I'm not a huge movie person. I go in fits and spurts. Find a movie I love, and I'll watch it over and over. Buy the soundtrack. Study it on IMDB. But most of the time, I can take 'em or leave 'em.
I don't usually go to the movies with the dh. He complained once that he'd see my movies, but I wouldn't see his. Darn straight and tootin', big boy. I don't like movies with weapons, and very rarely watch them. Hubby, on the other hand, requires a certain explosion:car chase ratio, or it's not worth his time. I see mostly chick flicks with the dd. Those are much more my speed, though most of them, I can take or leave.
That's what irks the hubby about me. I don't see a lot of movies, yet I am excellent at picking Oscar winners. It all started several years back, when I was standing in line at the video store. Don't ask me why I was there, cause again -- I don't watch movies. I think I stopped by to get the kids something. In either event, the line was long, and I noticed a little pad of paper, sitting next to a box on the counter. The pad of paper was ballots for their "Pick the Oscars" contest. Figuring what the heck, I grabbed a pen, took about 8 1/2 seconds to fill it out, and threw it in the box.
I won. Ten free rentals. Hubby was appalled. He goes to see as many of the Oscar nominated movies as he can, and makes his own opinions about winners. I hadn't seen a single one of the movies, yet was almost 100% spot on, and won the contest.
Hubby, being the competitive person he is (he can't lose Candyland to a 3yo without fearing for his Y chromosome), decided that it was a fluke that I won. The next year, he came home, tossed the ballot on my lap and said "Here. Fill it out. We'll just see who can pick 'em." Took maybe ten seconds, gave it back to him, and he turned it in.
I won again. This happened three years in a row, then the video store stopped having the contest. Now, the dh and I pick them in the privacy of our own home. He hasn't beat me yet. Don't ask me why, because again, he tries to see the movies. I read the buzz, watch the interviews, and draw my own opinions.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Saturday, January 06, 2007
What's in a name?
The kids are starting a study of Shakespeare on Monday. Romeo and Juliet, to be exact. Remember the line in the play? "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." That's so true.
We had a heck of a time naming our babies. Had a girl name picked, but couldn't decide between two boy names for the oldest, so hubby posted a ballot sheet next to the time clock at his job, and let his employees pick it. Yep, my kid was named by a bunch of teenagers at McDonald's.
For dd, we had a boy name, but not a girl name. When I went into labor, we had kind of settled on Hillary. When she came out, she turned into Valerie. Hubby called everyone we knew to tell them that little Valerie was here. Three hours later, they wheeled me out to my room, where hubby was half asleep on the couch. He looked up and said, "I think her name should be Jillian." "OK," I said, "who said they didn't like the name?" (A friend of mine had told me at one point during my pregnancy that Valerie equated with vomit in her book. Thaaaaanks.) Anyway, he denied that anyone had persuaded him, saying that the oldest would've been named Jillian, so that's what we should do. Didn't matter to me, cause I liked them both, so, right as I agreed to it, my boss came running in the room (I delivered at the hospital where dh and I worked). She said that Valerie, a nurse I worked with, was so excited because she'd never seen a baby named Valerie, and was coming right over.
Hubby and I looked at each other and said "uh oh." He said that maybe we should change it back. I just asked him for a quarter. Ended up tossing a coin, and she became Jillian. Not Gillian, as I wanted, cause the hub thought people would call her Gilligan. Whatever.
When I was pregnant with ds12, we had a horrible time coming up with a name. Finally, a friend at work suggested, on a really slow night, that we read baby books. She liked the name Seth, so I suggested that to the hubby. "Oh, I like that," he said. "What would her middle name be?" I gave him the look. "What? Oh, is it a boy name," he asked. "Then I don't like it." ::sigh:: Back to the drawing board.
Three days later, he came up and said, "his name should be Seth Daniel," and it stuck. Of course, I mentioned that maybe we should pick a girl name, just in case. Hubby scoffed, cause, as he said "it's not like I don't know what I gave you."
I'd laugh, except he was right, with all three kids. Maybe he really DID know.
We had a heck of a time naming our babies. Had a girl name picked, but couldn't decide between two boy names for the oldest, so hubby posted a ballot sheet next to the time clock at his job, and let his employees pick it. Yep, my kid was named by a bunch of teenagers at McDonald's.
For dd, we had a boy name, but not a girl name. When I went into labor, we had kind of settled on Hillary. When she came out, she turned into Valerie. Hubby called everyone we knew to tell them that little Valerie was here. Three hours later, they wheeled me out to my room, where hubby was half asleep on the couch. He looked up and said, "I think her name should be Jillian." "OK," I said, "who said they didn't like the name?" (A friend of mine had told me at one point during my pregnancy that Valerie equated with vomit in her book. Thaaaaanks.) Anyway, he denied that anyone had persuaded him, saying that the oldest would've been named Jillian, so that's what we should do. Didn't matter to me, cause I liked them both, so, right as I agreed to it, my boss came running in the room (I delivered at the hospital where dh and I worked). She said that Valerie, a nurse I worked with, was so excited because she'd never seen a baby named Valerie, and was coming right over.
Hubby and I looked at each other and said "uh oh." He said that maybe we should change it back. I just asked him for a quarter. Ended up tossing a coin, and she became Jillian. Not Gillian, as I wanted, cause the hub thought people would call her Gilligan. Whatever.
When I was pregnant with ds12, we had a horrible time coming up with a name. Finally, a friend at work suggested, on a really slow night, that we read baby books. She liked the name Seth, so I suggested that to the hubby. "Oh, I like that," he said. "What would her middle name be?" I gave him the look. "What? Oh, is it a boy name," he asked. "Then I don't like it." ::sigh:: Back to the drawing board.
Three days later, he came up and said, "his name should be Seth Daniel," and it stuck. Of course, I mentioned that maybe we should pick a girl name, just in case. Hubby scoffed, cause, as he said "it's not like I don't know what I gave you."
I'd laugh, except he was right, with all three kids. Maybe he really DID know.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Pothead and the House of Utter Chaos
We have three kids. I gave birth to three children, but I actually say I have five, most days, because God knows, the dh should count as one. Our fifth one is literally the boy next door. The neighbor kid has spent almost every Friday night at our house for the past three years, and a lot of Saturdays. Nice kid, goes to the hoity toity rich kids school, as I call it, then comes to our house to be deprogrammed.
He shall be hereforth known as Potter, cause that's what we call him. Well, somedays I call him Pothead, but that's because of dh. He'd been hanging at our house for a couple of years before hubby heard us calling him Potter, at which time dh pulled me aside and said, with a concerned tone, "is that cause he's a pothead?" "No, dear," I responded. "Have you not looked at him lately? He actually looks a lot like Harry Potter." Blank stare from the dh.
If I'd told him he was an NFL player, he would've known who HP was, but he's not, so it took a while to explain it.
Potter is an only child -- very, very protected, and raised in a quiet house. Our house, in case you wondered, is anything BUT quiet, so I think he comes over to let his mojo run free. DS and he head off to the store on Fridays, load up on energy drinks and junk food, then play computer games all night. You can tell how much caffeine Potter's had but the vibrations on the living room ceiling -- he can get pretty darned riled up and will, at some point, start some combination of head banging, screaming, dancing, or leaping around, going a million miles an hour. They've actually done a couple of videos -- I think one is on youtube -- just to prove that this side of Potter exists. I don't think anyone actually sees the kid like this, except us, and he is quite entertaining.
He doesn't come over alone. He travels with his computer. Takes two trips to get it all into the house, but he does it, week after week. There was a point at which he started bringing his office chair too -- that was the point at which I told him that, if he was going to start bringing furniture over, we were going to either a) start charging rent or b) start claiming him on our taxes. He just grinned and sat down.
Of course, then there was the week that ds actually went to HIS house. Took HIS computer over, then half an hour later, he came back in. Few minutes later, he walks right across our field of vision (we were watching the tube), carrying a 27" TV from his room. Ummmmmmmmm.....NO. I do have my limits. Don't know why they felt they needed two TVs, but that one never left the house.
He shall be hereforth known as Potter, cause that's what we call him. Well, somedays I call him Pothead, but that's because of dh. He'd been hanging at our house for a couple of years before hubby heard us calling him Potter, at which time dh pulled me aside and said, with a concerned tone, "is that cause he's a pothead?" "No, dear," I responded. "Have you not looked at him lately? He actually looks a lot like Harry Potter." Blank stare from the dh.
If I'd told him he was an NFL player, he would've known who HP was, but he's not, so it took a while to explain it.
Potter is an only child -- very, very protected, and raised in a quiet house. Our house, in case you wondered, is anything BUT quiet, so I think he comes over to let his mojo run free. DS and he head off to the store on Fridays, load up on energy drinks and junk food, then play computer games all night. You can tell how much caffeine Potter's had but the vibrations on the living room ceiling -- he can get pretty darned riled up and will, at some point, start some combination of head banging, screaming, dancing, or leaping around, going a million miles an hour. They've actually done a couple of videos -- I think one is on youtube -- just to prove that this side of Potter exists. I don't think anyone actually sees the kid like this, except us, and he is quite entertaining.
He doesn't come over alone. He travels with his computer. Takes two trips to get it all into the house, but he does it, week after week. There was a point at which he started bringing his office chair too -- that was the point at which I told him that, if he was going to start bringing furniture over, we were going to either a) start charging rent or b) start claiming him on our taxes. He just grinned and sat down.
Of course, then there was the week that ds actually went to HIS house. Took HIS computer over, then half an hour later, he came back in. Few minutes later, he walks right across our field of vision (we were watching the tube), carrying a 27" TV from his room. Ummmmmmmmm.....NO. I do have my limits. Don't know why they felt they needed two TVs, but that one never left the house.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Blinda and the exploding heart
One more tattoo post, then I swear I'm done!
After yesterday's post, I remembered another memorable patient with skin art. This particular patient came in, in labor with her sixth child. I was doing her admission, whilst another nurse would be caring for her during labor.
This woman was very country -- as one of my friends said, she "looked like she had been rode hard and put away wet." One of the River People, as she said, whatever that means. With her hillbilly river person hubby with her. Sweet, but very unrefined.
The nurse who would be caring for her, on the other hand, only liked to take care of the 1% of patients who came in married, employed, with insurance. This was not a match made in heaven.
So, here I am, asking the admission questions, part of which is how many pregnancies have you had, did you have any complications, etc. Sixth pregnancy, she said, but her last baby died. After expressing my condolences, I asked what had happened, as it had bearing on how we'd care for her and the baby.
"Her heart exploded," she answered. You know, fifteen years later, I'm still trying to get the visual on that.
Shortly afterward, her nurse asked for help doing the IV on Mrs River Woman, because she had no veins, and was less than cooperative. I told her I'd give it a try. Looked at her right arm: nothing. Went around to the left, pulled up her sleeve, and was face to face with a half done, obviously amateur tattoo of God knows what. "Oh," I said, "you have a tattoo." "Yeah," said Mr River Person, "if you think she's screamin' now, you shoulda seed her when I was doin' that tattoo."
I'm so sorry to have missed that little bonding experience.
So, labor progresses, then totally stalls. Her nurse is frustrated because the patient is not cooperative. She comes out and flops herself into a chair with a cup of coffee. Suddenly, a blood curdling scream comes from the direction of the River People's room. We went charging in there like the cavalry, only to find that she was delivering. Right now. The doctor who had been sleeping in a call room down the hall totally missed the delivery, that's how fast it happened.
After all the madness calmed down, I wrapped the baby up for her mom to hold. I had a premonition, but asked the question anyway. "What are you naming the baby?"
They responded in unison: "Blinda."
Yep. B-L-I-N-D-A. No E. And somehow, the premonition I'd had whilst bundling the baby up was spot on. I guess that was my bonding moment with the River People, but it was bizarre. Never had that happen before, or after -- only with Blinda. And if you knew what her last name was, you'd really laugh, cause it was a really crazy combinations of names.
After yesterday's post, I remembered another memorable patient with skin art. This particular patient came in, in labor with her sixth child. I was doing her admission, whilst another nurse would be caring for her during labor.
This woman was very country -- as one of my friends said, she "looked like she had been rode hard and put away wet." One of the River People, as she said, whatever that means. With her hillbilly river person hubby with her. Sweet, but very unrefined.
The nurse who would be caring for her, on the other hand, only liked to take care of the 1% of patients who came in married, employed, with insurance. This was not a match made in heaven.
So, here I am, asking the admission questions, part of which is how many pregnancies have you had, did you have any complications, etc. Sixth pregnancy, she said, but her last baby died. After expressing my condolences, I asked what had happened, as it had bearing on how we'd care for her and the baby.
"Her heart exploded," she answered. You know, fifteen years later, I'm still trying to get the visual on that.
Shortly afterward, her nurse asked for help doing the IV on Mrs River Woman, because she had no veins, and was less than cooperative. I told her I'd give it a try. Looked at her right arm: nothing. Went around to the left, pulled up her sleeve, and was face to face with a half done, obviously amateur tattoo of God knows what. "Oh," I said, "you have a tattoo." "Yeah," said Mr River Person, "if you think she's screamin' now, you shoulda seed her when I was doin' that tattoo."
I'm so sorry to have missed that little bonding experience.
So, labor progresses, then totally stalls. Her nurse is frustrated because the patient is not cooperative. She comes out and flops herself into a chair with a cup of coffee. Suddenly, a blood curdling scream comes from the direction of the River People's room. We went charging in there like the cavalry, only to find that she was delivering. Right now. The doctor who had been sleeping in a call room down the hall totally missed the delivery, that's how fast it happened.
After all the madness calmed down, I wrapped the baby up for her mom to hold. I had a premonition, but asked the question anyway. "What are you naming the baby?"
They responded in unison: "Blinda."
Yep. B-L-I-N-D-A. No E. And somehow, the premonition I'd had whilst bundling the baby up was spot on. I guess that was my bonding moment with the River People, but it was bizarre. Never had that happen before, or after -- only with Blinda. And if you knew what her last name was, you'd really laugh, cause it was a really crazy combinations of names.
Skin Art, Part Deux
Yesterday, I talked about tattoos in the hospital. Well, I've also had calls about them at my present job.
I got a call one night from a girl who was calling about her boyfriend. He'd just had a tattoo done the day before, and now it was looking red. Actually, it was sounding pretty ugly -- red, swollen, hot and draining ickiness. After listening to the story, I told her he needed to be seen. "Well," she said, "that's pretty much impossible." After reinforcing how important it was to have him looked at she said, "ma'am, there's no way to do it. He is currently incarcerated."
(Why they don't just say 'he's in jail' is beyond me -- they are always 'currently incarcerated,' but I digress.
So how did he get a tattoo while he was in jail? Turns out that his cellmate had graciously accommodated his desire for a tattoo by sharpening a ballpoint pen on the floor of their cell, then used it to give him a permanent souvenir of the Shelby County Jail. Yep, straight off the floor of his cell.
I didn't ask what the tattoo was, and I've always wondered.
I got a call one night from a girl who was calling about her boyfriend. He'd just had a tattoo done the day before, and now it was looking red. Actually, it was sounding pretty ugly -- red, swollen, hot and draining ickiness. After listening to the story, I told her he needed to be seen. "Well," she said, "that's pretty much impossible." After reinforcing how important it was to have him looked at she said, "ma'am, there's no way to do it. He is currently incarcerated."
(Why they don't just say 'he's in jail' is beyond me -- they are always 'currently incarcerated,' but I digress.
So how did he get a tattoo while he was in jail? Turns out that his cellmate had graciously accommodated his desire for a tattoo by sharpening a ballpoint pen on the floor of their cell, then used it to give him a permanent souvenir of the Shelby County Jail. Yep, straight off the floor of his cell.
I didn't ask what the tattoo was, and I've always wondered.
Boss, the pain, the pain!
I find tattoos interesting. I don't have any of my own, though I did have the kids convinced, at one point, that I had one on my butt. But nope, no skin art at our house.
I've seen a lot of tattoos over the years, especially when I worked in the hospital. Took care of a girl in preterm labor once, and when I rolled her over to give her a shot, there was the Rolling Stones tongue, staring back at me. Kinda surreal, getting ready to deliver a baby and having that big tongue there, but I've seen weirder things.
Like the girl who was in active labor when I first started attending deliveries. Went back to take care of the baby when it was born. One of our residents was with me. Ilya just happened to be Russian. We were hanging out, getting equipment ready for the big event. Every once in a while, we'd look over to see how things were going, and this patient inevitably would be pushing, causing her huge dragon tattoo to lunge out at the doctor like it was going to eat her head. It was truly the most bizarre thing I'd ever seen in a delivery. Ilya looks at me, and in a thick Russian accent says, "remind me to tell my wife not to get a tattoo on her belly." No problem, big guy.
And then there was the guy I took care of in ICU. He was on the losing end of a motorcyle/car accident, and was in a coma. My friend was in giving him a bath, and suddenly pokes her head out of the curtain. "You HAVE to see this," she says, to the respiratory therapist and me. RT heads in, figuring something's wrong with the patient's ventilator.
Nope, not even close.
Here laid Mr Patient on his bed, hooked up to eleventy thousand tubes, and when Mel pulled down the sheet, there it was: KISS ME, tattooed very nicely, right on the end of his ego. RT (a male) says simply "more of a man than I am," and wanders back out.
I will likely go to my grave wondering how much alcohol was involved when that tattoo was done, but I am always interested in seeing if anyone can oneup that one, but I've never seen one.
I've seen a lot of tattoos over the years, especially when I worked in the hospital. Took care of a girl in preterm labor once, and when I rolled her over to give her a shot, there was the Rolling Stones tongue, staring back at me. Kinda surreal, getting ready to deliver a baby and having that big tongue there, but I've seen weirder things.
Like the girl who was in active labor when I first started attending deliveries. Went back to take care of the baby when it was born. One of our residents was with me. Ilya just happened to be Russian. We were hanging out, getting equipment ready for the big event. Every once in a while, we'd look over to see how things were going, and this patient inevitably would be pushing, causing her huge dragon tattoo to lunge out at the doctor like it was going to eat her head. It was truly the most bizarre thing I'd ever seen in a delivery. Ilya looks at me, and in a thick Russian accent says, "remind me to tell my wife not to get a tattoo on her belly." No problem, big guy.
And then there was the guy I took care of in ICU. He was on the losing end of a motorcyle/car accident, and was in a coma. My friend was in giving him a bath, and suddenly pokes her head out of the curtain. "You HAVE to see this," she says, to the respiratory therapist and me. RT heads in, figuring something's wrong with the patient's ventilator.
Nope, not even close.
Here laid Mr Patient on his bed, hooked up to eleventy thousand tubes, and when Mel pulled down the sheet, there it was: KISS ME, tattooed very nicely, right on the end of his ego. RT (a male) says simply "more of a man than I am," and wanders back out.
I will likely go to my grave wondering how much alcohol was involved when that tattoo was done, but I am always interested in seeing if anyone can oneup that one, but I've never seen one.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
We'll always have Paris............
We went to Paris on our honeymoon. We considered a lot of places before settling on it, but we wanted to go somewhere that neither of us had ever been, and would likely never get to, once we had kids. So off to Paris it was.
We almost didn't get there, though. A couple of weeks before our wedding, our passports were lost in the mail, when being sent to the French Embassy for our visas. We had to make a quick trip to Miami (we lived in Florida at the time) and got them replaced in a day. Finally got the visas, and we were good to go.
We spent about a week in Paris before heading south, to the Mediterranean. DH's grandmother had given us a week of her timeshare and we had swapped it for a condo on the beach. Nothing fancy, mind you -- they tried to give us bunkbeds, for heaven's sake, and hubby did everything but kiss his ring to try and explain that we were married, and wanted to sleep like married people.
Our condo had a balcony with a view of the beach. I would wash our clothes out in the sink, then hang them on the balcony to dry while we were swimming and sunning. One morning, I was running a bit late, so I told hubby to go on down to the beach and I'd meet him there. Washed the clothes out, and when I was hanging them up, saw that hubby was talking to some sweet young thing, down on the sand.
When I got down to our spot, she had disappeared and hubby was in the water. I took a quick dip, then saw that the mademoiselle was back, talking to the (new) hubby again. When I got out of the water, she was gone again. "What in the world is she doing," I asked the hubby. "You're not gonna believe it," he said.
"She doesn't speak a word of English. I had my headphones on when she first came up, and she wanted to listen, so I gave them to her. She sung U2, With or Without You, word for word, in English. Then she asked me out.....in French." I guess hubby's four years of high school French were paying off in dividends. He said he told her he was married -- NEWLY married, and she responded that he was in France, and in France, no one cared if you're married.
I can think of at least ONE person who cared. And the chick must've thought I was gonna do some kind of driveby, cause every time I showed up, she disappeared. Guess at least TWO people cared.
But oh well, it's all good -- if you knew the hubby, you would understand that it doesn't really matter how many chickies hit on him, cause he comes home with me. And he's gonna take me to Paris again in 2012 -- maybe we'll find his friend there. And maybe she knows some English now. If not, I guess he'll have to play her "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp."
We almost didn't get there, though. A couple of weeks before our wedding, our passports were lost in the mail, when being sent to the French Embassy for our visas. We had to make a quick trip to Miami (we lived in Florida at the time) and got them replaced in a day. Finally got the visas, and we were good to go.
We spent about a week in Paris before heading south, to the Mediterranean. DH's grandmother had given us a week of her timeshare and we had swapped it for a condo on the beach. Nothing fancy, mind you -- they tried to give us bunkbeds, for heaven's sake, and hubby did everything but kiss his ring to try and explain that we were married, and wanted to sleep like married people.
Our condo had a balcony with a view of the beach. I would wash our clothes out in the sink, then hang them on the balcony to dry while we were swimming and sunning. One morning, I was running a bit late, so I told hubby to go on down to the beach and I'd meet him there. Washed the clothes out, and when I was hanging them up, saw that hubby was talking to some sweet young thing, down on the sand.
When I got down to our spot, she had disappeared and hubby was in the water. I took a quick dip, then saw that the mademoiselle was back, talking to the (new) hubby again. When I got out of the water, she was gone again. "What in the world is she doing," I asked the hubby. "You're not gonna believe it," he said.
"She doesn't speak a word of English. I had my headphones on when she first came up, and she wanted to listen, so I gave them to her. She sung U2, With or Without You, word for word, in English. Then she asked me out.....in French." I guess hubby's four years of high school French were paying off in dividends. He said he told her he was married -- NEWLY married, and she responded that he was in France, and in France, no one cared if you're married.
I can think of at least ONE person who cared. And the chick must've thought I was gonna do some kind of driveby, cause every time I showed up, she disappeared. Guess at least TWO people cared.
But oh well, it's all good -- if you knew the hubby, you would understand that it doesn't really matter how many chickies hit on him, cause he comes home with me. And he's gonna take me to Paris again in 2012 -- maybe we'll find his friend there. And maybe she knows some English now. If not, I guess he'll have to play her "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp."
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