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The Surprising Things You Learn About Nursing

Hello WordPressarians,

I am back, resurrected from the ashes to fly like the glorious phoenix I am. I was gone for a while, I flew into the sun. So there that explains my prolonged absence right? No? Well, I actually had an issue with finding time to blog it’s called a nursing career. So this wasn’t going to be a post about breastfeeding. That’s a topic I shall never touch because women actually become crazy, mouth foaming monsters, the lunacy that only the moon controls when it comes to formula vs. breastfeeding. I get it, oh my glob, immunity, nature, and shit. Should anyone feel the need to post here about how formula is more evil than Chucky the doll, please, kindly protest elsewhere. Maybe throw flaming bags of poo at the local Enfamil plant, but don’t vomit your insanity here. There is one thing that ain’t nobody got time for…THAT.

You will breastfeed or I will cut off your boobs then I will still make you breastfeed. ITS NATURAL!

 

Lesson #1

Paperwork.

I’ve worked in a couple different fields of nursing now; home health care, long-term care, skilled nursing, and a clinic setting. You are basically going to document everything you do. This is probably so patients can’t sue you or can, if you’re terrible at doing everything you do. Depending of the level of care if a patient eats, sleeps, stares at you too long, or does absolutely anything, there’s paperwork for that. Useful, but redundant. Thanks to insurance, you pretty much get to document every intimate detail of your day. Some places might have fancy pants electronic charting. I’ve yet to experience this mythical unicorn of documentation.  I’ve been delighted to use paper charts. Which are only more awesome when several other employees who also document everything about the patient needs to use this chart. So at any given time when you think you might squeeze a juicy tidbit about how Patient Jane Doe assaulted staff screaming that she’s being murdered when you’re trying to coax her into wearing pants that do not have poop in them. She elects to wear the poop pants but that’s probably neglect so don’t let her and be sure to chart that. You end up doing more paperwork than a CPA on April 14th. If you think not taking care of patients within a facility such as a clinic leaves you exempt. It doesn’t. Which leads to lesson 2.

Patient’s mama is so fat….

Lesson #2

You get to call insurance companies. A lot. The clinic I worked for required that I call insurance companies for prior authorizations on medication. Which means that insurance companies who are wretched, wretched bastards don’t want to cover medications. Not ever. So you get to make a phone call to initiate the authorization, then they usually say, “Well, okay, I’m sorry that I’m not sorry you just wasted your time, we will authorize this now.” Then they laugh, extended maniacal laughter as lightening strikes. Or, they want to up their jerk factor. They decide not to authorize this, transfer you to a nurse who you have to justify the medical necessity of the medication. Which means you have to know everything about the patient now. What medications they’ve tried for this condition and how it wasn’t therapeutic, the date they started and stopped it, the non medication therapy they’ve tried, and which Christmas movie do they think defines the spirit of Christmas. Christ. That doesn’t get you anywhere because then it’s submitted for review, which takes 15 to 1,000,000,000 days, whatever. If it’s really expensive and heaven forbid hormone replacement therapy for women over 65, there will most likely still need to be an appeal filed. Then insurance will put a mouse in a maze. If the mouse finds the cheese within five minutes, it’s covered. If not so sorry for your hot flashes and vaginal atrophy Sally Sue Ellen, but it’s high risk and though you’re aware of that you just can’t have the medical care you want. Your unpleasant symptoms and declined quality of life are of no concern. Mostly because you pay for your insurance through the job you work, sucker. Which brings me to the next point.

Your call is very important to us, a customer service representative will assist you in never minutes.

Lesson # 3

Calling insurance companies is the reason why there are mental disabilities. I think that a psychologist would recognize a phenomenon called Automated Calling Psychosis. It’s probably temporary but I would guarantee that my cortisol levels are immeasurable. I call, I either give the info verbally for by pressing the key pad. I listen to music, usually awful, the same musical group that provides the soundtrack to feminine hygiene products and elderly life insurance benefits. This musical group, we’ll call, Vaginagina and the Towelettes, suck times infinity. I’m stuck listening to their latest hit, “Masking Odor and my Mother’s Funeral.” I just gave a wealth of demographics on Sally Sue her name, birth date, ID number, phone number, and favorite fucking finger foods at diner parties. Then a representative answers only to ask this again. The joke is on me though, this is the provider’s service line and now I need to call the specific to that particular need line. No, I can’t be transferred, I called the only number I’m provided but it’s not the right number, I have to hang up, call this number and listen to “Flower Petals on my Muff Interlude.” Someone will be happy to assist me after I give this information so much I could assume Sally Sue’s identity. I start to feel my sanity slip, and I hear voices, they tell me to harm myself. I start to have dissociate thoughts, I’m dead, I’ve actually been a terrible person, and this is my eternal punishment. I must have died hitting a pedestrian nun while cyber bullying children on Facebook. Only this can explain the vertigo inducing, repetitive cycle of nonsense I’m being subjected to. Well, let’s move on to the next lesson.

I’m sorry okay? I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry!!!!

Lesson # 4

Nurses week is only celebrated by the E Cards that you are tagged in on Facebook by other nurses. Seriously, that’s the only time I’ve known it was nurse’s week. I get an alert, see a funny post about dicks and go, “Oh nurses week, that means nothing to anybody ever.” I understand it’s not to be observed and celebrated on a grandiose national level, but maybe at the, call me delusional, the healthcare facility that I work for? Ha, simpleton. Nurses week means there’s going to a lunch in the break room but good luck attending, nurses don’t get lunch because it’s lunchtime. If you have too many things that need immediate attention going on at once, so sorry for your luck, your hunger means nothing to the taco inhaling ladies of dietary services. No lunch for you. This would be the break room that nurses never get to utilize or choose not to because 15 minutes of not having human interaction is a legit break. Said nurse’s lunch is then eaten by all non nurse staff, because it’s records clerk week stupid.

“Hey did anyone tell the nurses?” “That’s a funny joke Ted from payroll.”

 

Lesson # 5

You are a person who represents authority on medical knowledge unless the question is not rhetorical, then you are wrong. Meaning, you should know the exact cause of diseases that John Hopkins research has yet to identify. You are supposed to know every medication ever made, even the experimental ones, and know their actions, interactions, side effects, and probably chemical compound if you’re not an idiot. What you learned in nursing school is unequivocal to the massive, extensive knowledge of a Google user. People really like to research the most abstract website and test your knowledge on a symptom that can only happen to characters on Adventure Time. The hours you spent studying, testing, and passing the boards were in vain. There’s testing that asks if you know the difference between CPR and LOL cats. I don’t. Please don’t tell on me. A patient will ask you a question, okay, so you answer to the best of your ability. Then they ask if this would be affected differently on a train travelling 65 miles per hour southbound and another train travelling 55 miles northbound at which point will they get AIDS. Answer; who rides trains?!? What I mean is, I typically know a disease’s process, risk factors, symptoms, and maybe treatment in a more general sense. I’m not the doctor, those guys go to school longer and MUST know the difference between CPR and LOL cats. These are doctor questions, they know about the trains…and how they’ll give you AIDS. So what if I do know enough to be informative? I’ve dealt with so much COPD, heart failure and diabetes that I can answer quite a few questions. It doesn’t matter, because if it’s not what the patient wants to hear, it’s also wrong. Google can prove it. ” I consulted Dr. Boobs on Yahoo Answers, my diabetes is the kind where it’s okay to eat chocolate cake for lunch, is that nursing license from some kind of gypsy scam? Go get butter, I wash cake down with butter.” My ineptitude would call that non-compliance, but I’m probably going to try to get casserole from the break room during nurse’s week. Answer: Go ride a train and get AIDS, nurse.

Nurse! I can’t get my WebMD app to work, do you know how to fix that?

Lesson # 6

You know every doctor, clinic, and hospital everywhere and you have a mental database of directions, phone numbers and Yelp ratings of each. I’m sorry I don’t know where Dr. Proctor’s Proctology Clinic is located in Anal, Indiana. Because, use Google, that’s why. You proved yourself proficient in doing so when you dispelled all the doctor’s advise and mine about why you do in fact need to take blood pressure medication when your blood pressure is normal. Perhaps that means the medication is working? The device you utilized to feed every anxiety with exciting new symptoms your neurosis hadn’t yet fathomed is the same device that contains Mapquest. So step.

I wish my fancy smart phone could also give me directions, at least I can play Candy Crush, which reminds me I need to invite 1,000 people on Facebook to play, I forgot today

 

Lesson # 7

It is worth every headache, all the ridiculous overtime, and distended bladders in the world. While there are days you find feces on your uniform and have not a clue how it happened, there are also days you know how and where you got the feces on your uniform. There are opportunities to do wonderful things, that the patient or their family appreciates, maybe never forget. You never forget. Witnessing the rehabilitation of someone bed bound being able to walk themselves to the vehicle waiting to take them home is a victory. You know you held their hand and encouraged them when they felt hopeless. When they thank you with a hug, it’s personal. and they mean it. Then there’s the patients who don’t go home. Either you rendered emergency care until the ambulance arrived or you took the time you didn’t have to spare to let the family member come to terms with ending care that keeps their loved one alive. You offer a shoulder, words or just silence while they bleed emotions so strong you cry in the car driving home because they need you to be strong. You try to comfort one patient whose lifestyle as they know it is over forever and immediately start working like it didn’t happen only to get called some inappropriate names because someone doesn’t have enough ice in their pitcher. You get the ice and understand that from their room this is frustrating and they probably asked several times. It’s not their fault today is short staffed. Every thing you do is because you believe in proper healthcare and you believe in compassion, respect, and humility. You fall short, lack knowledge, and reach out to other nurses for help.  you learn though this cycle more or less goes on your whole career. You do it until you gain experience and help the new nurses when they break down because nursing has the ability to make you feel horribly inadequate at times when you know you’ve put everything inside you to providing the best care you can. Then you probably drink wine because that troll had the nerve to yell at you about her ice pitcher. She should Google manners.

It’s actually pretty easy to do.

 

 

Problems With CoWorkers Part One of Infinity.

Hello WordPressers, bloggers of truth, of opinions, and cat pictures. My time to blog has been decimated by the dreaded overtime at work. It seems that instead of hiring new staff, management said, “Hey, we’ll just work the staff we had double hard and it won’t really matter, am I right???” Great fucking plan. Because I for one enjoy not seeing my loved ones. That is why I absolutely refuse to poop on my lunch break. They are going to pay me to poop and I am going look at Facebook and Cracked.com while I do…savoring the solitary accommodations, and taking undeniable pleasure in the fact that I blow up the administration bathroom. Because…that’s why. Ha.

So, while working like every goddamn minute of my day and being exhausted after a fourteen to sixteen hour shift, I just haven’t been able to summon the creative strength to write anything worthwhile. You should see my drafts, I think I now have more of those than I do posts. So, I’m going to write about coworkers and the types you deal with across the board. This will be in installments b/c confession here; if a blog is much over 1000 words…it’s going to lose me. However I am going to the doctor to see if I truly have adult ADD…all the signs point to yes.

1. The Ricky Gervais
This guy or gal is the person you work with that has infectious laughter not like the kind that catches on quickly and everyone is laughing. No, the kind the brings forth disease, boils, abscesses…MRSA. It makes you cringe when this person laughs. What’s worse is this person is rarely to never (I say never) funny. However they go into a fit of hysterical laughter at their own jokes. They don’t notice that no one else is laughing. They don’t notice that people have something to do right fucking now when they approach. They don’t notice they are as funny as an unexpected pregnancy. This person is usually easy to get along with so their overkill of joviality is overlooked. However a hasty escape is my first plan of action, because abrupt interruption and walking away KINDA makes me feel like a dick. Sort of.

Plan B

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2. The Informant
This person’s sole purpose in the workplace is to point fingers and displace blame so as to project their actual incompetence as and employee on to you. This person spends more time pointing out what others do wrong they don’t really have time to do their own job. Which, they never do all that well. This is the last person to tell you drew the dick on the staff meeting flyer. I mean hey, that’s when modesty is necessary, not everyone needs to know how totally funny you are. But YOU know…you know. This person however will fail, and it will be in a biblical way. YES. The satisfaction is never more sweet when that fartknocker misspells a word or locks keys in an office. I mean I can almost taste the gratification. It’s so very sweet. Hey loser way to lock your keys up, stupid big butt sucky suck suck.

3. The Zealot
There is always someone who firmly believes in something. They believe in it hard. I mean so HARD. So I’m in the South, the most popular belief here being Christian. Which is whatever, fine, I applaud direction and faith in SOMETHING. Be it an omnipotent god or that you would defeat Michelle Obama in arm wrestling. Sorry, no one can. My irritation comes in when someone pushes their agenda hard, I mean so hard. They want to correct the very speaking patterns you have and make it relative to their way of thinking. If I don’t want to be positive about something I don’t have to be. If I don’t want to think that an occurrence was based on predetermined destiny and stars and shit then to me it didn’t. I don’t want to have to word things so as not hear a lecture or sermon. I want to eat that cupcake, yes it has sugar, gluten, fat but it also has chocolate chips so back up or get jacked up. There are some people that you would swear they are selling more than they are living their own life.

THIS guy…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4. The Open Book
Most of the time when someone says they are an open book it’s more a red flag than a attribute. The open book has drama and not the sexy 50 Shades of Grey drama, no regular drama that no one but Jody Picoult cares about. Sometimes it’s real life problems and sometimes is fantastical hardships unimagined since I don’t know the Dust Bowl. No one ever, ever asks but this person will divulge. They tell you about uncomfortable things that range from the disease the have (you’re lucky if it’s just one) to relationship problems, to the 99 other problems that besides a bitch. They talk to their coworkers like someone else would talk to a close friend. The good thing is this type of person isn’t fishing for you to provide feedback, they don’t care. They really only want to talk about themselves.

Well kids that’s all the time we have for today. Remember to wash your hands before you eat and brush your teeth before bed. I hope to be back real soon!

I’m a cute wittle puppy waving goodbye…

The Coveted Stretchy Skirt and Bad Parenting

The other day, I went to Goodwill for the half off price day. Why? Because I don’t pay full price for anything if I can help it, and look it’s a paraffin wax machine for two dollars. I really want that. I don’t care if it’s someone elses wax, or dead skin, it’s two dollars. Yes I need it.

Maybe it’s the appeal of fashion long forgotten. Those neglected American flag shorts aren’t going to look hot themselves. I once found an entire collection of sad clown paintings, a Billy Ray Cyrus shirt and an espresso machine. That day I felt like the queen of Persia with all my riches and treasures. The kind of queen who owns rare textiles, feathers, spices and like the first known plasma television…

What you do find in Goodwill is magical, what you also find are terrible parents.

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So, I’m shopping. I had my hands on a sweet stretchy mini skirt. I hear this banshee child running through the isle. He’s crying, he’s distraught, he’s snotty. He’s crying for his mother. It sounds like a mongoose fight.

I help children however, even snotty ones. I follow after trying to get the kid’s attention so I can return him to his owner. I’m running after him and so is an older woman. We’re both calling after him in what I’m worried looks like a kidnapping plot gone horribly wrong or maybe wacky should it be a comedy movie. Alas no code Adam for this kid, because I think mom is sniffing glue somewhere.

Well I get the kid stopped, and try to ask him where his parental figure is. He continues to scream and more snot spews down his face. Then his grandmother shows up and says the kid has A.D.D. which somehow explains the kid being lost. Absent parenting is symptomatic of said disorder.

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So at the check out line the kid is hitting his mom and saying, “I ain’t goin to the damn car neither!” Maybe mom did that on purpose? The kid had half his shirt in his mouth and was now covered in both drool and snot. Gross.

I know, I know, kids get lost, but he was running around screaming for quite some time. How do you not know the piercing screams of your own child given you are subjected to them quite often? Also, another woman got the skirt, sooooooo there’s that. I don’t think it would fit her either, I’m pretty pissed. Thanks kid. You should go to the damn car.

One time I saw the most dirty kid I ever saw in my life at Goodwill. His parents were trendy hipsters so this isn’t a poverty jab. However the child did appear to live in the most vermin invested Hoverville. The parents were in nice clothes, hell they were downright dapper. He looked ferrel.
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I thought at any moment he would say to me “Please sir, I’d like some more.” Why did they let their child go in public so filthy? One of a few stepmoms I had growing up had relatives that let their child run around like a dog that rolls in poop. My brother and I were like, “Do we have to play with her? If she breathes hard her boogers are going to fly all over us!” To which my dad would respond with his ominous silence and stern eye. Don’t fuck with that look. He remembered the Alamo.

I see bad parenting here and there. Trust me, you have to be pretty bad for me to pass judgment. However, Goodwill seems to be the ground zero for poor parenting choices and a sweet collection of cat mugs. Morning coffee is about to get adorable. I’m still mad about that skirt, I know she put it back when she tried it on. NO WAY that skirt fit those haunches!

Confessions About Poop, A Very Mature Post

Usually, pooping is untold relief. Sometimes pooping is absolutely dreadful. It may be that morning after a night of drinking. It may be coming home after eating Hooter’s hot wings. It may be the absolute worst one…post baby delivery first poop or as I like to call it third birth.

stinkyface

Actually, this guy has a scratch and sniff picture of Ke$ha

So I comprised a list of the most dreadful poops in life:

The New Relationship Poop at the House.

There's something I've got to tell you...maybe show you if it's impressive enough

There’s something I’ve got to tell you…maybe show you if it’s impressive enough

Despite the obvious truth, everybody poops, it’s really difficult to let a new partner know this. When you progressively spend more time together you inevitably spend enough time for the digestive system to need evacuation. That first time you are at their house and you go to the restroom, it’s terrifying. I personally get anxiety, and don’t want to admit to myself what is about to happen. It’s time to take things to the next level. I go ahead and embarrass myself by announcing, the impending deuce I’m about to drop. Because by not telling and letting said person go in the restroom directly after me only to smell what the Rock is cooking is horrible. Much more embarrassing.  So I usually say, “Um, don’t go in that bathroom, give it like five to ten…just sayin’…love that shirt…look a unicorn on TV!” However, once that initial earth shattering monumental step has been taken, it’s over forever and pretty soon your opening the door while your duking just to say what a stupid bitch Jill at work is and her new haircut looks like she was infested with lice while in an eighteenth century British prison…fuck her.

Public Poop

I think she has to poop too, so the problem cancels out autonomously

I think she has to poop too, so the problem cancels out autonomously

Pooping in public is intimidating and scary. The private bathrooms offer some solace. The chances of the person following behind you in a one person restroom being someone you know aren’t very likely, there being like billions of people on the planet. However even strangers are troublesome in a multiple stall restroom. They walk in, and they know that your pair of feet is the cause for the hearty aroma. They know you had to poop and couldn’t finish shopping at Micheal’s, you had to put aside the glitter, yarn and beads to go work on a new project. Now, if I’m finished, I’m too ashamed to come out if it was indeed me that was pooping. I’ll wait the other person out, thinking, come on, how long are you going to stand in here? However if I’m done and the restroom is empty, I have no problems with someone walking in. It’s a crime with no perpetrator then. See, anyone else could have left that phantom poop. It’s not always the person applying lip gloss at the mirror. I’m not caught at the scene of the crime, now I’m just and accessory after the fact. Or maybe I think this because I don’t readily accuse the person still in the restroom. That’s unfair. The suspect could have fled minutes ago. Either way, I try to make it home.

I am ashamed of nothing.

I am ashamed of nothing.

Well, those two scenarios are probably the worst I can think of. Sometimes I ask God if he’s real, then ask if he’s listening, then I just ask him why do we poop and why did I drink so much coffee? I don’t really get answer, and I don’t forget to courtesy flush.

Business Proposals and Nudity, Nudity…Nudity

Greetings readers, lovers, lovers of men, lovers of women, lovers of Chaz Bono. What shall my topic be today? Today I want to talk about failed romance, broken dreams and ca$h fuckin’ money.

I'm Chaz!

I’m Chaz!

I have recently started a new relationship and so far I’ve been really happy and very excited about it (I am doing a shrilly girl scream as I type thisssss!) This is good, good for me. Sorry Gavin Rossdale, our adulterous affair must end. It’s over. Stop calling me. Or, just send me nude text messages.

555-4415

555-4415

Well, I’ve ranted against exes in the past. I’m far enough removed from the hurt feelings (and there were a lot) to not really get nasty in this post. Who wants to hear goddamn Morrisey the entire forty minute car ride with the singing along. Hint: not me. Reality check; one time someone said you look like Bruce Willis not fucking true, stop thinking that. Today. Okay, that’s it, I’m done.

You see, I’m twenty-eight. That being said I’m at the age where you can either date a romantically dysfunctional person or you can hope with fingers, toes, and eyes crossed someone awesome will have been dating someone who sucks…and here they are post break up or divorce and ready to be good to you. I’m hoping that’s the case.

Walgreens ran out of cards...

Walgreens ran out of cards…

Now, about eight months ago, in the depths of post break up despair, I had the support of some wonderful friends. One in particular that listened to the tear-filled angst. She sat patiently as I did this, a lot, because who likes to feel played and foolish? Not me, probably not many people.

We talked of course about her exes and mine and how crazy they act sometimes. Then there was a light bulb.

We could actually start a dating service for people who are already couples but have troublesome exes. Maybe only one person does. Maybe they both do. Either way, we know the best way to get an ex of your nuts is to get them on someone else’s right?

So it’s only logical to set up the ex with someone who is single, looking and tragically co-dependent! You see, the screening process is simple, applicants will be asked general questions about relationships and the one’s most cuckoo for cocoa puffs will be set up with your totally unaware ex, with “clandestine” meetings.

This means that the crazy ex can then have a crazy fucking new boyfriend or girlfriend and probably won’t call or text because for the eleventh time their phone has been smashed to bits because a female cousin asked for grandma’s new number.

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On paper this seems pretty awesome. My friend is a genius. I think perhaps we’re really on to a possibly successful business venture. Either way it made for great laughs at times when, admittedly, I didn’t feel much like laughing. Now, well damn that’s old news. That dude can take so no less that one thousand dicks in his mouth.

Besides, losers and jerks make you appreciate the smallest of genuine sincerity as you embark on a journey with someone new. Those are not fun life lessons, but if they are learned, they become valuable tools in all relationships. Meaning friends and family, not just the person you have sexy time with…unless that’s your thing. Which, I suppose is cool.

How I Reached for the Stars

Today I want to discuss jobs. I have switched careers and now I work as a nurse.

“I think you’ve got a fever, I’ll need to check that…rectally”

It may surprise you, the faithful Facehookin’ reader, to know that I worked in both the state prison and county jail as none other than a correctional officer before going to nursing school.

“It’s time for your visit, and by that I mean conjugal, and by that I mean sex…I’m not so good at this.”

So you may ask how one would make such a leap from one career field to the other? Well, simply because I can’t be an LOL cat.

Because I’m a fucking human.

I’m grateful everyday I pay my student loan because I love being a nurse. I had my son and decided it was time for a career I wanted to be in for the duration of my working years.

Now you may ask if it was difficult to deal with inmates? No, actually they weren’t usually all that bad. I mean, you just expected some of them to be assholes and some were, no big deal.

Most accurate representation of a correctional facility

However even sporatically dealing with drunks, and crazed idiots on bath salts might have made the place less desirable to work than say, waking in a bathtub full of ice and a note saying one of your kidneys was stolen. So what was something I dreaded more than all of it?

Working  with “Old heads” and Delusions of Grandeur

Okay, so I think at a lot of jobs people that stay at the same place of employment like to brag that they spent overwhelming majority of their adult life there.

“Never free, Never me, So I dub thee unforgiven…”

Which is fine, but these people always wanted to say one name in particular to raise some consequentially impressed eyebrows. Fate Thomas. Fate….Goddamn…..Thomas. Get it? Got it? Good. You better or a fiery vengeance will be wrought upon you and your posterity.  This dude, besides admittedly having a pretty cool name, was the sheriff…um, like a long time ago. Thus being present for the Fate Thomas era made all hearing aware that said employee has been with the agency for decades. There have been other sheriffs, but none with names that command attention, respect, fire. So in service training was two grueling days of classes like;  sexual harassment, workplace safety, mental health, first aide, CPR and the list goes on.

It never failed that at some point during classes some decrepit old bastard would interject, “Back in the Fate Thomas days…” Then some elaborate story would ensue about how county jail thirty years ago was a post apocalyptic battlefield and the inmates were half breed human gorillas capable of murder, murder everywhere. The officers it seems were all….um…

This bad ass….

This bad ass….

Yes. I’m serious.

According to these guys, there were fights and riots. Riots and then fights, um death, fights, riots, riots and fights. And fire. And Fate “Son of a Bitch” Thomas. Every day. These war stories took up time that the instructor needed to tell us not to sexually harass each other anymore and how to perform CPR. Not the Fate Thomas way, which was immediate setting fire to said inmate for dying during a riot.

The man, the legend, Fate…

Actually working with these guys was pretty bad, for one, the had to remind you every day that they were there longer than you have been alive. They had to tell you resolutions to problems that might have been acceptable in the 70’s, you know, like let’s disco all night. Well, maybe not that but, they never really had a current or relevant solution. Only stories, epic stories, comparable to those told by Homer.

Perhaps other reasons I’d rather not use this venue to expound on why that particular place wasn’t my cup of tea. I will say some pretty incredible supervisory titles materialized over the years…

Vice President Chief…Seventh Level Dragon Master…

I always wished Fate would become wrathful with the lack of violence withing the facilities and bring about his powerful spiritual vengeance and then salt the earth…only to fly into the sun and burst, spreading his incredible ashes among us. Or maybe just give me a make-believe position of power.

Stupid Things Mothers Compete About

This post is probably more relatable to women, maybe because it’s about mothering, maybe it’s because I’m a woman, maybe because Air Bud can play basketball really well.

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“Nothing but net!”

Maybe because I said maybe a lot and cited reasons. If I use potentially or possibly this post would sound a lot smarter, because scientists use those words more so to support their hypothesis (an educated guess, because everything scientists do is educated, even guessing). If my calculations are correct scientists could potentially guess with education than you when they play Guess Who? leaving you to guess, well, stupid. Also by my calculations I can make a hypothesis if I wear a lab coat, lab coats make you seemingly smarter than before.

3.Who has the most disinfected kid.

we all know that kid’s hands are more vile than a urethral swab from Tommy Lee. However moms think that having sanitizer in their purse, on their key chain, and simply everywhere makes them superior. They are quick to give you the most horrified look when you don’t splash Germ-X on each rung of the monkey bars as your kid goes across them. Firstly, hand washing with soap and water is more effective being that it kills C. Difficile spores. That’s one that can make your butt a diarrhea fountain not unlike the chocolate fountain at Golden Corral. Furthermore, constant sanitation eliminates germ exposure, weakening the immune system. Yes, your kid should wash his hands throughout the day but if you think that leaves you bacteria free, your an idiot. The body is comprised of millions, trillions of bacteria, approximately five pounds of it. we also have an immune system that operates on recognition of invading pathogens, so while it may be counterintuitive, the body breeds exposure in order to respond appropriately.

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“Motthhhhaaaaaa”

2. Who had the worst labor.

Birthing a child hurts, duh. Most women had contractions, painful ones at that. Some women labored for hours, some for days. Some women are dead set on having the most worst labor of all time as if they give prizes for that. First of all oxytocin, that awesome hormone that starts contractions, creates a flow of wonderful emotions, and also causes a woman to forget just how painful labor is. That’s nature’s way of “buying you a drink”. I mean if you remembered distinctly every detail, humanity would have ceased or slowed considerably. What could be a shared experience for women to relate to each other is sometimes a battle for who had it worse. It’s hard for me to openly talk about this subject for this reason. I love to hear other women’s stories but not when they have to detract from everyone else’s with, “Oh that’s nothing, I’ll tell you about MY birth…”

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“When you were born it felt like Wolverine shredded my vagina”

1. Who sleeps the least.

Another favorite, some mothers love to make lack of sleep a badge of honor. Again, this could be supportive and relatable right? Fuck no! “When MY child was a baby he slept four hours every seven days, and I cleaned the house while he did that.” Yes, infants wake often. Sometimes they have colic, and they sleep very little. However, they do fucking sleep, because humans sleep. What’s worse an admission of being tired is like a celebrity tweeting a racist comment, you are subject to scrutiny. Not only will women make outrageous comparisons but ensure you that you have failed because you require just some of that restorative function our bodies need, not want, need.

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I suppose us women will always compete. Maybe we’re evolved but we still look at the Facebook pages of our boyfriend’s ex or our ex boyfriend’s current girlfriend. I admit it, and admit I do it because I want to think I’m prettier, thinner, better at taking bathroom mirror pics. People in general brag more than they should really. Oh well, what to do? Well, besides hate every bitch at the YMCA pool, or baseball game, birthday party, pre-k keg party…what?

I love the moms who just admit they struggle and it’s challenging to be a mother. There are women who really do face so much adversity. I’m not sure why women aren’t supportive of each other as they could be. If being a good person and parent kept score, I’d be somewhat better than the Detroit Lions, somewhat.