Humor Archives - Brie Gowen

A Middle Aged Mom’s Review Of KareKare Curl (Aquatica Orlando’s Newest Waterslide)

September 18, 2019 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

PSA:

I almost died today.

So, in my efforts to be the fun, cool mom (while my husband gruffly mumbled “I’m not getting wet), I quickly agreed to go ride a big water slide with my nine year old. Surely it couldn’t be that bad if she was tall enough to get on.

Famous last words.

It wasn’t the actually ride that was that terrible. What I remember of it (through my delirium) was enjoyable. But that could be the carbon dioxide poisoning status post hyperventilation.

So, I read the rules for the ride before boarding. Yes, I’m that person. It said a lot of stuff about weight requirements and how many per tube, but no where did I see the requirements stated to have completed an Iron Man competition. In reality, they should have posted one of those warnings like you see on roller coasters, something warning pregnant women, individuals with heart conditions, or middle aged women who haven’t exercised since Bush was in office (which one? Your choice).

I do know what the 9 feet tall sign of rules/warnings did not state. No where did it inform you that if you’ve had multiple children birthed vaginally that your uterus may pop out halfway to the top. It forgot to mention that you’d be lugging a 62 pound float up sixteen flights of stairs, and that the higher you went the more the air resembled that at the peak of Everest, or that a strange gravitational pull drew our planet closer to the sun as you ascended.

Before we got on they were kind enough to weigh you individually in front of the waiting crowd. The purpose I guess was to ensure you weren’t so light that you sailed off the top of the ride when it was tilted at a ninety degree angle, or so heavy that you dropped like a dead weight at the peak height of that same vertical, slippery thrill. In retrospect, I think it would have been more appropriate to have you bench press no less than 1 small smart car prior to ascension to prove your worthiness. But instead they approved my 5’ 4” 115 pound self to partner with my beanpole child who falls faint at the weight of her dirty clothes from the floor to the waiting laundry basket.

I’m thinking you shouldn’t have to spend money to ride this one, because your true payment is in blood, sweat, and tears as you tote an elephant sized float, weighted down with a lifetime supply of sand (or perhaps steel), again, I’m assuming to keep you from shooting off the top after reaching Mach 5 speed, up the stairway to Heaven.

It helps to have a small child on the back end “helping” by pulling down on her end while gasping, “I can’t Mom. It’s too heavy.”

It also helps to have young, vibrant teenagers coming up quickly on your six in a cloud of eye-rolls and poorly veiled sighs.

Y’all, when I finally reached the light at the end of the tunnel (cause that’s all I was seeing, lights and stars), I was greeted by a fourteen year old in a Baywatch swimsuit smirking at me.

“You alright,” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” I whistle/exhaled like a fifty year smoker after running a triathlon.

I walked cautiously to my awaiting, steel trap of death that I had carried to my own watery grave, trying not to stagger like Cooter Brown, though my poison wasn’t moonshine, but rather hypoxia. As I straddled the swaying, yellow coffin I was hit with a wave of nausea like that of a thousand morning sicknesses, though no first trimester queasiness could match the feeling that overcame me. If nausea was a dude, I imagined he’d be wearing a studded jacket and leather gloves as he punched one fist into his awaiting palm in warning of the beating that awaited me.

I kinda remember the five seconds of waterslide fun that followed my personal episode of American Ninja Warrior. For one brief second, in between the reels of my life flashing before my eyes, I thought, “this isn’t that bad.”

I was going to think, “this is kinda fun,” but that was about the time we dropped straight down from the striped funnel of folly, and my already bulging gorge threatened to expel the minuscule contents of my spasming stomach.

After it was over I rolled out of the two-ton raft like a hungover sailor just hitting dry land after a week at sea. I alternated between still trying to slow my labored breathing and gulping down the wave of acid that threatened to leave my body through my pursed, purple lips. I side-stepped (or rather struggled/stumbled) to the nearest vacant beach chair, plopping down violently, the blackness closing in. I tried to look normal, gain my composure, for fear another cast of Thirteen Reasons Why in lifeguard garb would come and ask the elderly woman if she needed them to call 9-1-1.

What you should not do at this point, if you ever find yourself in the same predicament, is to shamble in a trance over to the wave pool with your un-phased child. It’s just not a good idea to put battery acid in a washing machine, but that’s a post for another day. Just take my word for it and bring along pallbearers to carry your tube if you plan on riding KareKare Curl at Aquatica Orlando. #datfloattooheavy #forrealtho

Signed,

A Concerned, Middle Age Mom (Who may or may not have lost her cookies in the bathroom when no one was looking)

20 Remarkable Things My Children Can Do

February 6, 2019 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

I’m not usually one of those competitive moms, but what good is social media and the Internet if you can’t brag about your kids, right? Aside from taking a picture when they’re wearing a new, expensive outfit, being exceptionally nice to one another, or when I catch them doing something that makes them appear like Jesus-loving angels and simply sharing those highlight reels that paint me as a stellar mom, I thought I’d share today some specific things that my children do that are truly remarkable to me. Like, mind-blowing.

So, here’s 20 remarkable things my children can do!

1. Fight over ridiculous nonsense. Like, throw-down brawl over a scrap of gum wrapper.

2. Talk for thirty minutes straight, without taking a breath, about nothing.

3. Eat an entire week’s worth of groceries in one day.

4. Completely undo, in twenty minutes or less, any house chore I have done.

5. Change their tastebuds from one week to the next.

6. Hate something venomously without ever actually trying it.

7. Persevere through an outing of their choosing like Lance Armstrong on a pleasure ride around the block, yet somehow loose the ability to take steps when in the grocery store with me. Aka, I’m soooooo tired.

8. Not have to pee when we’re leaving the house. Have extreme desire to pee in their pants once we have left the house.

9. Miraculous ability to become extremely bored regardless of mount of toys in their room.

10. Not to be confused with… the ability to suddenly become extremely interested in their toys right after I clean their room. The right way.

11. Not to be confused with… their ability to forge a strong connection with a formerly forgotten toy when it is labeled “giveaway.”

12. They can also watch oddly animated adults play with toys on YouTube from now until Jesus comes back, without a break from the screechy-voice monotony.

13. They can adore getting wet in a sprinkler, pool, or even mud puddle, but take a very strong stance against the tortuous act that is taking a shower.

14. They have an uncanny ability to beg to go outdoors when it’s raining shards of ice, but cry for the injustice of me forcing them outside on a lovely, sunny day.

15. They can think of the most thought-provoking questions. When I’m on the phone. Or in the bathroom. Or at bedtime. Otherwise, 2 + 2 = potato.

16. They have a knack for forgetting every single instruction I’ve given multiple times, but will immediately recall and repeat the four letter word I let slip when I stubbed my toe.

17. My children have mastered the art of altering their ability to hear! For example, they can miss me telling them in a loud voice, while in the same room, to shut the door, but will catch every word of the whispered conversation I have with their dad in another zip code.

18. My children are pretty good at ignoring me. Until their sibling is getting attention from me. Then errbody love Momma.

19. My children are great eaters! For example, they always want seconds when I sit down to eat.

20. They really know how to make a mom feel special. Like, when they come and ask me while I’m pooping to fix them a drink. Even though their dad was right there in the room with them, not doing anything.

Like I said, I’m not usually one to brag, but I simply had to share my children’s remarkable talents with you all.

What about you? Feel free to share something extraordinary your darlings can do!

3 Ways ( in the past 5 minutes) That My Husband is Different Than Me

June 29, 2018 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

It’s no surprise men and women are different. It’s not even a shock how different my husband can be from me. Perhaps it was at first, but over the years I simply have became accustomed to it. In fact, I consider it a blessing that we can mesh so wonderfully our differences to complete and complement the other. God knew what He was doing when He put us together, for sure. But some days I’m still like, wow, we are so different! Here’s just three I’ve noticed in the past 5 minutes.

1. He can ignore the kids easily.

Here’s the scenario. Two parents, same room. The kids will come to me. In fact, I can be in another room and they’ll still come to me. They will leave the room they are in with him where he’s just sitting there unoccupied, take a 12 mile hike to the next neighboring town where I’m plowing a field while loading the dishwasher and writing the next, great American novel, and they will ask me to open a Capri Sun for them.

Do they love me more or something? Nope. Is it that they think I’m more capable. Nope. It’s because I’ll stop in the middle of performing a delicate brain surgery to fulfill their request. My husband on the other hand will ignore them until they walk away, board an international flight, and make it through foreign customs to ask mom.

I must master this skill.

2. He can relax.

We have somewhere to be in five minutes and he’ll still be chilling. I’ll be running around packing snack bags and small containers of water in case we get stranded in the desert on the way to Walmart. He’ll be picking up a crumpled pair of shorts at the back of his closet at 36 seconds prior to leaving. I will have been getting dressed, with the clothes I laid out the night before, for the past hour, leaving me fifteen minutes remaining ahead of our schedule. I will spend these pacing around wanting to tell him to hurry up and get dressed already.

If there’s a day with nothing to do I will construct some project that I have been wanting to complete forever! It will end up being more than I bargained for and I’ll somehow turn a relaxing day into a frustrating, rushed one. He will watch me from across the room with eyes that say, I told you so.

3. He doesn’t worry.

If the answer is unknown I will worry. My husband will not. I will allow the uncertainty to frustrate me to the point I end up flipping out later over a page not loading when I search Google for something obscure to take my mind off it. He’ll play a game on his phone while I imagine the absolute worst-case scenario of all the things that have 0.02 percent chance of occurring. He’ll watch a show on Netflix while I search frantically on the Internet for a solution to a problem that doesn’t even exist yet. But it might, right? I mean, it could. Maybe. I heard of that happening once. I think I read it on Facebook.

He will nod off while we sit in bed together. He’ll sleep like a rock, snore even. I will take half a Benadryl so I can shut my mind off and hopefully get a solid six hours. I’ll snap awake early, before everyone else, and run around in my head how that acquaintance of mine from work may have possibly misunderstood me and now hates me. I’ll wonder if I might get fired for that mistake I almost made two months ago. My husband will sleep on.

*As I was writing this post he snaps to attention and comments back on a conversation we had over an hour ago.

“Why do you think it won’t work out?” He asks.

I answer, “He said he’d get back to me in a couple of hours, and that was at noon.” (It’s 5:30 pm).

“Not everyone is like you.” He reminds me. “A couple of hours can mean anything from 2-12 hours. For you, if you said a couple of hours you’d get back to them in exactly two hours and zero seconds. But me…”

He didn’t have to finish.

Diary of an Anxious, Overthinker

September 18, 2017 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

Yeah, she seemed really nice about it, but what will she be saying behind my back? She must think I’m a loser.

My mind wandered. And when I say wandered, I mean really wandered. Like, past the confines of typical, logical thought. That was pretty much how my mind functioned, especially when it came to human interaction. I’m what you might wanna call a weirdo, or a socially-handicapped woman when it comes to relationships, especially with other women. I was the girl in high school who had a lot of guy friends, and worse, that awkward junior high kid who played with frogs and Barbies while their peers moved on to boys and blue eye shadow. I really held on to the Barbie dream house for far too long. Actually wish I had kept that thing. But I digress.

Point is, I didn’t grow out of a lot of my awkwardness. I just carried it onward to adulthood. I was the lady sitting beside the group of cool moms at the ballgame trying to think of something clever to add to the conversation.

Maybe just be really nice, Brie. That should work.

“Hi. How are you today?” I ask cheerfully to the nearest mom.

A very pregnant her replies, “I’m so hot. I’m ready to have this baby already!”

“Me too!!” I reply too eagerly, a huge grin plastered across my face.

You’re not pregnant, moron! I chastise myself, but quickly go over how to save the conversation in my head. Yes that sounds good, Brie.

Oh, she’s already turned around talking to that other woman.

Is that other woman looking at me?

I’ll bet she told her what a social idiot I am.

Plus I’m wearing my shirt from college. That was twenty years ago. Maybe they’ll think it’s vintage chic. I mean, except for the boogers.

Just smile!

Oh God, they’re laughing now.

Yeah, that’s me.

Recently there was a misunderstanding between a co-worker and I. Immediately I went into panic mode. Aside from being socially inept I also hate confrontation. Loathe it, in fact. My husband is so lucky. Typically if I’m in an altercation or disagreement I will go into a mental shutdown. I never have the cool comeback when someone is a jerk. I mean, I think it. Later. After they’ve already left my sight.

Oh yeah, well at least I have enough confidence in myself to not try and make others look stupid so I feel better about me!

Yeah, that’s so true. That’s what I should have said. Next time that’s what I’ll say.

But aside from never getting my point across adequately I also have a tendency (make that a huge tendency) to create more of the situation than is required. Like, in a situation the person who hurts me will have probably already long forgotten our conversation. They’ve moved on, and I have too. I moved on to the part where I dwell on it for anywhere from 8-36 hours, roughly.

Like an amusement park of emotions

I’ll replay the entire scenario. I’ll do a slo-mo play-by-play in my head. What did I do wrong, what could I have done better, and will this person now hate me forever? Will they tell all their friends to hate me?

I have gotten better at this over the years, actually. At forty I’ve reached a place where I don’t care much what people think. Unless it’s hurting my witness as a Christian it doesn’t matter much to me. But that anxious, overthinker? She’s still in there somewhere too. She’s comes out every now and again.

And such was the case with my most recent misunderstanding with a coworker. I reached out almost immediately to explain the situation, apologize, and try to smooth things over. It only took her about five minutes to respond. Naturally those were the longest five minutes known to man. In that tiny block of time I imagined what she must be thinking about me! I imagined extended scenarios. You think I’m a writer?! You should see the stuff in my head that never comes out. It’s a cross between William Shakespeare and reality television on TLC.

After my friend responded back quickly and kindly with understanding I felt a sweet surge of relief. Until the anxious, overthinker tried to kick in.

Does she really mean, “no worries?”

She’s probably telling our other coworkers how stupid I am right this minute!

In my moments of accelerated ridiculousness of inner dialogue I have to talk myself off the ledge. I have to remind myself what I’ve learned about my character as it’s been molded by Christ. I have to remember I’m a daughter of the King. So if my crown gets a little crooked I just have to readjust it. And my thought processes. I’m kind of a major work in progress. Sometimes I think if I could look around in there with a flashlight I’d see a “Men at Work” construction sign. Or rather a “The Son of Man at Work” sign.

I would like to think I’m not the anxious, overthinker I used to be. But I also know I’m not the non-anxious, level-headed thinker I need to be. I know God made me think about the world the way I do for a reason, and as I find my balance between empathy and being overly consumed by emotions I learn hopefully how to best relate to all of God’s people. That’s what I’m going with anyway.

Until next time, world!

Gosh, they’re probably gonna think you’re stupid because of this blog, Brie. Sheesh.

Ten Ways You Know it’s Winter in the South

December 18, 2016 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

I was born in Southern California, and I grew up in Mississippi. Other than the ten years I spent living in Illinois and Maryland, I’ve always experienced what the majority of the country terms mild winter weather. When I realized I was leaving Maryland to move back down South I looked into my shed for things I’d need to take with me, and I was more than a little joyful to leave my three large snow shovels behind. While sometimes I may long for a white Christmas, in my heart I’m a southern gal, and I’ll take a Mississippi winter any day.

Southerners, like most things, do winter a bit differently than everyone else. So here’s ten ways you know it’s winter in the south.

1. It’s not unusual for the temperature to be a high of 30 degrees on Tuesday, a high of 70 degrees on Wednesday, and a low of 17 degrees later that night.

2. No, we don’t know how to drive in snow, and we’re just fine with that.

3. Cause we’re making snowmen! They may have twigs and leaves hanging out of them cause it was just a dusting, but by golly, errybody gonna make a snowman. Then we’ll share a proud pic of it on Facebook.
4. Speaking of Facebook. It’s full of self-proclaimed meteorologists. Just in case you didn’t know about the severe winter weather advisory, just tune into Facebook.

5. Cause we’ll be freaking out. Yes, we freak out at the threat of a wintery mix. Most of us can remember what it’s like to go a week without power thanks to downed lines from an ice storm. So you really can’t blame us.

6. Just know we’ll run to the store, though, and buy the whole place. You can never have too much milk and bread, after all.

7. But we don’t forget the Eagle brand milk. Snow cream is a southern delicacy.

8. The fact is most everything closes in the case of inclement weather. Except Walmart and the local hospital, that is. The hospital gets the casualties from folks doing donuts in the Walmart parking lot.

9. Speaking of Walmart. In the south it’s common to see women there in boots in the summer, but also shopping in shorts and flip flops in the winter.

10. We will complain all summer long about how humid it is. We’ll beg for winter. But the second that temp drops below 50 we’re all screaming, “I am freezing to death.”

To death!
The only thing that probably gets us through the struggle that is cold (to us) weather is football! The majority of southerners will face the cruel elements head on to see their favorite college team play. Or a Christmas parade. We’ll pull out the scarves and toboggans for that too. But after football season ends you better believe we’re chomping at the bit for spring, and when it rolls around we’ll be singing her praises. Spring only plays second fiddle to the cherished weather that is fall. But that’s a pumpkin-spice-flavored blog for another day.

3 Things Your Nurse Friend Wishes You Knew

November 26, 2016 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

I’ve written on this subject before, but like many important subjects it needs to be repeated regularly so that everyone gets the memo. I love being a nurse, and even more so, I love that my friends and family love that I’m a nurse. It makes me feel so special when they reach out to me for advice. I’m being honest, it does. It fills me with a particular pride that people seek out my counsel on sensitive, medical subject matter, but there are instances where I wish I could convey a few, simple things. So here’s three things your nurse friend wishes you knew.

1. I don’t know everything. Listen, I’ll be the first person to pat myself on the back at how smart I am, but I have my limitations. I did go to nursing school, which is super hard. And I did learn a ton of stuff. In fact, I’m still learning stuff. But… I don’t know everything.

If you send me a blurry photo of some vague bumps on your toddler’s back I may not be able to throw a diagnosis out to you. In fact, it’s kinda wrong for me to do so. It’s actually outside of my scope of practice to “diagnose.” I will give you my best-educated hypothesis as your friend and as a fellow mom, based on my knowledge and experience, but please understand if I simply don’t know or feel uncomfortable.

When you throw out half a dozen symptoms that point to over a dozen illnesses, again I may be at a loss. I can have an idea based on your presentation, but realize it’s just an idea. It’s not an answer written in stone. That’s why there are things like health history and lab tests that are used to diagnose you.

I also don’t know the name, dosage, and side effects of every drug on the market today. Seriously, have you watched TV lately? There’s like a billion. I’m going to tell you a secret right now. When you ask me a question about a new medicine you’ve been prescribed, nine times out of ten I Google it. I’m a really good googler.

So, you can keep asking me questions. I really don’t mind. Just remember, I don’t know everything. Just most of everything.
2. My advice doesn’t replace that of a physician. I wish I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me for advice to prevent going to the ER. Heck, keep asking me. I have friends who work in the ER and I know they appreciate me telling you to not go there. It’s actually pretty easy. 90% of the time if you can take a moment to text me about it and you have reservations about it being ER worthy then it most likely is not. Typically an emergency room visit is an emergency and you won’t have time to phone a friend. Most instances can be more appropriately seen in an acute care clinic setting. There are so many of those open nowadays.

But, most importantly, please know this. My advice is just that. Friendly advice. It should not take the absolute place of a doctor’s visit. If you think you need to go to the ER, go. If you need to get a cure for what’s ailing you then hop in the car and bite the bullet on your copay at the doctor’s office.

As your friend I will gladly suggest home remedies and over the counter medications you can take to help you. As your friend I love to help you. But as a nurse my opinion should not replace that of your physician. I just happen to be your friend or family member who is also a nurse. Go to the doctor already, Dad! I love you.

3. I cannot explain or be held accountable for how your healthcare experience goes. I’m a nurse. Yes, this is true. But I cannot explain why your nurse at your last hospital visit did things a certain way. I can’t explain why the cardiologist’s office won’t call you back. I can’t explain why your family doctor prescribed a second pill for your blood pressure. He has his reasons. I don’t know why that nurse was rude or that doctor incompetent. I wasn’t there. My position in the healthcare field does not somehow mentally connect me to all the other members of the field out there. It doesn’t make your healthcare experience any easier just because you know this nurse (me) who said ____, and I promise if you tell them I did they’ll likely roll their eyes at you. Sorry, but true.

I’m a nurse, and I’m your friend, but I have little to zero control over how your healthcare experience goes unless I am directly related in delivering your care. Again, I don’t know all the answers, and even if I knew most I couldn’t explain why it takes so long in the waiting room of the ER. (But I might guess it has something to do with what we talked about in #2).

Bottom line, I love being a nurse, and even more so I love being your friend who happens to be a nurse. I don’t know everything, but I’ll help you in any way I can. I won’t always have all the answers, and I do have my limitations, but don’t stop asking; I really do love to help. But you gotta stop asking questions that violate the HIPAA privacy laws. I really can’t go there.

10 Things That Are More Stupid Than Playing Pokemon Go

July 18, 2016 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

I recently had a friend tell me an account of his interaction with the new game Pokemon Go. I will state for the record that he is not a player of this sensational new app, and therefor his comments might be one-sided. He was only able to relay to me how the game caused adolescents who are already hormonally, half brain dead to make poor choices that could have ended in their demise. He wasn’t able to say how awesome it actually is to finally capture a rare Charizard (yes, I had to Google that. I don’t know a Charizard from a Lewis Grizzard).

Anywho, he told me a recent account where a group of kids walked out in front of his vehicle while staring down at their phones. He couldn’t explain how he knew they were playing Pokemon Go, but I’m sure it was either the glint of utopia in their eyes at finally reaching a higher plain of transcendence, or perhaps their gleeful cries of “I just got an Omastar!” (Thanks Google).

Regardless, it seems these reckless teens were playing Pokemon Go, and aside from brazenly stepping in front of moving cars, one fella actually walked right into my friend’s bumper. But this isn’t the only story I’ve heard that makes me raise a brow; I’ve heard others.

There’s stories of people being run over, or stopping in traffic and causing a pileup. There’s news reports of robberies related to the game, and I even heard someone stepped off a cliff at the Grand Canyon while they were staring at their phone, but this isn’t something I can confirm nor deny.

Some people state it’s all in fun, and that it’s a good thing that will combat obesity better than any Michelle Obama School Lunch Program ever could. Of note, these champions of the app are playing it themselves (let’s be honest).

Other folks state it’s something to encourage heart healthy exercise for kids who are already zombified by their phones. Family time, after all, it’s overrated, you know?

My only question for adult pursuers of the Pokemon might be, “where do you find the time?” It brings to mind… with so many people lately protesting or chasing cartoon characters I wonder why the unemployment rate is so high?! But I digress.

My point is that with all the stories, news reports, and personal accounts I’m hearing of Pokemon Go gone bad, and with any assumptions some of you might have of its lack of usefulness to society as a whole, you might simply assume this game is stupid. Well, I certainly hate to take it that far. So in my support of Pokemon Go game players everywhere, here’s 10 things that are more stupid than playing Pokemon Go. You’re welcome.

1. Playing Russian Roulette.

2. Volunteering for a Lobotomy.

3. Drinking cheap tequila on an empty stomach. Just don’t.

4. Sliding down a banister lined with razor blades into a kiddie pool of lemon juice.

5. Sitting through an entire episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

6. Sharing a meme on Facebook to ensure a kid with cancer is healed.

7. Forwarding me a message about Bill Gates giving away a million dollars.

8. Wearing pajamas to Walmart (I sincerely apologize to the hundreds of people I just offended. I couldn’t pass it up; it takes 12.3 seconds to slip on a pair of pants.)

9. Taking this guy up on his offer.

10. Telling me you’ve never seen The Breakfast Club. (Seriously. It’s the best movie ever made, and crushing on John Bender never made anyone fall into the Grand Canyon.)

How-To Guide for Raising a Bully

March 2, 2016 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

Are you worried that your kid will be the butt of everyone’s jokes, the outcast, or the laughing stock of school? Are you concerned for them to be unique, weak, or sensitive? Well worry no longer!

The solution is simple, really. Instead of raising them to be compassionate, caring individuals, your answer is to raise a bully. Train your child up to be mean, abrasive, and demeaning to others. How you may ask? By following the steps below.

1. Don’t instill morals. That’s a pretty easy one, really. Basically just practice lazy parenting.

Let them watch whatever they want to on television, and same goes for music. In fact, the more lewd the lyrics, and inappropriate the role model, the better. Let them think that fame is the answer to happiness, dressing provocatively is where it’s at, and that Miley and Beyoncé should be the kind of women they look up to. Not you.

So while we’re at it…

2. Don’t set limits. Let them act like the little brats on popular TV shows. Don’t teach “please” and “thank you,” but instead laugh when they curse and encourage sassy back-talk.

Respect for their elders? Overrated.

As they get older make sure to allow free reign of Facebook and Snapchat. Buy them a mobile device as soon as possible, allowing them to search the web without restriction.

Don’t teach them appropriate behavior on social media. They’ll figure it out the hard way.

Never search their phone.

If children are given rules and boundaries they might think you care too much, and this will always lead to a child with a big heart.

A big heart=kindness. Kindness=weakness.

3. Model for them what’s important in life.

First, feel free to allow them to express themselves via whatever attire they deem necessary. Teach them that a pride in their own modest clothing choices is lame, and that adhering to name brands and what’s very popular at the time is THE ABSOLUTE most important thing.

Remember. Outward appearance is what counts, not your heart. So they should shun anyone who can’t dress in the fad of the moment.

And while you’re at it place focus on things like where you live, how much money you make, and who your parents are. Status is everything!

Also encourage names for those who fall below you in the food chain of life. Anyone below your socioeconomic level can be titled “trailer trash” or something similar. In my day it was “skank,” but you just encourage whatever the kids are using nowadays.

Laughing along with them will make you a popular parent. You won’t be respected, but they might tell you stuff. And since you’re not going to set a curfew you’ll find this useful to make sure you don’t have to spring bail. You’re welcome.

But most important…

4. Don’t give your child your most precious asset. Now, I’m not talking about the keys to your vehicle. I’m not even talking about money. I’m talking about your time. I’m talking about your affection.

If you want to raise an angry child who takes out their hurt feelings on others then please, please don’t pay them any attention! Make sure that work is more important. Make sure that time out with your friends ranks higher than reading bedtime stories when they’re young, and that playing on Facebook trumps listening to them talk about their day at school.

To really accomplish this, never show up. Like never. Don’t show up to their events, games, whatever.

Most importantly, though, even when you are around at home, just be there in body, but not in mind. Just be there, but don’t be present. Know what I mean? Check out mentally. That will really harden your child to the reality of life. They gotta learn sometime, right?!

And the sooner they learn how hard life is the better. You don’t want to raise a kid who makes the world a better place! You just want to raise a kid who can face this harsh world. Compassion is overrated. Love and kindness is for the birds. A heart of true courage by caring for those around you is a sign of weakness.

So feel free to follow all the steps above, and your child will be a bully for sure. In their neglect and feelings of rejection they will act out and hurt others before they’re hurt again.

Sure, you’re not helping to make the world a better place, but at least your kid won’t get picked on. They’ll be the cool kid, and cool kids always win. Look at Bill Gates.

65 Things That Gross You Out (Unless You’re a Nurse)

February 28, 2016 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

Maybe it’s the training. Maybe it’s just the professional attitude. Maybe it’s even because we’re used to it. Or maybe it’s because we were born for this. Whatever the reason, nurses are a special breed, and the stuff that makes most people turn green gets us excited. And even the things that we find less than appealing do little more than make us raise an eyebrow. I mean, even if it’s nasty, we just deal with it. Without batting an eye. It’s part of the job, and while most people may wanna puke, nurses are like, “what?! Pass the chips, bro. It’s lunch time.”

Here’s 65 things that gross you out (unless you’re a nurse).

The sight of blood.
Profuse bleeding.
Cleaning up blood.
Blood clots.
Menstrual blood.
Blood on your clothes or shoes.
The way it sounds when someone tries in vain to expectorate their own mucous.
The smell of a human bowel movement.
Cleaning up a human bowel movement.
Someone’s bowel movement on your clothing.
Making someone produce a bowel movement.
Making someone produce a bowel movement with your finger.
Using a Popsicle stick to dig around and transfer bowel movement.
Blood/bowel movement mixture. AKA GIB.
Needles.
Poking someone with a needle.
Nakedness.
Poor hygiene.
Body odor.
Genital odor.
That skin that falls of people’s feet when you take their socks off.
Yeast infections.
Someone’s genitals in your face.
Holding genitals in your hand.
Accidentally brushing your bare skin against moist genitals.
Gnarly toenails.
Toe cheese.
Missing toenails.
Missing toes.
Halitosis.
Cleaning someone else’s dentures.
Cleaning someone else’s dentures that have three months’ worth of food on them.
The smell of urine.
Urine that looks like sludge.
Urine on your person.
Vaginal discharge.
Penile discharge.
Anal discharge.
Bile.
Vomit.
Projectile vomit.
Vomiting blood.
Vomiting bowel movement.
The kind of vomit where you can see exactly what lunch was.
Ear wax.
An abscess.
Open wounds.
Open wounds you can stick your fist in.
Open wounds where you can see tendon and bone.
A dangling limb.
When a man’s scrotum is the size of a cantaloupe.
When the meatus of the glans penis fillets open like a flower.
Gangrene.
Rotting flesh.
Brain matter.
Pus.
Maggots in flesh.
Intestines outside of the body.
Amniotic fluid.
Make that any fluid.
Tubes sticking out of people.
Sticking tubes in people.
Sucking things out of people with tubes you have stuck into people.
Dead bodies.
Talking about any of the above over dinner.

Not much bothers a nurse, it’s true. It’s simply part of it. So even if there’s a thing or two that really makes your gorge rise, for the most part you’re a trooper in the face of anything foul or otherwise disgusting. You may even describe it as “cool.”

So here’s to all the defenders of death, wipers of bum, and super hero healthcare workers out there who look lung butter in the face and say, “is that all ya got?”

Adjusting to Life With a Newborn

December 30, 2015 by brieann.rn@gmail.com

Last night my newborn daughter screamed, and I mean screamed. It was like a mix between a pterodactyl and the sound of one’s anguish after a piano is dropped on their head from a five story building. Or maybe that’s what my head felt like after two hours of her screeching and wailing. For reals, it was pounding.

As I tried every trick up my sleeve, every secret, gassy baby hold, every lullaby, every rocking chair, and every type of pat, burp, and bouncing available, to no avail, I remembered. I remembered what it’s like trying to get accustomed to life with a newborn. Yeah, it’s easier than the first time, but it’s still a chore.

I’ve been reminded, and I’ve been reminded big time. Every time I try to do anything other than hold the baby, I’m reminded.

I’m reminded that showers are not a necessity; they are actually a sweet, sweet gift. They’re a prize for which you strive and dream for. They’re something you struggle to obtain, but nine times out of ten, don’t achieve.

I’m reminded that I can accomplish nothing. Not one. Single. Thing. Nothing.

My house is a shambles. My hair is a mess. My laundry overflows. My sink begs for attention. And all my bills are late. I mean, who can think about balancing a checkbook in the face of sustaining the life of a very tiny human being? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

As I feed her, rock her, and gaze at that precious, squishy face, it all seems worth it. Of course it’s worth it! It’s crazy; I’m crazy. But it’s a good crazy. Right?! I’m tired, so tired, but she feels so good in my arms. I lightly brush my hand across her peach fuzz head and a crooked smile appears on her soft, pink face. And I fall in love all over again.

And as I gaze at this little slice of Heaven, this piece of my heart that resides outside my body, a crying toddler comes running loudly down the hall hiccuping complaints that only I can solve. A sleeping baby wakes with a startle, and I’m reminded. I’m reminded again how “challenging” life with a newborn can be.

It’s challenging to leave the house. It’s challenging to cook dinner. It’s challenging to tie your own shoe with one hand. Because that’s all you have. One hand. When you have a newborn you only have one arm; the other is always occupied.

I could hold her forever, but eventually everyone else has to be fed something other than chips and gummy snacks. They need clean underwear. And you need to use the bathroom. I’m not saying I’ve breastfed on the toilet, but I’m not saying I haven’t.

It’s challenging.

It’s challenging to try and change your diet for someone else.

Did the onion in my lunch make her gassy?

Oh God, why, why did I drink that caffeinated soda after 8pm?!

It’s challenging to try to find wardrobe choices that are not only breastfeeding friendly, but that also fit around a new, more than ample bosom. Not to mention a shirt that looks nice in the face of a belly that still appears four months pregnant.

It’s challenging.

It’s rewarding.

It’s wonderful.

It’s hard.

It’s the new normal. For now.

It will be doable again one day. One day I’ll look up and realize I’ve been doing something for myself for a full twenty minutes. No one is crying, everyone is being self-sufficient, for the moment, and it’s actually kinda quiet. Oh Lord, it’s quiet! What are they doing?!

For now, I am just getting by. Each moment is achieved from nap to nap. From feeding to feeding. From poopy diaper to poopy diaper. So many poopy diapers. That is my new normal. For now.

I’m adjusting. Slowly but surely I’m getting used to painful breasts, spit-up down my cleavage, and doing things for myself in fifteen minute bursts of time. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. It’s just an adjustment.

Plus those itty, bitty baby cuddles are the best!

But I could do with a little less of the midnight screaming. I’m only human, after all.