Ninapintasantamaria's Blog











Ok, so we all remember the doctor at my new job that called me stupid (it better have been inadvertently), right? Well, the other day, I wore a new pretty white embroidered scrub top that I thought was just precious and he noticed. The day before that the first assistant told me he thinks Dr K likes me. When I told him that Dr K compared me to his sister who was the only girl with 7 brothers and “didn’t take no shit”, this same first assistant asked if he slept with his sister. Ew. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit, seriously. Even now, I’m getting a bit green around the gills thinking about it. Then yesterday, we were talking about Dancing with the Stars and he asked me if I was a good dancer. I explained about the whole lack of grace and coordination thing and his exact words were “Well, when you’re pretty like you guys, you don’t have to know how to dance…”. Hmmm. So, I’m stupid, but I’m pretty. Nice. While I understand that he likely meant the ‘pretty’ part as a compliment, I’m not sure what this says about how the rest of the world sees me. I’ve never thought of myself as one of those people lucky enough to get by on her looks. In fact, I’ve been told that I’m very confident and forward (and mouthy, maybe that’s not so good), and that this intimidates people. I’ve never felt like I’ve been awarded special privileges or anything. I’ve certainly always had to work for every thing I own. Ouch. Course, I also have to consider the possibility that he’s in my dad’s generation who, for the most part, are sexist, chauvinist, and politically incorrect on their best day, and truthfully can’t help it cause they don’t know any better, so he really thinks he’s a silver-tongued devil. Hate to break it to him, but he’s sooooooo barking up the wrong tree. Aside from the obvious (I’m HAPPILY MARRIED, for God’s sake), I don’t want a man that I have to compete with his job for attention, not to mention fat, old, and well, ok he’s got lots of money, but you gotta have more than just that going for ya. There’s something to be said for a man that’s home every night, and when he’s home, his mind is there too, not somewhere else. However, I’m curious. DO I present myself to the world that way? Hmmm…

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Hi, all. Fletcher here. Well. Mommy says e-x-e-r-c-i-s-e is a dirty bad word, so I have to spell it. ‘Cept I can’t spell, so Mommy had to help. We went to see Miss Rebecca the Pizikal Terrapin today, and she said that my head looks much prettier this time. (It was always pretty, she just needed a closer look. I’m beautiful, cause everybody says so. Even the two old ladies who almost took me home with them today at Chick-Fil-A. But I told them I have to keep Mommy entertained, or she gets very grumpy and starts to cry and whine, so they decided Mommy needed me more. It’s a good thing, cause I’ve discovered that my retrieval alarms only work at home!) She also said that my neck is lots straighter now, on account of all that side-sleeping and tummy time Mommy and Daddy make me do. But then, do you know she said I have a beer gut and my belly muskles aren’t strong and I have a big head??!!!?? Humppphh! So now I have to e-x-e-r-c-i-s-e every day, and get rid of my keg for a six pack, says Mommy. What exactly are a keg and a six pack? No one will tell me! Anyway, I’m rolling over, almost sitting (which is why I have to do sit-ups, is what Miss Rebecca said), blowing raspberry kisses at Mommy, and just today, I held my own bottle all by myself, and was drinking from it. With no help! I’m the biggest boy there ever was! Mommy says so. Apparently, I really must be, cause there was another baby in the waiting room, and she was only a few weeks younger than me, but I could have had her for my snack! She was little. Course, her mommy said I was just big. Maybe I am. Mommy thinks so.



{May 20, 2010}   Do rats play drums?

If so, they’ve been doing it inside my skull for most of the day. I got to work this morning and there was a lock on my locker. That didn’t belong to me, thereby rendering me very unhappy. I just worked Tuesday. I’m very glad that the person who did it wasn’t in hearing because the first think out of my mouth was “Who the hell did this?!!?” I calmed down after a minute and realized that it must just be someone new, so I sought out the nurse educator and requested the identity of the encroacher, if for no other purpose than just to reclaim my stuff. I left a very polite note introducing myself and even offering to move out if I could just get my belongings. She removed the lock but told me she’d cleaned out the previous day. Now, I’ve been there for 5 years, and now that I’ve gone prn, I don’t keep much of anything there anymore, so she thought it was vacant, I guess. No, I didn’t have a lock on it, cause I don’t keep stuff here for the most part. I’ll get one now! However. My scissors are now missing. I’m simply unable to function without my scissors. It’s like going out without a bra. I feel naked without them. I left a message on the board requesting their swift return, but I bet they’re gone for good. And another thing. Do you know she went and told the cardiac director that I was “mean at first, but then I became nice”? I don’t see what was mean about volunteering to cede territory with my stuff, but what-the-hell-ever. After the week I’ve had, I won’t be surprised if America’s Most Wanted mistakes my identity. *sigh* Then, I got to work with my favorite Dr R. today, who (as we’ve established before) has the communicatory skills of a fruit fly and naturally didn’t bother to board his cases correctly, thereby causing severe dis-preparement on the part of the staff, resulting in his severe (yet highly un-deserved, thank you very much) displeasure. Grrrrrrr. How nice. (Remember the old joke about the lady who was listening to all her friends discuss the nice things their husbands had gotten them for their anniversaries and kept saying “How nice!” When they asked her what she’d been given for her last anniversary, she told them a year’s worth of charm school lessons. When asked “Well, what ever for?” she answered “So I could learn how to say “How nice!!” instead of “Fuck you!”) How very nice. Then I got a headache so bad I couldn’t function/focus/fill out forms correctly. Woot. I just want to go to bed. This all started last night when my husband informed me he was having “Bro night” at our house. Apparently, I’m the only one of the wives who will let them participate in “Bro night” at our house. I agreed, with stipulations. Clean up after yourself, BYOB, by God you better not wake up the baby, and LEAVE at a reasonable hour, so that everyone else can get to sleep and to work the next morning without feeling like a poorly mutated lab specimen hell-bent on learning the drum solo to “Back in Black” is rolling around between your ears. Well, all seemed to go according to plan, until the reasonable hour came and went, and they all seemed to be omitting the leaving part. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. And some choice words. Not to mention, they get stupid when they drink, and it’s like baby-sitting teenage boys with less sense. I don’t like playing dutch boy for bunch of grown ass men with no money trying to do things that will only result in scraping them off the pavement where they’ve morphed into a greasy spot, or bailing them out of the pokey with our no money. Actually, I’ve always subscribed to the belief that if you’re stupid enough to play and get caught, you can rot in there till I decide to part with my hard-earned money rectifying your mistake. (I don’t hear any dancing elephants yet, but keep waiting. Let me know when they show up.) I finally issued the dismissal edict at approximately 1145. *disgruntled sigh* My week’s getting better and better. I’m just ecstatic thinking about what Friday holds in store for me! (Wild sarcastic grin)



{May 18, 2010}   Prosthesis, anyone?

I never have a normal week, we’ve established that. As I was going home yesterday, I saw a wreck where one of those old-fashioned tin-foil Datsun trucks got spun around like a top, after being plowed into by a new Mustang. But I had the baby with me. So I says to myself “Self, this would look really bad if you didn’t stop, being a nurse and all.” “But I have the baby with me” I answered. So, I did the next best thing. I slowly pulled around the wreck, rolling down my window and called out to the drivers to see if they were ok. After everyone waved at me, I felt it was safe to continue, but I did inquire. After all, I had the baby with me! So, then. I decide on the way home to visit the Wal-Mart. After I get the Offspring loaded back in and am driving out to the road, I notice something strange in the little grass island at the farthest boundary of the parking lot. There was what appeared to be an unconscious man laying half on the grass and half on the curb, in the glaring sunlight. And that wasn’t even the strangest part. There was a prosthetic leg standing up next to him. Evidently he was an above the knee amputee. Now, I couldn’t tell if the man was homeless, drunk, injured, or a thief (or worse) laying in wait for the first innocent person to approach, (and I had the baby with me!) so I tried to call the Wal-Mart and get hold of the manager to take care of things. Apparently, they don’t have a switchboard or anything in there, cause they never answered. I hated to call 911 if the guy was just drunk, or something, but laying out in the sun with no cover drunk can get you a serious case of heatstroke in a hurry, so I called the non-emergent city hot-line and explained things. I think they thought I was a crank caller. She kept having me repeat things and I kept having to tell her over and over again where exactly he was. (On a side note, Fletcher is holding his own bottle and I just witnessed him take it out and put it back in his little mouth! Squee!!) You can’t make this shit up. By the time I got home, I fully expected someone to prostrate themselves across my front porch. I have this little black rain-cloud *…hovering under the honey tree, only a little black rain-cloud, pay no attention to me….* hanging over my head, I swear. Today, I was in the Pee-Pee Palace, aka the Cysto room. We do Urology surgery there. Extracting kidney stones, resecting prostates, inserting ureteral stents, etc. The x-ray bed quit working, the cysto cleaning room flooded, we couldn’t find stuff, and did I mention that I hate the Cysto room? Yeah.

Ok. So. Apparently the resident slow learner in my house (me) has been naughty. I am guilty of *gasp!* bottle propping my child. And turning my back. Now, most of the time, I’m in the same room, unless I run to the potty or something, but I guess this makes me a bad mother. He’s in a relaxed sitting position when I prop him, and now he’s holding his own bottle for the most part, soooo isn’t that ok? Hell, I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to have any lasting effects from it, so maybe I’m not in too much trouble? Please?

My husband was in an accident early last week. When he called me, I began to panic as I was concerned about where we were going to find the $500 deductible. Do you know, he called me back an hour later and said that the lady he hit wouldn’t give him any more than her name and her insurance policy and left, so when the police got there to file the report, they charged her with a hit-and-run, and he got off scot-free! I told him he should have gone to buy a lottery ticket, cause if that had been me, they’d have found a reason to put me under the jail. Then the insurance company totaled his car, cut him a check for $1500 more than what he paid for it, and filed it under un-insured motorist insurance, so we didn’t have to pay but half the deductible! Like I said, lottery ticket. *shakes head in wonder* I never have a normal day.



{May 13, 2010}   Stinkweed

People ask me all the time how Fletcher’s doing, and I always answer ‘Wonderful! He’s growing like a little stinkweed.’ So, I made a new ticker to update everyone automatically. He keeps blowing raspberries at me, cause now he thinks it’s funny. (It is funny.)
This week, I was forced to work with the same doctor that hollered at me back last spring over the whole “I’m a little girl and don’t want to talk to anesthesia professionally like I’m supposed to” issue. Woot. *sigh* He was reasonably pleasant. I was surprised. I also wondered if he’d been prescribed medication.
In my new job, I’m getting it from all sides, literally. I had a doc call me stupid, (wait, this is actually funny) another staff member call me fat, and an anesthesiologist call me easy. I was telling this story earlier today and someone asked me if they hired me for other reasons than to circulate in the OR. I hope not, cause they’re barking up the wrong tree. What happened was, see, this doc and I were discussing handgun permits and the fact that he had one, and my husband wanted me to get one. Seriously? I don’t think I need to be let loose with a gun. Ever. Not to mention my husband constantly reminds me that anyone dumb enough to grab me would bring me back. I related this information to Dr. K, and he (keep in mind, this man is just a constant chatterer who has no idea how the other half lives, and is even less cognizant of what comes out of his mouth)said “Yeah, my wife is stupid like you…” Wow. I shook my head cause I know how he is, and I truly don’t think he meant it like that, but it was pretty funny! Then, the assistant came in the room (he’d not been present for the ‘stupid’ incident) and told me I didn’t need to gain any more weight. Ouch!! I’d like it noted that I’m down to below my pre-pregnant weight, thank you very much! Then one of the anesthesiologists was making a joke, and said that he usually got at least a giggle out of that, and I told him that he’d made me laugh. He says “Oh, well, you’re easy.” That’s it, I’m going the hell home. As you can see, I’m just having a bitchin’ week. While none of these things were meant the way they came out (I hope), I still thought it was funny. I’ve got enough fodder for guilt trips for at least two more weeks! Shall have to finagle lunch out of them! 😉



{May 8, 2010}   My Mother’s Day Gift

Today, for the first time, Fletcher held his own bottle, rolled from his back to his front, and blew me a raspberry and grinned. My gift was that I got to see each one. So many parents lament missing their child’s milestones. I didn’t miss it. I’ve gotten so lucky with everything. He’s healthy, he knew how to nurse, he’s distinctively crabby when he’s not feeling well, or otherwise indisposed, (this makes it easy to know when to start trouble-shooting) I got to see his first smile, the first time he held his head up, and the first time he rolled from his belly to his back. He’s really made it easy. Fletcher was enough, but God went one better. *sigh*



{May 3, 2010}   Water-logged

Well, not to worry, everyone. All this radio silence is just laziness. I’ve not been swept away by flash floods. I was trapped downtown Sunday while the hospital called a disaster code, however. The first two floors of the women’s hospital was under water, they had to swim to HR, they had no suction in the building, and their elevators were non-operational. They were talking about dragging out the stairway slides to evacuate patients. It was awful! A mexican restaurant down the street was submerged up to their roof, the Opryland Hotel is still under 19 feet of water. Seems like there were tornadoes this time last year and I was stuck downtown during that too. At least this time I didn’t have to listen to the dulcet tones of some doctor screaming at me. That was nice.
Today, I had a patient who was 32 years old, a mixed martial artist, smoked 2 packs of cigs a day, and drank a 6-pack of beer a day. And that’s just what he would admit to. We all know it was probably more. His blood pressure was 190/120. My mouth engaged before my brain did (you know, like normal) and I wondered aloud (out of his earshot, thank goodness) if he had erectile dysfunction. Not to mention renal failure. His blood pressure meds were on the local pharmacy’s list of $4 prescriptions. *sigh* You’d think he’d care more about that, but…not so much. He was also complaining of symptoms that (huh, imagine that) made me fear for the future of his gallbladder. Or a long hospital stay due to pancreatitis. *rubs forehead vigorously*
In other news, Fletcher is growing like a little stinkweed. I’m afraid he’s gonna go to kindergarten thinking his name’s Chunk or Stinkweed, but hopefully we can contain that soon. I fully intended to take him to church again, but we got rained out. Try again for next week. Next Sunday is Mother’s Day. It’ll be my first real one. I’m kind of excited.



et cetera