Today's blog brought to you by the letters D and B and the number 1

So, today actually didn't start out too badly. I had a mountain of paperwork, but that's ok, I always do.

Let me tell you a little bit about my job, without telling too much. I work in Heath Care. I am a phlebtomist. For those of you who don't speak medical-ese, I take blood for diagnostic testing.

For the record, I have been doing this for 14 years. I am pretty good at my job.

This afternoon, I had a pretty busy spurt. A couple came into my office, I'll call them Mr and Mrs X. Mrs X was my patient. I have taken care of her before. She is ill, to say the least. This was the first time in 2010 I have seen her, but I saw her a bunch of times in 09. Since then, she has gone downhill. I don't know what her diagnosis is, and I wouldn't share it here, but she's not getting better.

Mr X had to help her get to my chair, and then he proceeded to stand in the way of all of my supplies, making my job a little bit difficult. He was holding her chin, because he said he didn't want her to hang her head.
Fine. I'll adjust. It's what I do.

Then the only arm I can use naturally doesn't have good veins. I manage to find one, and stick it, and of course, she begins moving her arm, and I lose the vein. The bloodflow slows and practically stops. The doctor orders a lot of testing too, of course. But I did get most of what he wanted. I didn't have enough for ONE test. Believe me, I was frustrated with myself.

Mr X, decides to start staying very nasty things to his wife, about me, and I am literally, 2 feet away from him. I can hear him. He is saying things like "well she sure stinks at her job" and "why would they hire someone that incompetent". My boss, calls the reference lab to see if what we have will be good enough. From the phone call, he doesn't think it will.

The husband is in the mean time, really starting to yell at me. Telling me to "get on with it" telling me "stick her again if you're going to" and in between all that again saying that "you should have known it wasn't going to work before you stuck her the first time" "don't they teach you that in school, don't stick the vein if it won't work" "don't you know how to do your job?" "why do you work here if you can't do your job" blah blah blah.

I said "Sir, I am doing the best I can, Mrs X, moved her arm while the needle was in the vein, and that made the needle go THROUGH the vein, there is not much I can do" He says "well obviously, sweetie, your best isn't good enough"

So I am flustered. I bit my tongue, HARD. And I tried to find another vein. I found a tiny possiblity.....I really didn't want to stick it, but I didn't want Mr X yelling in my face anymore either. So, I attempt to stick this vein. It did not work. Mr X then really loses his shit, and starts yelling that he is going to call the doctor and tell him how I "abused" his wife. Then he demands her paper work back, and says he is going to take her somewhere else. I very politely hand her paper back, and he tears it from my hands, and says "I better not be charged for ANYTHING. I don't want ANY of the testing done here, if they hire someone as stupid as you, the other people back there might be just as stupid, and I don't want anything else screwed up. You should be fired" Now this whole time, that Mr X is going off, his wife, who is very sweet, was defending me.

Now these are the things I wanted to say to Mr X, but didn't:

a) I am not stupid.
b) I am DAMN good at my job.
c) You are a douche bag.
d) It is not my fault that you had a bad day.
e) I was not trying to hurt your wife, and if you had listened to her at all, you would have heard her say "calm down, she's not hurting me"
f) My co workers are also not stupid. They both have bachelor's degrees in science--real science, like chemistry or biology, plus they had to go to another school, to get their licensing for the testing they do, every day. They are smarter than you, you fucking piece of shit.
g) If you ever come back to my office I will refuse to take care of you. Unless you are coming to apologize, and even then, I won't take care of you.
h) Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, and here's a huge middle finger just for you, to tell you how number 1 I think you are.


Happy fucking asshole Monday.

March 22, 2010

I'm not into blogging today. I still haven't adjusted to the time change, our stupid machine at work wasn't working today, I have a mountain of paperwork to catch up on (and that makes me feel stabby for other reasons that I won't be getting into), and it's cold and rainy today.

At least it's not cold and snowy though.

Fuck you Monday.

March 15, 2010

As the first Spring Foward Monday of 2010, you suck. My body is not fooled by your hocus pocus time moving wizardry. My body knows that it's still only 5 am!
Kiss my ass for the rest of the week, and probably next. More sunlight in the day is not really worth it, when I want to sleep. I hate going to work in the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

Anyway. You want to know why else I hate you today Monday? Painful Lady Business testing, that's why. Eat shit and die. And give me a hysterectomy before you're done.


On an up note (shocking!) Phil found a nice blog that said some really cool things about his first band, Red Sky. He was all sorts of excited, and was dying to show it off. So you get one cool point, Monday. One point only.

Don't let it go to your head.

March 8, 2010

Dear internet,
Have you ever started off a day really well, and then watched it turn into shit? You have??? I'm not the only one??? Really???

Today started out ok. I woke up on time...got to work on time, started getting things done..

and then...

Monday. You bastard. There was some screwy computer shit going on that just happened to be while I was with a somewhat bitchy patient. Not cool. Then the screwy shit migrated to the computers in the back lab. The computers that HAVE to be logged in and running or the machines won't work. Yeah? Well, too bad! Computers are being logged off and you can suck it!

So, we are waiting for the the computers to come back up, when the courier brings the afternoon fuckload of work. 37 bags of specimens. THIRTY SEVEN. There are TWO of us. ONE of whom cannot run any machines (ME!). So, my poor co worker is probably STILL there trying to get the work done. At 330 when I left, it wasn't even done SAMPLING the specimens yet. Yeah........uh.....that sucks, dude.

In other news...here's a story about how shit on a Sunday can carry over to Monday.
There's this girl...we'll call her Barbie. Barbie has this boyfriend, we'll call him Ken, that no one really likes. Not Barbie's family, friends...no one. They've had a rocky relationship. Ken is kind of a jealous asshole. Always makes Barbie account for where she is going, who she's with, and God help her if there is *gasp!* a MAN in the bunch! Oh no! Barbie has so little regard and respect for her relationship that she might be over come with lust and strip naked and jump on this or any other random penis in the room!!! (that's seriously what Ken thinks).

Well, last night, our Barbie gets a PHONE CALL. From Ken's EX GIRLFRIEND. Who tells her that things aren't really in the EX category. Ken, of course, doesn't want to talk about it. He says "it's not like it was the whole time we were together". And then, Ken just stops answering his phone!!!! WTF??? Does he care about Barbie or not?? (sounds like an 'or not' to me) The kicker is...the ex girlfriend is also the mother of his child, so it's not like he can swear to never speak to her again. So, Barbie is devastated, and confused, and hurt. Safe to say her Monday is fucked. I am pretty sure she took the day off work. So, long story short...Sunday is almost as much of a bitch as Monday. I'm watching you, Sunday.


Oh, you want to know more about Barbie and Ken?? I don't know much more. I hope Barbie wises up and kicks Ken to the curb...but girls like Barbie, don't like to be alone. So she just might end up taking his STD infected ass back. Here's a tip, Barbie, go to the clinic, get yourself checked, and wrap it up!

In like a lion..

Well, well, well, well, well Monday. You're March 1st. Goody for you. You bring spring, and I like spring, but I hate you. You're still an asshole.

I am bitchy as hell today. Why you ask so nicely, interwebz? I'll tell you. But first...shit's about to get TMI up in here, so if you don't want to know anything about my Lady Business, I suggest you get the eff out of this blog. Ok? Still with me? You're brave, internetz. I like that.

Here we go. My Lady Business seems to not know when to stop bleeding. We are on DAY ELEVEN of the Never Ending Period. DAY.ELEVEN. Normal Lady Biz knows to shut the fuck up in about 5-7 days. Not mine! Oh no, she wants to stay up all night long and chat. And by chat, I mean....well you know. I am in and out of the bathroom at least once every other hour. It's not fun, nor is it attractive. Lady Business? Give it a fucking rest before I ask the doctor to remove you. Comprende? Good.

Now, on to Monday. Monday sucks because I am sleep deprived. It is not fun to get out of bed on and off all night long. My workday was relatively easy today, so thanks for that.

Now, could there be anyone in the world that is MORE bitchy than me, internetz? The answer is: yes.

Phil is more bitchy than me, good interwebz. Why? Because when the Lady Business Amusement Park is out of order, he doesn't get to go on his favorite ride. If I didn't have a "thing" against us sharing our private parts with other people, I'd totally give him a pass. Unless of course a celebrity from his "list" shows up, naked and throwing herself at him....then he's allowed. Because let me tell you, internetz, if David Duchovny showed up here wanting to do the no pants dance, hemorrhaging Lady Biz or not, I am all over that.

Just another Manic Monday

Busiest Monday at work that I can remember. Busiest DAY at work that I can remember.
That's cool though.

------------------------------------------------------------
My day started pretty rough. First of all, 6am comes way too fucking early. I hate that. I could barely get out of bed. So, I was running late, of course. Backed my NEW car into an ice dune. No damage, thank goodness, just scared the hell out of me.

I get to work just BARELY on time, but the web based time card system wasn't "available", so refused to punch in. I wasn't late, and I wasn't going to let it show that I was. I just have to keep reminding my boss to punch me in.

Anyway. As Mondays go, I guess this one was a 5 on the shit scale, instead of what it usually is.

Sorry for the boring post, but I can't concentrate because my boyfriend won't shut the fuck up about his stupid basketball game against FOURTEEN YEAR OLDS.

I hate basketball. And mondays. Fuck you both.

February 15th was so shitty I forgot to post!

So, not much exciting happened to me yesterday. Other than being busy at work, and having my poor boss ready to throw in the towel, because 2 of our machines decided to be dickholes. All's fine today (Tuesday).
Instead of boring you with my non exciting monday drivel, I decided to google "shitty monday stories" to bring you a tale from the interwebz. I give to you a tale so disgusting, you will cry with laughter. I know I did. I am directly copying/pasting from the website, so all spelling/grammar errors are left as they were originally written. The author seems to be adverse to swearing, so all the **** are from him. I hope this happened on a Monday.

My friends, please enjoy this tale taken from: http://www.shittystories.com/2006/08/why-you-dont-answer-your-phone-in.html
Author: Unknown
__________________________________________________________

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent co-workers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of ass cleansing fibre cereal,
following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.

As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for the wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign
proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about togo.

I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:

1. Occupied.
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to theoccupied one.
3. **** smeared on seat.
4. **** and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered onseat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.


Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. I wasn’t
happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a
cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs.
****ter about the ****ty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish.

As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My ass let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other
hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude — a cross between the sound
of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased
(2) my colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

“Oh my God,” I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots,
and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poop had actuallymanaged to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little ****tles of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible… throw up… in my mouth… not… make it… tell the kids… love them… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My ****-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was
thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the
bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous ****-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to **** in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the latrine.

And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.