Tits Up.

Another riveting glimpse into my life/morning:

As mentioned in prior blog posts, I take care of an 89 year old, ex-Navy vet. I am his Nurse. I am a professional. And last night, I had to take the over night shift. Here's where it turns terribly wrong.

Having not had dinner, I took some McD's to work with me. I scarfed it down whilst watching Walker, Texas Ranger with him. (I'd like to kick Chuck Norris's ass, just to show him that Phat Mama's don't play, bitch.)

Sam went to bed & shortly thereafter, I went to the 'Nurse's bedroom' because I was so tired from the night before. (Read previous blog post.)

I woke up, every hour on the hour, feeling awful, sweating until my hair was soaked. (I know I'm F'n sexy, people!)

And sometime during the night, in a half-asleep, sickly haze, I forgot that I wasn't at home, in bed with my beloved Fuckmuffin and took off my tshirt. I was hot! Like I woke up in Hell & Satan was breathing on me, Hot.

I woke up for the last time, one minute before my shift was over. I heard noises from other areas of the house. Sam was awake, brushing his teeth. The morning nurse was already there. And horror, the cat had been let out of her room - right next to mine - and my bedroom door was wide open, just like I left it!

I had an entire minute of wondering.. Did Sam see me sleeping tits up? (Can 89 year olds get wood?)

(No pictures, sorry, Maelstrom! - Check out his blog today, people - too damn funny! It's on my sidebar as - Nothing To See Here, Move Along.)

To add to the never ending craptafic that is my life, I'm trying to decide wether I should go in for my next shift today or go to the E.R.

I have a sixth sense at self-diagnosis. (Another of my many talents.) So if I choose the E.R. option, I'll have to say things like:

"The 25 pound bag of McD's that I ate last night may have triggered my Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Doc."

"I think it may have because of the nuclear explosion in my ass this morning."

"I also had to hold a trash can between my thighs this morning. Do I look bulimic to you - vomiting is not my friend. I'm obviously sick, like on my death bed."

"Do you really have to look at my tonsils with that light thingmabob? The problem is in my stomach/ass region in case you wern't listening. I don't have a french fry caught in my throat, dude."

"My breath stinks? Well I didn't have time to brush my teeth before calling 911."

"Hey, you're kind of hot, Dr. IKnowYou'reRich. If I ever get divorced, let's hook up."