Last night I had a dream I was taking a Latin exam and declining nouns.
It was heartwarming.
Then I had a dream I was flying around trying to escape prehistoric human-eating creatures in a Land of the Lost-like setting.
Not so heartwarming.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Thanksgiving is a Stupid Holiday
It just is, okay?!
Stupid holiday.
Moving sucks, too. The whole packing stuff. And the whole, "What the hell do I do with this half bottle of lotion? Do I pack it? Throw it away? It's good lotion! I can't throw it away! But if I pack it, will I use it? Hasn't it been sitting in the cupboard since 2004 any way? But it's good lotion. I paid a lot of money for it."
Etc. etc.
Maybe I should just let people come over and take all my stuff, and start over once I move. It would solve the whole packing half-bottles of lotion problem, and I wouldn't have to figure out what to take to my assignment and what to horde away.
I hate this stupid packing thing!!
Stupid holiday.
Moving sucks, too. The whole packing stuff. And the whole, "What the hell do I do with this half bottle of lotion? Do I pack it? Throw it away? It's good lotion! I can't throw it away! But if I pack it, will I use it? Hasn't it been sitting in the cupboard since 2004 any way? But it's good lotion. I paid a lot of money for it."
Etc. etc.
Maybe I should just let people come over and take all my stuff, and start over once I move. It would solve the whole packing half-bottles of lotion problem, and I wouldn't have to figure out what to take to my assignment and what to horde away.
I hate this stupid packing thing!!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Dum Spiro, Spero
I was really depressed this afternoon. So depressed, it's too depressing to talk about how depressed I was.
So just take my word for it that the abject depression and anxiety was just all over the place.
While I was busy feeling sorry for myself and writing my own future eulogy, I became still more despairing.
And then a Cicero (?) quote came into my head, Dum spiro, spero.
Then I had an internal debate over the philosophical validity of the statement. The debate pretty much went nowhere, but I was obliged to look up the quote to see to whom it's usually credited, because it was bothering me that I couldn't remember.
I can't imagine passing on my garbage DNA to a child. The kid will end up blind as a mole, running into walls on a daily basis, and will probably be shunted off into pseudo-intellectual obscurity after spending elementary school memorizing the sequence of Pi and the entire contents of 501 Latin Verbs. In college, the kid will be subject frequent nervous breakdowns while writing papers on calculus and economic theory, and will end up employed in a comic book shop in Berkeley after a long suffering, decade spanning career obtaining more useless degress than even me.
Musicians, poets and artists get depressed and produce inspiring works. I get depressed and have Cicero flashbacks.
I need to go back to work before my brain freezes up and I can only communicate in Egyptian cartouche.
So just take my word for it that the abject depression and anxiety was just all over the place.
While I was busy feeling sorry for myself and writing my own future eulogy, I became still more despairing.
And then a Cicero (?) quote came into my head, Dum spiro, spero.
Then I had an internal debate over the philosophical validity of the statement. The debate pretty much went nowhere, but I was obliged to look up the quote to see to whom it's usually credited, because it was bothering me that I couldn't remember.
I can't imagine passing on my garbage DNA to a child. The kid will end up blind as a mole, running into walls on a daily basis, and will probably be shunted off into pseudo-intellectual obscurity after spending elementary school memorizing the sequence of Pi and the entire contents of 501 Latin Verbs. In college, the kid will be subject frequent nervous breakdowns while writing papers on calculus and economic theory, and will end up employed in a comic book shop in Berkeley after a long suffering, decade spanning career obtaining more useless degress than even me.
Musicians, poets and artists get depressed and produce inspiring works. I get depressed and have Cicero flashbacks.
I need to go back to work before my brain freezes up and I can only communicate in Egyptian cartouche.
Liar, liar.
Probably some people have heard by now of the fatal patient shooting at a Shands in Illinois.
One of the saddest things about this incident is the blatant ridiculousness of the lying lie (that's like, an ultra-lie) the hospital CEO made in a press conference statement:
"Patient care and safety was never interrupted or compromised and things are back to normal at our hospital right now," Brown said Saturday evening.
Uh, so they evacuated 26 patients to another floor and locked down the entire hospital because everyone was feeling so safe with an armed crazy lunatic in the hospital? And the patient who barricaded himself and another patient in a room, and then was shot by police.... that was supposed to be, what, a model of hospital safety to be emulated by all?
So to recap the CEO's words: Having a crazy, suicidal patient waving a gun and kidnapping other patients in an acute care setting is *safe* and doesn't interrupt patient care?
RILLY?!
I'd like to know where his vision of "safe, uncompromised patient care" exists when there are gun toting patients roaming around the building unchecked-- maybe Ukrainian prison wards?
I'm actually pretty amazed he didn't come out and say, "It was the nurse's fault," followed by a string of physician affadavits claiming the sole bearer of culpability in this inicident was the nurse, and had the nurse not neglected her duties of prison warden, none of this would have ever happened.
I would actually be surprised if they didn't eventually resort to that time-honored hospital executive tradition of blaming it on the nurse for not de-escalating the situation properly and/or leaving her sixth sense/X-ray vision at home that day. Because obviously she should have also been telepathic and realized he was lying when he answered "No" to the intake question regarding the urge to harm oneself or others, even though everybody lies about their suicidal and homicidal ideations when asked by a health care provider. (I mean, like you're going to open up to a complete stranger and say, "Why yes, now that you mention it, I am thinking about killing myself--and I'll get you and your little dog, too! Thanks for asking. Can I use the restroom now?" )
This story also reminds me of my ghetto hospital nursing days, and the time when we were in "lock down" because the police were busy chasing around a suspect with a knife in the main lobby. And the time when we all watched from the window a shooting in progress on the streets below.
And the time a big, scary 200+ lb man starting screaming and following me down the hallway because I refused to let him take a potentially arrhythmia inducing drug off of the cardiac monitor (silly wabbit--safety precautions are for kids!) and I got my little 90 lb ass out of there. I was told by management that I should have actually let him abuse me and broken protocol just this once, because "sometimes that's our job, and look, now that poor patient has left the hospital angry with a bad impression about the hospital."
Funny, I left the hospital (and my job) angry and with a bad impression about it, too!
One of the saddest things about this incident is the blatant ridiculousness of the lying lie (that's like, an ultra-lie) the hospital CEO made in a press conference statement:
"Patient care and safety was never interrupted or compromised and things are back to normal at our hospital right now," Brown said Saturday evening.
Uh, so they evacuated 26 patients to another floor and locked down the entire hospital because everyone was feeling so safe with an armed crazy lunatic in the hospital? And the patient who barricaded himself and another patient in a room, and then was shot by police.... that was supposed to be, what, a model of hospital safety to be emulated by all?
So to recap the CEO's words: Having a crazy, suicidal patient waving a gun and kidnapping other patients in an acute care setting is *safe* and doesn't interrupt patient care?
RILLY?!
I'd like to know where his vision of "safe, uncompromised patient care" exists when there are gun toting patients roaming around the building unchecked-- maybe Ukrainian prison wards?
I'm actually pretty amazed he didn't come out and say, "It was the nurse's fault," followed by a string of physician affadavits claiming the sole bearer of culpability in this inicident was the nurse, and had the nurse not neglected her duties of prison warden, none of this would have ever happened.
I would actually be surprised if they didn't eventually resort to that time-honored hospital executive tradition of blaming it on the nurse for not de-escalating the situation properly and/or leaving her sixth sense/X-ray vision at home that day. Because obviously she should have also been telepathic and realized he was lying when he answered "No" to the intake question regarding the urge to harm oneself or others, even though everybody lies about their suicidal and homicidal ideations when asked by a health care provider. (I mean, like you're going to open up to a complete stranger and say, "Why yes, now that you mention it, I am thinking about killing myself--and I'll get you and your little dog, too! Thanks for asking. Can I use the restroom now?" )
This story also reminds me of my ghetto hospital nursing days, and the time when we were in "lock down" because the police were busy chasing around a suspect with a knife in the main lobby. And the time when we all watched from the window a shooting in progress on the streets below.
And the time a big, scary 200+ lb man starting screaming and following me down the hallway because I refused to let him take a potentially arrhythmia inducing drug off of the cardiac monitor (silly wabbit--safety precautions are for kids!) and I got my little 90 lb ass out of there. I was told by management that I should have actually let him abuse me and broken protocol just this once, because "sometimes that's our job, and look, now that poor patient has left the hospital angry with a bad impression about the hospital."
Funny, I left the hospital (and my job) angry and with a bad impression about it, too!
How Seattle is Like Rome
I was just browsing around on a travel nurse website sent to me by a fellow traveler at my next assignment, and came across this statement:
"Seattle, like Rome, is built on seven hills."
The first thing I thought was, "Dude, that's a totally spurious comparison. It's like saying "A Ford, like a Maserati, has four wheels."
The second thing I thought was, "But wow! That sentence is perfect for parsing! I think I read that sentence in my sixth grade English grammar book!"
"Seattle, like Rome, is built on seven hills."
The first thing I thought was, "Dude, that's a totally spurious comparison. It's like saying "A Ford, like a Maserati, has four wheels."
The second thing I thought was, "But wow! That sentence is perfect for parsing! I think I read that sentence in my sixth grade English grammar book!"
Di-Yu Trading Cards
I'm supposed to be packing up my house, which is half packed and looking depressingly cardboard boxy.
My car needs to be cleaned out, because it's a mess, and I need to do some laundry.
Instead, I'm thinking about amusing ways to make money, like my new idea Di-Yu
trading cards! Chinese hell has it all over Christian versions of hell! So many levels! And, oh! The rich, succulent variety of exquisite after-wordly punishments! I mean, evil people can be disemembered by saws and chariots! Chariots!
The creativity of the Tang dynasty brings a tear to my eye.
My car needs to be cleaned out, because it's a mess, and I need to do some laundry.
Instead, I'm thinking about amusing ways to make money, like my new idea Di-Yu
trading cards! Chinese hell has it all over Christian versions of hell! So many levels! And, oh! The rich, succulent variety of exquisite after-wordly punishments! I mean, evil people can be disemembered by saws and chariots! Chariots!
The creativity of the Tang dynasty brings a tear to my eye.
Office Space
I was having an e-mail discussion with a good friend the other day about "getting out of hospital nursing." This post is my revised reply, because I think it proves something about something. You get a bonus for figuring out what, exactly.
"I've always thought about ways of getting out of the hospital, especially those that don't involve me jumping out off the heli-pad landing zone as per Wim Wender's Wings of Desire suicide scene.
Seriously, the office job thing would be intriguing. I'm not sure, however, I'd fit into
office culture, especially after being a floor nurse, where you get to curse a lot, be a tetchy bitch in front of your superiors and get away with it, and generally act like a fucked-up crazy human being because everyone else--including your clientele--is so busy being crazy they don't have time to notice or care how crazy you are.
If I were to become Office Jamie, on the other hand, I'd totally be known around my place of business as "Crazy Jamie" and not in the affectionate way nurses think of "crazy," because nurses have a lot of tolerance for crazy. In fact, if there were a titer for crazy, we'd all be positive for it. Way, way, way friggin' positive.
As Office Jamie, however, I'd quickly gain a reputation for sitting in my cubicle browsing craigslist "rants and raves" and buying random things off ebay and then having them shipped to me under the company's FedEx account when I should be staring into space introspectively thinking of ways to creatively gouge the Little Man, and crafting memos detailing Corporate X's Plan For Universal Domination.
I'd continue my hallowed tradition of missing as many staff meetings as possible (I believe the last one I got out of at my old hospital involved me saying, "Oh geez, I'm sorry, I think I'm the only nurse on the floor now for eighteen patients, and I'm cleaning poo off of a patient so I can send him home properly. But I can stop and sit in your meeting if you'd like the patient to continue lying in his own filth?")
The staff meetings I did attend would be spent doodling on pieces of paper, sniffing in the air suggestively, and laughing at inappropriate moments, such as when they fire me. I'd go around at coffee break time making rude comments about illicit office romance in front of visiting spouses. I might even start a rumor about myself that I was having an illicit office romance, just to mix things up a bit.
The thing is, I'm pretty used to running around swearing under my breath, scrapping with my superiors and generally being a bloody pain in the arse, and I don't think that is what Grey Cubicle World looks for in a drone, particularly. I know hospitals don't care for it particularly, but they're so desperate for a fall guy (popularily known around the world as "nurses") for their pitiful medical "care" that they overlook these undesirable traits in an indentured servant.
On the other hand, in an office setting, I'm pretty sure no one would fling their poop at me or threaten me with bodily harm and if they did, I could sue them for OSHA regulation violations and in the latter case, have them arrested for assault or battery or whatever. I could leave my house in the morning looking great and smelling pretty, and come home the same way, without MRSA breeding in my hair and C-diff clinging to my watch. I wouldn't need a HazMat suit to meet my clients.
I'm just not sure I could ultimately hack an office job, though, poop-less environment or not. I think hospital nursing has warped me beyond repair, and therefore stunted my personal and professional growth.
But, after several more years of nursing, I'd probably be willing to join the carnival or
hawk my Westie for crack money (wasn't there an actor that did that?) just to get out of hospital nursing.
Which makes one wonder why the hell I'm going back, doesn't it?"
"I've always thought about ways of getting out of the hospital, especially those that don't involve me jumping out off the heli-pad landing zone as per Wim Wender's Wings of Desire suicide scene.
Seriously, the office job thing would be intriguing. I'm not sure, however, I'd fit into
office culture, especially after being a floor nurse, where you get to curse a lot, be a tetchy bitch in front of your superiors and get away with it, and generally act like a fucked-up crazy human being because everyone else--including your clientele--is so busy being crazy they don't have time to notice or care how crazy you are.
If I were to become Office Jamie, on the other hand, I'd totally be known around my place of business as "Crazy Jamie" and not in the affectionate way nurses think of "crazy," because nurses have a lot of tolerance for crazy. In fact, if there were a titer for crazy, we'd all be positive for it. Way, way, way friggin' positive.
As Office Jamie, however, I'd quickly gain a reputation for sitting in my cubicle browsing craigslist "rants and raves" and buying random things off ebay and then having them shipped to me under the company's FedEx account when I should be staring into space introspectively thinking of ways to creatively gouge the Little Man, and crafting memos detailing Corporate X's Plan For Universal Domination.
I'd continue my hallowed tradition of missing as many staff meetings as possible (I believe the last one I got out of at my old hospital involved me saying, "Oh geez, I'm sorry, I think I'm the only nurse on the floor now for eighteen patients, and I'm cleaning poo off of a patient so I can send him home properly. But I can stop and sit in your meeting if you'd like the patient to continue lying in his own filth?")
The staff meetings I did attend would be spent doodling on pieces of paper, sniffing in the air suggestively, and laughing at inappropriate moments, such as when they fire me. I'd go around at coffee break time making rude comments about illicit office romance in front of visiting spouses. I might even start a rumor about myself that I was having an illicit office romance, just to mix things up a bit.
The thing is, I'm pretty used to running around swearing under my breath, scrapping with my superiors and generally being a bloody pain in the arse, and I don't think that is what Grey Cubicle World looks for in a drone, particularly. I know hospitals don't care for it particularly, but they're so desperate for a fall guy (popularily known around the world as "nurses") for their pitiful medical "care" that they overlook these undesirable traits in an indentured servant.
On the other hand, in an office setting, I'm pretty sure no one would fling their poop at me or threaten me with bodily harm and if they did, I could sue them for OSHA regulation violations and in the latter case, have them arrested for assault or battery or whatever. I could leave my house in the morning looking great and smelling pretty, and come home the same way, without MRSA breeding in my hair and C-diff clinging to my watch. I wouldn't need a HazMat suit to meet my clients.
I'm just not sure I could ultimately hack an office job, though, poop-less environment or not. I think hospital nursing has warped me beyond repair, and therefore stunted my personal and professional growth.
But, after several more years of nursing, I'd probably be willing to join the carnival or
hawk my Westie for crack money (wasn't there an actor that did that?) just to get out of hospital nursing.
Which makes one wonder why the hell I'm going back, doesn't it?"
Supermarket Sweep
Does any one else remember that gameshow from the eighties called Supermarket Sweep, where the object of the game was to answer questions correctly about the price of household goods in order to win a chance at running pell-mell (pelmel? pel mel? Whatever!) through a market grabbing all the food and health and beauty products you could fit into the shopping cart in under sixty seconds?
Well, I was thinking of that game today as I wandered, at a much slower, rather anemically amoebic pace, vaguely nauseated--perhaps by the flourescent glare of the lighting reflecting off of all that shiny, brightly colored plastic packaging--through aisles and aisles of consumer condiment cornucopia.
In fact, I probably looked like a druggie, with the glazed eyes and the aimless wandering up and down the same aisles, feeling as pathetically urged to move continuously as those poor souls in the first level of Dante's purgatory, eternally windswept, and I think, bitten intermittenly by wasps.
Why am I telling you this story? I don't know, exactly.
But I do know that when you've been so hungry for so long (I'm talking weeks here) that the sight of all that food in one place makes you want to literally vomit. It doesn't even look remotely appealing. And somewhere in the back of all that fuzzy vagal symptomology, your brain is going "Psst! Jamie! You're really hungry! Eat some food! Come on! Your parasympathetic nervous system can only hold out so long!"
Any way, you avoid the condiment aisle all together, because it's been so long since you could afford food, let alone "artificial products to make food taste better" that you can't remember whether or not you'd like that particular brand of ketchup or not, and why the hell do we really need to choose between seven brands of ketchup any way? Doesn't it all taste the same? (I'll give you a hint: it does if you're poor, because you can't afford it.) Couldn't we fund cancer research with the money saved from eschewing redundant condiments from the American market altogether and funneling the money to worthwhile research?
So then I went down the frozen food aisle and stared at all the frozen meals I ate as a student, and continue to eat as an unemployed bum. And I thought, "Three dollars?! Who has three dollars for 8 ounces of frozen food?!"
Nothing looked remotely tempting.
I debated momentarily over the idea of just buying soda, and going home, but figured I would end up in hypoglycemic crisis if I did so, and therefore forced myself to purchase some chicken and potato salad, which then made me spiral into a free-association-thought about how poor people have to eat lots of potatos, because they're cheap, and how high-starch foods like potatos help type II diabetes along, and how very, very, very rich pharmaceutical companies and hospitals are getting because of all the type II diabetics in this country, and wasn't there some kind of evil coincidence about it all?
I've turned into Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory. And what's more, I even have tin foil around here, to create a barrier between my brain and that of the FBI!
I think first I have to work on my "persecuted minority" speech, though. You know, brush it up a little bit and make it sound a little more convincing. Then I'll be able to take on the world, one condiment at a time...
Well, I was thinking of that game today as I wandered, at a much slower, rather anemically amoebic pace, vaguely nauseated--perhaps by the flourescent glare of the lighting reflecting off of all that shiny, brightly colored plastic packaging--through aisles and aisles of consumer condiment cornucopia.
In fact, I probably looked like a druggie, with the glazed eyes and the aimless wandering up and down the same aisles, feeling as pathetically urged to move continuously as those poor souls in the first level of Dante's purgatory, eternally windswept, and I think, bitten intermittenly by wasps.
Why am I telling you this story? I don't know, exactly.
But I do know that when you've been so hungry for so long (I'm talking weeks here) that the sight of all that food in one place makes you want to literally vomit. It doesn't even look remotely appealing. And somewhere in the back of all that fuzzy vagal symptomology, your brain is going "Psst! Jamie! You're really hungry! Eat some food! Come on! Your parasympathetic nervous system can only hold out so long!"
Any way, you avoid the condiment aisle all together, because it's been so long since you could afford food, let alone "artificial products to make food taste better" that you can't remember whether or not you'd like that particular brand of ketchup or not, and why the hell do we really need to choose between seven brands of ketchup any way? Doesn't it all taste the same? (I'll give you a hint: it does if you're poor, because you can't afford it.) Couldn't we fund cancer research with the money saved from eschewing redundant condiments from the American market altogether and funneling the money to worthwhile research?
So then I went down the frozen food aisle and stared at all the frozen meals I ate as a student, and continue to eat as an unemployed bum. And I thought, "Three dollars?! Who has three dollars for 8 ounces of frozen food?!"
Nothing looked remotely tempting.
I debated momentarily over the idea of just buying soda, and going home, but figured I would end up in hypoglycemic crisis if I did so, and therefore forced myself to purchase some chicken and potato salad, which then made me spiral into a free-association-thought about how poor people have to eat lots of potatos, because they're cheap, and how high-starch foods like potatos help type II diabetes along, and how very, very, very rich pharmaceutical companies and hospitals are getting because of all the type II diabetics in this country, and wasn't there some kind of evil coincidence about it all?
I've turned into Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory. And what's more, I even have tin foil around here, to create a barrier between my brain and that of the FBI!
I think first I have to work on my "persecuted minority" speech, though. You know, brush it up a little bit and make it sound a little more convincing. Then I'll be able to take on the world, one condiment at a time...
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Pharmacopia of Love
For those of you who have been following my Diverticulitis Scare 2006 local newsflash saga, my CT came back pretty clean.
In fact, it came back so clean, that no diverticuli were noted.
So what the fuck was the hospitalization all about? Did they just pretend to see diverticulitis?
Obviously, there was something very wrong with me then, as evidenced by a) the pain b) even more pain c) diagnostic criteria.
But what's with the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't diverticuli? Huh?!
It's kind of like someone doing an echo and saying, "Oh geez, you have really bad aortic regurgitation, we may need to replace that valve." And then someone else comes along and says, "Huh. Echo looks fine to me."
Apparently I'm just chock-ablock full of idiopathic surprises--last summer it was a ridiculous wheal-like rash all over my limbs and torso that no one could figure out the cause of (which was fun, because they also didn't figure out that methylprednisolone would be a nice thing to give me until about a week into the whole, miserable ordeal.)
Now I have this weird disappearing out-pouching of my intenstine, which supposedly isn't even there any more, so let's just give you anti-spasmodics and call it IBS.
Uh, okay.
I feel like a little old person, doling out all my gut medicine: here's the prevacid for the ulcer prophylaxis, and here's the dicyclomine for the gut motility, and where'd my fiber drink go?!
I'm pretty sure if I had been born in the 19th century I would be one of those fussy, primping society ladies who had "weak constitutions" and became "hysterical" ever so often. I would insist on having my own special fainting couch for just such occasions.
I would have made a really good invalid/recluse.
In fact, it came back so clean, that no diverticuli were noted.
So what the fuck was the hospitalization all about? Did they just pretend to see diverticulitis?
Obviously, there was something very wrong with me then, as evidenced by a) the pain b) even more pain c) diagnostic criteria.
But what's with the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't diverticuli? Huh?!
It's kind of like someone doing an echo and saying, "Oh geez, you have really bad aortic regurgitation, we may need to replace that valve." And then someone else comes along and says, "Huh. Echo looks fine to me."
Apparently I'm just chock-ablock full of idiopathic surprises--last summer it was a ridiculous wheal-like rash all over my limbs and torso that no one could figure out the cause of (which was fun, because they also didn't figure out that methylprednisolone would be a nice thing to give me until about a week into the whole, miserable ordeal.)
Now I have this weird disappearing out-pouching of my intenstine, which supposedly isn't even there any more, so let's just give you anti-spasmodics and call it IBS.
Uh, okay.
I feel like a little old person, doling out all my gut medicine: here's the prevacid for the ulcer prophylaxis, and here's the dicyclomine for the gut motility, and where'd my fiber drink go?!
I'm pretty sure if I had been born in the 19th century I would be one of those fussy, primping society ladies who had "weak constitutions" and became "hysterical" ever so often. I would insist on having my own special fainting couch for just such occasions.
I would have made a really good invalid/recluse.
Another Use for the Dative of Interest!
Let's pretend I know Latin.
(And while we're in fantasy land, let's pretend I'm beautiful and rich! And super smart! And that someone dropped a house on the CEO of a certain hospital!)
If I knew Latin (ah! the subjunctive!) I would know how to translate the dative of interest (I think) sentence: "Do you want the job--are you sure?"
But I can't be bothered to work it out, and you're probably wondering why I'm dragging the reader through this really boring, only-Jamie-thinks-its-funny joke.
Merely because I got a call from a local hospital at which I had politely turned down a job--because of the travel position--and the Director of Human Resources said, "Umm, are you sure you can't work for us? No? Well, can you come work for us after your assignment ends?"
See, that's the joke! The dative of interest!
Wow. I need to go back to work. All this free time to think up lame Wheelock Latin grammar coincidences is starting to scare even me.
(And while we're in fantasy land, let's pretend I'm beautiful and rich! And super smart! And that someone dropped a house on the CEO of a certain hospital!)
If I knew Latin (ah! the subjunctive!) I would know how to translate the dative of interest (I think) sentence: "Do you want the job--are you sure?"
But I can't be bothered to work it out, and you're probably wondering why I'm dragging the reader through this really boring, only-Jamie-thinks-its-funny joke.
Merely because I got a call from a local hospital at which I had politely turned down a job--because of the travel position--and the Director of Human Resources said, "Umm, are you sure you can't work for us? No? Well, can you come work for us after your assignment ends?"
See, that's the joke! The dative of interest!
Wow. I need to go back to work. All this free time to think up lame Wheelock Latin grammar coincidences is starting to scare even me.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Why, God, WHY?
Dear God:
I know there are many mysteries out there which probably qualify more on the scale of "Stuff God Should Be Concerned About, Because You Know, Of the Whole Omnipotence Thing," but I'm going to waste our time and precious resources and ask You this one, lame question:
Why, dear God, at 11:10 p.m., does it sound like someone is--and has been for the last hour--sawing one of the apartment buildings in two ?
I mean, I'm just asking, that's all.
Yours sincerely,
Jamie
I know there are many mysteries out there which probably qualify more on the scale of "Stuff God Should Be Concerned About, Because You Know, Of the Whole Omnipotence Thing," but I'm going to waste our time and precious resources and ask You this one, lame question:
Why, dear God, at 11:10 p.m., does it sound like someone is--and has been for the last hour--sawing one of the apartment buildings in two ?
I mean, I'm just asking, that's all.
Yours sincerely,
Jamie
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Frolicher Landmann
I am eating Jolly Rancher candies and remembering a not-so-wonderful undergrad memory of chasing a 40 of malt liquor with the only foodstuff available at the party: Jolly Ranchers.
Because malt liquor is truly grotesque.
And Jolly Ranchers... are... well...
mysterious.
I mean, what's with the vaguely creepy name?
Wikipedia's article on the candy (boy, someone with even more time on their hands than me!) states that the name "suggests western hospitality."
Really.
Then why didn't they call it "Friendly Western Candy" or "Happy Cowhand Candy"?
I mean, I don't know. I've always wondered--in a suspicious way--why the ranchers are "jolly." And why the candy isn't therefore cattle flavored.
No, Jolly Ranchers put me more in mind of Schumann's Frolicher Landmann (sorry Katy, don't know how to do HTML umlauts).
I'm just saying, that's all.
Because malt liquor is truly grotesque.
And Jolly Ranchers... are... well...
mysterious.
I mean, what's with the vaguely creepy name?
Wikipedia's article on the candy (boy, someone with even more time on their hands than me!) states that the name "suggests western hospitality."
Really.
Then why didn't they call it "Friendly Western Candy" or "Happy Cowhand Candy"?
I mean, I don't know. I've always wondered--in a suspicious way--why the ranchers are "jolly." And why the candy isn't therefore cattle flavored.
No, Jolly Ranchers put me more in mind of Schumann's Frolicher Landmann (sorry Katy, don't know how to do HTML umlauts).
I'm just saying, that's all.
Dative of Reference or Interest
I have things to be doing.
Real things, for a change.
Like, for instance, packing up the entire contents of my house and moving 4.5 hours southwest, starting a new job, and trying to pass a notoriously difficult exam--the PBDS, for those of you in whose hearts this acronym strikes terror) in order to secure the new job (because it wasn't not enough to have to cram 2-4 years of nursing school into 11 months, take a national licensing exam, and go through orientation the first time).
Not to mention the whole "two shifts and you're on your own" downside to travel nursing.
So instead of doing things I should be doing, I am procrastinating and leafing through old text books, with antiquated titles like The Nature and Destiny of Man (ten points and a PhD in dorkiness if you know which of the Niebuhr brothers wrote that book, and what's more, actually care) and James Cones' God of the Opressed. (I decided I am going to write the follow up, God of the Depressed, and then maybe a third, God of the Suppressed. Maybe I'll even do a spoof for an encore: God of the Undressed.)
Also, I happened to be looking through Wheelock's Latin (6th ed.) and in chapter 38, jauntily titled "Relative Clauses of Characteristics; Dative of Reference; Supines" p 270, under subtitle "Dative of Reference or Interest" found this curious example:
Caret tibi pectus inani ambitione?
Wheelock translates thusly:
Is your breast free from vain ambition--are you sure?
This isn't really funny, unless you are a geek, but I immediately thought, "It's almost like a Roman advertisement for Breast Cancer Awareness Month!"
I mean, doesn't the urgency of it all make you desperate to rush to the nearest mirror posthaste, and do a quick self exam, just to make sure that your mammary tissue is indeed "free from vain ambition"?
It does me.
I also think it's interesting that Latin has so-called "Fear clauses," as Wheelock points out in this now-incomprehensible-to-me sentence: "Verbs denoting fear or apprehension often take subjunctive noun clauses introduced by ne (that) or it (that.... not); the conjunctions are just the opposite of what might be expected, because in origin the clauses they introduced were essentially independent jussive clauses..." (Chapter 40, p. 285).
Oh, why of course, the whole "independent jussive clause" thing makes it absolutely clear. Absolutely crystal.
Uh huh.
(I even have this line underlined in pencil, with a completely unhelpful scrawl "timeo ne abeas" in the right margin, to prove I can copy the examples given in the text, apparently.)
Similarly dog eared and marginated texts in my collection include:
Kant, I. The Critique of Pure Reason
Barson. La grammaire a la oeuvre
Hegel, ed. Hodgson, Peter C. Hegel Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion: One Volume Edition, the Lectures of 1827.
Eliot, George--various novels.
Note this basic desecration of textbooks does not indicate a relative measure of mastery or understanding of any of the material within (esp. that of the Hegel book; it looks impressively weather-beaten--not because I had any great intellectual epiphanies about its contents--but rather, because I spilled an entire cup of coffee on it while walking to 19th century theology class one day. My favorite part of that book continues to be the appendix, with the pedantic tables and diagrams of religion. Hilarious stuff.)
My copy of the Critique is actually falling apart, and has been, for some years, but this is mainly due to inferior binding process, as opposed to actual recent perusal (of which it was subject to a great deal in my student day). The spine, ergo, desperately needs tape. Wheelock's already has clear packing tape at the top of the spine, and really grubby pages. My Harper Collins Study Bible (no, not like Christian Right Evangelical Study Bible) from divinity school is likewise bloated from some unfortunate contact with an autumn deluge of rain that occured while walking back from class one Friday.
I was also looking through the facebook of my divinity school and recognizing old professors and thinking fondly, "Aw! He was like a grandpa that read you stories about Hegel!" and "Remember his funny joke about Muenster and those crazy-ass Anabaptists?"
Those were wild and raucous days, divinity school.
Real things, for a change.
Like, for instance, packing up the entire contents of my house and moving 4.5 hours southwest, starting a new job, and trying to pass a notoriously difficult exam--the PBDS, for those of you in whose hearts this acronym strikes terror) in order to secure the new job (because it wasn't not enough to have to cram 2-4 years of nursing school into 11 months, take a national licensing exam, and go through orientation the first time).
Not to mention the whole "two shifts and you're on your own" downside to travel nursing.
So instead of doing things I should be doing, I am procrastinating and leafing through old text books, with antiquated titles like The Nature and Destiny of Man (ten points and a PhD in dorkiness if you know which of the Niebuhr brothers wrote that book, and what's more, actually care) and James Cones' God of the Opressed. (I decided I am going to write the follow up, God of the Depressed, and then maybe a third, God of the Suppressed. Maybe I'll even do a spoof for an encore: God of the Undressed.)
Also, I happened to be looking through Wheelock's Latin (6th ed.) and in chapter 38, jauntily titled "Relative Clauses of Characteristics; Dative of Reference; Supines" p 270, under subtitle "Dative of Reference or Interest" found this curious example:
Caret tibi pectus inani ambitione?
Wheelock translates thusly:
Is your breast free from vain ambition--are you sure?
This isn't really funny, unless you are a geek, but I immediately thought, "It's almost like a Roman advertisement for Breast Cancer Awareness Month!"
I mean, doesn't the urgency of it all make you desperate to rush to the nearest mirror posthaste, and do a quick self exam, just to make sure that your mammary tissue is indeed "free from vain ambition"?
It does me.
I also think it's interesting that Latin has so-called "Fear clauses," as Wheelock points out in this now-incomprehensible-to-me sentence: "Verbs denoting fear or apprehension often take subjunctive noun clauses introduced by ne (that) or it (that.... not); the conjunctions are just the opposite of what might be expected, because in origin the clauses they introduced were essentially independent jussive clauses..." (Chapter 40, p. 285).
Oh, why of course, the whole "independent jussive clause" thing makes it absolutely clear. Absolutely crystal.
Uh huh.
(I even have this line underlined in pencil, with a completely unhelpful scrawl "timeo ne abeas" in the right margin, to prove I can copy the examples given in the text, apparently.)
Similarly dog eared and marginated texts in my collection include:
Kant, I. The Critique of Pure Reason
Barson. La grammaire a la oeuvre
Hegel, ed. Hodgson, Peter C. Hegel Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion: One Volume Edition, the Lectures of 1827.
Eliot, George--various novels.
Note this basic desecration of textbooks does not indicate a relative measure of mastery or understanding of any of the material within (esp. that of the Hegel book; it looks impressively weather-beaten--not because I had any great intellectual epiphanies about its contents--but rather, because I spilled an entire cup of coffee on it while walking to 19th century theology class one day. My favorite part of that book continues to be the appendix, with the pedantic tables and diagrams of religion. Hilarious stuff.)
My copy of the Critique is actually falling apart, and has been, for some years, but this is mainly due to inferior binding process, as opposed to actual recent perusal (of which it was subject to a great deal in my student day). The spine, ergo, desperately needs tape. Wheelock's already has clear packing tape at the top of the spine, and really grubby pages. My Harper Collins Study Bible (no, not like Christian Right Evangelical Study Bible) from divinity school is likewise bloated from some unfortunate contact with an autumn deluge of rain that occured while walking back from class one Friday.
I was also looking through the facebook of my divinity school and recognizing old professors and thinking fondly, "Aw! He was like a grandpa that read you stories about Hegel!" and "Remember his funny joke about Muenster and those crazy-ass Anabaptists?"
Those were wild and raucous days, divinity school.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Cross grebos crusties
Okay, Katy, I'm upping the ante on our Spam Header Challenge 2006.
The delightfully nonsensical "Cross grebos crusties" from baffling sender "irritating" arrived in my inbox this afternoon.
I dunno. You're the one that knows all those foreign languages and knows a lot of big English words. I mean, you're practically a PhD. You think about this kind of stuff for a living!
I feel dumb, but what's a grebos? Is it singular or plural? Is it a mineral, vegetable or animal? Does it bite? Can you cook it and eat it? Are the leaves deadly but the fruit delicious?
Dude, is it even a noun? Maybe it's a verb! Will you go to jail or hell if you do it with a neighbor or even your loved one? Is it legal, or do we have to flee to international waters before we get down to our grebos?
Or perhaps it's an adjective. Those poor crusties. They're apparently dour and grebos.
I think that'll be my new word, especially at work when I've got some attending or resident being a pain in the butt. "Yeah," I'll say knowingly, "That patient's totally grebos."
Then I'll snicker as they surreptitously go for their PDAs and scramble for the ePocrates function and type in frenetically, "grebos." Who knows. Maybe the search will come back with something.
Those grebos doctors. I mean, really.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
J's Anatomy
My maudlin gut and I are going for CT scan #2 in as many months tomorrow.
I get nothing to eat after midnight, and have to drink barium prior to the procedure.
I wish I could kill my neighbr. The drum-playing-at-all-hours one. The neighbor that is ass. Someone whose thoughts aren't tainted by by the reoccuring psychosis inducing rhythm of "boom boom BOOM", please refresh my memory as to why killing annoying people is a crime punishable by law?
I'm hoping some big, 6'5" , 250 lb former quarterback moves in next door to the drum player and breaks all the bones in his hand. That'd be... like, a lot of bones.
Did I mention I got the job I wanted? Did I mention it was nights? Did I mention I was crazy?
Did I mention I have to pack up my house for the third time in 5 months?
And did I mention I was crazy?
I get nothing to eat after midnight, and have to drink barium prior to the procedure.
I wish I could kill my neighbr. The drum-playing-at-all-hours one. The neighbor that is ass. Someone whose thoughts aren't tainted by by the reoccuring psychosis inducing rhythm of "boom boom BOOM", please refresh my memory as to why killing annoying people is a crime punishable by law?
I'm hoping some big, 6'5" , 250 lb former quarterback moves in next door to the drum player and breaks all the bones in his hand. That'd be... like, a lot of bones.
Did I mention I got the job I wanted? Did I mention it was nights? Did I mention I was crazy?
Did I mention I have to pack up my house for the third time in 5 months?
And did I mention I was crazy?
Monday, November 06, 2006
Will Work For Money
I now have four job offers and two more interviews.
Two of the jobs are travel jobs, and include paid housing and utilities.
Four of the jobs are local, and include the stipulation, "Paid housing? We pay you a crappy wage, don't we?!"
I have an interview tomorrow for stepdown, and an interview for CCU (that's "fresh heart attacks" for those of you who are blessed enough to be unaware of hospital speak) on Wednesday.
I'm. freaking. out.
Hopefully I'll get one more interview (the one in Sarasota, which I rilly rilly want, except now it's nights and not days, and that freaks me out too.)
Why must everything freak me out? Why can't I be cool, like Mr. T was in the 80s, and Ice T is now.
(Maybe, in retrospect, it's lame pop culture references like above that are the clue to my freaking out about everything.)
What I need now is an eight ball, or some other divining device. I'm done with rationally thinking out a plan for my life... look where it's gotten me, for God's sake. Maybe I just need to pick a job out slips of paper in a hat. And some of the jobs wouldn't even be jobs I've been offered, or that even exist, like "Cow mime" or "Air seamstress."
Nope. Still freaked out.
Two of the jobs are travel jobs, and include paid housing and utilities.
Four of the jobs are local, and include the stipulation, "Paid housing? We pay you a crappy wage, don't we?!"
I have an interview tomorrow for stepdown, and an interview for CCU (that's "fresh heart attacks" for those of you who are blessed enough to be unaware of hospital speak) on Wednesday.
I'm. freaking. out.
Hopefully I'll get one more interview (the one in Sarasota, which I rilly rilly want, except now it's nights and not days, and that freaks me out too.)
Why must everything freak me out? Why can't I be cool, like Mr. T was in the 80s, and Ice T is now.
(Maybe, in retrospect, it's lame pop culture references like above that are the clue to my freaking out about everything.)
What I need now is an eight ball, or some other divining device. I'm done with rationally thinking out a plan for my life... look where it's gotten me, for God's sake. Maybe I just need to pick a job out slips of paper in a hat. And some of the jobs wouldn't even be jobs I've been offered, or that even exist, like "Cow mime" or "Air seamstress."
Nope. Still freaked out.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Decisions, decisions.
Sometimes I look at my life and the many different permutations of possibilities within and think, "Christ, how could I have done so badly on the Analytic section of the GRE?!"
Such as now, for instance, when I'm looking at employment options plus housing options. I have a job offer in central Florida for $30/hr plus paid corporate housing. I also have two job offers from a local hospital (CVICU--that's "fresh open heart patients" for those lucky enough to not know how scary that prospect is--or med/surg telemetry) and another interview at a different hospital on Tuesday.
The jobs here in town pay... um... badly. So badly that I have to pretend the pay is okay, so as not to end up throwing myself over my breezeway balcony in despair (and being only one flight up, that option would cause more problems than it would ever hope to solve).
And then there's the whole conundrum of: "Do I keep my apartment, the one with the crazy drummer dude whom they can't evict because he owns the apartment?!"
But the job in central Florida sounds like my old job at Hospital of Doom, except, somehow, even worse, with vented chronically ill nursing home patients making up the majority of the population. No surgical interventions for you type patients, in other words. These patients scare the living daylights out of me, because, for one, what kind of quality of life can you assume a chronically vented patient has, and two, oh God, the bedsores. Do I really want to go back to endless wet-to-dry dressings on stage 4 pressure ulcers for total care, wacko, incontinent, aphasic, practically dead people? And the futile coding? And the general sense of "What in hell am I doing here?!" during any given shift?
Not really.
So I think that option is out, because yes, we would all like it if I made a good living wage, but I will only submit myself to so much pain and torture in return for money.
I am kind of excited about my interview on Tuesday, because I'm hoping they'll pay more than the other Local Hospital, and maybe I won't have to move, again, because that will make the twenty bajillionth time this lifetime, and I can't. stand. it. any. more.
Meanwhile, my gut is doing a fabulous job of keeping me in the running for World's Most Marginally Ill Person, Ever. Now, in addition to low grade abdominal pain 90% of the time, I am smote with still more nausea and even more pain after I eat. It's like, a pain bonus, free with your purchase of diverticulitis!
Such as now, for instance, when I'm looking at employment options plus housing options. I have a job offer in central Florida for $30/hr plus paid corporate housing. I also have two job offers from a local hospital (CVICU--that's "fresh open heart patients" for those lucky enough to not know how scary that prospect is--or med/surg telemetry) and another interview at a different hospital on Tuesday.
The jobs here in town pay... um... badly. So badly that I have to pretend the pay is okay, so as not to end up throwing myself over my breezeway balcony in despair (and being only one flight up, that option would cause more problems than it would ever hope to solve).
And then there's the whole conundrum of: "Do I keep my apartment, the one with the crazy drummer dude whom they can't evict because he owns the apartment?!"
But the job in central Florida sounds like my old job at Hospital of Doom, except, somehow, even worse, with vented chronically ill nursing home patients making up the majority of the population. No surgical interventions for you type patients, in other words. These patients scare the living daylights out of me, because, for one, what kind of quality of life can you assume a chronically vented patient has, and two, oh God, the bedsores. Do I really want to go back to endless wet-to-dry dressings on stage 4 pressure ulcers for total care, wacko, incontinent, aphasic, practically dead people? And the futile coding? And the general sense of "What in hell am I doing here?!" during any given shift?
Not really.
So I think that option is out, because yes, we would all like it if I made a good living wage, but I will only submit myself to so much pain and torture in return for money.
I am kind of excited about my interview on Tuesday, because I'm hoping they'll pay more than the other Local Hospital, and maybe I won't have to move, again, because that will make the twenty bajillionth time this lifetime, and I can't. stand. it. any. more.
Meanwhile, my gut is doing a fabulous job of keeping me in the running for World's Most Marginally Ill Person, Ever. Now, in addition to low grade abdominal pain 90% of the time, I am smote with still more nausea and even more pain after I eat. It's like, a pain bonus, free with your purchase of diverticulitis!
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