Animal Nightmares

        Many of my peeps know that a vast majority of my knowledge is gained from channels like Animal Planet and National Geographic.  It is also well known that I have an obsession with "Shark Week" and shows such as, "Animal Nightmares."  I heard a real gem of a quote from a narrator on the Wild Channel this afternoon.  The name of the show?  "Snakezilla." Obvi.  Here it is:

        "When you see a wild python out in the Everglades, you better bring your A- game because that snake is going to want to eat you alive."

        There is one thing that concerns me about this statement.  If you do not know that wild pythons can grow to over 30 feet long (there was speculation that a 49 footer had been found in Indonesia, but when official measurements were taken it was something closer to 20 feet long and only about 1,000 pounds,) and you are wandering around in the Everglades, you probably don't even know what A-game means.  In which case, you have a bigger problem than a giant reticulated python- you're stupid.

Look at these fools

        I was in the wild myself this weekend.  I camped on an air mattress in the primitive outdoors of Mattson Farms in Cashmere, WA.  I did not come across any Snakezillas, but I did come across this deadly combination...

Deadly cute, that is.

        This deadly cuteness almost turned fatal when a stray horseshoe flew toward this pug puppy's head.  Look, if I had any control over where I was throwing, I wouldn't have lost the game 2-6, nor would I have plotted the death of a puppy in front of dozens of people.  It was an accident.

       Besides, this puppy was a little bit of a fool.  He was way too occupied with sniffing the ground to notice giant metal objects hurtling at his miniature noggin. Well, he might have been blind in one eye, too, so not really his fault.  It was an accident.  If you want to blame someone, blame the idiots that let me throw horseshoes with people and small pets around.

        I watched in horror as the ultimate party foul unfolded 20 yards away from me in slow motion.  My feet were frozen next to the stake, and all I could do was screech, "Oh goooooooood!"  Luckily, I was not as strong as I anticipated and the horseshoe landed several feet away from... 

        Okay, I'll tell you.  The. pug's. name. is. Tebow.  I almost killed TEBOW.  Of course.  It's like I'm trying to go to hell.  

Hey Nicole, what's a really good way to secure a spot in hell?  

Easy.  Just smash the skull of a puppy who is blind in one eye and was named after Jesus' favorite NFL quarterback.   

     Lucky for me, Jesus saved him- as always.  Also, I am quite certain his owners were more pissed that I took the Lord's name in vain than at the fact that I  practically crushed their puppy's face in [even more than it already is.] 

        And since this has gone from a deadly animal post straight to a religious commentary, let me bring you the good news: 

         If you find yourself in the wild, watch out for giant snakes and/or blonde freaks chucking horseshoes in your general direction. They can be equally deadly- especially if you are a tiny smoosh faced puppy named after Tim Tebow.  (I don't teach Sunday school anymore, it's okay.)

Don't worry, if I ever see these two together near a horseshoe pit, I will be the first to run screaming in the opposite direction.

Just because you have a trick knee, it doesn't make you a hooker

        I'm going to give you all a little lesson on what I like to call "The ol' trick knee scenario."  I have been putting in about 20 miles per week over the last several months training for my half marathons.  Now, that's nothing for elite runners and marathoners, but those guys are assholes (not you Jaimie and Katie.)  If you're a regular human, running twenty miles in a week is a fair amount, if not a lot.  Also, if you are a regular human, running twenty miles per week will catch up to you at some point, perhaps, in the form of a [minor] injury.

It's all smiles and waves until somebody gets plantar faciitis

        This brings my to my scenario of "The ol' trick knee."  I was running with a friend the other day, who knows I have acquired a trick knee.  (I don't really have a trick knee.  I am pretty sure I have IT band syndrome, but 'trick knee' just has a better ring to it.  Eric hates it when I refer to it as my trick knee because he says it makes me sound like I'm 90 years old.  Rude.  You're 90 years old, Eric.)

        Anyhow, this particular friend is probably one of the least sympathetic people I know- you know who you are, and you can't deny it.  I should say, he has no sympathy for injuries, whether real or imagined, that haven't plagued you for more than a few months.  Also, as an aside, he doesn't really believe in physical therapy... especially if you are prone to imaginary diseases and/or fake tumors, which I am-obvi.  My point is, we were running the other day and he noticed I was limping a little (the old trick knee just needs to warm up) and told me, "You know, you probably won't believe I'm saying this, but maybe you should see a therapist." 

Maybe YOU should see a therapist- Rude.

        Then I realized he meant a physical therapist.  Luckily, I figured it out before I intentionally tripped him.  (Because that would have confirmed a necessity for the other type of therapist as well as anger management.)  Boom! Welcome to the ol' trick knee scenario.

        Step one:  Find something that is mostly false with a grain of truth and exaggerate.  (Trust me, I do it all the time.  My whole blog/life is based on this formula.)

        Me:  Oh the old trick knee is acting up.  *limp*

        (The limp was real.  Again, I do not seriously have a trick knee- I don't even know what that means.)

        Step two: Wait for something miraculous to happen.

        In this case, the miracle was getting a recommendation for physical therapy from a person with sympathy for neither pain nor PT.  It's not like I really got anything out of it, though, particularly because I didn't have a recording device to prove he'd actually said this.

        This technique is more functional if, for instance, you get home and you are too tired to make dinner.  (I was even too tired for yoga the other night, and I love Tuesday night yoga.)  

        Me: I am soooooooooo tired.  I can't make dinner.  There probably won't be dinner tonight.

        (I was really tired- have you been to bone tumor clinic?  BLERG.  I could have made dinner, though.  I just didn't want to.)

        Wait for it.

        Voila!  Eric made dinner, and it included all of my favorite things.  Wine and sandwiches.  

        I feel like I need to add here, that the miracle of Eric making dinner isn't because he sucks.  It's because I am a control freak and like to cook dinner every night.  It's an "I - only - want - what - I - want - when - I - want - it" kind of thing.  Plus, I like cooking- except for when I don't. 

Here I am frying pickles- which isn't really dinner.  Also, this smile is fake.

     
        Whether you're looking for free medical advice or a dinner that magically appears on your plate after a long day, the ol' trick knee scenario can work for you too.  Take a fragment of reality, exaggerate, and wait for the magic to happen.  Aaaaand that's how you work smarter, not harder.  You're welcome... again.  I really give you guys a lot of free advice.

Welcome to Earth, you little Alien.

        Nothing like throwing a baby shower only to end up with a gigantic hangover the next day.  P.S. hot yoga does not cure hangovers- I would recommend avoiding this activity the morning after one too many drinks.

One time I went to  Disneyland when I was hungover- also not recommended.

        It's true, we did put on a pretty kick ass baby shower...as kick ass as a baby shower can get, I suppose.  We included alcohol - which was a little bit of a slap in the face to the guest of honor-  but every time I go to a baby shower, I think, "I could use a drink right now."  I especially think this at the showers where you have to guess which candy bar has been melted into a diaper to imitate baby poop.  There is nothing fun about baby poop, so when someone shoves fake baby poop in your face and calls it a game...well, you need a drink.

This is my "You're welcome for the baby shower, but if you ask me when I am having a baby I will cut you" face.

        We didn't really play any games- obvi.  The only sort of game was to get onesies and Emily had to guess who brought which item.  It may sound sort of terrible (and by terrible I mean awesome,) but I was several glasses of Prosecco in, so it seemed like a fine idea at the time.

This is what I got her.  Miniature bedazzled ice cream cone tank top? Yes please. 

        Also, the food was pre-tty good, if I do say so myself.  Carly and I had to haul balls to get it all together.  Luckily, I have a different friend who has more party decorations, bowls, and baskets than Crate and Barrel, so I borrowed a bunch of stuff from her that really classed it up.  You know me- always classy.  Okay, maybe 'sometimes classy' is more accurate?  You know what? I don't think we need to quantify it.

Um, yeah.  I made this.

Individual napkin and silverware baskets- that's how fancy I am.

Cute.  If you like that sort of thing. 

sign by Shan

Table by Holly

        If you know me a little bit, you might be surprised to find that I actually had fun doing this.  Only because I love Emily.   Fine, we had a four person SWAT team that made this happen. (Strong work Shandra, Holly and Carly.) Also, Carly is hilarious, and one of the only people who can get away with telling me to calm the f@&* down.  Let's be honest, I need that person.  We all need that person sometimes.

        Moral of the story: when life gives you pregnant friends, selflessly throw them baby showers so their family and friends compliment your fabulous cooking skills, and -more importantly- so you can pick the alcohol that pairs best with onesies.

       

Carly and I several years ago before we had to booze with a bunch of pregnant people and babies.

       

Illogical as Ever

        Me: Am I fat like Candy Pants?

        silence


        Eric: Wait, what?!  Who's Candy Pants?

        Me: The girl who was jumping on the broken glass [in America's Got Talent.]

        Eric: I don't even- I wasn't even  paying attention.  What did she look like?

        Me:  Her legs were pretty skinny but the rest of her was a little fat.

        Eric: Okay, well then probably not.

     This is how my Tuesday night conversation is shaping up.  Not to mention I have a smoosh-faced kitty sitting on the couch, snoring.  I think she needs a sleep study and a Craniofacial consult.  (P.S. am I the only one besides Mariah Carey who's in love with Nick Cannon?)

You would snore too if your nose was indented into your cranium

        Luckily, the above scenario about whether I'm fatter than some freak show named Candy Pants wasn't a real panic attack.  Bad news:  my new "doctor" is a hippie that doesn't believe in medication for panic attacks.

BLERG!

        It's a longish, boring story about a nurse practitioner I used to see leaving the practice, and me being too lazy to find a provider in another location.  I was having panic attacks about diseases, and I needed to get my crazy out, so I went to *gasp* a Naturopathic Doctor who works in the same building.  I don't even know what this means, so I googled it- obvi.  Then it occurred to me: if you have to look up the definition of a professional license, it's probably your first red flag if you believe in science.  Which I don't.

This is my most scientific looking picture.  I am actually taking a tour in Alaska about glass blowing

        I had a panic attack tonight that I hadn't correctly ordered pre-operative labs for a patient.  (I did do it right - durrrrrr.)  Except, now that I have a fake doctor who only prescribes herbs (not weed, fools) in capsules for remedies, I'm in trouble.  

        Okay fine, I'll tell you.  She gave me this root that is supposed to help you calm down, but it's all natural and shit, hence, avoiding side effects such as drowsiness or weirdness.  I have tried it a few times just to see if it does anything.  I took it the last time I flew to work on the way there, but I couldn't say if it helped or not because it wasn't bumpy, so I wasn't very afraid of death via metal torpedo hurtling to the ground.  I should have taken it on the flight home because it was bumpy, and I did think my last day on Earth could end with death in a tin can like a sardine.  (So far my scientific experiment  regarding the efficacy of said root with one subject and no control group is not off to a great start.)  It was "too turbulent" for beverage service, so I couldn't swallow the damn root gel caps.  As an aside, what is the point of free beer on the plane if they always weasel out of the beverage service on the way home?!

Don't deprive us Alaska Air

        I tried the capsules again as I started to panic about the labs, but I also looked online to make sure I had ordered them right.  So I calmed down, but I am a horrible scientist, and with more than one variable, I was unable to determine cause of decelerated freak out.  Ratsicles.  Foiled again.  

        At least I don't have to worry about whether or not I look like Candy Pants*. Otherwise, I think I would need something stronger than a root capsule.

I need a root capsule here to relax my face (sorry Mary.)

*Please note: Candy Pants is probably a really nice person, and she really isn't fat at all.  It's more that if you call yourself Candy Pants, you need to look like Pamela Anderson or the modern day equivalent.

   

Who invited this guy?

And why wouldn't I be wearing a crown and sunglasses with a mom outfit on?

        This pretty much sums up how I look before, during, and after a running event:  mentally challenged.  Running buddy Katie and I did the *Inaugural* Portland Rock 'n' Roll 1/2 Marathon.  I thought she would leave me in the dust, but we ended up running the entire 13.1 miles together.  It was fun!  Don't you kind of want to punch someone who says running 13.1 miles is fun?  Me too.  I just punched myself in the arm for you- you're welcome.

We sort of have matching outfits on- doesn't that look like fun?

        Here's what else I've been up to lately: spilling on strangers.  You heard me.  Now, I spill things on myself all the time.  No big deal.  When you start spazzing out and spilling on random fools in public, you might need some anti-epileptic medications.

        A couple weeks ago I spilled beer on a lady's head, which would have been par for the course at a sporting event, except I was totally sober.  I didn't trip and I had plenty of room to move, yet somehow I spilled a blob of beer square on the top of her head.  Luckily, she seemed cool.  I was super embarrassed, and apologized profusely-obvi.

Blerg.

        Today I flew to work again (and barely lived to tell the tale, thanks to a little bastard called Turbulence.)  At the airport this morning I was about to sit down at the gate.  (What I am about to tell you is my real life.)  Somehow, as I sat down, coffee flew from my Americano cup across the aisle, diagonally to land on an unsuspecting random fool's jeans.  I tried to act cool.  Maybe he didn't notice!  Then I snuck a peak at the dude's knee, and there it was.  A painfully obvious coffee stain the size of a silver dollar loomed above his patella.  Our eyes met...

        "I'm sorry!" I giggled, "I don't even know how I did that.  Do you want a napkin?"  Note to self: do not giggle at someone when you have just ruined their favorite pants.  You are too old to giggle and get away with it. Also, you were wearing high water khakis and a cardigan- if you absolutely must giggle, don't dress like your mom.  Do some laundry, will you?

        He just looked at me like the lunatic that I am, and said it was fine.  I'm lucky we weren't flying to New York City- in which case everyone would have been in suits and fancy pants.  Thankfully, we were flying to a place where cowboy hats and denim reign supreme.  What if I f*&#@d up a dude's Armani suit or some crap like that?    What if I someday spill a hot beverage on Dog the Bounty Hunter?!  I could end up dead or badly mangled in either scenario.

I don't think you want to spill coffee on this- I'm pretty sure he shot an old lady once

     ALERT:   I just put the lap top down for a dinner break.  Spilled on myself while writing a blog about spilling on people.  Is the Liz Lemon character on 30 Rock based off of me?  I wish.  At least then I would be a writer for T.V. and Alec Baldwin would be my co-star.

My Co-star sleeps through a lot of our scenes- he gets tired from being so awesome.

        Look people, there is no major life lesson to be learned here.  I'm old and I spill on myself and others.  I guess there is one lesson to be learned: don't wear good clothes around me.   This is why we can't have nice things.

       

  

Oh Canada.

        Eric and I went to Vancouver, B.C. to celebrate our first wedding anniversary.  Yeah, we're a year into this marriage, and I have to say, we are nailing it.  

Obvi.

        Now, I know what you're thinking.  Why Canada, eh?  I have to admit, I asked myself the same question.  Here's what I've come up with as the pros for Canadian living so far...

        1.) You can run around Stanley Park and leave your pepper spray at home.
         I did not worry about getting murdered even once while I was in Vancouver.  If you know me, you know this is really saying something about a city.  Also, I am pretty sure you get arrested if you bring pepper spray across the Canadian border.  Canadians do not carry weapons.  Hence, why a person can run without a fear of getting stabbed by a homeless person- which brings me to my next point.

        2.) I saw 8.5 homeless people the whole time I was there.
        Usually, I see more homeless people by the time I leave my block.  Excellent job, Canada for keeping people employed and preventing public urination- which brings me to my next point.

         3.)  It doesn't smell like pee in Vancouver.  At all.
        Have you been to Pioneer Square?  Furthermore, have you been to Portland?  Then you appreciate a pee free zone as much as I do.

        4.) Poutine.
                Yes, you will absolutely feel like a disgusting human being if you eat this, but it always seems like a good idea at the time.

French fries, cheese curds, and gravy. Sick.  Yum.

        5.) People are considerate. (They get out of your way.)
        So, that f*@# yeah attitude that I love?  Not so much when a burly fool is walking on my side of the sidewalk and refuses to move an inch so I don't trip and fall into rat infested bushes. In fact, sometimes, I purposely bump into people.  Usually, I do this when I am running, and they are looking right at me.  I think to myself, "Look at this asshole, I am clearly working harder than he is," and then I just brush 'em back a bit.  But in the magical land of Canada, pedestrians can spot each other from approximately 6 blocks away, and  promptly cross the street to avoid any conflict.  This saves me from having to act like a jack wagon, and any time this happens, I view it as a plus.

        I hope you're ready for the cons.  (Come on, you had to know they were coming.)

        1.) People don't know how to hustle.
        Here in the U.S., a server at a restaurant will try to up-sell you on everything.  For instance, if you find yourself low on beer, a member of the waitstaff will come by at the perfect time and refill your water glass to ask, yet mostly just tell you, "You guys need another beer?"  In Canada, the servers walk away absentmindedly after pouring your water.  This practically requires the customer to tackle them in order to get refills.  I think they don't want to be pushy (see pro #5) and, therefore, avoid conflict at all costs.  This is mostly fine- except when you need a second beer.  (Which is always.)

Enjoy your beer while you can.  Then get ready to throw down to earn your second pint.

        2.) The ketchup is too vinegar-y.
        Yes, the ketchup has too much vinegar in it; plus, there is not even a bottle on your table.  They bring mini ramekins out by request only.  What if you really like ketchup?  Combine that with the fact that you have to clothesline a server to get an item you are willing to pay for, such as booze, and you realize that you are SOL when it comes to obtaining free condiments.


        3.) Their dollar is better (slightly) than ours.
         Lame.  When a country has coins referred to as Loonies and Toonies (not joking,) it begs the question as to whether this nation's choice in currency names is, perhaps, a commentary on the population's general mindset.

        4.) They still answer to the Queen.
        Queen Elizabeth is the head of state.  You all know how I feel about England.

        5.) There is barely any security when crossing from the US to Canada.
        I have to say, the ease with which we got through the border patrol on the way to Canada was nice.  It took all of two minutes to tell the agent we were visiting Vancouver for our anniversary. Yeah,  it was nice... until I realized she believed us.  Do you know how easy it would be to sneak, well, anything into that place?  I could have brought my pepper spray after all, and those fools would have been none the wiser.  I started to freak about all the terrorists that could sneak into Canada, undetected.  Just when my brain was about to explode (no terrorist pun intended) at the possibilities of a Tim Horton's being blown to smithereens, I realized something extremely comforting.

        Nobody wants to bomb Canada.

        That would be like punching Chuck Norris's little brother in the face to make yourself look cool.  Totally futile.  Canada's big brother, America, would kick that idiot's ass.  The best part is, everyone knows this.   We have inadvertently been keeping Canada awesome for like a million years just because we're neighbors.  You're welcome, little bro.

Happy Nurses Week, fools!

        The good news is that I ran ten miles last Saturday with a friend who I consider a real runner.  The bad news is that I always want a cheeseburger.  No, not just after running ten miles- I want a cheeseburger pretty much at all times.  I'm fairly certain this means I will never run any kind of an ultra marathon.  *surprise*

You're right, that is not a cheeseburger.  It is a pulled pork sandwich  with macaroni and cheese.  I made Eric carry my corn dog so as not to look suspicious.

        Did you ever want to be something ... not you?  I was walking with some friends the other day, and we were discussing what we used to want to be when we grew up.  When I was little I wanted to be an actress.  (And by little, I mean when I was 22 years old.)  One friend wanted to be an astronaut, and the other had dreams of being a marine biologist.  As fate would have it, we all became Registered Nurses. So, yeah, pretty close to our original plans...NOT.  (Remember when it was funny to say something that wasn't true, pause, and then shout 'NOT!" at the end of the sentence?  Me neither.)

"This shirt is NOT black."

        I suspect that I was the last of the three of us to realize that there are dreams, and then there is reality.  

These guys want to be frogs when they grow up. Fools.

        The would-be-astronaut met a real life astronaut at a young age because her parents were encouraging her to chase her dreams.  They got to talking, and it was discovered that my friend excelled at math and science.  A good sign...  However, when asked if she had any health problems, she mentioned an open heart surgery she had undergone as a baby.  Her new mentor informed her, "Yeah, you can't be an astronaut." Waaaaa Wahhhh.  (This is the sound you make when someone is being a real Debbie Downer- my husband responds to my practical warnings and advice with this noise multiple times per day.  Also, sometimes random people that I barely know Waaaaa Wahhhh me.  Rude.  If I warn you of a Costa Rican bug that implants its eggs into your body while you sleep, and then twenty five years later its offspring explode your heart, and you Waaaaa Wahhhh me...Well, don't say I didn't warn you when your aorta is blown to smithereens.) 

        I'm not sure why the marine biologist became a nurse, but I think it had to do with asthma, and the dolphins mistaking her inhaler puffy noise for a hostile beluga whale intrusion.  She's lucky she made it out of that career track alive.  Marine animals are beautiful, but they will turn on you in a second- regardless of any Albuterol requirements you may have.

        As for me, I did not have a financier  to support me in the necessary move to Hollywood to become an actress.  Clearly, this is the only reason I didn't make it big.  It had nothing to do with a thick Wisconsin accent, no connections, and (let's be honest) no real talent.  (5 minutes of fame as Sandra Dee in one's high school production of Grease is likely a big-fish-in-a-small-pond kind of thing if you're from Bay Port High.  So I hear, anyway...)

Luckily, any incriminating evidence that might have existed is in VHS form- suckas!

        I can't quite say exactly how or why I ended up becoming a nurse.

        What I can say is, I'm glad I ended up here.  Being a nurse brought me to Seattle, where I met Eric and some of my best friends.  It has allowed me the privilege of seeing patients and families at their best as well as at their worst.  This profession has given me the gift of glimpsing people as they rarely allow themselves to be revealed - as human.  It is a very humbling way to experience a profession.

         To all my friends who are nurses- accidental or other wise- happy Nurses Week!

Some of the best RNs I know.