Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

I have fancied some ideas on which to base some revenge toward people you work with. Should you become disgruntled, this may be a safe approach. These thoughts came running out of my mind like a water pistol shooting a moving plastic duck at the state fair. Or something like that.
1) Don't wear deodorant-better yet, get a little onion and wipe it under your arms, go to work
2) Don't brush you teeth for two days, eat meat mostly, go to work
3) While at work keep whistling the little tune "the worms crawl in the worms crawl out" over &
over, soon everyone will be doing it, even on the trip home.
4) Keep telling people "somebody moved my pen" every 5 minutes
5) Sniffle, sniffle, sniffle. I think my son does this to get back at me, IT WORKS! Sniffle
6) If your fortunate to answer the phone and you don't have a clue what they want, put them on
hold and tell someone "this call is for you". This is great in a psych hospital
7) Go find the vacuum cleaner, start vacuuming. If anyone complains tell them, "You may
live like this at home, but not me".
8) If someone is asking you a questions and a coworker comes out and is in your sights, point
and say he/she probably doesnt know, I'll try and find out. Say this softly so they don't hear.
They will ask you, why were you pointing at me? Say "I don't remember"
9) Floss your teeth at work in front of everyone-especially if you didn't brush them
10) Consider sabatoge:
A: Tape a piece of shrimp in the area where someone works, hid it real good!
B: Find some dog poo or cow poo (whatever) get some water mix just a little and pour it into
the mouthpiece of their phone. Only the smell will be left.
C: Talk on the phone and metion a persons name, then begin to whisper
D: On paper work you find, put the persons name you have a problem with saying for
example: "Terry did this one". Even if there is nothing wrong.
E: If you talk to someone who seems irritated ask them if they took their medicine
F: Stand next to the person and pretend they let out a real stinker. Start waving in the air
toward them, slowly walk away, telling them "I'll come back".
The last one may be a bit much. So, anyways. My thoughts. More to come.

Once upon a time there was a bear. It was brown, furry and had buttons for eyes. It was almost 2 feet tall and an obvious "Made in China" tag on it's back side. This little bear had a friend, well a companion may be more appropriate. Her name was Lizzy. Everyday you could find bear always within Lizzy's sights. She would carefully tuck bear in his pre-assigned place each night before retiring. Sometimes, Lizzy would even put bear in bed with her, but this was only when Lizzy did not feel happy. Lately, bear spent many nights in bed with Lizzy. Bear had become sad over time. He was being squeezed and hugged and was wet from the tears of Lizzy. He was being taken to places he did not wish to go. Lizzy seemed to always be in trouble. Bear would hear her talk on the phone with friends and cry. He could sometimes hear her friends trying to convince her that things were not that bad. Lizzy, still made it a point to describe the terrible events in her life on a daily basis. She would call a friend or she would tell bear. She would tell the people she lived with as well, but she would tell them differently. She would sometimes scream and yell. Bear did not like this. Bear liked it best at night, when things were quiet and Lizzy was asleep. Well, one morning Lizzy woke up, and chewy (the dog) had taken bear for a walk. It was not just an ordinary walk like the one Lizzy goes on, it was to the back yard. The corner of the yard, deep in the covered bushes where the bones of dead animals had the teeth marks seared into the marrow. Bear was scared. He heard the a cry from the house and Chewy ran fast back into the house. He must have thought it was play time. It was not play time. It was the scream of Lizzy. Bear did not like those screams. They happened alot, even for little things. Bear remembered the story of chicken little and how "the sky was falling" and that Lizzy's screams largely went unanswered. "This time" thought bear "I hope someone listens to her". "Get ready for school" came the command from the mother of Lizzy, "don't pull this now, Elizabeth Charlotte Brandish" as if to make it more serious. Lizzy kept yelling, "bear is gone, bear is gone, we gotta find bear". "You will find bear later, right now you get dressed and go to school, I'll be late so hurry!" Lizzy retorted "I gotta find bear". Chewy knew bear, he knew where he slept, he knew that Lizzy spent alot of time with bear. Chewy tried to go comfort Lizzy and walked over to her, jumping on her hip. "not now Chewy, I need to find bear". Chewy was persistent thinking "I am right here, pay attention to me, that bear might taste good", "look at me". Lizzy demanded that Chewy leave her alone and so he did. He decided he was off the hook. He trotted toward the doggy door and made his way to his favorite hidding place, in the corner, neath the bushes, where his latest trophy lay there, waiting. One paw on his chest, his teeth clamped on his head. Chewy knew, that inside this bear was something good. Bear first felt the top of his head rip off, split off, like a scalping. Then, chewing began to sniff the stuffing inside bears head. Chewy knew that sometimes things taste better than they smell. He had experienced this from his own dog food. Days after he went to the bathroom, he found that event this had a different taste than what it looked like. So, he pulled with his teeth, the brain matter of stuffing from bear with the same void of emotion as Hanibel Lecter. Quickly, he realized it did not taste like anything. In fact, Chewy thought "this tastes like nothing". So, he ran back into the house. The same rejection awaited as he experienced before. He marched back to the remains of bear and thought "maybe it can do something fun" So he put bear in his mouth, and swooshed him back and forth. "Sure enough" thought Chewy "things are coming out of him" with great satisfaction, Chewy swung bears torso with more vigor than before, until finally his disembowled empty carcass lay there. Now Chewy knew why Lizzy had so much fun with bear. He tried to bring bear back into Lizzy to show her that he had feelings and fun with bear. Lizzy had gone to school, so Chewy took bear to the stairs and left him on the top step. She would be so happy that Chewy bonded with bear. Chewy knew exactly what time Lizzy came home, so he ran upstairs and grabbed bear. When she came home, bear would be right there so she would want to play with both of them. "That would be fair and I would get attention too" thought Chewy. The keys jiggled in the front door. Chewy was salivating all over bears remains. His tale wagging. He could hardly wait. The door opens and chewy jumped up on Lizzys hip as he always done, so happy, so excited and out came a blood curdling scream. Chewy knew something had gone wrong. At first he barked thinking someone bad was in the house, but then he heard "Chewy, bear, bad". He ran out the door, his tale could not wag between his legs. He darted to his favorite place, beneath the hedges, the bushes in the back corner of the yard. At night, you could hear Chewy howling and barking. The other dogs responded as if to convince him that things were not that bad. Besides, they lived outside and they liked it. Lizzy was not home for a very long time. She had disappeared for 2 weeks, but for Chewy it was 3 months (14 weeks in dogs time). The doggie door remained closed. He knew his life was changing. He knew. As time went by, Chewy could hear that familiar screaming from Lizzy and wondered if the cat might be joining him, or the turtle, or perhaps the fish. Well, years drifted and no one joined Chewy. Lizzy had left home. She was really old, and still Chewy did not go into the home. Occasionally, she would come home, usually through the window and leave quickly. The first few times Chewy thought she was coming for him, he would bark and wag his tail. No one ever came to the back yard anymore and she must be visiting him. Lizzy would yell out "shut up Chewy" as she tried to go back to the house she told her parents she hated. Chewy knew the word hate. She told him over and over how she hated him and he knew it was a bad word because he saw her angry face. Lizzy would sometimes come back with friends, mostly boys, Chewy did not like them. He would growl and Lizzy would tell them "its ok". The boys looked like they lived in the corner of someone elses yard. "They look like me" thought chewy. Chewy felt very weak and had very little strength to jump into the back of the truck. But the collar (which he never liked) tightened if he did not do what the man commanded him to do. Chewy did not know him, but he didn't care. He made it in the back. It smelled like other dogs, but wait, he smelled cats too! He finally got the attention from Lizzy's parents, they waved at him and said "Boy, Chewy, Boy". He was happy, they were waiving and began to bark and wag his tail. The truck drove off and there he was, so happy he finally got attention.

"Where is my crazy sister"

A young schizophrenic girl arrived two days ago. She was quite distraught, angry, paranoid and needless to say frightened. She came with her family which included her sister and both biological parents. One of the obtuse elderly nurses went out to assess her. It quickly appeared to her that this patient was actively psychotic. She was seeing dead people, hearing voices telling her to kill others and the gamet of symptoms. This required and called for admissions to the hospital. She wouldn't stay. Her sister began to accuse the nurses of raping her sister even prior to admissions. The elderly nurse began to get angry, but I put my hand on her shoulder and gave her the relax, calm down look. I later pointed out that we actually had two patients, the lady who came for assessment and her sister who was "acting out" in the day room. The comments she made were disurbing - to put in mildly. The situation was quickly getting out of control. The patient was screaming in the room, pounding on the wall and coming out to the lobby in an attempt to "kill that lady" referring to her mother. She then hit her father repeatedly, violently and pushed him to get out of her way. Quickly, I ascertained that we needed separation and the other sister, needed to get out of the building. Her yelling was making the psychotic sister worse. There are a couple thoughts on this I felt profound enough to share in a serious/humorous way.
The sister that made accusations and tried to come to her (patients) rescue was way out of place and more than likely has mental health issues of her own, but the venomous point she was trying to make, though disturbing, was with such tenacity it called for reward or punishment. It was best to ignore it, for if I even so much as looked at her, she would recognize that she was rewarded for this behavior. Still, I listened - peripherally as I spoke with the mother. Keeping a calm voice in a sea of madness around me. I gestured to the mother to sit down, and briefly to the sister. We all sat and things got quiter. I kept thinking about this sister. How she wanted what was best for her Ill sister. Her misperceptions and harmful conclusions were inept, but her zeal was impressive. I would have rather her venom be poisoned with truth, but in her impotent way she clung to her bond with her sister. An advocate? See, in times when you are unable to defend yourself, wouldn't it be nice? An advocate such as this. The diary of a mad black woman comes to mind

Fruits of the Spirit

I recently returned from a trip back to the old homestead. I was looking to park at the MIL's and happened upon an old neighbor. He confessed that he sometimes read this blog. Surprised by this, I went speechless for a moment. Then I noted his demeanor following his confession. It appeared as if Ben S. was disturbed after mentioning this. He looked at me as if my dog died. You know, the "I hope your doing better" look. When I returned from my excursion, I was compelled to re-read my blogs to see what it was that caused Ben's countenance to change. I think I know what it is. Perhaps each title should read "Ramblings of a mad man". These years in psychiatry may have twisted my mind a bit. I wish I had a philosophical take on my blogs. I don't. Ben is one of the good men. You know honest, hard working and quiet. A former Peace Corp volunteer, he has a compassionate side to him. Maybe thats what it was. I felt his compassion, though I was not sure why. No doubt he has seen delerium from malaria and found a similarity with my rambling. But, Ben, I don't wish to lose my only reader. On with my blogging and mispelled words.
Church stories are getting more interesting. The new pastor has cracked the whip, though its more like dental floss than cow hide. Wednesdays now include a dinner at 545 according to a mailed out announcement several weeks ago. These fundamentalists must be watched closely. Baptist eat too much as it is. You get a pastor pushing food on his congregation, the next thing you know all chaos breaks out and the church splits. The womens pilate group "Rolls & Buns" have already lodged their complaint through official channels - - - themselves. Word gets out though. Its hard to keep secrets there at church especially with the R & B club. Talk has it they have decided to usurp the pastors authority. The third Wednesday of the dinner they launched their little coupe. On the menu: Salads of various sorts, fresh fruit, vegitibles and what some thought was eggplant. They knew this because everytime people walked by the dish, someone would say "I think thats eggplant" as if to warn them before they scooped it on their plate. Well, this dinner went off just smashingly. It was a hit. Everyone was commenting on how it was such a good idea to eat healthy. The salads were crisp, the crackers cracky and the fruit unbruised and appealing. The following Wednesday would be better than the last. There was a slight problem the following Wednesday. Very few people showed up. Those that did come were the couples whose wives mixed the salad or made the fruit bowles. There was a little over a handful of people. Apparently last minute cancelations from the other women didn't help matters much either. Seems some kind of bug was going around, their husbands home sick, or some business trip. The pastor, ever faithful, enjoyed the salads, but was reportedly distracted in thought most of the evening. Even the bible study seemed a little green. That Sunday though, he delivered a most impressive sermon. The message was a bit circumstantial, but it came back around to a theme. He illustrated how sin began in the Gaardeen of EaTen (wasn't sure if I heard that right, but yep--EaTen). That it was in that GAARDEEN that eve presented Adam with the FRUIT from the vine. This is kind of where he lost me though. He went on about the fruit, how fruit is the "rippened ovaries of a flowering plant" according to wikipedia (I didn't know that so- I was sure to write it on the notes page of the bulletin). He said that it could have been any kind of fruit, then proceeded to name them "Berry's, plums, watermelon and even olives were fruits". This olive part was an impressive bit of knowledge AND just happened to be the Pilates instructors name. He added that fruit is used to make alcohol and "we don't need to expound upon the sins of strong drink". He made his way to Cain and Abel. Turns out God hates vegitibles and fruits too! Cains name may have even originated from the sugar cane (he was challenged on that later by the Minister of Education-Dr. D), but he was on a roll. He articulated that fruits and vegitibles have ushered in the severance in our relationship with God and subsequently the downfall and spiritual death of all. During the alter call, you could have heard a pin drop. Someone started to whisper something and about 10 woman turned their heads and said "SSHHH". I'm looking forward to this Wednesday dinner. The menu is usually out by now, but its been delayed. The pastor caved to the deacons request for a committee meeting on these Wednesday dinners. Actually, two committee's were formed. The Cain Committee and The Abel Committee to seperately work on menu items. The R & B's meet every Tuesday morning.

Stary, Stary Night

Outside the moon is bright and so are the stars. There is a large tarp running across the top of the building I work at. There is police tape marking off the front parking places. More people are leaving than arriving. No phones ringing and even "The Lady" our resident haunter, may have checked out. The time is drawing nigh that ne'er a one shall occupy these buildings. The haunting silence will only be muffled by the soft fuzzy black mold that captures each sound. The fermentation of spills will be easier found than before, but no one to find them. The chairs will be arranged for a last meeting, the channels to the final station watched and the remnant of human occupation as the finale scuff scars the well buffed floor. The floor that could not shine or sparkle enough to forgive us our trespasses’ with CMS. It was these floors that management expected to save us from human error. Twenty thousand dollars were paid to paint away our sins, to strip our iniquities and buff us back into life. Still, the echo's down the empty corridors were not to be filled with the familiar sounds that no one ever heard. Nor, the visions that no one really ever saw. Yes, indeed the place looked presentable enough. The walls appeared more modern than its recently passed Brady Bunch Brown. The teal or avocado trim would no longer haunt those lying in four point restraints. No, these disappeared like a bad hallucination. The shining polished floor mirrored the colors of the neutral walls. And in a last betrayal of efforts, the polished scent permeated the halls. Permeated each room and even the foyer. The lingering odor familiar to those experienced in nursing homes or the men’s room of a honky tonk. The scent caused any and all to pause and search for, a non-existent puddle of urine, as a mad resident searches for their ball. "Do you know where that smell is coming from?" they would ask. Alas, this was the end. No one to appreciate the irony of the floor. They sought a new venue of salvation, but this was for their debtors. As if a coffin draped with a casket spray, they placed a tarp over the edifice. And from the end right up to the entrance where the viewing of the remains would occur, this spray hid the body. This ominous act was to be outdone only by the presence of the bright yellow police tape marking and securing parking spaces, perhaps to signify a crime had indeed occurred. No chalk mark was needed, no investigators with notepads called for, simply the yellow tape forbidding those that sought entrance. The patients who sought refuge would see this ribbon of doom and believe an impending demise was truly in their future. Hence, those that once believed they would take their own life may somehow lose it, at the hands of the stewards of this casket. They would not take that chance. They would not call the ferry man (admissions), nor would they cross the river styx (the foyer of their fate). They would keep driving. One thought he heard voices crying outside "I want to live" as the wheels spun around to expedite to the Othercare North. Those of us who stood at the bastion know the story well. No muffled toned vibrator from the ROLm Phone. Entries that once filled the board with residents and their status were replaced with other names on a different board. Those names were strong colorful names. Names like; United, Ameri and Blue. The flagship name which stained our dry eraser board carelessly written "Medicare" was the weapon, nay, the bullet which severed our services til only a remnant remain. Still they too would be placed in the ever growing names of our fiscal follies. Yes, it seemed as if a prearrangement for funeral services had been made before the flat line appeared on the telemetry monitor. Some had donated their services to other bodies. Kingwood (a strong name) and Westoaks (an eerily similar tree name). She was still living when they interred her. Many would leave before the graveside service if they were not already re-transplanted. Those parts who had been around for years, stayed until the corporate priest served her last rites. They knew. Though the captain jumped ship, the seasoned crew remained. Not bailing water, just waving as if on the Titanic. Believing in reincarnation, they would arrive again, not as before, but at least a living creature of some kind.

Postings

Well, it was a mad night. It was not a good time and the facility for which I utilize my skills, is probably going to shut down. No way they can stay open with the type of violations they have. Well, my guess is only Laura reads this, but once a week at best. If you are reading any of these posts, comment. You don't need to say who you are. Just hit the comment button. If no one is reading then I may put it just as private. Well, gotta run.

Ramblings of a mad man

There is a sense of doom surrounding me. You have to be mindful that sometimes it's intuition. It is unusual for me to get that deep dread like feeling. Maybe, 'cause I'm working weekends on top of night shift. Still, I can't help but ruminate. We hold our cards to close to our vest in life. Why? We don't want to show ourselves or share ourselves because of vulnerabilities, jealousies and competition. In an attempt to balance our superego with our id we push a facade that entertaines us more than others. "How many fond fools serve mad jealousy". What mask we show will debase for rivalry sake? Ultimately to what purpose?

Still, there are others; Those that expose their id with no sense of personal dignity and whom turn inwardly for brutish self satisfaction. These are the ones we avoid or embrace. Contrary to what we imagine ourselves to be, but nurtures that superficial illusion of charity to impress others with, but is more entertaining for ourselves in reality.

Are these relative truthes? No, "A false balance is abomination to the LORD: but a just weight is his delight." The weights mentioned in this verse and 20:23 are weights that required some work. They had to be as exact as possible. The point is, the balance required effort from the seller for integrity. The way a person knew an precise weight was to examine and work with measurements of existing scales or baselines. We are all off a bit. We all have some balance issues, the point is that a person needs to work on it keeping in mind that God detests our indifference to the rational truth. This truth is time tried and evident in our creation. It is our conscience. This brings us to the concern of the ego which attempts to balance both id and superego. This also requires an issue of boundaries. To set what is acceptable for oneself in life or not. What is the point of the boundary? Biblically its a just weight. Factually, it is a cosmic justice that seeks its own balance through a bipolar mechanism. The imbalances we include in our lives serves no purpose but to destabalize the rational truth. That being, equity in speech, thought, behavior and faith. In other words a sense of wisdom after we balance the scale which tells us how to keep the scale balanced.

MASH ME

Thoughts to ponder. Recently, it occured to me that a bit of confusion surrounds my understanding of what constitutes suicide. The term extends to the 17th century. 1651 is the first evidence of the fossilized meaning. Suicidium it was called. Sui is a term referring to ones self. The cide part is killing. Note it does not say suimort. Mort would be appropriate if you just died. The context of suicide is murder or kill. Those who assist are involved in a crime. State law have penalties if you help one committ suicide. So, if the person helping is convicted of murder (involuntary, manslaughter or whatever) (of sorts) then why is the person committing the act by decision (ideation) not charged with premeditated attempted murder to ones self. It makes ya think.

The only way to win is cheat
And lay it down before I'm beat
And to another give my seat
For that's the only painless feat.

That was a portion of the theme song from Mash. The chorus is quite lovely and includes a little ditty "suicide is painless, it brings on many changes". Well, my experiences are telling me it ain't painless. Statistics show most don't succeed and if they do . . . well, the damage done by the dead is criminal itself. One thing that is strongly communicated above and beyond the act is the pain. There is so much hurt. Many people believe that the suicide is attention seeking behavior and you should not reward it. The alternative is to let them eventually succeed. There should be some measure that would demonstrate that you have done everything possible to help. Just like a murder you could not stop. Suicide happens. It's our responsibility to do whatever we can, but not at the expense of ourselves. Unlike murder, if you become the victim of a suicidal patient, they will feel worse and kill themselves because of the guilt that you died. The one you saved from murder (though you may have died) has a greater propencity to appreciate.

Mad cow disease

The inevitable has occured. Worked very long and hard hours in order to make less. I am not quite certain how that occured, but it did. The same story where you are penalized for making more. It's ok though. I needed to cut back on hours anyways. I'm thinking that I may be asked to work this weekend and I will decline.
The cable man is suppose to be here between 8 and 12. Good thing I don't need to sleep. It never fails that I reside further out than everyone else and they arrive at the very last minute. It seems I have always lived further out or usually last on everyones list. When you live as far out as I do, it seems to intrude upon so many aspects of life. Lets take, for example, gasoline. It is more expensive the farther away you live. It begs the question, but I will not entertain logic today. The gas is not the only problem (ofcourse). The mileage on my car is higher the more you get away. I get much less miles per gallon out here, too. Sounds weird, I know. Maybe that is why groceries are so expensive. I have noticed milk is getting up there too. Now, I figure that I live, say, dead center of some desert in Arizona. Actually, less than a mile we have a huge oil company. No wells, just the corporate offices. You would think we would ride on the coat tails of these execs. No, no. I have also discovered that right down the street, in walking distance, is a cable TV truck. I think he lives there, because it is always parked in the driveway. Maybe its a new marketing technique, I don't know. If not, he must have quite a few calls in our neighborhood. Oh, Borden Milk company is right in Conroe, just off of 75 near the great city of Conroe. I would hate to live any closer to anyone of these. Could you imagine the expense. Here is what I'm going to propose at the next Woodland Corp board meeting. I ran this through my Lawyer in India (much cheaper cause its far away?).
I would like to propose that all access between Oil Corporations and Filling Stations (hadn't heard that in awhile) be rerouted in order to reduce the price of gasoline. Also, any company trucks belonging to commercial industry, must be parked atleast 40 (good number) miles away from my house or be taxed the amount of difference in gasoline from wherever far away is. Then, reduce teet expression from the heffers to help defray the weight in milk trucks carrying their goods, subsequently obtaining better gas mileage thereby ultimately lowering the mpg's in those large trucks. I would propose that we squeeze the teets ourselves, but I am sure that would raise the price of gas and bring the cable trucks closer. Furthermore, in order to improve delivery of services, all techinicians for major corporations such as Comcast, SBC, Dish TV Etc. . . should truck pool to servicing neighborhoods (you know like those kids that try and sell the magazines) and walk around providing quicker service. The cable services tech. would start at say, MY HOUSE. Then proceed down the street. While at the other end the SBC phone guy, could be walking this way. We could throw in a milkman should this really take off. Then, we could get all services one right after another without a break in the action. No more, 8-12. Cable guy at 8am, 9am the gas meter reader, followed by 10am phone company man, 11am that snot nosed kid trying to sign me up for some magazine so he can go to the Bahama's. 12 PM, you could toss in say, the milkman or the mexican yard workers. At 1pm they could all eat lunch together in my front yard at $20.00 a plate for scrambled eggs and cheese. Usually the price would be $8.00, but where does cheese come from? If they need me to get some gas for their lawn mowers I could charge a nominal fee of say, $4.50 a gallon since I live so close to the gas station. Well that would be my new community association proposal. May not seem to make much sense. I kind of figure those companies ride sharing will understand, right? Why, if anyone should, it would be them. Three hours left.

But, I digress.

Behold, new things are old. The United States Navy has(d) a schedule that was intended to reduce the life span of anyone who worked it. The 2-2-2/80 schedule may have been efficient for coverage, but generally left one quite exhausted. Two day shifts from 8-4 the second day you returned 8 hours later to work 2 12-8 shifts and at the end of that second shift you worked 2 shifts 4-12 followed by 80 hours off. I always wondered why the schedule used days to describe the first part and hours to describe time off. I digress. So, we were quite the tired lot and usually found our circadian rhythm ectopic (arar). Following my discharge, I worked from 11-7 at lone star gas company (still not sure what I did) followed by 7 broken up hours of college courses. I think I am too old for this. This weekend I worked nights (morning?) at the Psych House. I never thought that calling a Psych Hosp at 2am drunk would be fun. Actually, I have been quite amused at some of the inquiries. All those lost years of entertainment. I digress again. Some interesting quotes include "I want to admit my family", "how soon can you commit me?", and one very intoxicating call asking "can you give me directions". The later I have not seen and its been 4 hours. Where am I going with this you ask? Ask? ASK? I'm getting to old for this! This afternoon I watched the local news and the reporter was doing a story on something or other (not that important), what was important to me at least, was when the reporter asked a man "were you surprised by these events" and he said, "I'm 54, I'm not surprised by much anymore". Am I digressing. Well I'm tired! I am rambling and that's ok. Since, I'm the only one reading this, I am entitled to drift. I digress once again. So, I'm not 54, but inevitably I will be. Even if I die, I will be 54. Just dead. I think I am going to keep track of all the interesting questions. Well, a chair thrower, gotta go.

Every on has a Hobby, mine is Fred

Fred Thompson the next possible President for The USA is arriving at Hobbly Airport. I had stirred the chidruns to get ready. We are going to see the great Senator and his entourage. To rest on his laurals would be enough. Oh, I know. His record on, well, the other record, well he stood up and voteddd.....hmmmm, I liked Hunt for Red October. I was somewhat relieved when the grand poo pah of domestic plan poopers alerted the public that a t*%$($ stic threat had been issued. The torahist (a little irony)are making dry runs. I am not sure what that translates into airport security, but I do know it would be quite difficult to get our bohineys in there expecially heading INTO traffic after this loooong midnight shift. Fred will wait.

More rain in the forecast here. Its not even about rain on the news. The gambling is about what percent of rain and the "dew point". Our ditch in the front yard is still unfinished, but this will be the test to ascertain its utility at all. I will get some work out of Danielle on that ditch if we dig in the mud. She enjoys that. I also will get work from her because, pretty soon I'm going to announce that I purchased some very sought after tickets for the Ally & AJ concert this weekend. When we asked for back stage passes, they looked at us and asked who our "entourage" was? We were the AjAlly and bup (back up) singers. I was to do a skit acting like Allys father and have her look at her watch. The almost did not give us the grass seats. They call them grass seats, well, there is more to that later. Well, I'm off a nighter getting sleepy.

Dig man Dig

Aristotle once said that all virtue is summed up in dealing justly. So, advocating that with a strong desire to exact revenge, consideration for action not only employs justice, but as Proverb puts it a hypocrite with his mouth destroys his neighbour: but through knowledge shall the just be delivered. When a person has the ability to clear ones good name based upon facts, it is always tempting to do so by lashing out at the perverse nature of those that fondle your reputation dishonorably. Yet, by that proclamation, we call upon ourselves the ill repute for which we are accused. Years ago (15) I perhaps should have defended myself against a similar incident I now find myself in, however their fate did not go impuned. My natue really demanded me to call to everyones attention and to everyones delight the error and degrading nature of the ones that brought charges (accusations) against me. The other nature requested to walk away. I obliged the later. Consequently, though I find no joy in the demise of others, I gained knowledge and wisdom by their subsequent plight. I moved onward and upward and did well for my family. So, now I consider where I am. Midnights, making more money, not in a fulfilling job, yet paused in lifes affairs to wonder. Why am I here and where will I go. Short term with passing the boards for PMHNP is not in question, but I ask why am I doing what I deplored to ever do again (mainly midnights). It's not easy. Today, my eyes are tired, spirit willing, but my mind is weaker. I am not sure how to proceed with my mind in this state. I trust my help will come from the most likely source in my life. That He will deliver me as he always has. This is expected. It will improve, but why am I here? What am I to learn? These things detract from my time with the family and people in my life. Am I suppose to be distracted in order to focus more on them? I have another ditch to dig to drain water off my property. The rains lately have caused large bodies of standing water that require leveling to drain into the main water way. Somehow, I think it relates, but my mind is too weary to figure it out. Atleast I know I need to get out there right now and dig.

Nights

Well, I am working midnights. I thought I was too old for that, but God has once again proved I was wrong. I can not complain, glad to have the money. Just wondering if it can come a bit easier. The time I get there is right at midnight. The sleep gone and the night short, I finish the morning with a good feeling. There are no suits during the night, just people like me that wish to be left alone to do the best job we can do. Sounds nice doesn't it. Mostly procedural things. Mental Health is a different mentality all together (arar). I work with a decent guy named Brian. This is the first time I think, I've not worked with a feminist. Someone that puts on rock music, but busts doing his job. Its a good feeling. No competition, just a job to do and lets get it done. He's a good guy, however I know that things do change and at this point, he's a good guy. Mary is a nice lady. She was encouraging the first day I met her. She made me feel welcomed and offered herself with any questions I would have had. Is it nights where the normal people are?

I'm a man and I nurse

It occured to me that I mention age frequently. I suppose that I am not old, relatively speaking. It just feels like it sometimes. They say (whoever they are) that once you pass fourty it all begins to repeat itself. I wish I never learned that little phrase. Let me digress with a purpose. I rather enjoy laying in bed watching Court TV. The shows about murder, plots, mysteries and mystics only surpase my all time favorite of Ghost Hunters. If you watch this long enough, you know where it is all going. The plot is kind of ruined, because your familiar with the "who donit" in the cases. My sprint into the other half of my life begins with the "who donit" kinda figured out. If you get a gutteral feeling that there is a story coming you 1) know me or 2) your over 40. When I first interviewed at Memorial Hermann for the Psych Crisis Response Team, I interviewed with this, let me be nice, lady (I own the option to capitalize where I want). This person named Dona Gambrel took a quick view at my qualifications and said "oh, you don't have alot of med-surg experience, that might hurt you here). Instantly, I felt an overwhelming inner sense, indescribable really. At first I thought it was gas, but then I realized it may have been, but it was not I that was stinking here. Think of it as a shot across the bow. I remember driving home thinking on that inner indescribable reality and quite frankly felt relieved they did not give me an answer that day. I knew I would turn it down, my intuition was mandating the little bit of wisdom I had. The jostle set, no more message necessary, I took to reclining myself to where I was currently stationed. The private practice did not pay much, but I didn't do if for the pay. The reward was not monetary. Patient after patient were amused or amazed that I took my time, expressed an interest and genuinely cared. I felt I cared. There were many embarassing moments about the married Mom's on Paxil asking me advise. My collaboration with a womans health practitioner helped. Eventually, I could use words that were not part of my routine vocabulary, to assist in bringing more value to their relationships without blushing. I was helping and when my rumination brought about familiar emotions regarding Herman, I knew that Dona Gambrel was absolutely not worth it. They did call me back. They stated, they wanted to talk to me again. Theresa Fawvor a social worker, wanted to talk with me about my CV and the position, etc . . . The interview was not with Dona and I reconsidered, because I wanted to explore what role Dona would have in my daily responsibilities. At that time, I was autonomous pretty much, making independent decisions and not caught up in office politics. So, having a micromanaged environment was not what I was after. Never the less, I went to speak with Theresa. Much to my chagrin, Dona was there. She was dressed up, looking quit spiffy for an old nurse. I also believed I could smell the fragrance of White Diamonds. I think. Anyways, she was the pleasant one during that interview. She laughed, smiled and said some very lifting statements regarding my qualifications. Naturally, being in the mental health field, I payed no mind to the contradictions in presentations from the first visit to the last. I volleyed briefly on my initial impressions and the current one. I dismissed my intuition and eagerly, happily and with zeal, took on my new position as Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. Being a man in a very female dominated profession is not as advantageous as one would think. There is a place for a man, at home, at work and especially in nursing. I suppose if you could define a male nurse you would include this definition: "a person with genitalia protruding from the inferior aspect of the suprapubis, with usually two gonadal almond shaped glands of varying sizes below the protrusion, whose chemical constitution is derived from these gonadal glands producing 17β-hydroxy-4-androsten-3-one unlike the complex female hormones of estradiol, estriol, and estrone all of which contain one or two hydroxyl groups connected to the D ring or estrone of the ketone group. The classic characteristics for this genderized professional would be such that makes this species less flaccid than the opposing gender. Hence the symbolic sterotype of ♂. Their chivalrous character unfeminizing toward others, attempts to usurp progress in the field of nursing and requires (utilizing their terminology) conterinsurgency. Industrious efforts include unconvential venues passed along through maternal underpinnings of deceptive and covert effete efforts to demoralize their premises. Male nurses: Oxymorons of unknown origin". When a person decides to end their life, they have embraced hopelessness and despair with a conclusion of either drastic measures for help or ending the pain with suicide. It matters little that the person attempted to die 1 time or 8 times. The depth of the feeling is the same - pain. People I have spoke with and tried to help appeared satisfied that I gave of myself to them. I gave them attention, time and words to comfort their pain. I tried to help. Each person was a life, a real serious single person crying, screaming in the darkness of their despair. It was either death or life when they came to the emergency room and I, I would either do little to influence one way or the other, be impersonal and treat them as a bed I needed to clear or finally this option which I chose, a positive surprise they were not expecting. A person who understands, empathizes, listens and feels what they feel. Then helps. Dona Gambrel wanted to know what was taking me so long. Why I could not just "get that patient out of there". Saving a buck. Each patient that stays in that bed will cost the hospital money. They need to "clear the bed". I erred in an effort to provide a service of humanity in a corporate environment. In my protest toward "time management" and being bullied, I was and am summarily discharged of my responsibilities. There story does not end there. The rule of radical feminism in nursing is exclusionary. Their aim is to disrupt the oppressive male dominated system. Dona Gambrel is such a person. Her collusion with Jane Mahoney RN PhD has come back to haunt me. One day in 2005, I mentioned to Jane Mahoney that men have a unique and impressive strong trait that can compliment nursing. This was my error. From that point forward there was conflict. As a radical feminist she abhored my recommended reading of "The Village Blacksmith". http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/longfellow/thevillage.shtml. I had attended a group, this group was unique, but had a sister group. It was called "Men's Sexuality" and concurrent was the womans group appropriately titled "Womens Sexuality" which I had not attended, since I was at the mens group. I mentioned this to Mahoney. One day during our psychiatric discourse, I had stated "I attended a men's sexuality group". This seemed to astound the radical feminist. I held my peace. Her intrusive aberrant thoughts excreted from her mouth "So, what do they talk about, child molesting?". The battle was lost long before it began. The network of radical feminists run deep. Their ties are known, there actions need no explanation. They want to undermine male dominance and men in any position, especially nursing. It pangs me to know that such an important profession, such delicate lives (patients) are actually affected by radical feminists http://fathersforlife.org/feminism/feminism_terms_defined.htm. So, as Dona and Mahoney colluded and succeeded I have resigned myself to acknowledge my plight. I must move on. Men are different than women. This is a big surprise to the feminist. Men are predictable, compassionate, great advocates, defenders and liberators. Yet, we are victims when playing in the field where feminist reside. A very good analogy is this. Let's say Janice Joplin had a job at a major corporation. She talks to the VP: "Your proposals were outstanding and well thought out, good job, sir" Imagine Janice Joplins voice and looks. The VP looks at her and said "thank Janice, did you finish the project I assigned you?". Next we have Janice Joplin average looking with white teeth, washed hair and not too bad looking. Janice Joplin: "Sir, I must compliment you on that proposal, everyone likes it, well done sir". VP looks at her and said "Why thank you Jan. Your very observant, you may go places here" NEXT, Janice Joplin, looking fabulous, make up, Dollish figure, an absolute knock out. "Sir, You were fabulous on that presentation, wow, that was really good. You worked real hard on that and it shows". VP looks at her and said "Well, hello J. Your looking really good yourself. Hey, know what goes before J? Huh??? Huh??? laughing" Janice says "Sir, you are sooo funny. I have not heard that one". NOW the feminist Willie Nelson is the figure for this one: "Howdy Gloria, you did a fine job on that proposal, mighty good". VP Gloria said "Yea, thats my job, you got work to do?" Willie Nelson shaved, dressed in a nice suite, smelling like the cologne Black with cuff links on. "Gloria, that was a might fine job on that presentation, it was very creative and well, wow" VP Gloria "Listen, BILL, I can do that right? I am capable of that and much more. Where are your productivity charts. Have you been keeping up with them?" NEXT Willie Nelson not looking like Willie, buff, clean, blue eyes, shaved sharp looking suite, leather shoes polished, teeth whiter than an egg shell and smelling like money". Willie said "Gloria, great job, your really moving out there, congrats" VP Gloria, "Listen Billie, you have nothing creative to say, then get back to work. What are you working on anyways?". I'm done. I feel better getting this out. I know that no one will really read this so . . . I have sent this sight to family and friends. Some have emailed me back, others, well there are no notes posted. That is ok. Talk about isolated. Self esteem check here. Is this battery working on the self esteem gauge? I need to get new batteries. I'm going to take a shower, dig a ditch tomorrow (very masculine ditch) and probably watch Court TV. Laying in bed all day sounds good too. Oh, doing that requires that I validate my existence by having a job. Got one. A good filler til I pass my boards. Doing Psych Family this time. I will be an NP one day. I plan on management so I can defeat the radical feminist and smell like sweat, have a 5pm shadow all day and rule, rule RULE! ahhahahahahaha. I'm in charge one day and no one, no one can stop me! hahahaha. I forgot to buy the milk at HEB. Note to self, get milk. Rambling. Update tomorrow. Story needs to be finished as boring as it is.

Life is like a fruit basket

Have you ever saw the future and hoped in it only to have it redefined? Sometimes, the future just takes a curve and I don't know why. The divine purpose is clear to someone, but not obvious to me. I wonder if it gets even weirder as we age? I sit in a new leather chair, cushioned bottom and suited to my spinal issues. I type looking for employment. This is a very delicate place for me. The storm has come and I have been swept on shore. Now, somehow, I must find my way back to the waters. To sail, catch the wind and embrace another way. Life is not like a box of chocolates. Life is like a fruit basket. Some apples look good, but there are worms in the core. Some have coconut (I hate coconut), still some fruit in the basic are Texas Orange. They look like Oranges, smell like Oranges, but when you open it up and tast its juices, your get sour, Lemon sour. Ok, a sense of frustration, noted. I missed my boards by 2 questions. So, more money, more time to study, limbo in job and actually doing ok with it. No, I don't believe I'm in denial. I am too old to not know there are speed bumps in the road. Well, not much creativity in this email. Good news is I got a brand new executive chair and did not pay one cent. Oh, the simple pleasures as we age.

The RaVAN

The next day, as the sun slowly rose over the piney tree tops. The fingers that pressed upon the letters of the keyboard creeked with an all too familiar sound. The sound of age and pain to finger cuts from the labor of the prior day, made the reach for the higher letters more daunting. If only I could communicate with asdf gh jkl; (the gh are a stretch-literally). The task which was accomplished on the day before was successful. The fruit bore in the startling sound of the motor cranking. Still, the air grew denser with each moment of glee. As if glee was a spray of the finest parfume before the masculine remains deposited in the l'eau de toilette overtook it, glee in all her glory was short lived. Celebration turned to misery as the olfactory stimulation caused brief periods of dyspnea. Some say, that in the midst of malodorous haunting of milk long past, that you can still here the sounds of its host. The beast whose sacrifice provided for the element of flavor that one fateful day. I paused, I heard it, distant, but clear, "oooooo". Then, louder and with an eerie familiar sound "eeooooou", and louder still, as a duet, "eeeoooou" and finally, a trio as my sons disgust added to guttural responses "eeeeoooouuu" of my daughter and the cousin Hannah. They crescendoed until at last I fled. Then, haunted, frightful, repugnant and shamed - I watched as my children and my niece were possessed by the sounds of the beast that certainly was now passed. Shame, you ask? Yes, for I have known this haunting and was possessed as they are. The demonic scent lingered in my nostrils as if sulfur from Hades. As it does in theirs now. Yet, as aged limburger cheese, I have witnessed worse. My shame soon faded as their novice disgust strengthened my limburgered nostrils. My age and experience became evident, evoking memories of the dead. Kimchi, blood sausage, sardines and the like. I returned to the helm of my vessel, smiling, wondering, sharing no thoughts a father should ever share, ‘til now the wrinkles on my face disgraced repugnance. "What odour causes you to flee, do you not know that I have fared well in rougher swells." Then, they sensed my common tale to come and fled even faster and further. Left alone in the sweltering heat of the fermented enclosure, my salvation lay in the oscillating hopes of cold blowing air. Pretending the brave moment, I witnessed my hand, slowed in a cinematic movement, turning that circular button for which I placed my hopes. The rest I will never share, neither will anyone know the true nature of the most unnatural. Suffice it to say that I too fear the tale I can now tell. So, that is my story. The ardent embellishment of a moment in time, or was it? The van ne'er again started, still is sitting, still is sitting at the end of the driveway not driven, near the curb. And the smell from out that chamber that lies floating in the air, Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Humid

Houston rains are nice when brief and cooling. The rains have come for several days and then, the sun shows up to make matters worse. The sun does not beat down to torment us after these heavy rains, instead it causes the water to loose itself from a liquid state to a gaseous form. I think most of us are distilled by now. It is also that time of year when cars begin to have, issues. This year the theme of our fate is electrical. The minivan that smells like spoiled milk, has been fermenting in this wet, humid heat. We have been debating on whether to call a tow truck or not. It use to be so easy on making decisions like that. The starter or the battery. See, at one time, years ago, it was not so complicated, however it seems some vehicles have become - lets say - picky about how many amps it needs to start. I don't want to be confused with someone who may actually know what that means. I argued with fervor at first. Then, as if an old man was told "Grandpa, you can use the remote, you don't need to go all the way to the tv", I was shut down with the new concept that starters will just click if they don't have a certain amount of amps. So, we went to Walmart and purchased a new battery. I'm wondering if they put smell sensors inside the cars to alert us when something is wrong. That would explain the smell and make sense. That would be a better idea than the flashing orange-red lights on the dash board. The smell would actually provoke some action like what we are dong now. Well, I'm cleaning the engine block off today too. My theory is, that maybe some smells are taken up from the engine block and, by making it smell better, the van may smell better.