“Honey…Where’s My…?”

If you’re married, like me, then at some point, or perhaps every day, you hear the phrase, “Honey…Where’s my…?”  Where is your what:  your brain,  your eyes,  your f’ing common sense?  I’ll tell you where it is, it’s up your ass!  Why is it that men are incapable of ever finding something that belongs to them?  Why!!??  If it isn’t bad enough I have to deal with three kids asking me the same questions, why must I also have to accommodate a grown man?  I’m starting to really question the whole idea of man as hunter.  I don’t believe they could find a bear in the woods if they tried.  I’m sure ancient man was somehow grunting to their gatherer wives, “Honey…grunt grunt…have you seen my buffalo?”  Ancient woman, leading the way, rolling her eyes and pointing to a large, brown, furry thing right in front of him was probably wondering the same thing her futuristic female counter part was.  Let’s face it, it wasn’t a male scout invited to lead Louis and Clarke from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, nooo, it was Sacagawea, a woman, carrying a baby no less!!

On top of not being able to find anything, men also don’t notice anything.  They’re like camels with their heads buried in the sand, looking up only for food, drink, and sex.  Men never notice the things you do around the house, but boy do they have eyes for the things you haven’t done.  I love the question, “What have you done all day?”  What have I done all day!!??  Really??

Some days I do ten loads of laundry.  I purposefully leave two baskets overflowing with folded clean clothes at the bottom of the stairs in hopes that maybe my husband might pick one up on his way upstairs.  Two weeks later he’s calling down to me, “Honey have you seen my underwear?”  Yeah, I’d like to see it…in a bonfire!

So the other day I’m at work and I get a call from my husband.  The first question he asks me is, “When did you paint the patch on the wall in our bedroom?”  Let me just fill you in on the history of ‘the patch’.  Three years ago we moved into our house, my husband, who is not so handy, decides to rip the old light switch remote plate off the wall, leaving a hole in the sheet rock.   BTW, this was done after we had already paid a bundle to have the whole house painted.  So my carpenter, (A.K.A. house husband), came and patched the hole, and we had a good laugh at my husband’s un-handy man attempt.

What was really funny was that the patch then sat there; a big, white, square surrounded by a bold terra-cotta hue, above the new light switch, for the past two years.  I even went so far as to bring the paint can upstairs in hopes he might try to repair the damage he inflicted.  Well, when the dust level on the paint can started to make me sneeze, I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands, and paint that white patch myself.  Three weeks later, I got the call.

Right after I got my call that day, my colleague got a call from her husband; apparently I wasn’t the only one with ‘white patch’ issues.  In lieu of caring for our critically ill patients, we were fielding phone calls from the men in our lives, solving problems, helping with child care issues, and listening to the evangelical revelations of noticing paint on the wall.

As my friend hung up the phone, her head bowed and shaking back and force, the swears under her breath just barely audible, I felt a shared sense of shoes in that moment and wondered, ‘what are we going to do with our husbands?’

Then it dawned on me, the solutions to our problems.  Not one to revel in despair, I knew I needed to have an upbeat idea, one that would satisfy both me and my husband and put an end to what seemed a hopeless ending.

You know how we reward our children for good behavior with a sticker or a treat or provide them with a detailed chart, so they understand their responsibilities throughout the family, thus did I think men also required some sort of symbol; a beacon to guide them to an understanding of what was done in the house that day, or to take notice of something they might otherwise pass by without so much as a glance, a symbol that would turn a man’s head even if his head was so low from the game loss of his favorite football team that day.

It has been my experience that the only thing to give a man’s head whiplash faster than a car accident, is a set of large, round, heaving, carefully placed breasts between a low V-shaped ensemble on a voluptuous woman.   Instead of trying to tell a man what you did all day, you must show him with some fabulous tata’s.  Whether it’s a playboy printout, or a set you crafty mom’s have created from paper mache, breasts are breasts, and no man will look away.  Boobs on the laundry pile are a guarantee he’ll want to carry that load upstairs.  Dishes done, post those boobs on the dishwasher and he might empty that load faster than you think.  When he’s looking for something he can’t find, just pin a pair of luscious breasts on it, and bam, he’ll come for it.  New haircut…need I say more?

I’m tired of feeling bitter.  We women need to think outside the box, or the bra for that matter.  If an extra pair of breasts in this house can help me out, then I’m all for it.  God knows, as an A-cup, I can use all the breasts I can get!

When the Nurse Becomes the Patient

Old Worm by Jean James

I work in the medical field, so I’m quite used to embarrassing things happening to other people.  I’m the first person to reassure my patient who just shit on the floor, “Don’t worry about it, it happens all the time.”  Anything to make someone feel better.  But what do you do when you’re the one with the embarrassing problem?

Three months after the birth of my second child I went to the bathroom one morning, and though I didn’t shit on my floor, I did have something very wrong with what came out of me that day.

Because I’m a nurse I have a tendency to examine the things that come out of my body.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not holding a magnifying glass or collecting samples, but a quick peek just to make sure everything appears normal.

This particular day was really no different, a quick glance, followed by a second look, followed by a horrified stare, until it sunk in what I was looking at, or more clearly what was looking back at me…

“O.M.F.G., there’s an f’ing worm in my shit!”  As my brain was trying to wrap itself around what my eyes were trying to deny, I could feel the panic creeping up my chest.  The idea that a living creature just made its way out of my ass was more than I could digest.  And as I began to accept that this indeed was real, my next thought immediately raced to the question, “Are there more?”

I needed help.  I was sure this didn’t qualify for a 911 call, so I had no other choice than to call for my husband.  My husband is not a medical person, he’s not comfortable with excrement, vomit, or any other abnormal bodily fluid.  So believe me when I say calling him for help was truly my last resort.

Hmmm how do I put this, “Honey, there’s a worm in my shit”

His reply, “What!!? Are you sure?  How do you know it’s really a worm?”

Me, “Just look for yourself.  It’s a goddamn worm!  I know what a worm looks like and that’s a worm…in my shit!”

Him, “Well how’d it get there?”

Me, “I don’t f’in know!  How does any worm get in your shit!?  This is kinda of new territory for me.”

Him, “What are you gonna do?”

Me, “Jesus Christ!  Go get me a Tupperware. I’m gonna scoop it up, call the doctor and bring it in for testing.”

Him, “You’re gonna scoop up your own shit?”

Me, “Yes, I’m gonna scoop up my own shit!  How else am I going to prove a worm just came out of my ass?”

So the nurse in me kicked on and I collected my own stool sample, worm and all, and called the doctor’s office demanding to be seen immediately, which wasn’t a problem when I explained why.

Since I work in a small hospital, I know the doctors fairly well.  It’s rather incestuous how we nurses use our doctors as our personal physicians.  Normally I’m not bothered by this.  When I had my children I wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassed or uncomfortable carrying on a normal conversation while my doctor was up to his eyeballs in my cervix.

But like the rest of the animal kingdom, I tend to be a bit shy when it comes to number 2.  So carrying my own cup of shit with a worm sticking out of it to my primary care doctor/co-worker was nothing shy of mortifying.  Could either of us ever look at each other the same?

When it came time for me to see her, it was kind of like talking to my husband all over again.

Her, “So, what’s going on?”

Me, “I passed a worm in my stool.”

Her, “How do you know it’s a worm?”

Me thinking “Is she f’ing kidding me.  I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure.”

Politely I opened my brown bag and pulled out my Tupperware o’shit and showed her the forensic evidence that was my worm.  The look on her face was priceless; controlled horror, followed by the ever professional, “…hmm…wow…yup that definitely looks like a worm.”  And just for good measure she called in her nurse for a second opinion, as I shrunk lower in my pool of embarrassment.

Knowing she was way over her head, my doctor decided to send me to the Gastroenterologist (a.k.a. the ‘ass man’), as we were lacking a Helmintholgist at our small community hospital.

I vaguely knew who this G.I. doctor was; I hadn’t had a lot of dealings with him.  And after meeting him I realized his personality suited his profession.  Unfortunately for me, he was the only available G.I. doc at that moment.  He carefully examined the contents of my little Tupperware surprise and concluded there was a worm in my stool.  Well, thank you very much Captain Obvious!  Now that we were all in agreement that my worm existed, I more importantly wanted to know how it got there and if I had to worry about any more surprises on my next trip to the bathroom.

I had already done an internet search (because that’s the kind of crazy person I am) prior to coming to the doctor.  I learned more about parasitic worms that I ever wanted to know.  Their life cycle is so gross I’m not sure I can even tell you…okay I will, but I’m giving out one of those warnings:

This might be disturbing to children and people with weak stomachs, and everyone else in between.

In order to get a worm, you must first ingest something contaminated with fecal material (Ewww).  The eggs of the worm hatch in your stomach and migrate into the circulation, which then carries them to the lungs!  The larvae mature in the lungs then climb their way out into the throat where they are swallowed into the stomach, and make their way into the intestines where they develop into adults.  The adult worm can live 1-2 years feeding off of partially digested food.  I’m so going to puke just writing this.  Okay, so when I learned all this I counted back 1-2 years to try to figure out where the hell I was, and to my horror discovered I was in Mexico…on my honeymoon!  Feeling more like an investigator for the C.D.C. (Center for Disease Control) than a nurse, I relayed this information to Dr. Lackluster.

In return, he stoically tells me my worm must go to the lab for positive identification, and only then will we know for sure.  He remarks that parasitic worms are quiet common throughout the world.  Then he drops his bombshell theory as to how this particular worm came to find a home in my intestines.  He said I most likely got this worm from eating dirt as a child…DIRT!!!  So I quickly do the math in my head.  Kids eat dirt around the age of 2, I was 35-year-old at the time, so I just shit a 33-year-old worm.  Holy crap, no wonder that worm had a beard and a cane.  It didn’t come out on its own, if fell out, a victim of worm cardiac arrest.  Was this doctor sniffing too much methane gas?  It’s no wonder this doctor chose to be in a profession surrounded by assholes.

My mouth opened, then closed, then opened, then closed again.  My husband let out a chuckle, (like there was actually something funny going on) until I gave him that look that said, “Laugh again and I’m gonna shove my worm up your ass!”

I left there humiliated with my antiworm prescription and told to leave my specimen with his nurse.

Horrified, humiliated, and embarrassed, I handed over my worm to yet another set of eyes, and it was then that I felt a gentle hand touch my shoulder and a kind voice saying, “Don’t worry about it.  It happened to me once too.  Now every time my ass itches I think it’s a worm trying to get out.”  For the first time all day I laughed so hard, and felt so relieved to know I wasn’t the only one.  Thank God for that nurse,  I could’ve kissed her!

I’m happy to say I’ve been worm free ever since.  I’ ve learned a valuable lesson and am now very careful not to travel to third world countries…and have eliminated all dirt from my diet.

Friday Funnies: Calling All Nurses!

U.S. Nurses playing cards, reading, and relaxing circa 1918.  U.S. Navy History and Heritage Command Photo.

U.S. Nurses playing cards, reading, and relaxing circa 1918. U.S. Navy History and Heritage Command Photo.

 

 

Something magical happens when nurses get together to share stories so funny they make us pee in our pants, double over in stitches, and send tears streaming down our face, as we release the tension of caring for some pretty f’d-up patients.  I have experienced this kind of laughter over the years and it’s like a great orgasm: deep, rich, and leaving you wanting more.

With that said, I would like to invite my fellow nurse readers (if I have any) to submit your funniest story, or one you’ve heard and think is worthy of retelling.  Each and every Friday I would like to post these stories to the ‘Friday Funnies’.  You can publish your story under your own name, your nom de plume, or remain anonymous. I’ll fill in my own stories if I don’t have any friday guest authors.

The only thing I ask is that you abide by the HIPPA laws, and use your artistic license to change any part of your story that might identify someone.

You can send your submissions to jeanjames@nightingalechronicles.com

Happy story telling!

Don’t jerk(off) my chain.

Dog Tags by Jean James

Dog Tags by Jean James

Ok, so this is a story I picked up back in my research days, when I used to travel a lot and meet other cool nurses from around the country.  Me and my partner in crime met these two really funny guys from California who told us this story one night over drinks; I laughed my ass off and I only hope I can do it justice.

Working in a veterans hospital you meet all sorts of people categorized and defined by the wars they fought.  You expect to see things like P.T.S.D. (post traumatic stress disorder), Gulf War syndrome, and a myriad of other problems brought on by years of service to this country.

Working in urology in a veterans hospital, one would expect to see the usual suspects such as: an enlarged prostate here, a little prostate cancer there, and of course a few cases of the clap.

But nothing quite prepares you for the unexpected.  While working in the urology clinic a young vet. comes in and complains to the Urologist on call, “Doc, I’m having this problem pissing.  It feels like there’s something in my dick.”  To which the doctor replies, “Are you having burning or difficulty urinating.  What does it feel like?”  Shifting from side to side, with his eyes cast down, and looking very uncomfortable, the young guy replies, “…well it kinda feels like there’s a chain in my dick.”

Holding a steady poker face, the doctor asks him what a chain in the dick feels like, then proceeds to ask him if there might be something inside his penis that he should know about.  Our young friend adamantly denies having anything actually in his dick but the sensation of a chain.

So being a thorough practitioner the doctor orders a test, and low and behold, right there in X-Ray black and white there was indeed a chain in this man’s dick.  Not just any chain, mind you , but the chain to his dog tags.

Now that this man had been confronted with radiologic evidence of a confirmed chain in his dick, he was forced to confess on how it got there.

You just can’t make this shit up.

As I’m sure you have surmised, there is only one reason men stick anything inside their orifices, and that’s to make jerking off a more pleasurable experience.

The embarrassed soldier explained that he put the chain inside his dick to jerk off with, and his plan was to yank it out during ejaculation; however, that plan backfired when the chain got sucked up and stuck inside of him.

It gives a whole new meaning to jerking your chain.

After a minor chainectomy procedure, the dog tag chain was recovered, and returned intact.  Whether or not he continued to wear it…I don’t know?

The moral of the story?  Pretty obvious.  Don’t stick anything up your dick…period!

(Or your ass for that matter.)