Up in the Air

Ah, the joy of flying. To be quite honest, I actually do not mind it. I do fly a lot and have it down to a relatively uncomplicated and smooth-ish system. I say this with reservation because there are so many factors to take into consideration (mainly other people- other travelers, babies, security guards, unhelpful asshole airline employees etc)

So, today I a flying off to Chicago for an annual Cianci related experience. I get to the kiosk and there is an old woman who is tapping away at the screen at the station next to me. I effortlessly complete my transaction in about 2 minutes (it would have been shorter, but I spent a few seconds seriously considering the offer to upgrade to 1st class, a decision I will deeply regret later). As I finish, the woman, turns to me. She has two large bags to check and her wallet is hemorrhaging papers/cards/money as she tries desperately yo slide her credit card through a slot clearly marked for passports. She politely says “Can you please help me with this?”. I am not wearing a fancy American Airlines vest and I do not have an foreign accent. Clearly I do not work at the airport, so no dice, grandma, but nice try. I do not make eye contact and instead continue on my way to the security checkpoint.

I will not comment directly on the security station because it has been overdone. Instead, dear reader, extrapolate stereotypical scenarios from the following questions I would ask other travelers
1- You have multiple children uinder the age of 5, are you sure that it is worth the cost and trouble to see your family for a few days?
2- when you btough your huge stroller or wheelchair/scooter, did you not think that shoving coats/toys/bags/water bottles all thorugh it might be a bad idea?
3- Are you afraid that your house will be robbed while you are gone? That is the only reason I can think of for why you would be wearing every piece of jewelry you own. Did you not know that jewelry is metal? And metal sets of a metal detector? I undestand that you are taking your bling off piece by piece? When you take it off, do you really find it relaxing to act exasperated as if someone else is to blame for this situation?
4- I love those boots!! They do not look difficult or time consuming to remove at all.

So, I made it through security. Although, for full disclosure, I mist admit that I did delay the line a little. I took off my shoes and then pay my coat across them, I also removed my computer and put it in a separate bin and stayed with my belongings to push them through the x-ray machine. I did not however, remove my scarf. True, I could have expertly tailored it with explosives. My bulky sweater/jacket though, was not a security risk. Good job, security, I feel so much safer.

Anyhoo, I positioned myself near the gare, back facing the on-slaught of commutters, and instead busied myself with reading a terrifying and graphic novel-type thing my parents bought for Christmas. It is aptly titled “ZOMBIES: A Record of the Year of Infection” field notes by Dr. Robert Twombly. It is exactly as the name describes. There are rather bloody, abstract drawings of reanimated corpses in various states of decay. Since I have an overwhelming fear of zombies, it was an odd choice of book…but my parents know best that I am a crippling masochist, so maybe it was perfect. The drawings are…severe?
I( am very used to being a people watcher, and indeed, would have busied myself observing the rushed and weary traveler instead of reading had I not been a little curious. I am very thankful that I kept my attention on the book for two reasons
1- It made everyone around me very uncomfortable. I really really like to make strangers un comfortable. These are people that I will never see again in my entire life and whom I will forget the instant I get off the plane. The cover had the word ZOMBIES scrawled across it in blood red lettering as well as the picture of a rotting zombie from both a front and rear view. Many of these passengers stared at the cover as I read, and the small child next to me was removed by a concerned parent. I guess I am glad I had this book because it made the people-watchers great people to watch.
2- Reading distracted me from the fact that a woman staggered down the hall and proceeded to vomit all over herself. I did not hear it, not gagging, no sputtering. Not the splash of it hitting the glossy airport floor. Instead I heard the horrified gasps of those around me and saw the disgust register in every face. One woman across from me was on the phone and thankfully, she said “Dad, this woman just puked on herself…she is heading to the bathroom.” Her narration was most helpful. All the catty women around me began chatting about how they really really hoped that she was not on our flight. That narration was not helpful…no shit Sherlock, I also do not want Vomit McPukesherself on our flight. I took that moment to think if maybe I should find out if she needs assistance…since I am some sort of medical professional-but instead I chose to stay in my seat and brainstorm ways to sabotage her if indeed she tried to board our plane.. I am settled on diagnosing her with highly contagious bacterial meningitis and went back to my book.

Well, now I am sitting here on the plane, at a crusing altitude of 25,000 feet, with my iTunes on, typing this post to distract me from the two children in the seats surrounding me- one of which I am pretty sure shit its pants sometime right after take-off…but god forbid mom notices, she doesn’t even notice that her son is screaming his head off, she should have saved some of the vamlium for jr. and done us all a favor.

Also, most of you readers know that I like booze. In fact, I am going to say that I love booze. I have admitted this kind of undying, faithful and self-sacrificing love only one other time in my life..so yeah, I am pretty serious. I brought bottled water on the plane so declined the offer of more water from the glorified air-waitress. I regretted it immediately when the man sitting next to me bought three mini-bottle of Jack Daniels. My mouth watered at the thought, but then I realized it was 1030am…so yeah…despite the offer of a mid-flight drinking buddy, I stuck to water.

Well, my plane is “starting it’s decent” into Chicago.

Despite all of this…not a bad trip.

Guilty Pleasures

I know that I do not have spectacular taste in music, but I also well aware that it is not awful. It is a happy medium between the latest Justin Timberlake release without having any N*SYNC.

Now, I will say that there is an abundance of Tori Amos- and her particular brand of overly-emotive, piano-heavy tragically nonsensical music is not for everyone. Indeed, when I am with friends and the music is on random and a Tori song starts, I have the sense to apologize profusely and quickly change it before they hear the such wonderful Tori phrases as "star-fucker, just like my daddy", "Colonel Dirty-fishy-dishcloth", or one of my favorites "give me peace love and a hard cock".

In other words- I get it. I get the social convention that I should be embarrassed when something is embarrassing. I was raised in a normal Catholic household that encouraged/bred a feeling of guilt when appropriate. And it is always appropriate.

How than, can others not feel this. I am sitting in the Operating Room now, working on a ladies new breasts, and the surgeon is listening to God awful music and IS NOT EMBARRASSED. What the eff??

Now, God awful may be a bit harsh- I mean, it is not Lawrence Welk shit. No, it is Top 40 hits. Let me explain. I want to make my feelings painfully clear to you.

The Top 40 hits do not necessarily register the best music made at the moment and it certainly does not rank artists that are origional, creative or have lyrics that make my heart hurt. Billboard instead, has its finger on the pulse of your average tween. This is a 40 year old man, with a wife and one year old child. How then does this surgeon feel it is appropriate to not only love this type of music but play it proudly in the Operating Room where can sing along and hum? This is a mix that includes Nelly Furtado, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus, Avril Lavigne, JoJo and some Taylor Swift. At any moment, I was expecting music from the High School Musical soundtrack to come blasting out of his docking station.

This story gets better...I came in apparently at the end of this particular playlist. As I heard the silence following the final song, I politely asked "is there another playlist you want to put on" and I walk over to the iPod, hopeful that he would change. No, dear reader. Instead, he says "you can play the same one over from the beginning". Lucky me.

So I went over to the iPod, cursing under my breath. I politely asked what the list was called since the machine had reset itself after the playlist completed. "It is called "BEST"'. He said that with complete conviction, as if the very idea that it was anything else was musical blasphemy.

I selected the list of cacophonous atrocities and listened with impatience...

Sure, there may have been one or two songs that I sang along to, who can resist the urge to sing the phrase "if you like it then you should have put a ring on it"? No one. No one can resist it. But I refuse to discuss taking a Louisville slugger to both headlights unless I am drunk and in a Karaoke booth. I just could not understand how unabashedly the doctor clung to his music. He was so sure....so unapologetic...unrelenting in his taste.

I was at a friend's house and she added Britney Spear's latest songs from the album "The Circus" to our playlist- but as she did so, she admitted that they were trashy and Britney was a hot mess and she was almost abashed at admitting allegiance to the fallen pop sensation. Is this the way it is? Will me and my friends forever apologize for the songs that are so stupid that they are secretly awesome?

So go ahead, doctor, play your favorite playlist, the 'BEST" that music has to offer, I just ask that you do it in a way that fits your music taste. So get into your car and drive down the freeway to your nearest Abercromie & Fitch, singing these Billboard classics at the top of your lungs with the windows tinted and all the way up.

Doo Rag

Today I was asked out by the Janitor. The black Janitor.

Let me explain.

I “accidentally” threw my patient’s doo-rag in the trash. So, I went to go looking for it in the heap of garbage bags that had accumulated throughout the day. I did this not to actually find the rag, but to make it look like I had made an effort to find the rag. I did not find the rag

But I did have to ask the housekeeper, henceforth called the Janitor, where the trash was kept.

Now, I do not know the Janitor's name, but I do make an effort to thank him for the job that he does. He comes in and has to clean up blood and trash and is at the bottom of the OR food chain. I try to be friendly in my own way, you know, by saying thanks, but not actually helping him. He always smiles and asks me where I am from and tries to make conversation with me. I act very busy and sometimes try to ignore, but politely.

Well, this time, I was stranded with the Janitor in a room fill of trash and biohazard bags.He took this opportunity to have exactly this conversation

Janitor-Hey girl, what you up to tonight?
Me-I am going home, alone…
Janitor-I think we should drink after work, Come on girl, get a drink with me
Me-Thanks, but no, I have a boyfriend.

Discussion Points
1- Yes, I am quite aware that I once again used the fake boyfriend technique of lying. Shut it.
2- He called me 'Girl' multiple times.
3- He is a janitor

I have no huge problems with dating someone in a service profession, but there has to be an adequate hot to poor ratio. The greater the hotness, the more okay I am with you being poor- it is a real thing people.
I let him down easy, lied to save his feelings and managed to not get date raped. Sadly, I need to remember that I should not be so nice in NYC- Just because I say hello to you does not mean I want your dick in me.

last minute deals

I am a procrastinator. Indeed, i believe that much of my life decisions have been put off and made at the last minute where there are few options. That said, I am not doing too bad.

Anyway, I was invited to a babyshower for a friend/co-worker in North Carolina and I very much wanted to attend. Alas, it would have been do difficult to fly down etc., so I RSVPed ASAP with a "cannot attend".

Then I forgot all about it.

Until last night when I flipped the page in my day planner and saw that I had penciled in the baby shower. So, like any good friends, I immediately signed on to babies'r'us and target to see her gift registry. As one would figure, everything that was a reasonable gift to get for a causal friend or coworker had been bought. Instead, the gifts that were left fell into two categories- poor person and immediate family.

Poor person gifts were washcloths, bath towels, soap, butt cream. They are gifts that are under $9.99 or under. They can be bought alone, or grouped together to make a more substantial gift (perhaps in basket form). the problem with this category- there were only two gifts. Inadequate.

The immediate family gifts are outrageously expensive and are usual equipment that had many safety features. Immediate family buys them because they actually care if the thing/baby lives to carry on the family name. Highchairs, strollers, care seats, elaborate bath devices with flotations, straps and anti-drowning whistles.

Now, let me explain. If you are reading this, than you know that my mind works a little differently. This is not just a problem of expressing my baby-love in a monetary way- "congrats, I love your baby $50 worth!". No. It is the message that the gift sends. Casual friend = casual gift. If i decide to give her a baby seat it is unexpected and a little creepy- as if I am more invested in the friendship. The gift is never just a gift. Too intimate a gift is inappropriate.

So I did what anyone would do. I bought the cheapest expensive gift on the registry. And then. I bought a pack of bath towels for $5. This sends a great message. A message that I will not write in words but hope will be picked up none the less. It says "Congratuations, here is a really expensive gift, but do not worry! Don't freak out that the gift is a little elaborate for such a casual friendship, it is the gift I wanted to give! Look, the money is so immaterial to me that I am going to throw in one more little gift just to show you that it is not a big deal. Relax. Enjoy your new Graco Mosaic Stroller in Lemongrass. Mozaltov!!"

Phew. Problem solved.

We are ODST

Every time Hulu plays the advertisement for Halo ODST (see it here) I not only kind of want to join the military, but I want to buy this game AND I want them to make this into some kind of movie that I get to watch. Everything about it is the best thing I have seen in weeks. I need more of it. I kind of have to go buy an Xbox now and play this game. Stupid advertisements working effectively.

Mind Freak

I just realized that none of the hospitals in which I have worked has had an OR #13. That is six. Six hospitals, that is, who choose to cower before the almighty, all powerful THIRTEEN. Hospitals filled with medical professionals, scientists, scholars- persons I would not necessarily think would believe in magic and twilight zones. No, I would expect a healthy assortment of zealot religious types mixed with the cynical and the rational.

Then I met him. A doctor of urology, 55 years old, Indian (from India). He shall henceforth be called Dr. He sat down next to me at the front desk and began to watch YouTube. He insisted that I cease answering phone calls from the Emergency Room and watch this amazing video he was sent. He smelled quite strongly of BO and clearly had an erection, so my first instinct was naturally to flee, but alas, he had me cornered. Quite literally, he was blocking me into a tiny corner and invading my personal space and air supply.

So I watched. And it was Criss Angel. That massive tool who spells his name phonetically and preforms hopelessly desperate illusions that 'no one can figure out'. Yeah, except any one who knows vaguely of video editing and is a cynic knows that these are elaborately staged events. Criss Angel is not, as Dr. insisted, magic.

He showed me a clip where Criss got run over by a steamroller. (WATCH- start at 5:58) He lays down on a sheet that has been set up before hand off camera where there are no witnesses and then lays down and gets run over, screaming the whole time, until he makes the steamroller back up and his bones are miraculously not crushed into powder.

Dr. was stunned. Stupefied. He was quite certain that Criss Angel was indeed magic. I tried to explain- "no, Dr., he cannot shift the cells of his body around so they lay flat" "nope, he is also not a super fast healer" "incorrect, he did not train at Hogwarts" All those attempts at rationalization fell on deaf ears.

So I tried a new approach, this time, I tried to explain how the stunts was actually performed. Criss lay on a blanket over a trap door/ramp that would lower his body into the ground as the roller ran him over, i even showed him how the blanket was wrinkled in a very obvious trap-door shaped pattern.

Not only did he not believe me, but more followers (all from Asia in some way) came to the computer to see this amazing feat, this present day super hero- not one of them finding it odd that if a man did possess these powers he would, indeed be captured and experimented on by the governments of many powerful countries.
Whatever.

There was nothing else I could say, I was outnumber (and we all know that a wrong answer shouted out by a lot of Filipinos makes it a right answer...) I also realized that the more i talked, the more disgusting BO air I had to breathe, so i squeezed my way out from the corner and tried desperately to talk myself out of the idea that his stench can cause cancer.

Dear Dad

Dear Dad-
I know that you are kind of an insane person. Indeed, you have a twisty-handle bar mustache, a severe case of OCD coupled with a sick desire to hoard random objects in large, spooky trailers in the back yard.
You have an odd sense of humor- a mix of wit, baseness and loudness that can be hilarious or soul-damaging. Like calling the place where your son meets men "McFisty's" or buying me an action figure called "The Crazy Cat Lady" complete with a list of criteria for being a cat lady (with the ones I had accomplished checked off- like 1)never having a boyfriend 2)being covered in cat hair 3)living alone).
Do not get me wrong, dad, you are fantastic. You are, for the most part loving and creative. Up until now, you had used your powerful crazy for good (or against my brother-which is similar to good). I was alarmed, then, when you turned against me- your youngest child, your baby girl.
I know that I often ask you for things. Thanks to your psychological illness, requests for objects like a crossbow, a gas-mask, an ocsillascope were all met with an enthusiastic 'YES". So when I asked you politely to send me a few sets of scrubs, I was unprepared for your reaction.
Aside from repeatedly saying that I needed a much bigger size, you were helpful. Your request to get my an XXXL were met with mild hostility and you still assured me that you would procure my garments and ship them to me free of charge. You even called me to make sure they had arrived and asked me to search the contents of the package for the note you wrote.
How was I to know you were so cruel?
I never found the note, dad. Nope, I looked through the clothes and nothing fell out. So, off to work I went.
I changed into my nwe green scrubs (which fit just fine) and walked into the lounge to put away my lunch. I had polite conversation with coworkers and then proceeded into the OR suite to get my assignment. I talked to people at the front desk, wandered casually back to my room and was introduced to the surgeons as the new nurse. Everyone was very polite to me, but i noticed they did not make eye contact. No dad, instead they all stared at my crotch. I didn't really know what they were doing, no one said anything, but their eyes darted around to my lady business.
I pretended not to notice, but I had only one thought in my head. You. Sabatoged. My. Pants. Because I did not want to wear a circus tent in pant form, you cunningly decided to sabatoge my pants in an embarassing and evil way. I walked into the sub-sterile room where no one could see and my felt down to my nethers. And i ripped of the tape. the tape where you wrote a single word.
TOE
I assume you meant Camel Toe, like the one I would have if my pants were so tight that the seam of tyhem seperated my labia. Yeah, great thoughts dad. I thought hrrmmm...i could explain this, but then, I am sure many would wonder why my father would casually reference my vagina like that...maybe they would assume that I had been diddled? Either that or I would explain that you were an insane pseudoasshole with a warped sense of humor, but I did not have the time to take strangers down that dark road.
I even thought briefly of falling back on my old "my Boyfriend put this here" and within seconds had thought of a fake story about how he had come shopping with me and thought that the pants gave me camel toe, but then that would also make him an asshole AND the scrubs were clearly marked as coming from a Hospital and not a store, so I was screwed on that excuse.
Instead, I did something I rarely do. Nothing. I did not lie or over explain. I just took the tape, balled it and threw it away. I briefly did the same thing with my self-respect.
So thanks for the scrubs dad. And thanks for putting that tape on the crotch of every single pair of pants you gave me.

Joke Time

I am done saving lives for the night. One great thing about working in the evenings, I get some down time to peruse the Internet and post on my blog. This blog.

Well, since I do not know these people here and some of my posts are rather base, I decided that instead of typing in my blog address (which would then forever be in the drop down screen if someone were to peruse), I trued searching for funnynurse.blogspot.

This time, a funny nurse joke from another blog was the #1 hit.*
Here it is, for your enjoyment.

"I promise I won't laugh. No matter what it is, I have seen everything. What seems to be the problem?"
The man drops his pants to reveal the smallest penis the nurse has ever seen. Both in girth and length. It could be no larger than a AA battery.
The nurse immediately starts laughing. Uncontrollably. You know, one of those laughs that leads to crying. It is hysterical, and you can't stop, no matter what. She is just laughing it up.
The man is patient. She finally gains composure and apologizes.
"I swear on my life, that has never happened before and I promise it will never happen again. It was unprofessional and I am sorry. Please, tell me, what seems to be the problem"
"It's swollen"

I dunno...I kind of liked it.



*in case you were wondering, the search engine was not google. google is not that stupid. it usually brings me to exactly what I want every single time. god bless you google.

Trader Noir

Everynight, as I walk from the hospital to the subway, I happen to pass a Trader Joe's. In the light of day, it is nothing more than a trendy and cheap-ish place to shop. But by night, it turns into something so much more.

Much of what I will speak of is shrouded in mystery and fantasy. And some of it will be entirely fictional. I invite you to come with me on a journey of dumpsters, darkness and orchids.

Date: 2/29/2009
Location :Trader Joe's, Corner of Atlantic and Court, Brooklyn NY
Time: 11:13pm

The night was cold. There was a chill in the air that I should have expected at the end of September. Foolishly, I had left the house without a coat and therefore, held myself tight as I walked quickly to my train.
I do not like walking at night in the city. My mother always said poor night vision runs in the family, but think it is something more basic, more human. Everyone is afraid of the unknown, and things can hide in the dark.
I looked ahead as a beam of light cut into the darkness. A single square of clarity in the night. It was a doorway. To the back of Trader Joe's. A parade of workers came out and brought with them bulging bags of the day's waste.
I quickened my pace. The smell of trash, the sweet mixed with sour. It gets into you clothes. Into you head.
Then I saw it. It. Them.
At first I thought it was a trick of the night, a trick of the light. Shadows moving, climbing, building in size and strength. I couldn't focus on just one, for it seemed that everything had suddenly come alive. This change in activity overloaded my senses. I shook my head like an etch-a-sketch hoping that a clean slate would appear in front of me.
No good. These were not shadows I could will away. They were people. Or what was left of people. They seemed to have been there the whole time. Hiding. Waiting. Or maybe they crawled out from the depths of the earth. Or the very depths of hell. My heart beat fast in my chest. They all hurried towards me, fighting each other to be first to the garbage. I relaxed a little. Their eyes looked right through me. Since I was no competition for them, they let me watch unharmed, like Fosse and gorillas.
Who were these people? Waiting in the darkness, in the cold? They attacked the bags with surgical precision. One would slice the bag open with a knife, and gut the contents of the bag- then, like hyenas, the others would circle, and with bare hands sift through the trash to find their treasures. Hands would spring up in the throng triumphantly holding an orange or asparagus high in the air.
A tiny Chinese woman crawled into a dumpster. Her husband guarded it with an umbrella held menacingly at his side. Down she went, into the miasma. Down into the depths of her humanity. What would she find?
At this moment, the streetlight changed from green to red. An ominous hellish glow. The Chinese woman surfaced. Holding an orchid. The pot had been shattered, but the roots held fast to the soil. This orchid was dying, yet held fast to life. In the dark, it was hard to notice color. But the orchid looked sad. Worn. Tired. This woman held it in her hands like one would hold a crying child.
I lit my cigarette and walked on. I had seen enough. These people had work to do. I took a long drag and thought to myself "sometimes a dead orchid is better than no orchid at all"

Tested

Ah, the drug test. For those druggies who do drugs often, it can be a scary and shameful experience. But for me, someone who has abstained for such a long time, the drug test is a beacon of hope. The hope that after all this time, I still have my dealer's number somewhere in my phone.

The sweet release of weed/moderate opiates have been calling to me for months, so when I finally got a job offer, I knew that the drug test request would soon be on its way. Sure enough, not moments after accepting the job offer, a woman called to give me the instructions on where to get my urination on. I knew that gods were smiling down on me, for this woman slowly said "we need you to take this as soon as possible...is there anyway you can go today?" Yes. Yes there was.

And so I went, to the wonderfully ghetto Labcorp office in Durham. I was given nothing but a reference number and as I arrived, I hoped I had all I needed to get this ordeal over with and return to my life as a functional addict. But the door was locked. Hmm, I thought to myself at 1:15pm....the office hours are from 8-1130 and 1-5. Surely a 1.5 hour lunch break was sufficient and the doors should open soon. And 15 minutes later they did.

I was greeted by a scary obese black woman (whom after a two hour lunch should have been much more cheery and well-rested). She sat behind her glass, looking sour and angry, in scrubs that bore no name tag. I signed in on the sheet (thankfully I was the first person because immediately after me arrived an entire truckload of ~8 Hispanic construction workers). I asked the woman if this reference number was all I needed. She looked up from her computer screen, looked me over like I was a cheap whore and then pointed to a sign that said "sign in and sit down".

Like a good little catholic girl, I did as I was told, drank my water and patiently waited. I assumed that since she opened so late, maybe she had been preparing for the afternoon rush in an attempt to be more organized and efficient.

The door opened, and she stuck her fat, bejeweled hand out at me, pointed to my face area and said "you...come on" (why look up my name on the sign-in sheet when you can just point at me like a dog?). As I get up, she lets the door close behind her mere seconds before I reach it. Classy. I open it and venture into the lab area and this delightful woman has vanished. She moved much faster that I had expected. I spend the next minute or two wandering from room to room searching for her, until as last I see her expansive back area from around a corner.

I put down all my crap and wait for her to give me the instructions. Now, as you know, my dear reader/friend, I am not a drug test virgin. In fact, I have probably taken 5 in the past year and I know that there is a regimen, there are protocols, things that must be stated explicitly and actions that are required for the test to proceed legally. We are talking chain of custody here people. She needs to know I am who I am and that the pee is mine and not some toilet water I warmed in my mouth, spit into the cup and then dyed yellow with food coloring. This is serious business.

She is standing at a computer terminal that has a screen loaded and yet, she touches no keys and does not acknowledge my existence. I ask "Do you need my reference number?" "Obviously" she replies like a stone cold bitch. I read it out to her and after it was accepted she needs to verify my identity. She asks "Are you Chelsea?" "Obviously" I mock back to her. She asks for my photo identification, and apparently just asking for it is enough because she did not lay one of her protruding eye balls on my driver's licence. Apparently, when training for this job, she was told that the mere fact I was willing to produce evidence of my identity was good enough.

With that she hands me a cup, states professionally "Pee in this and bring it back to me". I wander into the bathroom and there is no blue dye in the toilet. Fearing that somehow the test will be invalid if the water is not blue, I ask "shouldn't there be blue water?" In fact, as I said it, I saw the job of blue dye sitting next her to console. "Just pee, it's fine". I can only assume the effort of walking to the bathroom and back would have been too much.

So, I did what I always do- Pee in a cup. And onto my hand. And all over my wrist. I think I ruined a watch.

I come out and (since you can't wash your hands) I place the pee cup down and begin to wash them in the office sink. She looks at me with disgust and tells me I need to wipe off the pee container. This is not an unusual request as such, but again, it seems in orientation for this job, she was told that by simply taking a paper towel and wiping urine all over the cup until said urine dries, it is then completely appropriate to handle that same urine cup with out gloves. Obviously.

So I wipe it up and then I attempt to close the lid all the way. It is not a twist cap, but instead a flimsy and unreliable looking snap top. It holds the liquid gold that is my ticket to freedom and I feel the need to protect it. In hindsight, I am thrilled that I took those moments to secure that lid.

Because this woman, after sealing the container and bagging, did not give the respect it deserved. Instead she drew her shoulder back, and with all the force she could muster, with all the anger that has built from years of repression, with all the fury of a whirling dervish, she threw my pee container. And I mean threw. It was like a pitcher throwing a ball...if that ball was going straight down and only 5 feet away.

It landed dejectedly amongst a rainbow of other golden dreams in a plastic box labeled "Specimins". I am not fucking joking. S.P.E.C.I.M.I.N.S. I mean, fuck, LabCorp- some employee who's sole job requirement is to collect specimens cannot spell the word specimen. I kind of wanted to cry.

So I left that place. And I am too scared that a supervisor will find out there was no blue water or that the ID I used was actually an expired UNC ONE card. Or the lab will get nothing but an empty container swimming in a bag of urine. So while I may have wanted to snort some ritalin while freebasing and inserting a opium suppository into my nether sphincter...I could not because god forbid I call saying that they need a re-do.

Murder Most Foul

Do you think you could get away with murder? I mean, I am pretty sure that the only thing keeping me from murdering someone....well...anyone...is the fear of getting caught.

Last night, as I drove home at around midnight, a rather fat-assed woman of African-American descent decided to cross the road. I was coming down Franklin, reached the bottom (near the ABC store and Whole Foods) and I had a light of the purest and brightest green. The jade ember of that streetlight burned bright in the evening sky, beckoning me froward into the night.

Then, barely visible, wearing a delightful array of grey/black/brown, i barely saw the silhouette of a booty-licious woman back lit by the same that gave me the right of way.

I started to slow, since I am such a good driver (and I was, on this rare occasion, sober) and noticed her several dozen yards ahead. If she kept up her ambling strut across the last two lanes, she would have had enough time to cross quite safely. I am sorry to say, my friends that I misjudged the speed of this woman. No...she did not continue.

Instead, this fine specimen of ghetto trash decided to stop. In the middle of the road. In my lane. And give me the most aggressive and emotive middle finger I have ever experienced.

If I was in a comic book, the finger 'fuck you' she gave me would have had little sonic waves around it, showing that when she thrust her hand at me, it moved the air and light around it so that I could feel it both emotionally and physically.

There was not another car in any direction as far as my eye could see. I know this for a fact, because I looked in every direction. I took the time, before hitting my brakes, to look around in a complete 360. Because I wanted to know if anyone would see me run down this bitch in my car.

It took every single ounce of strength and goodness in my body to put on my brakes that night. But I did. But I regret it. I spent the rest of my ride home running over vehicular manslaughter scenarios in my car. Sadly the years I spent watching Law & Order and CSI have made me wrongly assume that the bankrupt state of NC would investigate the random homicide of a homeless black female and prosecute the offender to the fullest extent of the law.

Drink it up

I can count on two fingers how many free drinks have been sent my way. I am not ashamed of these low numbers because I do not go through life on hand outs...or something...

Last night, I had the pleasure of competing in some awesome pub trivia with friends. I was rather disappointed that we did not win (especially considering most of the patrons were students at NC State), but the highlight had nothing to do with trivia.

The trivia-master decided to dedicate an entire round on alcohol. And yes, my friends, I was excited about the round. I felt that finally the stars were aligned and the universe was working for me- all so I could win a $25 gift certificate! With the help of my very knowledgeable and alcoholic friends, we flawlessly answered every question- and they were not as easy as one might think- no no.

This alcohol trivia was a list of ingredients and we had to name the drink. Old Fashioneds, Manhattans, Sidecars, Tom Collins...there was not a drink they could give that Heather Martin did not know. Yeah, you read right. I was beautifully bested by my friends. While I know much about alcohol, I surround myself with those who know more. And I am okay with that.

As the last question came up (Rum, Coke, Lime Juice), and Heather furiously scratched down the answer while rolling her eyes in open disgust of how easy this was, the owner of the bar approached the table. He was willing to help us with the question, but I assured him it was unnecessary. The conversation went a little something like this

Owner- I like you guys, the answer to the last one is Cube Libre
Chels- Thanks, but as life time alcoholics, we kind of have this...thanks...
Owner- Well, my liver is huge...
Chels- My liver is twice the size of yours and it has balls
Owner- My liver has a dick
Chels- My liver just threw your liver over the bar and raped it
Owner- My liver...My liver...
Chels- My liver just gave your liver AIDS.

At this moment, he packed away from me and then bowed to me...his master. He then gave the table some drinks. Not bad at all.

As a side note, our team did not win the trivia about booze, we missed one question- A kamikaze. I mean Jesus. The winner of that round was a group of whorish looking girls from NC State who were friends with the trivia-master. They were called "Girls on Top". Their win surprised me, and I let them know it when I loudly pronounced "those girls look more like bottoms after they get ruphied while drinking PBR at a frat party and I doubt they can spell Kamikaze..."

Oh well, all in all, a good night

An otherwise pretty face...

Something has been bothering me.

Well, lots of things bother me at all times in every way, but this one, well, this I just don't understand.

Why does Christian Bale have some weird growth near his right eye?



Have you not noticed that? Well, my friends, I have noticed. These past few weeks, I have had the privilege of seeing both Terminator Salvation and Public Enemies- two fine films which feature Christian Bale prominently. However, I cannot concentrate on little things like dialogue, plot or facial expressions when Mr. Bale talks. Don't know what I am talking about, Blindy McBlindenstein? Well, here are some examples...






Do you see it?

WELL, DO YOU SEE IT!! Because i see it, my friends. I just stare at it and ask myself inane questions like "do his eyelashes rub it?" or "does it obscure his vision?" and "can he feel it pulse?"


And I have something else to show you. Mr. Bale is not the first handsome celebrity face to be ruined by an obscene growth, and he is certainly not the first to do nothing about it. Here are some more pics-




I mean come on!! There is a huge mole in her eyebrow for Christ's sake. Not a beauty mark, my friends, just a freak show. And look how tan she is? There is no way those moles are not malignant...

If you can look through the caked on makeup and wrinkle lines around the mouth, you will see her trademark chin mole. See, what bothers me about this mole (and the above and below moles) is that they are skin colored. Moles that are skin colored remind me too much of skin tags. Or some parasite with a symbiotic relationship with the host.

Oh, this is a good one! Ewan has had those forehead moles for years and years, BUT, he had the good sense to remove them. Or, well, his dermatologist told him to get rid of them. In my mole research I found that he had them chopped off because they were "questionable for cancer". Good move.




need to see more? well then go here

And in case you are wondering- yeah...this makes me feel a little like Perez Hilton (but with better hair and face).

Tooth Fairy

I ate my tooth.
well...part of my tooth.

Okay, so I think the story starts with Harry Potter. It may have more to do with the liquor i drank at the midnight showing. While some pseudo-adults planned by constructing a beak for their Hedwig costume or buying a toilet seat to accent their Moaning Myrtle- I mixed the perfect blend of Ketel One and Crystal Light to smuggle in.

So, drink drink drink I did. And as I was sitting stationary the entire time I did not realize how drunk I had become. At the end of the movie, as Nick wiped away his tears, I stood up and instantly felt the urge to pass out on the sticky theatre floor. I bumped into a House Elf.

After the dangerous ride home (No, I was not drunk driving but Nick was driving like he wanted to angrily kill everyone in the car), I stumbled up the stairs and passed out in my guest bedroom. And I passed out without brushing my teeth. What a whore.

I wake up, bright and early at 1013 the next morning. I feel my mouth, every tooth covered in fur, the smell of ass on my breath. Instead of brushing my teeth, I made toast. Delicious.

A bad habit I have from my brace-wearing youth is that I run my tongue along every surface of my teeth, looking for gross food particulate that wants to find a place to settle in. Then I felt it. My tongue has been caressing these pearly whites for 25 years and it knows when something is wrong. And something was very wrong. Half my molar was missing.

It didn't hurt, it wasn't sensitive to hot/cold/semen. I looked in the mirror and it was a tiny chip off the back molar. So I did what any woman would do. I freaked out. I started crying. I called my dentist and made an emergency appointment with my dentist in Mebane. I made frantic phone calls to friends and family.

The entire car ride I was rubbing my tongue along my tooth like an autistic person (I was going to make some joke about my tongue being a tongue and my tooth being a clit, but I never could get the wording right...).

I sat in that cold Dentist chair and had the x-rays and the cleaning- then in walked Dr. Modlin (I LOVE HIM, he is the best dentist, I will never stray from him again.). He poked around deep in my mouth with his tool (zing) and after about 3 minutes told me I would be just fine, that it was a tiny piece of enamel. No cap, no crown, no bonding. Nothing, I was fine. I just looked up at his up-side-down face and said....so I ate my tooth? He laughed and told me that it would pass no problem. How reassuring.

I like it raw...

I am not a mean person. While in my youth, I may have used my talent for comic observation for evil instead of good, I am not that person anymore. This is why, when faced with the opportunity to save some one's feelings by lying to their face...I usually do it.
Example time
Today I was grocery shopping. I had my little list and my reusable cloth bags (domesticated, much?) and I had a cart full of my favorite things including raw veggies and raw meat. Now, I am no brain surgeon, but basic reasoning skills tell me that one should not place raw meat and veggies together.
I am a little insane, and I go to great lengths to assure that the meat does not mingle with my veggies while in my cart. I safely partition the chicken breasts from the eggplants with a reinforced wall of spaghetti sauce jars and chickpea cans- I have a system.
Yet every time I get to the register, there is some broken-down, shell of a person who is slinging my precious groceries around, bruising apples, squishing bread and giving me salmonella. I do not want to embarrass this person, who is clearly working hard at the only job he is qualified for. I think in my mind how, if I micro-manage the bagging skills, I might shatter his fragile spirit, he will quit his job, and after becoming a broken, shell of a man he would lose his health benefits and this would negatively impact his tooth retention. Yeah, these are the thoughts I think while someone is bagging my groceries.
I have also spent time thinking of how to fix this problem, and as with most things in this life, I use lies.
So, today, as he placed my peppers next to the sausage, I stopped him and gracefully said "I am sorry, but can you not place the raw meat next to the vegetables, my boyfriend is a vegetarian and if he sees raw meat in there, I will never hear the end of it."
By saying this phrase, I spared the poor bag-slave the embarrassment of being corrected AND if he was offended, he would be offended with my boyfriend, not me.
This phrase also gives outsiders the impression that I can be in some sort of normal relationship. Although it does speak to my mental health that even my imaginary boyfriend is kind of a dick.
The most important outcome of this is that I do not get bacterial enteritis. And if you counter with "chelsea, you could just wash your fruits and vegetables", well, then fuck you, sir.

hair cut

So, this morning, I went to get a haircut at a well known and respectable establishment (Mina's Studio in Chapel Hill- I went there to have my cooch waxed last year). So, I made this appointment on Monday, and since it was a last minute situation, the likely-hood of me getting their #1 was stylist was a statistical improbability.
So, at 9am sharp (and by sharp, I mean the bitch was 5 minutes late), this haggard-looking tranny-mess comes out and calls my name. She was not ugly, though she was young and had the look of a hard life...platinum hair, tattoos, no bra, heavy makeup. She complained instantly that she was not in top form, she had a tooth removed on Monday (and this, after a brief discussion, I learned was not a wisdom tooth...but a permanent tooth. You all know my feelings about this).
She wound that black cape around my neck and then began accidentally dropping scissors and hair clips from her little stylist fanny pack. We made small talk and she told me that her mom was the owner of the studio. Suddenly it became clear to me why I could get an appointment with her so easily.
As she was cutting away, the receptionist was delivering the schedules to all the stylist. I looked to the left- booked...I looked to the right-booked....I looked in front...three. Three appointments. Hmmm, I thought. Interesting. My stomach twisted a little, maybe it was the coffee, maybe it was the cold Mexican leftovers I had for breakfast (I love cold leftovers), but it felt...wrong. Something was brewing.
As she finished, my hair was being flown in all different directions with no semblance of styling or forethought, she brandished her comb like a child with a paintbrush, unaware of what she was creating. She finished with a tease of my bangs and stood, with pride, asking me what I thought. I told her "well..I kind of look like Javier Bardem from No Country for Old Men?"(look here for that image) She had no idea what I was talking about. I have never wanted an iPhone more in my entire life, to be able to deliver information to this petty hair wench instantly, to show her the error of her ways. She eventually feathered it out and it looked decent (although not 1/2 as good was the cut I had in Montreal)
.I went to the registered, angered that I would have to pay the $75 for this cut as advertised on the website. The bill came. It was $48. I thought....yeah...that is still way too much, but it made sense that it was less...since she was the hair devil. I did not tip her. She gave me her card which I passive-aggressively threw in the trash when her back was turned away (the receptionist saw and smiled...knowingly)
So, my friends, it is with a heavy heart that when I step into my interview(s) this afternoon, the people who greet me are going to be surprised that I am not wielding a high pressure air gun.

Dear Meat

Dear Meat,

I know this is hard for you, but I have some things I need to say to you. I miss you, Meat. And with all the loss I have had in my life, I not only miss you, but I miss the things we used to do together and how every things reminds me of you. Allow me to explain.

Getting drunk and eating a Wendy's Spicy Chicken Sandwich- well, how I am supposed to have drunk food now that you are gone. Where am I going to drunk drive, now, Meat? Subway? Are they open late?

I have BBQ sauce in my fridge and not a single thing to put it on- oh, and I have tried to be creative about this. Can I dip vegetables in BBQ Sauce? NO- celery, broccoli, carrots, peppers, cauliflower- all seem as equally tragic and horrible to my refined meat palate. Dare I save the BBQ sauce in case you come back into my life- would that seem pathetic? Wishful?

I need you to tell me, Meat, what am I supposed to put on my salads? tofu? You can go straight to hell if you think I am going to put tofu on my salad, you son of a bitch. Without you, salad is just a pile of rabbit food, a green mass of disappointment. Yes, vegetables have flavor, yes, they are good for me, but when you are there, Meat, a salad is just so much more. It is a whole meal. It completes me. You complete me.

You must think I am crazy, or obsessive, or needy. I lived for a very long time without you, Meat. I was a vegetarian for years and when I was young, it was not that important to me- but I am a woman now Meat, and once you came back into my life, you really opened me up to a world of possibilities. I don't know how I ever lived without you, you just made everything better, fuller, more interesting.

I remember the first time I had a really rare steak at Bin 54. At that moment, I really felt like you understood my needs and that you could be everything I needed in my life. You left a lingering taste on my lips that was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I love you meat, I always have and I am sure I always will.

Even as I write this, I am just now realizing how much I have relied on you. You are not a side dish, Meat, you are the main course. You are what makes a meal. Not only will I miss your taste and all the things we used to do together, but I will miss the feel of you inside me. You always satisfied me. I love you.

Forever Yours.
Chelsea