Me the nurse

I have had many different roles in life. A daughter, a sister, a mother, a lover, a wife in many different spheres, but the one role which I am excellent in is... the nurse role. It comes to me effortlessly, and sometimes I have been abused for it too. The thing is, although I try my best not to be like my mother, I still end up being like her, and that is one scary thought. My mum is an excellent nurse, she suddenly transforms herself into Florence Nightingale with a vengeance when anybody is poorly. It seems that I do the same, although I give no guarantee of a complete cure. But then I do not take the doctor role, but the nurse. And that somehow should sound sexy, perhaps because I was brought up in a Colpo Grosso time when nurse outfits where shipped discreetly from England, to be used in the bedroom when nobody was poorly. But I'm not a sexy nurse, and certainly do not nurse a nursing-uniform outfit kind of fetish. Nor does my Mister. To him, I am still the sexiest nurse in the world even if I am in shorts and a baggy T-shirt. I keep telling him to go and get his eyesight checked, but he doesn't think he needs to. Strange thing. But then, although his chest his shaved haphazardly because of this morning's op, I still think he is a very awesome man indeed. And my eyes have been checked quite enough. So right now I'm still the nurse even if I come without the uniform, and he's the patient. It's a hell of a power trip.

GA

No, it's not Gambler's Anonymous. That's what my mum and dad take care of at Caritas. I've spent the greater part of the day in a private hospital and now am suffering from nicotine-related withdrawal symptoms. No I didn't go cold turkey, but 6 cigarettes in a day is way too little for my addiction. I'm finally home and can smoke to my heart;s (and death's content). So what happened for me to be dragged into an unfriendly smoking building such as a hospital. It was a case of septicemia, not mine, the Mister's, which started by a tooth extraction (actually a trial of an extraction) gone horribly wrong. I never thought teeth could be so dangerous, seems they can be. So poor babe had to go under the knife (or driller or jackhammer or chainsaw) complete with general anaesthetic. And for once I was relieved it wasn't me. Yes selfish me ain't I, but having had dental work to last three lifetimes already, I could never face the GA. The thought of it makes me sick and want to run in horror. What if I start blabbing about my life while under GA? What if I started mind-blogging? The chances of going to sleep while having Joe Demicoli in the background would be very slim. Although I guess I could put in a request, probably against a fee, seeing that everything comes against a fee in a private hospital. And what about the damn hospital gowns? Why are they in a size zero now? Of course my Mister couldn't fit into something like that, and I have a terrible feeling that I couldn't either, another thing why I thanked the good Lord it wasn't me. Mister is also a good patient, meaning he will keep a brave face if someone is giving him the attention given to a woman going into labour. I am terribly bad at being a patient, I just do not want the attention, I want to go home and that's it. But today I felt the fear, which I hadn't felt for a long time. And I'm glad I'm home perhaps with floors not as pristine as the ones in the hospital, home riddled with cats and dogs and clutter. Because for 2 hours I thought perhaps it was time the Gods made me suffer again. Somehow the words GA send me rolling into another world when I feel helpless and scared and trying not to think what I think anyway. I was thinking for nothing, but I am glad I thought for nothing. So GA has come and gone, and I hope it will stay away for a long time.

Hot dogs

So I didn't make it to the hobz biz-zejt. It'll have to wait until tomorrow. But I did make it to hot dogs. Splendid ones, and I think I ate too much of them too. And all the while this thought kept popping into my old head, why are they called hot dogs if they do not in any way resemble any kind of dog? I've been doing this ever since I was little, and I've never grown out of it. The little girl who would ask her dad tonnes of these questions still asks them, now safely in her own brain. But this hot dog idea was splendid. Sometimes I'm so tired of French cuisine, a little of Malaysian and perhaps a pizza. Sometimes I just want to let my hair down and dig into something like a hot dog. Maybe it's also an aphrodisiac. So there, that's why it's called hot, first part of the question solved. Because now the night seems younger than ever and there's plenty of time to do what he(?) desires.