Throughout my years as a writer, I’ve maintained my nursing license by working part-time, here and there at a clinic. However, due to some recent and, ahem, sudden staffing shortages, I’ve been needed on a more routine basis. I could use the money and am happy to help, so it works out well. I only have one complaint. Working is hard, y’all.
This is such a news flash that CNN is bound to pick up this article at anytime.
My mantra has always been, “Don’t work too hard,” and I’m proud to say I’ve stuck to that principle, until recently. I’ve been working about three days a week at the clinic. On my off days at home I write music reviews for the paper, and do my best to keep my blog current. Then there’s my husband who follows me around asking questions all the time like, “Lori, what do you want for dinner?” and, “Lori, do you have any whites that need to be washed?” Omg! I can’t make every decision by myself!!
Could you feel the sarcasm there? Yeah, my husband is kind of awesome. He works about fifty hours a week AND does all of the laundry. On his days off he cooks dinner. He’s a grat Dad and is kind of, really attractive. You know what else? He doesn’t complain. I can’t believe he’s still married to me, either.
When I got home from work the other night I walked in on him having a conversation with Luke (4).
Luke: “Dad, tell me a spooky story.”
Brantley: “It was a dark and stormy night when the power went out. Suddenly, the lightning flashed. It lit up our dark bedroom and I saw someone standing there. It was your Mom, and she didn’t have any makeup on!!”
Then, they both screamed and Luke laughed so hard he fell out of his chair.
So I’m working on getting over myself and becoming a better multi-tasker. I will close with a conversation I had with one of my patients this week.
Patient: “It smells weird in here.”
Me: “Yeah, that’s my body. I emit an odor when I’ve worked close to eight hours in a row.”
There have been times when my crank calls have gone terribly wrong. Those are stories for another day, but suffice it to say I haven’t learned my lesson. Crank calling Brantley at work is one of my favorite pass times, and some would argue (ok, just me) that it’s a legitimate hobby. When crank calling gets recognized as an Olympic sport I will wave my gold medallion in your faces.
The art of CC’ing requires a good bit of work. There are disguised voices involved, not to mention the back story and the slightly ridiculous request or complaint I will call with. Up to ten minutes can be spent at one time just to get lucky enough for Brantley to answer the phone. When I hear the voice on the other line say, “This is Brantley. May I help you?” that’s when I pounce.
The following conversation occurred two days ago.
Brantley- “This is Brantley. May I help you?”
Redneck lady- “You sure may. This is Eunice Petty. Do you all sell Massengill?”
Brantley- “Only by the gallon.”
At that point the line went dead and I can only assume that he hung up. We haven’t had a chance to discuss it since then, but I’m fairly certain he knew it was me. I will spend some time this week cultivating my character a bit more. Perhaps she wears a hat, or sounds a little more downtrodden. One thing is certain, and that is Eunice Irene Petty better be receiving her gallons worth of feminine care.
Top o’ the Monday morning to ya! I trust that everyone had a great weekend. If not, I will arrange a do over in about five days.
For me, the weekend was relaxing and ended with an employee appreciation lunch at my part-time gig. Brantley was working, so I took Luke with me. As you might have imagined, Luke rocked that party, even choosing to keep his sunglasses on indoors. I helped set up, and when I walked back over to Luke I overheard the end of a conversation he was having with my bosses husband. Luke closed with, “…and so that’s how I got a crack in my booty.”
Judging by the puzzled look on the gentleman’s face I could tell he had no idea what Luke had said. Crisis averted. However, I wish I had heard the entire conversation because I too, would love to know how that happened.
I actually thought on Wednesday morning, “I wish I had something to write about.” Lo and behold, the Lord doth provide manna from Heaven, because shortly after that thought, I received a picture message of my mother behaving badly from one of her cohorts. Off her meds and without a helmet. That’s how my mother was caught behaving at school this week. This probably clears up any lingering questions you had about me. Now you know, it’s genetic.
Now, truth be told, it was camou day at school and she was trying to prove that her lack of camouflage in no way handicapped her ability to blend in with her surroundings. In a way, she was right. Whatever the reason for her garden party, you have to admit that she makes a pretty cute butterfly bush.
Now, please do not contact me to ask me if my mom is using the bathroom in the photo, because A) it is crude and B) I was already told that, no she is not. I also don’t want to know that I incorrectly diagnosed the foliage in which she is housed. I’m a lot of things, but a master gardener isn’t one of them.
I was going to simply post this picture without dialogue under the guise of a “Wordless Wednesday,” but considering I had a wordless Monday and Tuesday, I cannot afford myself such luxuries.
The following is a picture of my husband taken while he was “working.” And while I don’t have a typical Brantley-ism zinger to accompany it, I think it speaks volumes by itself.
As you can see, his work computer was outfitted with Photoshop, or at least it is until his boss gets wind of this picture. My husband is a brilliant man who went to school for much longer than me, and has many letters after his name. Just try to keep that in mind…
This is the same man who just last week (while sporting a Kool Ade mustache) argued that HE should be able to read my TB skin test because he is technically a doctor, to which I replied, “No. Technically, you’re not.”
I sat on the couch drinking my coffee and watching the Today Show. Brantley sauntered down the stairs and asked, “What time are you supposed to go to work this morning?”
“Just some time this morning,” I replied.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means when I feel like it.” I didn’t think this was a difficult concept. “Don’t you start stressing me out before I have to go to work,” I warned.
“Wow, I would really hate to do that.”
I didn’t appreciate his tone. “I’ll have you know that I have a very high pressure, high stress job that requires me to show up two to three times a month. Do you think I’m going into work this morning to sit on my butt and watch HR videos while eating Skittles? Well, you’re wrong. The snack machine is out of Skittles and there is no telling when it’ll be restocked.”
He sighed. “We need to remember to get you checked.”
I shouldn’t have taken the bait, but I did. “For what?” I asked.