you know it's a good day in the ER when you have to change your pants

huh. That didn't sound quite right.

Just about the only thing that bugs me anymore is smell. I mean, I can handle the sight of blood, guts, gore, dangly adipose tissue, broken bones, poop, pee, puke, appendages dangling by a tendon, abcesses, nasty infected holes in people's legs. . .but smell. . .well.

it's not so bad when you can prepare; rub some vicks under your nose or inside a mask, then head into a room. But when you're walking down the hallway to start an IV, swinging the IV caddy jauntily, minding your own business, singing a little song to yourself, and a head injury patient projectile vomits directly into your path, and it's loud and voluminous and very, very colorful, and it splats on the curtain and the bed and the floor, and you've just gotten back from dinner. . .

that's not so great.

greetings from another planet

I may have mentioned that I come from a large family. A large, Mormon family. I have four siblings, all older than I. They, unlike me, have managed to remain married to their spouses, and produce several children in wedlock. I have 22 nieces and nephews, and 3 grand-nephews, in fact. All good, wholesome folk. Plus my parents. In my brother's mansion. Me, my kids, and a bunch of non-drinkin' non-smokin' non-swearin anti-liberal pro-life over-educated over-populated over-whelming people. 25 of them, in fact. Yep. I fit right in.
Sooooooo. Sunday. Noonish. Get the kids in the car, on the road. We've just hit Brownsville when Miss Diva asks for the first, but not the last, time, "how much longer?" I grit my teeth. I have a goodie bag of new books and coloring stuff in the front seat. I figure if we can hold out until Portland, I can dish out the goodies and we'll be set until we hit my brother's house, where the shindig's happening.
We barely make it to Portland before I start doling out the books, the coloring markers, the notebooks, the clipboards. The kids make it to Vancouver before they finish the books and start telling me they're bored.
Vancouver, Washington. Not BC. Vancouver-across-the-bridge-from-Portland. By Castle Rock, they're bashing each other over the head with the clipboards.
But we made it, albeit six hours later. And we ate some dinner, and then woke up the next morning and ate and played in the go carts and one nephew had his Eagle Scout celebration and then we were weirdos around the campfire, my sister and I dancing around to "Father Abraham" and today we went to the aquarium and Pike Place and the little magic shop is still there and we jumped on the trampoline and yelled and screamed and fought like families do.
Granted, when I wake up I'm slightly bleary, and my whole family laughs loudly as I stumble to my car and drive to Starbucks, and they tease me about my coffee addiction. And I do occasionally have to hide in a closet and whisper all the curse words I can think of just so I don't accidently let one slip in polite company. But I am one smartypants loudmouth among many, here. . .I mean, I had to get it from somewhere, right? It's just my smartass comments are occasionally sprinkled with naughty words. ahem.
My sisters and I all snort with laughter, my brother and I mush hamburger patties together in lumps when his wife isn't looking, and earn ourselves a lecture; I watch my sister and her husband leave black streaks of rubber on my brother's race-track driveway trying to run each other off. And I watch my favorite nephew, who does great accents and has the best one-liners, try very hard to hide the fact that he is gay. Or maybe he doesn't hide it, really, and I'm the only one who notices it.
He'll be a good role model for MixMan, who recently told me he'd rather be a girl. When I asked him why, he looked at me like I was stupid and said, "girls get all the best dresses!" And he rolled his eyes and walked away. Well, duh.