Friday, March 30, 2007
I am now seething, looking for a way to show this bitch up. I know she had to have shred my work and rewrote everything I wrote to make it look like she did something. She even rewrote my admission note, which is peculiar...seeing as...SHE WASNT THERE WHEN THE PATIENT CAME INTO THE FACILITY!!!
Then, it occurs to me.
She wasn't there. She wasn't there when the admission came in! *TING* A lightbulb goes off in my head. The drivers of the ambulette that took the patient in would have it on their documentation what time they dropped off the patient. I call Med Fleet. They give me the information. I ask them to fax me a copy of their intake. They do it. Sweet. Next, it dawns on me that I faxed the patients orders for their prescriptions over to the pharmacy. The confirmation sheet. It always contains the first page of whatever you are sending. It shows the time it was sent as well. I go to the file where we keep track of sent faxes.
It's not there. Shit. I look again under the 23rd, the day of the admit. Nope. Nothing. I double check, triple check...and then...
The 24th. If she worked the 11-7 am shift...then she would have filed everything under the 24th! I rumage through that file. I find the confirmation with my handwriting ALL over it...and the date? The 23rd of March. The first page of the drug orders was visible so you can see that I wrote the original orders! Hooray!
I take all my "evidence" and march my happy ass down to the Assistant DON to show her that yes, I did do the patient admission and that my work was sabotaged. She checked "Jackasses" time card. There is simply no way she could have possibly done the admission when she didnt punch in until 11 pm. The confirmation of the orders was done at 11:05. The orders take a long time to write up, so there is no way it was done in 5 minutes. The time the patient arrived? Approximately 10:25, nearly a half hour before Jackass shows up for work. There is no way she could write the admission note, stating what she saw when the patient came in...when she wasn't here yet!
Last night, Jackass comes into work. She was all red in the eyes. You can tell she had been crying. She doesn't look in my direction. I hear her telling someone else "I was written up for not completing an admission" she says, loud enough to make sure I heard it. "I did finish it. I did the whole thing from start to finish and SHE got the credit for it." I keep my head down in my work and dont look up. There is dead silence. Everyone is looking at me. How I am viewed at this job will really depend on the next sentence that comes out of my mouth.
"Jackass," I say quietly and calmly. "I didn't take credit for your work. You took credit for mine. What you did to me was wrong. I am very sorry you got written up for it, though. I wish we could have discussed it between us before you went to the DON about me. I wouldn't have had to go to the ADON about you if we had simply talked."
The other nurses were nodding their head in agreement. Jackass just stood there, staring at me...probably surprised that I didn't freak the fuck out on her in front of everyone (Dear God, I wanted to SOOOOOOOO badly). I couldn't leave well enough alone though.
"If you want, I will be happy to sit down and discuss the situation with you, and maybe we can get the write up retracted if you just admit what you did and I tell the admins that I am okay with that...because you realized I did the orders incorrectly..."
I tapered off my words and gave her time to respond.
"Um, yeah. Maybe we can talk on our break," she says.
"I'd be happy to," I reply and then, go back to my work.
Twenty minutes later, Bob...one of the nurses on the floor says to me, "you shouldn't have to say you did a chart wrong just to get her out of trouble. You were right. She lied to get you in trouble so why in hells name are you trying to save her ass for it?"
"Because, Bob...I want her to realize that stand up people are the kind of people who are respected. Liars are punished by their own actions. I learned that a LONG time ago. I figure, if I can let the admins see that I am trying to help someone who wronged me, I can only look better in their eyes. Stupid perhaps..." I laugh, "but better."
"You're a rare breed of dog, CP," he says to me, laughing and patting my head.
"Woof," I reply.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
This flaming bitch actually yelled at me. Yelled. At ME! We had two admissions coming in. Admissions are a lot of paperwork. No one likes them...least of all me, because...well...I don't have a clue how to do them! Heh. Anyway, one comes in at 10:15pm. Okay, that's my admit. I get off at 11pm. I go into report with the oncoming nurse at 10:45, but, I figure I will at least start the admit. I get through 90% of it by the time I have to give report. Isn't that nice of me? I didn't leave it there for the next nurse. The second admit comes rolling in. It is now 11:05pm. I am tying up some loose ends, intending on leaving in the next five minutes.
"Where do you think you're going," jackass says as she sees me reaching for my purse. Normally my answer would be "I'm sorry. Forgive me. When exactly did you become my mother?" However, since I am new on the job and have never met this nurse before I simply reply, "home".
"Oh no you're not," she bellows. "This admission came in while you were here. It's yours." Now, dumbass me should have said "Look you fatassed wad of shit. Don't tell me what to do, and I won't notice the big wart sticking out of your Shrek ass looking nose." What I did say instead was, "would you like me to stay for a few minutes and help you?"
"Help ME? You aren't helping me. It's YOUR admission." "I'll be more than happy to get it started for you," I say, chirping like a birdie on the fingertip of Snow White. I was waiting for the Disney announcer to start speaking in the background and an orchestra to begin playing. Yes, I was THAT sweet. So, I start writing up the orders. She doesn't help. It's 12:45am. I am tired. I am going home. "Here you go," I say. "It's all done." No answer. "I'm sorry," I say. "Perhaps you didn't hear me. I said I am done." "I heard you." Cunt. No other word can accurately describe. Cunt is the only one that fits. I go home. I am fuming. But, sleep is all that's on my mind right now so I don't dwell.
Next day, I come into work. Lyn, a nice nurse, says to me..."You didn't do the admission last night?" My jaw drops.
"What are you talking about?? I did both of them before I left. I didn't get out of here until a quarter of 1 in the moring!"
"CP, there is nothing in the chart from you. Nothing."
"Jackass is telling everyone that you refused the patient and that she had to write up all the orders. I even got reamed this morning because they accused me of not teaching you how to do them and leaving you with the admits and no knowledge."
"Lyn, I am telling you. I did both of them. Both!!!!"
She sighs and looks at me with hurt eyes. She obviously thinks I am not being honest and I am floored that I caused someone else trouble.
"Lyn, I promise you. I did those orders. Jackass demanded that I stay and do them even though it came in way after my shift was over. I did them and somehow, I will prove it to you."
"Don't worry about it, CP."
I hate those words. Don't worry about it. That guarantees I am going to worry about it. I made someone else get in trouble and now, the whole floor is looking at me like I am the biggest lowlife alive. Okay, they probably weren't but it sure as fuck felt like it did.
Stay tuned for tomorrow, when CP gets all CSI on the jackass!
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Hotband tells me "The pockets are deep so you can do a stick and move."
"Stick and move? What the hell is that," I ask.
"It's when your balls stick to your thigh and you have to move them. Stick and move."
"Uh huh," I say, not quite convinced. "So you are going to tell me that everytime I see a man with his hands in his front pockets, it's for the stick and move?"
"No, some guys genuinely like to have their hands in their pockets."
"So, how do I know when they are bobblin' the janglies?"
"If one hand goes into a pocket, you see some frontal activity and then, the hand comes right out of the pocket, you have just witnessed the stick and move."
"Okay," I say. "And you are telling me other men know about this manuever?"
"Absolutely. Ask Fab or Avi. They can tell you all about the stick and move. Although I think with Fab...it's more like a stick and move and move and move and move."
"That's gross, babe."
"It's a fact, sweetie. The pockets are also like that for the 'alignment' like, if your shit ain't aligned properly, you have to do a little adjustment."
So, I am posing a question to my homeboys. Have you heard of the stick and move? Is that really why mens pants pockets are so much deeper than a womans front pockets? Do that many men have balls that stick to their thighs and further, is it so uncomfortable that you have to do the stick and move in public places?
Answer this honestly, or I shall permanently commit my hotband. Do it for him. Do it to support the stick and move. Do it for deep pockets everywhere.
(and for the ladies...check out the new contest at Certifiably Shopping You don't want to miss it! Free stuff giveaway! Check it out!)
Monday, March 26, 2007
Certifiably Shopping with the Certifiable Princess!
This is the place where you will now be able to go on virtual shopping sprees with me. I find the bargains, you get the benefits. I whore myself out...you reap the lovliness that is me! Do not despair, fine reader. You will still get all the CP you can handle...but now, you get my girlie side to the extreme! Everything will be poofy and pink and fluffy and sparkly and glittery and girlie! It is a place where the girls can be a girl and the boys can spy! It's like high school...with a no limit credit card! Wheeeeeee. I will even leave some panties around for the boys to steal now and then. There will be gift cards, prizes, contests and virtual shopping hunts online!
Let's start now! Contest announcement!
I want a banner for THIS page, sponsoring the NEW page. I am now taking submissions for entries. Must be sidebar size. Must capture the essence of shopping with the princess. Must include the words "Certifiably Shopping". Must sign into the comments to note participation and then, send entry to certifiablePRINCESSatYAHOOdotCOM (put that into proper email format, all lower case) Winner shall receive a gift card for the online site of their choice! Please state your giftcard preference in the comment section along with a "CP, I am gonna rock your world with my banner". If you suck up hard, I might give yours a bit more consideration! Can't make a banner? Then just come up with a sweet little poem, limerick or haiku as to why you want to Certifiably Shop with CP and post to the comments! Then, leave your giftcard preference within your poem, limerick or haiku for extra bonus points!
Shopping with CP.
It is better than oral.
Target gift card please.
See? It is THAT easy! I am such a sucker for a suckup. Just show me the tiniest amount of attention and you own this bitch...and a gift card! Sheesh! I rock! You may only enter ONCE whether it is for art love or written love. Got that, Fabulous One?
Sound interesting to you? (And frankly, how could it not?) Then click the princess below to become a part of Certifiably Shopping!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
You have a hair removal story. Don't lie. You know you do. Like, that time you tried to help your friend do her legs with wax...and you burnt her skin off. Or, what about the time you tried to wax your bikini area...and your underwear stuck to your crotch when you went to take them off. Or, lets not forget the time you went to tweeze your eyebrows waaaaaayyyy too much, so you pencil them back in and end up looking like Mommy Dearest.
NO MORE WIRE TWEEZERS...EVERRRRRRRRR!!!
We've all been there. Or not. Perhaps it was only me. But, I doubt it.
I used to do hair transplants for a living. Assisted with them. They were bloody, ghastly and gory...but men (and some women) would do anything to have more hair on their heads. Yet these same people are always waxing, plucking, zapping the hair off their body? Have you ever seen a man with a shaved chest? NOT pretty, unless you like your men to have the 10 year old boy look. Pass. I like my men hairy. Not gorilla hairy (exception: Avitable) but hairy enough to feel like I am with a man.
So, why can't hairy women be acceptable?
Because it isn't. Frankly, it's gross. No, I do not care that it is popular in Europe. I live here, thank you very much...and around these parts, the hairy pit look is just not happening.
And we try everything, don't we? Home electrolysis (girls, you have to remember the Epilady, the torture device of the 1980's with that swirly metal head that ripped your hair out of your shins from the root and felt like you were ripping your lungs out of your chest)? Horrible stuff. Then, there was Nair. Nair that smelled like rotting eggs on your thighs. All pink and pretty from the outside, pink and stinky on the inside. Did it work? No, not on your leg hair anyway. But, remember the time you tried to put it on your brothers head and a patch of hair came out in the shower when he washed it out?
No? Okay, again. It was probably just me.
And of course, the all time favorite...the hot wax drips. yeah. Great fun those are. Nothing like the smell of burning flesh to get you ready for the big date. I remember once waxing my thighs together.
No one got lucky that night.
Someone very thoughtfully created products like wax strips for us girls, especially us thicker girls that couldnt reach the bottom of our own legs, would lay on our backs to reach them with the hot wax drip and ended up splashing the hot spew into your own eyes, removing the brow and the lashes.
Anyone? *sighs* Okay, just me again.
Let me go on to say that wax stripping is inexpensive, easy to use, can be done SAFELY at home and feels much better on the legs than its steaming hot counterparts from days of yore. It's quick. It's easy. And it doesnt leave you feeling like a plastic mold, nor does it glue your thighs shut. And I promise you, it won't make your underwear stick to your brazilian.
Anyone else have any "hair removal" stories...or is it still just me?
Thursday, March 22, 2007
"Really," he repies. "And how do you know this?"
"Because," I smugly reply, "He knows not to expect much out of me and when I DO something nice, He is thrilled with me. It's like having a bad child. You sigh when the do something wrong, but you know...that's just how your kid is. But, when they do something great...you get all crazy happy and brag! Whoot! That's my baby! You know, like that!"
"So what you are saying to me is that God loves you best because you act the worst?"
"Does God ever get mad at you, honey," he asks.
"I guess he must. Sometimes, you know, when I am not behaving. It's like letting your dad down or something. That whole 'I'm so disappointed in you' crap."
"So," he replies, "He must be all like...'I created the world in seven days, but in 40 years, I can't get CP to behave herself'. Is that it?"
"Something like that, yeah."
"No wonder you're His favorite," the hotband says. "You're a challenge!"
"I keep Him young."
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Anyway, here you go. Haiku, Ode to Stupid Girl...a ten part series.
Part One: making me wait.
You stupid blond girl.
You take so long with testing
I am now quite bored.
Part Two: dimwitted.
Blonde girl. You're not bright.
like an old burned out light bulb
as dim as can be.
Part Three: impatient.
Blonde young dumbass girl.
You just keep taking your time.
We will all just wait.
Part Four: uncomfortably numb.
Fuck you, dumb blonde girl.
I have sat here so damn long,
my ass is asleep.
Part Five: death.
Go die, stupid girl.
You went out for a smoke break.
Now I have to wait.
Part Six: satanic ritual.
I hate you blonde girl.
I want to rip out your heart
and eat it slowly.
Part Seven: voo doo.
I wish pain for you
I hope your implants explode.
Please, go buy a vowel.
Part Eight: nasa.
This is too easy.
It is not rocket science.
Why are you alive?
Part Nine: choke.
I want to drown you
in a pool of my vomit
Finish your test, Bitch!
Part Ten: breathe.
About fucking time.
Dumb blonde girl hands in her test.
Peace is now restored.
Like, for example...if you want to know if you are correct about a math problem, ask another person to work out the problem for you. Don't say "I got 200 when I did that problem. Is that right?" Most people will work out the problem so that they too will get the same answer as you. Or, if you read something as a certain word, and ask someone if they agree with you, they will see whatever word you suggested the word might be!
Dumb, I know. But, research has shown this to be so.
Now, there is a nurse in a facility who reads a doctors order. It says the patient has "Shark Bowl Syndrome".
So, said nurse goes up to another nurse and shows it to her.
"Does this really say 'Shark Bowl Syndrome'?"
"Oh, yeah. That is definately what it says."
"What the heck is Shark Bowl Syndrome," asks the first nurse.
"You know, I remember going over this in school, but I can't remember what it is," says the second nurse, "but I know we went over it!"
So, first nurse goes home. She googles Shark Bowel Syndrome to no avail. There is nothing about this particular disorder online. The first nurse is confused and perplexed. After all, her peer remembers distinctly that they went over Shark Bowl Syndrome in school. Was I absent that day, first nurse thinks to herself? Did I miss the lesson about Shark Bowl Syndrome?
Still confused, first nurse goes back to work the next day. She grabs the chart of the person who has this disease known as Shark Bowl Syndrome. She does what any other educated nurse might do. She flips through the chart to see when this person was originally diagnosed with this ominous sounding disorder.
Finally, she discovers what Shark Bowl Syndrome is.
It is bad handwriting for "Short Bowel Syndrome".
While that doesn't sound too pleasant either, it certainly beats a bad case of a great white in a salad bowl.
Monday, March 19, 2007
My husband gets a piece of spam from his grandmother who lives in Israel. As usual, there is the assinine prequel that starts these pieces of spam shit. "I got this from a friend who is a friend of my mothers cousins sister and her best friends boyfriend said that his father wrote it!"
The following is the letter that his grandmother, this loving Jewish woman, sent to my husband. (My commentary will be in red...which is all I am seeing right now anyway.)
Subject: Mr. Muslim - You worry me!
(And already we know this is going to be an ugly letter. Here comes the stupid assed prequel to which I alluded to earlier...)
This is the most profound, most insightful message to Muslims I've seen. I think it should be read on Fox, sent to the President, the congress and forwarded to any other form of media to express what so many of us feel toward Muslims.
(Of course you do, because you are an infantile, insipid attention whore. Don't lump me in with your generalizations, you fucktard. I said, I tolerate stupidity, not ignorance)
This Is A Letter From An American Airlines Pilot. This well spoken man, who is a pilot with American Airlines, says what is in his heart beautifully....read, absorb and pass on...
(Read, absorb, rinse and repeat. This is what my pilot is thinking about while he is flying me up to New York and back? Geez, and here I thought he was thinking about my safety.)
YOU WORRY ME!
By American Airlines Pilot - Captain John Maniscalco ( <----- Probably a pseudonym for his real name...Daryl McCrackhead.)
"I've been trying to say this since 9-11 but you worry me. I wish you didn't. I wish when I walked down the streets of this country that I love, that your color and culture still blended with the beautiful human landscape we enjoy in this country. But you don't blend in anymore. I notice you, and it worries me. (Is your mouth hanging open already? Mine was.)
I notice you because I can't help it anymore. People from your homelands, professing to be Muslims, have been attacking and killing my fellow citizens and our friends for more than 20 years now. I don't fully understand their grievances and hate but I know that nothing can justify the inhumanity of their attacks. (Let's analyze, shall we? You don't understand their hate...yet you write a letter on how their color and culture don't blend into our landscape? Wow. Can't imagine why they would be hating on us.)
On September 11, nineteen ARAB-MUSLIMS hijacked four jetliners in my country. They cut the throats of women in front of children and brutally stabbed to death others. They took control of those planes and crashed them into buildings killing thousands of proud fathers, loving sons, wise grandparents, elegant daughters, best friends, favorite coaches, fearless public servants, and children's mothers. (And? Things like this happen all over the world on a weekly basis. Wars are constantly in the midst of being waged...and because this is the Untied States (yes, I know I said "untied) our people who died are better than any others?)
The Palestinians Celebrated, The Iraqis were overjoyed as was most of the Arab world. So I notice you now. I don't want to be worried. I don't want to be consumed by the same rage and hate and prejudice that has destroyed the soul of these terrorists. But I need your help. As a rational American, trying to protect my country and family in an irrational and unsafe world, I must know how to tell the difference between you, and the Arab/Muslim terrorist. (Probably very similarly to the way we celebrated, cheered and were overjoyed when we hung Sadaam Hussein, right? You don't want to be consumed, yet you are perpetuating. You are a rational American? Really? Where does one sign up to be a rational American? I think I missed the boat on that one. I thought rationality was subjective.)
How do I differentiate between the true Arab/Muslim-Americans and the Arab/Muslims in our communities who are attending our schools, enjoying our parks, and living in OUR communities under the protection of OUR constitution, while they plot the next attack that will slaughter these same good neighbors and children? The events of September 11th changed the answer. It is not my responsibility to determine which of you embraces our great country, with ALL of its religions, with ALL of its different citizens, with all of its faults. It is time for every Arab/Muslim in this country to determine it for me. (OUR communities? OUR schools? OUR parks? OUR constitution? Last I checked, bitch, this was the land of the free. Remember? Since when is anything OURS and not THEIRS too? Now suddenly a group of people have to define themselves for America? They have to prove their worth and value? I think I vaguely recall something like this...I think...it was called...the HOLOCAUST????)
I want to know, I demand to know, and I have a right to know whether or not you love America . (Gimme a break, asshole. I know plenty of Americans who don't love America...and most of them are in the White House as we speak) Do you pledge allegiance to its flag? Do you proudly display it in front of your house, or on your car? Do you pray in your many daily prayers that Allah will bless this nation, that He will protect and prosper it? Or do you pray that Allah with destroy it in one of your "Jihads"? (snorts. Sorry, that was phrased kinda funny. Kinda like a Jihad is a synonym for Keg Party) Are you thankful for the freedom that only this nation affords? A freedom that was paid for by the blood of hundreds of thousands of patriots who gave their lives for this country? Are you willing to preserve this freedom by paying the ultimate sacrifice? Do you love America ? If this is your commitment, then I need YOU to start letting ME know about it. (So, all you Muslims, start writing your letters of commitment right now and for the low, low price of $9.95, we will guarantee you a brand new fresh attitude from all Americans! This offer is not in stores, so order now! If you are one of the first 100 Muslims to write in, we will throw in this American Flag...free of charge! Be the first of all your friends to show off your American spirit!)
Your Muslim leaders in this nation should be flooding the media at this time with hard facts on your faith and what hard actions you are taking as a community and as a religion to protect the United States of America (run on sentences make baby jesus cry) please, no more benign overtures of regret (how poetic) for the death of the innocent because I worry about who you regard as innocent. No more benign overtures of condemnation (aren't condemnations countries that manufacture Trojans?) for the unprovoked attacks because I worry about what is unprovoked to you. I am not interested in any more sympathy. I am only interested in action. (And being the leading Dungeon Master on the internet! LOLOLOLOLOL!!!1!1!!) What will you do for America - our great country -- at this time of crisis, at this time of war? (Oh. You must mean the war that WE started...riiii-iiii-iiiight. I remember that one.)
I want to see Arab-Muslims waving the AMERICAN flag in the streets. (I want to see Patrick Dempsey doing me from behind...but that ain't gonna happen either!) I want to hear you chanting "Allah Bless America " I want to see young Arab/Muslim men enlisting in the military. I want to see a commitment of money, time, and emotion to the victims of this butchering and to this nation as a whole. (What about a Muslim tax? Like, I so totally think they should have to pay 50% more taxes than all other Americans...you know, as reparation.) The FBI has a list of over 400 people they want to talk to regarding the WTC attack. (Maury has a list of 400 people he wants to talk to about who your baby daddy is too!) Many of these people live and socialize in Muslim communities. You know them. You know where they are. Hand them over to us, now! (And while your at it, hand over your lunch money too!) But I have seen little even approaching this sort of action. Instead I have seen an already closed and secretive community close even tighter. You have disappeared from the streets. You have posted armed security guards at your facilities. You have threatened lawsuits. You have screamed for protection from reprisals. (Hey, if you want protection, all you have to do is go to one of them there condom-nations you were talking about earlier! Or, see Maury.)
The very few Arab/Muslim representatives that HAVE appeared in the media were defensive and equivocating. (Nothing drives a point home like an SAT word!) They seemed more concerned with making sure that the United States proves who was responsible before taking action. They seemed more concerned with protecting their fellow Muslims from violence directed towards them in the United States and abroad than they did with supporting our country and denouncing "leaders" like Khadafi, Hussein, Farrakhan, and Arafat. (Maybe that is because people like you spent all your time beating the fuck out of anyone you remotely thought was Muslim because of the acts perpetuated by others! Dumbass.)
If the true teachings of Islam proclaim tolerance and peace and love for all people then I want chapter and verse from the Koran and statements from popular Muslim leaders to back it up. What good is it if the teachings in the Koran are good and pure and true when your "leaders" are teaching fanatical interpretations, terrorism, and intolerance? (Read your bible, Daryl McCrackhead. There's violence, incest, terrorism, sodomy and a few other things that I do on the average Saturday night while you are home thumping your Bible. My Torah ain't much better.)
It matters little how good Islam SHOULD BE if large numbers of the world's Muslims interpret the teachings of Mohammed incorrectly (kinda like people misinterpret the word of the Lord under the guise of being true Christians? Like that?) and adhere to a degenerative form of the religion. A form that has been demonstrated to us over and over again. A form whose structure is built upon a foundation of violence, death, and suicide. (Again, read your Bible, fucker) A form whose members are recruited from the prisons around the world. A form whose members (some as young as five years old) are seen day after day, week in and week out, year after year, marching in the streets around the world, burning effigies of our presidents, (Oh puhleeze. I know a number of people that would burn Bush in a heartbeat...without benefit of effigy, I might add!) burning the American flag, shooting weapons into the air. A form whose members convert from a peaceful religion, only to take up arms against the great United States of America, the country of their birth. A form whose rules are so twisted, that their traveling members refuse to show their faces at airport security checkpoints, in the name of Islam. (Like my poor middle eastern husband who, as an Israeli, gets stopped at "random" checkpoints all the time because he LOOKS Muslim. Yet, he is not bothered by this. And you are???)
Do you and your fellow Muslims hate us because our women proudly show their faces in public rather than cover up like a shameful whore? (Hey now. You're discriminating against whores too? Someone has to draw the line.) Do you and your fellow Muslims hate us because we drink wine with dinner, or celebrate Christmas? (No, but the grinch hates you for celebrating Christmas. He's green...so I think we should include him in this hatred of people of other colors!) Do you and you fellow Muslims hate us because we have befriended Israel, (that is because America knows that Israel is filled with psychos who love to fight with the middle east. I can say that, because I married one!) the ONLY FRIENDLY CIVILIZED SOCIETY in the Muslim/Arab area, that thinks and acts like most Americans. (Civilized? Have you ever seen a pissed off Israeli? Not pretty.) And if you and your fellow Muslims hate us, then why in the world are you even here? Are you here to take our money? (read: welfare checks from all our mamas without baby daddies who keep showing up on Maury) Are you here to undermine our peace and stability? Are you here to destroy us? (Nah, we're doing a fine job of that all on our own) If so, I want you to leave. I want you to go back to your desert sandpit where women are treated like rats and dogs (Wow. No hatred in THAT statement). I want you to take your religion, your friends, and your family back to your Islamic extremists, and STAY THERE! (OH yeah, and can you take Tammy Fae Baker and Tonya Harding too? We don't want them either). We will NEVER give in to your influence, your retarded mentality, your twisted, violent, intolerant religion. (Yes, prove your intelligence by baggin' on people who are handicapped! Lovely.)
We will NEVER allow the attacks of September 11, or any others for that matter, to take away that which is so precious to us: Our rights under the greatest constitution in the world (and the right to see Paris Hiltons twat twice a month). I want to know where every Arab Muslim in this country stands and I think it is my right and the right of every true citizen of this country to demand it (Send your stand to - Paranoid American PO Box 666, Cracker Barrel, USA). A right paid for by the blood of thousands of my brothers and sisters who died protecting the very constitution that is protecting you and your family. I am pleading with you to let me know. I want you here as my brother , my neighbor, my friend, as a fellow American (yep. That's what this letter was out to prove. I really really really want you here!). But there can be no gray areas or ambivalence regarding your allegiance and it is up to YOU, to show ME, where YOU stand.
Until then .. you worry me.
Now, when my husband received this letter from his Israeli grandmother, his middle eastern, American loving blood boiled. Would you like to see the response of a RATIONAL man, Mr. Daryl McCrackhead? Here is the reply from my beautiful, dark skinned, goatee sportin' husband:
Hi Savta, (grandmother, in Hebrew)
How's it going? Hope you are doing well and that everything is okay. This e-mail is a new one, I can't say I have seen this before, but I am glad I didn't. I'm not sure exactly how everyone else is looking at this letter, but I for one think this letter is pretty disgusting. This letter seems to generalize in such a horrible way that I wonder exactly the motive of it and what purpose it is supposed to serve.
According to this letter, every person in this country that is of the muslim religion has something to prove to rest of us, and I don't see where that is just. If that IS the case, does that mean every christian american has to prove to everyone else what their intensions are after the actions of Timothy McVeigh and the bombing of the FBI facility in Oklahoma? Does this mean that every Orthodox Jew must prove their innocence to the nation of Israel after the actions of Yigal Amir and the assassination Yitzhak Rabin?
I just don't see why such generalization has to be made. Even though I am not muslim, I was profiled more then a handful of times at the airports, especially with all of the traveling I have been doing for work. I have been looked at differently after 9-11 and had some backs turned on me, as if I did something wrong because I was from the middle east. Too much ignorance, generalization and placing blame, not enough understanding and researching the truth before determining who's the right person to blame.
Anyway, just thought I would throw my two cents in about how I feel about this...that's all. Sorry I haven't called yet, been crazy busy with work, but I'll make sure I'll give you a call this week.
(Insert the Hotband's name here)
Now, THOSE are the words of a rational man, Daryl McCrackhead. Take a lesson.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Okay. I'm in a good mood. And, I lied. It's four posts down. NO one should have to scroll so far to get my excellent movie reviewage (another CP-ism) Here's the review of "300" as in...how many pounds of shit does it take to make a movie? Answer? THREE HUNDRED!
Wild Hogs. Take the movie City Slickers. Remove horses. Replace with motorcycles. Remove Jack Palance's deeply lined face and add Ray Liotta's badly pockmarked skin. Now, make all four middle aged men not nearly as funny as they were in City Slickers, but still just humorous enough to illicit a few chuckles and one or two sporadic guffaws. Toss lightly with a side of Marissa Tomei as the resident eye candy, and you've got Wild Hogs.
John Travolta? Very hawt. Mix of Vinnie Barbarino and Vincent in Pulp Fiction with a smidge of Urban Cowboy and a dash of Tony from Saturday Night Fever. Yay!
Martin Lawrence? Put your shit boots on. And a diaper. He's gonna make you pee.
Tim Allen? At his funniest. Bull slappin' scene. That's all I shall say about that. Hmph.
William Macy? The only nerd you will want to sleep with. Marissa did, so why not?
For those of you who are seriously huge movie buffs, there is a cameo by Peter Fonda, but I ain't gonna spoil it all up for ya and tell ya why or what. If you were born after 1985, you probably won't have a clue.
In summation? Go see the friggin' movie. This one is best scene in the theater cause it's big and loud and noisy. Get popcorn and I recommend the Kit Kats for this particular film. Maybe the Mike and Ike's...since this is a feel good buddy flick with a very obvious but amusing ending.
Slap the bull, fuckers! Slap the bull!
Friday, March 16, 2007
"I used to be a looker," she said to me a few weeks ago. I was brand new to the facility but easily fell in love with Mrs. P. She laughed and shook her head. "I used to be a blonde you know."
Her portrait was beautiful. Her eyes were green. Now, they are covered with grey cataracts. Her lips were full. Now they had lines running through them. She had glorious peaches and cream skin once upon a time. Now, her skin was cold, clammy and very pale.
I would walk into her room during my breaks, just to look at her paintings. One time, she startled me while I was looking at her works of art.
"I wish I could still paint," she said. "I can't see very well anymore."
"I know," I said. "These are beautiful. I love to look at them."
"Take one," she said.
"I can't, love," I replied, "facility rules."
"Well, when I die," she said with a laugh, "take one."
I was off for the past week. When I gave her morning meds, she looked so weak, so tired. She patted my hand. "I'm gonna go now," she said. I assumed she meant to sleep. I put her hair in a braid while she fell asleep. Then, I went out to continue my med passes to the other patients.
By 8:50 am, she was gone. The funeral home director came in shortly thereafter and took her body from the room, leaving me alone with all her exquisite paintings.
"Take one," she had said to me. I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to, but if I could have, I would have taken the self-portrait of her. She did it from an old photograph of herself. That one captures her when she was alive, healthy, beautiful. I got to give her a kiss goodbye on her ice cold cheek. I told her I would pray for God speed in her journey to Heaven. I teared up a bit, but was happy to know she would finally be at peace.
I got my cellphone after the funeral director left. I took some photos on my camera phone of her self portrait. I got to take one of her paintings home after all.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
I pulled her to the side with her girlfriend, Melissa, who was going on the cruise with them...along with two other friends.
"Are you on birth control," I ask.
"Moooooo-ooooo-ooooom," she screeches. "Why do you always have to ask me about that?
"It's my job."
"No, we're not."
"What the hell do you mean WE are not? You either are...or you're not. HE can't be on birth control, you whacko! Are you at least using a condom???"
She sighs audibly in my direction with the classic teenage eyeroll.
"No. He pulls out?"
"PULLS OUT," I scream, loud enough for her husband to hear in the next room. "Oh girl, I don't think so. You cannot just do that! There has to be more than that. At very least, a condom, Sam! You have to do more to protect yourself from pregnancy! You're only 19"
"So," she challenges. "You had me when you were 20."
"That was different," I say, "I was much more mature than you."
"So you planned that?"
"No," I said. "I didn't PLAN you."
"Well, if you didn't plan me, what happened?"
"Faulty condom, which is why you should be on some other birth control," I tell her smugly.
"Okay, so basically, I got here due to exploding plastic?"
"It was latex," I said.
"Where was YOUR backup plan?"
"I was on the pill."
"So what happened there," she said.
"I was taking antibiotics," I said, "It negated the effectivness of my birth control."
"So now, a bad chemical reaction got me here too?"
"You were meant to be, I guess. You are my favorite mistake," I say lovingly and kiss her.
"Wonderful. I exist because of perforated plastic."
"Latex," I correct her, stifling a laugh.
"Right," she says.
I make my husband take Trevor out for a ride and "the talk". This is strange, because both men are 32 years old. However, my hotband is a mature 32 with a 40 year old wife. Trevor is a very immature 32, looks 22 and acts 12. He also has a 19 year old wife, so he isn't exactly Mr. Maturity just yet. My hotband has a way of talking so that you can't quite get the point of what he was saying. He is a nice person. He candycoats things. I, however, am more direct.
"What did you say to him," I ask the hotband upon his return.
"Nothing," he says. He knows that makes me insane. How do you have a talk and say NOTHING????
"What do you mean, NOTHING? You had to have said SOMETHING!"
"I told him to make sure to be safe."
"Yeah. Be safe."
"Like, not fall off the boat kind of safe, or don't knock up our daughter, safe?"
"The second one."
"Did you say it like that?"
"Like what," he asks, getting increasingly frustrated with me.
"Just 'be safe'. Is that all you said?"
"Yeah. Be safe. That's what I said."
I sigh. Want something done? Do it yourself. I get up, leaving my husband behind, holding his head. He knows what's coming. He knows I don't feel like he did an adequate job. I will handle this on my own.
"Trevor," I said as I bust into my daughters room."
"Yes, Mum," he says, with his heavy Brit accent.
"When you shoot," I said, "shoot for the sheets and not in my daughter."
"Now THAT'S what I want to hear. You've been warned."
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM," bellows Samantha.
"What the hell did you just say," she screeches.
"Nothing," I said. "Just be safe."
She slams her bedroom door in my face.
My husband stands behind me with his arms crossed and a big smirk on his face.
Yeah. Fuck you too, hotband. Smug bastard.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
So, I'm in my IV Therapy Certification class. I walk in three minutes late. The foolish young and extremely pretty freshman blonde girl behind me makes the mistake of sighing heavily at my late entrance. The sigh includes the patented teenage eyeroll to go along with it. Oh silly, silly, silly twit. You don't want to make an enemy of the Princess. I ignore her and chalk it up to youth. A brand of silly that only an 18 year old girl could possibly muster up.
I am, after all, an experienced old woman and this is not my first rodeo, y'all know what I mean?
Later, we are having a discussion where we must reference another page in the book. Teacher says, "I think what we are looking for is on page 101." She is mistaken. "No, ma'am," I interject politely. "It's on 103." Silly young blonde girl says, "that's like...two pages after 101."
My turn to sigh heavily. It's gonna be a LONG week.
We are discussing ampules, little glass bottles filled with medication. You must snap the neck of the ampule to get to the medication. This means that tiny pieces of glass will spray everywhere. The way to get to the medication is to draw it up with a filtering needle so that miniscule shards of glass will not get into the patients bloodstream. "Why use a filter needle," asks Jessica Junior. "So that no glass ends up in your patients bloodstream," the professor answers. "Why," the blonde queries, "is that bad?"
Okay. Obviously a member of the Jessica Simpson Society for Stupidity.
Teacher tells a story. "And so," she says, "the patient had an adverse reaction that proved fatal." Blonde stupid girl says, "so what happened to the patient?"
You cant' make this shit up, Folks.
Earlier in this post, I mentioned I was three minutes late to the class. 20 minutes after my arrival, two asian women walk in *yes, their being asian is pertinent to the story*. Youthful (and now, stupid) blonde girl says, "fucking asian people. They know that takeout is ready in 10 minutes but they don't know that a 4:00 class starts at 4:00??"
And lastly, now that she is already proven to be ignorant and an idiot, I find a moment to let her know what an absolute schmuck she is.
We take a break. Teacher says, "fifteen minutes, please!" We are all back in our seats in 13 minutes. Jessica Junior walks in after 22 minutes.
I turn to the guy next to me who is obviously my age if not older.
"Fucking freshmen girls," I say. "They know the average blowjob takes five minutes, but they don't know that a fifteen minute break is not twenty minutes long."
He spit out his soda and laughed. She, however, pursed her lips and applied her lipgloss, completely oblivious to the fact that the old woman just bagged her ass.
It must be nice to live in the glass bubble of dumb.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Let a bitch save you some cash. Do the following...
Get the movie Gladiator for real cheap at like...WalMart, in their$2.99 DVD bin. Throw it on the ol' DVD player. Get a bucket of popcorn and a kid with acne to throw it at you while trying to watch the movie. Next, get a musclehead who hasn't spent more than one night away from his Bowflex to come over. Have this same man get really greasy and make him throw steak knives around while squirting ketchup all over the room. Then, find the most flatchested chicks with acorn nipples on the planet and let them lay all over the floor.
There. You just saved yourself an assload of money and time.
Consider this a Public Service Announcement from your Certifiable Princess.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Name of the place is ZooKoda.com and what it enables you to do is send a daily, weekly or monthly summary of your latest blog posts directly into your vistors inbox. No more of that "blogrolling" crap to let your friends know you've updated your blog. You know that thing doesn't work half the time anyway. Pointless as a roadkill possum pizza with pepperoni.
What it boils down to is you keep your blog audience informed in the form of an email newsletter. Zookoda gives you complete control over all your email marketing. And, it's free. As my daughter always says, "if it's free, it's for me!" You can make a professional looking newsletter about your blog with their free templates.
Normally, I don't get all excited about PPP things that I find online. This, however, happens to be extremely cool. And of course, I, being the cool kid on the block, had to let you know via peer pressure that this thing is hella awesome. Now you can update your pals personally. Wheeeee. Me likey.
And, so that you aren't horribly annoying, you can do the newsletter in either a daily, weekly or monthly summary of your latest blog posts. It also sends you back reports to let you know how many of your buddies have read your blog from the email update you sent them. Traffic whores will find this invaluable.
Anyway, I am signing up. Blogrolling bites ass. This is a webwhore dream come true.
But I really do like it. Seriously. No joke. Really. I promise.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Why do people feel the need to shit on your parade? Why? What do these bottom-feeders get out of this? Why is it that people need to put others down to pick themselves up? Hello? It's called self-esteem fuckers. Get some. Blue light special at Kmart. Bring a friend. Two for one. Double coupons, bitches.
I am on Day three of the job. I am over-fucking-whelmed doing long term care. No orientation, just "here you go, CP" and shove...out onto the floor I go. I love it, don't get me wrong, but wow...so MUCH paperwork. So many things to remember. So much to do. The last thing I want to worry about are the nurse assistants talking shit about me. I know the pecking order. I was a CNA a long time ago, before becoming a nurse. We would talk shit about the nurses. The LPN's would talk about the CNA's and the RN's. The RN's would talk about the CNA's, the LPN's and the Directors of Nursing. And then, the DON's would just talk about everyone.
No time to get wrapped up in that shit.
So I am minding my own biz, doin' my thang...when this person, this bottom feeder, this fleabag, this douche eating leech who we shall heretoforthwith refer to as ASSHOLE (AH). His name is really Andy, but I like Asshole much better. I don't feel he deserved anonyminity. Fucker.
He slides up to me like a slithery slimey snake with his posse of overworked, underpaid and illiterate bitches behind him.
"I know you," he says. "You used to work here a LONG time ago."
"Yes," I say, smiling, "I did. 10 years ago. I was a CNA here."
"Yeah," he says, "I remember. You were the girl that was fucking Robbie while you were married."
Okay. I see what's going on here. We want to play pick on the new chick with some very OLD information. He's grinning like a Cheshire cat. This is NOT gonna go down the way he wants. No no no no no. CP is too smart for that.
"Oh wow," I counter, "You're right! That was so long ago. I've moved on since then...nurse now, you know. And you are?"
"Asshole," he replies.
"Oh, sure. No, sorry. Can't say that I remember you. But wow! You remember about me and Robbie! That's incredible. What a great memory you have."
"Yeah! You used to call your husband and tell him you were working double shifts, just so you could do Robbie after work."
"Right, right, right..." I say, nodding. "Yep. Good times, back then. Good times. We all used to do some pretty crazy things 10 years ago!"
I go back to doing my work. The putrid posse is disappointed. The nursey didn't take the bait. Slithery Asshole, who is a flaming ass Queen, by the by...says to me, "Yeah, you were a lot thinner back then. And your hair was nicer."
"40 pounds of newly married happy fat, I might add," I say with a giggle. "And, I had to lose the 80's hair. It was 1997 for God's sake! I should have dumped the Peggy Bundy look WAAAAY before then!" (----> Yep. That's me. Circa 1998. Please. No remarks about the hair. It was very red. It was very large. I know. Please do not hold it against me. )
Asshole stands before me with a sneer. His diabolical plan has run afoul.
"Can't believe the things that Robbie told me you used to do," he says maliciously.
"You know, Asshole? If I didn't know better, I would say you had a thing for Robbie. Were you jealous that he was fucking me and not you? Cause, if that's it...well, you really missed the boat on that one. He was exceptional."
(blatant lie. Robbie. Big ego. Little dick. 'Nuff said.)
Asshole walks off in a huff.
I go home and cry. A lot. I am so hurt by this. I am finally in a professional situation that I worked so hard to be in...and this fucker has to drudge up my past and throw it in my face. It seems sometimes, we can't escape the things we did when we were younger and dumber. Yes, I was sleeping with this guy behind my husbands (NOT THE HOTBAND! The WAS-band!) back. True enough. We were splitting up. I was lonely. I did it. Okay, not my proudest moment. But, what's done is done. Ten years later, this pissant who hasn't upgraded his life one iota is here to throw it all back up at me...and start the rumor mill a-turnin'. I cry to my hotband. A lot. He already knew about Robbie. I tell the hotband everything. Why? Because someone else would have if I didn't. I told him about EVERYTHING I ever did in my past. Everything. I always feared the day would come when this would come back to haunt me...this, and everything (everyone) I ever did.
The hotband, ever loving and supportive said "you did a lot of silly things back then. We all did. But you have moved on. He hasn't. He's stuck in the time warp. You're not."
"I'm quitting," I tell him. "I can't do this again. I can't live with my past anymore."
"Don't quit, baby. It will turn around."
Tonight, Day 4, the Asshole starts up with me again.
"You should be working the long term wing instead of critical care," he says sarcastically. If you moved any slower passing those meds, most of the residents would be dead."
His posse giggles all girly like.
"Well, Asshole," I retort with a sweet smile on my face, "I suppose a lesser woman like yourself would be hurt by that remark."
The posse was now high fiving me and "Oh DAMN, she told you"-ing all over the place.
Sweeter still? The announcement that FRIDAY was his last day because he was being let go for insubordination. HA!!! I went into the conference room and had the balls to eat a slice of his "farewell" cake the pissy posse bought for him.
"Mmmmmm. This cake is good. Especially with this karma flavored frosting," I hissed into his ear as I walk past him.
"Bitch," he screeches.
"Calling me bitch is merely foreplay, Lover. Robbie used to call me that while we were fucking," I snarl back at him. "Jealous?" I giggle and walk away, purposefully parading my 40 pound heavier ass with just a bit more swish and sway than usual.
God loves me. And I love when He serves up the cake...with an extra helping of karma.
My Cheerios are tasting a lot better tonight.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Anyway, as you all know by now I got the job. If you don't know the hell I went through to get this job, go back a few posts. I'm not linking shit for your lazy asses. Learn to scroll, bitches! Keep the hell up!
So, I'm at home the same day I get hired, and I get this phone call.
"Hello, is C there please?"
"Yes, this is C, who is this?"
"This is Anthony from Maxim Health Staffing. I saw your ad on Monster.com."
"Really," I say. "And what is this call about?"
"We are really interested in having you sign up with our company to..."
"Anthony? Let me stop you right there."
"Why? Do you already have a job?"
"Yes, Anthony, I already have a job. But, that aside? I came to your office a few weeks back. My name is CP...not just C., and I applied for your job. You sent me a nasty letter back saying my background check did not meet your standards."
"Oh," he says, "Well, uh, erm, ah..."
"So Anthony? I found a company who LISTENED to my situation and understood that those charges against me were dropped. Kind of like I am dropping this call. Goodbye."
Now, normally, I'm not a spiteful wench...but that felt too good to ignore. Heh.
Anyway, Day One.
I am working the floor, passing meds when all of a sudden.
"CODE BLUE, 6 EAST. CODE BLUE, 6 EAST!"
So I book my fat ass down the opposite hall from where I was passing meds. A CNA comes running at me. "She's DEAD! She's DEAD! OMG...she's DEAD!"
I push past her. I run into the woman's room. I shake her and pat her face before implementing any procedures.
"Mrs. Smith? Mrs. Smith? Talk to me. Are you with me? Mrs. Smith???"
She wakes up. Dumbass CNA. The woman was in a fucking deep sleep. I fill out forty fucking pages of incident report (cause you have to document WHY a code was called!) and spent the whole night doing that. Was. Not. Happy.
Earlier that same day, I had been chatting with 92 year old Mrs. Jones. She was telling me about how she was a nun. Fell in love with one of her parishioners and ended up leaving the sisterhood so she could marry this man she loved. It was a very sweet story.
"Mrs. Jones," I said, "that is a lovely story, but didn't you feel bad about leaving the sisterhood and God for regular love?"
"Honey," she said to me, "I love God, but He doesn't keep you warm at night, you know what I mean?"
I am, once again, passing meds when again I hear...CODE BLUE, 6 EAST! CODE BLUE, 6 EAST!
Not the hell again, I thought. I pass the same CNA in the hallway.
"It's Mrs. Jones...she's D..."
"I know, Patty, she's dead. Right, got it."
Again, I push past her. This time, Patty is right. Mrs. Jones IS dead. We call time of death. We sign off. We alert the family. Everyone is pretty sad, especially me. I had just met the woman, had a lovely story told to me by her and now, she was gone. I relayed the story she told me, about leaving the nunnery behind to be with the man she loved. The other nurses were all ooohing and ahhhing and gushing about what a pretty love story that was. Then, I told them what she told me, that she said "God don't keep you warm at night" and everyone laughed. I said...
"Wow. You have to be careful what you say. She said, 'God don't keep you warm', so I guess he brought her up there to prove her wrong, eh?"
The other nurses just stared at me. Looooooooong uncomfortable silence.
Yeah. Great first impression.
By the end of that day, they were calling me "Nurse Kevorkian".
It's gonna be a long year, Folks.
Monday, March 05, 2007
I holy shit, oh mah God, got the friggin' job!
They looked at all my paperwork about the arrest from back in May. They looked at the documents from when I stabbed my ex in self defense and was arrested back in 1991 for assault and battery on a fucking gorilla who was trying to beat the piss out of me. I showed them the bottles of prescription medications that caused me to fail the drug test I took.
And they hired me.
These are some smart motherfuckers, because I am the best freakin' nurse in the world and they just made a DAMN fine decision!!!!
Mind you, this is the SAME place that I worked for 10 years ago as a nurses aide, when some nurse said to me, "You know, CP? You should really become a nurse. You are too smart for this job."
I went to nursing school shortly thereafter. Not so much on her recommendation as it was a promise I made to God. Told him that if he saved my sons life, spared him during his open heart surgery, I would become a nurse. After that drama was overwith, I went to become a certified nurses aide, in order to keep my promise to the Almighty One. That is also when the nurse told me to become one myself.
10 years later, my son is fine, I passed my boards and I am now working in the same hospital/facility where I got the best advice I ever received.
Karma is a circle and it has just came back around again.
I GOT THE FUCKING JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Boo YAH, Baby!!!!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
I was digging around in my blogs and realized that after a few months, I have made $126.75 in PayPerPost revenue. Now, mind you, some people do a PPP blogpost like, every single day. I don't. I think maybe, two a month? Some other people *cough*Mr.Fab*cough* have devoted full websites for only their PPP blogposts. Smart. A very good source of income too, as you can do up to three opportunities a day. Each one of those can rake in anywhere from $4.00 to some as high as $125 PER POST, Y'ALL!!!! Hello? That's like, what I used to make in a day. You can make that in an HOUR...on your blog!
So, why don't I just stay home and blog all day long? Why bother with a real job? I will just get me a blog solely devoted to PayPerPost blogposts and sit on my booty all day long just writing!
Hey, look. It's more than K-Fed did. He just married into kizzash. I am honestly trying to work for mine. I'm thinking that if I did focus on this a bit harder, I could easily bang out a hundred bucks a day!
I think I am going to pull my resume off Monster.com. I found my calling. I will sit home, ass glued to chair, blogging every single second of my life until I am thigh high in pizza boxes and really cool Fendi bags. Like the nurse that I am, I will still be forced to monitor intake and output. But, instead of food and urine, I am talkin' Benjamins, Babies! Blog up, money in, shoes on sale...money out!
What is not to love about this?
Besides, I don't have to pass a drug test to make money doing it that way, cause y'all know I didn't do so well on the last one!
Yep. Goodbye nursing career and all you stuck up snobs who refuse to hire me because I look so damn cute in white and hello PayPerPost who never judges me, even if I sit bare-assed naked in my office chair, teeth unbrushed, hair not combed and completely lacking deodarant. PPP won't judge me. They will embrace my skill, my fortitude and my verbosity. No longer will I have to wipe anyones ass...but my own! This is wonderful! Wonderful, I tell you! I have been liberated! I am free once more! I will blog...and the shoes will come! I will blog...and the purses will appear on my doorstep via FedEx! I will blog...and my children shall eat for yet another week! My priorities are too screwed for nursing! Purses and shoes before bread and water! Line up, children! The gruel will be served by your stepfather. Mommy will be out getting a pedicure and her hair did! PayPerPost will save my life and keep me in the lifestyle I am accustomed to! I will suction no one but my husband from now on! This is great! This is fantastic!
Oh. And before I forget?
You knew that was coming...didn't you.
Friday, March 02, 2007
She not only told me to bring in the bottle of Rx that caused me to fail the drug test, but she also told me to bring in the papers showing that the charges against me (from the arrest back in March) were dropped due to unfounded cause of arrest. Well, I have all that shit ready to go!
I appreciate that she was honest with me, talked about why they weren't quick to hire me immediately. Now, I'm thinking...how many other assholes just tossed out my resume because of seeing a felony charge on my background check. It was declared nolle prosequi. For those of you who never saw L.A. Law back in the 80's, the Practice earlier this millenium or Boston Legal now...(okay, I never saw them either, but I know they existed) nolle prosequi means:
(no-lay pro-say-kwee) n. Latin for "we shall no longer prosecute," which is a declaration made to the judge by a prosecutor in a criminal case (or by a plaintiff in a civil lawsuit) either before or during trial, meaning the case against the defendant is being dropped. The statement is an admission that the charges cannot be proved, that evidence has demonstrated either innocence or a fatal flaw in the prosecution's claim or the district attorney has become convinced the accused is innocent. Understandably, usage of the phrase is rare.
Well, you know what, Bitches? The phrase may be rare...BUT MY SITUATION WASN'T! I was persecuted. Strung up like a witch at the Salem hangings! I was innocent. Innocent Dammit! You want the truth??? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!! Give me liberty, or give me death! I HAVE A DREAM!!! Freedom is nothing else but a chance to be better!! (Someone famous said that, but I don't know who).
Martin Luther King says it best: Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere!
Amen, mah bruthah. A-freakin' men.
So, I'll appease these people. I bring in my little bottle of Rx meds. I will bring in my beautiful piece of paper with the raised seal that says, "Bitch, my homegirl is innocent and absolved of all charges cause we are some fucked up ho's who made a mistake going after the Princess and we should be shot on sight! We don't deserve to live!" Then, of course, she'll find some other reason to not hire me. Although, she did say that if I can bring that stuff in AND my references check out, I can start next week. That's a good sign...but I also am not naive enough to realize that she can just find some other freaky-deaky reason to not take me on.
In the bitches favor...I think it's pretty cool that she told me WHAT was on my background check. Most people wouldn't bother. She must want me Baaaaaaaaaaaaad. Oh yeah. Bad. She had that look in her eye like...Mmmmmm. Girlfriend. I need your ass in my facility. Oooh yeah. Wear the white scrubs. You know what Mama likes. Oh, good girl. Now bend over that med cart, oh, yeah. Just like that. God, I love the way you dole out narcotics. Take my blood pressure baby. Take it now. Now. Oh God...yes, yes yes...I think I'm gonna have an aneurysm!
See? I am so self-absorbed, I honestly believe this shit.