Solar Rehab

Do You Know Where Your Kids Are?

I do. They're on my front porch. Including my own two, there are eight kids out there right now. The only reason they're not in my house is because I won't let them in. My two are welcome, of course.

I've had this issue for years. It's gotten worse since moving here. My kids are always wanting to have so and so over.  Sometimes it isn't a problem; I don't mind a weekend sleepover here and there. The issues arise when I can't find a moment's peace due to the constant ringing of the doorbell, the phone, or the knocking on the door.

My son has a friend whose mother just drops him off at my house without a word, without permission, without a thought that I may not have time for her kid. She leaves him here for hours. Like my son, he's a teenager. They eat like they  have a hollow leg. I have had to make some strict rules about food at my house.

Then there's the issue of the next door neighbor's kids...all four of them.  The youngest two boys are always at my door or in my yard...or worse, in my house. This is apparently a family with limited means. They have "borrowed" eggs and bread on a few occasions. The two oldest kids are teenage girls; they constantly try to con my daughter into letting them use my computer to "check their myspace..." They don't have the internet at home, they say. Not my problem, I say.

Firstly, this is not the community computer. If you don't have internet access, eggs, or bread, you have bigger problems than myspace.

Secondly, I am kicking my own ass to make a living for the two kids I'm trying to raise -- by myself.  I can't support the neighborhood or supply unlimited myspace access. And food is expensive, you bottomless pits. The origin of this beast? The parents. It's apparently easier to let someone else entertain, feed, and watch your kids.

As for me, I'm done babysitting. I love kids, I really do. I just don't appreciate being used by other parents who see me and my home as a rest stop, playground,  restaurant, or internet cafe. They don't have to go home, but they can't stay here.

Happy New Year, by the way.

S.A.D.

Seasonal affective disorder.  It's here. It showed up around the end of November, I think. Just snuck right in without me noticing at first. I'm pretty sure it crawled in through a window one night when I was dead to the world, the sneaky bastard. It'll be here until March, at least. Talk about unwelcome visitors...

The holidays are coming, too. Bastards. The marketing devils and commercializing gurus of Wal-Mart and Target have killed Jesus (again).  God forbid you don't get your kid that new cell phone or cute little laptop for Christmas.

Hey, all the cool kids on the Wal-Mart commercial have them. If you really loved me, Mom, you'd sell your soul for that awesome Guitar Hero game. You'd lower yourself to stand in line for two hours at 4:00 in the morning while your Thanksgiving dinner is still digesting.

I'd rather shave with a chainsaw. Meanwhile, I'm putting up with the hype like the rest of us, S.A.D. in tow. 

Hurry up, January. I loathe wishing my life away, but it's beats going with the mundane flow. Besides, all I really want for Christmas is peace of mind. Some rum punch. A little naughty to spice up the nice, perhaps.

I guaran-damn-tee you that Wal-Mart doesn't carry any of that.

Nightmare on Elm Street

This year, the option of trick or treat wasn't a luxury for me.  On the afternoon of Halloween, I got one of the biggest tricks of my life.  On my way to the DMV, a Ryder moving truck ran a stop sign and I ended up crashing into the cab of it head on.

   

 

This was my first accident, and the last, hopefully. It was a very surreal experience. It happened so incredibly fast that I can't even fully describe the event. It was as if someone changed channels very quickly -- you're watching Disney and the next split second you've been switched over to a horror movie. One moment I was looking down Elm Street and listening to the Rolling Stones on the stereo. The next, I had an airbag in my face and the world went spinning. Or so it seemed.

I didn't even know what I had hit until I climbed out of the Jeep. And there it was in all its broke-ass glory, that stop sign ignoring Ryder truck. The Jeep was still running. Some guy turned it off, and I asked him to find my cell phone. I sat there for a few minutes on the sidewalk trying to breathe. A combo of seatbelt and airbag had left my chest on fire. My knees were ablaze, as well. My right side began to ache.

The two men in the Ryder truck were transferred to the ED. I was triaged at the scene and released. I wasn't bleeding or broken (that I knew of), and my heart rate was only 96 despite the epinephrine coursing through my veins.

Within a few minutes my brother and my buddy Jason showed up. I barely remember calling them. I really didn't have to do anything.  I sat in Jason's truck while he gathered my belongings out of the poor Jeep. Shingus stayed with me and just lended his brotherly support. I don't think they know what a comfort to me they were at the time. I love those guys.

And of course, I have to find the cantankerous irony in the situation. I had the accident on Elm Street... on Halloween. Freddy Krueger was nowhere in sight, but the thought is somewhat comical, nonetheless. 

I made a trip to see my doctor when everything was over. I walked away with a couple of fractured ribs, a bruised kidney, and two jacked up knees. I am sore in places that I didn't even know I had.

Optimism still reigns, despite the nightmare on Elm Street. My kids weren't with me. I am alive. And well, for the most part. It could have been much worse. The insurance company just rang to inform me that my Jeep is a "total loss." No surprise there. I suppose no treat was in the cards this year...

  So long, Black Betty... Thanks, Jason, for the enlightening photos...

 

"To Thine Own Self..."

I try to stay optimistic. Always have. Even when Life throws a curve ball (or a punch) I keep my head high and my spirit clear. So far, so good.

Until now.

I fear that I have made a huge mistake... The optimism in me says that maybe I'm wrong; maybe I'm just in a slump. Maybe I'm still adjusting to the move, all that's changed recently, and all that hasn't changed.

If I can't be honest with myself, I can't begin to remedy the issues. The truth shall set me free, or so I've heard...

1. My house was burglarized the third week after moving here. I lost my iPod, my digital camera, and nearly every piece of jewelry I've ever owned -- the engagement ring my deceased husband gave me being one of the pieces taken. I called the police. They were helpful to the point of recovering everything except the iPod. The perpetrator of the burglary? A 17 year-old kid that lived two houses down. He is now in jail. Apparently this wasn't his first felony theft.

2. I am beginning to loathe my job. It is a thankless and exhausting array of hours and duties that I am NOT willing to do for the rest of my life. I have, in a few months time, come to despise bedside nursing. I am a pill pusher and a customer service rep. Let's face it, health-care is a business and the patients are the customers. I am expected to do anything  they ask. I am expected to apologize for shit that I have nothing to do with. I am subjected to lewd remarks by men old enough to be my great-grandfather -- and I'm supposed to be nice about it. I have 6 -7 unstable patients a day, 3 of which are usually high acuity.  We are understaffed.  We are tired. It is amazing that we haven't accidentally killed people. I do not intend to subject myself to that level of liability for very long, however. I worked too hard for my license, thank you. I don't care how good the money is.

3. I am alone most of the time. In Pennsylvania, I had Mark's family and the friends I'd made during the 10 years or so I was there. It had become home. Sure, I dreaded the long winters. I had longed to be more south toward my own family since Mark died in 2003. I moved to North Carolina for several reasons. First, my brother lives here. Great. Second, the hospital here was the only one I applied to that would give a day shift job to a new employee. I can't leave the kids alone at night, of course. I've been here since August 10. I don't feel at home  yet. I am beginning to wonder when (or if) I will. My brother is a self-proclaimed loner and nomad. I see him maybe once a week, sometimes less. Meeting people is difficult when the hospital owns your ass 40+ hours a week -- and I've already divulged how I feel about the job... No, the grass is definitely not greener, even south of PA.

4. My purse was stolen at work two weeks ago. Nice, right? I lost my check cards, my driver's license, and my car and house keys (not to mention the purse itself, which I really liked, damn it). The only advice I was given at work was "keep a better eye on your stuff." Now I carry nothing but my keys into the place, and they remain in my pocket all day.

5. Due to the aforementioned loss of my house keys, I inadvertently locked myself out of the house this morning. My locks should have been changed; I know that. I just simply haven't had the time or help to do it yet. And so, in a fit of desperation, panic, and being altogether fed up, I took a sledgehammer to the pane of glass in the door next to the lock.

 

Something else I'll have to replace, of course. I've got an appointment tomorrow with someone who can fix it. God only  knows how much it'll cost.

I don't have answers right now. I wish I did. I can feel my trusty optimism slipping further away. There has to be more than this out there, right?

I am sorely tempted to pack up everything again and go to my hometown in Virginia where my parents are. Maybe that's what I should have done in the first place. The people I've talked to have varying opinions. One says to give it a little more time. Another says that I should go where I have more social and family support.

What do I think? I don't know. I'm trying to figure it out. I try to keep sanity from running off with optimism.

It's not working.

The glass in the door isn't the only thing around here that's breaking...

You Want Fries With That?

The chill in the night air is unmistakable... Fall is as alive and well.  It hides efficiently enough during daylight hours. On most days, it is easy to imagine that Summer is still in full swing. Sultry humidity and warm breezes still linger in abundance. Evenings and early mornings tell the truth, however. Summer of '08 is a recent memory. This is my first Fall in North Carolina, and so far, it's lovely. The foliage is just beginning to agree with the chilly nights.

 

My brother and I have discovered a quaint little spot in Greensboro to hang out more than we should. It's an Irish Pub with an outdoor patio and old world atmosphere. Shingus likes it a little more than I do; he's been there nearly every evening since we found it.

I can see it now; we're both going to sail into middle age in a blur of Guinness, grad school classes, and the philosophies of Jimmy Buffett and Gaelic Storm. And let's not forget that were both thirty-somethings now -- and single, the hedonistic both of us.

I am getting tired of it, I have to admit. Single-hood, I mean. I have been the not-so-merry widow for going on six years. Sure, it was fine in the beginning. The kids were still young and needed me more than they ever had. I was parenting for two. I swam in a sea of science texts and nursing philosophy for four years straight. We were fine with being just us. These days, the kids are needing me less and less. They spend more time than they ever have away from me and with their friends. Even when they're home, one of their friends is usually here with them. Mom is just around these days. I am a chauffeur and the community bank, or so it feels. Yes, I am feeling somewhat excluded. It would be nice to have a "friend" of my own. It would be great to have someone else to converse with -- other than my Guinness toting brother.  Not that I don't adore my brother, of course...

 

Work is... work. All the wonderful things we were told about nursing in class has turned out to be a literal crock of hype and theory, as I expected it would. Nursing is not a glam job. I wear the equivalent of pajamas every day. I work 12 and a half hour shifts, often three in a row. That means I don't see daylight for three days at a time, which leaves me feeling like a vampire several days a week (and just in time for Halloween!). Most of my patients are pleasant, but there are always a few that can (and will) make an otherwise decent day go straight out the window on a flying chux pad.

There are the people who constantly ring their infernal call bell -- I'm talking every ten minutes -- and request another pillow, another Coke, to ask me a question about insurance (which isn't my area, people), or to ask me to pass them their cup of water... that is sitting a literal foot in front of them.

Most family members are fine, too. They're just anxious. They have questions, sure. And I can answer most of their questions. The problems arise when people do not understand the role of a Registered Nurse. I take care of mama's meds. I assure that she is hemodynamically stable. I interpret lab values and notify a white coat if her potassium level is threatening to precipitate a cardiac arrhythmia.  I make sure that she is safe and sound and as pain-free as possible. That's my job. I earned a license to practice by proving that I'm able to ensure those things.

Still, many people do not understand that I don't handle insurance claims (someone handed me an insurance card last week... and just walked away...). I do not serve mama's dinner -- we have an entire dietary department for that. Having a cow in front of me because lunch is late will not do any good. I usually do not have a clue when mama is going to go home -- that is up to the white coat, people. And it doesn't do any good whatsoever to get pissy with me when the doctor decides that mama needs another MRI. No, I have no idea what time or what channel The Price is Right is on. Yes, I understand that your bed is uncomfortable. There's nothing I can really do about it except hand you another pillow and offer another Percocet. No, I cannot get you free samples of anything. This is not the health department.  Sure, I'll bring you another Coke... You want fries with that?

Yeah, I'm a little perturbed sometimes. But I get over it. I've learned that putting up with such things are part of the job, too. I can't fail to mention that I also think of many of these patients after I've gone to bed at night. The 88 year-old woman who was in tears when I left because she was afraid her family would stick her in a nursing home. The 45 year-old fellow who is facing open heart surgery in a few days and just wanted someone to tell him that he would, more than likely, still be alive come Thanksgiving.

I do have a heart, after all. But I don't have all the answers. I will take care of mama as if she were my own, despite everything. And that isn't part of the job description, believe it or not. That is my choice. I am becoming a damn fine nurse, vampire, and raconteur. But thank the God of all that is decent and holy and good for days off. If I don't take care of myself a bit here and there, I am no good to anyone else. Word.

Pub?

 

7 Questions You Should NEVER Ask (unless you want to be lied to...)

We've all been confronted with them, I'm sure. You know, those sometimes not so hypothetical questions that friends, family, and (especially) significant others want answered.  However, there are some questions that you just shouldn't ask, no matter how badly you want to hear the answer. 

Unless you enjoy putting someone on the spot or making someone lie through their lips to keep from hurting your feelings. 

1) How old are you?

I've been asked this question personally over the past couple of years.  As a non-traditional student, I was a good 10-12 years older than many classmates.  I guess they noticed.  Here's a tip, folks.  If you're under 20, just about everybody is older than you.  It is offensive (especially to women) to have a young twentysomething cock a head and ask this question.  Simple question, sure, but people are often sensitive about it.  If you ask me this question, odds are that I'm probably older than you.  But you knew that already, right?

2) What are you thinking?

My thought processes are invisible for a reason.  I know most of us have been asked this stupid question, and probably more than once.  And every time it's asked, you probably make something up to remain neutral.  Either that, or you say "I don't know."  You cannot purchase a ticket into someone else's head.  Don't ask for one.  Besides, this just puts the askee on the spot.  You've just killed a perfectly comfortable conversation.  Congratulations.

3) Does this make me look fat?

This is the oldest question in the book of retarded queries, and is usually asked by women.  The answer is always going to be no (especially if you ask a man).  Almost always, this is a woman looking for a compliment.  She wants to hear a resounding "no, babe, you look mahvelous!"  You know if you're fat or not.  Stop asking the rest of us to confirm or deny it.  And deny it we will. 

4) Do you want me to leave?

I'm not sure how common this query is, but I've been asked this question quite a bit.  Picture it... Someone comes over for a visit, hangs out for six hours, and it's now 11:00pm.  You have to get up at 6:00 in the morning.  I'm pretty sure that this question is begging for an invitation to sleep over, but the asker just isn't bold enough to come right out and ask.  If you haven't been invited by 11:00pm, your ship has sailed.  When your host stated that he/she has to get up early in the morning, that was their nice way of asking you to beat it.  Instead, they are confronted with the "do you want me to leave" question.  I've always heard that a lady/gentleman always knows when to leave.  Yes, I want you to leave.  I wanted you to leave hours ago.

5) Do you love me?

You've just instilled fear.  This question instantly transforms you into a desperate seeker -- unless you're five years old.  This is a perfectly okay question for kids to ask.  But coming from an adult, usually that semi-new significant other, this question is just creepy.  If someone asks this question within the first few weeks of dating, you are to immediately run like hell in one of the three remaining directions.  If someone loves you, they will tell you so.  Eventually, anyway.  Saying "I love you" is even better than asking "do you love me."  You're forcing them to say it first.  Or worse, begging them to lie to you.  Either way, you've just lost points for tact, class, and self respect when this question slips out.

6)  Did you come?

If you have to ask, she didn't.  Trust me.  Women don't explode in two minutes (or less), and unfortunately, that's the usual amount of time we're given.  It's not your fault that we take awhile, guys.  It's a flaw in our anatomical design.  It is your fault, however, when you think that those two minutes are going to blow our minds  -- and then ask us, in your post-coital bliss, to confirm it.  The first step is understanding the female anatomy.  I personally know relatively smart men who honestly thought that women pee out of their vaginas... We don't, by the way.

7) Would you die for me?

This is a question that should be reserved solely for love song lyrics.  You might as well have a loaded gun to someone's head, ready to bust a cap if anything but "of course!" comes from their mouth.  Again, run like hell.  Only a very desperate, borderline personality would allow this question to seep from their lips.  I would die for my kids, sure.  But even they have never asked me this question.  They are probably the only people on the planet that I'd take a bullet to the head for.  This question is just as stupid and hypothetical as "if someone offered you a billion dollars to shoot me, would you do it?"  That offer will never come. 

And don't ask "but what if it did?!"

 

"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."
~ Abe Lincoln

Weekday Locks, Weekend Lessons

Easter break is over, but there are a few eggs that were hidden too well that will begin to putrify with the warmer weather, I'm sure.  Forgotten Easter eggs aren't the only things that can stink to high heaven...

I left my house for 4 days.  I made a round trip from Pennsylvania to Virginia to North Carolina to Virginia and back again to Pennsylvania in that time.  Whew.  The oil gods and gas gurus are laughing at my expense.  When I came home last evening, I discovered, to my utter shock, that someone had shampooed my carpets.  Someone had rearranged the things on my kitchen table.  Someone had taken it upon themselves to scrub out one of my cupboards.

And someone listened to the messages on my answering machine...

This is the usual, random bullshit that I've come home to before.  The perpetrators of these intrusions are not strangers; I know them perfectly well.  I've trusted them too easily in the past (which explains how they still have a key to my back door).  Although they insist that they are just trying to "help" me, I see through the smiles and implications of kindness.  This is nothing more than nosiness and power tripping.  And I'm sick of it.  The locks will be changed on my doors quicker than they can sneak out an old key. 

And then I'll surprise them by packing up everything we own and getting the hell out of dodge.  Yessirree.

While someone was cleaning my carpets and listening to my personal messages (I'd venture to bet that they read my mail, as well...), I was enjoying a bright Easter weekend with my family and friends.  I always manage to escape with a few lessons, some of which I will gladly share:

• Do NOT pass a cop on the interstate, even if you are going the speed limit.  Passing them pisses them off even more than speeding, apparently.  I had my cruise control set at 65 miles per hour, passed the cop, and a moment later, the lovely blue lights were in the rear view mirror.  Resist the urge to pass.  No exceptions.
• Never pay attention to exit numbers on the interstate, either.  These change more often than you think.  Watch for the route numbers and you'll be fine.  Exit numbers be damned.  The mapquest gods lie like rugs.
• There is at least one man out there (who is neither married, gay, or dead) who will pay for dinner and not expect you to be dessert later that night.  Score! 
• Chocolate Rain by Tay Zonday (one of the youtube dudes) can and will be sung repeatedly by children who think it's as funny as I think it is irritating. 
• Expect the unexpected.  Seven months ago, we didn't expect my dad to live more than a few weeks.  Although he is still afflicted with liver disease, he has surprised us all by returning from the brink of death.  He is doing fine, mind and body intact. 
• Don't give anyone a key to your house unless you are prepared to change your locks at later date.  See above...
• Time flies when you're having fun; that's not a euphemism.  It also creeps by like molasses when you're not.  Isn't it May yet?!

Charity

Yesterday morning I got up at the butt crack of dawn -- on my day off -- to fulfill a few mandatory clinical hours.  As part of my 5 credit community nursing rotation, I was scheduled to spend the day with parish nurses at a food bank in a very rural, destitute community (which is more than an hour's drive from my house).  The parish nurses also happened to be nuns.  Sisters of Charity, no less.  I am not Catholic; I don't think I'd ever even spoken to a nun before yesterday.  I wasn't sure what to expect...

We showed up at the food bank, my friend Dave and I, at 8:00 in the morning.  Two nuns were already there; they were friendly and hospitable people, which didn't surprise me.  They were making coffee and tea and they graciously offered us some.  One of them took a pizza out of the freezer, added extra cheese to it, and cooked it for breakfast... which did surprise me.  I had an ignorant mental image of nuns drinking water and eating bread without butter.  They didn't wear black habits, either; they wore plain, matronly skirts and granny shoes and had short hair.  I'd expected the whole "holier than thou" thing, I suppose. 

Before the nuns had finished their morning pizza, the food truck arrived.  We unloaded it; my arms are sore today from carrying sacks of potatoes, cases of soup, boxes of cereal, and miscellaneous foodstuffs from the truck into the food bank.  That process alone took a few hours. 

Soon after, folks began to creep in to collect.   They had laundry baskets and huge boxes with them to make their food collection process easier.   I saw elderly couples, single mothers with small children, old men, young women.   

As usual, I made a few subjective observations concerning charity itself...

Some people truly need it.  And deserve it, as well.  The elderly couples who have to choose whether they buy their medications or eat.  The single mother who's juggling two jobs, both of which pay minimum wage, plus raise her kids and keep their bellies full.  Some situations call for charity.

Some don't.

Since Dave was the only guy there, he was elected by the nuns to be the official box and bag carrier.  For hours, he carried boxes of food to the backseats of these folks' cars.  Some of these vehicles were nicer than the ones that he and I drive.  When he would open the back door to put the box of charitable food items in, he more than once sat them next to a case of beer or a carton of cigarettes.  I was inside handing out loaves of bread and sacks of potatoes.  One woman asked me if I had any rye, and when I said I didn't, she complained and requested that next time, damn it, she'd rather have some rye.  "Have" is the operational word there.  I assumed that beggars can't be choosers, but I suppose I was as wrong about that as I was about the nuns and their butterless bread.

Another woman stumbled into the food bank dead drunk; she could barely walk, much less carry a heavy box.  The sisters filled her box for her, and Dave carried it to her car -- and then she drove away.   

It is blatantly obvious to me that charity, the epitome of humanitarianism, is far too often abused and used by those who actually believe that this big, bad world owes them something.  Give a man a fish; feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish; feed him for a lifetime.  I think Tzo had something there.  Giving is fine, and in some cases, perfectly feasible.  But how much is expected of us?  How much are we expected to give?  How far does charity go before it begins to become a crutch?  And worse, downright expected by those who receive it?  The woman that wanted rye... She has obviously become so desensitized to charity that she now believes it is  her right.  Not only to be given free bread, but rye bread, damn it.  You nuns get your act together and get the right kind of bread up in here, for the love of God. 

I have to hand it to those sisters -- they are true humanitarians.  They prayed for compassion and nothing else.  They prayed to be able to serve others graciously.  They ask nothing for themselves.  I saw them hug people that I would have taken a bar of soap and a garden hose to first.  They deserve that morning pizza with extra cheese.I pray for compassion, too.  I also pray that the rye lady endeavors to deserve the bread that she so shamelessly complained about. 

I won't hold my breath.

Sunday Afternoon in Winter Hell

I know I've said it before... but I'm going to say it again -- I hate winter.  I loathe it with every ounce of my cellular existence.  I happen to live in an area where January and February are ruthless bitches of winter's folly.  Today happens to be a perfect example of why I bemoan the season.

The electricity just, not five seconds ago, managed to zap out.  Again.  This is the third time since this morning.  The lines aren't dealing well with the 60 mile per hour wind gusts that have battered them for the last 8 hours.  I am desperately attempting to finish a lengthy powerpoint presentation that's due Tuesday.  No electricity, no project.  Thank goodness for the small generator that I have attached to my computer.  I've dealt with the hurricane-force wind problem many times before, hence the technological insight.

I think the wind is what I despise the most.  It's destructive, noisy, and lowers the chill in the air to negative numbers.  It'll cut you in two, I swear to God.  It'll drag tears from your eyes and leave your ears completely numb.  Forget the hat or earmuffs -- the wind will yank those off you, too... right after it punches you in the face, blinds you with your own hair, and takes your breath away.

It's as clear as it's ever been -- I am destined to get the hell outta here. 

The relentless wind just stole the electricity again.

Bitches.  I am in winter hell.

Megadik...

I'm not sure how my personal and private email address, the one that I've used for nearly 7 years, has managed to be harvested by spam central.  I haven't posted it anywhere on line. However, at least 5 times a day for the past two weeks, I've received emails offering to enlarge my penis if I "click here now!"  Mind you, I'm female. 

What is it with the general masses of my male counterparts wanting to enlarge their manhood?  I don't get it.  I just don't understand.  To me, it seems rather silly and awfully egocentric.  With all the more pressing issues at hand in the modern world, one of the more ailing dilemmas of men-centered companies is how to enlarge that all important shaft.  You see it all the time.  It's either the ridiculous commercials for Viagra or Cialis  where a couple is fawning all over each other by a clear mountain stream, or it's Smiling Bob from Enzyte fame (personally, Bob is my favorite). Stay up late and catch the after hours infomercials on cable TV; you'll undoubtedly find some handsome dimwit peddling his magic penile enlargement potion.  The company that's been sending me email is called -- I'm not kidding -- Megadik.

The majority of these scams are nothing more than herbal supplements.  Let's be honest with ourselves (and our anatomical parts) -- no herb on the planet is going to garner any man a larger penis.  It's simply not possible.  And anyone who says it's possible is either doing some optimistic thinking or they're trying to sell you something.  The fact is that the size of a man's penis is due to, like just about everything else, nutrition and genetics.  If you have a tiny schmeckle, blame your dad.  It's the same concept with breast size, ladies; it's genetic. 

I do not fully understand the male obsession with making a phallic impression on women.  I wish I did.  It's never happened to me personally, but I have had friends say that they've been asked by sexual partners, after the very act, how the size of their penis adds up to competitors.  I only hope that I am never given the opportunity to be so forthright; I'm not sure if the egos could handle it.  Perhaps I'm a bit jaded, but the egocentrism of the male gender in general just puts me off.  It almost seems like these men would rather rupture your kidney with their giant member than to even entertain the idea that there's another man on the planet with a larger one (a throat scraper!).  And don't even get me started on the insurance companies. Most of them will cover the prescription costs of Viagra -- but will not cover a woman's oral contraceptives. 

Pisses me off.

Needless to say, the emails I've been receiving have not been ignored.  They've just made me think even more negatively about the sexual differences between men and women even more.  Megadik?  Good Lord.

Sounds like a kidney buster, for sure.