See, I knew moving back home would begin to provide me with some interesting stories. Please, allow me to start from the beginning.

I have almost always had incredibly long hair. I think for the last almost decade my hair has been below my shoulders and almost down to my waist at times. However, with the impending threat of possibly loosing my hair due to Chemo, I decided to have it cut so if I did lose it, it wouldn't be too much of a shock. It now sits just above my shoulders and I have swoop bangs. (never had bangs in my life!).

Due to the cancer I have also been having constant fevers that last all day so my parents invested in some beanie hats for me to wear to help keep me worm. Apparently the change in hair and dress style was far too much for the dog to take in at one time.

The dog in question? This one. Lizzie.

 

She is the mild-mannered sweetheart who I have dubbed Little-shit Lizzie or Chicken-shit Lizzie in the past. Why? Because she is a chicken. I was harassing the dogs one day in the past and she nearly peed all the way down the hallway when she thought I was going to break into the house. Our other dog was just standing there wagging her tail at me.

Anyway. Yesterday I am standing in the living room as my mother cooks Thanksgiving dinner and I am pulling on my layers, jacket zipped up and beanie firmly in place. When I hear Lizzie's prancing walk coming down the hall. Suddenly there is the sound of nails scrapping on the hardwood floors as the dog is trying to double back, barking viciously.

Kahlua, our 100+ pound chocolate lab comes barreling down the hall, fully prepared to get whatever cat is walking through the yard, but Lizzie isn't after a cat. Empowered by Kahlua's presence, Lizzie eyes her target and goes psycho. I'm talking the hair all the way down her back was standing on end and and the fangs were out. It was only as she charged at me did I realize she didn't recognize me.

Thankfully I was able to pull the beanie off before she got to me. She also didn't come near me for a few hours after that. Kahlua on the other hand... kept walking around to all the windows looking for the damn cat that didn't exist.

My Parents and Video Games

My parents have never really been big fans of video games. Well, maybe with Atari. And we rarely had video games in the house. A Sega Genesis that lasted about a year. Then a GameCube that was solely mine. But then... enter the Wii.

They loved Wii Bowling from the first time they were talked into playing it, but after spending some time with that, I tried to get my mother to branch out a bit more. She opted for Wii Boxing. I spent a few minutes showing her how if she moved her hands, the hands on her Mii moved as well and would punch my Mii. She got it quickly and was ready to go. We are both standing in front of the TV watching as the countdown flashes over the screen. 3... 2... 1...

Suddenly the woman jumps sideways and starts punching me in the arm as fast as she possibly can, laughing and grinning ear to ear as she did so. Once I was snapped out of my shock by the pain she was inflicting, I tried to retreat but she followed, continuing her assault on my arm. I'm yelling for her to stop but it's nearly impossible to hear over the roaring and hysterical laughter from my cousins who were watching my mother beat the crap out of me from the safety of the couch. I retreat a bit further into the kitchen and she yields, only to say: "What are you doing? You can't fight from over there!"

After a moment of staring wide-eyed at the woman as she playfully bounces her weight from side to side, ready to pounce again the second I return to the living room, I shake my head. "You aren't suppose to actually hit me!"

She freezes, straightens her posture and looks at the Miis on the TV. "Oh."

I have never played another video game with my mother since then.

Memories

It's funny how talking about random things causes old memories that you had forgotten long ago to pop back up. That happened this morning when I was talking with a friend about sleeping which lead to sleep walking/talking which then lead to stories of my mother of course.

My mother use to talk in her sleep all the time, like, full conversations. It wasn't uncommon when I was growing up to be woken in the middle of the night by my mother talking rather loudly. It was never really directed at anyone and most of the time was relatively unintelligible. However, one night stood out amongst all the rest in my mind.

I was probably 13 and it was about two in the morning. I was laying in my bed, my eyes were closed and I was in that light form of sleep when:

Mom: Brandi!
Me: (jumps awake, startled)
Mom: Brandi!
Me: What?
Mom: Shut the hell up and go to bed!
Me: I was.
Mom: I don't care. Go to bed.

It always makes you feel special to know that your mother even yells at you in her sleep. At least you know you've made a lasting impression

Today

So, today... I'm pretty sure was one of those days where the world got a laugh at my expense. Because you are left with no other choice but to find the humor in a head ache that just wouldn't go away and forces you to lay down and sleep it away... only to have to listen for the next thirty minutes as the ice cream truck circles your apartment complex playing "O Come All Ye Faithful".

My Morning

So... I'm driving down the road today, early in the morning, on my way to go shopping with my sister when she reaches across the car, between my arms, and honks the car horn.

I'm confused at this point as there are no cars in front of me, beside me, nor behind me. In fact, the only people around are two women taking a morning jog on the side walk.

Me: (panicked by the rudeness of honking the horn) What are you doing?
Danielle: Getting their attention.
Me: Oh, do you know them from the gym?
Danielle: No, but they're hot and now they're looking at you.

Introductions Round 4

My Sister's Name: Danielle
Age: ...that's information I am not going to risk giving out for fear of being tackled, pinned to the ground, and having my face licked... and totally not in the good way. But she is my older sister.

So, I've been hesitant about making this introduction despite my sister's frequent appearances in my other little stories. Mainly out of fear. I've been too afraid of putting in something that would piss her off and having the above mentioned scenario play out. But she has still been pushing for her introduction and rightfully so. In fact, she has asked for me to clarify something. So I am now clarifying and giving credit where credit is due.

Some of you may remember a quick little example from the fic BWYDT of how horrible Quinn's cooking skills are. To be more specific, when she nearly killed someone with the best tasting meatloaf ever made. Well, that story I took from real life. The cook: My sister. You see, one night she decided that she wanted to cook for us. Meatloaf to be exact. But a problem my sister has is her... lacking desire to do as instructed. So when it came time to season the meatloaf, she decided to be creative, adding nearly every season and spice my mother had in her spice rack.

Now I must say that it tasted absolutely amazing. So good in fact, that we all had several servings of it. A fact that we were later regretting as we all fought over the bathrooms and swore we were going to die.

And actually, while I'm onto the topic of Danielle and her cooking adventures, lets discuss Macaroni and Cheese. You know, that quick and easy to make meal? Boil water, add noodles, add milk, add butter, add cheese. Yeah... four times. It took her four times before she was able to make Mac and Cheese correctly.

Oh! Rewind to Christmas two years ago. At my mother's request we spent an evening baking cookies and candies like we use to when we were younger, each of us responsible for our own type of cookie. I made peanut butter sugar cookies and Danielle went with this box-ready chocolate-chocolate chip cookie. And yes... she screwed it up somehow. I still haven't figured out how. Apparently it was a miscalculation when she decided to do a double batch, but it was a disaster. She nearly broke our mixer. It was rendered useless as the overly thick batter clogged it up and was then required to be mixed by hand... and somehow it ended up being done by my hands as Danielle sat back and watched.

 (And yes, the batter you see stuck to everything did get there from when she pulled the mixer out and still had it running)

And so there we are. She wanted her credit and now she has it. And to make sure I don't end up pinned on the ground and tortured... again. I will finish this introduction off by saying that she actually is a good cook... most of the time.

I Still Can't Believe She Did That

In this photo... is the look of guilt. The look of shame. The look of embarrassment.

My sister, her dog, and myself went on a road trip this weekend to visit my parents back up north. It's a trip I have made four times in the last two months but this time was different. Why? Because we took my sister's dog. This dog is... unique. She has her little quirks and has them in abundance. There are even a few that pertain to traveling. Some even requiring my sister to drug the animal before the trip starts. However, we did not this time.

We took my car and covered the back seat with a sheet to cut down on the dog hair and then added a thicker blanket to prepare for the vomiting. Because that is what this dog does. All the time. For no reason. But never once, there always has to be a second time.

So we start to leave town completely prepared for the possible vomiting. The dog is thrilled to be going for a ride and is pacing back and forth in the back seat as my sister drives and screams for her to sit down. About that time another car cuts her off and she slams on the breaks. No big deal, we didn't get hit and no one was hurt, but Danielle continued to lecture the dog about sitting down.

I told her to calm down the dog was working on it until I noticed something rather odd about her hunched posture. After I noticed the odd posture, I then noticed the odd smell. When my sister slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting the car that cut us off, she literally scared the shit out of the dog. That's right. The dog shit in the back seat of my car.

For several miles we had to drive with the foul stench of fresh dog poop filling the car regardless of having all the windows down until we reached an exit and found an available dumpster to discard the (thankfully) multiple layers of seat protection. When we were finished, I looked into the back seat and saw this face. So much guilt in those eyes that I couldn't even be mad at her. However, my sister is responsible for thoroughly cleaning my car this week... it has been violated.

Time... to make fun of myself

It's one of the things I do best and probably always will. I mean, I provide myself with countless opportunities so I decided to share a few. To be more specific, I refer to these as my 'my mind is somewhere else but I really need it to be here' moments.

What brought this up? Well, last night I was chatting with a friend while laying in my bed when I turned my head and looked at the shade-less lamp on my night stand. This is when I had one of my 'moments'. My body decided to reach over and touch the light bulb of the lamp to see if it was hot. It wasn't thankfully, but my mind didn't register what I was doing until I had already done it.

Now, I know what you are thinking and let me reassure you that my intelligence level is actually above average. I've taken several IQ tests and they all say the same thing. I just have moments where my brain states the quickest way to find my answer and my body reacts in accordance before that 'but it's going to hurt' comment is added.

For example, standing out in our front yard a few years ago after my father had just finished installing an electric fence to keep our dogs from digging their way out. My question: Is the fence on and does it really work? My body's response: Reach down and grab it.

Yes. It was on and yes, it really did work.

Random Statement

I never thought I would complain about having an apartment built on a lake... But the ducks quaking non-frickin-stop at six in the morning have caused me to change my mind.

Anyway, this weekend has ended up being consumed by unpacking, but once I get everything settled Monday, I'll start posting some more. I promise. I also have a chapter for There's Always Tomorrow to be posted as well.

Question: What kind of a student were you?

Question: What kind of a student were you?

Answer:

That depends on what you are referring to. If you are referring to grades, I was a great student, graduating with honors and a 3.9 GPA, ranked in the top 10% of my class, in the National Honors Society for all four years...

But if you are asking as in my day to day school life... that may be a little bit different of an answer. You see, on my official transcripts, it says that my senior year I only missed eight days of school all year. Yeah... right... I think that if I was to tally up the days that I actually went to every class for the full amount of time, it might equal eight. How did I manage to pull that off? With the help of my best friend.

We were skipping our third block class one day and decided to visit the Principal. Yes, while skipping class we willingly went to the Principal's office. Why? Because he had buckets of candy in his office. So we were sitting there, chilling, talking about sports and events going on in town, munching on gumdrops and sour worms, then we said our goodbyes and left. On our way out we had to walk through the attendance office. I know... not only are we skipping and being seen by the Principal, but the attendance officer as well. But on our way out my friend turns around and tells the attendance officer that one of our teachers ran out of hall passes and needed some more. The woman smiled and said 'Okay. Here are two pads of them. Can you take them to him?'

Sure! So we are now in possession of two stacks of hall passes, ready to be used at our will. But half the time we didn't even need them. I had made an agreement with my pre-calc teacher that I would stay in class long enough to do the three daily problems he put on the board and then I could leave, only needing to come back for tests and quizzes (leaving right after them as well).

I took an art class my senior year and when I completed my first project on the third day of the semester, I asked the teacher if I could leave, she said sure. When I came back the next day, she asked me why I was there. I looked at her funny and asked if that meant I could leave again. She again asked me why I was there. So I asked her what about tomorrow. She said as far as the attendance book indicated, I was always in class and on time. Sweet!

Then there was my favorite teacher, the one I told you about a few posts back that kicked me out of class for getting an A on a test. Yeah. That would go down like this:

Me: (poking my head in the door and waving my hand) Hi Mac!

Teacher: What do you want?

Me: Just making sure you saw that I was here today.

Teacher: I see you.

Me: Okay. I'm going to go now.

Teacher: Whatever. (returns his attention to his newspaper)

Then there were the really weird days where our audio/visual tech needed something from a store across town and unlocked the gates so my friend and I could drive to go get it, giving us his credit card to do so. Did I mention this 'town' was Daytona Beach. I guess I should use the term city next time. We also had a different teacher give us his debit card and pin number so we could pull money out of his bank account buy him and ourselves lunch... allowing us to skip class in order to do it as well.

So, to answer your question, on paper, I was an excellent student. In reality... eh, not so much.

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Just thought I'd sneak this one in here since I had some extra time. Also, I will be getting back to writing 'There's Always Tomorrow', but I found myself having to reread BWYDT to find out what exactly I had already written about Adrianne's family. So I've been stuck on that story until I finished it up. I only have a few chapters to go so I should be posting again on that any day. I'm so sorry that I have left you all hanging as long as I have. But BWYDT is just so frickin long!

Mom's... well it's my Mom so you know what that means

The day after Thanksgiving my mother, father, sister, and I were siting around the table eating. During the flowing discussion, my mother was relaying events that unfolded on a TV show, House Hunters International to be exact. As she talked about the show, she hesitated mid-sentence and then continued on. However, that hesitation caught my attention for one undeniable reason.

Me: Did you just say 'cock'?
Mom: No.

Danielle: I thought I hear that too.

Dad: I wasn't going to say anything but I saw Brandi catch it as well.

Mom: I did not say that.

All of us: Yes you did.

Mom: Why are you picking on me?

Me: We aren't picking on you. We're just trying to figure out how the word 'cock' fits into anything you were saying.

Mom: It doesn't. That's why I didn't say it.

Then the next day at breakfast the same topic came up and my mother's denial continued, except this time... she gave us an excuse:

Danielle: No. You said cock.

Mom: I did not. I was in the middle of saying a word and stopped. That's what you heard.

Me: If so, you would have been in the middle of saying the word 'country'. Then you would have said 'cunt', not 'cock'.

Dad: (yells from a distant room in the house) That's right!

Mom: I didn't say cock!

Me and Danielle: Yes you did!

Mom: No I didn't! Now stop talking about it or I'm going to wash all of your mouths out with soap.

My Mother: Yes, she is for real

I am in the back seat of my parent's minivan on our way up to Tennessee. We're driving through the back roads in the middle of the country around lunch time. I'm talking open fields, horses, cows, hay barrels. All that good stuff. I'm having a nice conversation with my father about something completely normal when this happens.

Dad: My truck even tells me when I need to change the oil. It has a computer that does some sort of calculations and it tells me.

Me: That's cool. Be nice if mine told me. I always forget about changing the oil.

Dad: That's not good.

Me: I-

Mom: (gasping dramatically and pointing out the window) is that a UFO?

Me and Dad: ...

Mom: Oh, it's just a water tower. Never mind.

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Really?

Question: How Can You Write So Much?

New section. Judging by the poll results so far, you all like my stories. So I will be posting more of those. However, I am looking to you for help on the topics. I get asked a lot of questions all the time (which I don't mind) so I'm going to start answering them. Some will be hella long stories like this one and others short responses. So ask away and I'll see what I can do for you. Send me an email or leave a question in the comment area (you can do so without signing your name if you really want to) and I will start answering.

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The Question: How Can You Write So Much?

The Answer:

There is one person (and one class) to thank for my ability to write 3-6,000 words every day in the matter of hours for you all to read and enjoy. She was my AP English Literature and Composition teacher I had my Senior year of high school. But before I jump into how this teacher prepared me for such situations as composing two drastically different fanfics just off the top of my head as well as maintaining a blog of jokes, poetry, and stories, let me explain some of the background story involved.

In my high school (or most with these available classes) there was a progression started your Freshman year. Should you prove 'gifted enough', you were placed in an English I Honors course. Your Sophomore year, it became and English II Honors course. Then Junior year, it became Pre-AP American Literature course. (AP meaning advanced placement or college/uni course you could take while still in high school) Then something magical happened Senior year. You were given a choice. Take English Lit/Comp III Honors or AP English Lit/Comp. Why was there suddenly a choice? Because it was the school's way of attempting not to either fail half of the senior class or prevent them from dropping out of school completely.

I confess now that I had no desire to take the AP class, but I succumbed to peer pressure and found myself enrolling in it despite the numerous horror stories that had been fed to me since my very first day of school three years prior. To further explain, when one teacher starts lecturing a student for not paying attention in their class and doing work for another, the lecture immediately stops once the name 'Bonnick' is mentioned. The lecturing teacher cowers and returns his or her attention to the rest of the class, leaving the one to continue their AP studies without further interference. Another example is a Facebook page entitled “Come Hell or High Water... or FCAT.. or Death, I MUST go to Bonnick's Class”. Yes, you can look it up. It does exist.

Why was this class and teacher so dreaded? Look at the latest response on the Facebook page's wall. “Three chapter responses, a revised essay, and a poetry response... all due Monday!” You see, I'm not talking about a paper or two due every week. No, no, no. There is much, much more. So let me run down the list of what all is entailed in this Monday through Friday, 90 minute class.

Firstly, every single day starts out with either a poem or exert from a short story which we are given 45 minutes to read, analyze, and write a five paragraph essay in response to. So right off the bat, that is five essays a week. Then comes the take home essays. Two of those a week. We are also assigned to read a total of 12 classic novels and write bi-weekly essays on those as well. That brings the total up to nine essays. However, these are not just any essays. These... are perfection.

Should you use past tense when writing an essay, that would result in ten points off your grade. Contractions (I'm, You're, They're), ten points off. Use a 'be' verb (is, are, was, or were) that is another ten points off your grade. Each! Use a linking verb (verbs that do not show action: The cat looked happy), you guessed it, another ten points off your grade. Now, use a comma splice or improper usage of a semi-colon... twenty points off. Use the words 'you', 'I', 'us', or 'we', the same twenty points off your grade. After tallying all of those up, then she would grade your paper from there on content. I can honestly say that it took me thirty minutes just to write just an introductory paragraph for one essay.

But those are just the essays (most of them anyway). You see, in the class itself (after the in class essay), we don't actually do much because our time is spent listening and giving presentations. Everyday. Poetry presentations, completely with visual aides and copies to pass out to the class, were done at least once a week if not twice. On top of those, we head back to those novels we were required to read. After taking two tests on each, the class was lead by fellow students to then teach the book to each other through a presentation referred to as a seminar.

In these seminars, we were assigned topics: characters, author biography, background history, literary techniques, setting, theme, plot, etc. All of which we were to teach to the class using visual aides, class participation, costumes (yes, we had to dress up... which leads me to another story about dropping my pants in front of my class...), music, and food and drinks. This happened over a two day period and was followed by a third test and you guessed it, another in-class essay.

If you think this class is about wrapped up, you are terrible mistaken and this blog entry may in fact rival that first chapter of the story “There's Always Tomorrow”. Because we have yet to cover mid-terms, mid-term projects, and AP reviews. So lets start with the mid-term. The final for this class is an AP test to see if we qualify for actual college/uni credits. It's a four hour test taken at the end of the semester and we get the whole day off from school for it. The mid-term, however, is a previous year's version of this AP test. The problem with that... is it is four hours long! How can you take a four hour test when we only have class for 90 minutes a day? You can't. Not during the week that is. Yep. We were REQUIRED to show up at school for more than four hours on a Saturday to take our mid-term. Suckiest way to spend your weekend ever, I'll tell you that much. That test, by the way, was not just multiple choice but also short response and accompanied by an additional two essays.

The second thing left to cover is the mid-term project which is actually a list of 50-100 literary techniques (juxtaposition, paradox, pathetic fallacy, quibble) that we were to define, lists uses for, and give examples of using only the material, books, poems, short stories, and other crap that we had gone over with that semester. I think mine ended up being over ten pages long and I didn't even do it all. I gave up. I admit it. I turned into a slacker.

And lastly, were those damn AP review sessions. They were held after school released and started at either three o'clock and went to five, or started at five o'clock and went to seven. Don't think it's required to attend an after school study session? Neither did I. Until that is, I didn't go to one and the teacher actually called my cell phone at home to find out why I didn't show up. Yeah, that was weird. But yes. That class and that teacher is my answer for your question of how in the world can I seem to write so much, so often (this post is over 1,300 words itself).

As my final note. Should this teacher ever read anything that I have written... not only would she pray for my sinful ways, but she would then kill me so there was no proof that I was ever one of her pupils that actually passed her class. She would have given me straight F's on everything you have had the 'pleasure' of reading from me. Especially seeing as that last sentence was written in the past tense... And I used 'was' in the sentence after that... And 'I' in the one after that.

Not for the Religiously Inclined

Getting back into the swing of things and once again hitting on the topic of school. Also, put up a poll in the side bar to see what you all are interested in. Just testing the waters.

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In high school, our American Lit teacher required us to make a presentation on a Bible story. Now, I'm leaving all references of the 'separation of church and state' out of this story, or the fact that we were only allowed to use the New Testament regardless of our own religious preference. This story is more about a friend I took this class with. She came from a very alternative family compared to most and when given the assignment, she struggled, mostly because she had never read the Bible and had no clue as to what most of the stories were about.

Yet as typical high school students, we procrastinated and waited until the day before our presentations were due to actually work on them, taking every free minute we had to piece together the three to five minute explination and speech. We sat outside at lunch, eating and working; my friend with The Bible in hand. (A piece of information you will need is that our high school was near a beach and was therefore plagued with seagulls flying around in search of left over fries from the cafeteria or that little piece of a sandwich that someone dropped and never bothered to pick up. Dozens if not hundreds of them everywhere.)

So, there we were, sitting on the ground surrounded by notebooks and the 'holiest book in the world', with seagulls flying above, when this happens.

Friend 1: (Slams her fist down on the Bible and looks up at the seagulls, pointing her index finger at them) I swear to God, if you fucking birds shit on this Bible, I will kill you.

Me: (turns to look at friend 2 with an equally shocked expression) How many commandments do you think she broke with that single sentence?

Friend 2: She took Gods name in vain, she cursed, and she threatened a life.

Me: (looking back at friend 1) You're going to Hell.

Friend 1: (rolling her eyes) Whatever. Not like either of you two are Saints.

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My Least Favorite Teacher

I'm going to put it as plainly as I can. This dude was crazy. He's so crazy that I can't even attempt to remember an actual conversation I have held with him, so I'm just going to share some memories.

He was a monotonous math teacher that I had the privilege of being taught by for three of my four years of high school. He enjoyed being boring. He enjoyed it so much in fact, that he had discovered ways to hold our attention while no breaking from his boring nature. How? Several ways. The first, was on random days, for no reason, he would start and end class in a headstand... I have nothing to say to follow up on that statement besides it is needless to say that the first time you walk into a class room and your teacher in standing on his head in the front of the room... you're a little concerned for his sanity.

The second strange thing he does, or did, I don't know if he is still teaching or not. Is if he feels the class is drifting too far into their own thoughts, he would suddenly jump up, knocking his chair to the floor with a bang, and just stand there as we all gawked at his random action. He would stand there in silence for several seconds before picking up his chair, taking his seat, and begin to teach again as if nothing had ever happened. Granted, it got our attention. However, we still weren't paying attention to what he was teaching.

And lastly (and most shocking in my opinion) was his need... no, his obsession with white chalk. While most teachers opted for upgraded whiteboards and markers in their classrooms, he insisted on keeping his chalk board and pure white chalk. To this day, no one knows why he is obsessed with white chalk, but his actions only cement his mental love affair with the writing utensil. You see... one day, by pure mistake, he was given a box of yellow chalk to use. He, this quiet, monotone man, gasped so dramatically that we thought something was seriously wrong with him and jumped out of our seats to see if he was okay. Upon realizing he was only reacting to his discovery of the yellow chalk, we were left beyond confused. Then our confusion turned to absolute shock when he started to shake in rage as he ripped open the box and ate the yellow chalk in protest... Yes. He ate the chalk because it was not white.

Like I said, this dude was crazy. There is nothing you could tell me to make me believe otherwise.

Have You Ever...

1. Have you ever forgotten someone's name during an introduction despite the fact that you've known them for years?
2. Have you ever forgotten what you were talking about in the middle of your own sentence?
3. Have you ever stared at a piece of writing for an extended amount of time before you realized you weren't even reading it?
4. Have you ever run around the house looking for something only to realize it was in your hand?
5. Have you ever woken up and held a phone conversation and then not know if it really took place as soon as you hung up?
6. Have you ever gone to sleep and then woken up to honestly not know if it was 7 in the morning or 7 at night and had to ask someone?
7. Have you ever drawn a blank when someone asks for your street address, phone number, age, or date of birth?
8. Have you ever gotten into your car to drive to the store only to realize that you just got into the back seat and your headrest is not your steering wheel?

If you have, then you are my new best friend and I don't feel so alone anymore.

Never Trust Your Peers

Never trust your peers. I learned this fact a long, long time ago. Especially if you are still in high school:

I'm in my algebra 2 math class, completely not paying attention. Never do, so it's not that big of a change. Then I hear my name called.

Teacher: Brandi.

Me: (looks up innocently) Yes?

Teacher: Perhaps you can provide us with the answer to the question.

Me: (looks down and realizes my book is still closed) Uh...

Teacher: Take your time.

Classmate: (whispers) Fifty-one.

Me: …

Classmate: (whispers) Fifty-one.

Me: Fifty-one?

*The class erupts in laughter*

Teacher: Well, I can see where some people might get a little confused about Puerto Rico, but no. There are only fifty states in the US. Thank you for playing the game.

Who the hell asks a question about how many states there are in a math class?
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Now I will try one more time to get some sleep before I have to go to work

My Favorite Teacher

I have a favorite teacher from high school because his class was the most memorable. He was an seventy-something year old AP US Government teacher who signed his name differently on each magazine and newspaper he subscribed to so he could track who sold his information to the companies that sent him junk mail. We rarely did anything productive in class and we spent our hour and a half of class just talking about whatever he wanted to talk about from the news, but hardly anyone paid attention. And he knew it.

He had told us in the beginning of the year that would never give us homework and we would only have six tests for the whole semester. He also did grades on a grading curve. He would take the person who scored the highest (regardless of how low the score actually was) and give them and everyone else 10 points within their score an 'A' grade. Everyone 10 points below that got a 'B' grade, and the rest of the class was given 'C' grades. No one failed. Ever. He refused to give anyone a grade lower than a 'C' because he said there was no point. We were "spoiled little brats whose mommies and daddies would be down in the Principal's office complaining about it" until he changed the grade.

He also had a theory that allowed him to accurately predict which student would set the grading scale by receiving the highest grade. He said: "Every year I can pick out who are the smart kids and who are the idiots who take this class because it looks good on a college application and it's want their Mommy and Daddy want them to do. Because the smart kids are the ones who sit up front and talk. All you other little brats keep your heads down and your mouths shut because you have nothing worth saying and probably can't wrap your narrow little minds around anything that is being discussed." Great Man. Really is.

But because of that fact he never failed anyone, he also didn't believe in privacy when distributing test results and often gave them aloud for the entire class to hear. Well, if you can't make lower than a 'C', what's the big deal? But like I said, he was my favorite teacher. However, he probably doesn't even remember my name because the majority or our conversations went something like this in tone:

Teacher: John?
John: Yes?
Teacher: You got a B. Mary?
Mary: Yes?
Teacher: You got a C. Brandi?
Me: Yes?
Teacher: I don't like you.
Me: (the entire class turns around in their seats to look at me in the back row, just as confused as I was) ... I'm... sorry... for that.
Teacher: Do you know why I don't like you, besides you're a smart ass?
Me: ...no, Sir.
Teacher: You're too damn quiet. You never pay attention to what's going on. And you never say a goddamn word in response to anything these dumb asses think is important... You're also smart as hell. You got a A. Now get the hell out of my class. You're pissing me off.

God I loved that man. He was also the only teacher I ever had that flipped me off as well...

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I'm still on vacation but I felt the urge to share this story. I had a very interesting high school experience that most people I've shared it with have found very entertaining, so I thought I might share a few stories about my most memorable experiences. I have a lot I have to shift through.

But anyway. If things go according to plan, I hope to have a special update to post on here later tonight (not about school). It's very personal to me but I think it needs to be posted. Hopefully it all works out and I can.

The Things I Find on My Phone

My phone beeped at me today that the memory was getting full so I decided to delete some of the pictures I had on it and I found a crap load of ones that I don't even remember taking but I thought a few of them were pretty cute.

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This, I do remember, was taken right before Halloween. Our 'chocolate' lab defied the odds and consumed an entire bag of M&Ms (wrappers and all) without getting sick or dieing, seeing as dog's aren't suppose to eat chocolate.

I don't know if it's just me or not, but when I saw this sign... my mind went to the gutter.



This is the only place in the laboratory that I work at where her cell phone can get reception. I don't know what provider she has, but I'm glad it's not mine.

And yes. This is my father on a carousel.

Work Humor

Got a long one for you today.

Okay. Now, I know there are a few people from the medical world that follow this blog, and I'm sure you have some of your own stories to add to this. And if any of you are nurses, I mean no disrespect. But at the hospital I work at, we have some... challenged nurses. But first, for those of you who don't know how the hospital setting functions behind the scenes, let me explain a few things.

I work in the laboratory. We draw and run blood and other specimen samples. If we get a result that is outside of the normal 'accepted' range and is considered a 'critical' level, we must call the patient's nurse and inform him or her so that they can take the appropriate actions. Here are a few conversations that I have personally over heard.

Lab Tech: Yes, I have a critical value for a B.U.N. on patient 'John Doe' (making that up for HIPPA violations ;) )
Nurse: Okay. And how do you spell that?
Lab Tech: ...spell what?
Nurse: B.U.N. ?
Lab Tech: B... U... N...
Nurse: Okay. And what's the value?

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Let me explain the Blood Bank system before I tell you this next conversation (or actually 2). When giving blood to a patient it is very, very important that they receive the correct blood type. They can die if they don't. Because this is so important, there is additional identification that needs to be done when drawing blood samples from the patient to determine their blood type.

We have a form on which the person (in this case the nurse) is drawing their blood. They must identify the patient by their wrist band, require a signature verifying it is the correct patient as well as a brief medical history from said patient. After that, a second wrist band is placed on the patient with the patient's name and a unique number that is also placed on the blood sample drawn and the information card. This gives a third and fourth way to identify the patient.

I know it can be confusing. So when a nurse is having to draw this specific test, I try to help them out. I highlight the places on the information card they need to fill out and place a note with it and the second wrist band that says "Please return the filled out information card with the blood sample after you have arm banded the patient". Then I received the following phone call:

Me: Lab This is Brandi.
Nurse: Yes. I have this blood bank I have to draw. I'm about to go draw the specimen and I've already filled out the card. I just have to get the signature, but I have a question.
Me: (Thinking it is the normal 'what if they received blood four months ago' or something like that) Okay. What's your question?
Nurse: What do I do with this armband?
Me: ...You mean the one with the patient's name on it and the note that says to bring the blood down to us after you've armbanded the patient?
Nurse: Yeah. That one.
Me: ...you put it on the patient.
Nurse: That's what I thought.

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Better yet was when I received a phone call from the nursing supervisor or the 'head nurse'.

Me: Lab. This is Brandi.
Nursing Sup: Brandi. Can you bring me a new wrist band for that blood bank specimen you just dropped off.
Me: (thinking I did something wrong) I can. Is there something wrong with that one?
Nursing Sup.: (Taking a deep breath) Not exactly. I just had a nurse who thought she was suppose to put it on herself.

I have a million of these. This is getting a little too long but maybe I'll post some more another day.