This little piggy went to market

I get pangs of conscience from time to time, accompanied by a fleeting desire to try to be one of those just genuinely nice people, but I have enough insight to realize it ain't gonna happen. That's not an excuse, it actually ups the charges from a misdemeanor. I mean, if I know I'm being a jerk, but still keep making the same mistake, well then I'm definitely going to hell.

On a somewhat related tangent, this applies equally well to men who think that acknowledging their bad behavior excuses it. No, that actually makes you a bigger asshat, because you do know better but aren't doing anything about it. And of course ladies, that should be seen as a red card (Yooooou're OUT!) not a matador's red cape (an irresistible challenge).

So since I am going to hell anyways, let me tell you the unadulterated, undiluted story about a woman I'm pretty sure I'll see on the other side of the River Styx.

It's Thanksgiving, so of course I'm on call. I don't really care much actually, it's not my favorite holiday (my birthday and Halloween are of course) but it's busy as hell in the baby factory. They are popping out left and right and the ER keeps blowin' up my pager.

I'm coming back to Labor and Delivery from one of these adventures to the 5th circle of hell, and as I turned the corner, I felt the ground shake. Another earthquake? No, this was another force of nature that was storming down the hall towards me.

It wasn't just her super sized girth, but this woman's attitude could have filled a cathedral, and her volume knob had broken at 11. I got but a glimpse of her "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant" T-shirt as she thundered past me, hands waving, weave flapping, complaints flying. I looked over my shoulder, jaw agape. From behind it appeared that two hogs were wrestling under her stretch pants as she irately paraded past hurling insults and threats of lawsuits. And yes, it's the hog comment that is sending me to hell. I can't resist the simile, even though I've been the chubby girl and know that fat jokes wound. But damn, each step was registering on the Richter scale.

I walk up to the nurse's station. "What was that all about?" I enquire. Replies the beleagured intern, "She's upset because all of our labor rooms are full and I told her we couldn't induce her labor today, just because her horoscope said today marked an auspicious beginning. What-ever!"
"Did the fetal monitoring look ok?" I ask.
"Yeah, she was in the triage unit- also full by the way- and her baby looks fine." sez the intern wearily.
"Cool", I reply. "I never understand why patients think it's such a threat when they say they'll go to another hospital."
"Seriously," replied the intern, as she rolled her eyes. "This sure as hell isn't Nordstroms."

I should explain. Our triage unit is a room with six beds separated by curtains. It's where women are seen when they first come to labor and delivery and the intital evaluation is done. That's where this woman had been waiting, and five other women were in there right now. In fact, just then we heard one of them say something that caught our attention.

"Heeey. Where's my purse?" patient behind curtain one enquired. Silence. Curtains 2-6 in chorus "I can't find mine either!"

Clearly it wasn't hogs our patient was smuggling amongst her fat rolls. She had absconded with the purses and wallets of all of the other patients here in labor ON THANKSGIVING.
Now that is a one way ticket to hell.