The Bell Pages

How I'm Losing Weight To Impress Strangers

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 14:23:00 +0000

Remember this post when I bitched and moaned about how much weight I've gained and how I no longer feel comfortable in my own skin? Then remember how I did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to correct the situation?

I could have sworn I wrote a post like this, but now I can't find it. Anyway, trust me. I've gained a lot of weight.

*Wanna listen to me complain about being fat? Great, wait right there while I eat this doughnut.*

The inspiration came to me with the impending doom of my 20th High School reunion. (Shit. I'm old.) In the past few months my Facebook, hence my blog, has been discovered by several past Elementary School and High School classmates. Many of which are people I didn't necessarily hang out with, I just knew who they were. Which is really strange for me, as I was a very quiet geek girl in school with just a few friends, and now I'm bearing my soul and doing the occasional sex toy review for the Internet. (Hello Elementary School and High School classmates!)

Bask in the awkwardness.

In any case, it's now imperative to me that I hear this at least once at this reunion:

"Wow Daneen, despite multiple attempts you never managed to get a degree, you don't own your own home, you're still making payments on a banana yellow 2001 Pontiac Aztec (the ugliest car ever made), but DAMN look at how skinny you are!"

Because if I can't take pride in my shallow vanity, what else is there?

Thus, I've embarked on a low carb way of eating. I refuse to say diet, as I know I can't lose weight then go back to eating a gallon of ice cream for breakfast. God, how I love ice cream.

While I've already lost a bit of weight, my biggest obstacle was Starbucks. "Grande Triple Soy Cinnamon Dulce Iced Latte Please".

EVERYDAY.

Now then. Because I love you internet, I am sharing the secret of getting a delicious iced Starbucks coffee which is not only cheaper, but can be had without a thought to weight gain. Say these words: Iced Grande Americano with sugar free Cinnamon Dulce and room for cream". You can use any sugar free flavor you want, then add a bit of half and half for low carb, or skim for low calorie. It's wonderful.

. . . but to be completely honest it's not as good as a soy latte. So one of you fuckers better tell me how skinny I am come September dammit.

.

I Am The Evil Step Mother Who Yells At Her Children Until They Pass Out

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 13:10:00 +0000

Everyday my children have chores to do. Surprisingly enough, it isn't the little boys we have the hardest time with, it's Thorin, the 13 year old.

I'm sure it's his way of declaring his own autonomy and testing his boundaries or some such shit, but it drives me crazy. One of his favorite tricks is to swear on all that is good and holy that he will do the chores when he gets off the phone, or done with this chapter, or this movie, or whatever. I will then go to bed, he comes down and erases the chores from the white board and does nothing. As if his parents are too moronic to notice the dishes are still in the sink.

I know the inclination is to insist that he do the chores when I say, however it isn't just about the chores, we're trying to teach responsibility and making good choices. So as long as he's willing to accept the unfortunate consequences, I'm willing to allow him to make unfortunate choices. Unless I really want the fucking dishes done. Because I'm incredibly consistent that way.

(Good Lord, this set up is long, it gets good I swear)

Not once, but twice he did this in two days. There is only so much parenting I'm willing to do in that time span, so we called him to the kitchen for a Come To Jesus Talk. As he stood there tolerating the parental lecture, I noticed he lost some color, lowered his head and put his palm to his forehead as though he wasn't feeling well.

Now then, before I go any further, let it be known that Thorin isn't above a little sickness to get out of things he doesn't enjoy. He's 13, it's his job.

Which is why when I noticed this, I said the first thing that came into my head as I have no filter.

"Thorin, I swear to God, if you pass out while I'm yelling at you, I'm kicking your butt!"

That was when he lost all of his color, his eyes lost their focus and he slumped over. Jerry rushed forward and caught him on the way down. I noticed he wasn't breathing.

Now I see people pass out all the time. Normally my first reaction is to give them a sternal rub because most people are faking it. (Make a fist, rub your knuckles against your sternum firmly. People who are faking it generally get pretty pissed about that. Unconscious people don't even notice).

However on THIS day, it was Thorin falling to the floor, literally white as a sheet, eyes staring, and evidently not breathing. Without thinking I grabbed the phone and called 911. As I was explaining to the dispatcher, Jerry said "Daneen no, he's awake, he's fine".

He didn't say it, but I could hear tones of "WTF woman? You're a nurse!"

The 911 guy really, REALLY wanted to send me a ambulance. Instead we paged our pediatrician, let him know what had happened, and that Thorin seemed fine now. The wonderful Dr. Mills told us that often, adolesents will unknowingly hold their breath when upset or anxious. The combination of that, skateboarding that day in the heat, and not having much to eat or drink (probably didn't want to dirty more dishes), caused him to pass out.

We gave him a huge bottle of Gatorade, went out for some Chinese, and watched him closely for the rest of the night. Lucky for all of us, he was his normal smart ass self in no time.

Oh! And yes, he did the dishes.

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In Which I Nearly Kill Everyone In Town

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 00:57:00 +0000

So I recently received a postcard regarding my car. Apparently the gas tanks on one of the ugliest cars ever made sometimes crack and leak gas. Per our usual response to things like this, we sat around and did nothing for a week.

Last Thursday while taking a smoke break I began to smell gas. I continued to sit there and smoke wondering if the maintenance guys were doing something with a weed eater or something. Of course they weren't. Of course my car was leaking gas all over the street.

As I sat there smoking in it.

Anyway. I called Jerry, there really wasn't much I could do but go ahead and drive home. I could see the trail of gasoline I was leaving as I drove home. The leak only occurred when it was driven, so it sat until Tuesday, when I took it to the dealership. Again, I left a trail of gas from my home across town.

Now remember this is Kansas, in summer. The temperatures have been well into the 90's. Hot temperatures and gasoline don't really go together in such a willy nilly, uncontrolled manner.

So, um, if you hear about the entire town of Leavenworth Kansas coming to an untimely demise in a fiery ball of flames? Yeah. Sorry about that.

All Creatures Great and Small My Ass

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 01:24:00 +0000

I have a long history of being harassed by wildlife while on smoke breaks at work. Ok, fine. Three times. Before today I have thrice been the unsuspecting victim of nasty little bastard creatures that were out to get me. The first time I was on the smoking patio alone at 3 am, when I was chased by an opossum. That disgusting nocturnal rat chased me all around the side of the hospital right up to the ER doors where I had to explain to the ER staff that I ran into the ER breathless and wild eyed because I was out smoking a cigarette when suddenly possum was chasing me. That my friends, is how you build respect for your professionalism.

A couple years later, on a different smoking patio in Arkansas, I was taking another break. This patio was enclosed on three sides with lights built into the 'ceiling'. The lights had all burnt out, and since no one cares about us smokers out there in the dark next to the dumpsters, I was out there in near total darkness. I kept hearing a "swooping" noise from above. At one point I felt something brush my hair. Another employee opened the door flooding the patio with light, and yelled "Damn! Look at that bat!"

A mere two weeks later an armadillo ran over my foot on it's way to somewhere as I sat outside the ER with a couple of co-workers. Armadillos are creepy as hell. Opposums with armor.

So you might think I'd have quit smoking huh? Oh, No!

Hospitals no longer have smoking patios. No smoking anywhere on hospital campus. Again, you might think I'd be safe from the wild kingdom taking a break in my street parked car, right? Oh NO!

Today I was sitting innocently in my car, listening to my iPod and having a cigarette. It was monstrously hot, so I had all four of the Aztec's windows open. That's when the bird flew in.

I freaked out, jumped out of the car, trying to open the doors to get the stinking bird out of my car, when some asshole yells "There's no smoking here!"

Because I'm so calm under pressure, I stupidly pointed at the car with the hand still holding the cigarette and said: BIRD.

"You can't smoke here! There's no smoking on hospital property!"

"BIRD! BIRD! BIRD!" (Damn, I'm eloquent)

Now the keys were still in the car, so the iPod was still playing. For some reason some of the songs play at a much louder volume than others.

Like Eminem.

Aiyyo.. this song is for anyone.. fuck it
Just shut up and listen, aiyyo..

I sit back with this pack of Zig Zags and this bag
of this weed it gives me the shit needed to be
the most meanest MC on this -- on this Earth

"Turn it DOWN! Put out that cigarette! Turn it down! This is a hospital!"

Finally my brain kicked in, the bird was flying around in the back, trying to get out the back window. I reached in and grabbed the keys from the ignition, killing the iPod. I pushed the button to open up the back of the car. The bird flew out, and I turned to face the cigarette nazi. He looked at me and said "Hey! There was a bird in your car!"

No joke dude. I'm thinking of starting my own Mutual of Omaha series.

.

Let's Stick With Weird

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 04:26:00 +0000

Isaac: "Frodo, I never noticed you have such beautiful eyes"

Me: "Isaac, dude. Are you hitting on the dog?"

Isaac: "No, I started to say weird eyes, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings."

The Pink Ele: An Eden Fantasys Product Review or How I Almost Died (not really)

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 21:53:00 +0000

So I was there in my room, sniffing my vibrator . . .

Yeah. Probably not the best place to start.

Okay, "real life" friends, loved ones, and anyone that doesn't care to hear about my vagina, it's time to avert your eyes again. It's Eden Fantasys product review time!

Seriously. Click away family members. Here, see the puppy.

This time the friendly folks at Eden sent me a Pink Ele vibrator:At Eden, you can refine your search for vibrators in about any way you can imagine, color, length, function, you can even choose whether or not the clitoral attachment is animal shaped (I suppose having a vibrating pink elephant parked at your clitoris might creep some people out). One of my requirements for this product was that it be waterproof.

I removed it from the package, and immediately notice it has clicky buttons! I love clicky buttons! The clicky buttons lead to 7 vibration settings! This is more than my blender has! Maybe I can make daiquiris with it too!

Yeah. Probably not.

The rotating beaded shaft has 3 rotating speeds (Oh, how I lurve the rotating beads), it's ribbed, and scented. I can imagine the sight I made in my bedroom sniffing a vibrator. The smell is faintly fruity, which at first seems rather purposeless, but at least it doesn't smell strongly of rubber.

I first tried it out of the water. The vibration choices were the hit for me. There are 4 basic choices for straightforward vibration settings. The 3 others are pulsation, stair steps, and roller coaster.

Pulsation gives you short bursts of vibration, which I found to be annoying as hell. It reminded me of having sex with a guy who is completely unaware of any erogenous zone other than the clitoris.

The stair stepper setting was better, the incremental vibrations increased in intensity, much more pleasurable and much less like a clitoral assault.

The winner for me was the roller coaster. Slow vibrations that ebb and build = FANTASTIC.

Now then. As I mentioned, I choose the Pink Ele for it's waterproof claim. I am a wife and mother. Taking a bath is about the only time I get to be alone and naked, so it was with a bit of anticipation that I took my new toy to the tub with me.

When I purchase a watch, and it states water resistant, I understand that to mean "you can get it a little bit wet, but if your submerge it, it's toast." If I buy a water proof watch, I should be able to go scuba diving with the mother fucker. I expect the same labeling with a vibrator.

There will be no masturbatory scuba diving with the Pink Ele.

I was there in the tub, had to reposition a bit, and noticed there was water inside the vibrator. Let me say it again: There was water inside my battery operated vibrating device.

Holy Shit. Can I be electrocuted that way? I was envisioning my eulogy:

Daneen was a good person. A kind person. A giving person.
And she died with a vibrator hanging out of her Hoo-Ha.

Not cool dude. Common sense tells me that there isn't enough amperage in 4 AAs to electrocute my girl, but who wants to verify this up close and personally? Even if it were just a little shock . . . What The Hell vibrator people? Even the slightest risk of electric shock and my vagina do not belong together in the same thought!

So will I use the Pink Ele again? Definitely. After it dries out. Out of the water.

Do I think it's worth the $85 price tag? Um, no. But it would have been, if it weren't for that whole embarrassing death by dildo potential.

.

At 14

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 03:14:00 +0000

Yes I want to go, can I please?

Thanks for taking me to your work. We are alone here. We laugh and joke and I see 'behind the scenes'.

Further back into the darkness, I marvel that I literally cannot see my hand in front of my face.

Why are you stopping?

Why are you acting so weird?

What the hell?

I cannot see. I hear only your labored breath, the whisper of your jacket as your hands seek me out.

A million words race through my head in a split second. I'm only able to articulate one:

"DON'T"

Was my young girl's voice that forceful? Or was it the tremor? What made you come to your senses?

Awkward silence as the dynamic changes.

"Please don't tell your mom and dad."

A pathetic apology is issued by you. We move to the light, I breathe a sigh of relief. Not really comprehending yet, but understanding enough that silently I thank you.

Thank you? For not raping me?

What the fuck? I thanked you?

.

For Rubella

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 28 May 2009 02:12:00 +0000

Um, did you just say something about your sexy chicken nuggets?

Well, no Daneen. But I guess they could be sexy. Seeing as how they're in that bag, so close together and all.

That was Ruby. Those are the typical conversations we had. Because we were so freaking hilarious. We were hilarious dammit!

Ruby and I actually worked together at the convent for quite a while before we became friends. Like most people when dealing with me, at first she had to force me to socialize, to go out and have fun. Soon though, we clicked. Speaking for myself, Ruby was one of the rare people I could completely be myself with. Sadly for her, myself isn't always pretty.

How she put up with me in the pre-medication days . . . . well, there's probably a reason we drank. Being roommates with a crazy, raging, chronically depressed person could not have been easy. Thank you Ruby, for not kicking my ass.

What I remember and miss the most about being around Ruby was laughing. We pretty much laughed constantly. We have the same bizarre sense of humor and the same general disregard for all things tactful. We laughed at boys, at serial killers, at moronic Denny's managers with upside down name tags while drunk and trying to steal the orange juice carafe.

Like many single girl friendships, it slipped away as we both have gotten married and had babies. In retrospect over the years, I've often thought about what a crappy friend I was to her. There are many moments I wish I could take back, especially now that I know that friendships like that are hard to come by.

Last year we got back into contact for awhile, and after getting off the phone with her one day Jerry made the comment "I haven't ever heard you laugh that much!" It made me realize how much I miss her.

I haven't talked to Ruby in months, but I've been thinking about her a lot for the last several days. I began writing this post yesterday. Today I got a Facebook request from her. Is it fate? Karma? What? I dunno. But I'm sending her this:

.

He Who Will Not Be Contained

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 25 May 2009 02:59:00 +0000

This month's work schedule sucks ass. The nurses do self scheduling on my unit, which is wonderful, until someone forgets that the sign up sheet is out. Then that someone ends up with a really crappy schedule which conflicts with Jerry's work schedule and weekends.

That is how it began.

I was at work, Jerry had worked the night before, and was working that night. The boys were more or less left to their own defenses unless there was an emergency. As I mentioned--sucks ass. When he went to bed, Julien and Liam were watching TV, Thorin was upstairs. Shortly thereafter however, it all went to hell.

Julien went upstairs to play the Playstation, Thorin was still upstairs on the phone, and Liam decided to go for a walk. Three year old Liam decided to go for a walk. Thorin came downstairs at some point and realized he was gone, and the door was unlocked and open. As he got outside he saw that Liam had taken the trash from the kitchen and put the bag on the curb (how considerate).

He ran to the back yard, no Liam. He checked the cars, no Liam. He looked up and down the block, no Liam. Amazingly, the first side street he ran to, there was the little goober. He was walking with two women that had seen him running up and down the street. They were trying to help him find his house. Sidenote: Liam wasn't frightened or crying. He seemed to be having a great time.

What am I going to do with this kid?! He can unlock the deadbolt. He's been climbing to unlock doors since he was two. He has no fear of anything. I think he needs one of these. Every moment I'm checking to see where he is. I'm terrified that something awful will happen all because he is a naturally mischievous little guy and I'm a terrible mother easily distracted by shiny things.

Finally, and I cannot say this enough, I am so grateful to Thorin. He could have just as easily assumed Liam was playing in his room. Instead he thought quick on his feet and acted right away. Today, Thorin is my hero.

But he still has to clean his room.

.

Lessons For My Boys: Life, Love, and Hygiene

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 13 May 2009 15:34:00 +0000

There are so many lessons I want to teach my boys in preparation for life. Sometimes I think I'm managing alright in raising intelligent, decent men. Other times I fail miserably . . . usually when I'm leading by example. This is the knowledge I want to arm them with:

Surround yourself with people who think differently than you do. Not only will you see life from another viewpoint and possibly learn something new, but it can cement your own ideals and beliefs even more.
Every single person you encounter is someone's child, sibling, friend, or loved one. You may despise one's behavior or attitude, but everyone deserves respect on some level.
Brush and floss your teeth at least twice a day. Seriously. You'll thank me for this.
Chivalry isn't dead. Not only do all women deserve respect and equality, but we also should have our doors opened, heavy things carried for us, and some general selfless care taking every once and again. It may not sound fair, but seeing as how you guys pretty much rule the world, get over it.
You are going to make stupid choices. You are going to do insanely stupid things. It's all good, mistakes are learning experiences. However you need to be willing and prepared to accept the consequences for your stupid actions.
Separate the lights from the darks, and use about 1/2 cup of bleach for the whites. Wash everything in cold water unless it's really icky.
You will know girls that make your heart (and other areas) go pitter-patter every time you see them. You will know girls that become more and more beautiful as you get to know them. You will know girls that are your best friends. The girl that encompasses all of these things, she's The One.
Don't marry her though until you're 30. Be married for a few years before you have babies. Babies will change everything, and allow me the opportunity to laugh my ass off while yelling hysterically "I TOLD YOU SO!"
Travel, as much and as often as you can. Remember that everywhere you go, you are the guest. Behave accordingly.
Don't be in too much of a hurry to grow up. If you're always looking forward, you aren't giving yourself the chance to savor your experiences now. Even the bad experiences are shaping who you are, and make the good ones so much better.
If you put empty food containers back in the fridge or cabinet, your wife will briefly consider divorce.
Be honest, always. Lying may be the short term easy way out, but you'll pay for it eventually. People may tolerate liars, but they never respect them.
School isn't the end of your education. There are learning opportunities throughout life, take advantage of them.
The smartest people are those that admit it when they don't know something.
One apology is worth a thousand excuses.
Girls don't like kissing boys with nasty teeth, bad breath, greasy hair or body odor. Even worse, they'll tell all their friends about the gross-ness factor.
The details do make a difference.
You aren't listening if you're thinking about what to say next.
Do NOT bathe yourself in cologne. Really, a little goes a long way.
Once married or living together, there are still some things that are better left unseen. Yes, it's true. Even your wife won't want to watch you pee or pop that pimple on your back.
Be nice to animals.
A loofah and a good set of toenail clippers are your friends. Use them frequently.
Don't judge other people, you very rarely know their whole story.
Being a gentleman means doing the right thing, even if no one is looking.
Most importantly, it is your duty throughout life, as a man and as a human being, to protect those that can't always protect themselves. You must try to never cause the suffering of another person. If you are witness to the suffering of another person, it is your place to do everything in your power to stop it.

I know these are pretty high expectations to live up to, and you won't always make it. You're going to screw it up, and do things you shouldn't. You're going to disappoint the people you love and yourself. Yet if you try, if you make a conscious effort to be the person you know you should be, you can look at yourself in the mirror every day and be proud of who you are.

How I Became A Proud Neglectful Parent

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 08 May 2009 13:44:00 +0000

This morning I heard about this little guy. This 3 year old boy unlocked his front door, and went for a stroll in mountain lion and bear country, for two days. He was found alive and relatively well.

There for the grace of God go I.

Liam hates going to bed. He loves sleeping, it's the getting there part that he hates. We had become accustomed to Liam getting out of bed sometimes up to 10 times a night before finally falling asleep as late as midnight. We tried scolding, ignoring the behavior, calmly putting him back to bed, even spanking. Nothing was working.

The nights after a twelve hour shift, he was beginning to outlast me. I would fall into an exhausted sleep, and it was party time. Last week I woke to the sound of the front door closing about 1 am. I sprung out of bed and ran to the door, the deadbolt was unlocked, Liam was sitting outside.

By himself.

At one o'clock in the morning.

I found a hook and eye lock, and put it on his bedroom door. I put him to bed, told him I love him, locked my baby in his room, and listened to him cry and scream for two hours. He threw toys at the door, he begged and pleaded, he even got out his little toy chainsaw and tried to saw that SOB door down.

I left him in there to cry by himself, knowing that comforting him would only prolong it. Listening to him cry "Pweese mommy! Unwok mah door! I PWOMISE!" I felt like the most abusive, neglectful mother in the history of mothers.

But I knew where he was. I knew he was safe. I knew that his soft warm bed was only two feet away should he choose to make use of it. I knew he would be there in the morning.

The next night he only cried for an hour. Within 4 days, he didn't cry at all. He now lies down and goes to sleep. When he needs a drink, or gets scared, he knocks on the door: "Hey GUYS?! Unwok mah door pweese? I gotta TALK-A-YOU!"

I Miss Pneumonia, Angina, and Broken Bones

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 05:01:00 +0000

I had no idea that working in mental health could possibly make me more jaded than I already am. Working on a medical unit, ER, or OB, you learn how incredibly stupid most people are. You inadvertently amputated your own finger when you got pissed and punched a plate glass window? Fine. I can fix that. Puking your guts out because no one ever told you that one person should not consume a 12 pack and a fifth of Jim Beam in one night? Yes. I can fix that too.

What I can't fix is the overwhelming desire to end one's own life. I can't fix the murderous rage against others. I can't fix the voices and hallucinations. I certainly cannot fix the years of abuse, torture or neglect so many of my patients have experienced throughout their lives.

They come to me wanting to kill themselves or someone else. We provide them with the band aid of regular meds, hours of group therapy each day, and a daily visit with the psychiatrist. We give them a cocoon of constant observation, structure, and the availability of a willing ear 24/7. We do what we can, then send them home to the same world that made them this way to begin with.

There are moments of satisfaction, the rare patient that is motivated and able to do the work required to regain some semblance of a quality life. It will be the hardest thing they've ever done, facing their worst fears, and undoing what has taken years to develop. They must do this all with the knowledge that mental illness and/or addiction will always lurk in the back of their minds. It is controlled, not cured.

However for many people the very nature of the mental illness they battle changes who they are. Their personality becomes one that fights the steps to mental health tooth and nail. The decision to stop taking their meds, to remain in abusive relationships, to deny the illness in general. These are symptoms of the disease, and are the failings that I can do nothing about.

Some of them have no support, no families, no friends, no one but mental health professionals who care because we are paid to. I am often amazed at what these people have endured. I learn who they are. I crack up at their jokes, I listen to their stories, and I am able to acknowledge the beauty of who they are at their core. I'm also devastated that I cannot erase their pain. I can't eradicate the hurts they've experienced.

It makes me feel so small, insignificant. I have become impotent as a healer, rather I am like a babysitter. I can't make you want to live, but I can take away your razor. I can't prevent you from wanting to hurt others, but I can toss you into a padded room. I provide you with a sort of limbo, in which I hope and pray you learn something, anything, to bring you comfort.

Now I Have To Give "The Talk" To The Pets?

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 02:48:00 +0000

"Julien be quiet and stop asking! You can't know about it! It was about PUBERTY!"

" SO?! I can know about puberty! Mom, what's puberty?"

Isaac is in fourth grade this year, and was just shown "The Movie" in health class. In honor of the occasion, the school gave out swag bags of deodorant and exciting pamphlets to read when Isaac starts his period.

Julien was furious that he was left out, and kept asking what all the hoopla was about. I gave the nice short answer that puberty happens when a person's body changes from a kid's into a teenager's. He asked if in addition to voices changing and facial hair, if someone "in puberty likes to spend time alone for peace and quiet". I answered yeah, sure, and that was the end of that. I'm so smooth.

Or so I thought.

Julien found a ringneck snake in the backyard, and we've decided to let him keep it. It's been a chore keeping Liam from getting his grubby little hands on it. At three, he's sure that every animal he sees is "his pet", and proceeds to try and love it to death. Julien is very protective of the snake, and brought it to me in it's cage yesterday. "Mom, can I put the snake in your room? He needs some puberty"

"I'm sorry, WHAT?"

"The snake needs some puberty. You know, some alone time for peace and quiet."

"Oh, um, okay. I'd be happy to help the snake with his . . . puberty."

This kid is going to have one confused adolescence.

I Will Mesmerize You With My Top Left Eye

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 21:03:00 +0000

Jerry had just gotten home from work, and we were spending some snuggling time before I got up for my day and he went to sleep for his night.

We lay there talking for a while, when suddenly he leaned back and stared at me intently.

"What?"

"Nothing, I just had to check something"

"Check what? Why are you looking me like that?"

"Well, from this angle, you look like you have a duck bill. Nevermind"

Um, ok. As we talked more, he started getting sillier. At one point he called me "four eyes". Yeah. I wasn't wearing my glasses.

"Darling husband, WTF are you talking about?"

"Well now you have a duck bill, and an eye at each corner of your head. Maybe I shouldn't have taken my Ambien and stayed awake"

"Good Lord, go to sleep. I think Liam's up anyway"

"Wow, your top left eye was really convincing on that one!"

About that time Liam came into our room to announce that he needed changing. "I want Daddy to change my diaper!"

"He can't right now sweetie, Daddy's tripping right now."

Of Course I Was Hit On By A Serial Killer

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 05:16:00 +0000

Back in my wild girl days at the bar, I had grown accustomed to being hit on by a variety of guys. Most of the time I was busy wallowing in romantic drama of my own, I was too busy to pay much attention to them.

One particular night, my friend Ruby and I were doing our party thing, when a blond, bearded man asked me to dance. I politely said no thank you, and proceeded to drink my drink and smoke my smoke. Rather than going on his merry way, blond beard sat down at our table and began running his mouth. He wouldn't keep his hands to himself, trying to feel up my leg or put his arm around me. He was quite the smooth talker, but something wasn't right. I know what flirting is, this felt more serious, more intimidating.

I've dealt with persistence before, but this was creepy. He was evidently there by himself, and kept asking me to give him a ride home, but rather in the tone of someone telling me to give him a ride, not asking. I ignored him, I refused his offers to buy me drinks, but I was too young and stupid to be rude, to flat out tell him to get out of my face. Thankfully, Ruby wouldn't leave my side, as he was giving her the same weird vibe I was getting. She told me later she was watching my drink the entire time, afraid he would slip something into it.

Finally I claimed to need the bathroom, but instead ran to the bar and grabbed a biker guy whom I'd talked with several times before, and yelled in his ear "You're my new boyfriend, help me get rid of this guy!" God love him, I'd turned him down several times for dates, and he could have easily justified telling me to fuck off. Instead, he laughed, put his arm around me and said "C'mon girl, I'll get rid of him for you" (To this day I love bikers, best folks you'd ever want to meet)

Once I had biker boy at my side glaring at blond beard menacingly, it took about 5 minutes for him to take off. We breathed our sigh of relief, I bought my biker friend a drink, and Ruby and I continued our night out.

A few days later, I saw this on the news:

Meet Glen Rogers. He had just been arrested in Louisiana after a cross country killing spree. He kidnapped, raped, and murdered women he met in bars, and currently sits on death row. I've never seen or heard of any evidence that he was in NE Kansas/NW Missouri during that time, but I am convinced this is the same man who called himself 'Michael' at the Country Club bar less than a week before. The same man that repeatedly asked me to give him a ride, and became irritated when I said no.

Incidentally, he is wearing the same shirt he had on that night at the bar.

I am convinced that Ruby and my biker friend very well may have saved my life that night. I am also convinced that this was when I learned to trust my intuition. I may still be a bit gullible, because I want to believe in the best in people. However now when I feel a situation is wrong, I go with that instinct. I consider this incident the closest I've ever been to death.

Tell me, have you ever caught a glimpse of the grim reaper?

Leave My Butt Alone, I Want My Daddy, And Other Complaints

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 17:10:00 +0000

How Honeybell's Ass Saved The Day

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 00:48:00 +0000

Sometimes we need a little reality check. Especially those of us mothers cruising along, convinced that we are raising fairly intelligent children. We act as though we don't have a care in the world, because we haven't had that moment of 'what in the hell were you thinking and how the fuck am I going to get you out of this?'

We should not count our chickens before they hatch.

You see today I got a phone call from my step son. Oddly enough, my step son and his best friend Levi, who I knew to be upstairs in his room. Now while I see it coming, we haven't yet reached the point where we call each other from different parts of the house, so I knew something was up.

"Daneen? Um, there's something wrong with my door. We can't get it open."

Jeez, our house is an old one, and the doorknobs are forever coming off, no matter how many times or how tightly I screw them back together. The boys have yet to learn the fine art of keeping the correct part of the knob inside the room with them.

I went upstairs, and there was the knob with the little metal stick thingy on the outside of the door. But I couldn't get it open. "Thorin! Why in hell did you lock the door?!" "Um, we didn't, it just locked on it's own."

It must be "Daneen Looks Like The Village Idiot Day", which isn't so bad, because that's better than being in the position to need to call the village idiot to come save your ass.

We spent the next 20 minutes sliding tools back and forth under the door, taking off the hinges, and trying to unlock the door with the one key that won't work. Oh, plus all the cussing I was doing under my breath. That took a lot of energy all on it's own.

At one point I was so frustrated I left them and went outside for a cigarette. Thorin's bedroom window is 3 stories off the ground, and I didn't know how I was going to explain to Levi's parents that he would be living in Thorin's room now and forever because I couldn't get them out.

Finally Levi yells through the door: "Hey Daneen? Do you know how to bootie bump?" We worked out the particulars, and as the boys held the door up and off the hinges, my ass saved the day.

As they were putting the door back on it's hinges, Levi made the comment "I'm so glad you know how to use that bootie girl!"

Which is probably the last time in my life I'll ever hear that from a 15 year old.

Open Letters To The Psych Ward

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 16:22:00 +0000

Dear patient who wants a razor,

I understand you have hairy armpits. I wouldn't like that either. However, with all due respect, I'm not the one that has 2 day old sutures in her wrists. We don't even HAVE razors on this unit, and I'd like to think that no one you know would be stupid enough to bring you one. Now then, let's say I don't even think you are a suicide risk. Let's pretend that my nursing license means nothing to me. Do you seriously want to be the only person in a lock down unit full of crazy people with a razor?

Trying to keep your stupid ass alive,

Honeybell

Dear Escape Artist,

Dude. You are VOLUNTARY. This isn't a Diehard movie, and no amount of rooftop creeping is going to change the fact that you are a moron. Next time do me a favor, just ask me to open the door and spare me the paperwork.

You owe me a pen refill,

Honeybell

Dear Psychiatrist,

You and I both know that I have to call you to get approval for a patients home medications. We also know that I have to tell you EVERYTHING the patient has been taking. So when I tell you "Ambien", and you pompously say "The patient OD'd on Ambien right? Well then you should know that he doesn't get any." I say 'NO SHIT'. Of course he doesn't get any, but had I not told you, your next question would be "Where did the patient get the Ambien?"

Hoping you get some sleep and stop being an ass,

Honeybell

Dear overly friendly patient,

Just because I've introduced myself to you doesn't mean I need to shake your hand. Especially when I hear you've been sticking your hand down your pants and asking other patients to sniff it.

Truly disgusted,

Honeybell

Dear co-worker,

I realize that there are specific snack times. I know we aren't supposed to provide patients with anything from the kitchen during off times. But considering that we provide them with coffee all day long, I don't think giving someone iced tea is out of line AT ALL. Throw another fit about it, and I'll admit you.

Annoyed with your "Nurse Ratchedy-ness",

Honeybell

Dear Hospital,

I have to remove strings from patient's hoodies, and you provide them with beds with four foot long sturdy cords that plug into the wall.

Yeah.

Awaiting the inevitable death and resulting lawsuit,

Honeybell

You Should Know Liam

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 18:53:00 +0000

Ok, maybe not. In all honesty, Liam is a menace of epic proportion. I occasionally have to take a step back, a deep breath, and remind myself of how physically tiny he is. I have to do this because there are moments he seems to fill the room with daredevil stunts, constant chatter, or worse, his unhappy screams.

This morning I woke up to find that Liam had gotten up first. He had taken two cartons of eggs from the fridge, and broken open every egg, save one, on the living room carpet. he then went and crawled into bed with his older brother, because there was a shocking lack of egg yolk in Isaac's bed.

When Liam woke and came downstairs later, I was lying on the couch in my PJ's watching my DVR'd episode of Lost with the slimy mess still on the floor, because I'm a terrible mother and housekeeper. He pointed at the mess and announced "Look at that mess I made!" He then picked up the remaining egg and said "There's no birds in there." It only took 23 of the 24 eggs to figure this out.

Liam has recently begun going to daycare two days a week. Getting up at 6:00 am is not his forte. I normally get him dressed in his sleep, pick him up and carry him to the car when it's time to go. That sounds so mean, but I've tried other options, this one involves the least amount of screaming. As it is, the entire way to daycare I hear "We to find Liam's bed mom! We need to find Liam's bed!"

I just tell him some rat bastard stole it and he'll have to sleep at school.

Then there are the moments that are the most frustrating. When he takes my face into his little hands, looks into my eyes and says "Oh, I wuv you Mommy." When he wanders into the room covered with a blanket, flings it to the floor, and yells "Hey Look! It's Me, LIAM!" When I wake in the middle of the night and find his sweet little body curled up next to me. These moments are the most frustrating, as I have yet to discover how one little person can drive me to drink in one second, and melt me the next.

My Little Rastafarian

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 04:28:00 +0000

Julien has a new favorite musical artist. He has become enamored with Bob Marley. I love that he has such varied musical tastes, he loves everything from Garth Brooks to System of a Down. He knew every word to the Red Hot Chili Peppers CD Californication at the age of 3 (don't judge me.) The point is, the kid loves music. I've always loved Bob Marley, and I enjoy watching Julien discover him. His favorite song of Bob's is Buffalo Soldier. He sings it often, and plays it even more on YouTube.

We live in a military town, with the only memorial to Buffalo Soldiers in the US. He knows and what a Buffalo Soldier was, and understands what Bob Marley was singing about.

He has decided to sing Buffalo Soldier at the school talent show. I hadn't really thought much about this until Jerry pointed out the obvious to me. Now I can't stop envisioning my freckled little white boy on stage belting out "Stolen from Africa . . . brought to America . . . "

Sing it with soul baby.

A Birthday Message From A Shiftless Blogger

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 17:59:00 +0000

It's my birthday, meaning I can do whatever the hell I want. Thus, I present to you last years birthday post, with one additional picture. Because I'm a lazy girl that doesn't feel like finding new pictures to scan.

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

Today, in honor of my birthday, I present to you ~~37 years~~ 38 years of Honeybell. A lot of these pictures are not the greatest quality, but I choose each for a reason, they're all important for one reason or another.

This is the earliest picture of me I've ever seen. I used to tease my mom "Did you people not have a camera? You took NO pictures when you had me in the hospital?"
We also had that dress for a long time, I remember dressing my stuffed animals in it.

My sister and I in our matching swimsuits. I might as well have been wearing a ski-parka, as I was TERRIFIED of water. You can bet this swimsuit never saw a drop of water!

I'm guessing this is my 3rd birthday. That's my sister sitting next to me.

Christmas
I remember that Noah's Ark play set, It was one of my favorite toys EVAH!

Another birthday party!

My brother and I on one of our visits to our grandparent's house in Oklahoma. Check out his snazzy plaid pants! That's also not a stuffed dog I'm holding. That was our Shih Tzu, Nikki.

Taken after some face painting at a school carnival.

OMG. The glasses are bigger than my head.
Probably Sophomore year with my friend Scott.

I look at this picture to delude myself that at one time I had great legs.
I'm on the left, with friends Megumi and Pam.

PROM!
Here we go with the hideous glasses again.
My date looks really pissed off. He was a wonderful guy I was with off and on for years. Next to Mr. Honeybell probably the greatest love of my life.

Hangin' the in beautiful Florida Keys. Taken shortly before our boat broke down and we were stranded on a sand bar.

Yes. I was a cheerleader. #70 in the picture.
I sucked hard as a cheerleader.

Senior Picture, we all choose the picture with the hands because Sr. Rita Marie hated the pose.
I knitted a sweater later from the hair from those caterpillar eyebrows.

Graduation Day with Megumi.

My first job in a nursing capacity. I was a nurse's aide at a convent. This is Sr. Prima, one of the sweetest, funniest people I've ever met.

Total Ski Bunny.

There seem to be very few pictures of me in my twenties. I assume it's because we were too drunk to take any.

Wedding Day!

I look awful, but there I have my first baby, Julien!

In the recovery room holding little Liam.

I love this picture with Liam.

Yeah. Sadly, this is how we normally look.

Happy Birthday Me!

Nekkid

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 14:43:00 +0000

Listening to the radio the other night I heard a story of an 18 year old woman who committed suicide after learning her ex-boyfriend had sent the nude photos she had taken for him to her entire school. The radio host was not only in favor of holding this man responsible for the girl's death, but also voiced her opinion that privacy in relationships should be legislated.

I was astounded as I listened to the callers that supported her beliefs. I would bet my next paycheck that the subject of the radio show had serious problems long before her boyfriend shared her photos with the world. That woman is the only one responsible for her death. Embarrassed to death is an expression, not a basis for criminal charge or lawsuit. While the boyfriend may be an asshole of gargantuan proportion, that doesn't make him a killer.

Let's be clear I am talking about adults here, not middle school girls, which is an entirely different problem. I found myself asking the radio (yes, I do that) "What the hell happened to personal responsibility?" The host went on about how relationships, including marriage, needed the same privacy laws as Doctor-patient confidentiality. This would prevent all the evil men of the world from posting nudie pics of their wives and girlfriends on the internet. Seriously? People want lawyers and politicians making the determination of what we can display and discuss in regards to our ex's? I don't think so. In fact, I'm thinking of a different set of rules.

For instance, how about if a woman doesn't want naked photos or videos of herself floating around, she shouldn't shuck her trogs for any passing lens. Nudie pics will ALWAYS be seen by the wrong person, intentionally or inadvertently.

One important message to keep in mind: No one looks that good naked. For instance, say hello to Paris Hilton's thighs. Or Reese Witherspoon's upper arms. Or Halle Berry's hips. These people make their living from looking good, and I think they are some of the most beautiful women in the world (except for Paris, I think her ego overshadows her big nose, beady little eyes, and her body which resembles that of a 10 year old boy). They have every available resource to keep themselves looking flawless--including a guy in an office somewhere photoshopping pictures of them. Un-photoshopped? Let's keep our clothing on, shall we?

Most men believe the women they love ARE flawless. They could care less about stretch marks, cellulite, or sagging skin on their beloved. However at some point, a man could fall out of love. He could be slightly stupid in terms of keeping said photos away from prying eyes. God forbid, he could drop dead, leaving personal items unguarded. Someone else is going to see those dimply, hairy, saggy, pictures. Guaranteed.

Unless professionally done by an artist, most full on nude shots will at best, make a woman look like a whore. At worst (and more commonly in my opinion), they will make a woman look ridiculous. Which isn't to say sexy pictures for a husband or boyfriend shouldn't ever be taken, but that some of the sexiest photos leave something to the imagination. And those are photos no one should be embarrassed by.

In case you're curious, there are no hot and juicy Honeybell photos in circulation, tasteful or otherwise. Unless you count the one where I photoshopped my head on Angelina Jolie's body.

Quotes From The Pysch Ward

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 19:40:00 +0000

This job is nothing, if not entertaining. Here are a few of my favorite things I heard while at work this week:

You sure are . . . husky . . . for a little girl. [Yes. I am. Screw you too old man.]
Um, did you just inject me with urine? [Sure I did. Because when people get psychotic, nothing cures them like a shot of pee in the ass.]
That shot wasn't to help me think clearly, it was to make me OLD! Yes it was! Haven't you seen some of the people that come out of this hallway?! [This one cracked me up-this person was in their early 30's, and everyone else down that hall happened to be in their 80's]
I need to talk to the social worker with long brown hair. Not the pretty face one, the real one, I like her better. [I have to determine which social worker needs to be insulted over this one]
(from a confused little old lady who carries a baby doll with her, talking about her sitter) She tried on my baby! (conspiratorially, to me) I don't like people who abuse my children. [Please note, this didn't stop her from later getting pissed, throwing the baby doll to the floor, and stomping on it's head]
I don't mean to be rude, but I'd really rather you were dead. [Sure. No offense taken. But couldn't I just leave instead?]
So, you know Moses? You know, Moses from the Bible? I'd like to get it on with his sheep. [Holy shit. Get away from me. NOW.]

When I get home at night, I'm pretty sure I'm the one who needs the anti-psychotic drugs.

It's Just One Of Those Terrible Things That Happen

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 06:01:00 +0000

The only information I had was that I would be admitting a 32 year old African-American female from the ER to the med/surg unit with a diagnosis of abdominal pain. It was 1 or 2 in the morning, the admitting physician called had given the ER bare bones orders, he'd be in in the morning to see her.

Another nurse I worked with knew the name. The patient had apparently been a stellar track athlete once upon a time. She had broken every high school record there was, and had a ticket to any college she wanted. Then she got pregnant, choose to be a mother while taking classes at a local community college, and left a very possible dream of professional sports behind her. She was well known and well loved in her community.

Upon arrival to the floor with her sister by her side, she remained quiet, distant. I remember she still had the lean muscular body of an athlete, flawless mahogany skin, and one of those faces so beautiful she could carry off the very short, cropped hair style she wore. She crawled into the hospital bed and listened to my spiel of our plan of care without meeting my eyes. When I mentioned the IV I'd be starting she turned her head totally away from me and whispered "You don't need to start an IV, I have a port-a-cath."

A port-a-cath is an intravenous access device surgically placed beneath the skin. It's used only for long term drug therapy, like chemotherapy. Clearly I wasn't in the loop.

I lowered my voice and sat down next to the bed, setting my paperwork aside. "Ok, why do you have a port-a-cath?"

"I have breast cancer."

"Alright, who's your oncologist, and where are you with your chemo?"

She finally turned and looked at me. "I haven't been to a doctor in 4 months. I quit my third round of chemo halfway through. I'm tired." That was all she had to say to me.

During my physical assessment, I found several things that made me uneasy. The drugs that were ordered weren't controlling her pain. By 4 am I had called her admitting physician so many times he finally came in to see her. By the time I left at 7, she was finally resting comfortably.

I came back to work three days later, and learned she had died the next day. The same physician happened to be on the floor. "Daneen, you did the right thing by continuing to call me, I'm glad you had me come in". Before I could stop the words they were out of my mouth "Yeah, for all the good it did."

Thankfully he knew I wasn't accusing him, he knew my words were the result of frustration and lack of understanding on the grander scale of things. "I know, there's nothing I could have done, there's nothing you could have done. It was just one of those terrible things that happen."

It was so much more than "just of those terrible things". I think of her every time I perform a self breast exam. I thought of her 6 years ago when I found a lump that didn't have a corresponding bump on the other side. I thought of her as I made the appointment, and especially I thought of her as I was told that my lump was simply fibrous tissue. I'm one of the lucky ones.

So many years later, and I'm still thinking of her. I'm thinking of the potential of the life she had, the daughter she left behind, and of the pain and exhaustion that caused her to make the decision to let go. There is only so much that a person should be expected to tolerate before saying "Enough. I need to let go." And she did so with dignity and grace.

All I'm left with is the screaming, stomping, resounding sentence "It's not fair!" People die every day from breast cancer, accidents, strokes, what have you. And no matter what my belief is as far as heaven, an after life, whatever- that doesn't fix the fact that it isn't fucking fair.

What Michael Vick, The Traveling Wilbury's and Antipsychotics Have In Common

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 22:43:00 +0000

I know I'm not supposed to acknowledge my internet absence, I'm not supposed to make excuses as to why I'm not posting or responding, I'm just supposed to write. Right?

Well, suck it. I present to you a list of possible reasons I've not been posting, and those that guess correctly win a shot of Haldol in the butt next time they're admitted to my psych unit.

Bill Clinton has taken up residence in my living room and won't stop whining about how everyone likes Hilary more than him. When I suggested that it's because Hilary knows how to keep her dick in her pants he just cries louder. (Wow, that was offensive, huh?) Anyway, the louder Bill weeps, the less likely I am to be able to sit at the computer.
I discovered my husband's illicit affair with The Traveling Wilburys. Not only am I completely betrayed and devastated, but also pretty grossed out, since I think one of them is dead. Ewwww.
My neighbor Micheal Vick broke out of his . . . um . . . federally provided accommodations, came over to my house, and fed my Boston terrier to a Standard Poodle. My grief is overwhelming.
I've been forgetting to take my meds nearly everyday for the last two weeks, my new day job is kicking my ass, and I'm pretty sure someone exchanged my 3 year old for the Spawn of Satan. For instance, as I'm writing this post I notice he has opened the brand new loaf of bread, ripped the slices into tiny little pieces, and stuffed the entire loaf into an empty water bottle.

What's your guess?