There's One In Every Crowd

Liz concludes:

There's one in every crowd- and I fear it may be me.

Ten ways to ascertain if you're the one:

1. When someone farts and tries to play it off, you call him on it no matter how many others are around
2. When you get tired of listening, you say, "I'm tired of listening."
3. You stick your finger in the best donut so no one else can claim it
4. When someone you don't like sits beside you, you move
5. You openly curse other people's good fortune
6. You call your parents when you're expecting another call so you don't have to stay on the phone very long
7. You stare at a guy's lazy eye and bob your head to see if it will follow you
8. You shrug off getting busted trying to use expired coupons as ignorance
9. You never open your own beer
10. You harshly judge people with toddlers
11. If you don't like your fortune, you force someone to trade cookies with you
12. You delight in fat/drug addicted/bankrupt/incarcerated celebrities
13. You give a loud warning before the movie starts that talkers will be prosecuted
14. You have a "poker playing" outfit
15. You also have "drinking britches"
16. Your top ten list contains 16 items

These are not all me. But these have, at one time, all been me. Again, I have to remind you, I'm not proud. Just honest.

Not Just A River In Egypt

Killer posts optimistically in the hopes that the NEXT will be different

The mind is an amazing thing. I have had many years of life, building experience with which to better know myself and my limitations. Yet, I still have a few inexplicable habits that rear their ugly head from time to time.

I am constantly buying apples, oranges, even the occasional bunch of grapes, but I never eat them. Every couple of weeks I am being forced to pull a plastic bag out of the bottom of my fridge which contains a large amount of one or more of these rapidly deteriorating fruits. A few times I could not even determine which fruit it originally was. Still, every time I am passing through the produce section I convince myself, "This will be the week I start eating more fresh fruit!" Nothing can halt this practice, not even the frequent resemblance of my crisper bin to a hippie's compost pile.

I don't own a home, and never have, but that does not stop me from occasionally going to Home Depot and walking through the aisles looking at home improvement items. I will even spend a bizarre amount of time looking at riding lawn mowers, comparing horse power and testing the seat for maximum comfort. Maybe it is a guy thing. Perhaps there is a lawn mower loving, power tool coveting gene embedded in my DNA.

I have never been suave enough to pick up a girl from a bar and bring her back to my place. I know many of you might not believe that, but it is, unfortunately, true. Oddly enough, I have not even come close. But, every time I am about to leave my apartment to go to a bar or club. I always hesitate and contemplate straightening up a little. Just in case I pick up some desperate woman and bring her back later that night. Years of negative outcomes in this area have not managed to erase the optimism lurking in my psyche.

What makes it worse is that I know that each of these problems exist, and repeatedly tell myself this when every particular occasion arises, but it does not help. I might have obsessive compulsive disorder, or maybe a mild case of Tourette's syndrome, but without the funny profane language that would make it worth while.
Denial is a bitch.

Still Killing Time

Liz's picture is worth 1,000 words:

If you're just now checking this week's edition of KillerRants!, you should make sure that you scroll down and catch up on the posts. Apparently, both Killer and I have had a lot of thoughts about nothing that we feel like posting for each other's enjoyment. I've also noted that Killer's post about his sweaty balls appears to be a favorite for our readers. I agree. I too find that post to be delightful. But it's only slightly more delightful than this:

4:00, People's Court

Dateline: Liz's home office-

I'm doing everything I can to avoid doing the ridiculous laborious homework assignments given to me from my graduate class. I'm telling you, this "going back to school" thing is NOT at all like Rodney Dangerfield promised it would be.

While surfing the net (is that still what the kids are calling it?) to avoid classwork, I came across this tid bit of "news":

• JEANNETTE, Pa. - Meow. A district judge has been asked to decide whether that word is a harmless taunt or grounds for misdemeanor harassment. Jeannette police charged a 14-year-old boy for "meowing" whenever he sees his neighbor, 78-year-old Alexandria Carasia.

Hilarious.

The article goes on to explain that the kid's family had to get rid of their cat because Carasia complained that the cat was using her flower bed as a litter box. The boy says he has only meowed at her twice. Carasia says it's every time he sees her.

If the judge rules that this IS harassment, I've got a whole list of things I think I could get away with suing over. If there is any financial compensation for misdemeanor harassment, I plan on taking these issues to court and retiring at age 45.

Things I qualify as harassment:

1. Farting in my presence. Especially on purpose, as almost every one of my friends thinks it's acceptable to do. $200 per occurrence.
2. Borrowing my office supplies and not returning them to the original location. $50
3. Looking at me. $15
4. Upholding the "If it's brown, flush it down. If it's yellow, let it mellow" theory in a public restroom. $100
5. Not upholding the "If it's brown, flush it down" part of that philosophy. $18,000
6. Driving the speed limit in the passing lane. $6,000
7. Sending me an email forward that is lame. $486
8. Sending me an email forward that began circulation in 2001. $468
9. Reading this blog regularly and not posting a comment. $50
10. Giving me unsolicited advice about something I do not want your advice on. $2,500
11. Cell phone addiction: answering the cell phone when you and I are talking without any apology; driving while talking on your phone; being LOUD while on your phone in a public place; answering your cell in a movie. $300-$4,500
12. Having yellow toenails and wearing flip flops. $75
13. Being a poor conversationalist. $20
14. Believing that God put George Bush in office. $5
15. Running with scissors. $0 (I'll pay you $.05)
16. Using the word "awesome" in every sentence. $30
17. Reading your poetry in public. $800
18. Complaining about cats. $TBD

Kidney failure CAN be fun!

It would seem that years of renal failure leading to a kidney transplant would be a downer, but apparently not. When fellow bloggers leave comments you can click on their name and follow back to their own blog. Recently a comment was left by a San Franciscan who has gone through the afore mentioned occasion. His blog is pretty damn funny.
It is called Immunopressed.blogspot.com. I really suggest you check it out sometime. I created a link to it on the right hand side of the page.
I am assuming he was pretty funny prior to this life altering event, and it is a good sign that having your kidneys replaced does not effect your sense of humor. I am concerned that I might be slowly killing my liver, and I don't want to eventually have a liver transplant and become a spiritless, drab person.

Confidence

It was a Friday night of nothing special, so I showed up in a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt (I'm not proud) and limited attention to "the look". I was brining a coworker's 3 kids to my best friend's house. Kim told her daughter, Lily, that I was bringing boys with me. I've come to realize that "it" starts early.

I knocked on the door and entered the house with the boys. When Lily strutted out, THIS is what she had on. Kim told me that once Lily had heard that I was bringing boys over, she went through several outfits before deciding on the perfect one. The one you see is the one she elected to wear. She wore it all night- even at Pizza Hut AND at the Kid's World where we rode go-carts, ice skated, and played miniature golf. Even when the tierra fell into her eyes while driving her go-cart, she refused to take it off.

I wish all of us still had the confidence to wear a tierra in public.

By the way, I would like to point out my hairstyle. It is in primal form, but notice how the bangs are poking in my eye? It's gotten worse since the picture. Since I couldn't find the Sandra Bullock photo that inspired the blinding hair, I attached a Terry Hatcher photo that's mostly the same. As a matter of fact, I'm not at all convinced that Sandy and Terry aren't the same woman.

Anti planet counter point

Killer discusses his life long dream of inter-planetary dominance

This is a rebuttal to Liz's blog lamenting the demise of Pluto. To fully appreciate this you need to scroll down and read the previous post first.

So, the loss of Pluto upsets some people. Not me. I have been wanting to knock out a few of the lesser planets for quite some time now. I specifically remember sitting in elementary school and when asked to name the nine planets, I would usually forget Pluto. At that point I made it my life's goal to rid the universe of that insignificant little ball of ice.

After years of lobbying the powerful, yet discreet, International Astronomical Union, my goal has been realized and Pluto is no more. Some might consider me the "Jack Abramoff" of the astronomy world, and I embrace this title. Literally dozens of dollars were spread around by myself and a few shell companies, greasing the palms of a few well placed scientists and their assistants. I am not afraid to admit that an occasional strong arm tactic, like giving a wedgie, is all it took.

Some of you might think that the downfall of a tiny planet 2.66 billion miles away is not really an important issue, but when your dream is to someday Lord over every known planet with an iron fist, controlling all inhabitants with a mixture of fear and a well oiled propaganda machine, then it is very important. There is now one less planet to conquer.

The second stage is now in effect. I am going to bombard Disney with a letter writing campaign until they remove that damn mute dog of the same name. I will not cease until the memory of all things Pluto are erased from the collective thoughts of society.

Rock My World

From Inner Planet Janet:

I feel as if nothing is as it was. With the news of Pluto being downgraded to nothing more than a big, cold rock, it's like the universe is shrinking before our very eyes! What's next? Alaska? Hawaii? Are they going to be taken away too?

I'm really disappointed by the decision to downgrade. That's what happens when you have a bunch of minimalists calling the shots- Like the universe was getting too big for her britches; As if there was just too much clutter in the voids of space. Those assholes. Solar System Science is obviously run by dictators. I don't remember being invited to vote on this. Even when the fat Elvis stamp I voted for lost I could accept it because I had a voice.

You always want science to find MORE, not less. Seriously. What would happen if the cable company dropped 15 channels from their line-up without 16 acceptable replacements? I'll tell you what would happen- street rallies and sit-ins. Think of how pissed off non smokers would be if "science" decided that second-hand smoke really had no health risks. "We eggheads are downgrading the health risks of cigarette smoke from a likely cause of lung cancer to a mere inconvenience." Nonsmokers would be infuriated because there would be no scientific evidence to support their moral superiority. The list goes on and on. I don't think I need mention the can of whoop-ass that would be opened if monster truck tires had to be downsized.

The only acceptable downsizing is the size of my ass. For everything else, bigger is better.

I heard a rumor that they were going to add some new planets. I'm ok with this, but I heard that the new planets had numbers for names. UNACCEPTABLE. Only a dork wants to get his telescope out to look at KX-73 rising in the east. True story: When I was younger I used to think about the day that scientists would discover new planets. I picked out names for the celestial bodies so that I would be ready when asked. Little did I know that Adolph Hitler was in charge of planet naming.

You know what? Science sucks.

Good bye, Pluto. You will be missed.

Funny Thought (at least to me)

Killer posts, then apologizes in advance

I realize that for many of you who read this and are only friends of Liz, and don't know me, probably think this would be a much more enjoyable blog if there were not the occasional bizarre, or grotesque entries by this "Killer" fellow. Any hopes I have of changing your mind will not be helped by this particular entry.

I was watching a random health channel show and it happened to mention surgery on the testicles. Immediately I was intrigued. The part that caught my attention was the statement that post-operatively there is a need to keep the testicles dry. I was concerned with this. Although I have no intention of ever requiring surgery on any part of my groin, I am not sure if I can keep them dry. If some of you have not noticed, I am a bit on the portly side. I have to walk around a lot for my job, which means I sweat profusely, and not just from my arm pits.

I was watching this show and I thought to myself, "my balls sweat like a whore in church."
What made this thought funny to me was the possibility that somewhere, at the very same moment, there could potentially be a whore in church thinking to herself, "I am sweating like a fat guy's balls."

Cancel My Life, Please

The new Liz writes:

I've got to go on some sort of soul searching journey. No, Killer, I'm not sure if a trip to your house will cleanse. I'm going to be a work in progress for a while, consumed with myself. Hummm... phrased like that, I fear that you may not be able to tell any difference. It's all this coaching and consulting crap that I do with my job. It's like I've passed out and woke up in the middle of an Oprah show intervention. I guess there are worse things? Like waking up on Dr. Phil?

I suspect that if your gut says move this way, you should move. Didn't you learn anything from Phinocio and his friend, the insect, that gave such good advice when he wasn't busy crawling around on poop or rubbing his legs together? Jimminy Cricket. Now THAT was one smart bug! He wore a hat and had a cane, so he was obviously intelligent.

Kim accused me of being SAPPY last night. ME? Sappy? She said that an essay I had written shocked her because it came from me and was so sugary. Like an email forward. I want to send it out as a forward and see if it gets passed back around to me 2 or 3 years down the road. Wouldn't that be awesome? Especially if someone had tried to claim it as their own.

Part of this insanity includes re-enrolling in school to finish my Master's Degree. This totally blows, but I figure I've already got about 8 grand invested in "higher ed", so I might as well. I cannot tell you how agonizing this is for me. I do not exaggerate. I would not be opposed to illegally purchasing a degree if the price was right. It's that bad. I'm considering illegal activity!

The new Liz does NOT approve.

Why did I think September 1 would be an appropriate stop date for smoking?

Sweet Slumber

Through blood-shot eyes, Liz tries to make sense:

It's 12:40. AM. I have to be up at 4. AM. I cannot sleep. This is not a usual problem for me. I'm not sure what to do in this situation. I'm to the point of wondering if it's even worth trying to sleep before the brutal alarm yells at me. I do not do well without sleep. I revert back to a 3 year old in the throws of a 15 hour temper tantrum. What would you do if you were me? I'm busy at work all day tomorrow, so I cannot take a lunch nap. I'm frightened of what daylight is going to bring.

Tomorrow night will be awesome. I've already planned it. I will come home from work (forget going to register for school) and go straight to bed. I can't wait. I may even take a Tylenol PM to ensure that there is no insomnia. Two nights in a row and I think I would melt.

I would not make a good spy. Sleep deprivation would cause me to tell all secrets. All they would have to do is turn the AC down, dim the lights, show me a down comforter and I would spill the beans. Yes, those jeans do make you look fat. Yes, your baby is ugly. No, there is no Santa. The nuclear warheads are hidden in Rhode Island. Whatever. Just hand me a pillow.

I slept all weekend. Really. I got 12 hours in on Saturday and equally as much on Sunday. Do you think that this is pay back for my sloth? That's really not fair. Days should be independent of each other. I'm big on independence. Why should I be punished because I'm single and don't have kids?

I find the obsession with Jennifer Aniston to be annoying. This repulsion is going on 10 years now. Yet, as I was lying in bed letting thoughts whiz past me, I actually formed this question in my mind, "I wonder if she really is engaged to Vince Vaughn?" I then spent approximately 6 minutes thinking about what it would be like to have been married to Brad Pitt. That made me think of Angelia Jolie, which made me think about African babies. That made me think about adoption, which caused me to link back to a tv show on being your own twin. I then think I felt a wrinkle in the universe, so I decided to blog about it.

I have been talking trash. I've SAID I was going to try and quit smoking on September 1. Now, that's only a couple of weeks away and I'm getting disturbed by my declaration. I need to quit. I kind of want to quit. Apparently, health is one of those things I'll care about once it's too late. I do that sometimes. Care too late.

It's 1 AM. I have to be up in 3 hours. I wonder if I went ahead and showered and went into work if that could count. I one time had this problem (but I woke up at 3 instead of went to bed at 3) so I did go ahead and go to work. I barely made it there without falling asleep at the wheel. I ended up sleeping in the parking lot until 7 that morning. That's as close to being a hobo as I've ever been unless you count a couple of New Orleans trips and one night in the park.

I'm tired, but not sleepy. I would really enjoy an Odd Couple rerun right now.

Sweet dreams. Let me know how they turn out.

Kiss My Ass, Sandra Bullock

Liz peeks:

I'm not a repulsive looking person; I do not scare young children- but I've done almost everything humanly possible to ruin the few good genes my parents did pass along to me. My mother was a knockout in her youth and has managed to creep into middle age gracefully. I, however, take after my dad- who is certainly not an ogre but also not a competitor for a slot on the Chippendale circuit. In other words, I had potential to be above average in the looks department. Notice I used a past tense helping verb? I have done almost everything I can do in my 34 years to pull into the fast lane of unattractiveness. I have smoked, eaten only the highest calorie foods and have avoided sweat most of my life. I'm drinking a beer right now and don't think it's a light.

To compensate (I guess) I started going to the tanning bed- which will age you faster than having 2 year olds in the house. That has not been enough as I've gained about 15 pounds this week. So my new "trick" (because I'll be dammed if I'm going to lose weight or give up cocktails) is to grow my bangs out. This was inspired by a picture of Sandra Bullock on the cover of Vanity Fair.

Now I can't see shit. I try to type and I can't see the screen. I try to drive and I can't see the road. It has gotten out of control. My bangs have actually poked my eyeballs and made my eyes water in pain. I could brush my bangs to the side, but when I try that I look like I'm on a field trip from the group home. That's not going to get me a date.

This blog is a request. Do you know a wealthy blind man looking for a hook up? His looks don't matter. I can't see anyway.

Procrastination Vs. Disgusting, Lazy Pig

Written from atop a pile of dirty clothes and old pizza boxes by Killer

Living alone is both a blessing and a curse. I can let my apartment become the epitome of filth and disgust, but once it gets out of control I can not blame it on a roommate or significant other.

A few days ago I collected all the garbage that had mysteriously accumulated on my counter tops and end tables, bagged it up and placed the bag right in front of the door. The rationale was, I would now be forced to take the refuse to the garbage shoot, which is inconveniently located all the way down the hall from my apartment. The fatal flaw in my plan, however, is my amazing ability to procrastinate and then ignore a problem. The garbage bag has since been unceremoniously kicked to the side and still sits, dejected and confused, awaiting its journey to wherever it is the garbage shoot leads.

Usually I clean up my apartment right before someone is to visit. I am diligent at appearing clean. I will clean my apartment from top to bottom, but lately my apartment has become a testament to my ever-depressing social life. Since no one has been to my apartment, there is no reason to clean. I returned from my vacation almost two weeks ago, but my suitcase is still lying in the middle of my living room floor. Even worse, it is open, since I have been digging through it in the hope that a clean pair of underwear might be hidden somewhere in the back. Once again my faulty reasoning said to put it in the middle of the living room, so I could not avoid it and wait two weeks to empty it properly and store it away. One would think that after 33 years I would know me better, but lately it seems as if I just met myself.

I need to collect all the empty bottles and to go boxes off my kitchen counter. It would do me some good to get rid of all the junk mail that keeps appearing on my table. My concern with carrying this out is I don't want two bags of garbage gathered at my door. It is hard enough to step over one bag on the way out, and trip over it on the way back in. Two would quickly become a fire hazard or potential lawsuit, should a burglar trip over them while sneaking in under the darkness of night.

If only the garbage shoot wasn't so damn far away. If only the management of my apartment building would respond reasonably to my repeated complaints and requests for a garbage shoot to be placed closer to my apartment. If only my window were not painted shut so I could toss the bags out them. My life would be so much easier with at least one of these if's corrected. I don't ask for all of them, one would do.

I think I am going to go through the garbage bags to make sure there is nothing with my name or apartment number on it, and then just leave them in the elevator. Somebody is sure to spot them and take them to the garbage shoot for me.

Costa Rica Photos

A picture speaks a thousand words. Some you don't want to hear. By Killer


The return to civilization has been unwelcome and harsh, but I have to persevere for the sake of the next trip. Here are a couple of the photos of our journey. The first is an example of how a great backdrop can make even the ugliest of trios look good. The second is an example of how, with even a small change in the foreground, the beautiful scenery is ruined.
You can see more pictures of the trip by clicking on the Travel Photo link on the right side of the page. It contains shots from all of our world exploratory adventures. I can not promise you will not see my ass again.

Quit Stealing All My Ideas

Liz types franticly so no one else says it first:

My life is so recycled that watching Seinfeld reruns is like watching bits of my own life unfold on TBS. I was against "The English Patient" before Elaine! I once enjoyed naked Saturdays before Jerry's girlfriend took them a little too far. I was a virgin wanting to get it on with JFK, Jr. It makes me wonder if the universe is really a lot smaller than scientists would have us believe. Is there such a thing as originality? Is it possible for any experience to truly ever be "new"?

My boss is giving me back my own ideas, shelved for months, as his. Not only that, but playing the role of boss means that he explains to me WHY this idea is such a good one. I want to yell, "No shit, Sherlock! It's MY idea. I know how freakin' good it is." But I don't. He usually adds a sense of urgency to "his" idea by saying something like, "We really need to make this happen as soon as possible." To which I want to scream, "Do ya think? That's why I mentioned it 3 months ago!" But I don't. Because otherwise, he's a pretty damn good boss. And it's not just him. Other people do it to me too. It's like an inescapable curse.

The salt in the wound is this new commercial where a group of men are sitting around a conference table. An employee gives an idea; to which silence is the response. Seconds later, another man at the table regurgitates the same ideas to much fan fare and adulation. My life, condensed into a 30-second spot. Ouch.

I have no idea, really, who knows about or reads this blog. Sometimes I am surprised to hear through a friend that there is a dedicated fan out there who I maybe knew for 9 months back in college. That puts some pressure on me. Even though I don't often rant about specific people, I still am aware of the need to use SOME code when I type. I don't want to tell the world that Killer wears women's panties and then Killer read that and feel betrayed. Therefore, I've been thinking about starting my own blog and keeping it top secret. On this blog I would name names. I would describe features. I would go into detail about the quirks and traits of the people whose lives I was serving up before the reader. It would be "journalism", not blogging!

This evening I was checking out "The Company Bitch"- probably my favorite blog ever- and her latest entry was about this exact problem. She had the same solution- start an anonymous blog! She beat me to the punch by 24 hours by writing HER entry first. Not only can I not get credit for the things I do, but I can't get credit for the things I don't do either.

I guess I'm not original. I guess I don't have keen insights to share with the world. I guess I can't manufacture anything that hasn't already been made. To use a phrase I've coined, there's nothing new under the sun.

Embarrassed by Groceries

Liz relays a friend's plight:

This summer, a friend was swimming at my community pool. Also at the pool were some pre-adolescent boys, their father, and a couple of old women. Too many people at my pool for me to feel comfortable taking my tank top off and revealing "me" in bathing suit glory, but I can share sunshine while pouting.

So my friend is in the water- bobbing and weaving and swimming and playing- like all middle aged women should do frequently- and during her displays, these young boys, around 9 and 12 years old, kept diving under the water, bobbing back up for a breath and to defog their dive masks, then diving down again. No swimming, just bobbing. SEVERAL minutes later, my friend realized that one of her boobs had popped out of her suit. Those little rascals! Getting an eyeful! Well, maybe not an eye full, as she is not all that well endowed, but they were having a peep nonetheless.

When she relayed the story, we had a fine laugh. One thing she said is, "If that had happened 10 years ago, I would have DIED. Now, I just think it's funny and hope I haven't psychologically scarred those boys for life." I couldn't agree more. Although I would probably still be mortified if what happened to her happened to me, there are a lot of things that I am no longer embarrassed by that at one time would have sent me into a hysterical crying fit or caused me retreat to my room and sleep for 3 days.

Two months ago, my boss's boss's boss told me that my pants were unzipped. He handled it very delicately by saying, "I know this is going to embarrass you, but your pants are unzipped." It didn't embarrass me at all! If muff had been hanging out I would have been embarrassed but I don't find that to be a frequent side-effect of unzipped pants, so no worries. We had even had visitors that day and I had stood at the door and greeted all 80 of them. Embarrassed? Nope. It's not a reflection on my level of "class". Let she who has not had a wardrobe malfunction in her life cast the first button.

But today I was embarrassed by groceries. If you've caught up with my blogging, you know I've been out of commission for quite some time. This afternoon, I made the dreaded Wal-Mart trip and bought like a welfare mother when the check comes in (no insult meant to welfare recipients. They just seem to buy in bulk). I'm wheeling my 98 lb. buggy out of the store and ran into a co-worker whom I know, but not so well that I feel totally comfortable with him seeing my feminine hygiene products or the brand of mustard I buy. When he sees me he said, "Do you think you have enough groceries there? DANG!" And he was right! I mean, although I often cook for others, my cart made me look like I have a major eating disorder. I even had TWO boxes of chocolate cake mix. TWO. Why does a single woman need two boxes of cake mix? Well, I know why, but he doesn't.

It's the little things that make us insecure, isn't it? By the way, I have two cake mixes because I want to try and replicate a Hostess Ding Dong- you know, with the creamy white filling in the center of the moist chocolate cake?

Why did typing that make me feel slightly embarrassed too?

Liz's "Tone" Problem

I am not a bitchy person. Especially since I've gotten older. I have really mellowed out and let (a lot of) things roll. However, when I'm quiet, I get accused of being "rude" or "hateful". This would be funny if it didn't piss me off so much!

I also recognize irony when I type it.

I do get frustrated with people's slow reactions. I do suffer from pangs over low-performance in others. I must admit that I have trouble tolerating intolerance. BUT I really don't have a mean streak; I have a teeny-tiny "revenge streak", but not a mean streak. I never yell (although I talk so loudly always that it borders yelling), I don't throw things- including fits- and I try to empathize with others. I care. Sincerely. Until I don't care anymore. That's fair, isn't it?

People confuse honesty with bitchiness.

I recently read a book on getting in touch with your inner bitch. I'm there- could have written the book! It was about living life on your terms and allowing others to do the same. Of course! What other way is there? I think "detachment" is a great skill- one of my talents, actually. If we don't see eye-to-eye and there is not a great need for us to be unified, I detach. You go your way, I go mine. I see that as BEAUTIFUL but I'm realizing that other's don't. I'm lost here...

Many of my friends share this characteristic with me, but not many of them at the level that I possess it. We are united in the recognition that approval from others is nice, but not at the expense of compromising our character or souls. We all seem to operate under the assumption that it's ok to honestly speak your mind- how else to find out if there is a base of understanding between two people? Once you know that there is commonality in core beliefs, true and strong friendships can be made and they last. Forever. I'm this way always- I'm the same person at work that I am at home. There is no "good Liz, bad Liz". "work Liz, home Liz"- it is always JUST LIZ. Love it or leave it, but please don't bitch about it.

I think one of the things that some people love about me and that some people hate about me is that I am theatrical. I don't try to be this way, it just is. It's never "I saw a nice sunset Thursday night," it is instead, "The most beautiful rays of light were filtering through the clouds, casting a glow on the Earth that took my breath away." I'm not lying about what I saw. I'm hyper-descriptive in what I saw. I'm this way with EVERYTHING. How can I be different? Really, that's a question. Apparently, this characteristic is a problem for some people. I try to dismiss them- detach from them- but they won't let me. You see my dilemma? THEY are not in touch with their inner bitch, and it's causing ME problems.

I would like to have a web page dedicated to people that suffer this affliction. It would be titled "Truth Hurts" and be like a "Dear Abby" for web readers. I would reply to all inquires then, always, the last line of my response would be "Fuck 'em" or "Fuck you"- which ever was most appropriate.

On another note, I think I have a mild psychological problem. I am in love with my pets. I try not to spoil my cats because I do not want them to be brats. I have actually gotten compliments on how well-behaved they are. I beam with pride at such statements. However, I feel this commitment is becoming something worthy of being committed. I am allowing them to take over the whole bed at night- to the point that I am having to sleep in awkward positions as to not disturb the kitties. There are two of them, and I am at their beck and call. I will get up at night if one of them refused to come in at bedtime- worried that he might be stranded outside, wondering where the love has gone. I don't want either of my boys to suffer any emotional damage. THAT IS JUST PLAIN PSYCHO. They are cats with walnut sized brains. Why can't I learn to say "Fuck 'em" and get the shut-eye I so desperately need?

Nurse Jekyll and Ms. Hyde

Liz plays catch-up with a genuine RANT:

Although it appears from the lack of inquires on this blog about MY whereabouts or doings that this loving correspondent hasn't been too greatly missed, I will post a second entry today for my silent admirers- both of you. We all know Killer is off on a jaunt in the rainforest, having high adventures with his pals, living high on the hog, out roughing it in the AC and Internet cafes of Costa Rica. Two weeks of doing whatever the Hell he wants to do... and all it takes to live this dream is a job with extreme flexibility and mountains of cash; neither of which I have.

But I have been thinking much about our diarist, Killer, of late. Yesterday and this evening I will be spending a lot of time in the hospital with my mother who has had a second mastecomy due to breast cancer. I hope you never have to see a parent so fragile and so weak. It will affect you. Anyway, I've been dealing with a lot of nurses and have come to some conclusions about people who assume this career: Some of them are borderline retarded.

I know from being a close friend of Killer's that nursing is a job- just like driving a truck, teaching a class, selling insurance and rolling sushi is a job. I know that people become numbers and that you get immune to their shock and surprise, their ignorance, their questions. I know that your shift sucks if you don't have time in the day to catch up with Oprah or "your stories". I understand. What I don't understand is how you can forget the magnitude of this being someone's wife, mother, or friend and that when you forget medication, or you never answer the call button, or when you breeze into a room, are there for 15 minutes and never speak, that the family takes that shit personally.

My parents are "don't cause a wave" kind of people. I admire my parents' kindness and interest in others; their recognition of treating people well so that they, in return, will treat you well. Mom has already nicknamed her male nurse "Big Al"- who is not big, so that makes it very funny to me- and her female nurse "Splenda" because her name is Salinda and Mom says she'll never remember that. Mom apologizes when she weakly whispers a request for something like ice. "I hate to bother you, but could I get some ice? Whenever you have the time. I'm sorry to be such a bother." In other words, in my estimation, these people ARE the patients you dream for.

So, I hope you can understand when I say that I appreciate those nurses who are thoughtful in return. Those that take the time to inquire, provide the family with information, are knowledgeable about their field, see the big picture and understand the next steps and how things might unfold. I am enraged by those nurses who are too stupid to run a cash register and yet have been placed solo in a room with my mother as her only support and source of care during this time that she is absolutely helpless. It might upset you when you're at a 7-11 and the cashier gets your change wrong, but you're not going to dehydrate or die because of it. We have those nurses.

It disturbed me when a group of nurses stood outside my mom's hospital door and pointed in the room at the attending nurse and said, "Let's get our camera. She actually looks like she's working!" WHAT? You've put my mom under the care of the laziest nurse in the hospital? Why does this bitch have a JOB in the recovery unit of a hospital if she never works? Why do you look dazed and confused when I use a word like "invasive"? Do you know what that means? When an exiting nurse says, "She can have meds for nausea", then 30 minutes later the patient says she feels nauseated, why do stand there and say,"That will pass." Did you get your nursing degree via correspondence courses from Bolivia?

One other thing: Let's get back to scrubs that are one color. Pick a color, any color: Green, pink, blue, white- define your personality that way. Wear a pin on your scrubs for God's sake. No Fred's Dollar Store-looking flower prints, Disney characters, racecars, or peppermint candy prints on your scrubs unless you work with patients under 8 years old. When you wear that, you look like an idiot, and then when you open your mouth, you confirm it.

I've got some scrub pants at home. I'm going to wear them tonight with a Pac-Man t-shirt and see just how many people ask ME to bring them ice. And you know what? I'll get it for them.

Liz! Your Ankle Looks Like A Super-Sized Burito!

Dear Blog reader,

Because of my job, I will not take ANY medication that is not explicitly for me. No script, no meds. Crippling back pain? Kim offers me a muscle relaxer? NOPE. I'll be having a Tylenol. Extreme stomach cramping? Mom offers me a prescriptive Imodium? NOPE. Pepto and crossed fingers. Right arm severed in a tractor accident? Aspirin. I won't even sit in the upper balcony at concerts for fear I might inhale someone's second hand pot smoke. I'm very serious about this.

Last week I managed to inexplicably sprain my ankle. Crippled like you wouldn't believe, I have been to 4 doctors and (although I think this is overkill) had x-rays, an MRI, and and an orthopedic specialist examine my ankle. Although I think I would have done just as well going to a witch doctor (they don't know how or why or what for certain) the one thing I thought would be a plus through all of this is my very first prescription for pain medication in nearly 5 years. YEE HAW! Let me testify something for you right now: They don't make drugs like they used to.

I hobbled into the house from the car and got all set up for what I thought would be a trip straight out of '94. I propped my pillows up, got my ice pack, fixed a cold glass of water, turned the TV onto Magnum PI, had a magazine handy, peed so I wouldn't have to get up for hours.... I set the stage for this hallucinogenic voyage. Giddy! I was actually giddy!!!

Imagine my disappointment when all the medication did was relieve the pain. What happened to the good ole days when someone would score some expired meds out of grandma's cabinet and we'd all pop a pill and be off in la-la land? What was grandma taking that I'm not getting? What gives these doctors the right to give me a proper dosage when what I was so looking forward to was a mental vacation?

So, one day when I knew I couldn't walk- I mean, if the house caught fire, I would simply crisp because I couldn't move- I took 2 pills within an hour of each other. THIS will do it, I thought! All it really did was erase my memory. I didn't feel like I was floating above the couch. I didn't want to put on a Pink Floyd album and zone, I didn't note the grooviness of the curtains. It was LAME and made my stomach hurt. What I DID do is go to Overstock.com and buy a butt load of stuff I don't need. That's been a treat! I've been getting packages all week that contain items I do not recall ordering.

At least I know I have excellent taste, even when under the influence of weak pain medication.

Killerś Central American Travel Log: 4

Sorry for the delay. We have been in some pretty remote places where the internet cafes are so slow it would not even let me log in.
I believe the last time I wrote we were in Tamarindo, since then we have dived two dives in Tamarindo that were okay, but no where near Thailand. The visibility is poor this time of year due to the rainy season, but we did manage to get underwater, so that is always a plus.
We spent a few hard partying nights in Tamarindo with Brian, he was very disappointed that we would go to bed at two am. It seems Brian has been acclimated to the Tamarindo night life that does not stop until five or six.
We woke up Wednesday morning and set out for a grueling drive from the North East corner of Costa Rica to a small surfing town at the very South West corner called Puerto Viejo. It was a ten hour drive that, with an American interstate, should have taken about three hours, but since the major highway through all of Central America is a two lane road used as the primary commercial trucking route, and through a large mountain range, it took ten hours.
We arrived in Puerto Viejo late Wednesday and found a really cheap "cabinas", which usually consists of a few mosquito nets and cots or hammocks, but this one actually had a pseudo room that was screened off from the bugs with, what at first glance, appeared to be beds. Luckily we were so tired from driving all day that we could have slept on the ground, because the beds were not much better.
We awakened the next day and set out to find a better place, which we finally found one with air conditioning, which as a spoiled American is a must. It was a much nicer room, and right across the street from a dive shop.
We managed to get two dives in on the Caribbean side which were pretty good dives, but not great visibility, and considering I am still aching to get some good shots with our new, and expensive, dive camera, I was disappointed that there were not more chances.
We checked out the town of Puerto Viejo, and it has been officially decided that almost every country that touches the Caribbean thinks it is Jamaica. The Bahamas had a large percentage of their population wearing, selling, and promoting all things Rasta, Bob Marley, and marijuana. I think if must be somehow related to the sun and sea combo that is created from the tropical waters in the Caribbean. It is a cool town none the less, and it really is worth checking out if you are wanting a few low key days to relax and get away from the daily grind.
We had to get up at 4 am in order to drive to Turrialba to make a white water rafting trip on Saturday. We arrived just in time to turn around and back track almost a third of the distance we just traveled to put into the river with the guide group. The white water trip was incredible. The views were amazing, the rapids were almost non stop and a perfect mix of class 2,3, and 4 rapids. We had brought the underwater camera along to take some shots, but the camera had not been charged back up after the last diving trip. I am going to blame Bam and Chad for not charging the camera, and since they have no blogs of their own to tell you the truth, it will officially remain their fault. We did get some good shots of the raft trip since the guide group had a guy with a camera speed ahead of us and set up at the rapids to take shots, and for the low price of thirty dollars we could purchase a copy. I think the bulk of Costa Rican economy is supported by financial rape of gringos.
We finished the raft trip, changed clothes, hopped into the Terios and ripped down to San Jose. We will be spending the final few days of our journey here. We fly back on Tuesday. Hopefully, we can not get into too much trouble in two nights, but so far this town seems chock full of trouble.
See you all soon.
Killer