Hot Guy Tuesday: Duck-billed Platypus

I've been working a lot lately and haven't had time to come up with a new guy for this week. In the mean time please enjoy this picture of a platypus; a creature I have long had an unusal affection for.

A bitch before sleeping

I'm tired and cranky, so please excuse me while I rant a little before going to bed.

Last night I had a patient who went bad. I called our rapid response team, which is basically just one step away from calling a full on code. The patient was diaphoretic, heart racing, can't get a blood pressure...bad stuff. The team comes in and checks her out. They run a battery of tests. They're yelling out labs to be drawn, EKG, chest x-ray. I'm running trying to get them all ordered and to call the appropriate people to get the job done. Ultimately they decide to transfer her to one of our critical care units. I hate transferring patients to critical care. Not only is it bad news for them, but it means I usually have to deal with some bitchy critical care nurse.

Don't get me wrong; I love most of our ICU nurses. They're a great group of nurses who work really hard and know their shit. They can run codes in their sleep. I just always seem to have to report off to that nurse who feels the need to quiz me on the patient's entire medical history and hospital stay. It just bugs me. I'm giving you a patient who has just had a major cardiac event, so why are you so concerned about the type of fucking tube feeding she's getting? It's not important right now and you can get the information from the chart just as easily as I can.

I also feel like a lot of the critical care nurses look down on us "lowly floor nurses". Granted, I can't read the 12-leads, I don't draw my own blood gases, and frankly I probably wouldn't know what the hell to do with most central lines, but that doesn't make me an idiot. I work my ass off every night I go to work and I'm a fucking good nurse.

A nurse manager once told me that the easiest way to make an ICU nurse cry was to have her work the floor and take six patients. Most of them wouldn't be able to do it since they're so used to only having to deal with one or two patients at a time. I like to think about that every time I encounter some witch of a nurse. I imagine them desperately trying to pass meds on six patients while answering call lights, toileting, bathing, completing assessment and charting it all before the end of shift. I think about that and just smile.

"Maybe it was an iguana"

My apartment building is being painted this week. I woke up this morning to find all of my windows taped over and covered in plastic. It sort of reminds me of that scene in E.T. where the feds come and try to take E.T. away. I keep expecting men in big white suits to come busting through the front door and try to steal my alien friend away.

Or maybe they'll just take the cat.

Halloween: 1976

I was reading some other blog earlier tonight and they suggested Googling "Halloween" along with the year you were born and then posting the most amusing pictures you find. I found a couple of funny ones. Perhaps later this week, if I can get near a scanner I can share some fun Halloween pictures from my youth.

Come and Knock on Our Door...

WARNING: The following story contains references to the writer's genitals and the manipulation of said genitals. If you are offended by such things, go elsewhere.
The first time I ever masturbated was while watching Three’s Company. I suppose I should probably clarify. I was not aroused by the antics of Jack, Janet and Chrissy. I was in the third grade and had just gotten out of the bath tub. I was naked (as is usually the case when taking a bath) and I jumped on my bed. Three’s Company was on and I started to watch. I put a pillow between my knees and rested on my side while watching the television. The pillow rubbed against the end of my penis and…

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!!!!

I didn’t ejaculate; I was still too young at that point. I did feel something though. It was intensely pleasurable and I was determined to repeat it. And I repeat it I would. Many, many, MANY times.

Since that first experience occurred when my penis rubbed against a pillow, my little brain figured that this would be the best way to repeat it. So the very next night I laid in bed, pulled down the bottoms of my Garfield pajamas and rubbed my little guy against my pillow. Sure enough, there was that sensation again. I couldn’t believe it! What was this and why did it feel so good. And why did I feel so bad about it?

I continued to masturbate in this manner for quite some time. I don’t exactly remember when the first time I actually ejaculated was, but I just turned my pillow over afterwards and went to sleep. I don’t know if my mother ever found evidence of my little sessions while cleaning the sheets, but I have to imagine crusty pillow cases left her wondering.

It took a little while until I realized that rubbing my dick against a pillow was an inferior method of self pleasuring oneself. I discovered that you could do it almost anywhere (the shower, the school bathroom, the woods, the shed in the back yard) if you just used your hand. I also learned that using lotion or hair conditioner provided a superior experience.

The guilt continued for a couple of years. I researched the issue in my Boy Scout manual and learned that these guilty feelings were normal and that I should just occupy myself by canoeing, hiking, camping, or knot tying. Being a good Boy Scout, I did all of these things. Of course I would then finish the day by beating off in my sleeping bag. Every time I finished masturbating, I would pledge to never do such a horrible thing ever again. I would promise before God and my Country that I would be a good boy. Like all good Boy Scouts I would be trustworthy, loyal, helpful and self abuse free. I never lasted more than a day. By the next night I was jerking off and feeling guilty again.

Eventually the guilt went away, although I don’t know why. Perhaps I had just masturbated so much that I eventually just got over it. I had reached my guilt threshold. I was now free to jerk off with out feelings of remorse or shame. I could spill my seed freely and willingly! Free at last! Free at last! Free at last!

At this point in my life, masturbation has just become one of those things I do without even thinking. Sort of like brushing my teeth or putting on deodorant. I don’t absolutely have to do it every day, but life is certainly a lot more tolerable when I do. I don’t even really have a routine I follow. Sometimes in the shower. Sometimes in the bed. Sometimes in front of the computer. It just depends on my mood at the moment. One thing I don’t do is use a pillow like I did back in third grade. Although I must admit that every time I hear the theme to Three’s Company, I can’t help but feel a little nostalgic.

Hot Guy Tuesday: Christian Bale

Christian Bale can do it all. He danced his way through Newsies, chopped up young blondes in American Psycho, and rescued Katie Holmes from the evil clutches of Tom Cruise The Scarecrow as Batman. Whatever the future holds for Mr. Bale, we can only hope that it includes more movies with full frontal nudity.

Halloween Memories

A. and I were walking through Target the other day and noticed all the Halloween paraphanelia displayed throughout the store. A. commented, "Ah, Halloween. I just don't care." Sadly, I had to agree. Halloween has sort of become meaningless to me as I've gotten older.

I used to like Halloween. Really. One year I spent a very long time putting together an elaborate costume so that a friend and I could dress up as the Wonder Twins. Hell, I even spray painted a stuffed monkey blue so that we could have Gleek!

How did that Halloween turn out?

Everywhere we went, it seemed that very few people had put as much thought or effort into their costumes as us and no one really seemed all that impressed with the amount of time we had spent on ours. I also spent the better part of the evening trying to get someone else to hold Gleek since it got rather tiresome carrying that damn stuffed monkey around while drinking a gin and tonic.

Since then I have had rather similar experiences with Halloween. There was the year A. and I dressed as Paul and Jan Crouch from the TBN network. I painted a pair of pumps gold and turned a blonde buffont wig into a glorious pink disaster all in the hopes of having a fabulous Halloween. While our costumes got a few chuckles from those "in the know", we spent the night sipping cheap beer in a friends back yard. Not exactly the night I had hoped for.

Even as I young child I always tried to make Halloween extra special. My ever patient mother would sit back and allow me to decorate our house with cobwebs and fake plastic spiders. I convinced my father one year that what our house really needed was a cemetary and he proceeded to make me tombstones for our front yard. I purchased a book on constructing the perfect haunted house and then turned our garage into a house of horrors. I even managed to get my rather stoic brother to participate and covered him in fake blood made from corn syrup and red food coloring.

Sounds like the makings of a classic childhood Halloween, doesn't it?

For whatever reason, it all just felt like a big let down the next day. I suppose I felt like no one was genuinely scared or impressed with what I had created. Of course it was probably a little naive to think that I could scare someone simply by covering my brother in fake scars and stage blood and having him scream as they walked by. But come on people! I rigged that spider so it would fall on you! That took pulleys and rope! Complicated stuff for a dim-witted 12 year old!

It would be wrong of me to say that all Halloweens have been disasters. A. and I dressed as an altar boy and a priest one year, got tons of laughs and managed to get rip roaring drunk at a friends party. Good times. The sad part is that drinking more than my fair share of gin and tonics was what made that Halloween so much fun.

So, I've decided this year to spend Halloween the way every civilized gay boy should: getting smashed in a bar while watching half-naked men gyrate. And I won't even need a costume.

Blog Rules

Over dinner last night with some friends, it was revealed that this blog exists to someone who was previously unaware of its existence. It was also revealed that I had written about this person and given them a nickname that they didn’t seem too thrilled with. Given this fact, I feel the need to share my general rules for writing on this site.

1. This is my blog and I write about what I want.

2. All names are changed, including my own.

3. All stories are true but I reserve the right to embellish for effect.

4. Sometimes I make stuff up.

5. If I write about you and you don’t want me to, just let me know. I am happy to take anything down that offends my close friends.

6. If you don’t like any of these rules, refer to rule #1.

Another Night, Another Frequent Flyer...

He’s well known to everyone on my unit. A diabetic for many years who has no concept of proper blood sugar control. On top of the diabetes, he’s a drug addict. During previous hospital stays, drugs have been found in his room and he was once found puffing on his crack pipe in the shower. Frequent room searches have become the norm when he stays with us now.

He has paid the price for his addiction and poor blood sugar control. Earlier this year he lost one leg just below the knee. Before the end of the year I suspect that he will lose the other one. Of course he has no insurance, so the hospital picks up the bill for all of his hospital stays and the staff is forced to deal with his verbal abuse, crass jokes, and non-compliance. I can honestly say that this is one patient that I loathe above all others.

I go into his room to check his evening blood sugar. He’s being unusually pleasant. No demands for snacks or pain medicine. No comments about the previous nurses “nice tits”. Perhaps he’s turning over a new leaf? His eyes look a little hazy and he seems a little out of it. I have my suspicions that something else is going on. The results of his blood sugar check pop up on my glucometer. 27

“Fuck.”

I run to the med room and grab a syringe of dextrose. I push the full syringe into his IV. This stuff works like magic when someone has a low blood sugar. I notice an immediate change. He becomes more alert.

“Fuck dude! What happened?” he asks.

“Your blood sugar got really low, “I reply. “Can you tell when your sugar gets low?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, you need to call when you feel it getting low. I’ll get you a snack.”

I order him a snack and recheck his sugar. Up to 158. Awesome. I look through the previous nurse’s documentation to try and figure out what could have caused his sugar to drop so low. He’s had a habit of dropping low during the last few nights. I call the intern and let her know what is going on. I suggest that maybe a change in his insulin regimen is needed and she promises to pass the information off to his primary doc in the morning.

The next morning a search of his room is conducted while he’s gone to CT. A bottle of regular insulin and a couple of syringes are found among his toiletries. The asshole has been giving himself extra insulin on top of what we’ve been giving him. He fancies himself an expert in blood glucose control. I hold back the desire to point out the fact that he’s lost one leg and several toes due to his poor blood sugar control. His insulin is confiscated.

“You sure you wanna take that away from him?” I ask the oncoming nurse.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” she asks.

“He’s much more tolerable when his blood sugar is in the 20’s.”

We laugh. We have discovered a wonderful new tool: personality control through hypoglycemia.

Obituary

Ever since I started working in healthcare, I have read the obituaries. I used to make fun of my parents for doing the same thing, but I have certainly developed an appreciation for taking a look each day to see if someone I know has kicked the bucket. Mostly I’m looking to see if any former patients have died. At least once a week I see a familiar name. Sometimes I can place the face, sometimes it’s just the name that I remember. Every once in awhile I will vividly remember the patient and the circumstances surrounding their hospital stay. This was the case when I read the obituaries late last week.

Her name was Sue. She was in her early 30’s, though she looked at least 10 years older; her body and face ravaged by many years of drug and alcohol abuse. She was what we refer to as a “frequent flyer”. They are those patients that always seem to find their way back to our unit. Some of these patients you truly grow to love. You feel their pain and want nothing more but for them to get better so that they can enjoy life. Others make you cringe. You see their names on your assignment and you just sigh, knowing that it’s going to be a rough shift. You want them to get better just they will leave the unit and give the entire staff a break. Sue was one of the later varieties.

I had cared for Sue several times. It was always the same thing: her blood sugar got out of control, she got sick, she would stop taking her insulin and other medications and would end up in the emergency room. On top of her uncontrolled diabetes, Sue also suffered from liver failure brought on by many years of alcoholism. This left her body unable to rid itself of many toxins which in turn would turn her into a vegetable. The chemicals invaded her brain and would leave her unable to talk, walk, or in any way care for herself. Of course, all this could be prevented if she checked her blood sugar regularly and took all her medications. This however was not what Sue did.

I remember one particular night caring for Sue. We were giving her drugs which caused severe, watery diarrhea in order to help rid her body of the chemicals that had built up inside. At this point, she was able to talk and walk. The previous shift had reported to me that they were making her get out of bed to use the toilet and encouraging activity. When I went into her room, Sue asked me for a bedpan.

“I was told you were getting up to the bathroom,” I said.

“I can’t. I’m too tired,” Sue replied.

“Why don’t we try getting out of bed? I think you’ll be more comfortably using the toilet.”

“Please! I can’t!”

“I know you can. Let’s go.” I motioned for her to get up. I raised the head of her bed and started to ease her legs towards the edge of the bed. I could tell she was going to put up some resistance, but I was going to push her. This was what she needed. She needed to remain active. She gradually relented and moved into a sitting position. I put a walker in front of her.

“Ok. When you’re ready use the walker to help yourself stand.” I try not to pull people up out of bed too much. Not only is it bad for my back, but I really think that when given the opportunity most of our patients are capable of much more than we give them credit for. She positioned her feet flat on the floor, steadied her hands on the walker and slowly raised herself into a standing position.

“Good! Alright let’s move into the bathroom,” I said.

As she walked slowly towards the open bathroom door, I heard Sue pass a small amount of gas. Unfortunately, it was more than gas. The drugs that I had given her were doing their job, but at a most inopportune moment. Liquid stool was seeping out of Sue’s backside. I tried in desperation to speed Sue along to the bathroom, but it didn’t help. She left a brown trail behind her from the edge of the bed to the toilet. While I imagine most nurses would have thought about the mess they now had to clean up all I could think was “My god, she’s only a few years older than me and she’s shitting all over the floor.”

One of the thing that I found so depressing about Sue was her age. Here was a woman who should have been in the prime of her life and she was in the hospital, barely able to walk and not able to clean herself up after using the bathroom. On top of this, she had a small child that her mother cared for. The little girl would visit Sue from time to time in the hospital. I felt so sad for her, having to see her mother in such a position. Having a mother who would never be able to care for her properly. Truthfully, I knew Sue loved her daughter very much and I believe that it pained her quite a bit to not be able to take care of her.

After her last hospital stay, Sue was transferred to a nursing home (Living in a nursing home while in your 30’s! Can you imagine?!). I hoped that perhaps this would allow her to get at least marginally better and that we wouldn’t see her as frequently.

I never saw Sue again. Her obituary in the paper didn’t say where she died or how. I don’t know if she was at another hospital or back at her nursing home. Perhaps she just went to sleep one night and her heart stopped. While our bodies are resilient machines, there is a limit on the abuse they’ll take before they give up completely. However Sue died, I hope it was peaceful and I hope that her daughter was there with her. I remember late one night, giving Sue some pain medication and talking with her.

“My daughter is coming in tomorrow morning,” she said with a glint of joy in her voice.

“That’s nice. You must be looking forward to seeing her,” I replied as I pushed the morphine into her IV.

“I am. I really am. I do love my little girl,” she said.

I know you did Sue. I know you did.

Hot Guy Tuesday: Jeremy Bloom

I don't really know much about Jeremy Bloom other than he skis and played football for a little while. I also know that he doesn't mind having his picture taken with his shirt off.

Good news for me I suppose.

Scene from the bar

Dead Nurse: (Eyeing new, hot cocktail waiter) I want him for my birthday.

Tall Skinny Queen: You want the cocktail waiter for your birthday?

Dead Nurse: Yep

TSQ: I’m not sure how I would even approach that. “Excuse me, my friend is turning 30 and well…I hate to make you feel like a whore, but how much would it take for you to spend the evening on your back with your legs in the air?”

Dead Nurse: (Watching the two hot strippers who have now taken the stage) I want them there too.

TSQ: So you basically want a hot boy orgy for your birthday, huh?

Dead Nurse: Sounds good.

TSQ: I can promise you an orgy, I just can’t promise that it would be with a bunch of hot strippers.

Dead Nurse: It’s hot boys or nothing!

(Pause)

TSQ: So we’re spending your birthday here then?

Dead Nurse: Yep.

Monday Conference Blues

Regardless of what I have done during the day or what I have to do the next morning, I can never fall asleep on Sunday night. I think I could run the Portland Marathon in the morning and swim the Columbia River in the afternoon and I would still be wired come 11:00pm that night. Usually this isn’t a problem since I work nights. This morning however I had a conference to attend and needed to be bright eyed and bushy tailed by 7:30am.

This morning’s conference was by invitation and a limited number of personnel from each nursing unit were selected to attend. My nurse manager invited me, thinking that I would have a lot to contribute. I really wanted to be in tip-top shape for this thing, so I went to bed at about 10:30pm. I lay awake all night, tossing and turning. I eventually retired to my couch hoping that a change of scenery would help. It didn’t. When my alarm went off at 5:30am, I knew it was going to be a very long day.

I met a couple of gals from work at a local coffee shop to carpool. I ordered a large Americano hoping that it would help me at least get through the morning. When we arrived at the conference, I was surprised to see my nurse manager sitting at the table. Well, no dozing off during the many speeches that morning. I wanted to make a good impression, so I put on my best “happy and wide awake” face and sipped my coffee.

About two hours in, I felt myself drifting off. My coffee was cold, so I went up to the continental breakfast buffet for a refill. I was determined to get through the day without my manager detecting my lack of sleep. Good employees always get plenty of sleep!

Throughout the day, I think I drank about ten cups of coffee. I still felt run down for the majority of the conference, but I managed to stay awake. Success!

When I was walking out at the end of the day with my manager and fellow employees, we passed the reception that had been set up. We were all ready to go home, so no one made a move to join the small group sipping wine and nibbling on cheese.

“You sure you don’t want a glass of wine?” one of my coworkers asked me.

“No, I’m afraid it would just put me to sleep,” I stated.

To which my nursing manager replied, “Yeah, I was watching you all day. I didn’t think you were going to make it through.”

So much for avoiding detection.

My Liver is Too Gay for You!

I think one of the most selfless things that a person can do is become an organ donor. The way I figure is that when you die, you don’t need those organs any longer so why not let someone else use them. It’s sort of like outgrowing your clothes when you’re a kid. You could just throw that sweater out, but why not let your younger brother have it. I mean, just because you can’t use it doesn’t mean it should go to waste.

Ever since I first got my drivers license, I always proudly checked that little box that indicated I wished to be an organ donor. It was never a question for me. I have always had a desire for my organs to be given to others upon my death. I hoped that my heart could be placed into someone and allow them to live many more happy years. My liver would replace one ravaged by years of alcohol abuse and allow its new owner to start a new clean, healthy life. It all sounds so lovely, doesn’t it?

Well, my hopes of this happening were destroyed by several realizations last week. I attended a class at work on becoming a “certified donor requestor.” This basically means that I would be able to approach families of dead or dying patients and speak to them about donating their family member’s tissues and organs. The first realization was that it is incredibly difficult to actually be an organ donor. At my hospital, in order for someone’s organs to be donated they must be brain dead and on a ventilator. The reason for this is so ensure the viability of the organs. Organs stop functioning very quickly after the body dies, so it’s important to ensure that they will still be functioning once they are transferred into someone else’s body. This means that if you die at home or are killed in a car accident your organs can’t be used. You pretty much have to be in the hospital on a vent in a critical care unit. Plus you have to be declared brain dead through the performing of various tests. Of the number of deaths each year, how often do you think this happens? Not very. The good news is that this is not true to be a tissue or eye donor. So most everyone can donate their corneas, skin, heart valves, bones, and connective tissue.

The second realization I had that day was that my sexuality precludes me from being an organ donor. Yes, the fact that I like boys means that my organs and tissues can not be used upon my death. When this fact was revealed in my class, I could feel myself getting hot with rage. I simply can’t believe that the practice of excluding gay men from organ donation exists. This has been the case with blood donation for years and is also something that enrages me. The reason for this practice is the thought that gay men are more at risk for HIV and other communicable diseases. Let’s look at the facts, shall we? According to the Centers for Disease Control, in 2004 African Americans comprised the largest percentage of AIDS cases in the United States (43.1%). It is also estimated that 63.7% of women with AIDS contracted in through heterosexual contact. Between 2000 and 2004 the number of women with AIDS increased at a higher rate than men and the numbers of cases contracted through heterosexual contact increased at a higher rate than those contracted through homosexual contact. (Resource)

So what does this all mean? It seems to me that if organizations were truly concerned with limiting the risk of disease transmission through organ or blood donation then they should exclude most people of color and heterosexual women, since these appear to be some pretty high risk groups. Of course, all black women should be eliminated from the donor pool since they occupy both risk categories. Obviously no one would ever actually suggest that this be done since it would be ludicrous, not to mention racist. So why is it acceptable to keep gay men from being donors? Perhaps it’s just that we as a society continue to accept discrimination based on sexual orientation.

Prior to the actual donation of a person’s organs, a complete history on the potential donor is collected from the family. This includes a medical as well as social history. So let’s say I were to have a massive stroke today and was placed on a ventilator. After a few days, it becomes clear that I am not going to recover and I am declared brain dead. I am now a potential organ donor. Once the review process begins it is discovered that I have no chronic diseases such as hepatitis or diabetes and in fact have a very limited medical history. I have never used IV drugs and have a negative HIV test from the last 6 months. I am an ideal candidate for organ donation. Sounds good, right?

Wrong.

It is eventually revealed that I have been living with the same man for the last eight years in a homosexual relationship and am therefore ineligible. My organs go to waste. If this sounds crazy, it’s because it is. Sadly this would be exactly what would happen should I ever be in similar circumstances.

So what is one to do? I have refused to lie about my sexual orientation in order to donate blood ever since I became old enough to do so. Even when the Red Cross is crying out for blood, I stand my ground. I believe that they can change their rules if they want my fabulous, gay blood. Until that day it will all stay circulating in my beautiful veins. As for the organ issue, I hope to stick around for many more years before it becomes an issue. I am hopeful that someday this discriminatory practice will change. However if I die tomorrow, it’s sad that I’ll have to be buried with my big gay pancreas.

National Coming Out Day

It's been about 13 years since I came blasting out of the closet and declared my homo-fabulousness. In honor of today, I present you with this mildly amusing video from South Park. Enjoy! (via Queerty)

Trimming the Hedges

While getting ready for work the other day, I looked down and realized that my pubic hair had gotten completely out of control. I’ve been trimming my pubes in some form since college. I don’t remember exactly why I started or why I even continue to this day. I suppose I’ve gotten to the point where I’m just used to it and now treat it like any other aspect of personal hygiene.

The first time I shaved my pubic hair, I was in the sixth grade. I decided that I didn’t understand why I had this hair growing around my penis and that there was no good reason to keep it. I absconded with one of my mother’s disposable razors, locked myself in the bathroom, and proceeded to shave myself clean. Afterwards, while dabbing at the little cuts around my crotch I couldn’t help but think I just looked weird. Perhaps it was the blood loss, but the sight of my cleanly shaved penis didn’t give me the sense of relief that I had been hoping for. So that was the reason I had pubic hair. So I wouldn’t look weird.

My next experiment didn’t come until college. I had grown tired of my hairy testicles and thought that there just had to be a better way to get rid of unwanted ball hair. I hit the local drug store and perused my options. Razor? As I learned back in the sixth grade, cuts on ones crotch are not desirable. Nads? Although the name implies genital usage, I couldn’t envision myself ripping the hair from my nuts. Nair? That was it! I would use Nair! It seemed like a brilliant idea. That warning on the back saying not to use on sensitive areas of your skin wasn’t for me. This would be perfect!

When I got home I went into the bathroom and disrobed. I rubbed the lotion onto my scrotum and waited. After the prescribed five minutes I wiped the lotion away. A miracle! The hair just fell away from the skin! This was indeed a wondrous product. After wiping the remaining lotion away, I decided that one more treatment was necessary to achieve the silky smooth balls I desired. I once again applied the lotion and waited.

Only this time, things didn’t go as well.

The skin on my scrotum began to burn. I quickly rubbed the lotion off, but the burning didn’t stop. I jumped into the shower and tried desperately to wash the remaining depilatory cream off my now burning testicles. Once the fire in my crotch subsided, I surveyed the damage. My scrotum was reddened and moist from where the top layer of skin had been burnt away. I had effectively given myself a chemical burn on my nuts. I spent the rest of the week trying not to walk bow-legged. Every evening when I took off my underwear, I had to slowly peel them off since the moisture from my raw scrotum had caused the cloth to adhere to the skin.

You’ll be happy to know that I never used Nair again and my balls healed up just fine. One chemical burn on my genitals was all it took for me to learn that lesson. These days I prefer to use a razor. None of those disposable things either; it’s a Mach 3 or nothing. I usually trim things up at least once or twice a week, but I guess I just let things go for awhile there. I jumped in the shower before heading to work and cleaned things up. When I got out of the shower I examined myself in the mirror. I suddenly remembered why I started trimming my pubes to begin with.

It makes everything look bigger.

Hot Guy Tuesday: Ewan McGregor

I have had a thing for Ewan McGregor ever since I saw Trainspotting back in college. I don't know if it was his boyish good looks, his sexy accent or a combination of the two, but I was hooked from the very beginning. When he sang "we should be lovers" to Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge, I wanted to leap out of my movie theatre seat and scream "Yes, Ewan! We SHOULD be lovers!"

A cool thing about Ewan is that he's one of the few big Hollywood actors who isn't afraid to show his penis onscreen (see Velvet Goldmine, The Pillow Book, and Trainspotting). I could have posted some of those pics, but this is a classy place.

Meet Ashley!

Ashley is a 20 year old from Portland, Oregon. She likes to go shopping, enjoys dancing and considers herself an "exobitionist" (sic). She also runs a website which she says "is liek a hobby of myne." Oooh, it's free to register?!?! Sign me up Ashley! Sign me up!

Addendum: A. expressed some confusion as to why I posted this. It was really just a continuation of my earlier discussion regarding the general crapiness of MySpace and how it is completely overrun with spam. I received a friend request from "Ashley" and just thought it was amusing. Sorry if that wasn't clear.

Another MySpace celebrity sighting!

How exciting! It seems that former Desperate Housewives star Jesse Metcalf is now on MySpace and adding random strangers as friends! Times must be hard since losing his regular gig on Housewives.

Poor, poor Jesse...

MySpace

MySpace is a colossal piece of shit. It's slow, filled with bugs and has become overrun with spam. When I hear how much Google Rupert Murdoch paid for it, it makes me want to take sharp objects and shove them in my ears. One particularly annoying aspect of MySpace is the frequent "friend requests" from fake people. I was talking about this with a friend of mine one day and he said "It's hard to tell if someone is fake or not!" You're kidding me, right?

One request I received today was particularly amusing. It was from Ryan, a 30 year old from Santa Monica, CA. It was interesting not for the information in the profile, but for the picture that was displayed:


Look familiar? This is a picture of actor/model Ryan Carnes. The same Ryan Carnes I wrote about last week. The same picture I posted last week. Not so hard to tell the fake folks from the real ones, eh?

Ch-ch-changes...

I have decided to make a couple of changes. First and foremost, I have changed the name of my site. I discovered that there was another site on blogger with the name 'Vermicious Knid' and it bugged me. The name had no meaning to me, so I thought I'd just go ahead and come up with another. The new one isn't really any more meaningful, but I like it a little more. We'll see how it works out.
The second change I've made is to remove my name from the site. I have said a few things about my job and patients and thought it would be wise to remain relatively anonymous. I obviously don't plan on breaking any patient confidentiality here, but I figured it would be a good idea to keep my name off the site in case anyone from my work should happen across here. I also realize that it would probably be relatively easy for someone to figure out who I am if they REALLY wanted to, but I'm just not going to make it TOO easy for them. So no personal photos kids!
That is all...

Weekend update

Well, we have returned from Seattle safe and sound. We had a good time and definitely plan on going back. Here's a brief breakdown of our weekend:

• We stayed at the fabulous W Hotel. It was by far the most luxurious hotel I have ever stayed at. Their motto is "whatever/whenever", which basically means that they will get you whatever it is that you want whenever you want it. Pretty sweet, eh? I didn't make any crazy demands, but I certainly was tempted. An extra bonus was that every room comes with a little box of condoms and lube.


• The majority of our Saturday morning was spent exploring Pike Place Market. It's famous for the fish mongers who throw fish before wrapping it for customers. This was mildly amusing for about 15 seconds. We then had a lovely breakfast at Maximilien, a cozy little french restaurant in the market. We walked through the seemingly endless corridors of shops and restaurants at the market before growing tired of the crowds and heading to the...


• Space Needle! I found this attraction more interesting for it's history. It was built for the 1962 Worlds Fair and has become THE symbol of Seattle. It is totally a product of its era; very space age, Jetsons sort of looking. We paid for our tickets to the top and right before hopping on the elevator had our picture snapped in front of a backdrop of Seattle and Mount Ranier. Very cheesy and fun. The view from the top was nice but far from spectacular. While looking over the Seattle skyline, I turned and whispered to A. "Portland is much prettier." He nodded in agreement. After getting our fill of the view , we made our way to the bottom to determine our next destination.


• Our next stop was the Experience Music Project and Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame. Both are the brainchild of Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen and housed in a spectacular building designed by Frank Gehry. The Science Fiction Museum was tons of fun. They have quite an extensive collection of movie and television memorabilia which A. and I both geeked out on. We stood before a case containing several original Star Wars figurines pointing out which ones we used to own. It was probably the geekiest moment of my life. By the time we got to the Experience Music Project, we were both exhausted and didn't really have the energy to ponder Jimi Hendrix's guitars. Another time I suppose.


• From there we had a less than stellar lunch at the Pike Place Bar and Grill. The service wasn't that great and the food was mediocre. We plan to skip this place next time around.


• We made up for our lame lunch at the amazing Earth and Ocean. This restaurant is in the W Hotel lobby and got a great review in the guidebook we purchased. We got the Wine Makers Menu, which was a four course meal with wine pairings. The first course was a delicious melon and feta salad topped with butter lettuce. A delightful, light way to begin our meal. The second course was a duck confit with an eggplant relish. I love duck and this did not disappoint. The eggplant added a nice sweetness. This was followed by the most mouth watering lamb chops I have ever had. The meat just melted in our mouths. So delicious. The final course was a pungent, raw milk cheese served with a balsamic vinegar. A very nice way to end. This meal was definitely worth the price we paid, and I highly recommend Earth and Ocean to anyone visiting the Seattle area.


• The next morning we visited Volunteer Park. This is a smaller park on the east side of Seattle. We skipped the Asian Art Museum which is on the park grounds and instead visited the Conservatory. They have a lovely collection of plants and the orchids were particularly beautiful. The fern wing which comprises about half the conservatory was closed for a major renovation, so we didn't get to experience the entire facility.


• After our morning at the park, we had brunch at Julia's on Broadway. They advertise "wholesome food and wildly good times." While I didn't have a "wildly good time" at Julia's I did have some yummy french toast and a pretty decent bloody mary. The place was completely devoid of tourists and had a real local flavor to it, which I appreciated after having spent much of the previous day at several tourist hot spots.

All in all our visit to Seattle was fun. We both want to go back and will be staying at the W Hotel again, although I would like to spend more time exploring other parts of the city. I've heard that the Fremont neighborhood is very cool and I would also like to see the Art Museum.

I'll definitely be passing on the flying fish the next time around.

Seattle

Ever since moving to Portland, A. and I have been talking about spending a weekend in Seattle. It's only a few hours away and there is suppose to be just tons of stuff to do. We have finally made plans to go and will be spending this weekend seeing the sites in Seattle. I hope to have lots of pictures to share when we return.

See ya'll Monday!

Tonight...

An open letter

Dear overly anxious daughter,

First, allow me to apologize in advance for any typographical errors or grammar problems. I am very tired after having cared for your mother last night and am in desperate need of a good 5 to 6 hours of sleep (that's all I usually get these days). I feel that it is important before I slumber to bring some matters to your attention.

As I have mentioned on several occasions to other family members, your mother is confused. I would recommend that you not rely on her as an accurate source of information. Just so we're clear, I did not leave her downstairs unattended for five hours yesterday and I am not forcing her to drink soap.

I understand that your mother has some anxiety issues. Having six family members crowd into her room and fret does not help the situation. Perhaps you could hold the family conference in the lobby, or better yet go home and have your meeting there. I would also suggest that you tell your crazy sister to stay home. She is driving us all insane.

I always try to attend to your mothers needs in a timely fashion, however sometimes that's not possible. Believe it or not, I have five other patients I am responsible for and your mother may not be the number one priority on my radar screen at all moments. Her neighbor across the hall is going through alcohol withdrawal and is claiming to see Jesus in his shower. If its alright with you I'd really prefer to deal with that first before ordering up your mother a cheese sandwich.

I'm going to go to bed now. Thanks for listening.

Hugs and kisses,
Todd

Hot Guy Tuesday: Ryan Carnes

This week's guy is Ryan Carnes. He's most well known for his role as Bree Van De Kamp son's hottie boyfriend on Desperate Housewives. This apparently isn't his first homo role either. He was in the 2004 gay flick Eating Out with American Idol reject Jim Verraros. From what I can tell from reading about the film online, it doesn't get much points in the story department but you do get a glimpse of Ryan's junk. I don't know which team Ryan is batting for, but with a body and face like that I'd be more than happy to try and recruit him to mine.

Desperate with guilt

The Catholic faith, as so many people know, has a knack for instilling great amounts of guilt in its followers. The Jews like to think that they do it better, but I can speak from first hand experience that the Catholics are number one in the guilt department.

I say this because even though I no longer consider myself Catholic, I still feel the Catholic guilt on a daily basis. Take today for instance. I woke up this morning not feeling very well; sore throat, a little achy, general malaise. Incidentally, I also have to work tonight. Rather than just call in sick, sit myself on the sofa and watch non-stop episodes of Desperate Housewives, I paced the living room debating whether or not I was sick enough to call in. I got online and searched for my symptoms. Could I be contagious? Who would take my place at work tonight since I'm suppose to be in charge? I worried that I was letting everyone down if I called in sick and ended up really not being all that ill. What if they found out? I would feel their eyes staring at me as I went back into work, their thoughts silently saying 'He wasn't really sick! He looks fine to me!'.

You see how that guilt works?

Ultimately, I did decide to call in sick. I justified my action to myself by saying that I only called in two times last year and that I would hate to get my coworkers sick. I don't feel completely guilt free, so I guess I'll just have to do some penance on the sofa while spending some time with my favorite residents of Wisteria Lane.