Saturday, August 30, 2008

I say to the universe--I am a Packer fan!

I say to the universe--I am a Packer fan!

The universe answers--Here are some tickets to the Packer-Titan game!

An so, (not And so, but AN SO), last Thursday, we went to a Packer Game. At Lambeau Field. My first football game ever. To appreciate this, read this.

Or don't. It's all free and all good.

Also, it must be said, obtaining Packer tickets is a true gift. All Packer tickets are held by season ticket holders. To own season tickets, you must have inherited them. Or killed someone. Or both. Seriously, the waiting list to become a season ticket holder is 70 years long. No joke!

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Witness the Packer Pope. Note the Super Bowl ring.

Now, I am sure one can purchase them over the interweb. But that's no fun. And so, if you do not own season tickets you must know someone. Someone nice enough, who likes you enough, to give you tickets.
The Family Hall is now one of the few and proud who know someone. It was an awesome and sudden gift. When we asked for the day off of work for the game, it was immediately granted without discussion. It is known what a rare and awesome gift this is. To be on the receiving end of Packer tickets.

We decided, against our better judgement, to bring the Pancake. This was an opportunity after all. She fared as well as can be expected. There were threats and tears. I was chomping at the bit during the first quarter as she whined about how loud it was. There was little to threaten her with. Leaving and going home to GrandmaGrandpa's was not an option. She wanted to leave. Threatening to take away toys was useless. In order for a threat to be viable to a five year old, it must be immediately implemented. But, she was driving me nuts. NUTZZZ I SAY!!

An so, I decided the only thing I could do was seek libation intervention.

I can truly say I did not enjoy this beverage. This stuff is two steps above rubbing alcohol. It was like drinking one of those solid gel soaps, with artificial menthol permeating the core. I could only stomach the one. It got the job done though. WOO-HOO! As I forced it down I became much, much calmer. And Pancake got much much happier. And the whining stopped. And she started to chant and clap with the rest of us.


They say that the children inherit the earth. Well, that might be true. But they definitely inherit their parents' personalities. Thus, it was a wise move to relax. Game got more fun too!

The stadium was smaller than I thought. I grew up a half an hour away from Green Bay. I even went to college in Green Bay for a year. But this was the first time I had been. This is as it should be. I am a fan now. And as a fan, I understood more of the game than I ever had. Cheering was awesome. Yelling was awesome. Doing the butt wiggle dance with Pancake and Mr. Hall after each touchdown was awesome.

And they played polka music! There is no better common denominator than polka. It celebrates dance and beer and women.The dance is soo easy, so fun! I was in my own patch of Heaven. The only thing missing was Mac. But, we know people now, he'll get his chance.

One thing that was not awesome was watching the other team score. I found myself getting all pissy.

An so, when Pancake said, "The guys in blue, they're ugly right?"

I answered, "Yes, sweet cheeks, very very ugly." We booed together.

One of the best parts about it, was being with other Packer Fans. We are all from this cheese state. We all look Midwestern. We all are, in part, white trash. Even the lesbians are white trash. Mullets, people! Mullet lesbians. In flannel! No chic short hair cuts, no lipstick. Just mullets and marlboros. OH! The Midwestern love of baggy t-shirts, tube socks, flannel and uggs. The local accent, the YAH DER HEYS! an so!

an so indeed.

In the end, it felt awesome to be part of the culture from which I sprang. Growing up I was so serious, so rage against the machine. My freak flag flew proudly and I shunned the cheeseheads. But, it turns out there was no need for such foolishness.

My freak flag still flies, right next to the big G.

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Shoring up the blog

When I started this blog, I really had no theme in mind. There were many routes to take like Mommy Blog, Wife Blog, Self-help blog. There are plenty of those out there. I didn't want a theme.

Each day my thoughts buzz around me like insistent little hunny bees. They munch on the essays being rattled off in my head. This flood of thoughts began to flow at around age nine. I am always think, think, thinking. Write, write, writing in my head. It use to be tortuous, this constant chatter. But then I found Yoga. I found that I could actually calm the tides. And then I got my sleep pattern back. Wee-hee!

The essays I have running in my head, are varied. They are the seeds of my posts. I could poop out four a day if I wanted. But, like Willie Nelson says, "Writing a song is easy, it's writing a good one, that's the hard part." It feels grand though, finally having a place to pound out the thoughts. Some place besides Mr. Hall.

My intention in posting is to have an emotional arc. A passionate arc if you will. I have lots of passion. It varies though. It is dependant on my motivation. For example, my passion for helping others, for being of service to others, leads to posts under the label of 'nurse'.

Kids are endless fodder for passionate posts. They are labeled Pancake, Mac (formerly Mac-n-Cheese). As is the marriage between Mr. Hall and I. See labels marriage, Mr. Hall.

I am unsure what is driving me to write all this. Part of it is unmet social needs. Everyday, I have twenty dollars worth of energy to spend. Everyday, fifteen dollars is automatically deducted because I am a wife, mom and nurse. And those last five? Those are spent carefully.

It is difficult forming relations with others when you are a mom. You can make instant friend with other moms. But it is instant soup. Making friends outside the Mommy set is difficult. Chicks are complex and intricate. Delicate negotiations are needed. And the problem is, I am one.

Overall, I am attached to my lovely offspring 24/7. To get away is to be separated. And this requires a babysitter. Money. Babysitters are very nice. But they are young and not the Mommy or Daddy. Our baby sitter, Josephine, is young. And has a young life. We do love her so. She called me twice when I was at yoga one time. Couldn't find the top to the sippy cup . . . .

Unmet social needs are not the only reason. When I started to compose essays in my head, at the wee age of nine, I started writing out loud. This didn't really end until I started to become a nurse. Becoming a nurse and a nurse practitioner requires fortitude. And copious amount of time and energy. It ain't easy. It shouldn't be. And this learning I hold so dear, will never stop. I will never stop learning for my job. Wee-hee!

However, there is still this writer inside me. Using words like they are lollipops. Tasting them, turning them around in my head. Finding ways to use them in everyday life. In everyday posts. I love them so.

And now I am downshifted. I have a balance and some time and here I am. In blog form.

Welcome one and all.


Mrs. Hall

P.S. If any of you see misspellings, please let me know. I don't want to look stoopid.

Friday, August 29, 2008

Pancake picks a song

Mommy: Hey sweetcheeks, what song should I put on my blog today?

Pancake: What's a blog?

(Mommy opens up her blog and shows Pancake)

Mommy: Mommy writes to people on this. Sometimes people read it.Sometimes nobody but Mommy reads it.

(Pancake has a blank expression. Obviously a. not impressed b. doesn't get it.)

Mommy: So what song should we put on the blog?

Pancake: OLD MAN on the back porch!

And thus it was.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Viva la revolucion!

My kids show up here, from time to time, in blog from. Today is one of those days. The painting above is from the impressionist Mary Cassatt. It's called "After the Bath". Her paintings are mostly women, mothers and children. They might have been the only subjects she was allowed to paint, because she was a woman. I could be wrong. Either way, her paintings mean a lot to me.

This is what my family looks like. My girl Pancake, is blonde and five. My son Mac is 19 months now, all blonde and pudgy. I have darker hair as do their father, Mr. Hall.

She will start kindergarten next week. Somehow, my tiny blue eyed blonde baby girl got big and started to toddle around. Then she got taller and thinner. Her hair reached to her butt and she got her first hair cut. Then she began to run and do things on the playground without me holding her by the shorts for balance. She was three or four. Now she is limber and getting taller. She reasons things out and cracks very funny jokes.

About a month ago, we went out to dinner with her little friend. They both ordered chocolate milks. The waitress came and handed Pancake the first chocolate milk. She said "Thank you" and passed it to her friend. Once her friend was settled, Pancake took hers. She did this, as she use to say, "by my own self. "

My heart broke in the most wonderful way when this happened. The weight of this moment is almost too much to bear. I still can't talk about it without crying.

She has been in day care/pre-school since she was a year old. She loves it there. They love her. I love them for loving her. It is a love fest of epic proportions. Hee hee.

But now she is going to real school. She wrote her name on all of the items that we purchased for school. She has her little backpack. Her little gymshoes. And my heart is breaking in the most wonderful ways. And yes, I am crying.

Here comes the revolution.

The school supply list said Pancake needed "Two plain, solid color folders." I didn't like this suggestion. We bought one folder with horses and one with puppies. And thus I start a tiny revolution in my tiny girl.

hee hee.

Monday, August 25, 2008


My next job, as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner, is waiting for me. Just over yonder hills, past the river and around the bend.

The hills being a SIXTY page application I completed,
the river
the bend being my state license. Which I can't apply for UNTIL I GET THAT GODDAMN CERTIFICATE.

So I call, and explain to the certificate granters. I SAID, "I cannot start my new job until I have the certificate. I took the exam, which I passed, which enables me to recieve the certificate, on 8-14-2008. How long till I get the cute certificate?"

could be up to 90 days says the woman in the deep deeeep, almost un-understandable jamaican accent.


And now, to explain my emotional state in more better terms. Put your hands together for Cake everybody, make some noise!


Saturday, August 23, 2008

Something Sweet on the Sabbath

On the Sabbath

On the Sabbath try and make no noise that
goes beyond your

Cries of passion between lovers
are exempt.

By: St. Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274)
Found in: Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Crackhouses as viewed by a nurse

My job will change soon. Right now I am a home health nurse. Again, this means I drive to peoples' houses and be a nurse. My patients range in age and location. Of concern today, in this post, are my patients who are not white and not rich.

There is a pocket in town that is poorest. The next step is homeless. These enclaves are often called ghettos, section 8 housing, the projects, or crack house lane. All accurate names. And so there I go, before ten am, in my car. Me, the white nurse.

The man I saw was not appreciative of my visit. For better or worse, he has expectations of the agency that I work for. They are not being met. He is angry and short with me. I feel the angry and agressive energies. I breathe deep and stay centered.

I remark on his TV. “You have a see through TV.” I say, rather chirpely. This is my natural and genuine tone. He says flatly, “It’s a prison TV”. It would function as such, the outer casing is clear platic and you can see all the parts. No hiding shivs there. “Oooh, I seee.” I say slowly. “That is exactly the point.” He smirks. I smile. “That’s a funny joke!” says me. Chipper monkey, thy name is Mrs. Hall.

So we get down to it. My task at this appointment is four fold. He refuses all but two. I take his vitals, listen to his lungs, his heart. Then the diabetic foot care. His feet are a goddam mess. Toenails all thick with green fungus, nail beds splitting apart at the seems, feet all dry and flakey. A mess indeed.

There I am, in front of his recliner. It is the kind that moves up and down with a remote. His carpet has foodstuff ground into it. I kneel there, move aside a bottle of Jameson, empties of Hamm’s beer, and the cockroach spray. My tools are taken from my backpack. And for the next 30 minutes I work through this mess. I notice that as I lean forward, my top dips down, revealing cleavage. My shirt is quickly adjusted and I look up to see if he had noticed. He is bent completely to his left, leaning over the arm of the chair. A mere six inches from the TV. Glued to The Price is Right. He takes no notice of my labor.

I do an excellent job. He feet respond well. When I am done I repeat my offer to complete my other tasks. He says no. But this time, he smiles. He is no longer short and angry.

In a way, I find my job selfish. On this visit I had an opportunity to give dignity to a man who has very little. This is the priviledge of service.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

I shall not want: swimming pool edition

The lord is my Shepard, I shall not want a swimming pool.

Behold the pool of my neighbor. Witness the exaltation as they splash, cavort and throw the inflated beach ball. Hark! hear their cries of earthly delight as they swim in the chlorinated pool of your creation.

And lo! Witness I! Your lowly servant. I am here, on the front lawn of Babylon, kneeling under your glorious sun. I beg for your strength as I try to fix the righteous black knob upon the divine yellow sprinkler. Lord! Release the mighty spray and make still the colossal whining coming forth the mouths of babes on yonder porch. Please Lord, I beg, let the water burst forth in testament to your glory.

Lord hear my prayer.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Chick fight

The thing about feminism is is that it helped create the teenage me. That and LL Cool J. Today I need to focus on the feminism. With specific relevancy to my dear friend, Ramona.

In my life, there has only been one healthy and adult relationship. This would be Mr. Hall. Before this, it was a quagmire of mislaid idealism and selfish tendencies. I didn't know how to give or receive the love I felt. Plus, I didn't like people in general.

Ironic considering my profession, no? Perhaps that is the root cause of all this. I give eight hours a day. But that's not true. I have balance with my work and life.

Going through school, I found a lot of heady people. All right brained. All gerbil type A energy. I was more middle of the road with a wicked artsy streak. Alas, I studied in the field of medicine. There was no kin to be found. Then came Ramona.

I heard Ramona sing, and I heard everything.
(shout out to Frank Black, not the actor, the Pixie singer, see below)

At that point, I had married the most awesome man walking. I thrive in this love humidor of marriage. My hand then went out for another type of relationship. That being a second best friend.

Pursuing her was tough. We share a lot of the same tendencies. Worry being the most prevalent. Being socially isolative is another. But I pursued her with a singular, alpha female purpose. She would be my friend. I knew it like I knew about Mr. Hall.

It took some time, some awkward fits and starts, but we are very good friends as of today. The thing is, I am not sure what happens now. And what I want to do about it. I will be moving soon. This town where I live, will, most likely, never see me again. She has deeper roots than I.

That's not the big problem though. The big problem is fundamental differences. I am growing in ways unimaginable. With yoga and a proper diet, I conquered my insomnia. This insomnia began at age eight! I am more in control of my worry than I have ever been. I am bursting with happiness.

My politics have also changed. I categorize myself as a recovering feminist. My idealism has shifted to a middle ground. I no longer hold ideals like they are liquid gold in my palm. I can shake and scatter them about the place. I don't fear boobie implants.

Part of why I am good at my job is my absolute tolerance. On my best days, what ever patients give me, I receive with unwavering gratitude. Nothing shocks me. Things may surprise me, but nothing gives me cause to believe they are right or wrong. There is so much shame involved with telling one's story. I seek to lift this. I am a welcoming place to shed their skin.

How can I hold Ramona and her heart of worry and angst? She tolerates me. Me with my poking fun at her liberalism. Her pro-choice key chain. Me with my ambivalence toward politics. Me with my love for The Girls Next Door.

But I don't want her to tolerate me. I want her to feel what I feel. Calm and finally free. But things are not looking that way. So I pulled back a little. She found out about my exam results through this blog and a call to Mr. Hall. This greatly upset her.

The choice now is to move forward. If I was having problems with Mr. Hall, the choice as to how to move forward, would be very clear. But, she is complicated. And so am I.

And that is where we stand now.
Ramona, I dedicate this to you.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Throwing cards for the Olympic Gold

Most everyone is discussing the Olympics. I might as well too. I have seen three or four events, about 10 minutes a time. Again, I have these tiny people I chase around. There is no 'sitting and watching' anything that is not animated.

Thus far watched girl's gymnastics. I worry for these girls. They train at least eight hours a day, eat a very specific diet. They arrest their development in the quest for gold. However, I know there is no way you can make a child choose this. For what ever reason, they picked this for their life. Their faces read pain. They are trying to be perfect. They put so much pressure on themselves. However, I am not sure if it is 100% unhealthy. After all, it is a gift to fail. This is their path and I wish them luck.

I watched men's volleyball. This isn't an Olympic sport. Too much is left to chance and the bend of the ball. I think Olympic sports need to based on physical prowess. Besides, volley ball is a girl's sport. It's more of a feminine, reflex type challenge of the body. So men sports should be brawny, women's need to be cat like in nature. Thus, women's volleyball is an Olympic sport. But would the president PLEASE stop embarrassing us with his dorkiness. Please?

One game not in the Olympics is Euchre. That is the card game I play with my brother, Mr. Hall and my holler monkey Dad. I am the type who is late to sports. I enjoy playing games of any sort, but am not particularly competitive. Overall, I am fun to have on your team, but irritating if you want to really win. For some reason this changed last Saturday.

Again, Euchre is a card game. It involves two partnered teams. The dealer deals and cards are thrown. The cards and strategy are simple. My team usually loses for reasons mentioned above. Plus there is wine involved and I get very loopy. My brother, who is a coach for a living, never wants to be my partner. Mr. Hall always wants to be my partner. He hearts the flighty Mrs. Hall.

But I felt bitey last Saturday. I pulled together all my cognition, all the communicational subterfuge that is a marriage of eight years, and we won three rounds. If smoke could come out of my brother's ears, we wouldn't be able to see the cards for the fog.

I really got into it. I strategized. I used my skills of reading people to read people. It was like taking candy from babies. There was a point when I went over the line. I began to actively use a nemesis laugh. I would say, "Brother, I hate to do this, but MWAHH HA HAAA!" and then I trumped his dumb ass.

I must say, I don't feel guilty. I am not particularly close to my brother. We are very different and have nothing in common. My attempts to get closer to him are almost always rebuffed. Plus, he has never helped me move. So screw him.


Friday, August 15, 2008

On blogs and booze

First the blogs.

I am very new to the bloggerhood. It is very surreal meeting the nieghbors. I am finding there is are many like me. Seemingly normal people who feel the need to write about things, here on the interweb. Some of them are excellent writers. Some are not. I like them best when they are from the heart. It is like a bizzare family reunion, like hunting down people you find at Long lost relatives and odd uncles from Florida. Third cousins in North Dakota. Unknown twins from Switzerland. It is very powerful writing again. More powerful to actually get a response. Even it is from myself.

Now the booze to celebrate.

I am late to this whole "drinking" thing. My first adult beverage was at age twenty five. Having no real idea what the hell I was doing, I got very drunk and very sick. Didn't go near the stuff for a while. It is a skill, adding the occasional cocktail to one's life.

I had wanted to discuss the cosmopolitan first. But I am tired of discussing Sex and the City. I will simply say that the cosmopolitan does a nice job of being tasty and pretty. It is only four weight watchers point. It comes with a orange twist and a martini glass. I can't help but feel all cute and girly as I sip away. It does a nice job of altering too.

But when I am serious in my booze exploration, I steer clear of the girly drinks. I have discovered Hennessy. It is a bit rough at first. But if you power through the first few sips, it becomes very good. I enjoy the pervasive warmth it provides. It is a grown up drink.

I stop at one though. If I have more than that I get all giggly and wobbly. It is unbecoming of me. I am naturally a very energetic and chipper monkey. Best to keep that at a loveable minimum.

Here's to us bloggers-


Wednesday, August 13, 2008

First comes the love . . . . .

Photo removed at the behest of Mr. Hall. Safety first he says.

That is a photo of my daughter and I. We clean up well, no? This was taken a few months ago at my graduation ceremony. I graduated my with a master's degree in nursing (note the sash there around my neck.) I don't say these things to be self-important. I am just damn proud. It was effing hard work.

Anyway, as I was crossing the stage she ran from her seat and jumped all over me. "I'm soo proud of you MOMMA!!" She kissed and hugged me and held me tight. Just as I had done for her at her ballet recital a few weeks before. Alas, those photos were fuzzy. So this is what you get.

This job of being a nurse, it is like no other. We have all seen life and death materialize in front of us. Our stories can take years to tell. Even then we wouldn't be done. It is not like being part of a club, it is part of you. It is part of me, just as much as being a Mom and Mrs. Hall. My nursing backstory is long and liquid. But I don't want to talk about that now. I will later, but not now. If you want to read how I feel about my job. Go here. Or back to here.

I want to talk about her. That girl there, all decked out in her finest dress with her cute sparkly shoes. All of her choosing. I want to talk about how I went back to school because of her. I wanted to be as ecstatic at work as I am with her and her brother. I was done being the nurse that I was. I chose to grow and get bigger. Just like she does every day.

My main function is to be her hero. To be the person she thinks I am. To provide inspiration so that someday she will chase down her own dreams. She and her brother, my beautiful son, inspire every breath I take. Both in and out.

These kids are my everything. Everything else comes in a distant fifth.

And now that I have the title of Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner, I hope to teach her what passion and privilege really is. I want to teach her about the privilege of service.

There is no greater service than the service of others.

That's my personal motto there. I should print up t-shirts!


Mrs. Hall

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Go ahead, ask. Ask if I passed my certification exam. Ask if I am now a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. The answer is yes and yes.

I ROCKED that exam baby!!

I will write about it more later. I am beyond exhausted. I needed every bit of that 70 hours of studying to pass this thing. In fact, I needed all my skills from my undergraduate degree, my Registered Nurse experience and my graduate degree. I needed it all. And that is as it should be.

A large, satisfying nap followed by a delicious meal is in high order.

And that is exactly what I am going to do.

PS. stay tuned. tomorrow Mrs. Hall will reveal herself in photograph form

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Lord hear my prayer

Today is the day.
And I am done studying now.
The rest is up to me and mine.
Thanks to all that are pulling for me.
Mrs. Hall

Monday, August 11, 2008

Zen and the Art of Parental Maintenance

Day four of studying. One more to go. I am doing eight or nine hours a day of straight studying. I am in the phase of studying where I don't care. Gone are the fun stuff to study, the neurotransmitters, the brain, the mental disorders themselves. Gone are the medications and how they effect the brain. It is now nursing theories, developmental theories, blah blab bhbh. BIg words . . . blah bhallakfdhdkdkkK!!!!

But the exam is this week. It's amazing what a deadline will do for motivation. Plus, if I reschedule the exam, it would cost four hundred dollars. Amazing what that fact does for motivation.

I missed family activities this weekend. This makes me sad. The kids went all apey at the pool yesterday with Mr. Hall. That is the kind of Dad he is, taking the kids so I can study. But here's the thing, he was there for SIX hours. Six.

This is unbelievable. Now, my munchkins, Pancake and Mac are 5 and 2 respectively. They are an awesome, but relentless source of demands, diapers, hair braiding, whining, snot, cute sausage toes, butt cheeks like dollaps of vanilla ice cream . . . . . . But relentless is the word. Relentless work and need. And honestly, I can't get enough of it. At home.

I will take them places. However, my limit is two hours. Three if I have the Mr. Hall. But six!! Sharp stick in the eye, I say. That man, my husband, never falls to surprise me.

He has a Zen way of Daddying. And a Zen way of being Mr. Hall. During all of this he has demanded I take time to unlock the stress. To 'recover and recharge.' He has been vigilant with me as I start to get all numb and shut him off. This is my pattern as my stress level rises. I don't think it is possible, living this life without him. He is the bee's knees. Or the cat's ass as the english say.

So back to studying.

I see the light at then end of the tunnel, I just have to keep chugging.

Wish me luck.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Like Homer Simpson to a doughnut

I am in the thick of studying for my certification exam. This is a bridge I must cross to go from a registered nurse to a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. I am studying my ass off. But I wanted to take a break to share why I am loving every minute of it. Loving it like it's my job.

First and foremost, I am a nurse. It didn't start out that way. I originally was an art major. But this is not relevant for now. It was by happenstance I took a class about the brain. Specifically, I took a class on what the function of the brain is and what neurotransmitters are. O glory day, the heavens opened up.

Neurotransmitters are the little chemical messengers in the brain. They are like magical signals that go from brain cell to brain cell and tell the cells what to do. What they lack in size, they make up for in sheer number. In fact, there are billions and billions of brain cells in the brain. And the brain itself is about three pounds. It is like Whoville in our skulls. Not too shabby of a set up.

I am fascinated by the billions and billions of brain cells. And yes, I am stealing this line from Carl Sagan. Brain cells are also called nerve cells or neurons. I don't want to get to technical, for fear of losing you, but please, I can't help it.

So in the Whoville in our skulls live on continents called lobes. The frontal, the temporal, the parietal and the bastard in the back, the occipital. I do love them all. Each lobe has specific purpose. But it is the frontal I love the most. This is in the front (big shock) behind your forehead. All self important and logical. It pays your checkbook and lets you figure out how to argue with your wife. Well, the last part is not recommended.

When things go awry in Whoville, it will be my job to help. But here's the thing, no one really wants help if their Whoville is depressed. Or if the Whos are getting all ancy and manic like. Treatment will be sought very rarely if the Whos start muttering to themselves or seeing Whos that aren't there. The stigma attached to mental illness goes both ways, in it's diagnosis and treatment. Even in modern, educated societies, mental illness is seen as a moral failing. You should see what I get in less educated, more 'fresh of the boat' patients. But I have my ways. Indeed, I gots mad skills. (hee hee a pun!)

Let it be said here, in this blog, and please repeat it everywhere you can: Mental illness is a MEDICAL DISEASE. Just like diabetes, just like high blood pressure. Only this medical illness is in the brain.

Which brings me back to my love. The brain. The neurotransmitters. It is like Homer Simpson to a doughnut to me. It is my passion and privilege to work with people who have mental illness. One that I hold dear.

And as I pore through this review material and review the stuff I hold very dear, I can't help but get all weepy. I am so fortunate to have found my place in life. I don't want to do anything else when I grow up. I have found the golden ticket.

So please, anyone who listened or read this, please send out positive vibes, prayers and thoughts for my test next week.

Have a good weekend.

And take care of your own little Whovilles!

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

How to get a girlfriend if you're a hopeless nerd

This video is awesome. And so true, o so true.

Extra points for those that can identify what the line "Teh cake is a lie lol" is in reference to!

Monday, August 4, 2008

The Weight of Recovery

Editor's note: Posts on this blog will often be light, interesting and positive. The posts titled "The weight of recovery" are of a different type. They are still interesting, but as the title suggests, they are weighty not light. That being said, if you chose to read them, there is a pretty good chance it will be worth it. :)

Like most women, I struggle with weight. There was a time I sought help for it. I saw a counselor and used weight watchers. Emotions and chaos came up. I mined the field of buried ugly and came out cleaner. I thought I was done. Turns out, I was wrong.

Recently, I find myself falling. Falling into numbing patterns. I got mindless and rote. Then came this weekend's visit with the folks. I watched the pounding of food, the mindless consumption. My familiar and familial anger grew. I just wanted to throw up.

There is a proverb that says, "What you hate about others, is what you hate about yourself." My anger towards the shoveling of food into my folks’ mouths is real anger towards me. This is not healthy. I open these feelings in front of Mr. Hall. He held me and did what he does best, be my husband. I love him so much.
Next, I widen things out. I remember what I learned as I lost the weight. The sensation of a Volkswagen beign lifted from my shoulders. I know how to be healthy now. It is awesome and mighty.

The challenge begins as I make healthy a constant. It is challenged by these visits to my parent's house. They trigger unknown crypts of ugliness to open. I can’t relax there, I can’t feel safe. Except when I am away from their house. Away from him. My holler monkey Dad.

It all sounds so dangerous and sad. My overriding concern are my small people. I watch my kids like a hawk during these visits. There is no distress for them. They are happy. They sleep sound. They are safe. They are thriving. So leaving is not an option.

In my other life, I am a healer. Often I walk through the psychic destruction with my patients. This does not make me sad or angry. It does not shake or disturb me. I am their safe place, I am thier OK. I am their leader through it. But if they do not want to be lead, I sit with their pain. If they do not want company, I kindly say goodbye and leave the door open. But leaving is not an option with my folks. Neither is helping them heal.

It is too bad they don’t see this pain their daughter is in. It is too bad they can’t adjust themselves to make these visits go easier. This is the reality in front of me. Yet we have these tiny people whom we both love more than life. So we cohabitate to ensure this love gets felt.

My task now is to work on being still. Being whole. Being my own center in the milieu of relentless overeating. I will be my own leader, my own healer.

As such, my task is get to yoga and help things heal and grow.

That's it for now.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Give the people what they want

I am afflicted by the bored parent syndrome. That is to say, I cannot sit through barney or most children stories, because they bore me. And when I am tired, I have zero tolerance.

I have been studying my ass off for my licensing exam lately. This exam allows me to go from registered nurse to nurse practitioner. It will be my dream come true. I am studying very hard. I am spent. Thus, when I tuck the wee Pancake to bed, I do not read to her. There is no reading of "Nemo goes to school" or "Princess Jasmine goes to a kegger". I simply sit with her and tell stories.

At first I had her make up stories about various animals she likes at the zoo. For instance, "The elephants go swimming" or "The lions and Pancake goes swimming with Grandma." This was all she had to offer in the way of stories. It grew tiresome for both of us. It get very repetitious, very fast.

BUT! I have found the golden story! The one that makes her laugh very loud and shake with little girl delight. I simple tell her my day, in second person, but pepper the potty words she holds so dear. It goes like this, 'The nurse went to see her patient in a big apartment building, she got on the elevator and pressed 11 and then . . . . farted. She then went back to the office and had a chicken salad sandwich and went . . . . pee-pee'.

My goodness, that girl can laugh and laugh. These words, these precious potty words, set off paroxysms of joy and giggles. And when she is happy, everyone is happy. Especially the Mommy. That's me.

Pancake can't wait to tell her Grandma and Grandpa these stories. We are going to their house (in my hometown) this weekend so I can study some more. and some more. and some more. . . .

Have a good weekend-

Pee-pee heads!

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