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.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, August 14, 2006
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?
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?
Saturday, August 12, 2006
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?
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
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
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
Monday, July 31, 2006
Killer's Central American Travel Log: 3
Howdy folks. I am currently in Tamarindo, Costa Rica.
We spent a few low key days in San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. It is a really beautiful town, but not a whole lot going on. We took a taxi back to the border and walked through. After standing in the sun for a long time, and a small bribe to the local official, we made it out of Nicaragua and crossed the mysterious area that always exists between border crossings. It is not really one country or the other. It is usually about 100 yards, but Nicaragua and Costa Rica share a confusing 300 yards of unclaimed land that contain several small buildings, many vendors selling fruit and an unknown liquid in small plastic bags, not to mention the mandatory duty free liquor store. After wandering for a while in no country in particular, we figured out which building was the actual entry point for Costa Rica, politely declined the hundreds of offers to exchange our now useless Nicaraguan Cordobas into Costa Rican Colones, and got a stamp to return to Costa Rica.
We found a suprisingly cheap taxi willing to drive us the 100 kilometers into Liberia, once there we re-rented our same Dahaitsu and drove down to Playa Tamarindo. Unlike San Juan Del Sur, it is teeming with the seedy side of life. It is a surfer mecca so there is no shortage of shaggy surfers walking around, nor is there a shortage of scruffy people offering a multitude of drugs, alcohol and almost any other vice you could ask for.
Chad has a friend who is living here right now, a guy named Brian that worked with Chad in Taiwan, and also happened to be in Bangkok a few nights with us last summer, small world. We met up with Brian and he showed us the cool hangouts in town and we spent a few hours playing a bastardized version of Black Jack. I quickly lost 60 bucks, declined the oddly man looking prostitute that had taken seat next to me, and headed to the next club. We stayed up until almost midnight, which suprisingly enough is very late for us on this trip. We usually are in bed by 9pm and up around 6am. I don't know if it is the traveling that wears us out, or just the fact that we are all getting pretty old.
We are probably heading towards San Jose in a few days, so I will write more later.
Killer
We spent a few low key days in San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. It is a really beautiful town, but not a whole lot going on. We took a taxi back to the border and walked through. After standing in the sun for a long time, and a small bribe to the local official, we made it out of Nicaragua and crossed the mysterious area that always exists between border crossings. It is not really one country or the other. It is usually about 100 yards, but Nicaragua and Costa Rica share a confusing 300 yards of unclaimed land that contain several small buildings, many vendors selling fruit and an unknown liquid in small plastic bags, not to mention the mandatory duty free liquor store. After wandering for a while in no country in particular, we figured out which building was the actual entry point for Costa Rica, politely declined the hundreds of offers to exchange our now useless Nicaraguan Cordobas into Costa Rican Colones, and got a stamp to return to Costa Rica.
We found a suprisingly cheap taxi willing to drive us the 100 kilometers into Liberia, once there we re-rented our same Dahaitsu and drove down to Playa Tamarindo. Unlike San Juan Del Sur, it is teeming with the seedy side of life. It is a surfer mecca so there is no shortage of shaggy surfers walking around, nor is there a shortage of scruffy people offering a multitude of drugs, alcohol and almost any other vice you could ask for.
Chad has a friend who is living here right now, a guy named Brian that worked with Chad in Taiwan, and also happened to be in Bangkok a few nights with us last summer, small world. We met up with Brian and he showed us the cool hangouts in town and we spent a few hours playing a bastardized version of Black Jack. I quickly lost 60 bucks, declined the oddly man looking prostitute that had taken seat next to me, and headed to the next club. We stayed up until almost midnight, which suprisingly enough is very late for us on this trip. We usually are in bed by 9pm and up around 6am. I don't know if it is the traveling that wears us out, or just the fact that we are all getting pretty old.
We are probably heading towards San Jose in a few days, so I will write more later.
Killer
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Killer´s Central American Travel Log: 2
I attempted an entry a few days ago, but the computer I was using erased my entry as I was posting it. So this is technically travel log 2.5.
I am blogging to you now from San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. But, allow me a moment to back track.
The last I spoke with you, I believe I was in Monte Verde, Costa Rica. Since then we have almost careened off a small muddy road into an extrememly beautiful valley and spent several days attempting to spot a volcano, but for an object that is completely stationary and supposedly glows at night, it is suprisingly hard to spot.
We left Monte Verde and decided to take a short cut through some country side to get around the Arenal Lake. The scenery was breathtaking, but so were the sudden changes in road condition. At the best spots the road was about six feet wide and covered with large rocks, but in many places it was huge craters filled with mud and water. We passed several Costa Rican cowboys on horse back who appeared completely amazed that someone would attempt to drive this path. Our Dahaitsu Terios with really cheap street tires and questionable four wheel drive managed to get through all obstacles better than imagined and we pulled through with only a few moments of impending doom. Since we made through with no physical harm to us or the vehicle it was 100% worth it. The post traumatic stress disorder that I picked up along the way may yet prove to be my undoing, however.
We did get to The Volcano Arenal area, but due to extremely dense, low lying clouds we could not make out any more than a few hundred yards up the sides of the volcano. We also did not get to enjoy any of the much discussed "glowing lava flows" that are visible at night. It is almost debatable on our part as to whether a volcano actually exists in that area or not. Just because there is a tourist shop selling t shirts with a volcano on the front, every ten feet, does not always constitute an actual volcano nearby.
We left the "volcano" area and drove down to the town of Playa del Coco. It is a small beach on the Carribean side. We chartered a fishing boat for the day and spent a miserable three hours trying to catch bait. Considering our charter was for only five hours, we were getting understandly upset. The captain finally gave up on bait and we headed out to deeper water to see what we could catch using artificial bait and finally the fish started biting. We managed to bring in six Mahi Mahi and three Albacore tuna. The charter captain kept us out two hours extra to make up for the live bait fiasco, so it was a pretty cool trip over all. The boat captain cut all the fish into filets, we took a few pieces and left them the rest. We took our fish and went to a local restaurant and the cook fried up our fish and we ate it. It would have been great, but she fried it until it was almost fish jerky. It was still a great experience, and I highly recommend it.
We then returned our rented Terios and caught a bus up the Nicaraguan border. There were about a hundred guys walking around with large stacks of Nicaraguan bills trying to convince us to exchange our money with them. With a little patience, we finally made it over the Nicaraguan border, the bus we were on dumped us on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. We spotted a sign that said 17 kilometers to San Juan Del Sur, our destination. After walking in the general direction for a while we spotted a small, yellow Toyota Corolla parked in front of a little shack. On closer inspection the car actually had "taxi" written on the side, so we had to knock on the covering of the shack, that does not really warrant the title of "door", and wake up the operator of the taxi. After piling our bags into the back he informed us that it would cost 12 dollars american to drive us the 17 kilometers. We had been informed already that it should cost about 4-6 dollars, but since he had us over a barrel we had no choice. He had to push start the car, and then we trundled off towards San Juan Del Sur at a very, very leisurely pace. Once we had gone about 20 yards in the world´s slowest taxi the road was alive with taxis of all shapes and sizes. Mostly they were zipping past us and laughing, one even turned around, came back and drove beside us, apparently making fun of either the driver or our taxi, or his passengers, maybe both.
We made it to San Juan Del Sur and found a hotel after much heated arguments with our original hotel which we had reservations with, and threw our crap down and headed to the beach. We found a small beach front restaurant and settled in. We spent the next six hours drinking ice cold beer and watching the sun set over the ocean. It actually made the whole ordeal worth every minute.
I am about to publish this blog. I can not spell check because I don´t know where the damn spell check button is, everything is in espanol. If this one gets lost also, I might just have to give up the blogging and go back to just emailing.
Thanks for reading and I hope to see most of you soon, and the rest of you eventually.
Killer
I am blogging to you now from San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. But, allow me a moment to back track.
The last I spoke with you, I believe I was in Monte Verde, Costa Rica. Since then we have almost careened off a small muddy road into an extrememly beautiful valley and spent several days attempting to spot a volcano, but for an object that is completely stationary and supposedly glows at night, it is suprisingly hard to spot.
We left Monte Verde and decided to take a short cut through some country side to get around the Arenal Lake. The scenery was breathtaking, but so were the sudden changes in road condition. At the best spots the road was about six feet wide and covered with large rocks, but in many places it was huge craters filled with mud and water. We passed several Costa Rican cowboys on horse back who appeared completely amazed that someone would attempt to drive this path. Our Dahaitsu Terios with really cheap street tires and questionable four wheel drive managed to get through all obstacles better than imagined and we pulled through with only a few moments of impending doom. Since we made through with no physical harm to us or the vehicle it was 100% worth it. The post traumatic stress disorder that I picked up along the way may yet prove to be my undoing, however.
We did get to The Volcano Arenal area, but due to extremely dense, low lying clouds we could not make out any more than a few hundred yards up the sides of the volcano. We also did not get to enjoy any of the much discussed "glowing lava flows" that are visible at night. It is almost debatable on our part as to whether a volcano actually exists in that area or not. Just because there is a tourist shop selling t shirts with a volcano on the front, every ten feet, does not always constitute an actual volcano nearby.
We left the "volcano" area and drove down to the town of Playa del Coco. It is a small beach on the Carribean side. We chartered a fishing boat for the day and spent a miserable three hours trying to catch bait. Considering our charter was for only five hours, we were getting understandly upset. The captain finally gave up on bait and we headed out to deeper water to see what we could catch using artificial bait and finally the fish started biting. We managed to bring in six Mahi Mahi and three Albacore tuna. The charter captain kept us out two hours extra to make up for the live bait fiasco, so it was a pretty cool trip over all. The boat captain cut all the fish into filets, we took a few pieces and left them the rest. We took our fish and went to a local restaurant and the cook fried up our fish and we ate it. It would have been great, but she fried it until it was almost fish jerky. It was still a great experience, and I highly recommend it.
We then returned our rented Terios and caught a bus up the Nicaraguan border. There were about a hundred guys walking around with large stacks of Nicaraguan bills trying to convince us to exchange our money with them. With a little patience, we finally made it over the Nicaraguan border, the bus we were on dumped us on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. We spotted a sign that said 17 kilometers to San Juan Del Sur, our destination. After walking in the general direction for a while we spotted a small, yellow Toyota Corolla parked in front of a little shack. On closer inspection the car actually had "taxi" written on the side, so we had to knock on the covering of the shack, that does not really warrant the title of "door", and wake up the operator of the taxi. After piling our bags into the back he informed us that it would cost 12 dollars american to drive us the 17 kilometers. We had been informed already that it should cost about 4-6 dollars, but since he had us over a barrel we had no choice. He had to push start the car, and then we trundled off towards San Juan Del Sur at a very, very leisurely pace. Once we had gone about 20 yards in the world´s slowest taxi the road was alive with taxis of all shapes and sizes. Mostly they were zipping past us and laughing, one even turned around, came back and drove beside us, apparently making fun of either the driver or our taxi, or his passengers, maybe both.
We made it to San Juan Del Sur and found a hotel after much heated arguments with our original hotel which we had reservations with, and threw our crap down and headed to the beach. We found a small beach front restaurant and settled in. We spent the next six hours drinking ice cold beer and watching the sun set over the ocean. It actually made the whole ordeal worth every minute.
I am about to publish this blog. I can not spell check because I don´t know where the damn spell check button is, everything is in espanol. If this one gets lost also, I might just have to give up the blogging and go back to just emailing.
Thanks for reading and I hope to see most of you soon, and the rest of you eventually.
Killer
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Killer´s Central American Travel Log 1
Hello you domesticated bastards, I extend my warmest hello from Costa Rica. It is now Sunday and we are in a small town called Monte Verde.
We landed Thursday night in Liberia, CR and spent a few low key nights hanging out in that little, boring town that is Liberia. It is mostly used as a jumping off point for the rest of the North West corner of the country. We paid entirely too much for the hotel we stayed in and I was fully prepared to give it a horrible rating, but then we became friends with the owner/operator, who also is a very hot young lady.
We decided to forgo busing around the countryside or taking tours with tour groups and rented our own small four wheel drive vehicle and have been tear assing around Costa Rica ever since. They have a few highways, but they are all two lane. Unfortunately, most places people want to go do not have gravel roads, much less pavement. Usually the roads are just tightly packed dirt and covered in rocks the size of softballs. It is a bad testament to the road system when you can get a smoother ride if you aim for all the potholes. It has added an extra adventure to our trip and we are getting to see some incredible views of Costa Rica that is way off the beaten path.
Yesterday we arrived in Monte Verde, as we head South towards Arenal Volcano. Monte Verde is in the mountains and is a popular tourist destination for backpackers and people wanting to hike the surrounding rain forest. Today we went up to a adventure tour area and were going to do some zip lines above the forest canopy. Zip lines consist of a steel cable the size of my thumb that is extended from a high tree to a lower tree, you connect your harness to the cable and fly to the next tree, if you are lucky you stop before hitting the tree. It turns out that zip line operators are not fully prepared for a patron of my girth and did not have the proper harness that would fit around my supple thighs and ample waist. Once again a third world country has failed to meet the needs of the obesely challenged, so the discrimination continues. I left Bam and Chad behind to enjoy their zipping through the skies and embarked upon a canopy walkway tour.
I have been on a canopy walkway before, albeit in a Malaysian rain forest. Once you have risked life and limb on a canopy walkway that was built with no safety codes or regulations to guide it, one that has a strict rule of everyone having to be at least 5 to 10 meters apart as to not snap the ropes holding up the rickety structure, everything else is for chumps. This canopy walkway was structurally sound and made of all steel. It was five feet wide and hardly moved when you walked on it. In other words, it sucked. When precariously perched high above the rain forest, with at least 100 yards of tree limbs, vines, exotic birds and howling monkeys between me and the ground, I like my walkways the way I like my women, unstable and capable of snapping and causing me serious death or dismemberment at any moment.
The view from the walkway was great and I could see the zipline people zipping by above me. I have to admit I was secretly wishing the cable would snap and at least one or two would plunge into the rain forest below. Then I would not feel so bad about not getting to do it. I did not want Chad or Bam to fall, only because one of them had the car keys.
In the morning we plan on continuing over the harsh and unforgiving roads toward Arenal Volcano. It is an active volcano that Chad and Bam will undoubtedly want to climb up to get as close as possible to the crater. I never really enjoy walking up hill, especially if it is going to be getting hotter and hotter as we climb. Also, if there is an eruption I am pretty sure I can not out run a river of lava. I think I remember reading somewhere that if you are threatened by lava you should lay down and play dead. I hope I don´t have to test that theory.
I will talk to you all again soon. Have fun working.
Killer
We landed Thursday night in Liberia, CR and spent a few low key nights hanging out in that little, boring town that is Liberia. It is mostly used as a jumping off point for the rest of the North West corner of the country. We paid entirely too much for the hotel we stayed in and I was fully prepared to give it a horrible rating, but then we became friends with the owner/operator, who also is a very hot young lady.
We decided to forgo busing around the countryside or taking tours with tour groups and rented our own small four wheel drive vehicle and have been tear assing around Costa Rica ever since. They have a few highways, but they are all two lane. Unfortunately, most places people want to go do not have gravel roads, much less pavement. Usually the roads are just tightly packed dirt and covered in rocks the size of softballs. It is a bad testament to the road system when you can get a smoother ride if you aim for all the potholes. It has added an extra adventure to our trip and we are getting to see some incredible views of Costa Rica that is way off the beaten path.
Yesterday we arrived in Monte Verde, as we head South towards Arenal Volcano. Monte Verde is in the mountains and is a popular tourist destination for backpackers and people wanting to hike the surrounding rain forest. Today we went up to a adventure tour area and were going to do some zip lines above the forest canopy. Zip lines consist of a steel cable the size of my thumb that is extended from a high tree to a lower tree, you connect your harness to the cable and fly to the next tree, if you are lucky you stop before hitting the tree. It turns out that zip line operators are not fully prepared for a patron of my girth and did not have the proper harness that would fit around my supple thighs and ample waist. Once again a third world country has failed to meet the needs of the obesely challenged, so the discrimination continues. I left Bam and Chad behind to enjoy their zipping through the skies and embarked upon a canopy walkway tour.
I have been on a canopy walkway before, albeit in a Malaysian rain forest. Once you have risked life and limb on a canopy walkway that was built with no safety codes or regulations to guide it, one that has a strict rule of everyone having to be at least 5 to 10 meters apart as to not snap the ropes holding up the rickety structure, everything else is for chumps. This canopy walkway was structurally sound and made of all steel. It was five feet wide and hardly moved when you walked on it. In other words, it sucked. When precariously perched high above the rain forest, with at least 100 yards of tree limbs, vines, exotic birds and howling monkeys between me and the ground, I like my walkways the way I like my women, unstable and capable of snapping and causing me serious death or dismemberment at any moment.
The view from the walkway was great and I could see the zipline people zipping by above me. I have to admit I was secretly wishing the cable would snap and at least one or two would plunge into the rain forest below. Then I would not feel so bad about not getting to do it. I did not want Chad or Bam to fall, only because one of them had the car keys.
In the morning we plan on continuing over the harsh and unforgiving roads toward Arenal Volcano. It is an active volcano that Chad and Bam will undoubtedly want to climb up to get as close as possible to the crater. I never really enjoy walking up hill, especially if it is going to be getting hotter and hotter as we climb. Also, if there is an eruption I am pretty sure I can not out run a river of lava. I think I remember reading somewhere that if you are threatened by lava you should lay down and play dead. I hope I don´t have to test that theory.
I will talk to you all again soon. Have fun working.
Killer
Saturday, July 15, 2006
One Wedding Is Enough
"Always the bride's maid" writes:
Marriage scares the shit out of me. I'm such a commitment-phobe that 3rd dates scare me- much worse than first dates. After reading a post on Mick's Weird World, I was inspired. You see, our British chap Mick had to attend 3 weddings in one weekend. THREE! I simultaneously pitty Mick and applaud him for his fortitude.
Things I'd rather do than go to 3 weddings in one weekend:
Marriage scares the shit out of me. I'm such a commitment-phobe that 3rd dates scare me- much worse than first dates. After reading a post on Mick's Weird World, I was inspired. You see, our British chap Mick had to attend 3 weddings in one weekend. THREE! I simultaneously pitty Mick and applaud him for his fortitude.
Things I'd rather do than go to 3 weddings in one weekend:
- contract gout
- lose a beloved pet
- be forced to watch a weekend marathon of Matlock
- smoke non-menthol cigarettes
- have pink eye
I don't think I've ever been to a wedding that didn't cause me to shake like a wet Chiuaua. The most recent wedding I attended was my brother's, in February. A lovely affair. So beautiful with everything color-coordinated, gorgeous bride's maids, handsome groom's men, short and sweet ceremony. It was perfect! I thought I was going to vomit on my father, seated beside me.
The BEST wedding I ever attended was on the beach in Florida. I've been to two of those Pensacola weddings but one of them stands out for the sheer fact that, although billed as a wedding, it fell short at the last minute.
I had traveled 5 hours to the affair, borrowed a date (a married friend of mine- a story in itself!) and dropped a cool $60 on a gift. The couple had dated for 15 years, so the affair was small. Basically, the invitees were me and a bunch of gay men. I guess most straight people get disgusted by couples that date for 15 years. I approached the groom right before the big show and asked him if he was nervous. "Not really," he said. "Well, this is a big deal! You're about to be off the market, baby! Doesn't that cause ANY butterfiles to stir?" "Not really..."
I could tell by his lack of eye contact and somber expression that something was up. "What's up?" I asked. "Well... we decided Wednesday to make this more of a commitment ceremony than an actual wedding." After .5 seconds of pausing, I said, "What the FUCK are you talking about? A COMMITMENT ceremony?! I drove 5 hours to watch two people that have dated for 15 years make a commitment to each other?" "I know..." he said. Then the mother of the bride said, "Places!" and the music started.
I'm a little foggy on this one, but I'm 95% sure that the bride walked down to the beach while Kermit the Frog sang "It's Not Easy Being Green." I shit you not. Then the couple exchanged vows; vows they had written. His vows were soft and mumbled so I could not hear them. Her's, I heard nice and clear and I'll never forget them because they were familiar:
"Don't go changin'
to try and please me
you've never let me down before.
I couldn't love you
any better
I love you just the way you are."
Oh, it went on. She did the whole song, Just the Way You Are, by Billy Joel.
You know how sometimes you get the giggles and you just can't turn them off? There I was, standing on the beach at sunset with a borrowed date (who thank god has no clue who Billy Joel is) shaking uncontrolably with tears quickly building in my eyes. I had too much noise building inside of me to hold the laughter in, but I knew that blurtting out a loud "HAAAAAAAA" would be a major faux paux, so I mostly let out this intermitten hybrid cough-squeak. I couldn't make eye contact with anyone that I knew, so I sought out some of the gay guys to lock onto. BAD idea, as they are all smiles and sincere tears of JOY or SWEETNESS or LOVE or whatever emotion Just the Way You Are evokes in queers. I had to start thinking about sad things, and when that didn't work, I tried to imagine how awful a shark attack would be. Razor-sharp teeth piecing my flesh, being pulled under as my last breaths filled my lungs with salt water, veins being severed, my blood violently spilling into the water... it got me through it.
When I got the thank you card for the gift, she had written, "Even though you didn't travel very far for the wedding, we appreciate your coming and can't wait to use the lovely gift."
ONE DAY I will get married and I want to warn my friends now: Pay back is a BITCH.
Friday, July 14, 2006
T Minus 6 Days and Counting
Killer bursts with anticipation
You, my faithful blog reading chums, will never guess what I am about to do. I am going to go on vacation again. I made it a stunning four months of working since my last vacation. There were a few close calls along the way, but with everyone's love and support I made it. I seem to do much better with the vacationing part of my life than I do with the working side.
The destination this time is Central America. Primarily Costa Rica, but with side trips to Nicaragua and Panama. As usual, SCUBA diving will be done, beer will be consumed, and a lot of hanging out with the locals will be accomplished. My travel companions are the illustrious Chad and Bam, who will probably be the butt of many jokes and focus of ridicule in my travel updates in the next few weeks.
I will try my best to blog as much as possible to remind those of you still working during the next few weeks how little I am doing productively for society.
Suckers.
You, my faithful blog reading chums, will never guess what I am about to do. I am going to go on vacation again. I made it a stunning four months of working since my last vacation. There were a few close calls along the way, but with everyone's love and support I made it. I seem to do much better with the vacationing part of my life than I do with the working side.
The destination this time is Central America. Primarily Costa Rica, but with side trips to Nicaragua and Panama. As usual, SCUBA diving will be done, beer will be consumed, and a lot of hanging out with the locals will be accomplished. My travel companions are the illustrious Chad and Bam, who will probably be the butt of many jokes and focus of ridicule in my travel updates in the next few weeks.
I will try my best to blog as much as possible to remind those of you still working during the next few weeks how little I am doing productively for society.
Suckers.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
The Top 7
Liz gloats:
Because of vacation nothingness, I've had some time to sit at the computer and surf other blogs. They really, really suck for the most part. Killer turned me on to the "Next Blog" button at the top right of your screen. When you're through reading this prize-worthy post, you should check it out to see just how horrible other blogs are. You'll be a loyal Killer Rants! fan forever. Of course there are exceptions, like Mick's Weird World, The Company Bitch, and New York Hack, but all in all, other blogs are scary in their shittiness. I have found blogs dedicated to PIES (I'm serious), people's journey into weight loss, and one blog that was nothing but pictures of little robot toys (sounds cool, but isn't). Lots of blogs seem to have the "poor me" theme and appear to be written by people in our age group that are trying to cleverly bitch and moan. These blogs are more bitching and less clever than I can tolerate. Here's a quote from one, "9 out of 10 guys tell me I'm cute. The other 1 tells me that I'm too drunk to bother with." Why is this chick bitching? I WISH 9 out 10 men that I meet would tell ME that I'm cute. I get told that I'm cute by grandmothers, not men. See? THAT'S the clever angle; and, sadly, true.
New thought: When I was in junior college, I had an older friend who was a really cool woman. Now that I think about it, she was probably around the same age then that I am now- and I am depressed for having just referred to her as "older". Anyway, B and I did some paling around as she was single and interesting and I have always had friends that aren't necessarily traditional. One of the things that she told me is that she and her best friend had each come up with a list of the top 7 men they would sleep with if ever given the opportunity. It transcends time, so if you wanted "Mark Twain" on your list it did not make you a necrophiliac. I thought this was an interesting avenue to pursue, so I too rattled off a list. The list was ranked in order. 17 years later, I am mortified to recall some of the names on the list. I do not remember them all, but I do remember Eric Clapton and JFK. I also remember who I placed at number 1. This is hilarious to me.... get ready... I listed as NUMBER 1 Robert Plant from Led Zepplin! OH MY GOD. What an absolutely awful pick. I think this speaks to one moment in time. One moment when I had found Zepplin and thought there was no greater experience than listening to Stairway to Heaven over and over and over. I'm going to remember this proclamation the next time I feel like bitching about aging. I'm glad I've outgrown that lust. It's borderline repulsive. If Mr. Plant is reading this blog, it's nothing personal, Bobby, you're just one ugly motherfucker and, although I admire your vocals, you are not worthy of the number 1 status on my "Do Him" list.
I don't think Mr. Plant would be upset about this. After all, he is not a grandmother and, therefore, does not find me to be "cute".
Because of vacation nothingness, I've had some time to sit at the computer and surf other blogs. They really, really suck for the most part. Killer turned me on to the "Next Blog" button at the top right of your screen. When you're through reading this prize-worthy post, you should check it out to see just how horrible other blogs are. You'll be a loyal Killer Rants! fan forever. Of course there are exceptions, like Mick's Weird World, The Company Bitch, and New York Hack, but all in all, other blogs are scary in their shittiness. I have found blogs dedicated to PIES (I'm serious), people's journey into weight loss, and one blog that was nothing but pictures of little robot toys (sounds cool, but isn't). Lots of blogs seem to have the "poor me" theme and appear to be written by people in our age group that are trying to cleverly bitch and moan. These blogs are more bitching and less clever than I can tolerate. Here's a quote from one, "9 out of 10 guys tell me I'm cute. The other 1 tells me that I'm too drunk to bother with." Why is this chick bitching? I WISH 9 out 10 men that I meet would tell ME that I'm cute. I get told that I'm cute by grandmothers, not men. See? THAT'S the clever angle; and, sadly, true.
New thought: When I was in junior college, I had an older friend who was a really cool woman. Now that I think about it, she was probably around the same age then that I am now- and I am depressed for having just referred to her as "older". Anyway, B and I did some paling around as she was single and interesting and I have always had friends that aren't necessarily traditional. One of the things that she told me is that she and her best friend had each come up with a list of the top 7 men they would sleep with if ever given the opportunity. It transcends time, so if you wanted "Mark Twain" on your list it did not make you a necrophiliac. I thought this was an interesting avenue to pursue, so I too rattled off a list. The list was ranked in order. 17 years later, I am mortified to recall some of the names on the list. I do not remember them all, but I do remember Eric Clapton and JFK. I also remember who I placed at number 1. This is hilarious to me.... get ready... I listed as NUMBER 1 Robert Plant from Led Zepplin! OH MY GOD. What an absolutely awful pick. I think this speaks to one moment in time. One moment when I had found Zepplin and thought there was no greater experience than listening to Stairway to Heaven over and over and over. I'm going to remember this proclamation the next time I feel like bitching about aging. I'm glad I've outgrown that lust. It's borderline repulsive. If Mr. Plant is reading this blog, it's nothing personal, Bobby, you're just one ugly motherfucker and, although I admire your vocals, you are not worthy of the number 1 status on my "Do Him" list.
I don't think Mr. Plant would be upset about this. After all, he is not a grandmother and, therefore, does not find me to be "cute".
I would post my new list for you now, but there is no list. I may have outgrown the silliness of this as I am somewhat prudent when it comes to lists. Also, I'm leary of having you throw "Bo Duke" back in my face 3 years from now when my list has changed. Who am I kidding? Bo Duke is a CONSTANT.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Vacation Nothingness
Lounging Liz laments:
I've had a fairly substantial vacation from work that began on Friday and lasts a total of 10 glorious days. I am currently in day 7 of this holiday and I have cycled from the bliss of sleeping late and snacking on kettle cooked chips to where I now find myself disgusting. You see, I had SUCH plans for this time off! I was going to organize my closets, sack up clothes and take them to GoodWill, clean my blinds and shutters, polish the silver- you know, DO something. Instead, I have taken a nap everyday. That's about it. Naps and Magnum PI reruns. Yes, I went to Florida, but there I was either napping or on the beach, so that's not getting anything done.
I will say this about my vacation: I have hardly drank alcohol at all. That's weird. Usually vacation is the time for saucing up, but I'm on VACATION- which means I'm in shutdown mode. I think that's funny- I don't drink BECAUSE I'm taking a vacation from the everyday routine. Uhhh... Lush? I'm also finding that cigarettes are not as tasty when they are not an excuse to take a break at work. Hummmm.... where is all of this sensibility coming from? Will it linger past Monday?
Kim and I have decided that in 5 years, when we turn 40, we're going to Europe for 2 weeks. I've got to start practicing my vacation habits now. I don't want to be in Italy taking naps. I don't want the only part of Greece I get to see be the over-priced room we're staying in. I want to make the most of my trip. If this current jaunt is any indication, I'll basically be a sloth by 40 who will only fly to Europe if the airline agrees to have a wheelchair waiting for me when I get off the plane. I don't want to have to walk to luggage pick up- I'm on vacation! I mean, LOOK AT ME. It's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm just now having my first cup of coffee. The bed isn't made, the kitchen is a mess, the bathrooms haven't been cleaned in weeks...
Damn... this vacation IS great afterall.
I've had a fairly substantial vacation from work that began on Friday and lasts a total of 10 glorious days. I am currently in day 7 of this holiday and I have cycled from the bliss of sleeping late and snacking on kettle cooked chips to where I now find myself disgusting. You see, I had SUCH plans for this time off! I was going to organize my closets, sack up clothes and take them to GoodWill, clean my blinds and shutters, polish the silver- you know, DO something. Instead, I have taken a nap everyday. That's about it. Naps and Magnum PI reruns. Yes, I went to Florida, but there I was either napping or on the beach, so that's not getting anything done.
I will say this about my vacation: I have hardly drank alcohol at all. That's weird. Usually vacation is the time for saucing up, but I'm on VACATION- which means I'm in shutdown mode. I think that's funny- I don't drink BECAUSE I'm taking a vacation from the everyday routine. Uhhh... Lush? I'm also finding that cigarettes are not as tasty when they are not an excuse to take a break at work. Hummmm.... where is all of this sensibility coming from? Will it linger past Monday?
Kim and I have decided that in 5 years, when we turn 40, we're going to Europe for 2 weeks. I've got to start practicing my vacation habits now. I don't want to be in Italy taking naps. I don't want the only part of Greece I get to see be the over-priced room we're staying in. I want to make the most of my trip. If this current jaunt is any indication, I'll basically be a sloth by 40 who will only fly to Europe if the airline agrees to have a wheelchair waiting for me when I get off the plane. I don't want to have to walk to luggage pick up- I'm on vacation! I mean, LOOK AT ME. It's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm just now having my first cup of coffee. The bed isn't made, the kitchen is a mess, the bathrooms haven't been cleaned in weeks...
Damn... this vacation IS great afterall.
What not to do.
True Rant by Killer
In case you have not caught on, I am a nurse. I work in a area that specializes in traumatic injuries of all shapes and sizes. I have been exposed to all sorts of traumatic events that are usually a result of poor luck (being hit by a stray bullet), poor planning (not wearing a seat belt), and in a surprising amount of cases, pure stupidity.
The latter has reached a fever pitch recently when a gentleman was brought in after a bizarre incident. The young guy had been out enjoying a few alcoholic beverages, as many red blooded Americans frequently do, when it came the inevitable closing time at the bar. Having no reasonable way of reaching home, without inconveniencing himself, he hops in his motor vehicle and heads for the house. Throw in a uncomfortably hot and humid southern night and lack of an operating air conditioner in said motor vehicle and this young man does what any intelligent human being would do. He decides to travel homeward with his intoxicated head sticking out of the window of the moving vehicle, that he is driving.
Understandably there are parts of the story from here that are a little hazy. Either the vehicle, occupied by an intoxicated person with his head stuck out the window, left the roadway and entered a field with a tree, OR a tree, possibly occupied by a squirrel, left a field and entered the roadway.
The only part that is certain is that there was contact made between the occupant of the vehicle and the tree. I am not really certain about the physical or mental well being of any squirrels that might or might not have been in the tree, but I do know the condition of the operator of the vehicle. Maybe by an occurrence of poor luck, but definitely related to pure stupidity, the young man hit the tree with his face. I don't know if the vehicle made contact with the same tree or another tree, I just know that the guy came to the hospital with an excessively and amazingly broken face, and very little injury to the rest of his body. The only information garnered from the ambulance crew was, his head was out the window, and his face hit a tree.
Some of the information was offered up by his family upon their arrival. When informed of what we knew about his head being outside the vehicle as he was driving, they appeared completely unfazed by this bit of news, and only offered up this explanation, as if it was an understandable occurrence, "Well, his air conditioner didn't work good."
I am officially amending my list of recommendations I make to all my close friends, and readers of this blog.
1. Wear your damn seat belt while in a vehicle. (car wrecks)
2. Avoid Motorcycles like the plague. (motorcycle wrecks)
3. Don't grow up black and poor in America. (gun shot wounds)
4. Don't stick your head out the window of a moving vehicle, especially while driving. (face hits tree at sixty miles an hour.)
In case you have not caught on, I am a nurse. I work in a area that specializes in traumatic injuries of all shapes and sizes. I have been exposed to all sorts of traumatic events that are usually a result of poor luck (being hit by a stray bullet), poor planning (not wearing a seat belt), and in a surprising amount of cases, pure stupidity.
The latter has reached a fever pitch recently when a gentleman was brought in after a bizarre incident. The young guy had been out enjoying a few alcoholic beverages, as many red blooded Americans frequently do, when it came the inevitable closing time at the bar. Having no reasonable way of reaching home, without inconveniencing himself, he hops in his motor vehicle and heads for the house. Throw in a uncomfortably hot and humid southern night and lack of an operating air conditioner in said motor vehicle and this young man does what any intelligent human being would do. He decides to travel homeward with his intoxicated head sticking out of the window of the moving vehicle, that he is driving.
Understandably there are parts of the story from here that are a little hazy. Either the vehicle, occupied by an intoxicated person with his head stuck out the window, left the roadway and entered a field with a tree, OR a tree, possibly occupied by a squirrel, left a field and entered the roadway.
The only part that is certain is that there was contact made between the occupant of the vehicle and the tree. I am not really certain about the physical or mental well being of any squirrels that might or might not have been in the tree, but I do know the condition of the operator of the vehicle. Maybe by an occurrence of poor luck, but definitely related to pure stupidity, the young man hit the tree with his face. I don't know if the vehicle made contact with the same tree or another tree, I just know that the guy came to the hospital with an excessively and amazingly broken face, and very little injury to the rest of his body. The only information garnered from the ambulance crew was, his head was out the window, and his face hit a tree.
Some of the information was offered up by his family upon their arrival. When informed of what we knew about his head being outside the vehicle as he was driving, they appeared completely unfazed by this bit of news, and only offered up this explanation, as if it was an understandable occurrence, "Well, his air conditioner didn't work good."
I am officially amending my list of recommendations I make to all my close friends, and readers of this blog.
1. Wear your damn seat belt while in a vehicle. (car wrecks)
2. Avoid Motorcycles like the plague. (motorcycle wrecks)
3. Don't grow up black and poor in America. (gun shot wounds)
4. Don't stick your head out the window of a moving vehicle, especially while driving. (face hits tree at sixty miles an hour.)
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Superjerk
Powerless, Liz writes:
I just got back from the matinee of Superman Returns. Of course I have a huge crush on the lad they have dubbed the new Clark Kent. What woman can resist a man that will catch you as you careen off a 60-story building without complaining that you've put on a few pounds? Even that gay curl that droops down onto his forehead works for me; but then again, when a man truly has buns of steel he can get away with things that most men should not attempt.
I am a fan of the franchise and even wore my Superman shirt to the theater to visually announce my loyalty. This hero-worship started as a child when Superfriends was the cartoon I lived for. I credit that and Gilligan's Island reruns with keeping me off the streets and clean and sober. Well, that and the fact that I was 6.
I arrived at the theater with my best comrade, all pumped for the show. It was perfect- a Wednesday afternoon, the crowd was light, the movie is playing on the widest screen, we bought snacks- it doesn't get any better, does it? We find some comfy seats, kick our feet up, and are watching the 15 minutes of pre-movie commercials (not previews) when this jerk walked in with his whole family in tow. You can identify jerks by their suspenders, booming voices, made-up sound effects and thick-lensed glasses. And you know how life goes. The theater is less than half-full and this wad elects to sit one seat away from me.
Apparently the jerk's wife and offspring have lived without TBS or DVDs their entire lives and have no idea about the Superman story. This is the only explanation I can fathom for their need to have every single sequence of action explained to them. As you might sense, I found the commentary to be quite off-putting. I wish I had the kryptonite that would weaken and destroy every asshole that doesn't know to shut the fuck up when Superman is talking. I dropped all the appropriate hints: the furrowed brow stare, the clearing of my throat, the disgusted sigh. I even said, in my own booming voice, "I'm going to have to move because this asshole next to me won't quit talking," and none of it worked. My friend is less confrontational than I am. She offered that I move to the other side of her. After repeated displays of disgust, I did so. Then she could hear it all. The squeak, squeak, squeak of the straw moving inside the cup before he would take a drink. The crunch, crunch, crunch of the pork rinds he had smuggled into the movie. The "That will probably kill him" spoiler before the Kryptonite pierced our hero's suit. What a dickhead!
This sequence of events has made me fantasize about opening my own theater. At my theater, you will have to bring a notarized voucher with you swearing that you will not talk in the movie. This document has to be signed by 3 character witnesses and if you violate the pledge, you AND the 3 witnesses are banned from the theater for LIFE. Human services is called and I will attempt to have your children removed from your home and placed under guardianship of people who are not fuckups.
I also fancy the idea of mobile seats in my theater. My job will be to sit in the theater and listen for assholes. When I hear anything above an occasional soft whisper, I will raise your chair, via my remote control, high above the crowd. The movie will stop, a bright light will shine on you, a booming voice will start the crowd with the chant of "Go to Hell" and your seat will be placed in an isolation chamber that runs along the top side of the theater walls. Inside this sound proof chamber the heat will be turned up to excruiating temperatures and you will be left to roast until the movie is over. Once it does end, The steel bars will come down and the glass will rise, making you a sitting duck for the audience, who is encouraged to throw things at you, spit on you, and hopefully urinate in your eye.
With this demented dream of mine, I may be more Lex Luthor than I care to admit!
I just got back from the matinee of Superman Returns. Of course I have a huge crush on the lad they have dubbed the new Clark Kent. What woman can resist a man that will catch you as you careen off a 60-story building without complaining that you've put on a few pounds? Even that gay curl that droops down onto his forehead works for me; but then again, when a man truly has buns of steel he can get away with things that most men should not attempt.
I am a fan of the franchise and even wore my Superman shirt to the theater to visually announce my loyalty. This hero-worship started as a child when Superfriends was the cartoon I lived for. I credit that and Gilligan's Island reruns with keeping me off the streets and clean and sober. Well, that and the fact that I was 6.
I arrived at the theater with my best comrade, all pumped for the show. It was perfect- a Wednesday afternoon, the crowd was light, the movie is playing on the widest screen, we bought snacks- it doesn't get any better, does it? We find some comfy seats, kick our feet up, and are watching the 15 minutes of pre-movie commercials (not previews) when this jerk walked in with his whole family in tow. You can identify jerks by their suspenders, booming voices, made-up sound effects and thick-lensed glasses. And you know how life goes. The theater is less than half-full and this wad elects to sit one seat away from me.
Apparently the jerk's wife and offspring have lived without TBS or DVDs their entire lives and have no idea about the Superman story. This is the only explanation I can fathom for their need to have every single sequence of action explained to them. As you might sense, I found the commentary to be quite off-putting. I wish I had the kryptonite that would weaken and destroy every asshole that doesn't know to shut the fuck up when Superman is talking. I dropped all the appropriate hints: the furrowed brow stare, the clearing of my throat, the disgusted sigh. I even said, in my own booming voice, "I'm going to have to move because this asshole next to me won't quit talking," and none of it worked. My friend is less confrontational than I am. She offered that I move to the other side of her. After repeated displays of disgust, I did so. Then she could hear it all. The squeak, squeak, squeak of the straw moving inside the cup before he would take a drink. The crunch, crunch, crunch of the pork rinds he had smuggled into the movie. The "That will probably kill him" spoiler before the Kryptonite pierced our hero's suit. What a dickhead!
This sequence of events has made me fantasize about opening my own theater. At my theater, you will have to bring a notarized voucher with you swearing that you will not talk in the movie. This document has to be signed by 3 character witnesses and if you violate the pledge, you AND the 3 witnesses are banned from the theater for LIFE. Human services is called and I will attempt to have your children removed from your home and placed under guardianship of people who are not fuckups.
I also fancy the idea of mobile seats in my theater. My job will be to sit in the theater and listen for assholes. When I hear anything above an occasional soft whisper, I will raise your chair, via my remote control, high above the crowd. The movie will stop, a bright light will shine on you, a booming voice will start the crowd with the chant of "Go to Hell" and your seat will be placed in an isolation chamber that runs along the top side of the theater walls. Inside this sound proof chamber the heat will be turned up to excruiating temperatures and you will be left to roast until the movie is over. Once it does end, The steel bars will come down and the glass will rise, making you a sitting duck for the audience, who is encouraged to throw things at you, spit on you, and hopefully urinate in your eye.
With this demented dream of mine, I may be more Lex Luthor than I care to admit!
Monday, July 03, 2006
Are Your Balls on My Neck?
Liz itches:
I truly, truly hate having photographs of me "out there". I just returned from vacation and the only photos I took of myself are of my feet- and my toes and arches are half buried in the sand. I don't care how much I loved a man and how many years he was going to be overseas, I would not consent to sending him partially nude photos. Nor would I ever agree to any type of taping- of anything. I don't like a single aspect of taping- the voice, the look, the prosterity of it all. Ick. I'd rather write.
That being said, as I was uploading pictures from this week's trip, I stumbled across a Liz and Killer photo from a few months ago. It's hilarious because I think Killer has his balls resting on my shoulder blades. This almost looks like he has given birth to me and thus, very appropriate to post on the blog that I have taken a partnership in.
I truly, truly hate having photographs of me "out there". I just returned from vacation and the only photos I took of myself are of my feet- and my toes and arches are half buried in the sand. I don't care how much I loved a man and how many years he was going to be overseas, I would not consent to sending him partially nude photos. Nor would I ever agree to any type of taping- of anything. I don't like a single aspect of taping- the voice, the look, the prosterity of it all. Ick. I'd rather write.
That being said, as I was uploading pictures from this week's trip, I stumbled across a Liz and Killer photo from a few months ago. It's hilarious because I think Killer has his balls resting on my shoulder blades. This almost looks like he has given birth to me and thus, very appropriate to post on the blog that I have taken a partnership in.
I hope you enjoy the charm of me having no clue that there is nothing but a worn piece of cotton between me and those nads.
By the way, is it just me or do I kind of look cross-eyed?
Sunday, July 02, 2006
An Apple A Day Keeps The Redneck Away
A public service announcement from Killer
A while back at the hospital a fellow nurse and myself were doing our nursely duties by cleaning a nearly comatose, post vehicular accident patient. I understand this sounds less than desirable, but this is my world. The patient in question had a tracheostomy. For the layman, this is a tube stuck into a persons trachea to offer a secure and stable airway for assisted ventilation. You may be more familiar with the popular movie procedure that involves a swiss army knife and a bic pen ( I recommend you try to put a bic pen in your mouth and breath through it some time. The movies are not always as concerned with reality as they are with theatrics, but I have
digressed.) The tracheostomy plays a key role in this story. As we rolled the patient to the side in order to clean the nether regions, she coughed, which in turn, blew the vent tubing away from the tracheostomy and sprayed the room with sputum. Now, for a large fellow, I can move pretty quickly when threatened with bodily harm or disgusting bodily fluids that have become airborne. I managed to duck and avoid contact with the flying phlegm, but my counterpart, who is newer to the profession, was not so quick to maneuver away. In her defense, she was the only person who maintained a firm grip on the patient in a therapeutic and professional manner. In my defense, she caught a ball of syrupy green sputum directly in the eyeball, I did not.
An extended break was taken in order to research what diseases can be obtained when using the sputum as the transferring mechanism. It turns out that none of the big ones, HIV, Hep C, or Mad Cow Disease, are passed on soley by sputum. A sigh of relief was had.
Another issue was raised when the patient's family was taken into consideration. The family members that had been frequently visiting were, for lack of a better term, extremely redneck. This was exhibited by the men wearing only wife beater t shirts with cut off jean shorts, and the women folk wore halter tops and short shorts. Even though there would be as many as five visitors present at a time, there was only a combined total of eight teeth in the room.
Using this as a gauge I began to tell my coworker that her biggest concern should be that she might catch Redneck. I have a firm belief that this is a condition that can be passed along under certain circumstances. The coworker in question is a fairly normal 24 year old female, but I started to become worried that she might start having intense desires to go to a Monster Truck Rally and marry her cousin. I decided it was my duty as her friend and a healthcare professional to help prevent this outcome. We decided the only way to help build her immune system to fight off Redneck was to do as many non-redneck things as possible. It primarily focused on eating Sushi, avoiding farm animals and repeatedly telling herself that, "I hate George Bush."
So far this has worked. It has been several months and she still does not think Jeff Foxworthy is funny, so the prognosis is good. I feel I was uniquely qualified to handle this case since I was born and raised in the deep Southern region of the U.S. and have yet to contract Redneck myself. There are simple steps to take to avoid catching Redneck on a day to day basis. Don't walk around outside barefoot, you might step in some tobacco spit and it could seep into a cut in your foot and that is an almost guaranteed transmission route. Always cover your mouth when you sneeze or cough. If you don't then other Rednecks might mistake you for one of their own and gather around you to discuss hunting and/or fishing. This is a high risk for transmission only because in such high doses Redneck can become airborne like tuberculosis.
There are several other useful tips to avoid catching Redneck, but I have to wrap this blog up. Another fellow nurse of mine, who is from San Francisco, just sat down next to me with a People magazine. I have had a cold recently and since my own immune system might be compromised I need to move away. I don't want to catch Gay.
A while back at the hospital a fellow nurse and myself were doing our nursely duties by cleaning a nearly comatose, post vehicular accident patient. I understand this sounds less than desirable, but this is my world. The patient in question had a tracheostomy. For the layman, this is a tube stuck into a persons trachea to offer a secure and stable airway for assisted ventilation. You may be more familiar with the popular movie procedure that involves a swiss army knife and a bic pen ( I recommend you try to put a bic pen in your mouth and breath through it some time. The movies are not always as concerned with reality as they are with theatrics, but I have
digressed.) The tracheostomy plays a key role in this story. As we rolled the patient to the side in order to clean the nether regions, she coughed, which in turn, blew the vent tubing away from the tracheostomy and sprayed the room with sputum. Now, for a large fellow, I can move pretty quickly when threatened with bodily harm or disgusting bodily fluids that have become airborne. I managed to duck and avoid contact with the flying phlegm, but my counterpart, who is newer to the profession, was not so quick to maneuver away. In her defense, she was the only person who maintained a firm grip on the patient in a therapeutic and professional manner. In my defense, she caught a ball of syrupy green sputum directly in the eyeball, I did not.
An extended break was taken in order to research what diseases can be obtained when using the sputum as the transferring mechanism. It turns out that none of the big ones, HIV, Hep C, or Mad Cow Disease, are passed on soley by sputum. A sigh of relief was had.
Another issue was raised when the patient's family was taken into consideration. The family members that had been frequently visiting were, for lack of a better term, extremely redneck. This was exhibited by the men wearing only wife beater t shirts with cut off jean shorts, and the women folk wore halter tops and short shorts. Even though there would be as many as five visitors present at a time, there was only a combined total of eight teeth in the room.
Using this as a gauge I began to tell my coworker that her biggest concern should be that she might catch Redneck. I have a firm belief that this is a condition that can be passed along under certain circumstances. The coworker in question is a fairly normal 24 year old female, but I started to become worried that she might start having intense desires to go to a Monster Truck Rally and marry her cousin. I decided it was my duty as her friend and a healthcare professional to help prevent this outcome. We decided the only way to help build her immune system to fight off Redneck was to do as many non-redneck things as possible. It primarily focused on eating Sushi, avoiding farm animals and repeatedly telling herself that, "I hate George Bush."
So far this has worked. It has been several months and she still does not think Jeff Foxworthy is funny, so the prognosis is good. I feel I was uniquely qualified to handle this case since I was born and raised in the deep Southern region of the U.S. and have yet to contract Redneck myself. There are simple steps to take to avoid catching Redneck on a day to day basis. Don't walk around outside barefoot, you might step in some tobacco spit and it could seep into a cut in your foot and that is an almost guaranteed transmission route. Always cover your mouth when you sneeze or cough. If you don't then other Rednecks might mistake you for one of their own and gather around you to discuss hunting and/or fishing. This is a high risk for transmission only because in such high doses Redneck can become airborne like tuberculosis.
There are several other useful tips to avoid catching Redneck, but I have to wrap this blog up. Another fellow nurse of mine, who is from San Francisco, just sat down next to me with a People magazine. I have had a cold recently and since my own immune system might be compromised I need to move away. I don't want to catch Gay.
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