This collection of magazine covers spoofing The New York Times Magazine and Parade had me literally LOL-ing. Enjoy!Monday, November 06, 2006
Squint harder
This collection of magazine covers spoofing The New York Times Magazine and Parade had me literally LOL-ing. Enjoy!
The Kindly Nurse and the Evil Surgeon: A Modern Fairytale
Once upon a time there was a kindly nurse who worked on a very busy medical floor. This kindly nurse was no dummy you see. He was the nurse that coworkers sought for advice. He was the one that nurses came to when they didn’t feel good about their patients and wanted a second opinion. He was the nurse that was given the sickest, most critical patients on his floor.
On this very busy medical floor there was also an evil surgeon. The name of this surgeon struck fear into the hearts of many a young, inexperienced nurse. You had to be on your toes if you were to care for one of the evil surgeon’s patients. It was common practice on the busy medical floor to not allow new nurse to care for the evil surgeon’s patients. The kindly nurse however was caring for the evil surgeon’s patients three months into his nursing experience.
One particular evening the kindly nurse was asked to care for one of the evil surgeon’s patients. This patient was quite displeased with her care up to that point and it was up to the kindly nurse to make things better. The kindly nurse spent much time that night caring for the displeased patient. He treated her pain, turned her in bed, monitored her vital signs…all the things a good, kindly nurse should do. By morning the displeased patient had become a pleased patient and thanked the kindly nurse.
When the evil surgeon visited that morning he spoke with the pleased patient and became angry. He heard of the poor care she had received prior to the kindly nurse, and immediately berated the kindly nurse and caused quite a scene at the nurses station. Not being one to take verbal abuse, the kindly nurse told the evil surgeon he was misinformed. The kindly nurse stated that he had provided excellent care and that he couldn’t be held responsible for what occurred during a previous shift. He told the evil surgeon that he didn’t appreciate being spoken to in that manner. All the other nurses congratulated the kindly nurse for standing up to the evil surgeon.
From that point forward, the evil surgeon never again berated the kindly nurse. He always showed the kindly nurse respect and never again questioned the care that the kindly nurse provided.
And that dear children, is the story of how the kindly nurse tamed the evil surgeon.
On this very busy medical floor there was also an evil surgeon. The name of this surgeon struck fear into the hearts of many a young, inexperienced nurse. You had to be on your toes if you were to care for one of the evil surgeon’s patients. It was common practice on the busy medical floor to not allow new nurse to care for the evil surgeon’s patients. The kindly nurse however was caring for the evil surgeon’s patients three months into his nursing experience.
One particular evening the kindly nurse was asked to care for one of the evil surgeon’s patients. This patient was quite displeased with her care up to that point and it was up to the kindly nurse to make things better. The kindly nurse spent much time that night caring for the displeased patient. He treated her pain, turned her in bed, monitored her vital signs…all the things a good, kindly nurse should do. By morning the displeased patient had become a pleased patient and thanked the kindly nurse.
When the evil surgeon visited that morning he spoke with the pleased patient and became angry. He heard of the poor care she had received prior to the kindly nurse, and immediately berated the kindly nurse and caused quite a scene at the nurses station. Not being one to take verbal abuse, the kindly nurse told the evil surgeon he was misinformed. The kindly nurse stated that he had provided excellent care and that he couldn’t be held responsible for what occurred during a previous shift. He told the evil surgeon that he didn’t appreciate being spoken to in that manner. All the other nurses congratulated the kindly nurse for standing up to the evil surgeon.
From that point forward, the evil surgeon never again berated the kindly nurse. He always showed the kindly nurse respect and never again questioned the care that the kindly nurse provided.
And that dear children, is the story of how the kindly nurse tamed the evil surgeon.
An Open Letter
Dear Publishers of The Oregonian,
It rains in Portland. It rains a lot in Portland. You should be used to this. So could you please explain to me why it is so fucking difficult for me to have a dry paper delivered?
Get it together or I'm cancelling my subscription. I'm getting tired of reading a soggy Fox Trot.
Hugs and kisses,
Todd
It rains in Portland. It rains a lot in Portland. You should be used to this. So could you please explain to me why it is so fucking difficult for me to have a dry paper delivered?
Get it together or I'm cancelling my subscription. I'm getting tired of reading a soggy Fox Trot.
Hugs and kisses,
Todd
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Celebrity Watch: Portland
Who was spotted last night at one of Portland's favorite gay men's bars, downing multiple beers, dancing like crazy, and stuffing dollars down strippers g-strings?
Give up?
It was none other than the worlds "first supermodel", former America's Next Top Model judge, and all around uber-bitch Janice Dickinson!
My friend and I couldn't quite figure out what the hell she was doing at The Silverado on a Wednesday night, but we had fun watching her and her entourage. At one point she grabbed the microphone from the host and sang along to Justin Timberlake's Sexy Back. I tried to snap a picture of her with my friend but thanks to three gin and tonics, I forgot to hit the save button and the pic was lost.
I later learned that she was in town filming an episode of her new show The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency for the Oxygen Network.
First Sean Penn comes to town and now Janice Dickinson. Could Paris Hilton be far behind? The fags of P-Town wait with bated breath.
Give up?
It was none other than the worlds "first supermodel", former America's Next Top Model judge, and all around uber-bitch Janice Dickinson!
My friend and I couldn't quite figure out what the hell she was doing at The Silverado on a Wednesday night, but we had fun watching her and her entourage. At one point she grabbed the microphone from the host and sang along to Justin Timberlake's Sexy Back. I tried to snap a picture of her with my friend but thanks to three gin and tonics, I forgot to hit the save button and the pic was lost.
I later learned that she was in town filming an episode of her new show The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency for the Oxygen Network.
First Sean Penn comes to town and now Janice Dickinson. Could Paris Hilton be far behind? The fags of P-Town wait with bated breath.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
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.
Monday, October 30, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
"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.
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.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
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.
Monday, October 23, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
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.
Friday, October 20, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
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.
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.
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, October 16, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
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)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Monday, October 09, 2006
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...
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?
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...
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...
Sunday, October 08, 2006
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.
Friday, October 06, 2006
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!
See ya'll Monday!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
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
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
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
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.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Another gay politician
It would seem as if Rep. Mark Foley from Florida has found himself in a bit of a pickle.
Growing up in South Florida, I remember hearing rumors about Mr. Foley's sexuality for years. He has refused numerous times to come clean and admit what many of us already know. Namely that he is a gay man.
I fully support and understand the need for public figures to have privates lives. I can't even imagine how disconcerting it must feel to have your entire personal life examined in the public eye. However I take serious issue with politicians and celebrities who hide their homosexuality. It does a great disservice to the gay community when someone like Mark Foley refuses to come out of the closet. We as gay people have been fighting for years to teach the people in this country that being gay is not something to be ashamed of. While I don't support the idea of public "outing", I think by the time you get as old as Mr. Foley, you should have the balls to admit to yourself and everyone else that you like boys. But instead, Mr. Foley decided it was more prudent to send suggestive emails to a 16 year old former male page.
Bravo Mark. You have not only destroyed your political career, but you have proven yourself a fool and an enormous coward. Now that your political life has ended, why don't you take a hint from Former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey and admit who you are. You could at least get a book deal out of it.
Growing up in South Florida, I remember hearing rumors about Mr. Foley's sexuality for years. He has refused numerous times to come clean and admit what many of us already know. Namely that he is a gay man.
I fully support and understand the need for public figures to have privates lives. I can't even imagine how disconcerting it must feel to have your entire personal life examined in the public eye. However I take serious issue with politicians and celebrities who hide their homosexuality. It does a great disservice to the gay community when someone like Mark Foley refuses to come out of the closet. We as gay people have been fighting for years to teach the people in this country that being gay is not something to be ashamed of. While I don't support the idea of public "outing", I think by the time you get as old as Mr. Foley, you should have the balls to admit to yourself and everyone else that you like boys. But instead, Mr. Foley decided it was more prudent to send suggestive emails to a 16 year old former male page.
Bravo Mark. You have not only destroyed your political career, but you have proven yourself a fool and an enormous coward. Now that your political life has ended, why don't you take a hint from Former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey and admit who you are. You could at least get a book deal out of it.
Have you seen this coward?
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Foreign people are funny
If you've ever seen the movie Ghost World, then you'll remember this amusing little tidbit from the beginning of the film. Thora Birch's character Enid is dancing around her bedroom listening to Indian pop music. Scenes of her dancing are interspersed with cuts from this video. It's been years since I've seen that movie, but I remember laughing so much and thinking that the music in this video was just hilarious.
It also looks like the woman is having a seizure.
Enjoy!
It also looks like the woman is having a seizure.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Hot Guy Tuesday: Kevin Zegers
This Tuesday's guy is Kevin Zegers. He appeared in last year's hit Transamerica as Felicity Huffman's son who had a nasty habit of having sex with men for money. According to IMBD, he's dating some gal by the name of Marisa Coughlan. I don't know who she is, but I hate her.
Monday, September 25, 2006
An open letter
Dear crazy bitch,
You are either stupid or deaf, or perhaps you are a mixture of the two. In either case, I'm going to repeat myself one more time: YOU WILL GET A FUCKING NEWSPAPER IN THE MORNING JUST LIKE YOU DO EVERY FUCKING MORNING!!!! You do not need to press your call light every 15 minutes asking me to not forget your paper. Every patient in the damn hospital receives a paper; you are no different.
I would also like to take this opportunity to address your repeated requests for an enema. I realize you believe you are horribly constipated. However, it may come as a surprise to you but not having taken a shit for two days does not qualify as "impacted". I have seen people who haven't taken a dump for two fucking weeks! Your two days does not worry me enough to call the doctor for an enema. Take your stool softner and prune juice and shut the fuck up.
Hugs and kisses,
Todd
p.s. Telling me over and over that you're sorry for calling repeatedly does not make it better.
p.p.s. Yes, as a matter of fact I do hate you.
You are either stupid or deaf, or perhaps you are a mixture of the two. In either case, I'm going to repeat myself one more time: YOU WILL GET A FUCKING NEWSPAPER IN THE MORNING JUST LIKE YOU DO EVERY FUCKING MORNING!!!! You do not need to press your call light every 15 minutes asking me to not forget your paper. Every patient in the damn hospital receives a paper; you are no different.
I would also like to take this opportunity to address your repeated requests for an enema. I realize you believe you are horribly constipated. However, it may come as a surprise to you but not having taken a shit for two days does not qualify as "impacted". I have seen people who haven't taken a dump for two fucking weeks! Your two days does not worry me enough to call the doctor for an enema. Take your stool softner and prune juice and shut the fuck up.
Hugs and kisses,
Todd
p.s. Telling me over and over that you're sorry for calling repeatedly does not make it better.
p.p.s. Yes, as a matter of fact I do hate you.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The true meaning of fall
Here in Portland it's easy to tell when fall is coming. The days start getting noticeably shorter. The temperature starts to drop. The rains return. I started noticing changes about a month ago. My suspicions that autumn was upon us were confirmed yesterday when I read in The Oregonian that the autumnal equinox occurs this Saturday, September 23 at 12:03am.
While part of me is sad that summer is almost over, there is another part that is looking forward to the fall and winter months. I'm not really looking forward to the neverending rain storms that characterize winter here in the Pacific Northwest, I do however look forward to the cooler temperatures and all that means. Namely, a new fall wardrobe.
I better get shopping.
While part of me is sad that summer is almost over, there is another part that is looking forward to the fall and winter months. I'm not really looking forward to the neverending rain storms that characterize winter here in the Pacific Northwest, I do however look forward to the cooler temperatures and all that means. Namely, a new fall wardrobe.
I better get shopping.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Hot Guy Tuesday: Chris Evans
Because I'm a silly little fag, I decided to post some pictures of a half naked man and call it "Hot Guy Tuesday". My first guy is Chris Evans. He was in The Fantastic Four, but that isn't why I like him. I think he's a total hottie and I want to sex him up porno style. Enjoy!
To sleep, perchance to dream...
Working nights for the last year, I have gotten rather used to spending most days in a perpetual state of "not-having-had-enough-sleep". This last week it has been particularly bad. What with my grandmothers death and waking up at 3am to catch flights into and out of Connecticut, I have been lucky to get about five hours of rest each night.
Last night I decided that it was time to take control of the situation. I took a Unisom (nothing more than Benadryl in wolf's clothing) and passed the fuck out. I woke up this morning, approximately 10 hours after getting into bed feeling incredibly refreshed. For the first time in about a week my head actually feels clear and I'm not walking around with that "fuzzy brain" feeling. While I don't usually like taking drugs to help me sleep, I think that it was a good idea this time.
So how am I going to spend this wonderful day after having had such a restful sleep? I'm going to spend it doing several loads of laundry. I suppose I could have had a "fuzzy brain" for doing that.
Last night I decided that it was time to take control of the situation. I took a Unisom (nothing more than Benadryl in wolf's clothing) and passed the fuck out. I woke up this morning, approximately 10 hours after getting into bed feeling incredibly refreshed. For the first time in about a week my head actually feels clear and I'm not walking around with that "fuzzy brain" feeling. While I don't usually like taking drugs to help me sleep, I think that it was a good idea this time.
So how am I going to spend this wonderful day after having had such a restful sleep? I'm going to spend it doing several loads of laundry. I suppose I could have had a "fuzzy brain" for doing that.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Channeling Julia
I recently finished reading Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously. It's the true story of this gal Julie who decides to cook every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking over the period of one year. Needless to say she botches a few recipes, kills several lobsters, and discovers that aspic is a dish best left to the French.
I was so inspired after reading it that I decided to go out and get myself a copy of Julia's famous cookbook. While I have no aspiration of cooking every single recipe, I thought it would be fun to whip up some french food. I made my first dish tonight, which also happens to be the very first recipe in the book: Potage parmentier (Leek and potato soup). It was quite yummy and very easy to make.
1 lb peeled potatoes, diced (I used yukon gold)
1 lb thinly sliced leeks
2 quarts of water
1 tb salt
6 tb whipping cream
minced chives or parsley
I was so inspired after reading it that I decided to go out and get myself a copy of Julia's famous cookbook. While I have no aspiration of cooking every single recipe, I thought it would be fun to whip up some french food. I made my first dish tonight, which also happens to be the very first recipe in the book: Potage parmentier (Leek and potato soup). It was quite yummy and very easy to make.
1 lb peeled potatoes, diced (I used yukon gold)
1 lb thinly sliced leeks
2 quarts of water
1 tb salt
6 tb whipping cream
minced chives or parsley
- Simmer the vegetables, water, and salt for 40-50 minutes or until the vegetables are tender.
- Pass the vegetables through a food mill and season (Side note: Julia says that using a food processor or blender for this step is "un-French". Well the food mill I purchased specifically for making this soup didn't fucking work at all. I used my food processor and it worked great. Just call me un-French.)
- Off the heat and just before serving, stir in the cream by spoonfuls. Pour into bowls and garnish with herbs.
Bon appetit!
Friday, September 15, 2006
Things my Grandmother taught me
- Take lots of photos.
- When having 20 people for Christmas dinner, a buffet might seem like a good idea but more memories are made when you squeeze everyone around a table.
- Buy a can of mushrooms that you never intend to use and keep it in your cabinet for the rest of your life. This way when your family finds it after you're gone, it will give them something to laugh about after your funeral.
- If there is something you really want a certain person to have, give it to them before you die.
- No problem is so big that it can't be made better with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.
-Learn how to cook.
- Throw cocktail parties and be able to mix a good manhattan.
- Have your friends over for lunch.
- Love your family and friends with all your heart and tell them often. You never know when you'll see them again.
- When having 20 people for Christmas dinner, a buffet might seem like a good idea but more memories are made when you squeeze everyone around a table.
- Buy a can of mushrooms that you never intend to use and keep it in your cabinet for the rest of your life. This way when your family finds it after you're gone, it will give them something to laugh about after your funeral.
- If there is something you really want a certain person to have, give it to them before you die.
- No problem is so big that it can't be made better with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.
-Learn how to cook.
- Throw cocktail parties and be able to mix a good manhattan.
- Have your friends over for lunch.
- Love your family and friends with all your heart and tell them often. You never know when you'll see them again.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Dick on the web
Aaron and I were out at dinner one evening when I noticed two guys walk into the restaurant who looked vaguely familiar.
"I've seen them having sex in a video online," I said.
It was true. I had indeed seen them fucking for the entire world to see. For a moment I had the urge to walk up to them and play like a crazy fan boy and exclaim "Oh my god! I just loved that moment where your legs were in the air and you were getting plowed. I mean the look on your face!" Of course I didn't do that.
I will admit that like many gay men, I am in possession of some cock shots of my own. And I will also admit that I have shared them from time to time with folks online. I suppose some people would think that odd or perverse. Frankly I don't really see the harm since (a) they are of my dick only and (b) I don't really see how anyone would ever make the connection between a picture of my dick and me.
What always amazes me are guys like the couple in the restaurant who post full videos and photos of themselves. I mean, what if their mother sees them? Or someone from their job? Aren't they concerned about the possible ramifications?
Of course, I suppose their mother probably isn't perusing the videos at DudesNude, but isn't it possible that someone they know could find the photos and send them out across cyberspace? They could end up in their mother's inbox at any moment. Imagine dear old mom's face when she opens her email and sees her son being rammed up the ass while wearing a dog collar!
Perhaps I'm just being paranoid, but I think I'll keep my cock shots faceless for now. At least until I know my mother is no longer going online.
"I've seen them having sex in a video online," I said.
It was true. I had indeed seen them fucking for the entire world to see. For a moment I had the urge to walk up to them and play like a crazy fan boy and exclaim "Oh my god! I just loved that moment where your legs were in the air and you were getting plowed. I mean the look on your face!" Of course I didn't do that.
I will admit that like many gay men, I am in possession of some cock shots of my own. And I will also admit that I have shared them from time to time with folks online. I suppose some people would think that odd or perverse. Frankly I don't really see the harm since (a) they are of my dick only and (b) I don't really see how anyone would ever make the connection between a picture of my dick and me.
What always amazes me are guys like the couple in the restaurant who post full videos and photos of themselves. I mean, what if their mother sees them? Or someone from their job? Aren't they concerned about the possible ramifications?
Of course, I suppose their mother probably isn't perusing the videos at DudesNude, but isn't it possible that someone they know could find the photos and send them out across cyberspace? They could end up in their mother's inbox at any moment. Imagine dear old mom's face when she opens her email and sees her son being rammed up the ass while wearing a dog collar!
Perhaps I'm just being paranoid, but I think I'll keep my cock shots faceless for now. At least until I know my mother is no longer going online.
The gayest band on earth
Just when I didn't think it was possible for the Scissor Sisters to get any gayer, it has happened. Their new video could very well be the gayest thing to ever be recorded that doesn't include anal penetration.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Saturday, September 09, 2006
What's a Vermicious Knid?
No one has asked, but I thought I might as well address it anyway.
As defined at Wikipedia, vermicious knids are "a species of amorphous, shape-shifting monsters which invade the Space Hotel USA in Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, the sequel to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."
So why the hell did I decide to name my blog after these fictional creatures?
I wish I could say that I had some sort of deep, meaningful reason but the truth is I just sort of picked it. I had watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory a few days before setting this site up and it was just on my mind. There is a moment in the movie where Willy Wonka is talking about the Oompa Loompas and how they were always getting eaten by the vermicious knids. I thought it was a funny, so hence the name.
As defined at Wikipedia, vermicious knids are "a species of amorphous, shape-shifting monsters which invade the Space Hotel USA in Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, the sequel to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."
So why the hell did I decide to name my blog after these fictional creatures?
I wish I could say that I had some sort of deep, meaningful reason but the truth is I just sort of picked it. I had watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory a few days before setting this site up and it was just on my mind. There is a moment in the movie where Willy Wonka is talking about the Oompa Loompas and how they were always getting eaten by the vermicious knids. I thought it was a funny, so hence the name.
September 9, 2006
Aaron and I saw Wicked last night at Keller Auditorium. You have to understand that I have become quite jaded when it comes to Broadway musicals. Considering the last two shows I saw were Cats and Mamma Mia (two colossal pieces of shit), I didn't hold out much hope for Wicked.
I am happy to announce that both Aaron and I loved Wicked.
The majority of the songs were great (my favorite being Defying Gravity), the sets and costumes were beautiful, and the two female leads were simply amazing. It should be noted the Shoshana Bean who played Elphaba is a Beaverton native, so she was greeted with thunderous applause the minute she walked onto stage. You can visit her website here. Don't let the J-Lo pose fool you; the girl can sing!
So if you haven't seen Wicked and some day have the chance, I highly recommend you check it out. Frankly I was just happy it didn't include any dancing cats or ABBA songs.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
An open letter
Dear stroller pushing parents at Art in the Pearl,
Do you really need a stroller that's the size of a Greyhound bus? Do you really need an entire weeks worth of diaper changes and 20 different toys to amuse your darling 18 month old? That man right behind you managed to fit everything into a backpack and strapped his baby to the front, yet you feel it necessary to push your way through a dense crowd with your Hummer of a baby stroller.
Oh by the way, that was my ankle you ran into.
Hugs and kisses,
Todd
Do you really need a stroller that's the size of a Greyhound bus? Do you really need an entire weeks worth of diaper changes and 20 different toys to amuse your darling 18 month old? That man right behind you managed to fit everything into a backpack and strapped his baby to the front, yet you feel it necessary to push your way through a dense crowd with your Hummer of a baby stroller.
Oh by the way, that was my ankle you ran into.
Hugs and kisses,
Todd