The Bell Pages

Dating: That First One Is A Killer

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 05:01:00 +0000

I love to hear stories about how couples meet or their first dates. (I think we've pretty much established how very nosey I am.) One of my favorite stories is my parent's first date.

Carol was a single mother of two small children in the late sixties. She was working as a secretary at the auto parts store Mel frequented. He later disclosed that he only frequented the place in order to flirt with her, and finally ask her out on a date.

The memorable day of their first date arrived, the first date Carol had had since her divorce. She was watching out the window when Mel arrived. She went in to tell the kids goodbye, and let the sitter know she was leaving. Out the window though, what's this? She sees Mel walking back out to his car. But wait, he's coming back . . . what the hell?

He was coming back with a gun!

Carol rushed outside and realized Mel was headed toward her dog, aptly named Puddles.

"What the hell are you doing? You're not going to shoot my dog!"

"The hell I'm not! He bit me!"

"Not MY dog! That dog has never bitten anyone! He is the gentlest . . . "

That was when the dog jumped up and bit him again.

I never heard the end of the story. They'd both be laughing to hard to finish. I'd ask Dad, and he'd just laugh and say he didn't think she'd go through with the date if he killed her dog first. Mom would smile and tell me she went out with him in spite of him brandishing a firearm, "Your dad was too handsome to back out!"

In case you were wondering, Puddles died much later, of completely natural causes. Though after they had been married almost 30 years, every time Dad would mention "I always did hate that damned dog though."

Tell me about a first date you've had!

The Answer is 42

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 05:01:00 +0000

FYI: From here forward I will be using the kid's names rather than their pseudonyms.

Because I don't give a damn about their privacy.

Because we have so many of them, here's a helpful guide to the recognition of my children:

Phone Boy = Thorin age 12

Sporty Boy = Isaac age 9

Goofy Boy = Julien age 6

Monkey Boy = Liam age 2

*************************************************

Julien: Hey mom (yes, he's stopped calling me 'Honey'), did you know when I was a baby I didn't even know I was alive?

Me: Really? Did it come as a shock to you when you had the realization?

Julien: No silly, I didn't even know I was baby! I figured out life when I was three years old and standing in the middle of the living room.

And to think, when I was three I was wasting time torturing my siblings and contemplating the mysterious bulge in Ken's crotch.

Hi, I'm Your Nurse. What Stupid Fucking Thing Did You Do?

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 05:01:00 +0000

I am brimming with sophistication and class. This is evident with all health care professionals, because working with the general population reveals how truly stupid most people are (except for YOU, of course). Now there is a HUGE difference between stupidity and ignorance. Ignorance I can deal with. Stupidity . . . well that's were the sophistication and class come in. You see, I actually manage NOT to say things like this to my patients:

You have no idea what meds you're on, but you know one of them is a little pink pill shaped like a football. No, I have no idea what that might be. Here's an idea - how about you take some responsibility for the drugs you put in your own body??

I knocked on your door. I called out "It's Daneen!". That means you should STOP having sex with your boyfriend in the hospital bed now. No one should ever see the two of you naked. EVER.

If you put on your call light 30 seconds after I leave your room AGAIN for me to move your water glass, hand you a tissue, or some other stupid thing; I'm going to come back in here with a scalpel. I'm going to cut your head off with it.

I know your kid didn't walk into a door, fall down the stairs, or put those cigarette burns on himself. I've hotlined you, even though it's likely Social Services won't do anything. I hope you die a painful death.

No, you may not go outside to smoke with your diagnosis of asthma/chest pain/shortness of breath/pneumonia. And don't whine to me about it either asshole, are you an idiot?!

If you smoke in your bathroom, and cause an explosion secondary to the oxygen delivery system in the walls--I will laugh at your crispy ass as you lie in the burn unit. (unlikely, but oxygen leaks DO happen.)

I had no idea a man could successfully masturbate with a urinary catheter in place. Color me impressed.

Hi there, you spent 9 months creating this miracle-child in your womb-I thought perhaps 36 hours after it's birth you'd like to get off your damned phone and be it's mother now.

Do you enjoy life? Good. Get another doctor, NOW!

Hey sicko, I'm a nurse. I've seen more penises than a hooker. Yours isn't that amazing, put it away now. I see it again, I might have to . . . . inject it with something.

You came to the hospital because you couldn't deal with this situation at home. You, in essence, have asked ME to deal with your situation. SO, how about you shut the hell up and let me do my job? If you already knew how to fix it, you would have stayed home and done so.

I know you are faking your contractions. Go home, and don't come back here until you're dilated to 4. In the meantime, become an adult please.

You are in the hospital because you have an infected cut on your leg. No, I will NOT hold it for you while you pee. FREAK.

Fred Phelps Should Really Just Stop Breathing

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 04:06:00 +0000

I have the distinct dishonor of living less than an hour away from Fred Phelps and his Loony Tune Westboro Baptist Church. He is an open, pus weeping wound on the face of Kansans and Baptists everywhere. If you haven't heard of Fred Phelps, well, aren't you the lucky one.Some of the many reprehensible acts this man and his family have committed include picketing the funerals of children who have died from AIDS, funerals of soldiers killed in Iraq, and protesting outside the bar I used to go to on the weekends with my gay friends.Thanks to the latter, I have been face to face with this nutcake, as he screamed "GOD HATES FAGS! DIE FAG!" at us as we entered the gay bar in Topeka. It is clear upon seeing Fred in person that the hate and evil he sustains himself on has deeply affected him. In short, the man is a lunatic, in the truest sense of the word. Being in his presence is actually frightening, the hate emanates from him, and there is a feeling of being in the presence of true evil. Anyone that does things like this revels in his own malevolence:

Photo from Wake Up America

This would be one of his grandchildren. Because his "congregation" consists entirely of his own crazy fucking family. Personally I think this is child abuse.

Anyway.

I saw that Fred Phelps will be picketing the funeral of George Carlin.I cannot imagine a more fitting tribute. I think George would have found that tremendously amusing. Some crazed disbarred Kansas lawyer picketing his funeral.At least it will keep them away from the funerals of US soldiers and pediatric AIDS victims for the day.

Sorrowful

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 17:37:00 +0000

My first memory of you, I was maybe four or five, perhaps younger. You lived in the little white house on the hill, it was Easter. I remember you pulling me up on the horse to give me a ride around the yard. All the cousins were there, all running around outside, it was the day I learned to call you Grampy. That was the first and last time I remember any feeling of connection with my father’s family.

Through my grade school years there were moments of awkward family get-togethers, during which I was acutely aware that the rest of the family saw us as less than. Maybe it was my dad’s abrasiveness and harsh honesty. Maybe it was that my mother didn’t fit in. But even as a little girl I knew the difference between family by blood and family by bond. I felt less judgment from you.

You were a quiet man. All business when it came to your work, your projects; but you had a subtle sense of humor, a twinkle in your eye when I least expected it. It was from you I learned about my dad’s infamous car incident. You were showing me pictures of old cars, your passion, when we came to a photo of an old ’57 Chevy. “That’s the car your stupid father drove into the Missouri River” you said with a laugh. I asked Dad about it later. He had been working the night shift at the plant, fell asleep in his parked car on a hill, and hit the gearshift in his sleep. He woke up in the river. Dad was so pleased that you had a picture of the car, so glad that years later you found it funny. He worked his whole life to make you proud, and generally felt he came up short, I think.

When I was 14 or 15 Grammy told me that you and she were married when she was 16, you were 24 (not uncommon in those days). I teasingly asked you “what were you thinking marrying a girl that young?!” You smiled, looked at her, and said “She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, I thought I’d better snatch her up before someone else did.” It was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.

I stayed away as an adult. I didn’t feel all that welcome around the family, it was awkward. By the time Dad died of a stroke, you had had a stroke yourself. The words you searched for didn’t come; instead completely different words were spoken instead. It embarrassed you, so you simply kept quiet. The time around Dad’s death was so filled with hurt, anger, and hostility; I never really knew how you felt. I knew that my grandmother thought I had a part in “murdering” dad, and would just as soon spit on me as look at me. Others in the family knew there was no truth to that, they knew I was doing all I knew how to take care of Dad and do what was best. I hoped you were among them. I gave you a tentative smile at Dad’s funeral. You returned with what I interpreted as a look of utter contempt.

After Goofy Boy was born, the nurses I worked with threw me a baby shower at the hospital. My aunt, who was a guest, told me you were a patient there, and encouraged me to take the baby in to see you. You sat up and smiled, held my little boy, and just beamed. You couldn’t remember my name, but you knew I was “Junie’s girl”, and kept smiling away at the baby and telling me “You’ve got a good one here!”

From time to time I would see you in the hospital where I worked. Once or twice I even drove the boys the 30 minutes to visit for just a few minutes. Because after 4 or 5 minutes we had nothing to say, nothing to do but sit and stare at each other.

Your funeral will take place in about 30 minutes. I’m sorry I won’t be there. I can’t face dealing with my brother, or people in the family like him. I can't take myself back to that place I always go when I think about Dad's death. Maybe that makes me a coward, or disrespectful. And I’m sorry for that. I just can’t do it. Please know that I love you.

This Post Is In No Way Meant To Offend Chicken Sacrificing Voo-Doo Priestesses

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 05:01:00 +0000

A few months ago I posted about Mr. Honeybell's lack of faith. This is something he and I discuss quite a bit. While my faith remains strong, there are certain things he and I do agree upon. For instance I do not believe that prayer belongs in public schools. Do you know what will happen if the US condones prayer in schools? My kid's new teacher, the voo-doo priestess, is going to instruct them in proper chicken sacrificing technique. Because that's the kind of luck I have. I'll teach them religion at home thankyouverymuch.

Now then, another little item that irritates me to no end involves business owners using their religion to sell me crap. You want to throw a discreet Jesus fish, Star of David, or cross on your card? Fine. However when a business names itself after something Biblical, uses a religious symbol as it's logo, and a Bible verse as it's motto, I find that truly offensive. That is the equivalent of the moneychangers on the temple steps in my eyes. It also makes those with faith look bad when the landlord sends Resurrection Heating and Cooling to your house to fix your air conditioner and leaves 8 inch deep ruts in the middle of your yard with their van (which happens to have three GINORMOUS crosses painted on it) because they're too damned lazy to walk to 10 feet from the driveway to the air conditioning unit . . .

ahem.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Godless Wretch that he is, Mr. Honeybell is a bit more sensitive to the combination of religion and business than I am. He doesn't even like the discreet Jesus fish. So the other day when we stopped at a random bake sale outside Walmart and bought some cookies, the lady thanked us and added "God bless you."

Atheists don't really care for "God bless you".

I clutched my chocolate brownie cookies a little tighter to my chest as we walked away.

"You're not going to give that nice lady my cookies back are you?"

Empty

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 14:21:00 +0000

The two older boys have gone on their summer visit with their mom for six weeks.

The house will be cleaner.

Our lives will be quieter.

Groceries will cost less.

There won’t be any fighting or bickering among brothers.

And nothing will be right until they come home.

The Girl, The Boy, and One Hell of a Sibling Rilvary

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 04:05:00 +0000

There was a young single girl who lived her life as a continuous party. She worked as a nurse three days a week, for the sole purpose of beer money. In between emptying bedpans and sleeping off the tequila of the night before, she became friends with a very close knit group of other nurses, and a boy. The Boy was a respiratory therapist.

At first The Girl couldn’t stand The Boy. He sulked around in his all black scrubs with his numerous tattoos and shaved head. The Girl thought he looked like a deranged medical neo-nazi. Soon however The Girl realized The Boy made her laugh. The Boy was fun to argue with, The Boy listened to her, and when The Girl complained about her suck ass boyfriend, The Boy told her she was better than that loser. Over the next few years, The Girl and The Boy became the best of friends.

One day during one of their long phone conversations, The Boy told The Girl he had discovered that his marriage was over. Sadly his wife had found someone else, and that someone was his brother. The Boy knew this was just another symptom of his failed marriage, rather than the cause of it. But he felt depression and betrayal none the less. The Boy went forward with a divorce.

The next few months brought a lot of confusion for The Girl. She loved her boyfriend, and he was a good man. Unfortunately he was a terrible boyfriend. In addition The Girl was becoming tired of bar hopping, boyfriend drama, and being hung over all the time. She sat down one day and honestly asked herself what she wanted in a man, in a relationship. The answer surprised her. The answer was a man like The Boy, a relationship like she had with The Boy - only with sex. It turned out The Girl was right in assuming The Boy felt the same way. They fell in love, lived in sin, found out that sex can make you pregnant, and got married.

For years The Boy spoke to his ex-wife only when he had to. He didn’t speak to his brother at all. They had married, and had a child of their own. The Boy and The Girl weren’t saints about the situation by any means. You see The Boy and The Girl are some sick puppies. There were definitely some unpleasant things said, and maybe a teeny-tiny bit of hysterical laughter over some inappropriate jokes. Because The Boy and The Girl can be real assholes like that (they are at least, funny assholes). In spite of all of that, although he didn’t discuss it, The Girl knew he was still hurt over the loss of his brother. In turn The Girl hurt for him.

Because he is an amazing person, over the last couple of years The Boy has overcome that feeling of betrayal. He had decided that some things are more important than the past. He had decided to let old drama be over, because there are things you cannot control. Because we’re only here once, no one gets a second chance.

This is how The Girl happened to spend Father’s Day with her husband, her husband’s parents, and her ~~husband’s ex-wife~~ sister-in-law, and her ~~husband’s ex-wife’s husband~~ brother-in-law.

And they all lived happily, if not slightly awkwardly, ever after.

*Cue banjo music*

Mo Fo

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 04:42:00 +0000

Monday was a difficult day. If you follow me on Twitter or Plurk you know Mr. Honeybell and I discovered that 12 year old Phone Boy has been stealing my cigarettes, apparently for some time. I noticed a while ago, and began counting packs. We searched his room for definitive proof and found exactly what we hoped wasn't there. Soda can with butts, ash on the window sill, and very unexpectedly, the cap from a wine cooler under the mattress.

Sonuvabitch.

I've smoked since I was 12. I blame it all on Violet Nagonsott (yes, that was her real name I swear to God). Violet and I spent an entire summer stealing money from my parents to buy candy, cigarettes, and play video games. But that's for another post. We're dealing with my shitty example as a parent here.

We have always been open with the boys about how stupid our smoking is. My mother died from years and years of smoking, and it wasn't an easy death. We have explained how strong of an addiction it is (and just so you know, if you comment that I should "just quit", leave your address so I can come to your house and kick your ass), they have seen our repeated attempts to quit. What could he have been thinking? He was thinking that his parents who are supposed to set an example for living are sitting outside smoking their lungs out. Because we are assholes.

So I'm finishing the carton I have. I'm buying nicotine patches. Because now I have an incentive to quit I've never had before staring me in the face.

Now then, you know I wouldn't leave you without a little laugh. After the lecturing and the grounding and the taking of the cell phone, I held up the wine cooler cap. "Would you like to discuss THIS?" The poor kid sat there looking so dejected with tears in his eyes, and responded "Um . . . no?"

I really need to choose my words more carefully.

Why I'm Not A Psych Nurse

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 04:07:00 +0000

I had been a nurse for less than a year. I was 21 years old and my biggest challenge in nursing so far had been handsy old men with bronchitis. My first patient of the evening was a young woman admitted the diagnosis of dehydration. She had just come to the floor, so the off going nurse really didn’t have any information to give me about her. I bee-bop into her room and encounter an attractive girl in her mid to late 20’s sitting on her bed looking perfectly hydrated. I introduced myself and asked if there was anything she needed. What I got was this:

hi how are you i just got here from a group setting in kansas city and then they sent me here because they said there was something wrong with me but i think i’m fine don’t i look fine i think i’m fine but i did have one question while i was there they were giving me vitamin b12 shots and i think i still need vitamin b 12 shots because it helps me stay at one with the world and my dad was here earlier and that’s why i’m here because my dad is here and i work at the college so that’s why they sent me here so do you think you could give me a vitamin b 12 shot in my neck?

What Honeybell was thinking: Holy Shit this chick is crazy. Why did anyone send us this crazy woman and admit her with dehydration?

What Honeybell said: You know, we aren’t allowed to give medicine without a doctor’s order. Let me go check the orders the physician checked you in with and I’ll let you know.

I called the doctor, who gave me an order for an anti-psychotic. In a dosage that would do about as much good as giving the girl a tic tac.

I trot back to her room with a plan. “I have your shot here, but I need to put it in your hip, not your neck.” She came up off the bed and across the room in about 2 steps.

“i need it in my neck if you won’t give it in my neck i’m not taking it it only works in my neck so that it gets to my heart faster what kind of stupid bitch are you do you have a pen?” The entire time she’s getting closer and closer and more agitated, clapping her hands to emphasize each syllable. She ended the breathless tirade about an inch from my face.

What Honeybell was thinking: Oh. My. God. This nutcake is going to kill me with my own pen, and no one will notice I’m missing until the smell starts emanating from the laundry hamper she stuffs me into.

What Honeybell said: You know, I don’t have a pen. I’ll be right back.

Back at the nurse’s desk; “she’s getting agitated and won’t take the Haldol.” The charge nurse looks at me exasperated, informing me I have to give her the shot because the doctor won’t give any further orders until he’s sure the tic tac dosage doesn’t work. “She’s your patient; you go in there and convince her to take it.” Back I go to the patient’s room like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“Ok, I’ve spoken to the doctor, and he doesn’t want the shot in your neck. It’s best if I give it in your hip or in your thigh, where do you choose?” She allows me to give her the Haldol in her thigh, however she hasn’t calmed at all, and is becoming increasingly loud and angry. She’s speaking so fast I can barely understand what she’s saying as she pounded her fists on the window of her room. “I don’t want to be here anymore I think it’s time to go but right now I’m hungry do you have something with protein because I have to have protein but I have to leave when is the next bus leaving I need to go home I need to feed my cat you stupid bitch whore don’t you understand why I have to leave now get me some fucking protein and call the next bus” spitting into my face on her way out the door, she ran from the room toward the nurse’s desk screaming “stupid bitch whore! I’m hungry!”

What Honeybell was thinking: It’ll be safer if I stay in here. Away from her.

What Honeybell DID: Followed her crazy ass patient down the hall to the desk.

There she stood finally convincing the charge nurse that I wasn’t the difficult one in this situation. She’s prattling on with her continuous flow of verbal vomit, slamming things on the desk, and throwing papers at the staff, which is completely freaking out passerby. She refused to return to her room, so I tried to get her to go into the empty waiting room.

“Is there anything green in there?

What Honeybell thought: Oh crap, I have no idea . . . does she like green?

What Honeybell said: Um, do you like green? Then YES.

After hours of this, and just as my shift was over, we finally got the order to transfer manic girl to a psych hospital. I went to my parent’s house after work. Like every good ol' boy my dad had a police scanner in the living room. I listened as the EMT’s called the hospital on the radio:

“Base, please be advised that patient has tried to jump from the moving vehicle twice—we request your permission to return to base at this time with patient”.

“No! Do NOT return to base-I repeat DO NOT RETURN to base! Restrain patient as appropriate!”

What Honeybell thought AND said: HA! Thank you God, for helping me realize I shouldn’t be a psych nurse!

Why I Shouldn't Speak to Retail Clerks

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 02:01:00 +0000

So I was about 5 months pregnant with the Monkey when Mr. Honeybell and I were at the grocery store. It was June, hot as hell, and I was wearing a tank. Being my second baby I was definitely showing, but probably tipping the scales at about 135. I hadn’t quit smoking as early in the pregnancy as I would have liked, but by this time I was on my second month of wearing a nicotine patch. (Yes, I know Nicotine isn’t good for babies, but it’s better than smoking). While checking out the clerk looks at my arm and asks “Is that that new weight loss patch?”

It wasn’t until I got into the parking lot when I realized “I’m not fat bitch! I’m pregnant!!”

I’m at the gas station after hitting Starbucks with the Monkey. He’s gnawing away at a chocolate chip cookie when the clerk asks “Did your mommy bake that cookie for you?” I laughed and replied that the friendly folks at Starbucks made it for him. She continued looking at Monkey and said “Wow, that’s an expensive cookie. Your mommy must have more money than sense.”

This time I was on the ball: “Wow, that’s rude. Do you always say every little thing that comes into your head?”

Different gas station just last week. I had tried to get Mr. Honeybell a fountain soda, but had to tell the clerk that the Diet Dr. Pepper was only putting out water. She told her young co-worker, who suggested that she go fill it with syrup. She gave me a knowing wink, “These young’uns just think they can order us older folks around, don’t they?”

Huh? For God’s sake, this lady was pushing 60 at least! Was she including me in “older folks”?! I know I joke around about being old, but damn!! I still get carded at the liquor store on occasion . . . but now Methuselah wants to include me in the “Oops I Crapped My Pants” set? No freaking way.

I'm seriously thinking about not leaving the house anymore. It's really not good for my self esteem.

Yeah. The Neighbors LOVE Us.

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 04:52:00 +0000

I’ve posted a few times about our batshit crazy neighbors. Recently Mr. Honeybell and I were outside being obnoxious, so I warned him “You know, we are probably creating blog fodder for someone else right now!” To save them the trouble, I've come up with some potential titles:

· Does that woman never get dressed?

I spend the majority of my life in my pajamas. Working night shift for 18 years will do that to you. Just imagine what you look like at 2 am, only you haven’t the sense to stay in bed. Or in the house for that matter. Poor Monkey Boy has started equating getting dressed with going bye bye. Because that's when we change out of our PJ's.

All those people do is sit on their porch and smoke! ~Or~
They look like hookers!

We don’t smoke in our house. It causes too many health problems for the boys, I don’t want the smell in the house, plus it’s the only time we can get away from the children. It’s like a little mini date. A co-worker of mine now has me paranoid about it though. She smokes, but doesn’t want to smoke in her house. So every time she wants a cigarette she goes for a drive. When I suggested she just smoke outside she exclaimed “I’m not standing outside my house smoking I’ll look like a hooker!”

· Just how many kids do these people have anyway?

There is a constant wave of children in and out of my home. I’ve even had neighbor kids who didn’t know us well come to my door and ask to play with a child who didn’t live here. Twice.

· How much trash can one family generate?

This is something I could care less about. But Mr. Honeybell has in the past actually held back trash because he didn’t want too many trash bags on the curb. On trash day. I don’t get it either.

· They never sleep!

There are lights and TV on ALL THE TIME. We’re usually awake late into the night, plus I can’t sleep without TV noise. It’s not unusual for us to be outside having a cigarette at 2 am. Often we’ll even run errands in the middle of the night. Walmart at midnight is awesome.

Frodo! Go the hell inside!

Our idiot dog is obsessed with squirrels. I'm fairly certain he thinks doing his business is just a secondary perk of being outside. So the idiot dog stands there staring up at the tree while we call "Frodo! Come on! Frodo!"

· That woman never watches her baby!

Monkey Butt has learned the art of opening the screen door. The other boys have yet to learn the art of closing the main door. Just how white trash is it to look out your window and see the neighbor’s two year old playing alone and naked in the front yard? Which brings us to our next title-

· I cannot believe how much that woman screams at her kids!

Yeah. This one is self explanatory.

I was molested by my neighbor! (a could have been)

Ok, this one deserves some explanation. On occasion when I'm wearing low waist jeans the world gets to know me a bit more than anyone would like. Rather than discreetly telling me to pull up my jeans, Mr. Honeybell will assault my ass cleavage with his finger. Because he's a jackass. ANYWAY. A few years ago while living in Arkansas we were watching an across the street neighbor do some landscaping. For two days we looked at this guy's ass crack peeking out over the low waistband of his jeans. Trust me, we didn't want to look, it was unavoidable. Finally being the mature adult that I am, I told Mr. Honeybell I'd give him $20 if he would run across the street and welcome him (and his ass crack) with gusto. Sadly, Mr. Honeybell declined. Because you know I would posted that on YouTube a long time ago.

My Love Child With Clark Gable

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 28 May 2008 03:49:00 +0000

What was my biggest fear when I was pregnant with my very first beautiful baby boy? It had nothing to do with his health. I wasn’t worried about money, or being a first time mom. I was worried that I was going to have an ugly kid, and no one would tell me.

I was terrified that I was going to be one of those parents forcing others to look at pictures of my ugly ass kid insisting “Isn’t he CUTE??” My friends have assured me I’ve dodged that particular bullet. The kid is damned good looking.

Then a couple of years ago I took Goofy to a uniform sale at work. Later that night my co-worker Donna mentioned how cute he was, then added “but where did he get those ears?”

What. The. Hell.

There is NOTHING wrong with mah baby’s ears!!

Of course I immediately checked out his ears when I got home the next morning.

What did I find but DAY-UM! My little sunshine boy should have some excellent auditory abilities. I never really gave it a second thought, and I'm sure I would have heard about it if his brothers or classmates had noticed.

But apparently someone has noticed those sweet little ears.

Goofy, his brothers and the neighbor girl were out on the porch playing “I Spy”. With Phone Boy’s turn, he glances around and announces “I spy with my little eye . . . something with big ears.”

Goofy stands up immediately, ignores the Dumbo toy on the table that was being referred to, and with a sheepish smile says:

“I know, I know. It’s me.”

I'm Stalking You Back

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 26 May 2008 04:31:00 +0000

I posted a question on a blog forum when I first began blogging. I asked how to increase traffic on my blog, and where I could get statistic information. I was summarily blasted for daring to care about such superficial things. I was told that I should be “blogging purely for the joy of writing”.

I wonder why among some bloggers it’s such a terrible thing to want people to read our blogs? If we wanted a private personal journal wouldn’t we use a notebook and keep it under our mattresses? We are out here, bare for the world to see because most of us want to be seen.

Ok MAYBE not, perhaps there are some pure souls out there that truly don’t care about their statistics. But I think most care at least a little. I on the other hand . . . I will admit here and now that I care A LOT. I love reading my stats. I have Google Analytics, Neoworx, Feedburner, blah blah blah. I obsess on who’s here, how long, where they came from, I want to know everything! I don’t think it has so much to do with wanting to be a “big name blogger” and increasing my numbers, rather I think it’s because I’m so nosey. If Google gave me a shot of the interior of your panty drawer I’d totally look. Twice.

Among other things, Google analytics has taught me that California . . . LOVES ME. (Hello California! I love you too! I’m sorry about that whole earthquake thing. Given the state of the Teutonic plates in the Midwest though, maybe we should talk). The folks in The Dakotas however? Completely missing out.

When I saw that someone clicked over here from Jorge Garcia’s blog, and that person was in Hawaii??! I nearly freaked out (because I’m so easily star-struck like that). Could Jorge Garcia of “Lost” fame actually have read my blog? I doubt it, but thanks to Google Analytics I can pretend it’s true.

Blogging is about writing for me. The thing is though; the things I’m writing about are experiences or thoughts I want to share with other people. Some are funny, some are sad, sometimes I’m just talking out loud so to speak (like now). So absolutely, I want to know how many people I’m sharing with, I want to know if you’re coming back, and how you got here. And should you leave a comment? Oh my God. I’m not ashamed to say I get all warm and fuzzy in my nether regions.

Now be honest-do you follow your stats, and why?

Clearly I Didn't Run Fast Enough

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 23 May 2008 04:49:00 +0000

Because Leppardfreak and Miss both tagged me for one of those lovely "tell us random crap about you" type memes. Quite honestly, I'm running out of random crap. So here are some random pictures of the place I live.

This is the only monument dedicated to the Buffalo Soldier's Calvary located on the Army fort adjacent to the town.

Welcome to The Big House. My area plays host to no less than FOUR prisons. One state, one military, one federal holding facility, and this, the Federal Pen. Which someone somewhere decided should look like the capitol building. (Insert your own political joke here)

This is a shot of the VA National Cemetery, breathtaking in it's beauty and sadness. There are markers here dating from the Civil War Era to present day.

I have no idea what building this is, there are several abandoned buildings on the VA campus. Most of them were beautiful and stately in their day.

There are rows of these abandoned dormitory buildings, it seems like such a shame to let them sit and rot.

The church where Mr. Honeybell and I were married. It's a bizarre chapel, as the top part you see here is the Protestant half. The basement of the building is open on the back, and serves as the Catholic half of the chapel.

Finally, this is my workplace:

What? You see nothing there? That's cause I QUIT!!!! Let there be rejoicing! I am now one of the unwashed, unemployed masses. (actually I showered recently, but still)

The kids, the house, school and work were are getting to be too much. In addition it has become nearly impossible to find childcare. Our babysitter has become completely unreliable (YES ABBY- I MEAN YOU), and we can hardly expect the grandparents to sit every other weekend, they have their own stuff. So after this weekend, I am a free woman! Poverty stricken, but free! This is the first time since I was 17 years old that I have been unemployed on purpose. I am totally not going to know what to do with myself.

Life As A Nurse: Things My Patients Have Taught Me

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 21 May 2008 05:04:00 +0000

I spend a lot of time educating patients about medicines, breast feeding, and home care. What isn't as obvious are the numerous lessons I learn in return:

Old people hit harder than you would think.
New moms shouldn’t sleep in the hospital bed with their new baby *or* Babies don’t bounce. (Baby was surprisingly, thankfully, not hurt)
It’s ok to pray with your patient.
As a nurse, if a patient tells you there is a rat in her room, you shouldn’t back out of the room exclaiming “Holy Shit! Where?!”
A superhero cape is no substitute for a good parachute.
If you are bitten by a copperhead snake you should bring it with you to the hospital. But you should definitely kill it first.
If your pet monkey dies, it’s time to wash the monkey shit out of your hair. Especially if you tell us the monkey has been dead for more than a year.
3 year olds with cancer know more than I do.
Sometimes you can actually use the Spanish you learn on Dora the Explorer.
If you get fall down drunk with your cousin, and he suggests Russian roulette . . . . say no.
Just because the Tylenol is generic does NOT mean you should take six.
If someone looks like they are going to spit on you, they probably will.
Drunken people like to visit other patients in their rooms. At 2 am.
No one will believe that you fell in the shower and that shampoo bottle put itself up your ass.
Flashlights don’t belong up your ass either. Sometimes they get stuck.
Pretty much just don’t stick things up your ass.
Do not grab a piece of gravel out of your driveway and then claim that it’s a kidney stone you just passed.
You should not crush up your oral meds, mix them with water and then use a needle you stole out of the sharps box to inject the whole mess into your IV.
You should not allow the boyfriend you know is a child sexual offender to sleep in the same bed with your daughter.
You will be sorely disappointed if you call your doctor a “fucking asshole” and then demand narcotics.
Maggots really do clean open wounds. But the nurses will talk about you for years to come.
Toddlers will eat crack when you leave it on the coffee table.
Put the safety on your gun when you put it in your pocket *or* never play pocket pool with firearms in said pocket.
If you stab your boyfriend with a butcher knife, don’t tell the medical staff he fell off the deck onto the knife that was mysteriously buried blade side up.
If you take your own recreational drugs on top of Demerol, you will end up completely confused, masturbating under an old woman’s bedside table. She will think you are hilarious.
Sometimes death isn’t the worst thing.
If you sleep with someone else’s wife, sometimes they will come to your home, staple gun your balls to the floor, leaving you stuck there for hours.

Any questions?

I Am Honeybell's Wounded Va-Jay-Jay

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 19 May 2008 13:20:00 +0000

So you may have read about my intention to start waxing, and that was the plan, really it was. But then I started running out of excuses to give the police as to why my screaming kept disturbing the neighbors. So it’s back to the razor.

I’m in the tub. Legs? Check. Pits? Check. Got myself contorted into positions only a porn star could appreciate? Check. I’m cheerfully shaving away when:

Holy Mary Mother Of God . . . the pain!!

I see a spreading shade of pink in the water; I glance at the Venus ~~flytrap~~ razor and note an unnaturally long folded ribbon of skin embedded in the ~~implement of genital mutilation~~ tri-blades. I’m certain I’ve just given myself an episiotomy.

After hurriedly rinsing the conditioner from my hair, I stood dripping wet, next to the bathtub, one leg on the side (see any tampon box for visual aid) trying to staunch the flow of blood with a wad of toilet paper. My six year old begins knocking on the door “Honey? What was that yelling?”

At this point skin is not yet ready to meet skin. I hop with one leg raised over to the door and lock it. I’ve not yet saved enough for his future therapy to see this. “I’m fine sweetpea, just fell, or something.” I grab the tube of Neosporin, hoping it will slow the bleeding. Then the terrible thought occurs to me, what if I need stitches?? It feels like a pretty deep cut down there, and the bleeding hasn’t stopped . . . .

“Mr. Honeybell? Could you look at something for me?” I’m certain my situation is NOT what he envisioned when I came hobbling into the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel. “I think I cut myself”

He’s laughing, “What, are you all emo now? Are you a cutter?” I have to explain that no, I personally am not emo, but apparently my perineum has some dark issues. He takes a look. “Wow. That’s bad. Does this mean we won’t be getting freaky?”

No. We will not. Ever, ever, ever, again.

As I sit here on my doughnut air pillow, I wonder what I will do now regarding the general care of “the lawn”. Can’t wax, can’t shave, my pubic hair scoffs at depilatory creams in a snooty English accent.

So here’s my next plan, Au Naturale. It’s perfect, I’ll change my name to Moonbeam, start wearing flowing all organic cottons, imbibe large amounts of mind altering drugs, and I’ll grow hair like there’s no tomorrow. I can’t wait.

The Middle Aged Woman's Guide to Community College

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 14 May 2008 14:13:00 +0000

So I've finished my second semester of school. I've learned quite a bit about being a middle aged wife and mother returning to college, and I'm now prepared to share this information with you! Welcome to Honeybell's guide to being a non-traditional student while working and caring for four little boys:

First of all, it is important to note that most of your fellow students will look like this:

While you might show up everyday looking like this:

With the children, things are going to be even worse. It is very likely that they may wander around looking like this:

And while they're looking like that, they'll probably be doing plenty of this:

But the older children will just do this:

Meanwhile, your house could end up looking like this:

While you read textbooks and make this for Sunday dinner:

But you think it's all good, because this is all you have consumed ALL DAY:

Lastly, I should give you a warning. If you SHOULD actually clean your house, bathe, clothe, and pay attention to your children, then actually bother to have sex with your husband . . . well, you will likely get papers back that look like this:

*sigh*

Can you believe I'm taking summer classes?

The Job I Leave Off My Resume: Chapter 4

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 09 May 2008 05:12:00 +0000

This is a 4 part series (yes, I know at first I said 5 part . . . I have paragraph counting issues apparently) about a job I once had as a nurse in an abortion clinic. This is not meant to be a political statement or a forum for debate, only a recording of my experiences. Of course this is a sensitive subject, and I respect everyone's views.

As I got into the routine of working at the clinic I was actually proud of the job I did. I was making a difference in what kind of experience these women had, and helping them through it. There will always be termination of pregnancy, legally and safely . . . or not. There is no reason for it to be more of a terrifying painful experience than necessary. I discovered though that I needed to let go of my own preconceptions about women who have abortions. At first certain circumstances were exempt from my critical judgment, while others were not.

My heart wept for the couple who discovered that the baby they had been trying for was developing with only a brain stem due to a genetic anomaly. For the 11 year old who underwent her procedure as the police waited outside the room to collect the "evidence" for DNA purposes, in order to assist in the prosecution of her father. For the college freshman who still bore the healing knife wounds and fading yellow bruises to her inner thighs and vulva from her violent attackers. These women were the exception though, not the rule. They are able to lie in bed at night taking the smallest of comforts in the socially acceptable reasons for their abortion.

Yet I found that these women were no more broken hearted than those that came to us for an abortion because they had made a mistake. These were the women that got caught up in the moment, they missed a pill, or maybe a condom broke. No matter what the cause of conception was, I saw the grief and anguish that led them to this decision. After meeting and speaking with these women, I learned who they were, I learned each specific reason why they felt carrying a pregnancy term was impossible for them. They were no better or worse than any other woman, including myself.

So my heart also wept for the teen girl that had been too afraid to ask her parents about birth control. The wife and mother that didn't understand how this happened, but she just couldn't handle the expense and care of another child. The menopausal woman who didn't think she could conceive again. There were numerous stories I listened to, not one of them had come to this choice lightly. They made this decision knowing that abortion would very likely leave a scar, hidden in the depths of their being. To each individual woman, for her own reasons, it hardly seemed a choice.

Several months later, as young women who move in with their boyfriends often do, I discovered that my boyfriend was a self absorbed ass. I wasn't happy in this new city, I had no close friends, I was lonely and miserable. Looking back, I have to wonder if one reason I made no friends outside of work acquaintances was due to working at the clinic. After that first episode of humiliation, I never wanted to talk to anyone in any depth. I kept most people at a distance so as not to even have the discussion of employment. Mostly though, I wanted to go home. I missed my friends, my family, my Acute Care Unit at the hospital.

I quit my job, dumped the jerk boyfriend, and moved back home. When people asked me where I'd been working I told them about the part time rehab hospital job. I left the clinic off my resume, and to this day I've never listed it as a past employer. I don't discuss it with people I don't know well. I will always be conflicted about the morality of abortion, and of working at the abortion clinic. That I wasn't candid about working there disturbs me still. Is it a failing? A good idea? I don't know. I do know that at that time in my life, I had the opportunity to help women at a most traumatic time in their life. I did that job, and I did it well.

I have no internal struggle with that.

The Job I Leave Off My Resume: Chapter 3

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 08 May 2008 04:37:00 +0000

This is a 5 part series about a job I once had as a nurse in an abortion clinic. This is not meant to be a political statement or a forum for debate, only a recording of my experiences. Of course this is a sensitive subject, and I respect everyone's views.

I quickly learned that the clinic was a pretty informal environment. My first staff meeting was opened with a fellow nurse asking "We need to be more consistent around here in recognizing each other's milestones, I mean, who do I need to screw around here to get a birthday cake?"

I adored her immediately.

The predominant feeling in the clinic was one of concern for the patients. At the hospital I found some health care workers cared, others did not. At the clinic every decision that was made was first considered from the patient's point of view. These people cared about women's health and a woman's right to choose.

They also cared about these individual women. At least once a day, after counseling a patient would be told we could not, would not, perform an abortion. Sometimes a woman would break down, and admit that she wanted a baby, but her partner did not. Some women couldn't state unequivocally that this was what they wanted. Rarely some women had histories of up to 12 previous abortions, and clearly were using abortion as a birth control method.

One woman was in the intake room waiting for her procedure when one of the nurses recognized her as one of the weekend anti abortion protesters, one of the rare protesters there had been trouble with. When asked about the obvious dilemma, she explained that while all the other women there were whores and going to hell for their choice, she was justified in her choice to terminate her pregnancy. You see her brother was getting married in a few months, and she couldn't be pregnant for the wedding because she was a bridesmaid. She was informed she would need to find services somewhere else.

By this time I had told my mom where I worked, and she was supportive, but worried for my safety. I think she just told my dad I worked for an OB GYN. That is generally what I told people when the subject came up. One night at my boyfriend's brother's home a friend of his was asking about my work. My rehearsed generic "I work at a doctors office" wouldn't satisfy him. He wanted to know where, what doctor, what I did there. I felt like I was being interrogated, and was evasive enough in my answers to shut him up, but I'm sure he had doubts about whether or not I was even a nurse. After reflecting on the conversation later, I felt ridiculous. I had chosen this job, I needed to own up to it. To hell with what other people think, this is what I do. If they didn't like it, that's too bad. I'm still who I am, I am not defined by my job.

I had decided to take a part time job in a small rehabilitation hospital. I had my first opportunity to own up to my full time job one night while sitting outside smoking with one of the respiratory therapists I had become friendly with. When she asked where I normally worked I looked her straight in the eye and told her the name of the clinic. She tilted her head to the side and asked "Ohhh, So . . . you don't mind making money by murdering babies?"

She never spoke to me again, and I went back to telling people I worked in a doctor's office.

The Job I Leave Off My Resume: Chapter 2

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 07 May 2008 03:41:00 +0000

This is a 5 part series about a job I once had as a nurse in an abortion clinic. This is not meant to be a political statement or a forum for debate, only a recording of my experiences. Of course this is a sensitive subject, and I respect everyone's views.

The next day at the clinic I was lead to the locker room where I changed into scrubs, complete with booties and bouffant cap. The other candidate for the job and I stood behind the physician to watch the procedure and observe the nurse as she assisted. Until this point I thought I had the job. I had no idea there would be another applicant there. I stood there wondering why on earth they were having job applicants observe abortions?

The first patient was led into the room by her counselor. The clinic did not allow anyone in the room except staff and patient. The counselor would hold her hand and talk her through the procedure. This patient was about 17 or 18. She entered the cold room bare save the flimsy patient gown and blue bouffant cap. There was an IV in her hand, not for sedation, but for emergency use. She couldn't afford to pay for sedation, and she was terrified.

She was helped onto the exam table, legs in stirrups. Her eyes closed, and as she was given a local anesthetic to her cervix, she clenched the counselor's hand. The physician began dilating her cervix with small metal rods, and the counselor leaned close and whispered to her, stroking her head. When the vacuum machine came on, silently the tears began to stream down her face. Just as it was over, the nurse quickly removed the cloth wrapped jar from the suction machine, taking it to the utility room. The entire procedure lasted about 3 minutes.

I looked at the other observing nurse. She was stark white, hand covering her mouth. After the patient had been taken to recovery, she dashed from the room. I could hear her vomiting in the hallway, she didn't return to the OR, and I never saw her again. Later my question was answered. My new boss informed me that it wasn't unusual for a new nurse or counselor to walk out during a procedure and never return. This is why she requires all prospective employees to observe in the OR before officially offering the job.

We saw about 30 patients that day. Some were a repeat of the first abortion I saw, other women were able to afford sedation by the nurse anesthetist and slept throughout the procedure. Some women were very young, others were well into middle age, already mothers. They all had one thing in common. They were all frightened, they were all sorrowful, they all felt this was the best thing to do at that time in the face of an unwanted pregnancy.

The director of nursing came in as I helped clean the OR at the end of the day. "Are you coming back tomorrow?" I thought about the nurse who left, and I completely understood why. Having a pro choice stance, and actually being there are very different. I questioned if I was strong enough to deal with this type of emotion everyday, I questioned if I was pro choice enough to assist with the termination of pregnancies.

But then I thought about how afraid that first girl was. How she shook with fear and anxiety. It's frightening enough to have any medical procedure, much less one rife with such emotion. My mind whirled, what am I thinking? My mother will kill me, my dad will keel over . . . I'll never be able to tell people where I work . . . but then . . . I can help them. I can make it less frightening. I can do this.

"Yes, I'll see you in the morning."

The Job I Leave Off My Resume: Chapter 1

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 06 May 2008 04:55:00 +0000

Huckdoll recently offered up a meme about past jobs. Upon reflection, I've decided to take it a little further, and write a series about a job I once had as a nurse in an abortion clinic. This is not meant to be a political statement or a forum for debate, only a recording of my experiences. Of course this is a sensitive subject, and I respect everyone's views.

This is the first of 5 chapters.

I had just moved with my boyfriend 2 hours away from home. He had gotten a job for a major engineering corporation. In the throes of love and passion, I quit my job and moved with him. I had only worked as a nurse in one dinky little rural hospital, I was 22 years old, and the "big city" hospitals scared the crap out of me. I stuck with applying for the doctors office jobs, somewhere that wouldn't be too intimidating.

The ad stated "Pro-choice doctor's office seeks LPN". The pay wasn't too bad, so I called the number and was set up with an interview the next day. Naively I assumed the pro choice meant they gave referrals to Planned Parenthood or something. When I arrived I realized this wasn't just a doctor's office. It was an abortion clinic.

I've always leaned toward the pro choice side of things, but had never considered working in an abortion clinic. But I was here, I had an interview. I took a deep breath and said aloud to myself "okay, let's do this". As I approached the unmarked building within this huge office complex, I noticed the lone protester. He stood silently about 40 yards away holding a sign bearing a Bible verse. He nodded in my direction and continued his silent protest. This man would become a constant in my morning routine, he stood on the street everyday with his poster board, rain or shine.

I entered the lobby, which looked like any other doctor's office waiting room. As the Director of Nursing looked over my resume she gave me a quizzical look, "Um, you went to Catholic schools and you worked in a convent . . . you know we perform abortions here, right?"

Great.

She was probably contemplating how quickly she could call security as she scanned me for bulges in my sweater indicating a concealed semi-automatic weapon. "I was raised Catholic, but I'm fine with abortion. Well, I'm not fine with it . . . but, um, I'm pro-choice." Did I mention my amazing interviewing skills? She gave me the strangest of looks and took me on a tour of the facility.

The clinic employed armed security, I was assured that the main protester I saw that morning was the only constant presence. Other protesters would show up on major holidays and weekends, however by law they were not allowed onto the property and with a few exceptions, were well behaved. Any concerns for safety were taken very seriously, and that was never an issue as long as I was there.

The clinic was a complete women's health center, they provided pelvic exams, mammograms, birth control counseling, and outpatient tubal ligation. One of the OB GYN's offered prenatal care at a separate location. All patients there for an abortion (or "procedure" as I learned to call it) had to have counseling by one of the licensed counselors on staff. The job I was interviewing for was in the OR, assisting the physician with the abortions, preparing patients for surgery, working in the recovery room, and on occasion working as the 'in surgery counselor', talking women through the procedure. I agreed to return the following day to observe in the OR.

Abortion isn't really a topic I discuss a lot. I have my beliefs, some people vehemently disagree. I don't see a point in debating the issue, as I have yet to hear anyone exclaim "Oh! I get it! You are totally right and I have been so very wrong!"

I know that some women, for one reason or another, will at some point in their life feel they cannot carry a pregnancy to term. It has been proven that legality will not affect their choice, only their safety. My concern was telling friends, family, or even acquaintances: "I work in an abortion clinic." Was I prepared to turn my job into a social statement? As it turns out, I wasn't.

I took the job anyway.

Google Is Not A Therapist

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 02 May 2008 05:29:00 +0000

Normally this would be a post about silly keywords that have brought people to my blog. This time however, I am concerned for some of my readers. Because I ~~am a complete loser who can't go more than an hour without checking my stats~~ on occasion browse through Google Analytics, I have discovered that people are using Google as a psychotherapy. For instance:

"my mom is so stupid she can sense things a parent should she is a single mom should I go to my dad's?"
"My sister won't stop fucking my friends."

Apparently some Internet searchers are under the impression that that little box with the blinking cursor is an adequate substitute for psychiatric treatment. Now I understand occasionally forgetting that Google is not a sentient being. There was a moment in which I forgot myself and asked Google to run away with me to Tahiti. Our relationship has been slightly awkward ever since.

However, because I am a giving person, Honeybell is here to help.

For the young person with the stupid mother- All mothers are stupid and are only out to ruin your life. Your dad likely will also have rules. You should go live at the bus station, where a young person such as yourself can express yourself freely. That should be a hoot.

For the young man with the popular sister- Get yourself some uglier friends.

What has Google done for you? Well, evidently after you revealed your innermost secrets, Google brought you here. To a woman who will disclose those secrets publicly simply for her own puerile entertainment.