Take this job and shove it! I ain't workin here no more!

My two year contract for my first job out of school is up next Wednesday. I managed to weasel my way into having my last week of work off with PTO and flex days. I'm DONE!

I'm tired of not getting respect. That's what it all comes down to. I didn't go to school for 7 years to get two degrees and $80,000 (before interest) of loans to be disrespected. I think the worst part of it all is being told things like "you are too compassionate."

Are you kidding?

This is health care for crying out loud. What would I be doing here if it weren't for my compassion? I sure am not in it for the money.

My older co-workers tell me "it's like this every where."

If that's the case I will change my job every year until I find people that do not accept the unacceptable.

What it comes down to is this: If you allow people to walk all over you they will time and time again. I refuse to be a doormat.

I will continue to stand up for my patients and what is right. That's the kind of clinician I am.

In closing, I'd like to sing another song:

Kiss. Kiss this. And I don't mean on my rosy red lips!

Aaaand, on that note, I'll be having dental surgery tomorrow and then moving to the beach on Sunday! Whoop whooop!

I am lame. I know. I never write anymore. My excuse is that I have a life outside of this box we all call "computer." However, this is not the case. The Best Man sits for hours on end each evening at his box and I at mine. I really could write. I'm lazy.

So that's it. I'm lazy. And lame.

The Best Man's Brother's Best and Only Girl wrote this post tonight which prompted me to write.

I have much to say regarding her post, however I thought I best save that for another day.

However, I will say I do believe Erikson would say this is a case of Identity versus Role Confusion. Obviously, The Best Man's Brother's Best and Only Girl has her identity creatively constructed via any art medium she chooses, however is frustrated with those losers who are struggling over lower life stages such as industry versus inferiority.

Okay, so I was a psych major in undergrad, what's it to you. Oh yeah, and I forgot I wasn't going to talk about that.

What I am going to talk about (and yes, I do realize that I should never begin any sort of writing with any kind of potential with any stating "what I'm going to talk about is...", but I just did, so oh well) is wedding planning.

We now have an officiant and catering quotes. And (heaven forbid, but this is really the best thing of all) most importantly A CAKE! So, I've been preaching to all my SC friends down yonder how great my favourite local grocery store cake is for the past 1.5 years. They have their own variety of grocery store cake which they rant about. What is the best part of a cake, I ask you? THE ICING. I mean obviously, the icing makes the cake. The icing down here is horrendous. Terrible, I tell you. These people make this their wedding cake? Really? With nasty icing like that?

Oh, I digress. So, anyway, I had pretty much signed the deal in my head and heart that I was going to get my cake from the local grocer. On a whim, The Best Man and I went to local pastry shop and did a cake tasting before we went to the grocer for our official must be made in pen and ink appointment. Turns out not only was the local pastry shop cheaper, but the almond flavor (the only flavor of any importance in my opinion) was much more palatable.

So, needless to say, we have officially booked THE CAKE. And an officiant. And hopefully we can soon say we've booked some food and some hotel rooms for ourselves and guests, however I do hope these last two will lessen their bills before we commit.

Well, that is all. Well, that and bekind to your fellow artist, for you never know whom will be painting a life like picture of you.

P.s. Now I want to paint. Or at least make pretty jewelry. . . mmm wedding jewels...

A Serious Discussion

As I was driving home from work today I realized I needed to have a serious discussion with The Best Man. I was bringing home two boxes of Girl Scout cookies- the best ever- Thin Mints and Tagalongs!-and knowing our love of sweets knew this could pose a problem.

Ice cream is his go to sweet, however he will quickly gooble up candies, chocolates (that he's bought for me), and cookies. I love cakes and cookies and icecream all equally. I show no sweet preference over another, you know unless one has a lot more chocolate than the other, then I'm distracted enough to show favouritism.

So, I did what any smart girl would do when backed into a corner. I hid the box of Tagalongs.

I walked up to the apartment thinking if there was any way to compromise. I mean, come on, these are GIRL SCOUT COOKIES. This is serious stuff here. So, out of the goodness of my heart I decide we can each have one sleeve from each box (Tagalongs will stay hidden until Thin Mints are demonlished).

I am going to marry this guy, so I had to take drastic measures and share.

Then I came inside with a serious face asking to sit down and talk.

I'm sure The Best Man thought another one of my patients had passed away (we've sadly not been saving many lives here these days it seems). Then I asked what his favourite Girl Scout cookies where.

"Somoas." He has bought two boxes that have yet to arrive.

Coconut!? So, no bargaining here. He'd get his two boxes and I'd have to share mine or have mine demolished while I was at work saving lives and all that jazz.

I then revealed my box of thin mints and was very thankful to find that he doesn't care for them much.

SCORE!

They are safe!

"What about tagalongs?"

"Eh."

DOUBLE SCORE!

Looks like all the anxiety was for nothing. I just hope he realizes what a sacrafice I was willing to make. I mean, really, SHARING Girl Scout cookies. That's big time.

Ps. Tagalongs are now called Peanut Butter Patties, but that's a whole 'nother story.

I almost volunteered The Best Man to fight a drunk high schooler...opps!

The Best Man and I had a picnic dinner at the park. We were laying on the river bank after eating with the river at our feet and the parking garage several yards behind us. Suddenly, something wet landed between us.

A half full Budweizer beer can.

The Best Man inspected and noted several beer cans by the parking garage. I packed up our stuff, put in the car and stormed up the incline of the deck looking for the kids who threw the can at me.

What was I thinking?

"How dare they?" That's what I was thinking.

What was The Best Man thinking? "I hope we don't get killed."

We have since spoken and he has been instructed to ground me and calm me down the next time.

I ended up confronting the 4 or 5 high schoolers. One of them was upset because I called him an idiot because he had fallen (or been pushed as he claimed) off the parking deck through a tree and onto the ground an hour earlier. This kid hand long scraggly blonde surfer boy hair and was 1/2 my size. He looked at The Best Man behind me and said "Is that your boy? He's going to have to fight me."

Then he began to take off his shirt.

Why is it that people who are trash talking always take off their shirts to fight? I mean, what's that going to do?

Needless to say, The Best Man has a lot cooler head on his shoulders than I do and simply stated we were not going to fight anyone and were just looking for whom ever threw a beer can at us.

Although there was an empty can at their feet, the same variety of what I was now wearing, they claimed some other kids did it.

And with that we stormed up the flight of stairs to the top level...where I cooled off and made The Best Man call the non emergency police number.

I hope those kids at the very least got busted for loitering and smoking and drinking under age. Take that little twerps!

Ps. Next time, The Best Man, will forcefully restrain me if need be and then we will stay put and call the non emergency police number.

Decisions

It's unfortunate how a person's decision can affect another's life. Today, I went to the dentist for the first time since middle school. As a middle schooler, I didn't decide not to go to the dentist anymore. My mom thought dental insurance wasn't important. Sure, I got fliers in grad school for cheap dental insurance, but I didn't trust them. Instead of paying for my own insurance,going to free clinics, or having the hot dental students work on my teeth I waited it out until I got my own. Since September first I've had insurance. I stalled. It took me a while to get motivated to pick a dentist and make the call. The Best Man hounded me into making the call. The list of things I need sounds something like a certain Christmas tune. . .
3 fillings
2 crowns
and
1 dental implant

Oh, and it probably goes without saying, but I cried. I was so embarrassed at the state of my teeth and overwhelmed at the laundry list of things that need to get done. If I had been going to the dentist regularly the past 12 or so years most of this could have been prevented. Oh, well. I'm here for a reason and now it's time to make appointment after appointment to cross items off the above list. Wish me luck!

Ear plug

So I tried out one ear plug last night (I'm afraid I won't hear my own alarm with two). I did not wake up in the middle of the night due to obscene noises from next door like I had done a couple of times in the past few days. I am going to have to kick my habit of hitting "snooze" since the guy above me is still driving me crazy with HIS alarm! I'm way too nice to say anything...but I'm seriously considering it. Some mornings, when I can't get back to sleep when his alarm wakes me too early, it's all I can do not to find the broom and bang on the ceiling above and yell "WAKE UP!"


On a happier note: Today we celebrate a very, special day: It is officially (according to me anyway) one year and six months since The Best Man and I started dating. He is currently chillaxin in Colorado, but we plan to celebrate in two weeks and one day when he (FINALLY) comes to visit! I'm starting to learn about all the fancy places down here, so I'll have to trick him into taking me out somewhere nice! ;) Only kidding. . .

Tired.

This week I'm tired of taking care of people who yell, curse, or at the very nicest frown as soon as they catch sight of me. I'm also tired of helping people who aren't receptive. That's enough complaining for the day. . . I'm off to watch the last two episodes of Grey's Season 4 before Season 5 starts tomorrow...although I still need to figure out exactly how I'll be watching it tomorrow without a cable.

Addiction

I know I have a problem. And I'm trying to stop. I really am. Part of me knows that buying 6 pairs of shoes in the 2 months I've lived here is obscene. But honestly, I needed 5 of the 6 pairs. I've been seeing girls in cute sandals all summer, so I got a pair to celebrate being done with boards. Plus, they were only 10 dollars. Then, I needed new running shoes. That's valid, right? Well, they were having a buy one get one half off sale. So, I got a pair of Sperrys. I needed those, too. I mean, I can't live in South Carolina and not have a pair of tan Sperrys. The blue pair I got last summer doesn't work with a lot of outfits. Pair number four was a pair of brown moccasins. I have been wanting some since last fall and I don't have a single pair of brown shoes. They were a necessary asset to my wardrobe. Today, I bought two pairs of shoes. Both purple. They are completely different shades of course. Obviously it would not have been practical to have two pairs of shoes the same color purple. It's not like I have any other pairs of purple shoes (well, unless you count flip flops, but those are only $3 from Old Navy). Three pairs of purple shoes would just be too much. Don't you agree? I have bought more than just shoes, but I won't bore you with more details. I have lost 15 pounds since this time last year, so its all needed. Plus, I got rid of a lot of clothes over the last year over the biggest of 5 moves. It also doesn't help when a friend of mine down here says she won't wear something around the same people/person for a year or so. I can't wear the same 5 tops every week. Enough of excuses. The plan is to save up for furniture and student loans. I'm not going to buy any more clothes this month. Well, at least not until I get to San Francisco later this week. . .

"I don't want no scrub, a scrub is a guy who thinks he's fly"

As much as I LOVE Grey's Anatomy I freaked out when I was almost forced to buy a Grey's scrub top. I have to get scrubs in royal blue and was having trouble finding tops in this color in my size. At first, I could only find 1 Grey's Anatomy brand scrub top in my size. Okay, so it was pretty cute and actually makes me look like a woman and not a teenage boy. But it's almost borderline sexy (well, I think scrubs are sexy in general, so maybe that's just me?) and who is going to take me seriously wearing a scrub top that has a little Grey's Anatomy tag on it? No one! Thankfully, after looking around for 10 extra minutes I found 2 unisex tops and didn't have to buy the Grey's top. Phew! That also saved me about $14 bucks because obviously Grey's scrubs come with a trendy price. Too bad I'm back to looking like a boy, but at least I have cute Dickies bottoms :)

The YMCA = red neck country club

Don't be offended if you are a fellow Y patron, if you sing the YMCA louder than any of your friends, if you've worked there or lived there or been a member there for longer than you can remember.

Do not take offense.

I've worked at My Y for almost 8 years now (7 years and 11 months and 1 day to be exact, but hey, who's counting?). I can honestly say, come summer the Y turns into a red neck country club.

What I mean is we get a LOT of new members for the summer. The old members vanish to the outdoor pools and clubs or come at less conspicuous times of day. They spend the summer sipping lemonade and lounging by an outdoor pool in order to get some rays. In their place are new members with bleached blond hair from the box (it's actually kinda orange and stringy versus being done at a salon). Not only do these new patrons have bad hair, but they have at least 4 kids all under the age of 6. These kids are thrown in life jackets while they run across MY pool deck so that their mom's can hang out in the sauna in their yellow string bikinis.

Tattoos. Now. There are tasteful and even meaningful tattoos. Red neck tattoos take the cake. Now, perhaps they are meaningful to someone, but they are by no means tasteful. The tattoo I saw today on one of our new members backs was a teddy bear (that didn't look too cuddly, actually) holding 4 balloons. Each balloon had initials in it. I can only imagine that they stood for each of her four children.

Speaking of tattoos, working at pool I've seen some nasty, wrinkled, saggy, and washed out tattoos. I've included a picture of a ridiculously tacky tattoo on a pregnant woman. Unfortunately, I have not seen the likes of this in person. One can only hope.

The mini van

As I walked home from the gym this evening, I heard some bumpin music. From the corner of my eye I could see that it was literally making a car "bump." Upon further inspection, I notice that this was not a car, but a mini van. The bumpin' mini can be seen below.


My mom used to drive a mini van when we were kids. It was red. My sister and I wondered why we couldn't call it a "Mickey van." She was the typical West End Soccer Mom- without all the pretentiousness of course. She literally was the "soccer mom" of our teams for several years. We were totted around in that mini van to and from girl scouts, swim lessons, cheerleading practice, and GA's. Our family took it on trips. We had all the room in the world. However, one of us would inadvertantly get upset because the cow's were on "sassy's side" or the hay (heeey, mom! yes? no, look haaaay!) was on Pristen's side. Ah, the good ol' days before mini van's filled me with dread.

What amazes me most about the stereotype of the soccer mom driving a mini van (which is now transforming into a gas guzzeling SUV as the soccer mom vehicle of choice) is the variety of mini van drivers in reality.


Besides the soccer mom (obviously), we have several other varieties of mini van drivers. Notice I do not say owners, as some of these young drivers are in their parents mini. These new drivers think their parents mini is the bane of their existance. However, they would rather drive the mini than ride their Schwinn.


Another, younger varietal of mini driver is the hippie as is seen below. This driver is fond of wearing a beard (or armpit hair for the female variety) and slogans on his tee. Notice he also has a slogan on his mini. A rare sighting indeed.


Another younger variety that may resemble the hippie driver at times is the liberal mini driver. The liberal mini is often found at the local college campus during a tailgait (think The Best Man). This variety is particularly proud of his mini and will typically drive it until this beloved van runs into the ground. This mini driver is found of removing the back seats so as to store more hiking, biking, camera, or scuba gear. Do not be surprised to find several outfits, shoes, a sleeping bag or pillow stowed in the back of this mini.

An older variety of mini van driver is the Grandpa mini driver. He is frequently seen traveling at least 10 miles under the speed limit on I-64.