It often amuses me to go to a doctor appointment - especially when it is a new doctor - to see what their reaction to my chart is. First off, I am a medical mystery on most parts. The number of times I have hear a doctor say, "Huh. Well, that's weird." is astronomical.
Secondly, out of all the medications I take on a regular basis, only one is being used for what it is "normally" prescribed for.
A typical conversation with a new doctor goes something like this:
"So how long have you had diabetes?"
"I don't."
"You don't?"
"Nope."
"Then why are you taking Metformin?"
"Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome."
"Oh." (pause) "And do you have a long history of addiction?"
"Heck no. I hate taking pills. And I don't do drugs."
"Um...."
"My pain management specialist prescribes that for my chronic back pain and bursitis."
"Ah." (longer pause) "Are the antihistamines for seasonal allergies or nasal allergies?"
"Neither. They treat my anxiety and depression."
"In addition to the anti-depressants?"
"Yep."
"Okay. When were you diagnosed with Fibromyalgia?"
"I haven't been. I take that for chronic nerve pain resulting from nerve damage in my spine."
(At this point, the doctor pauses, to gain a better mental footing.)
"Are you still taking the antibiotics?"
"Which ones do you have listed? The second or third round? Oh well, it doesn't matter. No. I'm not taking the antibiotics anymore. The specialist is waiting for me to schedule the surgery."
At this point, they generally give up trying to understand.
Nobody ever said I was normal....
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
White & Nerdy
I got a new phone the other day which is now bluetooth capable. I've been having fun downloading all sorts of Weird Al ringtones (the current one is Al screaming).
BUT the phone being bluetooth capable made me start thinking. I went on the Official Weird Al Website and found a bunch of photos, including quite a few of the infamous Red Suit. I promptly saved all of them to my computer, hotsync'd them to my Palm and bluetoothed them to my new phone.
When I excitedly showed my new wallpaper to my roommie, he told me I was a geek.
Damn Skippy!!!!
BUT the phone being bluetooth capable made me start thinking. I went on the Official Weird Al Website and found a bunch of photos, including quite a few of the infamous Red Suit. I promptly saved all of them to my computer, hotsync'd them to my Palm and bluetoothed them to my new phone.
When I excitedly showed my new wallpaper to my roommie, he told me I was a geek.
Damn Skippy!!!!
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Extreme Ray Makeover
Many of you will have noticed that I have not posted in a while. That's because Ray has been going through some..... things. Call it a mid-life crisis if you will. Basically, I have been trying to better myself. Which means, of course, that I've been spending quite a bit of time AWAY from the computer. And that is not condusive to posting blog entries, now is it?
For those of you wondering what has all been involved so far in my Extreme Ray Makeover, I give you....
Family Membership in YMCA ....................... $60/month
Quit smoking using the patch .................... $80
EN&T Specialist bills ........................... $200
Therapy ......................................... $200
New Glasses ..................................... $250
Contacts ........................................ $70
Work clothes that now fit ....................... $100
Getting my self-confidence and sanity back ...... PRICELESS
There may be more to come, so I can't say how long it may be until I post again. Now if only I could convince ABC that they need to pay off my mortgage.....
For those of you wondering what has all been involved so far in my Extreme Ray Makeover, I give you....
Family Membership in YMCA ....................... $60/month
Quit smoking using the patch .................... $80
EN&T Specialist bills ........................... $200
Therapy ......................................... $200
New Glasses ..................................... $250
Contacts ........................................ $70
Work clothes that now fit ....................... $100
Getting my self-confidence and sanity back ...... PRICELESS
There may be more to come, so I can't say how long it may be until I post again. Now if only I could convince ABC that they need to pay off my mortgage.....
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Help for my friend
I recently got this e-mail from one of my good friends, Amanda. If anyone out there would like to put in their input, please post it in the comments section of this post and I will forward the info on to her. Any and all replies would be appreciated. HOWEVER, please remember this is for a school project. I mention this because she told me that she is having trouble finding people to appropriately answer the questions posed. She asked her boyfriend the questions and she said his response included the words "fucking carpet-munching bull dykes". She can't use stuff like that. Keep it pc, people.
Hi!
I really need some help. For my Women's Studies class, I need to ask people the following:
1. What do you think feminism is?
2. Who do you think feminists are?
3. What do you base this on?
So...if you have a couple of minutes and want to help a friend or relative
in need, please give me your thoughts. I would appreciate it (and so will
my GPA). :)
Hope you are doing well - I'm swamped with homework!!
Amanda
Hi!
I really need some help. For my Women's Studies class, I need to ask people the following:
1. What do you think feminism is?
2. Who do you think feminists are?
3. What do you base this on?
So...if you have a couple of minutes and want to help a friend or relative
in need, please give me your thoughts. I would appreciate it (and so will
my GPA). :)
Hope you are doing well - I'm swamped with homework!!
Amanda
Sunday, September 30, 2007
It Drives Me Crazy
I have had more than one conversation in my lifetime where I either argued about or amused myself with people discussing the proper pronunciations of English words. One of my most vivid memories about one of my best friends was when she first moved in to the house next door to my parent's home (I was living at home at the time... many moons ago).
She was from Illinois and she was going on about some of the local colloquialisms. Such as how Wisconsinites refer to water fountains as "bubblers" or soft drinks as "cokes" or "colas" as opposed to "pop". (Don't ever ask me for a pop, by the way, cuz I'll certainly give you one.) In that same conversation I said something about a bag. She told me I pronounced the word wrong. We actually argued about the pronunciation of the word "bag" so long and so vehemently that she brought out the dictionary to show me that her pronunciation was grammatically correct. I stuck to my story. I'm a stubborn little bastard.
Now, aside from "bag", I am a stickler for correct pronunciations and grammatical speaking. I tend to choose my own words quite distinctly and generally speaking, although I AM a woman, I mean precisely what I say. Unfortunately, this sometimes does involve me explaining the definition of words to people.
However, it does amuse the hell out of my husband. This is because I still use words such as "gumption". My opinion is that sometimes that is the only word that accurately describes what I am trying to say. My husband on the other hand, just shakes his head and says, "Who the hell says "gumption" anymore?" Well, the simple and obvious answer is, um, me.
So, my ponderous purveyors of prolific prose, have you had any similar experiences? What words, mispronunciations, or general misuse of terminologies have you experienced that really drive you batty?
She was from Illinois and she was going on about some of the local colloquialisms. Such as how Wisconsinites refer to water fountains as "bubblers" or soft drinks as "cokes" or "colas" as opposed to "pop". (Don't ever ask me for a pop, by the way, cuz I'll certainly give you one.) In that same conversation I said something about a bag. She told me I pronounced the word wrong. We actually argued about the pronunciation of the word "bag" so long and so vehemently that she brought out the dictionary to show me that her pronunciation was grammatically correct. I stuck to my story. I'm a stubborn little bastard.
Now, aside from "bag", I am a stickler for correct pronunciations and grammatical speaking. I tend to choose my own words quite distinctly and generally speaking, although I AM a woman, I mean precisely what I say. Unfortunately, this sometimes does involve me explaining the definition of words to people.
However, it does amuse the hell out of my husband. This is because I still use words such as "gumption". My opinion is that sometimes that is the only word that accurately describes what I am trying to say. My husband on the other hand, just shakes his head and says, "Who the hell says "gumption" anymore?" Well, the simple and obvious answer is, um, me.
So, my ponderous purveyors of prolific prose, have you had any similar experiences? What words, mispronunciations, or general misuse of terminologies have you experienced that really drive you batty?
Friday, September 21, 2007
Getting in your head
I'm currently working at a place that's a half-hour to a forty-five minute drive from my home. This leaves me a lot of time to think. Which is, on the whole, scary. It is during these drives that I get inspired to write a blog post about something which, at the time, makes a lot of sense. You notice I say "at the time" because by the time I actually get home to write the post, well.... it no longer does.
Plus, a lot of the posts I think about making will allow... how to put this... more access into my head than most people would truly desire anyways. I'll give you a "for instance".
I was thinking about how I haven't posted to my blog in a while and how I'm under a lot of stress in both my personal and professional life. I realize the number of people that can and may see my blog and I'm thinking I don't want the whole world to know about EVERYTHING in my life. I get the thought that posting a blog is kind of like giving an open invite to allow people into my head for at least a little while.
The following is a basic script of my thought process after said thought:
"I wonder if there is a room capacity for people's heads. I mean, if too many people get in, can that cause a fire hazard? What if my head is over room capacity and someone yells "fire!"? I'll bet that would give me a headache. What if someone actually starts a fire? Maybe that's what causes fevers. Hmmm.... Maybe I should take an aspirin to prevent these people from getting into my head in the first place. Does aspirin prevent people from getting in your head? I'll bet it works better than tin foil. Oooooh. What about an aspirin COVERED in tin foil? Screw you government, gimme a Bayer and some Reynolds Wrap."
See? You don't really want to read about the things that go on in my head. So the next time I haven't posted in a while, I wouldn't complain if I were you.
Plus, a lot of the posts I think about making will allow... how to put this... more access into my head than most people would truly desire anyways. I'll give you a "for instance".
I was thinking about how I haven't posted to my blog in a while and how I'm under a lot of stress in both my personal and professional life. I realize the number of people that can and may see my blog and I'm thinking I don't want the whole world to know about EVERYTHING in my life. I get the thought that posting a blog is kind of like giving an open invite to allow people into my head for at least a little while.
The following is a basic script of my thought process after said thought:
"I wonder if there is a room capacity for people's heads. I mean, if too many people get in, can that cause a fire hazard? What if my head is over room capacity and someone yells "fire!"? I'll bet that would give me a headache. What if someone actually starts a fire? Maybe that's what causes fevers. Hmmm.... Maybe I should take an aspirin to prevent these people from getting into my head in the first place. Does aspirin prevent people from getting in your head? I'll bet it works better than tin foil. Oooooh. What about an aspirin COVERED in tin foil? Screw you government, gimme a Bayer and some Reynolds Wrap."
See? You don't really want to read about the things that go on in my head. So the next time I haven't posted in a while, I wouldn't complain if I were you.
Try Jesus
So I'm in the parking lot at a local pharmacy today when I see a bumper sticker that says in big, bold letters "Try Jesus" with other stuff written underneath it. Now, even driving at parking lot speeds, I didn't have time to read what the subscript was.
So, apparently, my brain made it up. To me, it read like "Try Jesus. He stays crunchy, even in milk!" I giggled to myself for the next ten minutes.
Does this mean I'm weird?
So, apparently, my brain made it up. To me, it read like "Try Jesus. He stays crunchy, even in milk!" I giggled to myself for the next ten minutes.
Does this mean I'm weird?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
I'm an Uber Cool Non-Nerd
Dang thing says that I've taken this quiz before, but I haven't. Who's been using my computer? :P
Monday, August 27, 2007
I'm still here!
I'm still alive. I swear I am. Perhaps that's why I'm in so much pain - to remind me that I am, indeed, alive.
I started my new job last week. It's difficult adjusting to the hours. Not just a 40 hour work week (that I haven't done in months, unfortunately), but starting at a job that I have to drive almost an hour to and starts at 7 in the morning. Pleh.
BUT, I love my job, and the people there are great. Makes it a heck of a lot easier to get up in the morning. Well, if it wasn't for all of the pain, that is. The actual waking up bit, though, is easier because I'm happy.
I have a blog post that I've been slowly working on (no, it's not that great, I've just been working on it when I have a minute here and there... don't get any hopes up), and I'll see when I can get that finished. In the meantime, I'll check in when I can.
Later all!
I started my new job last week. It's difficult adjusting to the hours. Not just a 40 hour work week (that I haven't done in months, unfortunately), but starting at a job that I have to drive almost an hour to and starts at 7 in the morning. Pleh.
BUT, I love my job, and the people there are great. Makes it a heck of a lot easier to get up in the morning. Well, if it wasn't for all of the pain, that is. The actual waking up bit, though, is easier because I'm happy.
I have a blog post that I've been slowly working on (no, it's not that great, I've just been working on it when I have a minute here and there... don't get any hopes up), and I'll see when I can get that finished. In the meantime, I'll check in when I can.
Later all!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Lost and Not Found
So, I wasn't gonna post this story, but Strings has persuaded me to share. Here's my disclaimer: If you're overly sensitive, don't like talking about ... um... female issues, or if the word "tampon" makes you run for the hills, don't read this post. If you don't heed my warning and read anyway, hey... it's on you.
*********************************
Those who know me well know that I have a condition commonly referred to as PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome). Due to this condition, I have infrequent periods - usually none at all without being induced via medication. Anyway, recently I began a very light period (or spotting - hard to say which). Being the modern woman that I am, I use tampons.
The problem began the morning after my "period" started.
Me: Honey?
Hubby: Yes dear.
Me: Can you come in the bathroom, please?
Hubby enters as I'm standing there, naked from the waist down with a slightly disconcerted look on my face. He closes the door behind him.
Me: I need you to look for something.
Hubby (confused): Okay? What?
Me: Um..... my tampon.
Hubby pauses for a moment to consider this.
Hubby: What do you mean?
Me: My tampon... I ... uh.... can't find it.
Hubby briefly looks around the bathroom for my box of tampons which is sitting on the toilet tank right behind me. I see the confusion on his face.
Me: Down here. (I point to my exposed nether regions)
Hubby pauses again. Then, quickly and, might I say, rather unceremoniously jams a finger into my hoo-hoo (ah, yes... the technical term) and begins to feel around. After fishing about for a bit (no, that's not a pun), he retracts the finger and says, "I can't find anything. Sorry."
Me: Shit.
Hubby suggests I call my ob/gyn. I tell ob/gyn nurse that, well, I went to bed wearing a tampon and now I can't find it. Ob/gyn nurse asks if we looked in the bed. "Yes." I tell her aloud while thinking to myself, "I ripped the damn bed and surrounding area apart. Does she really think I felt like calling someone to announce that my hoo-hoo likes to eat string-laded cotton balls without checking into other possibilities first?"
Ob/gyn nurse says I'll need to see a doc. My doc's not in that day.... Other doc could see me later that afternoon, but I have other appointments elsewhere. Ob/gyn nurse tells me to go to the local walk-in clinic. I hang up the phone and find hubby and tell him we need to go to the walk-in. He drops me off after I tell him I don't necessarily need him there with me. Doctors searching for a tampon in my hoo-hoo like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade does not require spousal assistance.
I walk up to the registration desk. I give all of the usual info... name, date of birth, insurance info. Reg nurse asks, "And what are you being seen for today?"
I look at her, straight-faced, and say, "Well, I went to bed last night with a tampon and this morning.... Not so much."
The look on the reg nurse's face is priceless. Somehow, she manages to maintain professionalism.... But you can see, she's definitely laughing... hysterically, I might add.... on the inside.
Reg Nurse: Um.....
I crack a smile
Reg Nurse: I don't know how to put that down.
Me: How 'bout "Lost Tampon"?
I burst into a giggle fit. Reg Nurse realizes it's okay to giggle. She does. A lot. She manages to get it together and finally tells me I can have a seat.
I look at the board of doctors working the walk-in. There's only one. And it's the one doctor I hate. No sense of humor (generally speaking) and condescending as hell. Looks at you like you're evil incarnate when you tell him you're not ready to quit smoking and then gives you The Speech. Ah well.
My name is called a few minutes later and I look up to see someone I recognize. Great. The nurse is a gal hubby knows. She's bound to remember me since hubby was just in the previous week.
Nurse brings me in and gives me the usual once over (weight, bp, pulse, temp). She looks at me straight-faced (like she didn't read the chart.... riiiiiiiiiiight) and asks me what brings me in.
Me: I went to bed with a tampon and woke up without one.
I swear I see her bite her lip in restraint.
Me: I even had hubby look for it. No luck.
Oh, let's see how professional she can be.....
Me: Couldn't find it. He suggested putting duct tape on things and inserting them to see if the tampon would stick.
I can't help it.... Even I burst into hysterics. Nurse joins me. After another minute or two of snide banter and giggling, Nurse's face gets serious. She pauses. She says, "You know, I'm a woman and I don't even know what I would do." More giggling ensues.
Nurse: Well, at least you can laugh about it. The doctor should be in shortly.
I'm left to sit giggling by myself. I get into the oh-so-fashionable paper-wear that you get in doctors' offices and plop myself on the exam table. Doc knocks and comes in. He's already smirking. Must be a good day.
Doc looks at the chart and says, "What seems to be the problem?"
Me: Well, I went to bed wearing a tampon and this morning... Well, I seem to have lost it."
Doc: It's not exactly like losing your keys, is it?
Me: I sure hope not. If I lost my keys up there, I've got a real problem.
(the giggling starts)
Me: It's not as though I've got an ignition in my hoo-hoo.
Doc: Well..... *snicker*.... I'm not gonna touch that one.
We're all laughing heartily as he tells me to saddle up. He checks. It feels like my hoo-hoo is Shea Stadium, that's how many lights are in and around there. Finally, he looks up and says, "Sorry. I can't find anything."
I look at him... (what do you say at this point?) "Well, uh, thanks for looking."
Doc leaves and I get dressed and walk out to wait for my hubby. Hubby gets there and says, "Well?"
Me: Couldn't find it.
Hubby: So now what?
Me: I guess we assume it fell out or something.
Hubby: Yah know, there's still the duct tape or chewing gum option....
Nice.
*********************************
Those who know me well know that I have a condition commonly referred to as PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome). Due to this condition, I have infrequent periods - usually none at all without being induced via medication. Anyway, recently I began a very light period (or spotting - hard to say which). Being the modern woman that I am, I use tampons.
The problem began the morning after my "period" started.
Me: Honey?
Hubby: Yes dear.
Me: Can you come in the bathroom, please?
Hubby enters as I'm standing there, naked from the waist down with a slightly disconcerted look on my face. He closes the door behind him.
Me: I need you to look for something.
Hubby (confused): Okay? What?
Me: Um..... my tampon.
Hubby pauses for a moment to consider this.
Hubby: What do you mean?
Me: My tampon... I ... uh.... can't find it.
Hubby briefly looks around the bathroom for my box of tampons which is sitting on the toilet tank right behind me. I see the confusion on his face.
Me: Down here. (I point to my exposed nether regions)
Hubby pauses again. Then, quickly and, might I say, rather unceremoniously jams a finger into my hoo-hoo (ah, yes... the technical term) and begins to feel around. After fishing about for a bit (no, that's not a pun), he retracts the finger and says, "I can't find anything. Sorry."
Me: Shit.
Hubby suggests I call my ob/gyn. I tell ob/gyn nurse that, well, I went to bed wearing a tampon and now I can't find it. Ob/gyn nurse asks if we looked in the bed. "Yes." I tell her aloud while thinking to myself, "I ripped the damn bed and surrounding area apart. Does she really think I felt like calling someone to announce that my hoo-hoo likes to eat string-laded cotton balls without checking into other possibilities first?"
Ob/gyn nurse says I'll need to see a doc. My doc's not in that day.... Other doc could see me later that afternoon, but I have other appointments elsewhere. Ob/gyn nurse tells me to go to the local walk-in clinic. I hang up the phone and find hubby and tell him we need to go to the walk-in. He drops me off after I tell him I don't necessarily need him there with me. Doctors searching for a tampon in my hoo-hoo like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade does not require spousal assistance.
I walk up to the registration desk. I give all of the usual info... name, date of birth, insurance info. Reg nurse asks, "And what are you being seen for today?"
I look at her, straight-faced, and say, "Well, I went to bed last night with a tampon and this morning.... Not so much."
The look on the reg nurse's face is priceless. Somehow, she manages to maintain professionalism.... But you can see, she's definitely laughing... hysterically, I might add.... on the inside.
Reg Nurse: Um.....
I crack a smile
Reg Nurse: I don't know how to put that down.
Me: How 'bout "Lost Tampon"?
I burst into a giggle fit. Reg Nurse realizes it's okay to giggle. She does. A lot. She manages to get it together and finally tells me I can have a seat.
I look at the board of doctors working the walk-in. There's only one. And it's the one doctor I hate. No sense of humor (generally speaking) and condescending as hell. Looks at you like you're evil incarnate when you tell him you're not ready to quit smoking and then gives you The Speech. Ah well.
My name is called a few minutes later and I look up to see someone I recognize. Great. The nurse is a gal hubby knows. She's bound to remember me since hubby was just in the previous week.
Nurse brings me in and gives me the usual once over (weight, bp, pulse, temp). She looks at me straight-faced (like she didn't read the chart.... riiiiiiiiiiight) and asks me what brings me in.
Me: I went to bed with a tampon and woke up without one.
I swear I see her bite her lip in restraint.
Me: I even had hubby look for it. No luck.
Oh, let's see how professional she can be.....
Me: Couldn't find it. He suggested putting duct tape on things and inserting them to see if the tampon would stick.
I can't help it.... Even I burst into hysterics. Nurse joins me. After another minute or two of snide banter and giggling, Nurse's face gets serious. She pauses. She says, "You know, I'm a woman and I don't even know what I would do." More giggling ensues.
Nurse: Well, at least you can laugh about it. The doctor should be in shortly.
I'm left to sit giggling by myself. I get into the oh-so-fashionable paper-wear that you get in doctors' offices and plop myself on the exam table. Doc knocks and comes in. He's already smirking. Must be a good day.
Doc looks at the chart and says, "What seems to be the problem?"
Me: Well, I went to bed wearing a tampon and this morning... Well, I seem to have lost it."
Doc: It's not exactly like losing your keys, is it?
Me: I sure hope not. If I lost my keys up there, I've got a real problem.
(the giggling starts)
Me: It's not as though I've got an ignition in my hoo-hoo.
Doc: Well..... *snicker*.... I'm not gonna touch that one.
We're all laughing heartily as he tells me to saddle up. He checks. It feels like my hoo-hoo is Shea Stadium, that's how many lights are in and around there. Finally, he looks up and says, "Sorry. I can't find anything."
I look at him... (what do you say at this point?) "Well, uh, thanks for looking."
Doc leaves and I get dressed and walk out to wait for my hubby. Hubby gets there and says, "Well?"
Me: Couldn't find it.
Hubby: So now what?
Me: I guess we assume it fell out or something.
Hubby: Yah know, there's still the duct tape or chewing gum option....
Nice.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Good News!
It's official! I got hired on by the company I was working for as a temp! Really excellent benefits - good insurance, education reimbursement, freakin' awesome 401(k) plan, even adoption assistance.
Happy happy happy. Oh yah, and I love my job, too! Happy happy happy.
Happy happy happy. Oh yah, and I love my job, too! Happy happy happy.
Weird Al
So a week and a half ago I (with Spoon and Tinker) go to the Weird Al concert here in Wisconsin. It was awesome. I totally geeked out on Al when I got a chance to meet him (aka get his signature). By geeked out, I mean, speechless, jaw moving up and down, rest of my body frozen. I may even have drooled a little.
The thing is, I think Weird Al Yankovic is totally sexy. And of course, ever since then, Tinker and Spoon have been teasing me about "The Red Suit" - one of Al's outfits for his very seductive song, "Wanna B UR Lovr." This teasing, of course, had already started on the way home from the concert, which resulted in a few occasions of me almost driving off of the road. (Getting a fixed, blank stare and drooling is not recommended when driving, by the way.)
So for the last week and a half, I've had that song running through my head. And daydreaming a lot.
Bottom line, if I ever start rambling, I guess the best way to get me to stop is to say, "Red Suit." hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. *drool*
The thing is, I think Weird Al Yankovic is totally sexy. And of course, ever since then, Tinker and Spoon have been teasing me about "The Red Suit" - one of Al's outfits for his very seductive song, "Wanna B UR Lovr." This teasing, of course, had already started on the way home from the concert, which resulted in a few occasions of me almost driving off of the road. (Getting a fixed, blank stare and drooling is not recommended when driving, by the way.)
So for the last week and a half, I've had that song running through my head. And daydreaming a lot.
Bottom line, if I ever start rambling, I guess the best way to get me to stop is to say, "Red Suit." hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. *drool*
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Ink Blot Personality Test
| ||||||||
I completely refute everything stated here except the last bit. *snicker*
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Harry Potter
Heh... Went to the book release party for Harry Potter last Friday and got the book (I preordered). I've already read it, so roommie has stolen it (He had his own copy, but wifey gave it to the Old Man to read first. *snicker*) I've been having a gay 'ol time teasing roommie. Like "Hey, did you get to the part where..." I've already been threatened to have all of my joints shot out. It's a start anyway...
*snicker* I'm eeeeeeevil.
*snicker* I'm eeeeeeevil.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
I Can't Win
Yee Gods Almighty... Has it really been almost a week since my last post? I suppose I should probably write something so people don't think I died. Or maybe I shouldn't... it would certainly cut down on my phone bill...
Last weekend was an SCA event over in WFABFE (Way Far Away Bum Fuk Egypt). After a six hour drive that was supposed to take "3 1/2 hours" (per hubby, that is), we rather crankily arrived at the new site of the event. A giant stretch of flat land with absolutely no trees. It's 90+ degrees, the sun's going down, there's no shade and we have to try to set up a tent, a carport and a pavillion. And all with our ever-so-sunny dispositions up so high.
Hubby lays out the truth - "I'm hurty and crabby. Let's just get this sh** done." I go about doing the usual - setting up the tent (it's my tent and I'm very anal about setting it up). I do this not only because I too am crabby and hurty, but mostly because I simply want to go to bed. Hubby goes to set up the carport and enlists a few unlucky stragglers who happen by to help.
I get the tent up and start grabbing things from the car. I'm tired and sweaty now. I ask Hubby where the air mattress is. He responds with a distracted "In a tote." I glance around at the still unpacked trailer and pile of goods next to the trailer, most of which is a giant pile of... yes, you guessed it... totes. I decide to go for the one that is the easiest access. I luck out.
I grab the air mattress, the air pump and the extra set of batteries. I go into the sweat lodge now known as my tent. I spread the air mattress out in the appropriate spot and start to attach the air pump. It feebly starts up with a rather reluctant whirr.
"Screw this." I think and decide to change the batteries before I even really get started. The sun is now mostly down and the temperature has not dropped a bit. Sweat is running into my eyes and now the brand new flashlight I bought on the way up is starting to dim - damn batteries - and I don't have any fresh AA's.
In the fading light (both the sun and the flashlight), I pop open the battery compartment of the air pump. Like one of those 'snakes in a peanut brittle can', four D cells come flying at my head. I wipe more sweat out of my eyes and whip all four batteries at the far wall of the tent, then open the new pack. I pick out four fresh batteries and suddenly realize that: a) I didn't look at which way the batteries were originally in the compartment (as if I had a chance, mind you), b) there is no diagram telling me which way to put them in and c) if I don't get them in there soon, I may as well shove them up my bum for all the good it's gonna do me.
I am, at this point, seriously contemplating sleeping on the ground. To which my back, already screaming with sciatica, gives a resounding "No!" flash of pain. I fumble with the batteries and guess. It takes me about five minutes to get the damn cover on. I try the switch. Nothing. I open the compartment again. I manage to find the four batteries that have just sprung out at me again. I try to remember which way I just tried to put them in. I remember. I try a different way. I struggle for 10 minutes to get the cover back on. I try the switch. Nothing.
It's at this point that I step out of my tent for a breather. I walk over to where Hubby is diligently screaming incoherently at people and sit down. Somehow, everyone else's misery makes me feel a bit better. Besides, there's a breeze starting up.
I go back into the tent. After searching for the batteries again (those springs in that compartment must be really good!), I get them configured a third way. The sun is completely down now, but that hasn't help the temperature. I struggle for a good twenty minutes to close the cover of the compartment (cover askew, batteries pop, search for batteries, cover askew, batteries pop, search for batteries, repeat). At this point, the flashlight has seriously dimmed. I fairly positive a wet sparkler throws off more light. I flip the switch. I hear a strong whirr. I smile.
Now, have I mentioned that I have night blindness? I feel around for the flat peice of vinyl that is my air mattress. I have given up wiping the sweat away and simply decide to watch the waterfall as I bow my head. I find the air mattress but darned if I could find the blow hole. In different circumstances I would be wishing for flour while I slapped away. I find the blow-up hole and get the pump attached.
I step out of the tent again and wander over by Hubby. The carport is now up and everyone is huddled underneath it, commenting on how nice the breeze feels. Hubby is drinking a cold beverage and his mood is beginning to lighten. I ask Hubby where the pillows and sleeping bags are. "In the car." is his response. I look over to the car where practically nothing has been unpacked, knowing full well that my sleeping bag is completely buried. It is at this precise moment that I realize I forgot my pillow. "Screw it," I think, "I'll deal."
In the slight distance I can hear my air pump beginning to strain against an almost full mattress. I go back into the EZ Bake Oven that is my tent and cap off the blow-hole and set the pump in an accessible area of the tent in case it deflates a little before I am able to finally go to bed.
I emerge from the EZ Bake Oven one last time to ask Hubby to help locate/unbury the mock-bedclothes. He looks at me and says, but we haven't even set up the bed yet. "Yes I did." I respond. "Where?" he asks. "In the tent." I reply as calmly as possible. "You set up the tent?" he asks. I simply point to where, sure as sh**, my tent stands. I ask him - for my own information - mind you, "Where the hell do you think I've been this whole time?" He pauses, obviously realizing that he hadn't thought of that in the bustle of things, and says, "Well I figured we'd sleep in the carport tonight. That's why I was trying to get it up so quickly."
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
Communication is, quite obviously, not my marriage's strong point.
Last weekend was an SCA event over in WFABFE (Way Far Away Bum Fuk Egypt). After a six hour drive that was supposed to take "3 1/2 hours" (per hubby, that is), we rather crankily arrived at the new site of the event. A giant stretch of flat land with absolutely no trees. It's 90+ degrees, the sun's going down, there's no shade and we have to try to set up a tent, a carport and a pavillion. And all with our ever-so-sunny dispositions up so high.
Hubby lays out the truth - "I'm hurty and crabby. Let's just get this sh** done." I go about doing the usual - setting up the tent (it's my tent and I'm very anal about setting it up). I do this not only because I too am crabby and hurty, but mostly because I simply want to go to bed. Hubby goes to set up the carport and enlists a few unlucky stragglers who happen by to help.
I get the tent up and start grabbing things from the car. I'm tired and sweaty now. I ask Hubby where the air mattress is. He responds with a distracted "In a tote." I glance around at the still unpacked trailer and pile of goods next to the trailer, most of which is a giant pile of... yes, you guessed it... totes. I decide to go for the one that is the easiest access. I luck out.
I grab the air mattress, the air pump and the extra set of batteries. I go into the sweat lodge now known as my tent. I spread the air mattress out in the appropriate spot and start to attach the air pump. It feebly starts up with a rather reluctant whirr.
"Screw this." I think and decide to change the batteries before I even really get started. The sun is now mostly down and the temperature has not dropped a bit. Sweat is running into my eyes and now the brand new flashlight I bought on the way up is starting to dim - damn batteries - and I don't have any fresh AA's.
In the fading light (both the sun and the flashlight), I pop open the battery compartment of the air pump. Like one of those 'snakes in a peanut brittle can', four D cells come flying at my head. I wipe more sweat out of my eyes and whip all four batteries at the far wall of the tent, then open the new pack. I pick out four fresh batteries and suddenly realize that: a) I didn't look at which way the batteries were originally in the compartment (as if I had a chance, mind you), b) there is no diagram telling me which way to put them in and c) if I don't get them in there soon, I may as well shove them up my bum for all the good it's gonna do me.
I am, at this point, seriously contemplating sleeping on the ground. To which my back, already screaming with sciatica, gives a resounding "No!" flash of pain. I fumble with the batteries and guess. It takes me about five minutes to get the damn cover on. I try the switch. Nothing. I open the compartment again. I manage to find the four batteries that have just sprung out at me again. I try to remember which way I just tried to put them in. I remember. I try a different way. I struggle for 10 minutes to get the cover back on. I try the switch. Nothing.
It's at this point that I step out of my tent for a breather. I walk over to where Hubby is diligently screaming incoherently at people and sit down. Somehow, everyone else's misery makes me feel a bit better. Besides, there's a breeze starting up.
I go back into the tent. After searching for the batteries again (those springs in that compartment must be really good!), I get them configured a third way. The sun is completely down now, but that hasn't help the temperature. I struggle for a good twenty minutes to close the cover of the compartment (cover askew, batteries pop, search for batteries, cover askew, batteries pop, search for batteries, repeat). At this point, the flashlight has seriously dimmed. I fairly positive a wet sparkler throws off more light. I flip the switch. I hear a strong whirr. I smile.
Now, have I mentioned that I have night blindness? I feel around for the flat peice of vinyl that is my air mattress. I have given up wiping the sweat away and simply decide to watch the waterfall as I bow my head. I find the air mattress but darned if I could find the blow hole. In different circumstances I would be wishing for flour while I slapped away. I find the blow-up hole and get the pump attached.
I step out of the tent again and wander over by Hubby. The carport is now up and everyone is huddled underneath it, commenting on how nice the breeze feels. Hubby is drinking a cold beverage and his mood is beginning to lighten. I ask Hubby where the pillows and sleeping bags are. "In the car." is his response. I look over to the car where practically nothing has been unpacked, knowing full well that my sleeping bag is completely buried. It is at this precise moment that I realize I forgot my pillow. "Screw it," I think, "I'll deal."
In the slight distance I can hear my air pump beginning to strain against an almost full mattress. I go back into the EZ Bake Oven that is my tent and cap off the blow-hole and set the pump in an accessible area of the tent in case it deflates a little before I am able to finally go to bed.
I emerge from the EZ Bake Oven one last time to ask Hubby to help locate/unbury the mock-bedclothes. He looks at me and says, but we haven't even set up the bed yet. "Yes I did." I respond. "Where?" he asks. "In the tent." I reply as calmly as possible. "You set up the tent?" he asks. I simply point to where, sure as sh**, my tent stands. I ask him - for my own information - mind you, "Where the hell do you think I've been this whole time?" He pauses, obviously realizing that he hadn't thought of that in the bustle of things, and says, "Well I figured we'd sleep in the carport tonight. That's why I was trying to get it up so quickly."
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
Communication is, quite obviously, not my marriage's strong point.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Huh?
From the WTF files, we have this. Scroll down to the bottom of the page under the heading "Optional Liability Coverage/Endorsements".
Picture this.... I'm perusing insurance companies online, trying to find some quotes for liability insurance for my chapter of Bikers Against Child Abuse. I check out the American Family Insurance website only to find Religious Institution Molestation Liability?!?!
What kind of society do we live in that it has come down to this? I point it out to my roommie and he reluctantly justifies it as a possible CYA policy. To use my husband's phrase, "That ain't right."
Is it just me? The way I figure it, any institution that purchases this insurance policy would be essentially stating that there is a good possibility - good enough to spend money on, anyways - that someone out there may accuse someone in their congregation of molesting a child.
Now I ain't saying that any religious institution that may hold this type of policy is automatically screaming "I'm a molester!" No. I understand that there are frivilous lawsuits out there these days and that there are plenty of people who see dollar signs in any large institution. HOWEVER, the coverage states "for sums that you legally must pay as damages because of injury to any person arising out of an actual, alleged or threatened act of sexual molestation." This is not legal fees for unsubstantiated cases, folks. This is coverage for people found guilty of said acts.
I'm disgusted. I mean, I had a poor view of American Family Insurance in the first place, but this makes me sick. Poor customer service is nothing to, in a way, condoning child molestation.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe, since I haven't actually spoken to a rep and am only reading what's online, I have a skewed view of what this policy actually entails. But you know what? I won't ever find out. Cuz I'm telling you right now, I'm not gonna ever do business with American Family Insurance. And if I ever find anyone who is, or is even considering it, I'm gonna point out this page to them.
Molestation liability insurance..... what the ****?!
Picture this.... I'm perusing insurance companies online, trying to find some quotes for liability insurance for my chapter of Bikers Against Child Abuse. I check out the American Family Insurance website only to find Religious Institution Molestation Liability?!?!
What kind of society do we live in that it has come down to this? I point it out to my roommie and he reluctantly justifies it as a possible CYA policy. To use my husband's phrase, "That ain't right."
Is it just me? The way I figure it, any institution that purchases this insurance policy would be essentially stating that there is a good possibility - good enough to spend money on, anyways - that someone out there may accuse someone in their congregation of molesting a child.
Now I ain't saying that any religious institution that may hold this type of policy is automatically screaming "I'm a molester!" No. I understand that there are frivilous lawsuits out there these days and that there are plenty of people who see dollar signs in any large institution. HOWEVER, the coverage states "for sums that you legally must pay as damages because of injury to any person arising out of an actual, alleged or threatened act of sexual molestation." This is not legal fees for unsubstantiated cases, folks. This is coverage for people found guilty of said acts.
I'm disgusted. I mean, I had a poor view of American Family Insurance in the first place, but this makes me sick. Poor customer service is nothing to, in a way, condoning child molestation.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe, since I haven't actually spoken to a rep and am only reading what's online, I have a skewed view of what this policy actually entails. But you know what? I won't ever find out. Cuz I'm telling you right now, I'm not gonna ever do business with American Family Insurance. And if I ever find anyone who is, or is even considering it, I'm gonna point out this page to them.
Molestation liability insurance..... what the ****?!
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Happy 4th of July!!!
I hope everyone has a fun-filled, but SAFE holiday. Oh, and that I don't have to threaten to kill my neighbors for almost setting my house on fire with their fireworks.
Boy, am I setting my hopes high....
Boy, am I setting my hopes high....
Friday, June 29, 2007
Speaking of Men in Skirts
You know, that video on Road Rash in a Tutu reminds me of a story. Unfortunately, it's not my story. For anyone who reads Pirate with a Permission Slip, let's all goad Strings into regailing us with his tale of the kilt check at National - or as I like to call it, the rubber chicken award story.
Goad. Goad. Goad.
Goad. Goad. Goad.
April's Law
Courtesy of Angela Shelton, I was made aware of a movement called April's Law. According to the April's Law website, "We are attempting to form a bill that will be put in into law we wish to call APRIL'S LAW! Named after a victim whose perpetrator stalked children over the Internet after being inspired by legal sites that encourage pedophiles to have sex with children.
This new law will make all web sites that promote paedophilia and display children or child like sexual images on the Internet ILLEGAL. These sites only promote crimes against children!
"lil" Deb general has asked if anyone who is a SURVIVERS OF CHILD RAPE OR VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ABUSE ON THE INTERNET , would be willing to share their testimony for this campaign ?
If you are or know anyone who would please contact Lil Deb general on April Laws page. Or email her at aprilslaw@yahoo.com or xfilet@aol.com.
These sites need to be STOPPED."
There is also a video from Petra Luna here which gives a little more information on what the law is about.
And here is a direct link to the April's Law Federal Petition Portion for more information on April's Law.
C'mon everybody! Let's get the word out on this!
This new law will make all web sites that promote paedophilia and display children or child like sexual images on the Internet ILLEGAL. These sites only promote crimes against children!
"lil" Deb general has asked if anyone who is a SURVIVERS OF CHILD RAPE OR VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ABUSE ON THE INTERNET , would be willing to share their testimony for this campaign ?
If you are or know anyone who would please contact Lil Deb general on April Laws page. Or email her at aprilslaw@yahoo.com or xfilet@aol.com.
These sites need to be STOPPED."
There is also a video from Petra Luna here which gives a little more information on what the law is about.
And here is a direct link to the April's Law Federal Petition Portion for more information on April's Law.
C'mon everybody! Let's get the word out on this!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
The Cadaver Calculator
$3605.00
Now I know. And knowing is half the battle. The sad part is, I think my cadaver is worth more than I am being alive.
Mingle2 - Online Dating
Now I know. And knowing is half the battle. The sad part is, I think my cadaver is worth more than I am being alive.
Humor for the workplace
I didn't write this, but this is funny....
DRESS CODE:
It is advised that you come to work dressed according to your salary.
If we see you wearing $350 Prada sneakers & carrying a $600 Gucci bag we assume you are doing well financially and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress poorly, you need to learn to manage your money better, so that you may buy nicer clothes and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress in-between, you are right where you need to be and therefore you do not need a raise.
SICK DAYS:
We will no longer accept a doctor statement as proof of sickness. If you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work.
SURGERY:
Operations are now banned. As long as you are an employee here, you need all your organs. You should not consider removing anything. We hired you intact. To have something removed constitutes a breach of employment.
PERSONAL DAYS:
Each employee will receive 104 personal days a year. They are called Saturday & Sunday.
VACATION DAYS:
All employees will take their vacation at the same time every year. The vacation days are as follows: Jan. 1, July 4 & Dec. 25
BEREAVEMENT LEAVE:
This is no excuse for missing work. There is nothing you can do for dead friends, relatives or coworkers. Every effort should be made to have non-employees attend to the arrangements. In rare cases where employee involvement is necessary, the funeral should be scheduled in the late afternoon. We will be glad to allow you to work through your lunch hour and subsequently leave one hour early, provided your share of the work is done enough.
ABSENCE DUE TO YOUR OWN DEATH:
This will be accepted as an excuse. However, we require at least two weeks notice as it is your duty to train your own replacement.
RESTROOM USE:
Entirely too much time is being spent in the restroom. In the future, we will follow the practice of going in alphabetical Order. For instance, all employees whose names begin with `A` will go From 8:00 to 8:20, employees whose names begin with `B` will go from 8:20 to 8:40 and so on.
If you`re unable to go at your allotted time, it will be necessary to wait until the next day when your turn comes again. In extreme emergencies, employees may swap their time with a coworker. Both employees` supervisors must approve this exchange in writing. In addition, there is now a strict 3-minute time limit in the stalls. At the end of Three minutes, an alarm will sound, the toilet paper roll will retract, the stall door will open and a picture will be taken. After your second offense, your picture will be posted on the company bulletin board under the "Chronic Offenders" category.
LUNCH BREAK:
Skinny people get 30 minutes for lunch as they need to eat more so that they can look healthy.
Normal size people get 15 minutes for lunch to get a balanced meal to maintain their average figure.
Fat people get 5 minutes for lunch, because that`s all the time needed to drink a Slim Fast and take a diet pill.
Thank you for your loyalty to our company. We are here to provide a positive employment experience. Therefore, all questions, comments, concerns, complaints, frustrations, irritations, aggravations, insinuations, allegations, accusations, contemplations, consternation and input should be directed elsewhere.
Have a nice week.
Management
DRESS CODE:
It is advised that you come to work dressed according to your salary.
If we see you wearing $350 Prada sneakers & carrying a $600 Gucci bag we assume you are doing well financially and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress poorly, you need to learn to manage your money better, so that you may buy nicer clothes and therefore you do not need a raise.
If you dress in-between, you are right where you need to be and therefore you do not need a raise.
SICK DAYS:
We will no longer accept a doctor statement as proof of sickness. If you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work.
SURGERY:
Operations are now banned. As long as you are an employee here, you need all your organs. You should not consider removing anything. We hired you intact. To have something removed constitutes a breach of employment.
PERSONAL DAYS:
Each employee will receive 104 personal days a year. They are called Saturday & Sunday.
VACATION DAYS:
All employees will take their vacation at the same time every year. The vacation days are as follows: Jan. 1, July 4 & Dec. 25
BEREAVEMENT LEAVE:
This is no excuse for missing work. There is nothing you can do for dead friends, relatives or coworkers. Every effort should be made to have non-employees attend to the arrangements. In rare cases where employee involvement is necessary, the funeral should be scheduled in the late afternoon. We will be glad to allow you to work through your lunch hour and subsequently leave one hour early, provided your share of the work is done enough.
ABSENCE DUE TO YOUR OWN DEATH:
This will be accepted as an excuse. However, we require at least two weeks notice as it is your duty to train your own replacement.
RESTROOM USE:
Entirely too much time is being spent in the restroom. In the future, we will follow the practice of going in alphabetical Order. For instance, all employees whose names begin with `A` will go From 8:00 to 8:20, employees whose names begin with `B` will go from 8:20 to 8:40 and so on.
If you`re unable to go at your allotted time, it will be necessary to wait until the next day when your turn comes again. In extreme emergencies, employees may swap their time with a coworker. Both employees` supervisors must approve this exchange in writing. In addition, there is now a strict 3-minute time limit in the stalls. At the end of Three minutes, an alarm will sound, the toilet paper roll will retract, the stall door will open and a picture will be taken. After your second offense, your picture will be posted on the company bulletin board under the "Chronic Offenders" category.
LUNCH BREAK:
Skinny people get 30 minutes for lunch as they need to eat more so that they can look healthy.
Normal size people get 15 minutes for lunch to get a balanced meal to maintain their average figure.
Fat people get 5 minutes for lunch, because that`s all the time needed to drink a Slim Fast and take a diet pill.
Thank you for your loyalty to our company. We are here to provide a positive employment experience. Therefore, all questions, comments, concerns, complaints, frustrations, irritations, aggravations, insinuations, allegations, accusations, contemplations, consternation and input should be directed elsewhere.
Have a nice week.
Management
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Strangeness in my household
Last night I went out to the garage to talk to my husband. From the deep, dark recesses of the garage, I hear, "My mom told me not to eat the yellow snow, but I didn't believe her. It tastes like lemonade."
I glance back, and see my roommate reclining in a lounging camp chair in the darkness. I shake my head and attempt to go back to my conversation with my husband.
"She also said not to eat the little brown pellets on the ground." He continued.
Giggling, I try to ignore him.
"They were crunchy."
I lost it.
This is the type of strangeness I deal with on a daily basis folks.
Ahem.... I guess I'm rubbing off...
I glance back, and see my roommate reclining in a lounging camp chair in the darkness. I shake my head and attempt to go back to my conversation with my husband.
"She also said not to eat the little brown pellets on the ground." He continued.
Giggling, I try to ignore him.
"They were crunchy."
I lost it.
This is the type of strangeness I deal with on a daily basis folks.
Ahem.... I guess I'm rubbing off...
Monday, June 18, 2007
Happy Father's Day
Every Father's Day I'm stumped at what to buy my father. It usually ends up being a shirt and often some strange thing I found that will amuse him. (I get my personality from my father.) It never seems quite adequate, though.
Monetarily, I don't make nearly enough money, of course. But that's not what I'm referring to. Growing up, I might not have realized it at the time, my father was a great dad.
The best example I can find for that, or the one that usually immediately springs to mind, is a time when my mother was talking to someone about something that happened when my brother and I were kids. She mentioned - off-handedly - that we were poor. This took me entirely by surprise. Us? Poor?
Thinking back on it, I remember having to do without quite a bit. I know my father spent an unhealthy amount of time being laid off (not his fault, mind you). I remember wearing hand-me-downs and rummage sale clothes and never (or at least hardly ever) finding any sort of "name brand" on anything I owned. But "poor"?
When I recall my childhood, I don't think of us as being poor. My parents lovingly provided a roof over our heads, gave us three square meals a day, and gave us as many hugs as we could handle. I never cared for name brands. I'd rather go fishing with my dad than have a pair of Tommy Hilfiger pants.
Heh.... fishing.... I'm firmly convinced that my father never really liked fishing. We'd take a couple of poles to a local creek and sit there for a few hours. All I ever caught were suckers and carp. Maybe, once in a blue moon, I'd catch a blue gill, but that was about it. I can't recall a time since my childhood that my dad has ever gone fishing by himself or even with his 'buddies'. Of course, I could be wrong on that point. However, my father knew what fishing was really about - spending time with your kids.
My father did a lot of things with us when we were kids. On a nice summer night, he and I would go for a walk. I think I still have the scar on my knee from the time he tripped and fell on me while playing kickball with us kids in the back yard. He built my brother and I a tree-house - an honest-to-goodness treehouse! - in our back yard. When the usefulness of his old shed had run out, he helped us turn it into a fort. He helped us raise bunnies, a pigeon, gerbils, fish, and dogs (not usually all at the same time). Heck, I remember one year sitting in our basement watching as an incubator full of chicken eggs started hatching. Or going down to a local field early in the season to find caterpillers and collect them so we could watch them turn into butterflies. Let me just say, to a little girl, a monarch butterfly airing out it's wings for the first time on her finger is magical.
I was not poor. Oh no. I was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
And so, to my father, and every other father out there, Happy Father's Day. And Daddy, I'll always be your little girl.
Monetarily, I don't make nearly enough money, of course. But that's not what I'm referring to. Growing up, I might not have realized it at the time, my father was a great dad.
The best example I can find for that, or the one that usually immediately springs to mind, is a time when my mother was talking to someone about something that happened when my brother and I were kids. She mentioned - off-handedly - that we were poor. This took me entirely by surprise. Us? Poor?
Thinking back on it, I remember having to do without quite a bit. I know my father spent an unhealthy amount of time being laid off (not his fault, mind you). I remember wearing hand-me-downs and rummage sale clothes and never (or at least hardly ever) finding any sort of "name brand" on anything I owned. But "poor"?
When I recall my childhood, I don't think of us as being poor. My parents lovingly provided a roof over our heads, gave us three square meals a day, and gave us as many hugs as we could handle. I never cared for name brands. I'd rather go fishing with my dad than have a pair of Tommy Hilfiger pants.
Heh.... fishing.... I'm firmly convinced that my father never really liked fishing. We'd take a couple of poles to a local creek and sit there for a few hours. All I ever caught were suckers and carp. Maybe, once in a blue moon, I'd catch a blue gill, but that was about it. I can't recall a time since my childhood that my dad has ever gone fishing by himself or even with his 'buddies'. Of course, I could be wrong on that point. However, my father knew what fishing was really about - spending time with your kids.
My father did a lot of things with us when we were kids. On a nice summer night, he and I would go for a walk. I think I still have the scar on my knee from the time he tripped and fell on me while playing kickball with us kids in the back yard. He built my brother and I a tree-house - an honest-to-goodness treehouse! - in our back yard. When the usefulness of his old shed had run out, he helped us turn it into a fort. He helped us raise bunnies, a pigeon, gerbils, fish, and dogs (not usually all at the same time). Heck, I remember one year sitting in our basement watching as an incubator full of chicken eggs started hatching. Or going down to a local field early in the season to find caterpillers and collect them so we could watch them turn into butterflies. Let me just say, to a little girl, a monarch butterfly airing out it's wings for the first time on her finger is magical.
I was not poor. Oh no. I was rich beyond my wildest dreams.
And so, to my father, and every other father out there, Happy Father's Day. And Daddy, I'll always be your little girl.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Colossal Death Robot Test
I love www.rumandmonkey.com.....
Which Colossal Death Robot Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
You are Gigantor!
Born in 1963, You are possibly the original colossal death robot, being one of the patriarchs of the current crop, and definitely an advocate of old-skool enemy-bashing. Why use a clumsy particle weapon when you can create supernovas just by flexing your arms? Your one minor weakness is that you are entirely dominated by some kid with a remote contol - still, don't let it get you down. You can sink a nuclear submarine with jazz music.
Which Colossal Death Robot Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
You are Gigantor!
Born in 1963, You are possibly the original colossal death robot, being one of the patriarchs of the current crop, and definitely an advocate of old-skool enemy-bashing. Why use a clumsy particle weapon when you can create supernovas just by flexing your arms? Your one minor weakness is that you are entirely dominated by some kid with a remote contol - still, don't let it get you down. You can sink a nuclear submarine with jazz music.
Okay, we all knew I was good, but.....
You are The High Priestess
Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.
The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluxuation, particularily when it comes to your moods.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.
Stethoscope Solidarity
An incident with my husband and doctors brought to mind the following story and, if you will, lesson. If you are a healthcare professional, this is not meant to undermine you or offend you. If you're a good doctor, in fact, it shouldn't.
My ex-husband and I were trying to have a child (of course, at the time, he wasn't my ex-husband). Anyway, we ran into difficulties and I ended up seeing a lot of my ob/gyn (who I'll refer to as Dr. Og). Dr. Og ran a bunch of tests and finally came up with an answer. He told me, in not so nice of terms, that I was simply too fat to have a child. He also told me that in order for me to conceive, I needed to "get my blood sugars under control."
Now, I can see why some doctors get the God Complex. It's from people like me. Or should I say, people like me at the time. I went home from that doctor visit bawling my eyes out. I couldn't understand why people much heavier than me were able to conceive, but I couldn't because I was too fat. I also immediately scheduled an appointment to see a diabetes specialist (via reference from my ob/gyn).
I still remember sitting in the doctor's office for my diabetes appointment. I remember the confusion. I remember the doctor coming in, my chart in his hands and a very confused look on his face. He looked at me and said, "What can I do for you today?"
I responded (the panic had not yet receeded from my last appointment with Dr. Og), "I'm here to get my blood sugars under control."
The doctor looked back down at my chart, still open in his hands, and said, "I'll be right back." He left the room for a minute or two. When he came back, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm taking a look at your blood tests and I'm not seeing a problem here."
I tell him that Dr. Og had said that I had to get my blood sugars under control. Then the diabetes doctor did something he wasn't supposed to do (according to him, anyway), but I'll never forget. He sat down with me and went through every single lab I had ever had in that facility. He showed me, without a shadow of a doubt, that I did not, in fact, have to "get my blood sugars under control." The highest score I had in an entire 5 year timeframe was 119. Once. 119 once, and I have to get my blood sugars under control.
I sat there confused, dumbfounded. Was this doctor telling me Dr. Og was WRONG?!? The doctor then excused himself again, muttering to himself and staring at my chart the whole time. He went to find Dr. Og. When he returned, I finally saw how strong stethoscope solidarity could be.
Standing before me was a doctor who had not only told me, but SHOWN me that a) I was wasting my money by seeing him and b) Dr. Og didn't know the first thing about reading blood sugar levels. And he told me, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else." and proceeded to show me what needed to be done to control blood sugars through exercise and diet. Dr. Og was WRONG. He knew it and I knew it. But he couldn't admit it. And when he said those words, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else.", I could see him almost physically forcing those words from his mouth.
Needless to say, that appointment changed me. I realized that you couldn't rely on your doctor to give you all of the information you need. I realized that you had to take your own healthcare into your own hands. I realized that sometimes, doctors need to be questioned. I realized that a fancy diploma doesn't always mean you know better. And I also realized that even if a doctor knows another doctor was dead wrong, he STILL won't actually admit it.
Bottom line, I switched my ob/gyn. I told everyone I knew what had happened and warned other women against my former doctor. I read up on my symptoms and found out that I was right, according to actual blood tests. I began to trust myself, my intuitions, my body, before simply blindly accepting what a doctor says. I began to realize that doctors were NOT God, that they were human, and could make mistakes just like any other human.
It still irks me to this day, though, that that diabetes doctor, even with all the evidence in front of him, could NOT say, "Your doctor was wrong." No, he could only make excuses for him.
Do NOT get me wrong. I am not saying that no doctor out there knows what he (or she) is talking about. In fact, I believe a majority of them are very good. What I'm saying is do not be afraid to question your physician in the interest of better healthcare. If the physician is a good one, they won't mind. After all, it IS your body.
My ex-husband and I were trying to have a child (of course, at the time, he wasn't my ex-husband). Anyway, we ran into difficulties and I ended up seeing a lot of my ob/gyn (who I'll refer to as Dr. Og). Dr. Og ran a bunch of tests and finally came up with an answer. He told me, in not so nice of terms, that I was simply too fat to have a child. He also told me that in order for me to conceive, I needed to "get my blood sugars under control."
Now, I can see why some doctors get the God Complex. It's from people like me. Or should I say, people like me at the time. I went home from that doctor visit bawling my eyes out. I couldn't understand why people much heavier than me were able to conceive, but I couldn't because I was too fat. I also immediately scheduled an appointment to see a diabetes specialist (via reference from my ob/gyn).
I still remember sitting in the doctor's office for my diabetes appointment. I remember the confusion. I remember the doctor coming in, my chart in his hands and a very confused look on his face. He looked at me and said, "What can I do for you today?"
I responded (the panic had not yet receeded from my last appointment with Dr. Og), "I'm here to get my blood sugars under control."
The doctor looked back down at my chart, still open in his hands, and said, "I'll be right back." He left the room for a minute or two. When he came back, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm taking a look at your blood tests and I'm not seeing a problem here."
I tell him that Dr. Og had said that I had to get my blood sugars under control. Then the diabetes doctor did something he wasn't supposed to do (according to him, anyway), but I'll never forget. He sat down with me and went through every single lab I had ever had in that facility. He showed me, without a shadow of a doubt, that I did not, in fact, have to "get my blood sugars under control." The highest score I had in an entire 5 year timeframe was 119. Once. 119 once, and I have to get my blood sugars under control.
I sat there confused, dumbfounded. Was this doctor telling me Dr. Og was WRONG?!? The doctor then excused himself again, muttering to himself and staring at my chart the whole time. He went to find Dr. Og. When he returned, I finally saw how strong stethoscope solidarity could be.
Standing before me was a doctor who had not only told me, but SHOWN me that a) I was wasting my money by seeing him and b) Dr. Og didn't know the first thing about reading blood sugar levels. And he told me, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else." and proceeded to show me what needed to be done to control blood sugars through exercise and diet. Dr. Og was WRONG. He knew it and I knew it. But he couldn't admit it. And when he said those words, "I think [Dr. Og] was thinking about something else.", I could see him almost physically forcing those words from his mouth.
Needless to say, that appointment changed me. I realized that you couldn't rely on your doctor to give you all of the information you need. I realized that you had to take your own healthcare into your own hands. I realized that sometimes, doctors need to be questioned. I realized that a fancy diploma doesn't always mean you know better. And I also realized that even if a doctor knows another doctor was dead wrong, he STILL won't actually admit it.
Bottom line, I switched my ob/gyn. I told everyone I knew what had happened and warned other women against my former doctor. I read up on my symptoms and found out that I was right, according to actual blood tests. I began to trust myself, my intuitions, my body, before simply blindly accepting what a doctor says. I began to realize that doctors were NOT God, that they were human, and could make mistakes just like any other human.
It still irks me to this day, though, that that diabetes doctor, even with all the evidence in front of him, could NOT say, "Your doctor was wrong." No, he could only make excuses for him.
Do NOT get me wrong. I am not saying that no doctor out there knows what he (or she) is talking about. In fact, I believe a majority of them are very good. What I'm saying is do not be afraid to question your physician in the interest of better healthcare. If the physician is a good one, they won't mind. After all, it IS your body.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The Hoff
So I get a call tonight from my friend, A.R. (name altered to protect the inebriated) asking me, "What the heck is the deal with David Hasselhoff?" She goes on, ranting, if you will, for about 10 minutes. She even goes so far as to suggest doing an informal phone interview to random people ("I should do a *67 and just start calling people.") asking them if they like David Hasselhoff and if they answer "yes," asking them why. "What," she finally screams, the culmination of the rant, "is so f***ing great about David-freaking-Hasselhoff?!"
I calmly reply, "Honey, I have no idea." She then informs me that I need to write a blog about David Hasselhoff and ask any would-be readers what they think of him and why is he so d*** great.
I finally get off the phone with her and my husband says to me, "What was that about?" I tell him, "She wants to know what's so freakin' great about David Hasselhoff." My husband, somehow straight-faced, responds, "He's just so hunky." Then, just as I'm catching my breath from the giggling, he continues, "If he were 50 years younger, he'd be on the cover of Teen Beat." At this point, I'm reaching for a tissue to wipe the Sprite out of my nose. Leave it to my husband to time his commentary perfectly.
So, dear Reader, your input please. What is so freaking great about David Hasselhoff? A.R. will be eagerly awaiting your response.
I calmly reply, "Honey, I have no idea." She then informs me that I need to write a blog about David Hasselhoff and ask any would-be readers what they think of him and why is he so d*** great.
I finally get off the phone with her and my husband says to me, "What was that about?" I tell him, "She wants to know what's so freakin' great about David Hasselhoff." My husband, somehow straight-faced, responds, "He's just so hunky." Then, just as I'm catching my breath from the giggling, he continues, "If he were 50 years younger, he'd be on the cover of Teen Beat." At this point, I'm reaching for a tissue to wipe the Sprite out of my nose. Leave it to my husband to time his commentary perfectly.
So, dear Reader, your input please. What is so freaking great about David Hasselhoff? A.R. will be eagerly awaiting your response.
Gimme a JOB!!!
I miss working. I really do. I don't know what I'd do without BACA keeping me busy. I've had a few interviews in the past week or two and the last one really had me thinking. They told me that they had a concern about my last few jobs only lasting a few months. Temporary jobs. Seriously, not my fault.
So here's a question for y'all.... Is it better to just stay unemployed or take a job that you know will only last for a few months? Frankly, I'd rather work than be unemployed. But it seems to be affecting my ability to get a REAL job.
*sigh* Damned if I do and damned if I don't apparently.
So if anyone reading this blog knows of anyone looking for an administrative assistant, receptionist, office assistant, office manager, human resources assistant, accounting clerk, etc., PLEASE let me know. Part-time, full-time, first, second or third shift. I don't care. I need to work.
Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier if I had a really bad work ethic. I mean, this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't care about working or not. Money matters aside, working helps me feel like I'm contributing to society. Plus I seriously enjoy what I do for a living. Yes, I'm the freak that loves filing.
So if anyone has any advice on how to handle huge employment gaps (due to a crappy job market, not for a lack of trying) plus short-term jobs, please.... have at it.
Anyways... Off to scour JobNet again.... Wish me luck!
So here's a question for y'all.... Is it better to just stay unemployed or take a job that you know will only last for a few months? Frankly, I'd rather work than be unemployed. But it seems to be affecting my ability to get a REAL job.
*sigh* Damned if I do and damned if I don't apparently.
So if anyone reading this blog knows of anyone looking for an administrative assistant, receptionist, office assistant, office manager, human resources assistant, accounting clerk, etc., PLEASE let me know. Part-time, full-time, first, second or third shift. I don't care. I need to work.
Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier if I had a really bad work ethic. I mean, this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't care about working or not. Money matters aside, working helps me feel like I'm contributing to society. Plus I seriously enjoy what I do for a living. Yes, I'm the freak that loves filing.
So if anyone has any advice on how to handle huge employment gaps (due to a crappy job market, not for a lack of trying) plus short-term jobs, please.... have at it.
Anyways... Off to scour JobNet again.... Wish me luck!
My Husband for Sainthood
I think my husband should be submitted for sainthood.
I have been quite ill lately which, for the sake of the squeemish and the "tmi" crew, I will simply state that my illness has resulted in my husband being unable to touch me in any form or fashion without major pain on my part. Let's just say he can't even grab my ass these days. This has been going on for at least three weeks now. And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have been extremely cranky (okay, downright bitchy). And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have spent a majority of my time bedridden which results in a) him having to wait on me hand and foot and b) me not being able to do anything constructive around the house. And still he loves me.
I am, in essence, the giant festering boil on his ass and he still loves me. Either my husband needs to be granted sainthood or put in the mental ward. There are some who would argue either way. :P
I just want to let anyone know who reads this that if you find someone willing to take care of you, willing to see you at your worst, and still comes out of it somehow enjoying your company (be it spouse, significant other or simply a friend), cherish that person and let them know you do.
Which reminds me, I think all of my friends should be granted sainthood too. Not only do they have to deal with me, but most of them have had to deal with my husband as well. (Hey, I said he still loved me. I didn't say he liked the situation.)
This could just be the hormones talking, but..... I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!!
Someone get me some ice cream.
I have been quite ill lately which, for the sake of the squeemish and the "tmi" crew, I will simply state that my illness has resulted in my husband being unable to touch me in any form or fashion without major pain on my part. Let's just say he can't even grab my ass these days. This has been going on for at least three weeks now. And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have been extremely cranky (okay, downright bitchy). And still he loves me.
PLUS, due to said illnesses, I have spent a majority of my time bedridden which results in a) him having to wait on me hand and foot and b) me not being able to do anything constructive around the house. And still he loves me.
I am, in essence, the giant festering boil on his ass and he still loves me. Either my husband needs to be granted sainthood or put in the mental ward. There are some who would argue either way. :P
I just want to let anyone know who reads this that if you find someone willing to take care of you, willing to see you at your worst, and still comes out of it somehow enjoying your company (be it spouse, significant other or simply a friend), cherish that person and let them know you do.
Which reminds me, I think all of my friends should be granted sainthood too. Not only do they have to deal with me, but most of them have had to deal with my husband as well. (Hey, I said he still loved me. I didn't say he liked the situation.)
This could just be the hormones talking, but..... I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!!
Someone get me some ice cream.
Pancakes
I like pancakes. No, scratch that. I LOVE pancakes. I love pancakes so much I've developed a song. And a dance. It appears to be spreading.
The other night, my roommate called and left me a voice mail where he sang the pancake song. When I called him back, he said he just had to cuz he was sitting at Country Kitchen with a giant stack of pancakes before him.
But I'll bet he didn't do the dance.
*sigh* Oh, the effects of pancakes.
The other night, my roommate called and left me a voice mail where he sang the pancake song. When I called him back, he said he just had to cuz he was sitting at Country Kitchen with a giant stack of pancakes before him.
But I'll bet he didn't do the dance.
*sigh* Oh, the effects of pancakes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
