Googs ♥︎

Oh, my Googs ♥︎

There is this little human, this incredible little human being, who has my heart.

There's this thing, or rather, there's this time in life when one has the honor of becoming a grandparent.

Oh yeah, blah, blah, how cliche is that?!? But really, I understand that aging is not to poo'd-poo'd and that in the past I have only done so because I wasn't there yet, in life, OR in mental capacity. Sadly.

I feel that as a youth, I was shallow. I based life and the value of life on physical objectives, like beauty and smooth skin and build and grace and scent and dear gawds, even teeth (I've always been funny about teeth). As a youth, I was disconnected from the aspect of aging, like, it was so far in the future that I could not fathom it.

My mother was aging and I did not consider her particularly beautiful because of that, same with both of my grandmothers. My grandfathers were more formidable; age did not seemingly deteriorate their worth and presence of strength, in the eyes of the youthful me.

Wow... that REEKS of social sexism! So often society views woman as man-objects with their worth being based on their perceived and subjective beauty. When that's gone (beauty and sexiness), a woman is less valuable... sadly, her mind is still intact, but why does that matter? Oh boy. I could rant about this for hours, but I will not... not here in my post about precious Googs ♥︎.

How very narcissistic humans are, really, by nature... how collectively UN-insightful humans are as well.

Anyway, so, if you haven't noticed by now, I go on, quite often, about aging, and I have no problems voicing my insecurities about that occurrence. Sometimes I feel that in acknowledging what we fear, and voicing that fear (whether it be out loud or to an empty room, or to the random cat or dog on the bed, or to the hubby that is clearly experiencing his own battle with aging, or to the reflection in the mirror), we gain power and dignity to face it... to face that thorn-in-the-side, nagging, unspeakable, debilitating, desperate fear OF AGING.

So then I became a grandma.

After having three children of my own, I have not been able to fathom having more heart to give, or adoring other little humans as much as I do them.  But I DO have more heart to give and I AM capable of adoring other little humans, just as much, in this surreal, strange, magical, powerful and TOTALLY relaxed manner! Like, I LITERALLY have all the answers now... to child rearing and most of those answers have the same common denominator:

Savor, appreciate, and SERIOUSLY don't fret the tiny things!

For example, as a young mother, I was uptight about my children eating, especially my oldest. He was finicky and I was worried that he'd starve, right before my very eyes! When I introduced him to spoon feeding, he did not want anything to do with it; he liked ba and cereal ba. Oh my, I was so stressed out about this! I would sit down daily and try and try and try to get him to eat the nummy deliciousness of Gerber from a tiny, rubber-coated spoon, but NOPE. He would cry. And when he'd open his mouth to cry more, I'd slip the spoon in his mouth! What kind of idiot was I? Seriously, first, he could have aspirated, and second, how did I think that slipping food in his mouth while crying would make him want to be spoon fed at all? Ohdeargawds what a moron I was.

Now, of course, I know better. I know that those precious little ones will eat when they are hungry and they certainly won't starve before my very eyes...

Oh, my Googs ♥︎

That sweet, little baby eats just fine. Her momma blends up those little carrots and avocados and zucchini and potatoes (in the Baby Bullet! which is totally unnecessary but ridiculously adorable, what with its little smiling blender faces and what-not, making everything that the Googs ♥︎ momma does that much more adorable), portioning them adorably in freezer-safe containers getting them ready for the Googs ♥︎ belly.

Sometimes Googs ♥︎ will growl while she's eating. We haven't figured out yet exactly why. Possibly because she's hungry and therefore eats the potatoes or carrots but really she would prefer the peaches? Or bananas? In any case, it's silly funny. Googs ♥︎ is so full of personality, but really, what little human isn't?

When she was brand new, she developed her trademark cry, and actually, it was more bitching than crying. She would throat-whine, and make a face and the sounds she made came out sounding like, "Goog." Yes, so now she's Googs ♥︎.

I am crazy in love with her and just thinking of her pulls at my heartstrings. She's precious and her little, chubby skin is so soft, and her little hazel eyes are so inquisitive, and her fat little toes are attached to the chubbiest, cutest feet! Her little fingers (that so resemble her mamma's!) are precise and dimpled and are purposely reaching for everything, while she "googs" and "dah-dahs" and shrieks in delight about all the simple things in this big, big world!

She sucks on her bottom lip and I imagine that by now she is getting familiarized with the feeling of the one, perfect little tooth that is busting through her little gums. Sometimes she'll smile around the lower lip sucking, and sometimes she'll just stare at whomever... like they've lost their mind.

She's Googs ♥︎ and she's perfect.

Until her, I rolled my eyes when grandmas would speak of their little grand-babies, how useless and pointless, I would think, to be a grandmother. After all, being a grandmother means you've gotten old, lost your human importance, and cease to matter to the rest of society. That may be true in the eyes of many youths, but I am working on not caring about that anymore because I matter to Googs ♥︎.

Rock on, Grandmas of the world! Rock on! It's an honor to grow old and achy and wrinkly and chubbier and crankier and itchier and watch your loved ones love their loved ones... ♥︎

I feel as though it's an honor to have reached the point in life where I can pass my wisdom on to my baby-girl, as she raises HER baby-girl. I hope that in sharing what I've learned with her, she will be more able to relax and enjoy and not FRET!

I ♥︎ Googs.

 

Auntie Piper & the Tortilla

Auntie Piper is one of the kewlest souls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. She’s honestly too good for this world and I seriously feel as though human beings, even in their rawest and most generic forms, do not deserve those such as Auntie Piper.

Auntie Piper is my dog, of course. Yes, the one that I constantly watch poop, because that’s what good dog owners do. Naw, naw, good dog owners aren’t watching their dogs poop as a signal of solidarity or obsession, naw, I watch Auntie Piper poop because she’s a dog and obsessed with chewing on such things as her blankie, or her canvas fire hydrant, or her canvas lizard, or …. something that she figures we no longer need, like, a dryer sheet or something.

Anyway, we approximate Auntie Piper to have been born in late April of 2017. She was found with several litter mates and other puppies in a tote on the shoulder of a country road on a hot day in late June of that same year. We rescued her, of course, and even now, as she licks my decorative throw pillow, I can’t help but wonder if, in fact,  she rescued us. Isn’t that a cute and original thing to say?

So she’s a good dog. She stays in her yard, for the most part, and comes when we call. She loves the neighbor across the street, and we refer to him as her boyfriend. She’s now trained to not run and greet him without permission. Sometimes she forgets, though, and I have to call her back, have her sit, and then give her permission to go.

I’m a cat person. I’m an introvert and I prefer to be left alone. Dogs don’t do that; dogs don’t  leave you alone, and if they do, they leave you alone only to watch you. Dogs like to please people and seek approval. It doesn’t make me feel good or cool when she listens to me, it makes me feel guilty. I feel bad that she thinks I know what is best for her. Yes, of course, on many levels, I do know what’s best, like not chewing and eating blankie, for example, however, she knows so much more about LIVING and loyalty than I do! She was born with nothing but goodness in her little doggie heart.

Anyway, Auntie Piper is Auntie Piper because of how gentle and kind she is to Googs, whom I have yet to write about… but I will get to all of that in another post.

But tonight, she pulled a dog-move. It wasn’t a big deal, but silly and so typical of Auntie Piper.

She never gets into the trash, or drinks out of the toilet. She won’t lick a dirty plate that is put down in front of her unless we say it’s ok. Also, she hardly eats her food, but she loves our food… and cat puke (oh that’s so handy!). But the point of this post… tonight she got into the trash. Yes. It was taco night tonight and a charred tortilla ended up in the trash, of which has a flip- lid, btw. Auntie Piper got into the trash and pulled out that charred  tortilla, but being Auntie Piper, however, before eating the tortilla, she snuck up silently next to my bed and watched me for a moment. When I turned away from the ridiculous homework I was doing, I see this:

She stood and stood like that, sliding her eyes back and forth between hubby and myself. How desperately she wanted to dog-gobble that unfortunate tortilla… but oh how guilty she felt snagging it from Trash Can!

She only ate the tortilla after I asked her to give it and I gave it back to her, telling her it was alright. Omygawsh… what kind of dog-mom am I… condoning eating out of the trash and all….

Oh Auntie Piper. You complete me. ?❤

 

I hate the word, “Panties.”

https://www.dementeddesignsoc.com

I do. I effing HATE the word panties.

Panties. Ok, so maybe that word is appropriate when writing a lusty, sensual story that involves "ripping off the panties" or "not wearing any panties" or, for gawds sake, "edible panties." Daily life, folks? Panties? No way, man... I don't wear panties, I wear frickin' UNDERWEAR. Underwear under my jeans, beach pants, yoga pants, scrubs, shorts or boxers. But UNDERWEAR nonetheless.

Panties?

Panties are for bitches who tryin' to be sexy. Panties are for bitches who tryin' to hook a mate. Panties are for bitches who don't have periods.

So... long, long ago, before the nursing endeavor, I worked for this crappy factory that built crappy fixtures for mediocre department stores (i.e. Kohls, JCPenny, T.J.Max, etc.) I worked in the receiving department with a bad-ass, flaming-gay Peurto Rican and a few pot-heads. As the company went through cost-reduction transitions, the receiving department was slimmed down to just the gay guy and I and for a while, that all went fine ('nother story, 'nother time).

However, in the midst of all this stupid cost-reduction, the quality and assembly departments were experimenting with how receiving delivered raw materials to the lines. At one point during this quest, the bad-ass gay guy burst out laughing at a new "work order" and showed me what we would be consolidating, for the lovely assembly department. Prepare yourself, he warned through snarky laughs, for we would be gathering all the materials for the assembly of... mmm hmmm... PANTY SHELVES.

Yes. As simple as that.

PANTY SHELVES!!

Oh gawds. What has the retail world come to? The order wasn't even for Victoria's Secret (VS). The order was for JCPenny and up until the call out for  PANTIE SHELVES came across our little, dusty, receiving desks, I hadn't thought about JCP since I had been a kid and my mother took me shopping for a Christmas dress.

And now the store wanted pantie shelves. Omygawsh, the gay guy and I came up with bottomless cracks and jokes about these panty shelves. We speculated and laughed ferociously over the visuals of what all would be allowed on the panty shelves and the demographics that would meander through JCP to view the panties on the Panty Shelves! Seriously, in our minds, JCP ordering Panty Shelves was no different than Sears or Lowes ordering Panty Shelves!

Point and case?

I HATE the word PANTIES. I hate the word hate, as well, but hate and PANTIES... man... they are like white on rice, or brown, whichever you prefer.

Photo credit: https://www.dementeddesignsoc.com

Beer, ice-cream, integrative research, and cry-babying…

It's currently 9:06 pm here in the Mitten and it's still 86 degrees, on the lakeshore. Mind you, the lakeshore is generally approximately 10 degrees (or more) LESS in temperature than inland.

No biggie, but seriously hot enough to combine beer & ice cream sandwiches! Yes!

Additionally, I just finished the rough draft to a stupid paper and I am feeling very accomplished. For now.

So I am spending my summer writing papers, responding to discussion boards, and developing silly scenarios. Yeah. I rule.

My house is trashed, I haven't cleaned my bathroom in two weeks, I am washing the same pairs of scrubs, shorts, t-shirts, tanks, underwear, bra, and socks over and over again because I do not have the time (nor the desire) to catch up on laundry. Hubby, frankly, at this point, is doing well at taking care of himself (as he should, for crying out loud. Men only THINK they need a woman to do their stinky laundry). As are my adult children. And the cats (as long as their dish is filled, litter-pool scooped, and water dish at a satisfactory level).

But not the dog. Never the dawg.

The dawg needs love and attention and approval and praise and pets and open doors to venture forth toward the wilderness (of the Mitten) to pee-pee and poop-poop. I am not a dawg person, but I love that dog! She's a good girl, even with as dawg as she is! Anyway, thank gawds her and hubby have one another. I don't think the family would have made it this far (in nursing school, because, as you should know, it's a family venture, achieving passing grades in nursing school...) without the dawg-love.

In any case, I am still rambling, as I did with my ridiculous paper that researched the research on the effects of nurse to patient ratio reduction on compassion fatigue. Sadly, like so many things in our world, healthcare is a bureaucracy and it is delegated, highly, by insurance companies. Health insurance calls the shots, tossing the constraints of care at upper management who pass the buck to midlevel management who pass the buck to lower-level management that do not have education and are therefore job scared and will not go to bat for that of which is important; the patients and the well-being of those caring for the patients.

It's pathetic, really, but, believe it or not, the U.S. still has it better than most countries when it comes to healthcare, even Canada. Regardless of what is read on the internet (I've had Canadian patients vouch for this, real, live Canadians visiting the U.S. who were seeking treatment for their cough due to cold), healthcare in the U.S. is not sooo terribly bad.

I will not allow myself to begin the rant. I would LOVE to, though, and vent about my many frustrations regarding Medicaid, Medicare, and abuse of the healthcare system, of which many providers are a part of, btw, because they are tired of arguing with google degree'd patients. But I will spare potential readers of that monotony.

But I will say this... please, for the love of gawds, don't initiate an entire emergency visit for a picked at (now infected) bug bite. Just... don't. No, no, I promise, it's not

Necrotizing Fasciitis

... *sigh*

Stop picking at your bug bites and apply your Off bug spray. Just do it. And STOP googling your symptoms unless you're smart enough to do so.

And stop insisting that you "got jumped by some guys that you don't even know FOR NO REASON AT ALL. Please. Do you think we work in healthcare because we're stupid? Just tell us that you cannot, for your own safety, disclose who the hell "jumped you."

And stop yelling at us because you're not getting what you want or that you've been "waiting for over an hour." It is likely that the medical staff is busy, very busy, taking care of other patients. Seriously, it rarely happens (though it does happen, and TRUST me, nobody likes working with a fellow clinical staff member that prioritizes FB and Instagram ahead of work, seriously not KEWL) that clinical staff sit around and let patient visit minutes accumulate unnecessarily. Do you have any idea how much shit we would get from nursing leadership about this? No, don't yell at us about your wait because it is likely we are under-staffed and doing the best we can to make sure we save the patient who IS, IN FACT, dying (and doesn't realize it) and doing our best to tend to the new Hilton Hotel elite standards of healthcare. Don't yell at us, unless we are rude. That's never necessary. But if we're sweating and drawing your blood and collecting your urine, be nice. Please. It's likely we have to pee or eat, or our cat just died at home (true story) and we are waiting for the end of our 13-hour shift to deal with it.

And how many times has a post similar to this been posted on social media? Likely a BILLION.

If you want to make a change, fill out the stupid, tree-burning patient survey that accompanies your discharge instructions (some facilities do it that way still). That's what "management" will read. That's the only way to be effective, and, by the way, you'll have to be aggressive and fill out a survey daily, with the same complaint for several weeks to actually get the attention of anybody who is capable of changing a damn thing.

Oh, and did you know that in nursing school we are taught to address patients as clients. CLIENTS.

And there you have it. I ended up venting. I'm not even sure how to categorize this one.

 

So here I sit… procrastinating.

Yeah. So why not get something out of my procrastination, like... a blog post. This, too, shall serve as preparation for the tasks I do not wish to complete today...

Today is the day I must start my Integrated Literature Review paper. Oh yeah, a paper, not a biggie, but recall (if you will or can [busted?] my front page and how I say:

Woo-Hoo! It's my bloggie and I can blog how I want to! I feel FREE not having to abide by the rules of formal writing and APA.

So much work! And so many rules and criteria and formalities and commas and parenthesis and periods and semicolons and colons and capitalizations and dates and authors and citations. Oh sure, it's my literature review paper but I cannot write how I want to! 

So I should suck it up, of course, because let's be real; it's damn paper. It's not the removal of one of my limbs or revocation of my birthday or mother status. I've not been given terminal cancer and told to shut up and deal, it's nothing more than a stupid paper. And still, my butt hurts just thinking about all that damn sitting... (insert cry-baby emoji here, RIGHT THERE [that was from DB #3, for those who caught it]).

So let's do this. Let's go for a quick walk, get the tanning salon out of the way (yes, of course I know it's bad for me, just like smokers and crack-heads know smoking and crack is bad for them), shower, eat, and get that paper going. Just do it.

Finally, was there a point to this post? Absolutely not. I simply wanted to snuggle up in a space that makes me feel cozy and spend constructive time with my procrastination.

Please, let's spread the misery!

Comment and share with me your procrastination story... No judgments, really!

Michigan Sky Blue and Me.

So, as I begin this new post, I think about all of my "to do blogs." Ugh. So much to do, so little time. What a cliche!

This post has NOTHING to do with my to-dos. It's just random... and necessary.

Today, at the age of 45...

(I think that's how old I am... seriously, I cannot keep count, I think I am EVEN numbered when my babies are ODD [19, 25, 27], so yes, I will be 46 in August... omg. It's utterly frightful to look at that number...)

I went for a mani/pedi with my forever friend. What a glorious morning, even though it was IN FACT... MORNING. As I age, I find that I slip more and more into my default self. Really though? It is actually quite freeing, in a sense, to finally have the balls to be... ME. However, it's a complete shame that most people (especially women), do not have the balls to be THEMSELVES until their face begins to wrinkle, boobs begin to sag, ass begins to grow stupidly, and those damn joints begin to ache. Damn you, Mother Time.

In any case, HERE I AM. I am aging and I am present. But mostly, this day made me realize that what I like and what makes me feel RIGHT actually matters.

That being said...

( I once had an accounting professor that always said, "That being said..." which I loved because it meant, ding, ding, TIME TO MAKE THE POINT, and lemme tell you how many other professors have marked that term in the many papers I have written as, "unnecessary"! )

Mofos, I had my fingernails and toenails painted sky blue today. Yeah. That's right, sky blue (Michigan sky blue, not Colorado sky blue)! How fun to swerve from the stupid slut red or neutrals that I have always felt comfy with and go with a color that I normally detest. BLUE. BLUE? C'mon, peeps, blue is a faded, bleached version of purple, which is my all-time favorite, and yet, I still went with blue. I went with sky blue on my bedroom accent walls, as well. It's a mid-life-crisis-phase, I tell you! But it feels just fine! 🙂

So that's the point of this post; paint your nails whatever color makes you happy. I asked the clinictian, as she was grinding at my toes and calouses (I work a lot, you know, and even Alegria shoes can not prevent the signs of hard work) if "I was too OLD for the color." She said no, of course (OF COURSE she would say whatever pleases her client!), but I did it anyway. Blue, peeps!

Just live. That's what people need to focus on. Not petty issues like politics or "do these pants make my butt look bigger." Focus on what's valuable, like... people who are in your life, regardless of your mistakes, and stupid nail polish that makes you feel HAPPY! Do it, peeps, but harm none. Yeah. The first law of life should be "harm none."

Harm none.

I had too… I just HAD TO DO IT…

I changed the slang of my duuuuumb “whatever it was” to duuuuumb bleep.

I have given in, once again, to the stuffy constraints of society. *sigh* In order to be “accepted,” I must watch my mouth. For crying out loud.

I love profanity. Not always, there’s a time and a place, of course, but profanity expresses verbally that of which should not be expressed physically.

Ugh. I wish the world were a better place.

‘Nuff said, I guess.

Ohmygawsh. TMJ

The temporomandibular (tem-puh-roe-mun-DIB-u-lur) joint

(TMJ)

TMJ is no joke. Again, I must say, I have scoffed and turned the cheek to those who have claimed to suffer from TMJ.

Well, now… that was not very nice of me. Last Saturday, a week ago today, my jaw slipped out of “socket” and was stuck in a forward position for almost 48 hours. I could talk and eat, to a certain degree, but my back teeth would not come together and I was in excruciating pain. Monday morning I woke up and my jaw was back in line, apparently my nighttime gritting and grinding had slipped it back into place (SO glad I was not awake for that “slipping back in”)

A week later, I am still sore and tender. My dentist says there’s not a whole lot that can be done for TMJ… lifestyle changes and stress management is really what it’s all about. I am just one of those that carry my stress in my jaw, my dentist says, similar to how some people get ulcers from stress, I get TMJ.

OUCH.