I got canceled from work this weekend, so no funny hospital stories, but you know, when God closes a door...
One of my classmates, Theresa is staying with me during the week, which is really great. She's a really good friend, great company, and it's so nice to have another adult in the house. There's only so much carwash and elevator talk a Mom can take...
So, Wy got home from school, we got his homework done, and T and I were sitting on the back porch chatting, when we heard brakes squeal, plastic crunching, general - oh shit that sounded like an accident- noises.
T and I both being nurses (She's an ER nurse), couldn't help ourselves, we HAD to go look. There was a car stopped in the middle of the street, and an overturned scooter, with a guy in roughly his late 20's lying in the road.
Well, that was it, the adrenalin kicked in, and we both took off at a dead run to check the guy. He had some road rash on his arm, his head was fine, despite the fact that he wasn't wearing a helmet, but his ankle was a little floppy and he was having trouble moving it. By the time T and I got to him, he already had his cell phone out, calling his mother to come pick him up. He was adamant that he didn't need any help until Theresa started moving his ankle.
Now in this situation, I know who the expert is here, and it's T. She's a very experienced trauma nurse, so I ran back over to the house to grab gloves, a stethoscope, B/P cuff and HAND SANITIZER. (that's how you tell the experiences nurses from the nubies - we're not touching ANYONE without gloves and sanitizer!) Got back over, told my neighbor to call 911 on the way back, and as T was assessing his ankle, I checked his B/P and pulse.
He had called his mother 2 more times since I had gone. T and I both told him he needed to go to the hospital, his ankle was probably broken, but he kept saying - Nah, I can't do that right now, I'll have to do it later. Theresa and I both noticed his pupils were a little too dilated, and he didn't seem to be in quite as much pain as you'd expect, which explained why he didn't want to go to the hospital or have an ambulance called. Scooterboy looked like he was high as a kite, and the way he kept checking his pocket made both of us think he was probably holding.
But, they were already on their way, along with Fire and Rescue, and 3 Winston Salem Cops. Which meant that it's showtime in the neighborhood!
That's right, pretty much everyone on the block was out on their porch, or wandering up to see what happened, including Wy, who was standing in the driveway, VERY excited by the fire truck and ambulance. The EMT's got out of the firetruck, checked the guy out, ALSO told him he needed to go to the hospital, Theresa and I gave them his vitals and told them about the ankle pain. Then we headed back to the house for a smoke, a beer, some dinner and some more studying. The rest of the fools on my block stood around staring, joking, and generally making a social event out of what could have ended with this idiots brains all over the street. I've seen this guy come flying through the neighborhood, on dirtbikes and scooters, usually at about 60 mph ( the speed limit here is 35) and never with a helmet on.
So anyway, the block party ended with Scooterboys Mom coming and picking him up to take him to the ER, and one of his buddies (who he'd also called on his cell as he was laying in the street bleeding) picked up the scooter. The woman who was driving the car gave her info to the police, the rest of the crowd trickled away, and not Theresa, Wyatt and i all have an interesting story to tell when people ask how our evening was.
Never a dull moment here!
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Adventures in boob land
You would think that after nearly 3 decades of dealing with the wardrobe repercussions of the overly generous nature of the boob fairy I'd have learned by now what my clothing limitations are. Strapless? Yeah, not so much. Tube tops? Not an option. Halter tops? I'd need a neck like Lou Ferrigno!
For the most part I'm aware of my options, but every so often I'm seduced by something pretty, and I forget the substantial mountain range that resides just below my collar bones.
I know I've said this before, but I have what is referred to as very dense breast tissue. This pretty much means that you could pop my tits off, launch them into orbit, plug the hole in the ozone, and substantially increase the number of lunar eclipses each year, thereby throwing multiple systems of astronomical divination into chaos and disorder, resulting in the collapse of several of the worlds religions.
But I digress.
Yesterday I went out to lunch with Becky, Lisa, and Lisa's daughter Hannah. After a really nice meal at the Celtic Cafe, we went downtown to Kindred Spirits, one of our favorite stores. I was looking at clothing, and found a beautiful, long, dark green dress that I fell in love with and HAD to have. I checked the size, and bought it without looking any further, or trying it on.
Big mistake.
Had I looked a little more closely at the top of the dress, I would have realized that there was no way my sweater puppies were going to fit into this particular kennel. I pulled the dress out of the bag when I got home and tried it on. The top was so tight around my chest I could barely breathe, and my girls...
Have you ever tried to hold on to a handful of jello? No matter how hard you squeeze, the jello will always find a way to come out. And that's pretty much what happened .
Half of my left breast ended up in my armpit, the other half was somewhere around my earlobe. My right breast made a break for my knee, but ended up trapped where my left breast would have been had it not been in my armpit and under my earlobe.
I tried rearranging the girls with limited success. At one point I ended up looking as if I had 4 breasts, which would have doubled my chances of landing a date with a boob man. But then I realized that any man who'd find the thought of a 4 breasted woman appealing probably has unresolved breastfeeding issues, or lives in his parents basement surrounded by Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica figures, and really, who wants that?
So after much lugging and tugging, I took the dress off, put it back in the bag, and resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to have to return it.
For the most part I'm aware of my options, but every so often I'm seduced by something pretty, and I forget the substantial mountain range that resides just below my collar bones.
I know I've said this before, but I have what is referred to as very dense breast tissue. This pretty much means that you could pop my tits off, launch them into orbit, plug the hole in the ozone, and substantially increase the number of lunar eclipses each year, thereby throwing multiple systems of astronomical divination into chaos and disorder, resulting in the collapse of several of the worlds religions.
But I digress.
Yesterday I went out to lunch with Becky, Lisa, and Lisa's daughter Hannah. After a really nice meal at the Celtic Cafe, we went downtown to Kindred Spirits, one of our favorite stores. I was looking at clothing, and found a beautiful, long, dark green dress that I fell in love with and HAD to have. I checked the size, and bought it without looking any further, or trying it on.
Big mistake.
Had I looked a little more closely at the top of the dress, I would have realized that there was no way my sweater puppies were going to fit into this particular kennel. I pulled the dress out of the bag when I got home and tried it on. The top was so tight around my chest I could barely breathe, and my girls...
Have you ever tried to hold on to a handful of jello? No matter how hard you squeeze, the jello will always find a way to come out. And that's pretty much what happened .
Half of my left breast ended up in my armpit, the other half was somewhere around my earlobe. My right breast made a break for my knee, but ended up trapped where my left breast would have been had it not been in my armpit and under my earlobe.
I tried rearranging the girls with limited success. At one point I ended up looking as if I had 4 breasts, which would have doubled my chances of landing a date with a boob man. But then I realized that any man who'd find the thought of a 4 breasted woman appealing probably has unresolved breastfeeding issues, or lives in his parents basement surrounded by Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica figures, and really, who wants that?
So after much lugging and tugging, I took the dress off, put it back in the bag, and resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to have to return it.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Oh The Horror!
Have you ever had one of those potentially horribly embarrassing moments? Of course you have, you're human, we all have.
Well, I had one of those moments today, and since I'm all about the sharing, I thought I'd inflict it on you!
I'm taking Chemistry this semester, after having to drop it last semester because of the gall bladder surgery. I HATE chem with a passion, it intimidates me, which is silly, I know, but it does. So, today, we have our first test of the semester, and it's all conversions, which means it's all MATH.
I'm not bad at math, when I'm using it on a day to day basis, but sit me in front of a math test, and you might as well have given me a battery acid enema, because that's what math tests do to my colon.
So I'm sitting there, test in front of me, I've written all my conversion factors on the top of my paper, and it starts.
The rumbling.
The gurgling.
The bubbling.
The sense that my entire lower intestinal tract has turned to lighter fluid.
I sat there trying to work on my equations, and occasionally sneaking off a silent but deadly, but after about 5 min, I had no choice but to excuse myself to the ladies room.
I take the LOOOOOONG walk down the hall, butt cheeks clenched like I'm trying to crack a walnut with my sphincter, finally get into a stall, and prepare myself to release some negative energy, when I hear the bathroom door open.
Some poor unsuspecting girl had just walked headfirst into the toxic cloud escaping from my body. I'm sitting there, trying to hold back the inevitable, silently screaming "GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM BITCH!", when I hear her cell phone go off, and she anwers and starts talking! Then she opens her purse, and I can hear her futzing with her lipstick and whatever other junk she was packing. At that point I decided to let 'er rip.
Seriously, I'm in the bathroom for a reason, and it has nothing to do with vanity! I figure she's either going to make a hasty exit, or breath through her mouth.
Guess which one she chose.
That's right, she stayed, planning her social calender and fixing her face.
So now I've got a choice. I can either hide in shame in the stall, or I can buckle up my drawers, mosey on out of my own personal hazardous waste dump, and hold my head up high.
Guess which one I chose.
That's right, I sat there hiding until Miss Beauty Queen Barbie went on her merry way!
I hope the smell stuck to her clothes.
Well, I had one of those moments today, and since I'm all about the sharing, I thought I'd inflict it on you!
I'm taking Chemistry this semester, after having to drop it last semester because of the gall bladder surgery. I HATE chem with a passion, it intimidates me, which is silly, I know, but it does. So, today, we have our first test of the semester, and it's all conversions, which means it's all MATH.
I'm not bad at math, when I'm using it on a day to day basis, but sit me in front of a math test, and you might as well have given me a battery acid enema, because that's what math tests do to my colon.
So I'm sitting there, test in front of me, I've written all my conversion factors on the top of my paper, and it starts.
The rumbling.
The gurgling.
The bubbling.
The sense that my entire lower intestinal tract has turned to lighter fluid.
I sat there trying to work on my equations, and occasionally sneaking off a silent but deadly, but after about 5 min, I had no choice but to excuse myself to the ladies room.
I take the LOOOOOONG walk down the hall, butt cheeks clenched like I'm trying to crack a walnut with my sphincter, finally get into a stall, and prepare myself to release some negative energy, when I hear the bathroom door open.
Some poor unsuspecting girl had just walked headfirst into the toxic cloud escaping from my body. I'm sitting there, trying to hold back the inevitable, silently screaming "GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM BITCH!", when I hear her cell phone go off, and she anwers and starts talking! Then she opens her purse, and I can hear her futzing with her lipstick and whatever other junk she was packing. At that point I decided to let 'er rip.
Seriously, I'm in the bathroom for a reason, and it has nothing to do with vanity! I figure she's either going to make a hasty exit, or breath through her mouth.
Guess which one she chose.
That's right, she stayed, planning her social calender and fixing her face.
So now I've got a choice. I can either hide in shame in the stall, or I can buckle up my drawers, mosey on out of my own personal hazardous waste dump, and hold my head up high.
Guess which one I chose.
That's right, I sat there hiding until Miss Beauty Queen Barbie went on her merry way!
I hope the smell stuck to her clothes.
My Mom, My Dad, and Jenny Craig
My parents are nuts, I swear they are. They've both had a weight problem for a while now, my Mom more so than my Dad. Mom wanted to get gastric banding done (she's so Sharon Osbourne), but they have to put a new roof on the house, so Dad came up with the idea of both of them joining Jennie Craig.
So, they signed up, and then Mom did a massive purge of their pantry and fridge, and split all the stuff between my brothers family and mine. I won't have to buy meat or side dishes for a year, I swear, I've got Rice A Roni coming out my ears!
So anyway, the food gets shipped to them, and now the pantry is divided into his zone and her zone. They've got all their food in neat little piles, everything labeled, and God help one if they dip into the others food. I was over there today, and their weekly food drop was a day late, and I swear, I had visions of the Donner party running through my head. I told my dad if I come over, Mom's missing and you're eating "beef jerky" I'm calling the Cops!
The upside is that they've both lost weight, which can only be good, but I see a war coming soon...
So, they signed up, and then Mom did a massive purge of their pantry and fridge, and split all the stuff between my brothers family and mine. I won't have to buy meat or side dishes for a year, I swear, I've got Rice A Roni coming out my ears!
So anyway, the food gets shipped to them, and now the pantry is divided into his zone and her zone. They've got all their food in neat little piles, everything labeled, and God help one if they dip into the others food. I was over there today, and their weekly food drop was a day late, and I swear, I had visions of the Donner party running through my head. I told my dad if I come over, Mom's missing and you're eating "beef jerky" I'm calling the Cops!
The upside is that they've both lost weight, which can only be good, but I see a war coming soon...
The Only Superpower Worth having
Every time I get a survey with the question - What superpower would you have-I always answer - the power to crap money. I think this requires some explaining...
Lets do a comparison, shall we?
Superman has X-ray vision, can leap over tall buildings, and can fly. If I could crap money, I could buy my own MRI machine (much better resolution than X-Rays), tons of bungee cords, and my own airplane.
Batman has all those cool gadgets, but hey, Bruce Wayne is a multi millionaire, so 'nuff said.
Wonder Woman has the bullet deflecting bracelets, lasso of truth, and an invisible plane. Kevlar, an endless supply of Sodium Pentathol, and plexiglass
Spiderman - webs=bungee cords, sticking to walls=lots and lots of velcro
Aquaman....really pretty useless as a superhero, so I'm not even going to bother.
I'm just saying.....
Lets do a comparison, shall we?
Superman has X-ray vision, can leap over tall buildings, and can fly. If I could crap money, I could buy my own MRI machine (much better resolution than X-Rays), tons of bungee cords, and my own airplane.
Batman has all those cool gadgets, but hey, Bruce Wayne is a multi millionaire, so 'nuff said.
Wonder Woman has the bullet deflecting bracelets, lasso of truth, and an invisible plane. Kevlar, an endless supply of Sodium Pentathol, and plexiglass
Spiderman - webs=bungee cords, sticking to walls=lots and lots of velcro
Aquaman....really pretty useless as a superhero, so I'm not even going to bother.
I'm just saying.....
The Joys of Being a Bahama Mama
The Joys Of Being Granddaughter
I have to preface this by saying that my grandmother and I have always had a "difficult" relationship. You know those grandmothers that adore all of their grandchildren equally, and love them all unconditionally? Yeah, that's not my grandmother...
Got a very panicked phone call from my brother on Wen. Apparently my 90y/o grandmother had a dizzy spell, and one of her ever so helpful girlfriends from the senior apartments (or as I call it, the hen yard) called him saying she thought Gram had a stroke. That's right, instead of calling an ambulance, or getting a nurse from the nursing home that's attached to the complex, she calls my brother, who, being a medical layperson, PANICS!, and calls me. So, I ask hubby to watch the kids, jump in my car, and drive 20 min over to Grams, to find her sitting like a queen in her living room/kitchen (she calls it "the parlor"), holding court over her concerned subjects (Grams always been a bit of a drama queen). I take her vitals, do neuro. checks, she's fine. Ask what happened, she said "I got dizzy and had to sit down on the floor, that's when Nell came over for tea." OK, fair enough, she has fallen a couple of times. Then I realize, it's so HOT in her apartment I can barely breath. I check the thermostat, it's set at 85 degrees (it's 90 degrees outside)! I turn on the AC, and shoo the hens out of the living room, and back to their own (probably overheated) coops. I look at her mouth, her lips are dry, her skin looks parched, and I ask, Gram, how much have you drank today? "Oh, I had some juice this morning". I look in the sink, and there's a juice cup the size of a shot glass in there. I'm explaining to her that she has to drink more, because it's hot out, when her door opens, and it' s her friend Jane These two ladies then proceed to take 8 sentences and turn them into a 45 min conversation. It went something like this:
Gram - Jane, this is my granddaughter Peg
Jane - Pam?
Me - Peg
Jane - Pat?
Me - Peggie
Jane - Oh, Peggie, nice to meet you how old are you?
Me - I'm 41
Gram - She's my oldest grandchild
Jane - Well, I had 9 children, their names are (blah, blah, blah...)
Gram - 9 children? My goodness, I could barely cope with 2. I have 6 grandchildren, Peg here is the oldest
Jane - Nice to meet you Pam, how old are you?
Me - I'm Peg
Jane - Pat?
Me - No, Peggie. I'm 41.
Jane - Oh, Peggie. Well you're about the same age as my youngest daughter. I had 9 children, their names are (blah, blah, blah...)
Gram - My goodness, my 2 boys were enough for me! Peg here is my youngest sons daughter, and my oldest granddaughter
Jane - How old are you Pat?
Me - (sigh) I'm 41
Jane - Well I have 9 children, their names are (blah blah blah...)
You can see where this is going.
FINALLY Jane left to take her afternoon nap. I popped Gram in the car, took her to Sonic to get a chocolate shake, and got her back home just in time for her dinner to arrive. Made sure she ate, called my Dad to let him know Gram was ok (he and Mom were on the way back from the beach), and headed home to my brood. Dad and I agreed, we need to get a home care aid in a few days a week to keep an eye on her, so until we get that set up we'll go over every day and check on her.
What Bliss.
Got a very panicked phone call from my brother on Wen. Apparently my 90y/o grandmother had a dizzy spell, and one of her ever so helpful girlfriends from the senior apartments (or as I call it, the hen yard) called him saying she thought Gram had a stroke. That's right, instead of calling an ambulance, or getting a nurse from the nursing home that's attached to the complex, she calls my brother, who, being a medical layperson, PANICS!, and calls me. So, I ask hubby to watch the kids, jump in my car, and drive 20 min over to Grams, to find her sitting like a queen in her living room/kitchen (she calls it "the parlor"), holding court over her concerned subjects (Grams always been a bit of a drama queen). I take her vitals, do neuro. checks, she's fine. Ask what happened, she said "I got dizzy and had to sit down on the floor, that's when Nell came over for tea." OK, fair enough, she has fallen a couple of times. Then I realize, it's so HOT in her apartment I can barely breath. I check the thermostat, it's set at 85 degrees (it's 90 degrees outside)! I turn on the AC, and shoo the hens out of the living room, and back to their own (probably overheated) coops. I look at her mouth, her lips are dry, her skin looks parched, and I ask, Gram, how much have you drank today? "Oh, I had some juice this morning". I look in the sink, and there's a juice cup the size of a shot glass in there. I'm explaining to her that she has to drink more, because it's hot out, when her door opens, and it' s her friend Jane These two ladies then proceed to take 8 sentences and turn them into a 45 min conversation. It went something like this:
Gram - Jane, this is my granddaughter Peg
Jane - Pam?
Me - Peg
Jane - Pat?
Me - Peggie
Jane - Oh, Peggie, nice to meet you how old are you?
Me - I'm 41
Gram - She's my oldest grandchild
Jane - Well, I had 9 children, their names are (blah, blah, blah...)
Gram - 9 children? My goodness, I could barely cope with 2. I have 6 grandchildren, Peg here is the oldest
Jane - Nice to meet you Pam, how old are you?
Me - I'm Peg
Jane - Pat?
Me - No, Peggie. I'm 41.
Jane - Oh, Peggie. Well you're about the same age as my youngest daughter. I had 9 children, their names are (blah, blah, blah...)
Gram - My goodness, my 2 boys were enough for me! Peg here is my youngest sons daughter, and my oldest granddaughter
Jane - How old are you Pat?
Me - (sigh) I'm 41
Jane - Well I have 9 children, their names are (blah blah blah...)
You can see where this is going.
FINALLY Jane left to take her afternoon nap. I popped Gram in the car, took her to Sonic to get a chocolate shake, and got her back home just in time for her dinner to arrive. Made sure she ate, called my Dad to let him know Gram was ok (he and Mom were on the way back from the beach), and headed home to my brood. Dad and I agreed, we need to get a home care aid in a few days a week to keep an eye on her, so until we get that set up we'll go over every day and check on her.
What Bliss.
My worst fashion "Don't"
This is a piece I submitted to Glamor magazine for a contest. They had wanted women to write in and tell them about their worst fashion "don't", so I whipped this up. Every single word is true (anybody whose known me for longer than 5 min will know that without being told!)
My Worst Don't Day
Being a single parent lends itself to a plethora of Don't day possibilities. While I have a wide variety of such days to choose from, I think I achieved my personal best in the what was I thinking category about six months ago. My significant other and I had planned a romantic evening for ourselves, always a challenge for us, between his 2 jobs, my job, school, and raising a child. I had put my two year old to bed, and was happily anticipating a night of romance, (OK, let's be honest here, I was looking foreword to the hot monkey sex), when I realized that we were out of condoms. My son was still awake, so I thought I'm a modern, twenty first century, independent kinda gal, Ill just go buy the condoms myself, come home, shower, and get all girlie. So, I grabbed my boy, got in the car, and off to the grocery store we went.
I thought it would be nice to have some cold beer in the house for my hard working guy, so I put a six pack in the cart, along with the condoms. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the door of the frozen food case.
There I was. Chipped toenail polish, Birkenstocks, unshaved legs, ratty cut offs, a ripped tee-shirt, pushing a cart containing my pajama clad toddler, booze and rubbers at 9p.m on a Thursday night. All I needed was a pair of Candies and some blue eye shadow, and Id be a white trash pin up. I started wracking my brain for a way to improve the spectacle that I was.
I thought if I put some other groceries in the cart, maybe it wouldn't look so bad. Produce, yeah, some carrots, cucumbers NO, NO, BAD IDEA! Did I need Hot Dogs? OH NO, EVEN WORSE! Suddenly the store seemed to be filled with nothing but phallic symbols, and I had to resign myself to the fact that there was no was to salvage this. I had no choice but to throw my shoulders back and marched bravely to the register.
As I plunked down the beer and condoms the cashier gave me a look like I'd just told her I sold kiddie porn over E-Bay. I did the only thing I could do. I looked her dead in the eye, pointed to the beer, and said; That's how I got the kid, those are so I don't get another. I grabbed my change before her chin hit the floor, and got the hell out of Dodge.
Needless to say, Ive never gone back to that store.
I can't imagine why they didn't publish this.
My Worst Don't Day
Being a single parent lends itself to a plethora of Don't day possibilities. While I have a wide variety of such days to choose from, I think I achieved my personal best in the what was I thinking category about six months ago. My significant other and I had planned a romantic evening for ourselves, always a challenge for us, between his 2 jobs, my job, school, and raising a child. I had put my two year old to bed, and was happily anticipating a night of romance, (OK, let's be honest here, I was looking foreword to the hot monkey sex), when I realized that we were out of condoms. My son was still awake, so I thought I'm a modern, twenty first century, independent kinda gal, Ill just go buy the condoms myself, come home, shower, and get all girlie. So, I grabbed my boy, got in the car, and off to the grocery store we went.
I thought it would be nice to have some cold beer in the house for my hard working guy, so I put a six pack in the cart, along with the condoms. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the door of the frozen food case.
There I was. Chipped toenail polish, Birkenstocks, unshaved legs, ratty cut offs, a ripped tee-shirt, pushing a cart containing my pajama clad toddler, booze and rubbers at 9p.m on a Thursday night. All I needed was a pair of Candies and some blue eye shadow, and Id be a white trash pin up. I started wracking my brain for a way to improve the spectacle that I was.
I thought if I put some other groceries in the cart, maybe it wouldn't look so bad. Produce, yeah, some carrots, cucumbers NO, NO, BAD IDEA! Did I need Hot Dogs? OH NO, EVEN WORSE! Suddenly the store seemed to be filled with nothing but phallic symbols, and I had to resign myself to the fact that there was no was to salvage this. I had no choice but to throw my shoulders back and marched bravely to the register.
As I plunked down the beer and condoms the cashier gave me a look like I'd just told her I sold kiddie porn over E-Bay. I did the only thing I could do. I looked her dead in the eye, pointed to the beer, and said; That's how I got the kid, those are so I don't get another. I grabbed my change before her chin hit the floor, and got the hell out of Dodge.
Needless to say, Ive never gone back to that store.
I can't imagine why they didn't publish this.
Just Because They're Old, Doesn't Mean They're Sweet!
Just because they're old doesn't mean they're sweet!
Current mood: 
amused
Category: Life
I had to break up an almost fist fight between 2 80+ year old women. The first lady is my favorite patient, a tough old broad who will cuss you out in a heartbeat. the second contender is another tough old broad with an equally filthy mouth, and a wheelchair. To clarify things, I'll call them Trouble, and Wheels.
It all started when Trouble came marching up to the nurses station, demanding that we call her "Sapsuckers" to come take her home. See, she's not crazy, and she ain't scared of LaDeDaDe No Freakin Body. Her children - AKA the sapsuckers - put her here so they could take her house, and she's gonna whup them good when she gets home.
Wheels was sitting at the station, watching this whole scene, and felt it was her civic duty to weigh in with her evaluation of Trouble's mental capacity. The exchange went something like this -
Wheels - You crazy old bitch, you shut your damn mouth.
Trouble - Who you calling old?
Wheels - You! I said it, you a crazy old bitch!
Trouble - You shut up you fucking heifer, I'll kick your ass!
Wheels - I'll kick your ass, crazy bitch!
Trouble - You're the crazy one, motherfucker, I'll kick your ass!
Wheels - I'll kick YOUR ass!
At this point I placed myself in the center of the fray and told both of them that nobody was kicking anybodys anything, and started escorting Trouble back down the hall. The whole time we're walking (at a snails pace, because, as Wheels so accurately stated, she's OLD), Trouble is muttering under her breath, "Crazy ass motherfucker, she better never hope I see her outside, I'll kick her ass, crazy ugly bitch, I didn't take no shit off my husband, I ain't taking none off her."
At this point I'm laughing so hard it's all I can do to keep from falling over! Trouble then tells me if she thought she could have gotten away with it she would have shot her husband in his sleep, but it's all good, because "That bastard is in the ground, and I'm still here!"
So, next time you see a little grey haired lady, don't think she's going to bake you cookies. She might just kick your ass.
What A Drag It Is Getting Old...
I'm middle aged. There, I said it, I own it, and most of the time I'm ok with with it, but every once in a while something will happen to just piss me off to no end at the merciless, unstoppable march of time across my body!
See, I'm rapidly going white. That's right, not grey, WHITE. If I was blonde or light brown I could hide it with highlights, but when your natural color is pretty much black, and dark red is as light as you dare to go, the white really stands out.
Being the kitchen beautician that I am, I decided to get a root touch up kit to hide the white.
My roots picked up the color really well, but the white, not so much. So now, instead of looking like a dyed redhead with dark brown and white roots, I look like a natural redhead that's going white.
As if that wasn't bad enough, there's the whole being an almost 42 year old undergrad whose older than half her teachers!
I had Chemistry lab last week, and I really like the instructor. He's new to teaching, just out of grad school, and he's very patient, especially with me. He was able to give examples of things in a medical context, which made it much easier for me to understand, and for once in that soul crushing torture session of a class, I was actually getting it! He reminded me of my first husband, in the only good way possible - that really sweet, earnest, eager to please nerdy way that got him into my pants the first time. So anyway, I'm talking to him after lab, and telling him how much I appreciate his help, because Chemistry intimidates the hell out of me. He actually told me that when I first walked into class he was intimidated, because he was going to be teaching Chem to somebody old enough to be his mother!!! The Fucker's 28! He's only 12 years younger than me!!!
I looked him up and down and said - "You don't date much do you?" Then I laughed it off like I was teasing, but SHIT!!!!
I swear, one of these days I might just snap.
Of course then I'll be treated to my picture on the local news, with the headline
Middle Aged Mother Goes Berzerk! Is it Hormones? Story at 11...
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