Shenanigans in the field of medicine.

A Facebook member's status from this morning:

"The Boyfriend needs some ink work done to re-establish tat dominance in his relationship."

Heh heh heh...

I took off from work today to take a friend in for an outpatient procedure to patch up a pesky hernia. They whisked him away at eleven for a surgery that was supposed to take sixty to ninety minutes.

Note that I used the word "supposed". This is to signify a plot twist. Hold on to your panties.

After the surgery, he was to go into recovery for approximately one hour. When I saw that the clock read noon-thirty, I assumed everything was going according to plan.

Note that I used the word "assumed". This is to confirm the previously mentioned plot twist.

A little after one o' clock, I was told that they were closing him up.

Huh??

Around two o' clock, the doctor came to speak with me. They were gonna operate this way, but then decided to do it that way, but before doing it that way, they decided to do this and that and the other, and so my friend would now be staying overnight. I was a tad concerned, so I just sat back to wait.

Finally, some time after three o' clock, they came to inform that he had been admitted to such and such room on this floor. I went in search of the broken warrior (he's had surgery twice before, one for a torn ACL, the other for his meniscus, same knee), and found him snoozing away. I asked him if he'd gotten the update. He frowned at me in confusion, and I explained to him what was up, wondering why he hadn't been informed while in recovery. He was displeased to hear of the turn of events. We sat down to wait for the doctor.

And we waited.

And waited some more. So he pressed the handy dandy nurse button on his magic remote.

And waited.

And did some more waiting before he pressed the button again.

And waited.

A sharp voice came over an intercom we couldn't see asking what he needed. He asked for morphine, and she cut him off and said his nurse would be in shortly. She was paged, and a round, pleasant woman came bustling in to inform him he'd get his magic drug shortly. He asked her why he was staying over night, and she had to admit that she hadn't the foggiest. But she did provide the phone number for the doctor, which his wife had requested when she had called a short while beforehand to raise hell. She bustled out again, and returned a short time later with the morphine goodness.

It is almost seven o' clock now, and we have yet to hear from the doctor. They finally brought my friend something to eat, but have yet to explain to him, the patient, what happened during the procedure and why he is being kept over night. Yes, I know what happened, I know why, but I'm not the damned doctor. It is not my responsibility to tell the man this stuff. That for his worthless doctor to tell him. Gr.

Did I mention I got a speeding ticket today?? Woot.

HAPPYHAPPYHAPPYHAPPY

And in the end...it all works out.

The naysayers can kiss my fat Puerto Rican pirate ass.

Oh, gross.

The scab of tattoo number one is peeling. Eeeeeeeeeeeeew.

Boozer has all my booze. Damn him.

The guy who told me I look like a boy with my new haircut is growing out his mustache and unibrow. I'm not letting that go for ages.

And Laggin is such a ninja mommy that she should get a giant ninja mommy tattoo on her back. Rowan, back me up on this??

Well, I asked for the pain...

Ask and you shall receive!! Ugh, that hurt so bad!!

"Pain is temporary / Pride is forever"

That is my official military tattoo. And it was certainly appropriate at the time. The word "pain" was, ironically, in the most painful spot!!

And I already know what my next one will be. Just waiting on the Brother to come home next month.

INKED.

Saturday night, I got my first tattoo. It was an impulse. And not what I even originally, impulsively, decided to get. They were about to close, and this one was faster. And I love it. I'm getting the original impulse tattoo tonight, as soon as Dee calls me. Can't wait.

Rude cow.

I got the munchies for some Jack-in-the-Box, so I jumped in my car and headed over there. I was getting turned on by the thought of sinking my teeth into a Sirloin Cheeseburger, yum. I pulled up to the talking box, and thus the fiasco began.

"Can I take your order?"

"Yes, can I get a number one please?"

"Small, medium, or large?"

"Small please, with no onions and swiss cheese - - "

The voice snapped at me, "I said, small medium, or large, regular or curly fries?"

I frowned in confusion, and stuttered, "Uh, small?"

Still rude, "Do you want just the sandwich and the drink, or the combo?"

"Uh, the combo, curly fries..."

"And what kinda drink?"

"Uh...just a coke?"

She priced my order, but as I drove towards the window, I looked one last time at the order screen and saw +Red on. I'm no Jack-in-the-Box expert, but looked to me like red onions on my onion-free burger.

I paid and got my food, looked in the bag, and saw regular fries. I am almost certain at this point that the ugly old cow put onions on my delicious sirloin burger, but I head home, thinking that I'll just remove the offending onions.

Ha. I opened up the box at home, and not only were there red onions, there was American cheese instead of Swiss. And that just threw the flavor off completely. I only got about halfway through the burger before I threw it out.

Damnit.

Lunch adventures with Boozer.

So last Tuesday I ran out for a lunch run and a quick errand with one that I shall dub Boozer, because The Man With Two Middle Names is just too much. Anyhow, I had to go to the other end of the city to pay my traffic ticket at the court house. I was just passing E on my gas meter and had forgotten to gas up before leaving the base (where I could have used my handy dandy Star Card instead of having to go through the hassle of transferring money to my checking account). Well, Boozer wanted to run into Wal-Mart to buy the new Bond movie, so I dropped him off and went across the highway. I transferred the money on my cell phone, and went to gas up.

But my card was denied. Hm. Whatever, I'm not gonna sit here all day trying to figure this out, we've already been gone from work for quite a while. And it wouldn't be the first time I've driven around on E. We're only a few miles from the base. So I pick him up and we go to pick up some Jimmy John's (FREAKY FAST). He is convinced that I will run out of gas, and I think he's crazy. See where this is going.

So we're driving down the highway, and as we begin to slow down for the stop sign up ahead, I realize my car is slowing down a little too fast. I press on the gas, and nothing happens. I press harder, and still nothing happens. And this is where I begin to panic and where Boozer starts laughing at me and telling me he told me so.

Now we're stopped at the stop signing, having to wave people around us. I put the car into neutral while he gets out to push, but my steering wheel is stuck. So I look at my key, turn it a couple of times, and...lo and behold, the car is running again!!

Boozer is back in the car, we make our left turn and head towards the gate, and he sits there with his fingers crossed, hoping and praying and pleading with the powers that be that my car stalls again once we get to the gate. Ugh.

We make it back to work just fine, thank you very much, and we both agree that this is definitely the second best lunch adventure ever for both of us.

That time of year again?? Or is it??

March is always an odd month for me. The memories I have of this month from several years ago are dark and painful. (Hm. This is gonna be an emo post to go with my new emo haircut.)

March is usually not a good month for me. I don't think it's a good month of anyone in general, and that is why we have St Patty's Day; a day to make up for that whole month of ugh. Or maybe that's just me.

This year, March is not so bad. It wasn't so bad last year, either. In fact, aside from the usual murderous rages inspired by my PT program and the Letter of Reprimand I'm getting on Monday, it's been a pretty decent month for me.

Doesn't erase the dark memories...but for once, thinking about them during this loaded month doesn't leave me blue.

It never ceases to amaze me how good it feels to just be happy.

And for the record, SoCo and Lime the Bar-Cat is prettier than the Fancy Feast cat.

Cat trap.

I have this big box sitting in my living room. Simi decided it would be a great idea to jump in there. SoCo thought it would be an even better idea to hop up and sit on the lids...trapping Simi in the box. He struggled to get out, but she just sat there, occasionally sticking her paws throught the cracks, even poking her nose in there at one point. Then she got bored, turning around to look at me. I was laughing pretty hard at this point. Finally Simi broke free, and looked at me with these big eyes as if to say, "Wtf, mate?!"

Indecision 2009.

It's crunch time. As of 9 March, I have less than six months left in the service.

This week I'm going to e-mail my performance reports to the reserve recruiter, because I just do not have the time to write my resume for the IMA program.

I need to sign up for TAPS class, but I won't be able to attend until mid-May because we're prepping for the MAJCOM inspection in May.

My lease is up in May, and I'm working to enlist two roommates so that we can rent a decent house and afford the expenses split three ways.

It is slowly dawning on my naive brain that I am not going to be able to apply for the jobs I want. Reality is hitting pretty hard right now, so I will apply for the jobs that I am qualified for, even if they're the jobs that make me want shove a few pencils through my brain.

On the other hand, going to school full time has a growing appeal for me. There's a university a few towns over that I'd like to attend. And the new GI Bill would cover most of the tuition, pay for my books, and give me a monthly living allowance.

Of course, if I do that, I'd still have to find a part time job somewhere. And not a lot of places are hiring, but I'll be on the lookout.

My terminal leave starts in August. I stop getting a regular paycheck in September.

I am absolutely terrified.

A break from the emotional funk.

I feel good, I feel great, I'm happy. I'm sitting here alone with the cats, and it's relaxing. I'm zen. I'm daydreaming about the Best Boyfriend Ever, watching TV, playing Mahjong Tiles, and contemplating food.

The downside?? My feet are cold. Yuck.

Men are pigs.

Respecting your girlfriend's virtue does NOT give you the right to call up your ex-girlfriend and ask her for risqué photos to tide you over until you finally get laid. I hope his penis shrivels up.

Let's set the record straight here.

St Valentine's Day is a holiday in the Catholic and Eastern Orthodox traditions (celebrated on February 14th and sometime in July, respectfully) named after not one, but several men who were all martyrs when the Roman Empire was still the big cheese in the known world. Stabbed, maimed, fed to lions, crucified, beheaded, what have you, for worshiping a guy who pissed off the Pharisees and ended up dead on a cross two thousand years ago.

Oh, swoon.

I don't know what Geoffrey Chaucer was smoking, but he is the one to blame for this day being all romantical. (It's a word in the dictionary. Don't ask which dictionary, just take my word for it.) He lived and died in the Middle Ages when courtly love was popular. I define "courtly love" as "pretending to be in love with unattainable members of the opposite sex". As opposed to real love.

You still with me?? A holiday named after brutally murdered martyrs in honor of horny teenagers lusting after much-older married women.

And then Hallmark was born, heralding the Apocalypse and the End of Times. Head for the hills!!

Now that I've set the record straight on Valentine's Day, I am going to go and smile dreamily at the roses that Rich sent me. Whee!!

Goddamned religion.

*EDIT*

I had a whole vent going on here. But I thought about who might see it, and decided it didn't need to be here.

Let's agree to disagree and keep our minds open. Please.

Snowing and dancing.

I woke up Tuesday morning and called the base hotline, praying for delayed reporting. Which we got, so I hit snooze on the alarm and set it for an hour later.

I woke up an hour later and went over to my computer to check the weather and such. Branc popped up in chat, and said, "Yay for now work." Jumping at the opportunity to burst someone's bubble, I responded, "It's only delayed reporting." He countered with a simple, "No."

So I called the hotline again. Sure enough, only mission essential personnel had to report to work, placing myself and every other non-essential person within a twenty-five-mile radius on telephone standby.

I didn't really enjoy my day off, though. I felt sick for most of the day, probably from the regular milk I'd had on Monday night. I've suspected since I was fourteen years old that I am lactose intolerant. I've been drinking yummy Lactaid since I joined the military and started buying my own groceries. However, I was out of milk, and knew we were gonna get snowed in, so I zipped by the gas station and decided it wouldn't kill me to drink regular milk.

Big mistake.

I was queasy, queasy, queasy. No fun. But I'm all better now, just hungry.

I woke up this morning and called the hotline, once again hoping for delayed reporting. My wishes were again granted, and I once again reset the alarm. But half-hour later I got curious, and called back. What's this?? Another day off?! Hoorah!!

Now if only I could shake off this persistant headache. It's been on and off since Monday. Ugh... Oh, Branc is online, we shall celebrate together!!

Btw, do you know who it was that first spoke in chatspeak out loud?? You know, like the granny in that once cell phone commercial. "Idk, my bff Jill??"

Guess. No, guess!! Ugh, you guys suck at this game. It was...

*drumroll*

...Tigger. Remember?? TTFN!!

Lulz.

I wanna go dancing this weekend.