big words and a fancy accent, I was pretty sure Ned just called me fat. 

I snatched my arm from Ned, and said, “Excuse me?”

He said, “Adipose tissue.  On the inside of your arm.  There’s too much.  I can’t feel your pulse.”

By the by…we’re talking about the inside of my elbow people!!!  Probably the skinniest part of my body!

Half joking, half wanting to rip Ned’s trachea out of his nuchal area )if we’re using our big nursing words, and all!!), I said, “Yeah…I heard ya, Ned.  And I dare you to say it again!” 

We all laughed, because that’s what girls do when dudes call us fat, we laugh.  It’s so we don't cry.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, my Tale of One Fatty gets worse…

After lunch, Ned was trying to hear my blood pressure and asked the instructor to listen with him to make sure he was doing it right.  Cool.  I’m still kicking ass, laying my fat-elbowed ass in the bed, pretending to be the patient. 

Ned fumbled and struggled to hear my pressure (are we sensing a pattern here?  Maybe I’m not fat…maybe Ned sucks!  I wish…) and the professor shut it all down, and in front of an audience of six, said, “Wait a minute.  Maybe it’s the cuff size.  Let’s measure.  Maybe we need the bigger cuff.”

My blood pressure, had Ned’s ass been able to correctly assess it, shot through the fucking roof!! 

“Really?  Really?  This one’s good.  Please don’t go get the fat-girl cuff,” I said, desperately.

The professor tried to make me feel better, with, “Oh no.  It’s not a fat girl cuff…it’s an adult X-Large cuff.  Some people just need bigger cuffs!”  If I was grading her attempt at comforting me…she would’ve gotten an F!!!

Right there on the pretend hospital bed, in the pretend hospital room, with a host of pretend nurses around me, while pretending to be a patient (a fat one, apparently), I died a little!

Today, in Nursing School, I learned how to take a blood pressure, but more importantly, I learned that the inside of my elbow’s are fat, and if you’d like to assess my blood pressure, you’ll have to locate the largest fucking cuff you can find!!

And as for Ned?  Ned’s dead, Baby…Ned’s dead!!

Public School…

No, this is not a rant on the standardized tests, and that I think they are utter bullshit. 

Nor, is it a rant on the poor overworked, underpaid teachers who have to jump through the state’s hoops, while simultaneously keeping parents happy, and children engaged. 

No.

It’s about what our kids are exposed to at public school. 

While the uber-conservative Christians may worry about what nonsense my faithless offspring may spew…I tend to worry about the vice versa. 

My oldest son came home from school singing a little rap song his friend had taught him.  It went something like this…

“I am an Afghan rapper.
A suicide bomber. 
Just like Osama,
But, you can call me Obama.”

I tried to explain to my son that the rap was ignorant, rude, and most importantly, disrespectful to our President.  I let him know that I understood that he meant no harm by repeating what his fried be spittin’, but, that before he blindly followed along in an ignorant rhyme, maybe next time he should inquire about it first.

I know this was tough for my kid.  Because he doesn’t see his friend as mean spirited, disrespectful, or ignorant…but, it was a lesson hopefully learned. 

This isn’t the only time my kids have repeated things they’ve learned at school.  A few times they’ve told me that they have been questioned about their religion, or lack thereof, and that “friends” of theirs have assured my children that they would have a seat in hell, since they don’t have a seat in a pew on Sundays. 

Awesome!!

I’m a faithless heathen, teaching my children to appreciate and respect their friends faith and differences, but, because of the nature of Christianity, and it’s “Jesus’ way or the Hades-way” mentality…and our geographical location smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt…my children are not afforded a reciprocal understanding. 

If there is one thing that I cannot stand more than someone damning another person to an eternity in hell, it’s A CHILD spouting off his parent’s political and/or religious agenda to his peers (For the record…I’m not talking about lovingly witnessing to his friends, I’m talking about the, “na-na-na-na-na-na…you’re going to hell,” bullshit!). 

I don’t know…I heard recently from a zealot in a forum that Obama was really Osama…and he had surgery to disguise himself and take over America!

In that case, sing it with me, now…

“I am an Afghan rapper.
A suicide bomber. 
Just like Osama,
But, you can call me Obama.”

This, my friends…

is why I will NEVER cruise!!!

Jake showed me this video, and I told him, “Yeah, fool…I’m not dumb.  That’s EXACTLY why I will never get my happy ass on a cruise ship!” 

He followed with, “Whatever, eventually you’re gonna have to.”

I reminded him of the fat dude in the stripy shirt being tossed about like a rag doll, and the dear woman in all black who looked to be unconscious after she slammed into the pillar!

I’m not cruisin’…there is no fucking way, after watching this!!

P.S.  I haven’t laughed this hard since the Shake Weight commercial came out!

Repertoire…

This is all that I have in my repertoire right now…

BOOKS…

FOOTBALL…

OFFSPRING…

 
MY LOVE…

 
SLEEP…

 
It seems this is all I have time for, these days. 

But, really? 

What else is there? 

Statistically speaking...

I think statistics are bullshit.

Even statisticians think that statistics are bullshit.  When I took the class a couple of summers ago, the first thing I was told was, "This semester, you're gonna learn a shit ton of numbers, formulas, and odds...and it doesn't mean anything, because anyone can manipulate any statistic to mean whatever they want.  So remember that after you spend 30 minutes trying to solve one statistical equation...the numbers can be unreliable."

With that intro to the course, I wondered why in the hell, it was a pre-requisite to the nursing program.

Today, as I sat through the lecture that concluded my second week of the program, they ran a few numbers by us.

86%...

That's the percentage of the 58 students in the class that will complete the program, and graduate.  Of the 14% that don't graduate, most of those will not be academic failures, rather, they will be people who quit.  Who give up.  Who have a change of heart.

Another number...99.9%.

That's the percentage of those who graduate, who will pass the nursing boards within two years.

Pretty sweet, huh?

Those are numbers that I can hang my cute little paper nurse's hat on!!  Those are numbers, on which, I can hedge a bet!  THOSE are some statistics that will perk my ears!

After a terrifying first week, and a shaky second week...NOW we're talking!

Even if those numbers and data are manipulated to give us nursing students, who are shaking in our ugly ass scrubs, a false sense of hope and security...I DON'T CARE!  I don't care if there are outliers in this data, or the study was conducted by a biased researcher!

 I needed to hear those numbers today!!

After today, I heart statistics!

An intimate moment...

With so many figurative balls in the air right now, I was bound to have to prioritize them, and let a few drop, for the greater good.  Unfortunately for Jake, the ball representing our "relations" was the first one to hit the ground upon my re-entry to the college scene.

The other night, Jake broached the subject, "I thought college girls were supposed to be easy."

Whining a bit, I said, "Baaaa-abe, I'm tired. Really, really tired. Being back in class wears me out, and if you ever plan on getting laid again...I'm just telling you now, you're gonna have to get creative."

There was a moment of silence. I tried to hurry off to sleep before he devised a plan.

I wasn't fast enough...

"Wanna play beer pong?"

Well played, sir...well played!

We call her Charlotte…

The kids have had so much fun with this spider.  She’s right by our front door, and she’s helping us to keep the grasshoppers off of our bushes. 

The boys want to make her our pet, and they try to feed her by catching grasshoppers and throwing them into her web.  They like to watch her do her spindly thing with them, in spite of my warnings that Charlotte is doing just fine without their help, and that they are actually risking destroying her web, in their attempts to help a spider out.

 
The kids love her so much, I’ve thought about putting her picture up in place of The One Who Ran Away’s!

Reunited…

A man…

and his remote…

 
It’s a beautiful thing!!

Football season is starting up, and I would never expect my husband to go without television during the Cowboy’s season.

Never.

Ever.

As of today, we’re plugged back in. 

The kids were thrilled.  I know they were thrilled, because they house was silent when they got home from school.  I mean, silent.  We told them that we would keep the cable until the Cowboys’ season is over, then, the plug will be pulled again…and we’ll be part-time cable viewers.

And with that, “America’s team” has three brand new fans this year!

Go Cowboys…our television viewing pleasure depends on it!

When I grow up...

When I grow up, I wanna be a Nurse Practitioner.

Since my kids older, I thought it would be cool that they get to witness me working hard in school pursuing degrees, a career, and my dreams.

I thought I was modeling for my children, to set goals. To achieve them. And when you do, aim higher, and set new goals.

The sky's the limit.

So, tonight, while hiding in my room, rocking back and forth in a corner, and drooling, after a NINE HOUR LECTURE, today!! while freshening up for dinner, I was a little disappointed to hear this conversation...

Avery said, "Hey, Dad. When I grow up, I wanna be a lawyer...and then, after that...I wanna be the mayor! How cool would that be?"

I heard Lily gasp, and say, "WHAT?!? Why would you want to do all that?? When I grow up, all I wanna do is work at PetSmart!"

Not become a veterinarian. Not become an animal trainer. Not even OWN a fucking PetSmart. She just wants to work at one?!?

**Note to self: When Lily's an adult, and working at PetSmart to help support her family...remember to praise her for following her dreams!!**

Today, it hit me...

On my first day of nursing school, I listened for hours on the legalities, regulations, and expectations that will be placed on me as a nurse. I learned that this new career path I've chose, I will spend a lot of time, covering my ass. Making sure that my patients are happy. My coworkers are happy. My bosses are happy. And that the Board is happy. It kinda freaked me out.

As I sat and listened, I realized how much I enjoyed the job I've had for the past twelve years, and the people I've worked with.

My boss is lovely. I mean, a dream. I'd totally hit it. In fact, I have. And do, regularly.

I worked as the lone supervisor, while the boss was away, so I never had to deal with pissy coworkers and their drama. I liked being in charge, with no one around to sue me, if I fucked up. In fact, the only people around to notice if I fucked up, were too young to even vote, so they couldn't if they wanted to!

Speaking of those people. The people who I was supervising while the boss was out. They are great. I mean, the first few years that I worked with them was tough. They were demanding, and kind of annoying really, and they cried a lot. And they soiled themselves, and I'd have to clean it. They were pretty immature. But, they've done some growing up, and lately they have been just a pleasure to work with. They didn't care if I was in my pajamas all day, or if I didn't do the laundry correctly, or regularly, or EVER. They never ratted me out to my boss, if I sat around all day doing nothing, but, jumped up five minutes before the Big Dog arrived home, to keep up the appearance that I'd actually done something. They didn't watch my every move, waiting for a misstep. They never complained to any Board. Or, tried to have my license revoked. They were just a real pleasure.

That's all about to change...and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified!!

Are you ready for some football?

Hell yeah!!

I had a photoshoot, and missed Jack’s first preseason game, but, since he’s been so sick, he wasn’t playing much anyway. 

But, I made it in time for Ave’s game, and it was good to be watching some football again!

Ave started at Defensive End, and it turns out the hour of being grilled by the coach at Friday’s practice for not exploding off the line fast enough, paid off!

It all came back to my boy when he was on that football field, and he did great! 

He had a sack, or two, and several tackles.

This one…was caught on camera.  He’s number 12, in the black helmet.

 He sees the handoff for the reverse…

He does not see the block coming and is blindsided by what looks to be a little illegal, helmet to helmet contact…

Avery reported that his lights flickered for a second with this hit, and he had to shake himself out of it, because he knew the play was still going on…
 

On his way to the ground, he lunges…

 
He wraps up, all he can reach…

The running back is in trouble…

Avery takes him down, for a huge loss on the play…

Get some, bitch…

 
Alright…Avery didn’t say that, I did, but, whatever!!

Not what I had in mind...

So, when I pictured myself in scrubs, this is what I pictured...

This is not what I pictured...




What in the hell???

I'm a nurse in the 1980's!!!

It’s been a while…

Since my kiddos were sick. 

The past year…we haven’t been sick very much at all.  I mean nothing.  Not even so much as a runny nose. 

It’s wonderful when your kids get a little older, their immune systems mature, and they are able to fight off the typical sneezes and sniffles and the occasional doozy of an infection, on their own!

Yesterday, just five short days before the first day of 1st grade, 3rd grade, 5th grade, and the Nursing Program…Jack decided to succumb to the germs, and he’s sick!

Strep throat.  An ear infection.  Upper respiratory infection.  And croup!!!

All at once. 

He’s on a double dose of antibiotics, breathing treatments, and steroids, and Tylenol and Ibuprofen round the clock to attempt to keep his fever in check.  He should be right as rain, and no longer contagious by the first day of school, though.

But, what about the rest of us?

My head feels funny and my throat is scratchy…and I’m convinced that Lily and I will come down with this crap, come Sunday!!  We’re the only ones excited about starting school, and it seems like it would fit that we’d be the ones to be stricken with the crud, forcing us to stay home!! 

I know, I know…I shouldn’t be so negative, and I shouldn’t send shit like that into the universe.  Hopefully, it’s just psychosomatic, and it’s nothing.

Hopefully, come Monday…I don’t look anything like this…

Some things money can’t buy…

Designer scrubs…$60

Stethoscope…$80

Textbooks…$350

  

Realizing a dream…PRICELESS!

My T’s are crossed and my I’s are dotted.  I’ve been oriented.  I’ve been tested.  I’ve served my time, waited my turn, and on Monday…a dream of mine comes true! 

I start nursing school. 

Until this point, it has just felt like something I’ve been talking about.  Something I’ve been planning.  Now that I have my equipment, have my seat in the classroom, and have my clinical assignment…it’s feeling pretty real.

I’m really gonna do this thing!!