Mirror, mirror

I do a lot of reflecting now. But maybe not in the way you thinks, ole internets. Here's an example: When I see the extraordinarily buffed out dude at T-ball, I no longer jump to the conclusion that he's a meathead-ed Marlboroite. I wait till he SCREAMS and spews SALIVA through the fence for little Timmy to "RUUUUN! RUN IT OOUUT!" and then I judge.

I'm not sniffin' my drawers reflecting. I'm stealing little moments in the day to make sure I don't say/think an ugly/stupid thing reflecting. This new habit is likely to help me in my new life ON THE DAY SHIFT. The place where I get to spend far too many hours with "Puerto Rican Republican", the "Squirrelly-eyed Conservative", and the " Mayor of I-don't-care-how-slowly-I-walk-I- am-still-not-coming-to-open-a-delivery-table-for-you Town".

Ah, perhaps I *am* still the same old me I see.

Final Whine of '09

Having a brand new baby arrive in the house in late 2008 pretty much set me up for a sleepless nightmare of burning eyes out of their sockets hell of depravity. And boy! I'm riding 2009 out on that wave of shit, let me tell you.

I've said before, this boy is sweet. Sweet, sweet, sweety, sweet. And it is precisely that sweetness that keeps me from giving him something to cry about, know what I'm sayin'?

In 2 hours I leave for work for the final few nights of '09 of baby birthing and I suppose that there is some sort of symmetry that I share with my patients, what with the over-packed black bags under my eyes. Perhaps they see me not only as the person who is capable of (and often dispatched to) inserting any manner of tubes into their various orifices (and occasionally, making new ones), but also as their ally in this brutal war of the BABY WHO WILL NOT SLEEP.

Wish me luck and send care packages.

Counting it down, chapter one

I hope (and I know you do, too *wink wink*) this will be the first of a few year-end posts from your beloved Nurse.


Some smart lady said recently: "don't people have diaries anymore?". Good gawd, lawd. I couldn't agree more. 2009 may go in the books as the year I started to dislike the internet a leeeetle, leeetle bit. Why? Lemme make a list, this being the eve of Santa's big dance and all, a list might be fun.

1. Please. Please. STOP using your facebook status as the billboard for why you called in sick to work. We get it. You need the time off. We don't need to know about your ass-assault or the viscosity of your mucus. Just stay the fuck home and off the computer, k? *because it's kinda suspicious*

2. Don't like something? Good for fuckin' you. If it's not open for debate, I don't give a shit.

3. Think you're sexy? Think your third grade teacher's grandkid thinks your sexy? Surprise! He does now after you posted that profile pic of yourself giving oral sex to a popsicle using that "artful" I'm-taking-a-picture-of-my-self-hope-it-doesn't-make-you-nauseous angle

4. If you wanted to be a writer/English teacher/professor I'm sorry that didn't work out for you. But you must know, I MUST tell you: it's FUCKING DEPRESSING to read about your favorite poems/essays/themes every. time. you. log. onto. a. computer.

This really isn't about me being bitter. This is about my beloved internet turning into a peep-show for the socially defunct. I LOVE that the webz helps the shy and introverted shake their money-makers. But I fear the shark has been jumped. I want it back the way it was! I want they mystery back. I don't want to know how much you had to drink last night and how much of a hard-on you have for the chick who works the register at the health food store.

Round 1

It took about 24 hours before she went in for the hit. Have you lost a TON of weight?! You look like you have lost a TON! A TON! I may in fact still be bleeding from the eviscerating.

Bitch, please. Don't you know that I no longer suffer from *that* kind of body dysmorphia? Where you see a beached manatee, I see one skeeeeeeny mama. You reminding me that there are 10 extra pounds laying around does not endear me to you. In. The. Slightest.

One more time

The problem is that since I have been talking so much (to such rapt and attentive audiences) I don't have a whole lot swimming in my brains that I need to squeeze out onto the keyboard and spray across the internetz like amniotic fluid after the head delivers (that was for you; and YOU know who I'm talking to).

I love to write. Love, love, love it. But with my perfection complex and all, if it ain't gonna be great, it ain't gonna git done. I used to make a lot of proclamations. I called them MY UNIVERSAL WISHES. The one I have now is for all the ladies out there to be expunged of their need, their drive to do every.thing.fuck.ing.right. It's a goddamnned ball-buster of a chore to drag around, let me tell you. And after a day of falling short, the last thing we want to do is give someone a blow-job (ironically, a task that even done poorly, is received with standing ovations). Can I get an amen?!

Fuck.

So usually, once the three kids are asleep and I'm reasonably certain my other "services" won't be required and I ostensibly have *time* to write, I'm so flippin' tired that all I want to do is pour a drink and settle in to a few hours of "Say Yes to the Dress" reruns. Either that or I'm snoring by 9:15.

Ten years ago, if anyone had told me this would be my life, I would have sneered in their eye and ordered another Wild Turkey on the rocks. Bitch.

Anyway, if you're lucky enough to catch my live show now and then (best seats @ 3am, 3rd floor of VBMC) tip well. I have a lot of kids.

Dusting off the keys

So I took off the last three months. Sue me (and while you're assembling the documents for trial, can you please tell me wherethefuck all the time went?).

That's it. That's all I got right now.

Happy Anniversary, babe

I haven't looked at the picture in a long time, but I see it clear as day in my mind. I look fucking GREAT in it. All American Apparel ad meets Kubrick meets Gabriel Garcia Marquez-ian tragedy.

Me, in my nude underpants, my first pair (but certainly not my last) of high-end "granny panties" & raw silk, bright red bra. The motel was tacky, but I loved it. The cheesy bedspread laid out underneath my butt and open thighs (one hand behind me, planted onto it to keep me from falling over). I was tanned and just before I took the photo: blissfully happy.

You can't see my face behind the camera and the flash is perfectly reflected in the floor length mirror in front of me. It's a sexy shot. Trust me. Exactly the way I wanted to be remembered on my wedding day, the day I was abandoned by my fiance.

Turns out he didn't leave me that morning. Well, he did leave. Took my flip-flops and said he was going out for a bottle of Wild Turkey so we could toast our marriage. He was gone for 2 hours and this being Virgina Beach in the middle of summer, I knew a liquor store couldn't be all that hard to find. When it settled in that he was gone, my rubber sandals on his feet to keep me close, I sat down to take the snapshot. I refused to put on my wedding dress. REFUSED. So in my skivvies it was.

When he walked in the door 10 minutes later, sweating, frantic, GORGEOUS with a dozen roses in his hands (the bourbon, too, THANK GOD) I felt like I was floating out of my body. He was saying something about getting lost finding a florist and how he didn't want me to get married without flowers and and and and and if I wasn't so fucking perfect in my underpants, we'd have consummated the som'bitch right there.