Got Kitties in my G-String Ain't No Thang

Family dinner conversation often goes like this:


"I’d just stand up there and throw cats at them.”

-Me, on how fantastic of a stripper I would be

“You train those cats yourself.”
-My sister

“I trained my pussies myself.”
-Me

“They talk this way because they listen to rap."
-My dad

Celebrating Memorial Day

Memorial Day is no longer a day to honor America's veterans; it's not that we've let the terrorists or the heathens or consumerism win - it's that we've let our stupidity win.

It's the holiday that falls just on the cusp of summer, the warm weather making people feel invincible, when in reality most of us are out of practice and out of shape due to long winters and school being in session. We think we can climb up on the roof and patch it up. We think we can play soccer.  We think we can go fishing.  We think we can man huge manly pits of fire.  We think we can deal with the in-laws. And we think we can do it all while drinking heavily.


That's what Memorial Day is all about: doing dangerous household projects and then celebrating by charring half of a cow and opening a Bud Lite.


All of these factors make it an exciting day to work in the ER.


My new position within the hospital is at ER Registration. When someone comes into the hospital waving around a severed finger in a plastic bag, I am the first person who gets to see that finger. I am also not the correct person to show that finger to. All I really need is some basic demographic information, and then the triage nurse will come and examine that severed finger and the hand it was once attached to.  Many people who come into the ER don't understand that all I need is a general condition and area. Think you have a kidney stone? I'm going to type in FLANK PAIN. Throwing up? I'm going to type in SICK. An embarrassing device stuck on your penis? I'm going to type in PENIS PAIN.


My coworkers warned me that Memorial Day was a happening day in the ER, which I should have deduced upon seeing that Monday was heavily reinforced on the schedule.  Indeed, the day brought in all kinds of accidents from broken bones to burns to giant fish hooks lodged in flesh.  The worst was a nail gun accident, where a nail had been lodged in the patient's eye - painful enough just to imagine.


Next Memorial Day, stay inside. Lock your doors. Do nothing.


I wonder what the Forth of July will bring.

My Cat Often Gives Me This Look.

Feliz Cumpleaños

I got a cake today.


It's a cheesecake.


It was from two coworkers, for my birthday on Monday.


My birthday was not on Monday.


These two coworkers have been hired to do construction on the building in which I toil. They often take breaks in my "office" - which is just the lounge. It has a television, and a charming assortment of torn and not-quite-broken furniture.  The two construction workers watch Animal Planet and take siestas during the noon hour. Sometimes I'm there, sometimes I'm off taking calls.


These two construction workers are Mexican. I have not actually had a conversation with either of them, though often I say hello to them in the hallway or as I'm coming out of the elevator, and I know one of them has two girlfriends - one Mexican, one white - but that has been the extent of our interaction. So I was very surprised when, today, while I was trying to shove my lunch of tempeh and cold potatoes down my throat between calls, the taller of the two (and yes, I do know their names, but for blogging purposes they will remain anonymous) walked up to me and said they made me a cake to celebrate my birthday on Monday.


I stared at him.


"It wasn't my birthday on Monday," I said. I asked him if he was mixing me up with someone else.


He showed me the cake in the fridge.

It was a cheesecake. He looked at me as if it proved that my birthday was, indeed, on Monday.


I told him, again, that it hadn't been my birthday.


"We both had a slice," he said. "We were looking for you yesterday, and you weren't here. We wanted to say Happy Birthday."


I thanked him and the other worker, and said yes, I'd eat a slice. They went back to Animal Planet.


Confused, I asked my other coworkers if they knew anything about the cake in the refrigerator. The first few people I asked seemed just as confused as I was.


Then one of my coworker buddies sauntered over to me. He told me that the two men who had made me the cake had been looking for me yesterday, but they had not known my name. They had asked where "that girl" was. "Which girl?" he had asked them. "The young one." "There are three younger ones." "The one that's always reading." That was when he knew they were talking about me.


"Apparently they saw another coworker giving you something and wishing you Happy Birthday," he said.


"Oh," I said, remembering that on Monday another coworker had kindly brought me some chocolate she didn't want, and had presented it to me with the necessary and sarcastic "Happy Birthday."


"That makes sense," I said, explaining the reject chocolate.


"They saw her giving you a gift and wishing you a happy brithday," said my coworker, "and they felt really bad that no one else had."


Gracias, señores.