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When you go to your doctors office, please check to make sure your fly is up. If you find it difficult to check this particular bit of clothing, make sure you have another article of clothing on: underwear. Be it boxers, be it briefs, be it thongs, even. Just wear them. If you neglect to do both things I've mentioned, I will be forced to view a part of your anatomy that I never signed on to view. And, sir, honestly, of all the patients I have, yours is not high on my list to willingly see. Yeah, this sums up how my life at work has been recently.
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I'm fortunate enough in my life to have a few super close friends who have enriched my life in numerous ways. By enriched I mean hair care tips, celebrity bashing and the general boosting of this Princesse's ego.
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This is the time of year when those butterflies start swirling in my stomach. When nothing in the world could possibly upset me. When no matter what the thermometer says, the air feels like autumn. The NFL Regular Season Schedule was released today. It's almost pigskin time, baby. Is there anything in the world that could upset me on this, most wondrous day? Oh, and just because this day wasn't beautiful enough, my Duke boys got cleared. Don't get me started on what total bullshit the charges were to start with. It's all over now, fellas, congrats.
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You ARE the baby's father! |
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Kudos to anyone to can accurately state the inspiration for the title of this post. I have been getting hit up for my "expert advice" as of lately from the group of weirdos disguised as my friends. Really, what part of insane don't they understand? The mere fact they approach me for my counsel leads me into a long mental diatribe of what qualifies someone to give an opinion on personal matters. I, of course, mean qualifications outside that of professionals who have all the proper letters after their names. But that's another ramble for another time. :-)
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A lot of times when I tell people that I am a self-proclaimed "literary snob" I get one of two reactions:
I can't fully explain it, but good writing is something you know when you read it. There are many "rules" when it comes to writing, both creatively and grammatically speaking. Yes the "rules" are important, but the flow of the story and the imagination involved, the voice of the author, if you will, are very important as well. See, I am not a total "stick up her ass" bitch.
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You know how puppies and kittens are so adorable, precious and lovable when they are puppies and kittens, but then the aging process occurs and then... eh, not so much. Predictably, same deal with kids. Great as babies and toddlers, huge PITAs as teenagers (FTR, have been so ambivalent about the thought of having children because one day they will be teenagers. And then I will have to drown myself). The first time a friend called me at 3:00am sobbing, I thought, "How nice to be so needed!" As time wore on and more of my friends realized I actually do answer the middle of the night phone calls all the others in our group avoid like the plague, numerous drunk dials ensued.
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At least I will be if I keep this up! My current weight is 115lbs. Wait, wait, let me rephrase that, before this weekend began, my weight was 115. I haven't weighed myself since Thursday... with good reason.
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When men achieve various sexual exploits, they are congratulated, slapped on the ass by their peers and high-fived. When women do so in any fashion other than complete discretion, when they voice that they like, nay, love having sex, they are sluts, whores, wanton trash. How does that figure? Let's just be real here, I'm no virgin. I've had a one night stand (yes, singular, and it was not the best move on my part. Did somebody say psycho?). I have been in long term and short term sexual relationships. Granted, I know many people who have higher numbers than I, but I can hold my own for my age. I wasn't twelve when I lost my virginity, but I wasn't twenty either. I love sex, have a high sex drive (far outdistancing that of some of my previous partners) and make no apologies about either.
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Or lack thereof, you decide. Today, despite the fact it was a horrible, awful, no good, very bad day, I had the chance to really talk to some of my patients, which is something I love to do. It helps their ire if I can charm them or make them laugh. As I was looking over a patient's chart, seeing what the orders from the big guy were for her current visit and chatting amicably with her, this is the conversation that ensued. Patient: "How can you read that? It looks like a bunch of scribbles!" Belle: "Because I minored in archeology." Patient: "Excuse me? I thought you were a nurse..." Belle: "I am, but knowing I work for Dr. McDreamy I chose archeology as a minor so I could decipher his hieroglyphics." See, my patient's love me if only for my dorky sense of humor.
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Since we live in a nation, apparently, that has even it's time dictated to it by it's government (read: how in the fuck do they think they have the right to tell us what time it is! Thank God I'm not the only one who thinks this is absurd), I plan to petition the government to make yet another time change. And I need your support. I have found that days and weeks are too short. I propose we add another four hours to each day. There doesn't seem to be enough time for me to get my professional work, house work, personal work, run my errands and still be able to read all the books I bought and watch the shows to which I am emotionally attached. When you have this many balls in the air, something's gotta give, right? What's the easiest thing to sacrifice? I can't neglect my professional work, I have patients relying on me. I can't neglect my house work. Hello, OCD! Personal work and errands include paying bills and shopping, both of which are pretty much necessities. My books and my shows are my way to unwind. I would go stir crazy without those outlets, though I admit to cutting back on the time I spend doing each. Nope, friends, the easiest thing to sacrifice is sleep. I function best when I have no more than five hours of sleep. If I sleep longer than that I am very tired the next day. "But you're a medical professional," I can hear you saying now, "surely you know better than to get less than eight hours of sleep." The issue is that lately I've been getting approximately 3-4hrs of sleep. This has led to numerous weird dreams and said dreams have been haunting me the day after. So, don't you think my petition has merit? Four extra hours a day would be so helpful!
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As for most people, Saturdays are my catch-up day. The day where I can do all the errands I am too busy to accomplish during the week.
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There are many facets of my job that I adore, but there is also the ho-hum routine involved in patient care. I follow a pretty much cookie-cutter pattern with each of my dozens of patients every day. I attempt to "connect" with my patients on some level while taking their history and performing the necessary testing, but, let's face it, when I am ten deep and running twenty minutes behind already... all my good intentions are naught.
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There is an awesome blog I read on a basis that borders on obsessive (Moi? Obsessive? Perish the thought!) by a writer I admire greatly, Steve.
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The few people I personally know who read this have already been privy to my inner debate, so the void of cyberspace gets the joy of being posed this question: What do you do with the dress?
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It's coming. It may be corny of me, but I am damn near giddy today! Why, pray tell, am I so overly joyful? Why is my heart at burstible (my own personal made-up word for the day) levels? Because, children, my favorite holiday draweth nigh.
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With each passing birthday, especially since the end of my engagement, softly-spoken words of encouragement to "settle down". Most of those comments are followed by, "You're such a sweet, beautiful, lovely girl. You will be an excellent wife and wonderful mother." When you've known these people your entire life and have been taken under their collective wing so to speak, you get used to the meddling. But the thoughts these particular remarks have inspired recently are quite new. And, frankly, quite shocking. Today, specifically, the mother of one of my high school best friend called me. She often refers to me as her adopted daughter, the good child she never had. After she spent a giddy twenty minutes catching me up on all the latest gossip, a comment similar to those previously mentioned escaped her lips. Although she is one to normally not make observations on my relationships or reproductive future, I was more intrigued by my response than her sudden interest. I didn't immediately bristle at the suggestion I need to get married a pop out 2.5 kids while repairing my white picket fence. I didn't put on the cool exterior and nonchalantly try to redirect the conversation. I did, however, actually say to myself "That it is a nice thought." All jaws must be picked up from the floor immediately. This doesn't mean I am going to go get myself knocked up tomorrow. While I love babysitting the children of family and friends, I also love giving them back. I enjoy my freedom and the fact if I want to run to the store at midnight, no big thing. I can come and go as I please. No coordinating around naptime, school schedules or bedtimes. But I'm actually considering it as something more than a vague future possibility. And it is scary as hell.
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Not much to add to unending void of cyberspace, except one observation:
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As previously mentioned, Tuesdays are the home of the best line-ups ever created in the history of television programming. However, my routine of joyous entertainment was slightly off-kilter tonight as "Veronica Mars" was preempted in order to debut the new PCD reality show/competition. Seemed boring and common place to me, obviously did not tune in. I am sure, though, that this particular new show will provide many lonely/pathetic men and teenage boys with hours of primo monkey spank fuel. Enjoy boys!
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What does your obsessive compulsive, over active girl do when it is past 2am and she can't fall asleep? She does an absurd number of workout reps. When that fails to bring the much longed after sleep, she proceeds to troll the internet for oval picture frames in a brushed nickel metal that can hang on her wall to complete a project she has begun.
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