hello, yellow.

JAMIE:
[to attending]
I think he's jaundiced.

ATTENDING:
[looking straight on at jaundiced patient with ascites and cholelithiasis on CT scan ]
Really, where?!

JAMIE:
[wishing silently her pay check was a whole lot bigger]
Um, I don't know... his face, maybe?

ATTENDING:
[looking at patient again]
Yes, I guess you're right. He is jaundiced.

JAMIE:
[for the umpteenth time in three hours]
Do you think we can send him to the unit, now?

ATTENDING:
Yes, I think he needs an ICU bed.

JAMIE:
Thank you.

god's calling.

UNIT CLERK:
Jamie, there's someone on the phone for you.

JAMIE:
[parodying old Dana Carvey Church Lady SNL skit]
Is it... Jesus?!

UNIT CLERK:
[unimpressed silence]

JAMIE:
[realizes unit clerk probably too young to remember that skit]

hard day's night

JAMIE:
[during a hard day's night at work]
I think I'm having chest pain. Do think it's alright if I go down to the ED and get admitted, so I don't have to like, complete this sucky ass shift?

NURSE:
I couldn't possibly let you do that; I'd make sure you were life-flighted up to [Regional Level 1 Trauma Center]. This place sucks.

JAMIE:
You're right. If they admitted me here as a patient, I'd just have to pick up my crappy assignment any way.

perspective

I don't feel like I have perspective just now.

For example: I went to the bagel shop, and stood in line for what seemed like a very long time. People jostled and bustled. The couple in front of me was one of those Happy Stupid Couples who kept touching each other and looking in each others' eyes and smiling that happy stupid smile lovers smile when they don't know any better.

Normally this kind of behavior doesn't bother me. Normally, it makes me happy to think there's just a little more happiness in this crazy ass world, like a couple of days ago, when I was out driving somewhere at school-bus-drop-off-time, and saw two teenagers, walking hand-in-hand.

But just today, it bothered me. And it bothered me when someone cut in front of me to get to the cooler, because why couldn't they have put that stupid cooler somewhere else, or why couldn't that person cut in front of someone else to get to the cooler?!

Then it bothered me that I stood there waiting for my lox bagel, and some bitchy, harrassed woman asked me snappishly if I "was in line" because she had "called in ahead of time" for her bagels.

I asked for capers on my bagel, and the clerk told me, also snappishly, that there were capers on my bagel.

I couldn't see any capers. When I finally sat down, I found there were maybe a dozen capers.

It just seemed ridiculous.

The whole damn scene.

It didn't make any sense to me.

None of it.

Not the Happy Stupid Couple stroking each other's arms and gazing into one another's eyes all agog with wonder at Love. Or the cutting in line to get to the cooler. Or the bitchy harrassed woman.

But especially, the fact that I had asked for more capers, and didn't get any.

That really didn't make any sense.

Just like it didn't make any sense that I had worked over sixty hours in five days, sent five people to the unit in five shifts, and watched a daughter cradle her mother in her arms, weeping softly, as she died.

So much death and misery happened this week it doesn't seem like a holiday ever happened. I just feel so tired and drained. Last night I dreamt I was flying around over a H. Bosch scene of death and destruction.

I wonder why.

complicated

This week at work, I learned how love is complicated.

This lesson had nothing to do with me, or my life.

It has to do with a depressed patient, who I sent to the unit after admitting him to ours, and who had been found by police at his home in horrible shape, just sitting there.

Not eating.

Not sleeping.

Just sitting.

His wife died five years ago of some terrible disease, and his daughter died three months ago of the same thing.

I had to ask him about it. Because of the legal crap. I didn't want to ask him about it. I felt like Torquemada asking him about it. I didn't have to ask him about it. It was right there, written all over his sick, damaged body.

He said to me, simply, "I am sad. Just... so sad."

And then he changed the subject.

When I gave report to the ICU nurse at transfer, she said, "Oh yeah, I know all about him. His daughter died on our unit."

He loves his wife. He loves his daughter.

They are both dead.

I think he wants to be dead.

His other daughter, who isn't dead, loves him. Loves him enough to call the police when he didn't answer his phone again and again, any way.

So, you see, it's complicated. Because I was trying to get his doctor to send him to the unit all night long, so he could live, even though it was clear to me he didn't want to, no matter what he said to me otherwise. And I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.

I mean, not on a professional level. It was the right thing to do on a professional level, obviously.

But professional ethics and behavior are different, sometimes, than the right decision.

Because whether or not life is worth living is something only the patient can decide for him or herself, even if it that decision ultimatley hurts other people, and can be seen, on some level, as not love.

I mean, what about his other, living daughter, right? What about her love for him?

Depression is hard, because it makes you realize: loving other people is the easier part of living. We can do that; sometimes we can even fake loving other people, and it works out alright.

But loving yourself enough so that you can love other people, even those you claim to love the most... well, that's the rub, isn't it?

Love is complicated. It makes you sad.

Everything else that's wrong with a human being you can probably cure, given enough time and resources, and willingness.

But love.

You can't cure love.

Not that I've seen, any way.

everybody loves raymond

I had a hell of a week at work.

Very hellish.

I did have a patient who enjoyed telling dirty limericks, though.

When he wasn't shitting all over the bed or combative, he was really funny.

Kind of.

antidote

Apparently, the antidote to being an adult caught in a merciless world of hell is to spend some quality time with seven-year-olds, who think "noise is great!" and enjoy soundly thrasing your ass at solitaire.

After my Shift From Hell #456 and about 5 hours of sleep, I went over to my undergrad French professor's house, Jocelyn's and shared Christmas dinner with her seven-year-old daughter, Mileva, her grandmother and a friend of Jocelyn's.

Initially reserved, Mileva warmed up right away once I took interest in her pin-ball machine (with dinosaurs and space ships, and noises that don't indicate cardiac arrest) and half a dozen games of solitaire, which Mileva's grandmother helped me play, because apparently I'm slower than I thought when it comes to card games played against smart seven-year-olds.

I see why people have kids, because of the joy they bring into our crappy, hateful world of adulthood, and how they remind us, in a good way, of that there are still some things in this world untouched by that crappy hatefulness.

Nurses need a lot of reminding. I need a lot of reminding. Maybe we all do.

In conclusion, that's why there should be a lot more seven-year-olds in my life, and less flakey attendings.

unhappy.

I spent Christmas Eve night shift sending a patient to the unit within the first 45 minutes of my shift. It should have been done earlier, but the kid who picked up the patient three hours before mine was a new grad fresh off the SS Clueless, so it didn't happen then.

Then I spent another half a shift with a patient I thought was having a heart attack. It took two hours, multiple pages and hospital administrators to get the on-call doc to call back.

Not only was it terrifying, but the doctor treated me like a stupid slut when he did bother to call back, pooh-poohing my assessment and blaming her issues on her "respiratory history" even though a) patient stated, when I asked, that "This is how she felt when she had her other heart attack" and b) she had EKG changes (on an EKG I had done, stat, no thanks to any doctor's order).

He didn't bother to come in and see the patient, and refused to look at the EKG, which I offered twice to fax to him, because of the significant changes from the one three days ago, and her history of an old MI and stent X2. I didn't even get to the part of the assessment where I could explain I thought she had "significant ST elevations and broadening of her QRS complexes."

He thought I was all talking crazy, and cut me off in the middle of my assessment, apparently wanting to get back to merry making with Miss Merry Holiday Ho 2006, or whatever he was so busy doing it took the hospital administrator on call herself to help find him.

I'm getting so tired of being treated like a stupid slut by doctors who don't have enough professionalism or intelligence to answer their pages in a timely manner.

And I'm still angry about the situation. Very, very angry. It's anger I need to let go of, obviously, but it's hard. I wish I could get to the point where I just don't care any more, because then maybe I could see the rational in the popular plan espoused by lazy docs: "do nothing" or its equally famous corollary, "wait and see."

The woman could have died, and probably suffered a serious cardiac event, and I had no orders, not even conditional orders, for two hours. And the orders I got treated the symptoms, but didn't really do anything to help diagnose the underlying problem, in my opinion.

Two hours.

It's a long time to stare at a HR in the 140's, a patient who looks like crap, and an EKG that looks even crappier. Meanwhile, I had to call another doctor twice because of his demented patient, who was picking off all his telemetry, clothing, etc, and refusing to take his meds. I did get to chart for posterity that the doc's response to the med refusal was, "Patient refuses to take meds. Whatever."

I then picked up a patient at 3 a.m. who was just as loopy, but not restrained, and having a great time playing "Let's try to climb over the bedrails!' for hours and hours.

And another patient who, while nice, insisted on every two hour Dilaudid IV push meds, for pain. I understood why he needed the pain medicine, but I thought I might poke my own eye out with a syringe before the night was over, just to see if I couldn't earn myself a trip to the ER and some pain medicine, too.

I'm still so angry about that shift it makes me wonder what the point is, and makes me laugh bitterly when Apple, with their fucked up "protocols" about sending me a stupid, lousy, made-in-Tawain power adapter, sanctimoniously tells me "they can't help me unless they make sure the power adapter really, truly doesn't work."

There's irony there, isn't there?

Deep, powerful, annoying, anger-and-resentment-causing irony.

No one better fuck with me at work tonight.

Nobody.

i hate everyone.

Season's greetings, assholes!

I've been hold, talked to four, no wait, FIVE separate people at Apple, Inc. regarding a new power adapter for my Mac.

Gone, apparently, are the days of trust.

And rationality.

I've been repeatedly told they'll have to "troubleshoot" the power adapter, despite me flatly telling them, "It doesn't work; and I have the extended warranty, can you just send me a new one, please, I don't have all day!"

One guy told me 'he wouldn't get his $500 bonus next month' if they didn't "troubleshoot" the power adapter with me before sending me a new, working power adapter.

What small comfort.

I've been trying to get this done for now going on two hours, and the guy who was willing to help me got disconnected.

Modernity sucks ass.

greece! rome! monsters!

Proving it doesn't take much to amuse me, and even less to induce me to spend money, I present you with a very funny book:

If five-year-olds learning about Cyclops isn't enough pedagogy for you, never fear--it even has a quiz and a glossary at the end of your colorful and humorous tour-through-mythical-beasts-of-Greece (and Rome!)!

Dog-in-a-basket

To be filed away mentally under "things my dog does that baffle even me"
:

quid novi?

Behold, I give you the text that needs no further introduction: Wheelock's Latin: 6th Edition Revised.

(Shown below with U.S. nickel for size comparison.)


Don't the crisp white pages make your eyeballs' cones and rods want to rejoice? Isn't the cover-art stunning?! Doesn't a snapshot of the text make you nostalgic for ass-numbingly repetitive hours of declension enjoyment?!

It does me, boy-howdy.

I mean, look at all the tasty subjunctive goodness! Look at it, I say! (The subjunctive is one of my favorite grammatical moods (even in French, I like it that much!):



And despite Wheelock (prejudiciously and unfairly, I think) prefacing the passive periphrastic (gerundive + sum) as "horrendous," it remains my favorite conjugation*, along with the ablative absolute, because alliteration is fun, kids!

Rumor has it you can even get a copy of Wheelock's in braille! It's an equal-opportunity pedagogical experience!

It's just too much for this discipula. I need to go lie down in a darkened room to recover my nerves. Meanwhile, run, don't walk (!) to your nearest website browser or favorite bookstore vendor and purchase a copy of Wheelock's Latin today!

*I reserve the right to change my mind about this one, because I also really favor the plus quam perfectum, although I think it sounds more lyrical in French--yes, French, ladies and gentlemen--"le plus-que-parfait." It's the "more than perfect." I suppose it's the grammatical equivalent of "extra virgin."

death becomes her

11 p.m., I picked up an elderly ECF patient, whom I dub "Actively Dying Woman."

OFF SHIFT NURSE:

She's full DNR (do not resucitate); I think she'll be dead by the end of the night.

JAMIE:
Score. Oh, well, that's nice. I haven't done post-mortem care in a long time.

OFF SHIFT NURSE:
[looks mildly disconcerted by my irony]
Continues with report, highlights of which included:

Rousable only to painful stimuli (remember learning "the sternal rub" in nursing school?) Foot drop, possibly bilat hip fractures untreated. Otherwise had lungs wetter than a Florida swamp (I call them "Darth Vader" respirations). Looking at her breathing, you'd almost expect her to start blowing bubbles out her mouth, her lungs were so rhonchrous.

Troponins positive for MI, in CHF (congestive heart failure) with a BNP (CHF indicator) >2000. Tachy in the 110s-130s. BP holding, but probably compensatory. Potassium 7.1 on ER admission, redraw 6.7 (basically incomptable with life. No treatment for the potassium level, but they sent a urinalysis. (What, in case she's uroseptic, too, so we also won't order antibiotics?!) Foley'ed and putting out insufficient amounts of tea-colored urine. Diuresed with Bumex and Lasix X1, but no daily orders for diureses.

In fact, no orders, period, other than an aspirin suppository and a Nitro gtt.

JAMIE:
[diatribe welling up]

Uh, what's the stupid nitro drip? It's not like we're cathing this woman, or something. Isn't that kind of a waste when her potassium is 7.1 and we aren't treating that, either? And what's with sending a urinalysis?! And the aspirin suppository?! For what, a headache? MI prophlyaxis?!

OFF SHIFT NURSE:
I know. It's totally ridiculous.

JAMIE:

Does she have comfort measures ordered? What if she starts really crapping out and goes into major respiratory distress while she's dying? What about scopalamine, or a morphine gtt?

OFF SHIFT NURSE:
Nope, no orders for any of that. You'd have to call the doctor.

JAMIE:

Man, who wrote these fucking orders, a monkey with a typewriter?!

Other notable characters in the ensemble of Crazy Crackers Hospital Acting Troupe:

1) Hydroencephalatic Hemodyalsis Woman, with the Angry Family who needed 1/2 an hour of coddling and case management.

2) Post Cath, CHF "Sputum" Guy, who I found at 8p.m. desating to 60% on 2L NC post cost, throwing PVCs and PACs despite having stable electrolytes. Fun with suction! Fun with doctor paging! Fun with respiratory therapy, whose completely unhelpful intervention was to say, "He looks fine to me" and then disappear! Fun with stat CXR! Fun with annoyed, pissy patient, who, in his hypoxia-induced anger, "Just wants to eat!" despite hawking up voluminous loogies every 15 seconds that could be heard with the door closed, 100 yards away at the nurse's station. All. night. long.

3) Pneumonia Lady, with left sided flank pain, unresolved nausea, vomitting and diarrhea unrelieved by current med orders. More fun with doctor paging! More fun with, "May I please have an order for Reglan and fluids with potassium repletion?"

4) Other Actively Dying Lady, who had been refusing all her po meds all day and was clearly giving up the will to live.

Rock on!

overheard

(3 a.m. Passing by nurse station):

NURSE #1
Is it... ummm... that piece of paper, over there?

UNIT CLERK:
No.

TECH:
Um... that book?

UNIT CLERK:
Noooo! Try again.

NURSE #1:
Uh... the tele monitor numbers?

UNIT CLERK;
Nope. Last chance, guys.

JAMIE:
[on her way into patient room, overhears conversation]
Dude, don't tell me you are playing "I Spy," are you?

UNIT CLERK:
[abashed, giggles]
Yes, we are.

NURSE #1:
Actually, we're playing "Bumblebee, Bumblee."

JAMIE:
Huh?

UNIT CLERK:
Yeah: "Bumblebee, bumblebee, I see something you don't see." That's the way I learned it when I was a kid.

JAMIE:
[sitting down to play, too]
Okay.

Half an hour passes.

UNIT CLERK:
Y'all have to hear these stupid messages my stupid ex boyfriend left on my cell phone.

[plays messages over cellphone speaker phone; male voice with strong southern drawl is heard making spurious claims, apparently, of being a "changed man"]

UNIT CLERK:
[Giggles hysterically]

CHARGE NURSE:
Girl, how could you fuck someone who sounds like that?

THE REST OF US:
[Laugh appreciatively]

NURSE #1:
[inconsequently]
Man, I need to get laid.

CHARGE NURSE:
How 'bout call [unit clerk's] boyfriend?

[More time passes]

UNIT CLERK:
Hey [Nurse #1], remember that guy who hid the tele box, and wouldn't tell you where he put it? That was so funny.

NURSE #1:
Yeah, that bastard. That wasn't funny.

JAMIE:
He did what? Was he old and demented?

NURSE #1:
No. He was like, fifty. Stupid fucker.

JAMIE:
Ooo! Scary. So, where'd you finally found it?

NURSE #1:
Next room over. He hid it in another room. I spent half a shift running around trying to find that fucking thing. Ass.

JAMIE:
Nice! What happened to him?

NURSE #1:
Finally signed out AMA.

JAMIE:
No kidding.

[More time passes]

UNIT CLERK:
Oh my god! Remember that guy with the way swollen balls the size of cantaloupes!? Mr. B----, what was his name?

NURSE #1:
[bitterly]
Mr B---.

UNIT CLERK:
You actually remember his name?!

JAMIE:
So what happened to Mr. B... Mr. Balls?

UNIT CLERK:
He smelled funny. Remember how he used to come and sit out at the nurse's station, and just sit there, and smell?

NURSE #1:
Yeah. He had to have a section cut out of his wheelchair to accomadate his balls.

JAMIE:
I'm trying really hard not to imagine that.

UNIT CLERK:
Oh my god! That's right!

JAMIE:
[musing]
How did the Ball guy fit into pants?!

NURSE #1:
[as if I'm retarded]
He didn't. He wore a hospital gown.

JAMIE:
No, I mean, in the real world. What'd he wear? A mumu?

NURSE #1:
I have no fucking idea.

JAMIE:
What, you didn't follow Ball Guy home and check? That's like, a research project, right there, I'm telling you.

bookworm

There's no denying it. I'm back to medical telemetry. Which means crazy, end-stage patients who we all have decided are in congestive heart failure, because hey, why not.

My favorite patient from last night was a pleasantly confused man who did every thing you told him to, until you walked out of the room, resulting in the following scenarios:

JAMIE:
Okay, now, don't pick at your skin or you'll make it bleed!

PATIENT:
Okay! I won't!

[thirty seconds later, returning to the room to find:}

PATIENT'S FOREARM:
covered with bloody skin tear; patient still picking at skin.

Or how about this one, which went on all night because, essentially, he was pretty stable and I didn't think wrist /chemical restraints were the way to go on this guy:

JAMIE:
Hi, let's put that oxygen tubing back on, okay?

PATIENT:
Sure! Thank you!

JAMIE:
[walks out of room]

not thirty seconds later:

OXYGEN TUBING:
Not so mysteriously disengages itself from patient's face/nose.

Or my favorite:

PATIENT:
[squinting through darkness to read clock on the wall]
It's 2:30!

JAMIE:
Yes, it is. 2:30 at night. Bedtime.

PATIENT:
Yeah. Right. Hey, do you like books? Cause I got books! I'm sellin' 'em!

JAMIE:
Yeah, I like books! What kind of books?

PATIENT:
[looks mildly distraught and can't seem to remember what the hell he was talking about]
Books. All kinds. I'm telling you, books!

JAMIE:
Right. Well, I don't have any money right now, but how about I come by later and look at the books?

PATIENT:
[brightening up]
Yeah! That's a good idea!

JAMIE:
Can I put your oxygen back on you?

PATIENT:
Sure! Thank you!

[oxgyen tubing taken off as Jamie leaves the room].

The guy was totally crackers, but he didn't try to get out of bed, and he didn't get combative or verbally abusive. Other than the constant, completely pointless reorientation to keep his life saving oxygen cannula in his nose, he was a peach.

He also goosed me while I turned around to get something off his bedside table. Startled, I said, "Hey there!" more out of surprise than anything. When I turned around to look at the patient, he had this funny little grin on his face, and a spark in his eye that suggested, demented or not, somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he'd just gotten away with pinching my ass. "Hey there!" he parrotted cheerily, grinning, pointing at my ass.

I'm guessing that was his way of saying, "Hey, nice ass!" in his demented, limited cognitive-skills world.

I mean, what do you do? You can't get mad at the demented patient who pinches your butt, especially when you find it kind of funny in a pathetic way, and sadly, the most interesting thing that's happened all night long.

I'm totally blocking out all the rest of the night, because it sucked (four out of five demented patients; one beginning to actively die!) and I'm back tonight. And tomorrow night!

Let's face it, when you spent most of your job hours talking to crazy people about things that don't exist, you're bound to start testing the boundaries of reality sooner or later. With this crazy profession, I'm betting on sooner. I don't even bother reorienting my patients half the time, because it just upsets and confuses them even more that they aren't selling books like they think for thirty seconds, until they think they're at the office. Fine, dude, you're selling books, you're at the Taj Mahal, whateve whatever makes you happy. Just don't get out of bed and go door-to-door and try selling them, or go sightseeing out of your nice hospital bed caravan, okay?

Hey! Maybe I should bring money, and buy some books from that guy.

kids in the hall

When I was a kid, my very favorite place to be was in my room, snuggled away in a corner, with a book. If there was carob-chip trail mix, so much the better.

My favorite place as an adult is still my house, with a good book, although sadly, I haven't had carob products in an exceedingly long time.

In kindergarten, I had agoraphobia-like issues. It wasn't about school, because I loved school. My favorite part was standing at the teacher's desk and reading a book, I think about a dog. And I also loved the projector shows about dinosaurs (my favorite being Triceratops) , especially if I got to run the projector.

No, my agoraphobia issue stemmed with the hallway. Especially during winter, when you had to take off your hideous moon boots and put on your inside side shoes before you went inside the classroom, because moon boots weren't allowed in the cloak-room/classroom.

I used to panic, because my lack of hand-eye-coordination--a trait that would unfortunately follow me to adulthood--would have me inevitably removing the moon polyester/rubber boot shell from the polyester lining, leaving me stuck in a hallway with half a boot on, half a boot off while everyone else was inside, getting a jump start on eating paper paste and cutting out stars and hearts with blunted safety scissors! I must get inside that classroom! I must!

Sensing my destiny was somehow deeply intertwined with playing hopscotch on painted carpet and counting how many diamonds were indeed in the sky with Lucy, and feeling my chances at Ivy League entrance ebbing away by the second, I would often be near tears (somehow, I also sense a connection of my young neuroses to that of my adulthood fears).

I had a little friend back then, in the days when I was somewhat more popular with boys (which abruptly ended with formal schooling). His name was Moses, also adopted and Korean, and he would help me with my moon boots, and then we would go to class together.

We were friends with a girl named Andrea, who had an adopted Korean brother (notice a theme, here?) and all three of us could read in kindergarten, which made us academic superstars amongst six-year-olds, believe you me. Andrea could draw much better than I could, especially frogs, and I was secretely jealous of this talent.

Once, when the buses were late, Moses and I decided to walk home by ourselves. We stopped by the neighborhood golf course and re-enacted the day's reading, "The Three Billy Goats Gruff" because of the convenient hills and foot path over a brook, which was kind of like a bridge.

Any way, by the time we got home, our mothers' had nearly lost their minds in worry, because we were supposed to have been given the message by Dylan--also a classmate-to wait at school for them. Which we never got, because sometimes six-year-olds aren't very good at remembering important information to tell their other six-year-old classmates.

Being six at the time, we had no idea why they were so upset. The walk was fun! And an adventure!

Ah, youth.

I don't remember why I started down memory lane, probably to use the hallway/moon boot terror of my youth as a metaphor for going to work/a new job, but I'm glad I had a friend who helped me with my moon boots, because sometimes, that's all you really need.

big

Yesterday, I went to a department store and bought some underwear-in-a-package, which, as the moral of the story will show, is not my favorite way to buy underwear, because of the mystery sizing issue, as detailed below.

I needed white underwear because when you wear white scrub bottoms, well, you need white underwear, trust me on this one.

Any way, not sure of the sizes, and unable to tear through the packaging to see, I bought a size 6, which seemed reasonable to me, because it was half way in between size 4 and size 8, and I'm a "middle-of-the-road" kind of person. When I finally got home and opened the package,I realized they didn't just look "a bit big," they looked huge. But I was determined, so I decided to try the old "hot water wash and dry" trick.

So I dumped them in the washer and dryer, and then...

Dammit. They were still too big.

Not so big that I can't wear them, exactly, because I do think they shrunk somewhat, but they still don't fit at all well. If this was a weight loss commercial, I would have just lost about 6 inches off my hips, as evidenced by me, proudly pulling away the elastic waistband said distance from my tummy.

Then I looked at the packaging, and realized that according to their measurements, I should have purchased a size 4, or something. Maybe I should have realized that not being able to fit into size 2 jeans "because they are too big" anymore and having to rebuy all my pants in size zeros last year should have clued me into the fact that size 6 underwear were going to be too big, but how the hell was I supposed to know?! Commercial sizing, I curse thee!

This is so very, deeply annoying. Now I have too-big-underwear that I can't exchange in good conscience, because I've already washed them and dried them and trial worn them. And underpants are not something you can exactly give away, are they? I mean, even supposing you could find someone that would want ugly white underpants, what are you going to say to someone to seal the deal? "Hey, your ass looks fatter than mine, want some new underpants?!"

So, I don't know. I'm hoping if maybe I just keep washing the underwear and drying them on high heat, they'll shrink to more befitting proportions, but I suppose I'm goign to have to shell out another 7 bucks for a size that actually fits.

This kind of thing is why modern life is just ridiculous, and it's times like this when I really think we're all doomed to a life of one absurd situation after another.

head of the class

So I had another one of my typically geeky dreams.

In this dream (probably spurred by Katy's and my own fascination with mimeograph machines) we were getting term papers handed back to us, by a very irate teacher who was not happy that 99% of the class had basically flubbed off and not done a very good job.

But who got 63 out of 51 points possible on her essay?

I did.

I'm assuming there was some kind of extra credit, or the teacher couldn't do math properly, but boy, was I ever proud!

Then, I went to math class, and was all sad and stupid again, and had no idea what was going on, plus the text on my math book kept disappearing every time I tried to look straight on at the page.

Finally, we ended up watching a movie about a big ship, The End.

(Hey, no one said this post was going to be interesting.)

hypocrite!

Remember in that one sermon, when Jesus goes around calling the Pharisees and Saducees "hypocrites"? There's actually probably a few diatribes about them in the Gospels, but I always found them to be kind of funny, although I can't explain why.

Any way, I try to keep on health care news, especially as it relates to nursing, and came upon this article about The Heart Attack Grill in Tempe, Arizona, a burger joint that serves up it's 8000 calorie burgers with the aid of scantily and sluttily dressed women in "naughty nurse" costumes. There is even such a thing as a Sponge Bath Saturdays, which, having given probably thousands of bed baths to really devastatingly ill patients by now, I really don't want to think about as applicable to a dining experience, ever, but I'm intrigued by the marketing possibilities.

So, the Arizona Board of Nursing is peeved. Nurses are peeved. Apparently there's a lot of professional outrage over the skimpy, cleavage-happy costumes, etc.

And, as a nurse, I can understand where all the anger and the outrage is coming from and why everyone is so getting so stoked up about this whole thing.

But, can I say, at the risk of being lynched by the next Womyn's Group that reads my blog, that I also find it kind of lame to get this flamed up over what amounts to a major lack of refinement in restaurant decor and theme. When I really stop and think about it, I realize that I am much more outraged over the actual working conditions of the average hospital nurse than I am the sexualized objectification of my profession.

Of course, arguments can and have been made that image, respect and working conditions are all correlated, and those arguments are valid, too.

But I can also argue for a disjunction of those linkages, and it's precisely because I a nurse, and I do work very hard and want the best for my colleagues and patients, and I think if we were half as united and actively doing something about it as a profession as we are getting all upset and wounded over some stupid burger joint, we'd actually get somewhere in our fight for better working conditions and ultimately, patient care.

One the one hand, I find the "naughty nurse" theme of the burger joint very ironic, and farcical, and just plain silly. If you've ever listened to Greggory Isaac's reggae song, 'Night Nurse' and thought it was funny (as I do), you probably see why I'm not terribly outraged.

Yes, it's all very tacky and probably offensive to some people, and I grant that the costumes and advertising probably don't do the women in our profession any favors, but, on the other hand, I'd rather a state Board of Nursing get pissed off and mobilize its resources over an issue directly relevant to current practice, like patient nurse ratios or inter-professional dynamics, rather than freak out about one burger joint's objectification of women (because let's face it, it's not about the nurse costumes, it's really about the women in the nurse costumes.)

It's sort of like applying Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Give me decent patient ratios, working conditions that aren't a page out of The World of Feudal Europe, circa 1250, a decent salary and retirement, and then I'll be happy to discuss and tackle the objectification of women in nursing and the damage it supposedly does to our profession.

I mean, seriously, have you looked at the grill's website? Geraldo is doing a newscast! They have a theme song and a comic book, for God's sake. I repeat: Geraldo is doing a newscast, people.

(And, as a side bar, maybe someone should point out that an eight thousand calorie burger is probably much more scandalous and a whole lot more ethically dubious than the half-dressed co-ed serving it.)

not on your tin type!

If square-footage-of-tin-foil-consumed-in-a-single-household-project is a measure of insanity, I just have to say that I think I can officially join the ranks of the crazy.

I'm sure it's probably against the association rules and will annoy my ninety-five-year-old shuffleboard playing neighbors, but I just tin-foiled my master bedroom windows, in order to block out all sunrays that will pierce and shatter my vampyre soul. I'm pretty sure an added benefit it that this set up will conveniently channel all those messages floating around in the air sponsored by the tin foil industry, such as "plastic wrap causes cancer!" and of course, the ever popular "buy more tin foil!" The tin foil will also come in handy if I ever wish to bake a turkey on my windowsill.

The dog watched me tin foil my bedroom windows and at first looked mildly curious and interested--rustling of food wrapping products by any human being generally signals a dog treat might be forthcoming-- a look which gradually became one of disbelieving dismay. If he could talk, I'm sure he would have said, "Lady, you're nuts."

Indeed, I do feel a little nutty, like any day now I might flip on the t.v. only to find myself on some MacGuyver-meets HGTV show, explaining how to create your own sensory deprivation chamber all for the low, low price of two rolls of tin foil, some string, and a glue gun.

animal crackers

I know it's actually Christmas season, but does any one else have a problem when Easter rolls around, and you get that big chocolate bunny (or did, as a kid, any way) with the colorful foil wrapping, and then you have to eat the bunny?

I may have had a way over-active imagination for a nine year old who enjoyed reading hagiographies of martyred Catholic saints, but it always felt like I was committing a torture-murder. It would take me months to eat the chocolate bunny rabbit, mostly because of the extreme guilt. I'd finally start with the ears, but I had a real problem eating the head with the little rabbity face etched on it.

To this day, I even have a problem eating candy shaped like little animals, because I'm killing the candy animals.

On the other hand, completely wacked hypocrite that I am, I eat defenseless dead, cooked cow and chicken all the time. Maybe someone should form my hamburger into a cute little baby calf, so I would never eat meat again.

numquam.

I just like saying the word "numquam." It's a very soothing word to say. Try it: numquam.

See, don't you feel all soothed and better?

The other day in orientation, when some presenter was getting all hot and bothered with a power-point presentation on some nursing theory--I want a return to the days of overhead projectors and slideshows, and carving answers in stone for eternity, dammit!--she translated caritas as "love."

It was all I could do not to blurt out annoyingly, "No, it doesn't. Well, I mean, yes, it does theologically speaking, but the word is actually is perhaps more literally translated as "charity," even though some popular biblical translations translate "caritas" as love such as in the Cornithians verse about "faith, love and hope," a translation probably influenced more by the Greek form of the word, agape. In other words, caritas is love in the sense that agape is love; that is, selfless and limitlessly kind toward others." (Having me around is like have Mini-Reference Guide To Useless Theological Ravings, Abridged Form installed on your ipod or palm pilot.)

Of course, my input would have been a complete nonsequitar, and rude and weird, and it wasn't the point of the lecture any way, obviously, but I did have that monologue in my head and was all very annoyed about caritas being translated at love, especially since I think it would have fit the author's point better if had been translated as charity ,and the budding linguist in me was getting more and more peeved by the abberance of the translation by the moment. In fact, I got so fixated on the stupid translation, that it's all I remember about the lecture, except that amount of blood to waste on a bedside ACT is six times the dead space of the catheter being drawn from, so just do a little calculus at the bedside and you've got your answer in cc's!

Dude.

Why does everything I learn have to screw me up permanently?

Or rather, why can't I just remember the important things, and not dwell on minutiae that isn't important or interesting to anyone?

I'm using too many Latin-based words. I have to stop, and look around for my fake glass eyeball. Maybe I'd see better with it, or something.

eye spy

The following is a conversation I horned in on at change-of-shift this morning, lest you think my night was all stop-and-go hearts and thoughts of fleeing to Aruba and just never coming back:

NURSE 1, to day shift nurse:
Dude, last night, I had the two patients with fake eyeballs, and it was so freaky, because every time you went in their rooms, they'd be asleep, but that eye would be staring at you like this: [prises eye lids away from own eyeball with thumb and forefinger in amazing lifelike imitation of prosthetic eyeball; day shift nurse chuckles politely.]

JAMIE:
[horning in on conversation]
Dude! I had those patients the other night! They looked dead, but they weren't! It was totally freaky.

NURSE 1:
[chuckling].
But funny.

JAMIE:
Yeah, totally freaky and funny.

As you can see, after overnight shifts, I don't have a lot of wit and verve, but two patients with prosthetic eyeballs... I feel like calling tbs's funny hotline to check and make sure prosthetic eyeballs are funny, and if funny, how much of a laugh they rate.

why i stay.

I'm pretty sure I need a twelve step program to get out of nursing.

Last shift, I remember at some point right after we'd stabilized the patient that I found myself staring at the pattern on the patient's gown, trying to keep it together, trying to maintain, fighting down an insanely strong urge to cry, yell and/or run away and never come back. I was in the room, watching the patient and well, trying to make up for being the lousy, shitty nurse that I totally felt I was.

As I was sitting there, mindlessly chatting away in my Fake Calm "See It's All Okay Now! Wasn't That Fun, Kind of, Being In a Life-or-Death Situation?!" , I was really thinking, "What am I doing?! I don't like when patients' hearts stop beating! This is really, really scary! I don't want to do this anymore! I need to leave! Get out of here! I'm going to freak out and cry! I'm not a nurse! I suck as a nurse! I'm a fake! A fraud! I have to go, NOW!"

For two seconds, I had to really stare at that nauseatingly ugly diamond pattern on that gown, just to keep it all together.

Then I looked up at my patient, who was looking at me with a curious expression, as if maybe she'd caught a glimpse of my panic and fear I try to neatly conceal under my Fake Calm Act.

I realized she was looking to me for reassurance, as she was probably scared to death herself. And she wasn't showing it. She was the one whose heart had stopped beating, and she was being brave. She was hiding her fear.

So how could I be so selfish as to show it?

We smiled at each other, and we both continued pretending it was okay.

Sometimes, pretending it's okay is all you have.

the third degree

Last night/morning/whatever you call it on night shift, I had a patient vagal and go from first degree... into second... wait no... third degree heart block!

What does this mean, boys and girls?

a) "p waves" with no corresponding "QRS" complexes.

b) "complete ventricular standstill" for nearly 6 seconds.

c) "Why don't I have a normal job, shuffling paper or painting the "m"s on "M&M" candies?"

d) all of the above

This morning, for some completely stupid reason, a GI attending came. Patient started vagaling again, brady'ed down to thirty, got all nauseous and vomit-y.

Doc's response?

a) Suggest to nurse that "You should raise the head of the bed a bit; she looks like she's going to throw up."

b) Quietely leave the room, leaving nurse and unstable patient alone in the room. Without notifying any one else, flee the floor for the entire duration of the patient's vagal episode.

c) Come back after the nurses have stabilized the patient.

d) Declare: "The patient is fine. She doesn't need an ICU bed, in my opinion."

My (fantasy) response?

a) "Hey, you spend all day sticking your finger up everyone elses' asses; why not try your own for a change?!"

Man, oh man; I should have gone to fake medical school, too. Then I could rake in lots of money for pointing out the patently obvious to nurses, who then do all the work to get the patient better, and then I could say, "See, all better now! You people worry way, way too much."

soma.

I need to know how people get used to "day is night!' "night is day!" 12 hour rotating night shifts. Because my little 0700-1930 shifter soul is just getting violently beaten to death.

I"m up now and facing another 12 hour shift after a completely unrefreshing nap/sleep/what in hell was that REM stage of sleep ?!. I feel awake and alert enough to be watching t.v., as long as someone provides me with the channel to watch, and a beer, and doesn't mind if I fall asleep in front of the t.v. for five hours.

I'm not so sure about going in and assessing patients, passing their meds, and keeping them safe all night long.

I mean, yes, it will happen, but how do people mess with nature this way and claim to like night shift?!

I can grock the liking night shift--because it is a pretty cool shift. No docs, no med students clogging up the corridors with their pointless, eager, uh, pointlessness; no nursing students to coddle while you watch your patients hopefully not go down the tubes. Just you and 4-6 other crazy patients!

I can get how some people would think this is fun, and I like the change of pace, and the demystifing just What Happens During Night Shift. (Sort of like when you were a kid, and believed your teachers lived in the Teacher's Lounge, but you were never really sure what went on in there, and had some vague suspicion it wasn't always kosher. I still like to believe my teacher's living the Teacher's Lounge, by the way--the nice good, kosher version--it's just an easier compartamentalization that way.)

But my sleep hygiene! Which okay, was never particularly fabulous. It's all shot to hell now. And do I have to go around feeling like a punchy zombie for the days I have off, half human, half cyborg? Do people just forget about day time altogether when they work nights, and stay up all night watching Jennifer Tilly and Glenn Close attempt to murder their lovers on late night movies from the eighties? Isn't that kind of an unhealthy thing to keep watching, night after night?

I'm going to pretend I am a sleep/social experiment. Maybe I can at least get some good beat poetry out of the ordeal. And maybe I'll start having religious visions. That might be fun, as well as completely terrifying.

it burns!

So I made it through my first orientation Nite Shift (like Nick at Nite! not really.) I had a nice preceptor who reminded me of my first nursing school clinical instructor, and we got along great. She sensed I was a Hard Worker and Not Overly Stupid, and I sensed she was a Really Good Nurse, one of those nurses that makes nursing look so effortless and easy. (I'm not one of those nurses; my job makes me feel like I'm about five different people doing twenty nine different jobs at once. It does not feel easy or effortless, and most of the time I look like one of those crazy street people with which you try to avoid having any involvement of your own personal space).

It all worked out, even though I was pretending for half the shift not to be hyperventilating/tachycardiac and just as in need of a Cardizem drip as some of the patients, and the other half hoping I didn't look like I should rate a Glasgow coma scale of 7. Due to the fatigue, you see, and how 10 p.m. is my new bedtime, and yet I was up all night feeding old crazy people ice chips and fishing around in liquid poop for "occult blood" which sounds scary and devil-worshipping, but isn't that glamorous by far, I promise.

It was actually one of the best nights I could have ever imagined: only four patients plus a facility transfer admission at 4 a.m. (of the chest pain/nitro drip/pending cath variety--WITHOUT ORDERS, which we all love, because then we get to call the sleep deprived attending on call at 4:30 a.m. so he can curse the gods and wail and gnash his teeth poetically).

At nine p.m. last night, I said to my preceptor, "Uh, it isn't typically like this on your floor, is it? Because, uh, this is great."

"Oh, no" she replied breezily, "You should have seen me the night I oriented David, the other traveler. It's a good thing he was like you, and didn't need any hand-holding, because we got slammed that night--it was nuts."

Yeah, that's what I was afraid you'd say, I thought to myself, but still happy our luck seemed to be holding out and census remained low.

Also, the next time I take report on a facility transfer at ten to four in the morning, I'm gonna make sure the patient has admitting orders, because if I ever think I'm in a land where professional courtesy means something--yes, I'm ragging on lazy ass nurses for a change-- I'd better get a STAT geriatric consult and make sure I'm not losing my mind.

I'm back to my cardiac medical patient population--crazy elderly folks with all kinds of things wrong with them, the biggest of which seems to be society has no idea what to do with their problems and hasn't a clue how to allocate the proper resources to facilitate their care and well-being.

On the one hand, yey, the biggest thing I have to worry about is getting a restraining order and/or flash pulmonary edema. On the other hand, yuck, restraining orders/flash pulmonary edeam.

At least they were cute, and not mean, which is an unfortunate but frequent consequence of dementia. One little man kept saying, "I walked without a walker yesterday! Is it morning? I walked without a walker yesterday! What time is it?" and another guy kept saying, "Can I have more ice chips? I can't hear you. Huh? Hey, what about my ice chips?! Don't forget my ice chips!" He was big on ice chips, if you couldn't tell.

Two of my patients had fake eyeballs, which are really freaky when the patients sleep, because they look dead at first glance. Dead is, generally speaking, Not Something You Want to Have Happen Unexpectedly in a Hospital Setting.)

I'm back again tonight, and not at all thrilled at the q4h charting thing, or the stupid IV pumps this facility uses (what do you mean, I have to calculate my own nitro drip rates and convert mcgs/kg/whatever time unit to mgs/hr! I can't even remember my own social security number at 4:30 in the morning, let alone drip factor conversions! Where's my Colleague Guardian Baxter pump?!)

But, the floor is nice, the nurses seem nice and not like they want to kill me for being an outsider, and well, there's always Ice Chip Guy to make me realize my life could be a lot suckier than it is already.

freaks and geeks

So I do this thing now, which is totally annoying, and scary, which is that every time I have to do something new or whatever (like, say, start a new job) I completely wig out.

I get all tachycardic and nervous and shaky, and run my limbic system so ragged we might as well go for bust and try running for office.

I still have 3.5 hours to go before my first shift at New Hospital, and I'm Freaking Out. This kind of flight-or-fight response is bad for patient care, because when given the choice, my body wants to flee.

Also, it's very exhausting. I used to get this way before exams, but it was much more pleasant, because exams you could prepare for. And I liked exams, in general. Except math exams. Those stunk.

Maybe I'll try to take a nap, and think up something funny to blog about, because blogging about one's own anxiety attack is not very funny.

immaculate kant-ception.

So, this is going to sound really geeky, like 99.5% of the things I write about on this blog, but I've been thinking about Kant on-and-off since I graduated from undergrad.

Not, like, in a teen-crush "who do u think is hotter, tom felton or rupert grint?" kind of way (I save that kind of thing for Wheelock textbooks) but in my usual preoccupied "I can't be bothered to consult the original texts because I'm a lazy ass, but I'll think about things I learned in class through lectures and secondary sources."

After five years of thinking about what drove me nuts about Kant, I finally realized that his theological ambivalence is probably somewhat tied to the predicament brought on by his insistence on both Enlightenment rationalism on one hand and his commitment to his staunchly Protestant heritage on the other. And, in some ways, even though I'd have to say I have no idea what he's talking about 95% of the time on any given subject, I think there's something revealing about his ambivalence toward theology and rationalism, and I think this "something" is also present in some form in the attempts made by contemporary religious thinkers when dealing with their own set of theological conundrums.

I don't know if Kant is right about the conclusions he makes about radical evil or reason or theology, because I don't pretend to understand I have any clue what he meant about any of it. I often wished I had latched on to a more accessible writer/thinker; one who could have spoken directly to the subjects I'm interested in without me having to do hermaneutic gymnastics to make it relevant to my thoughts and interests, but that would require more reading, and as we all know, I'm practically illiterate.

But I will say that the more time that passes between me and reading Big Books and writing Long Papers About Stuff, the more I realize that we modern day beings have lost a great deal of meaningful vocubulary to deal with "bad things and bad situations." Our conceptions of "good," and "evil" of "moral" and "immoral" have been so politicized and elasticized that they have become meaningless, and fall on jaded ears (including my own).

I'm trying to figure out what kind of currency, if any, "moral" language has in contemporary parlance. How do we talk about ethics and ethical behavior if these terms no longer lay a common framework for discussion?

We've come a long way in this meandering discussion, but why does this lack of moral language other me? It bothers me precisely because I see things in my every day work world that are utterly, soul-crushingly horrible, and there doesn't seem to be a way to talk about them in a meaningful way, and there is still less of a way to fit these incidences and problems into a framework that validates human experience and worth, let alone incorporate some divinity into the fray.

Maybe there isn't any.

Any way, that's why I like school. Because ultimately, you aren't responsible for the answers. You have textbooks and teachers for answers and verification. You have the delete key and pencil erasers. You can change your mind about your answer. You're supposed to change your mind, or at least entertain the possibility of doing so. And you have time. Time to make mistakes and learn from them.

Working in the healthcare, I no longer have those luxuries. Textbooks are still there, and, if you're very lucky, you might find a mentor along the way, but you own every decision you make; you take responsibility for everything you do and say. Time is gone; mistakes, on the other hand...

Most of the time, you make good decisions, you hope. But some times, you don't, or someone else doesn't, and no matter the outcome, you have to learn to live with it.

And that's where it gets hard, because the answers really do stop there. No one can tell you how to learn to live with death, or bad outcomes, or bad stuff in general.

And then you wonder, "Who the hell has the answers now?"

Old Yeller

So, my dog now upchucks randomly when in the car.

I find this out after spending ninety bucks to detail the car, so he can barf again all over the recently cleaned and shampooed seats.

Some day, I'm going to find out I was supposed to have a Good Life, but someone misfiled my dharma/karma/samsara requisition and I got stuck with this one instead, where the gods routinely mock me or worse yet, just don't seem to give a flying flip.

I feel sorry for the dog. He's never been motion-sick before. Maybe it's just old age, or the car smelled like detailing chemicals. You know, from the ninety dollar clean up effort which I liken to that of the Exxon Valdez, because if you check out those cheesy Dawn liquid detergent commercials, they make it look like all that's involved in cleaning up the environment after an enormous oil rig spill is a couple drops of dish cleaner.

Maybe my dog, like me, is just getting old, and can't handle stuff like he used to.

I tried to go running today and found out I've got the lung capacity of a 79 year old COPDer who still smokes through her trach stoma.

Swell.

The Smell of Mimeograph In the A.M.

I went to the book store today and came across an old textbook which has recently been revised.

First, I felt all superior, because I have the old school version.

Then, I opened the book and got all giddy at the sight of clean white pages--so minty fresh!

But a few seconds later, I felt all superior again, because my pages were all smudgy and penciled, and therefore more authentic.

Somewhere there is a really geeky person who can appreciate this post.

And that same person would also remember liking the smell of freshly minted mimeographed exams, and the deep satisfaction of getting graded exams and papers back from the teacher.

And doing that thing that annoyed all the normal, school-hating children of the world who are now making a lot more money than I am, probably, which is freaking out after exams and rushing back to the textbook and consulting notes and saying shrillly, "What did you get for number seven? I wasn't sure if I read too much into question 29... did you both "both a AND b" for question 11, or just "a"?"

Late Night

One night, I was sitting up, flipping through the channels, annoyed that I'd already seen the line-up for "court tv," when I noticed Fatal Attraction was playing.

You can almost guarantee that if it's late at night, some channel on some network, somewhere, is playing Fatal Attraction. Maybe it's dubbed in Spanish, but it's still Fatal Attraction.

Or some channel's playing that one movie with Jennifer Tilly, who schemes with that other woman to frame her gangster husband for stealing money, which they actually steal and go away with, all Thelma and Louise style? I don't know what the movie is called, but I've seen the last 30 minutes of that movie at least half a dozen times on late-night t.v., with the bad words all bleeped out. And every time I see it, it drives me crazy, because I always catch it from the exact same point in the movie, and I never catch what the flippin' name of the movie is.

So I'm flipping between Fatal Attraction and some weird, vaguely pornographic tele-a-thon thing I can't figure out called Pants Off Dance Off, when I suddenly realized that there's some larger, more universal applications to the archetypes in Fatal Attraction (which is also why it is a bad idea to do philosophy in undegrad, because you will end up deconstructing your kid's secret decoder ring messages if given the chance).

Then I realized: Oh no. I'm the kid with the white rabbit. The character that gets completely screwed because of every one else's whims, passions and power plays. The character that gets the PTSD and years of counseling because some crazy lady boiled her rabbit and then ended up dead in the family tub.

The victim, in other words.

I didn't really like the analogy in the end, but I couldn't deny the analysis: it all fits.

I mean, dude, I do have a white rabbit.

Irony

After the Housing Debacle of last weekend, I checked myself into a Residence Inn near my old school, and spent the week trying not to totally flip out in orientation and become Rain Man. It was friendly, but so boring and dull (especially the agonizing computer tutorial, and lecture number 8475843 on HIPAA and how to use a FIRE EXTINGUISHER, in case your patient turns into Satan and catches afire, in which case may I suggest you have other, larger problems to contend with, the least of which is the PASS acronym for operating your federally regulated FIRE EXTINGUISHER.)

I also was moved into a much much nicer apartment, which faces a lake (which is Florida suburban code for "retention pond"). It is also much much bigger, and boasts two bedrooms and two bathrooms, for the invisible people I have living with me. So people can come and visit, especially if they like camping, and don't mind sitting on the floor in the other bedroom.

The large apartment is really great, but it's also kind of funny, since I spend most of my time when not at work bundled away in my bedroom, knitting, reading and trying to figure out how to become a famous writer without having any real talent or remediating my poor English grammar.

Unfortunately, I thnk in order to do that, I'd have to become Madonna.

I am going to sound catty, and I am, but does any one really think The Material Girl didn't have someone ghost write these books for her?

Personally, I think Vincent D'Onofrio should start writing children's books with titles like "The Adventures of Tito, the Noseless Crack KingPin, and His Seven Happy Hookers."

I'd buy one.

Histimine

If there is one thing--other than a substantially larger IQ--that I wish my genetic makeup would have blessed me with, it is a more robust constitution.

In particular, I wish I didn't have seasonal allergies.

Yes, I know, I could have something really messed up with me, but in a country where many women aren't happy with something as trivial as their breast size, I think I'm being pretty reasonable and non-cosmetic.

I always felt bad for people who lived in the Olden Days of American Times, when the Dust Bowl days got to be too much for their sinuses, and had to live in dug outs seething with mildew and mold. Or the farmer who was literally allergic to hay and animal dander. Or the poor farmer's wife who ahd to help with sheep shearing and spin and knit woolen sweaters which gave her hives, but it was either that or freeze to death in the wintertime. (I mean, thank Modernity for polar-tech fleece!)

I'm glad I didn't live back in those Olden Days, because I probably would have gone into anaphylactic shock as an infant the minute my mother wrapped me in a beaver hide layette set to keep me warm. How tragic.

Rancheros.

Okay, urban developers, explain why the new thing in Sarasota, FL is to call every freakin' master plan developed community within city limits a "Ranch."

Because, uh, this "Ranch" I'm supposed to be living on? Why is it I don't see the droves of cattle or cowhands? Where's One-Eyed Jimbo serving chow out of a Dutch oven? I don't hear any herding dogs barking or chickens clucking.

I'm really confused, because all I see are shoddily contrustructed housing tracts and apartment-to-condo conversions that look all bright and shiny new but are going to be trashed and blood-spattered in three years because it's not humanly possible to put 300 people in a building, divide them by partitions, and think they won't end up hating each other when plumbing and sewerage lines leak and break over their dinig room tables.

But Ranch?

Um, no.

Unless you're talking about a Jolly Rancher candy. They are very solid and teeth-breaking, and I don't recommend them to kids with dental work, but for me, they are tasty, and provide a bit of enigma: Jolly. Ranchers. I want to know why they are jolly.

Am I Jolly Rancher living on my Ranch apartment which turned out to be Horror House of Housing in the Walmart side carnival show?

Maybe.

prominent clavicles free with slow starvation.

pied piper.

Poor guy, he's been through so much, he's now bulimic. Well, not really. He just upchucked once in the car because mom gave him three-meat-dog-food the night before. But look at the woebone sadness! He could unite the world with furry canine love, if only he didn't fart so voluminously after meals.

cadbury bunny candidate

It took 40 shots of her rear end to get one of her face, so treasure this moment, dammit!

Simone Weil Comes to Sarasota

Not really, of course, because she's been dead for some time. I think she died around age 34 of exhaustion. I always thought that was a diagnosis they made up like our modern day "pre-syncopal" events. I mean, did you faint, or didn't you?

But now that I am thirty, and skeletal again in 72 hours, and about to go into a night shift that's totally going screw with my limbic system further, I could it happening.

A funny thing happened though. When I arrived to my apartment yesterday, I initally went to the wrong door because I saw an LL Bean package at the door that said JOHN PAUL CAMPBELL. I thought, "Ah! How sweet! My parents sent me an LL Bean gift!"
I figured it was some weird mistake, because companies have been known to get names wrong before (John being my dad's name, Pauline being my mom's, so JOHN PAUL, not as in the former Pope.) Sometimes this happens even to me, like when I get Playboy subscription offers, because I have a unisex name (but I'm not a boy! I'd like to point out, and also stop sending me Playboy subscription offers; no matter how good the articles are, I'm not interested!)

So I call mom to ask her about the package, and she says, "No, we didn't send you anything!"

And I feel sad and unloved for fifteen seconds.

So I open the gift to see what it is, and it's this tote thing with candy in it. Now I'm not sure what the hell to do with it, because it could be possible is next-door-neighbors.

But wait!

At the same time I noticed that packaged and stood up, I also noticed a mezzuah in the door frame.

Still thinking it was my apartment, I thought, "Whoa. What if the nurse hasn't moved out yet?" followed by, "OMG! Did I just have a Paul-to-Saul reverse conversation spontaneously? Did I just convert and become one of the Chosen People? Cause it makes sense. I'm suffering! I'm persecuted!" Then I calmed down and thought: "Wait, people don't just forget to take along their mezzuzahs when they move, someone lives here, you idiot goy."

I'm glad it doesn't take me this long to figure what to do when people blow their post-cath sheath sites or start desating and going into ARDs.

Best Little Hellhouse in Florida

So, after surviving with the Car Trip From Hell (including exclusive episode of the phenomenon known in certain circles as canem vomitus in automobilus, I had to also deal with this in my supposedly luxury apartment:

(Which incidentally happens to be the bottom of a kitchen cabinet with a distinctly Section 8 housing look to it, not the type of cabinet you'd think would be found in a unit with internet access and a nice gym in the clubhouse down the street, in case you though you're were actually looking at a Rorchach, which I did at first.)

And this:


And this!:
Luckily, I had this: (Read closely, it says EMERGENCY ALARM, and it's wired ino the bedroom wall of the place):


I got to the place around 3 and by 6 p.m. was like:


Now I and look like this:

I checked into a Marriott studio hotel and start work tomorrow, so it should be fun to go around howling and smashing dog sleds. Plus, if you press my right foot, I sing like Burl Ives and give a realistic canned roar before I eat you steak tartar style with chutney relish--just like the good old Bumble himself would, I imagine.

And all for the low, low Walmart price of $9.24.

drugs, not hugs!

Once Upon A Time, I thought The Successful People were chock-a-block full of minty fresh protestant work ethic and I was some second rate slob ass who couldn't make up her mind which highway to hell I should take.

Then I realized, "Hey, you are a second rate slob ass, etc, but all those Successful People are all on speed and barbies to get them through it all, that's all."

I mean think about it, how the hell do people like medical residents get through 5-10 years of rotating on call continuously with about 2 days off a year without basically ever getting adequate sleep? Do the math. It has to be the drugs, thugs.

It's just not humanly possible to stay awake that long, except maybe if you're just faking
like you're not on drugs, but really are.

Polonium: A New Fragrance From The Tobacco Industry

In response to a friend's alert to this disturbing New York Times article about what else we're inhaling second-hand, I composed this off-the-cuff:

Light up, and *really* glow in the dark with our new fragrance, Polonium.
Earthy and sensual, you'll make the fallout radiation meters stand at attention
and give new "radiance" to post-Cold War parties. Radio-free Europe? Who needs
it! Make a bold statment with Polonium, the fragrance that spits in the eye of
conventional wisdom regarding inhalation of radionuclide disgorging alpha
particles!

Ha, ha ha. I kill myself.

And so will that polonium we're all inhaling!

Deep Thoughts

It seems to me that every time I try to do The Right Thing, well... bad things seem
to happen instead. I'm therefore only optimistic in the sense that I'm probably only deluding myself, but the delusion that I'm doing something about something (although I'm not sure what that "something" might be) keeps me going.

Really, sometimes all you have is... nothing.