Red Scarf Project

I'm not gonna mince words, here. For a lot of us this year (myself included) has more or less sucked balls. People lost jobs, loved ones. Shit happened. A lot of shit. And just when you thought you couldn't take one more ounce of crap--it poured buckets from the sky.

And yet, I had family and friends to bolster me, and vice versa. What it would be like not to have that scaffolding of love and acceptance, I do not want to know.

So, this holiday season, in the spirit of combating A Lot of Things Sucking Really, Really Bad, I am donating to this charity, The Red Scarf Project.

The charity benefits orphaned teens and young adults who have grown out of the foster care system, but still need support as they attend college or vocational school. What's not to like about it, eh?

You don't have to be a knitter to donate a red scarf (unisex please, if you do). You can donate money (duh), but also gift cards from major retail store, or call them up and ask them what they need.

If you do knit, and plan to donate that way, the deadline is December 15, 2009. I went out to my local yarn store (a tempting block away) and bought a skein of superwash and cast on right away in a seed stitch ribbing pattern I can do with my eyes closed.

I'm hoping, whether or not you donate your time and efforts to this particular charity, that you consider donating to one that has meaning for you. I don't mean to get all Preachy and Sanctimonious, or all Cloying "God Bless Us Everyone" Tiny Tim--really, I'm the last person to shove sunshine up anybody's ass, as most of my friends and family will heartily attest to.

I'm just saying, this year has sucked for a lot of the people I care the most about, and one of the more redeeming ways I'm choosing to deal with the Suckitude of Great Magnitude (aside from the usual bitching and spewing doomer magic eight ball predictions, of course) is by giving myself a laudable way to escape my dreaded knitting projects, aka Blanket of Blocking Hell and Man Ski Socks of a Colorless Blah Which Hath Rendered Me Blind... and oh yeah, maybe helping someone who isn't coding and whose ass I don't have to wipe if they make it.

Top Ten Signs You Might Be Living in the Tri-State Area

10. Someone named "Tattoo Tony" wants you iced.

9. You want someone named "Tattoo Tony" iced.

8. Everyone from New Haven pretends they're from Brooklyn.

7. Everyone from Brooklyn pretends they're from Manhattan.

6. Everyone, regardless of where they're actually from, really wants to be somewhere else.

5. The statement "Jesus! You look like crap, you sonuvabitch!" is actually considered a compliment.

4. It makes the evening news when Ziplock bags are used for the intended purpose of storing food, not crack-cocaine.

3. No one has a clue what you just ordered when you say, "I'll have the manicotti, please."

2. Re: #3, you get smacked in the face for saying "please" because the waitress assumes you're being a smart-ass, not polite.

1. "Gun control" means the Mayor doesn't wave around his own .38 Special during town council meetings.

screw that!

Tattoo, on penis of patient: Fuck this.

The Curious Incident of the Fake Wife In The Nighttime.

Scene: night shift, intensive care unit at a large county teaching hospital; surgical resident attempting to elicit information from haggard-looking woman at patient's bedside.

RESIDENT:
(with faked air of pleasantness)
So, you're his wife?

WOMAN:
Well, yeah... I mean, we've been together for six months!

RESIDENT:
(increasingly dubious)
Yes, but are you his legal spouse?

WOMAN:
Well, I sleep with him. We have sex. I'm as good as his wife.

RESIDENT:
(patience wearing thin)
I don't think you're understanding me. Did you get married? Do you have legal document saying you are his wife?

WOMAN:
(agitated, emphatically)
You don't understand! We've been together for six months. We have sex and stuff! He don't got nobody else! I'm his wife!

beginning, middle, end.

Beginnings are easy. Endings are, in some ways, even easier. But the middle? It's the hardest part.

Middles are murky, untidy, full of bluffs and blind alleys. Nobody can say, in the middle of something, what or when the End will be--it just is. The End might sideline you, it might knock the wind out of you, or it might be a gentle passing into nothing--but it's certain. But the Middle of Something? Impossible to say, how long it'll last, how far it's got to go, how much more you've got to endure.

After the fine, heady rush of a Beginning, with its newness and shiny glamour--the Middle comes as a bit of a nasty shock. It's the unexpected wrinkle in a clean linen tunic, the missed stitch in the knitting noticed three rows too late, the running-out-things-to-say on a first date, and the oh-fuck-I-just-said-too-much-and-too-loud of an argument in the calming lull after the first thunder of anger and passion, it's the bland, boring and scarily undefinable center of a Twinkie.

The Middle: it drags on. It doesn't know what to make of itself--is it the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end? The Middle questions its every choice, its every move. It squints into the future, blinded by sunspots of brilliant dreams yet tangled in the kudzu of fate. It is a lazy day dream, distracted by what might have been and what will be.

The Middle second and triple and quadruple guesses itself. It fucks up, makes the wrong the decisions. It fucks up some more. Sometimes, it rights itself--more often, it stays off-balance, like some pathetic leaning tower of Pisa. It is caught in the cat's cradle between hope and despair.

I am good at beginnings--those require only a bit of arrogance and the mad assumption whatever I'm doing might be The Right Thing, at long last. And I am very, very good at endings: a needle full of dull numbness and the thing--whatever it is or was--is done.

But the Middle... ah, the Middle. It confounds, it buffets, it lulls, and then it dares belligerently to take it--to take you--to the edge of the end and throw it--and you-- off the cliff.

And I absolutely suck at it.

a day late and a loonie short

What happens in Canada, doesn't, apparently, stay in Canada.

And yes, it's knitted. Ca c'est l'amour, non?

Happy Canada Day, people, albeit a day late.

Big T's Resume and Cover Letter Service.

There comes a time in every working stiff's joyless, overtaxed burden of an existence where one gives in to the sublime temptation of writing a cover letter detailing exactly how they feel about supplicating for another lousy job.

And thus, the moment has come, dear friends and readers, to unveil to the cover letter everybody has fantasized about writing (and sending!) at least once in their career:

Objective: Get a Job. Make $. Pay my fucking bills.

Dear Sir/Madam:

I think your institution is lame and all I've ever heard from my colleagues and the community at large is how sucky it is to work there, but frankly, I'm desperate to pay my bills. Sure, I'll take a job at your crap facility if it means I can make rent for another month. And sure, I'll even pretend this letter is about caring, and furthering my job skills, but we both know that's a joke. You need someone to wipe and kiss ass and take the fall when a big lawsuit happens, I need to pay off my student loans and eat ramen for the rest of my life.

So, let's make a deal: you pretend to give me a real job that treats me like a sentient human being, and I'll pretend to work and give a shit about your company values. You pretend to give me money for the job, and I'll pretend I can actually make a living with your sucky wages. Capeche? If I don't hear from you, well, let's just say Big T's Resume Service has a sister company called Big T's Wrecking Service. (And we don't wreck cars, if you catch my drift).

Sincerely,

Your future disgruntled employee

cc: Big T.'s Resume Service.

shit never dies.

At its best, critical care is a heroic illusion, at its worst, it is an empty promise. And all too often, it is one and the same.

This Is Your Brain: An Illustrated Guide For Trauma Patients and Their Family Members

Welcome to the ICU. We understand this is a scary, stressful time for you. There are many different machines and lots of different equipment that may look overwhelming. Doctors and nurses may speak in medical terms you do not understand. In order to facilitate your understanding of what is really happening in plain language, we've created a little guide to help you process things you may see or hear on the unit.

We hope this is useful and encourage your family members to resist the urge to annoy the medical team and nurse with many redundant, repetitive and inane questions about your care, and instead, please sit down, shut up, and refer to the handy guide, as per below.

(Note: Because you are no doubt intubated, restrained, and in a chemically induced coma, the staff here will share this sensitive booklet with your loved ones so they, too, can understand exactly how fucked up you are.)

Thank you, and have a wonderful day!

--The Staff In The ICU

This is your brain.
This is your brain splattered all over a King County highway.

This is your brain.
This is your brain with a bolt in it.

This is your leg.
This is your leg ripped off and in a cooler for transport.

This is your other leg.
This is your other leg amputated at the knee.

This your arm.
This is your arm in yet another cooler for transport.

This is your other arm.
This is your other arm with a couple of digits missing which, alas, were not retrievable at the scene.

This is your pelvis.
This is your pelvis in an ex-fix.

This is your airway.
This is your airway with a tube shoved in it.

This is your nose.
This is your nose with a tube shoved in it.

This is your dick.
This is your dick with a tube shoved in it.

This is your ass.
This is your ass with a tube shoved in it.

Any questions?

Sartre Kiteboards

With all due credit to the original author of "Sartre Cooks," Marty Smith, I present you, Gentle Readers, with my version, "Sartre Kiteboards."

Jan 15

Malraux suggested rather than pester him with my political ideals of revolution, I write an essay on kiteboarding. At first, I scoffed at such a notion. Now, I am intrigued by the possibilities of floating off into the void on such a contraption.

March 1

After much effort in vain to secure such a piece of equipment in early 20th century Paris, I have fashioned my own kiteboard, consisting of an old crucifix and six pounds of plaster. After allowing my masterpiece to weather for a few months in the bitter spring rains, I showed it to Gide, who pointed out the thing will not float. I am well pleased.

March 5

Feeling alienated by my futile attempts to gain knowledge of a subject that does not yet exist, I took a hammer to the whole project. When Gide returned, he pronounced it "an acceptable rendering of bourgeois derealization." Feeling mocked, I ushered Gide out the door, having first filled his pockets with crushed plaster, then sat in the dark and wept profusely.


April 1

Have been ruminating on Gide's statement for almost a month. Consumed an entire carton of cigarettes without lighting them and dashed off telegram, ranting "you can always make something out of what you've been made into." Have heard no reply thus-far. Am bereft, but resolve to do better next time.

May 15

Further attempts at realization of the physical form of a kiteboard have not gone at all well. I have decided to abandon my project and instead ponder the phenomological ontology of something which has not yet been called into being. de Beauvoir has stopped by to say that, while she is pleased I am working so feverishly, the last time I showed up at one of our Socialisme et Liberte meetings, I appeared to have had my entire left sleeve gnawed off by a resident rat. Furthermore, she relays that Merleau-Ponty claims I am unwittingly referring to myself as "Dude." Flustered, I claimed this was a nom de plume of mine, and hurried her out the door with protestations that my cat needed to be fed. Before I could dispose of her, Beauvoir pointed out that if I had a cat, I would not have a vermin problem. I had no answer to that.

June 3

I grow weary of this endeavor. I suspect Malraux only suggested this project to staunch the flow of my rabid political desires. Nonetheless, I have written a six word treatiste called " "Le Board de Kite" and submitted it to the French press. I have heard nothing back about its publication. I refuse to clean up the residual plaster in my flat, much to the distaste of several of my mistresses, who felt slighted when I railed at them for being overly-bourgeois. The decay and ruin of my life's work haunts me.

July 25

Still nothing from the French press. My attempts to relay my masterpiece were met with dismay and looks of shock from my colleagues. After much gastric distress and consumption of ersatz war coffee, I have therefore decided, instead of 'kiteboard' to use "paper-knife" as my metaphor for essence-before-existence. I have self-loathing and resist this inauthentic expression of selfhood, but alas, I bow down to the concept of "Other as Kiteboard." It has defeated me at last. I suffer as I inhale the last of the plaster dust and float off on the seas of eidetic reduction. I am, at least, finally free of this kiteboarding nonsense.

in which I labor under the delusion "everything is fine."

Work, for reasons I am not stupid enough to discuss on this blog, feels more like a life sentence than a job at present.

Working night shift is helping absolutely nothing, either. I'm back to living life through the prism of utter exhaustion, vampire sleeping habits on my days off, and supplicating to St. Jude with a special prayer asking for a city bus to hit me on the way to work, so I'll at least look as bad as I'm currently feeling.

My self-esteem having plunged to an all-time low, I have taken to the obnoxious habit of droning endlessly on about going to grad school again. I feel like some second tier rock star past her prime campaigning her publicist for a "come-back tour." Unfortunately, a return to academic ensconcement probably creates more problems than it solves, what with the economy spewing toxically bad consequences for university funding, and my general impression that no one, six years post divinity school, is going to remember me well enough to write me a recommendation. Not to mention my not-so-secret fear that the admissions committee won't just take one look at my application, titter politely into their sleeves, and move on to the next one after stamping a big red, "What the fuck was this one thinking?!" advisory on the top of my underwhelmingly pathetic little file.

The good news is that this much anxiety and depression about work usually diminishes my appetite, and so with any luck in a few months I'll look about as nonexistent and marginalized as I feel at present.

in defense of academia

My recent experiences in my current profession having reached an all-time personal bizarreness, I have once again retreated into fantasies of academic splendor.

Alas, I'm about the only one in this household for whom a return to academia is a rapturous thought.

On some level, I can't help it. I'm a really big nerd. The kind that would go to school forever, if "student" was a full time occupation (that, you know, paid a living wage, with maybe some decent medical insurance thrown in there for good measure).

I would love to go back to school and, for instance, take an entire course in Latin. Or really punish myself and attempt doctoral studies in... well, whatever program would accept me (as opposed to laugh me out the door).

And, if I had to do it all over again, I probably would have majored in English (arguably even "softer" than majoring in religion!) and gone off to graduate school Determined To Be A Poet, Dammit, or something frowned upon by those who contribute to society in a quantitative way (that is, make a living wage doing Something Useful).

I may not be up to my usual standards of elocutio (I believe evil night shift is largely to blame) but after several revealing conversations with various persons regarding The Meaning of Formal Education, I feel I have to defend my own position contra that of, say, the modern university as contrived by the free economy. Or at least just bring up various loosely related points, and ramble on in a semi-coherent way like Grandpa Simpson.

To this end, my smart and insanely clever guy made a comment that revealed to me A Sobering Truth--that the purveyors of formal education are more than willing to sell you an education for which, in the end, there is naught to be returned employment-wise.

This was a depressing bit of horse-sense which, although it thoroughly annoyed me to attempt to contradict at the time (pragmatism and my own educational goals have rarely been happy bedfellows in my experience) also threw into clear relief exactly how this country generally "thinks" about its professional thinkers and academic elite.

I often forget that modern education to many is a means-to-an-end, and as such, is a commodity, bought and sold in as ruthless a market as oil and God knows what else. It's a harsh reality--like realizing that health care isn't so much about saving lives as it is getting medicare to cough up for the CT scan we just did on a brain dead ninety four year old (completely made up example, by the way) or whatever.

On the other hand, I am a huge champion of education for education's sake. To me, learning for the sake of personal enrichment and knowledge is practically a noble virtue. It's like saying, "I take a stand against learning useful skills that I can use to earn a living!" (Just kidding!)

Sure, part of me wants to return to the halcion days of my earlier youth, when all I had to do was show up for class and write papers, and no one died or was consigned to existing on life support if I screwed up a footnote.

But there is also a part of me that deeply values a liberal arts education and feels that there is something wrong with a society that invests in education largely to promote their educated class as free market labor (as opposed to a society which envisions education as an enriching activity necessary unto itself).

I also think it's sad that we largely consign our most highly educated to the ranks of the unemployed, and yet spend hours gaping slack-jawed at entertainers whom we willingly shell out millions so that their antics might effectively numb and deaden us to the possibility of, oh I, don't know... an actual intellectual heritage, critical thinking, self-discovery, and appreciation of the worth of others, maybe?

I mean, what would our intellectual landscape look like if, instead of promoting ridiculous showcases like American Idle (sic) we poured that money into grants and fellowships and education?

I'm just saying, it's not like popular culture has shed an overabundance of attention or recognition on the lives of many intellectually gifted people in this country, and I think it would be refreshing--although frankly I don't hold my breath--if we shifted our values and made academia and academics more of a moving force in this country. What would it look like if we actually paid highly qualified doctoral candidates for their very big brains and their ability to use them, just like we paid entertainers and atheletes all that ridiculous money? It is a fantasy I indulge in at least once a day, partially because of my own biases (I'd give anything to be one of those very big brains, and have many friends and acquaintances struggling in this piss poor economy to find work--persons who I feel should be more protected and have more employment options and simply don't, even when the economy is booming).

Yeah, I know, not all entertainers and atheletes get paid millions. But when's the last time you heard of professors of philosophy signing on multi-million dollar contracts, even to work at places like Harvard or Princeton?

I'm not even saying we should reward the Big Brains With Big Degrees with lots of money.

But, some money, and some recognition, and so forth? I don't think that's a lot to ask for their unique skill set and extra special secret super powers.

Meanwhile, I'm heartened to know even people like Martin Luther suffered from Anfechtung and am hoping one day I can refer to it in some footnote, and feel like I should probably try to coax some sleep out of this fast waning night.

Icarus be damned or "Back in the saddle again."

I started on the floor last week, and much to my relief, feel much more confident and happy as a cardiac nurse than a trauma nurse.

In fact, despite having worked with very sick patients with complex care needs (Swanned, a dozen drips, intubated on nitric) I feel I was able to teach (if not to the patient, to the family) more in the last week than I did all year long as a fake trauma nurse.

What can I say? I'm sure I'm gonna be in some scary-ass, balls-to-the-wall situations and just like in trauma, I'm gonna feel green and new and scared shitless.

On the other hand, I feel much more engaged with my work, much more personally invested in the challenges, and just generally all around happier to be working a specialty I had the temerity to leave.

Meanwhile, being on orientation means a month of days--which is absolute heaven. Sleeping at night, and working during the day is a lifeline for me, and I absolutely dread the thought of working nights again. I wonder how long I'll be able to last this time until I reach my breaking point again.

In other news--I purchased a real wood bookshelf (bah! particleboard, she says) and, now that my books aren't in tottering piles all around the living room, and I can see what tomes I actually own, I've actually decided to pick up a few and see what I can make of them.

So far, I'm slogging through Oliver Davies' "A Theology of Compassion" and riffling about in Etty Hillesum's letters/diaries. Also musn't forget the pulse-quickening (ack! bad, bad metaphor!) "Hemodynamic Monitoring." It's been awhile since I've had a patient sick enough to need a Swan-Ganz catheter, and let me tell you--all those numbers and drips and shit? You'd better have a vague idea of what you're doing, boy howdy.

Charmed life, indeed.

begin the begin.

when you're absolute beginners
it's a panaromic view
from her majesty mt. zion
and the kingdom is for you.
-M. Ward "For Beginners"

I don't know if you've looked at a newspaper lately (because that might be something you'd have done in like, 1985, before the Internetz and all) but no matter what outdated mode of information you've been sourcing these days, you've probably read enough to realize that the Financial Situation Around These Here Parts Is Dire.

It's so dire, that even a little scutmonkey like myself is somewhat worried that I'm gonna show up to work one day, ready to code patients and wipe ass like nobody's business, and get a pink slip for my effort. And then I'm gonna be shit-out-of-luck like the thousands of Americans right now who are being summarily handed their walking papers.

And that is a chilling thought, indeed.

On the other hand, having recovered from Brink of Exhaustion Expo/My Own Private Night Shift Disorder Hell 2008, I'm feeling very lucky, and... dare I say it, happy.

Yeah, this Cardiothoracic ICU thing could totally come back to bite me in the professional ass. I mean, I remember how terrified I was of crashing trauma patients--what makes me think patients crashing in a cardiac unit is gonna be any less scary, pray tell?

Well, it's not gonna be any less terrifying, and I'm probably gonna go through the same, I-can't-believe-you-thought-this-was-gonna-be-cool soliloquy some blustery April morning, having spent a 12 hour shift keeping some unlucky soul from the brink of coding, or coding, or whatnot. I'll garner stares from curious passers-by as I publically document my own stupidity at having stayed in critical care, and not gone back to the known hinterlands of stepdown.

And I'm probably gonna feel like a crappy cardiothoracic nurse for awhile, just like I felt like a shitty trauma nurse, for just about the entire duration of my (admittedly short lived) career in that field.

So, what's the difference?

I think the difference is I really, really like cardiac as a speciality. Maybe not as much as I prize my sanity, and definitely not as much as a cherish a good night's sleep, but still, as specialities go... I'm all rainbows-and-unicorns-and-sunshine-up-your-ass about cardiac.

My hope is that this will translate to Pure Intensive Care Goodness.

And so, I "begin the begin." (After I sign my name to human resource documents in triplicate for five days, which is apparently what they mean by 'hospital orientation.')

possession

First things first. Observation: Now that I'm on a brief hiatus between jobs, I find that sleeping at night, like human beings were intended, puts a new spin on life.

For starters, I'm not nearly half the bitchy crank-pot I was working nights. It's amazing, not to be reduced to the emotional lability of a toddler when confronted with super human choices like, "Should I have peanut butter and honey, or peanut butter and jelly on my sprouted grain bread?" (Let alone, "Fuck, I have many life-saving decisions to triage rapidly as a critical care nurse at 2a.m. in the morning, which one of these life-saving skills is the priority at this particular moment?")

Ah yes. Sleeping at night. Awake during the day. It's such a simple joy to work within nature's own biorhythms. People who bitch about waking up at 5a.m. to work during the day (and I was/am one of them) should be forced to work nights for six months and re-evaluate how shitty waking up at 5 a.m. really is compared to having already been awake for ten hours at that point, and still having two more hours to go before the pleasure of death is ushered forth, or you get off-shift, whichever comes first.

I just can't tell you how much I needed to SLEEP AT NIGHT, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS COUNTING SHEEP AND WARM MILK AND COOKIES AND TRYPTOPHAN.

There is nothing like realizing instead of running around ragged saving other people's lives for twelve grueling, largely thankless and often smelly hours, you actually get to crawl into bed (clean and sans someone else's shit spores floating up your nostrils) and save your own soul from being torn to pieces from lack of sleep.

In any case, I was obliged after my Last Shift In Trauma (a shift which, incidentally, made me wonder, "Since when are teenage kids unsatisfied with snorting good old fashioned cocaine?!") to board two buses, and two planes--again, on no sleep!--arriving finally in Florida. At that point, I had been up a full twenty six hours, looked like something out of a freak show and still needed to drive 28 miles from the airport to my parents' house.

All without the benefit of a car I had reserved days before.

Sample conversation, confirming, should there ever be an inkling of a doubt in future times, that we indeed live and work on Planet Bizzarro, Amidst a Population of Total F-in' Dullard Douchebags:

JAMIE:
So, what you're saying is, you don't have a car, even though I made a reservation?

CLERK:
Yes.

JAMIE:
So. What was the point of making a reservation?

CLERK:
Well, we overbook. We don't have the car you want.
[with unconvincing note of fake concern]
We've got a minivan, though, or an SUV.

JAMIE:
[feeling the last strings of her already tenuously-threaded sanity snap]
Uh, no offense, but, I don't want an SUV or minivan, and it's clearly not what I reserved. Just so we're clear, you don't have the car I reserved, correct?

CLERK:
[as if it's just the most insane fucking thing she's heard since Britney went 'round the bend, these crazy-ass patrons reserving cars at a Car Rental Establishment and then expecting to have same at the ready, because, you know, they've reserved one!]
Nope. No car.

JAMIE:
[resisting the urge to turn around and look for "Candid Camera" host]
That's unforunate.

I then spent the next week or so dealing with a Sanford and Son-esque pile of my stuff I'd stored months prior to trekking out to Seattle. While fortuitous circumstances and some enterprising mice meant there was exponentially less bullshit directly pertaining to said venture, it was still a complete money hemorrhage (how much do you suppose half a ton of moldering theology books are worth to the general public, let alone ship across the continent to yourself, I ask you?) and general allergy inducing chore.

It also meant quality time bonding with The Paper Shredder, and questioning my own sanity for inexplicably saving five years worth of Act Now! Don't Wait! Credit Card Offers (my best guess is I was waiting for an opportunity to, you know, bond with a paper shredder).

Having dumped and shredded a ton of absolute crap, donated my massive furniture to a worthy cause, and shipped the remaining Questionably Useful Crap to Seattle, I feel a certain sense of peace. Finally, after wishing, numerous times, that I had my beloved copy of Wheelock's or Kant's Critique(s) at hand--I will (at the USPS's Media Mail shipping's mercy and reliability, of course) finally have My Most Valuable Crap, aka, A Bunch of Books and Yarn, here in Seattle.

If ever there were a milestone for "You have now officially moved your crap to Seattle," I guess this would be it.

If I can just get to the milestone that reads, "You never have to move your crap ever again, any where" I'd be set, but I suspect that particular milestone would be of the "free epithet with every fifth granite headstone purchased!" variety, unfortunately. (Or maybe fortunately. At least when you're dead, other people are forced to deal with your crap.)

the bladder scanner as postmodern metaphor

When I was staff at Hospital of Doom, we had this bladder scanner. And when I say "we had this bladder scanner," I mean we had one bladder scanner for 511 beds. That's right, folks. One.

It was old and I thought of it as a useless generator of random numbers from 0-900. Not only that, the sheer effort it took to locate where in the hospital the bladder scanner might currently be hanging out (never mind getting an order to use it in the first place) added such exponential layers of exquisitely soviet redundancy and bureaucracy to an already frustratingly pointless undertaking, that it was often easier to weasel one's way out of Bladder Scanner Limbo, pretend you did it, and just make up a number, without bothering to locate the damn machine in the first place.

Lately, I feel like that old, much-maligned bladder scanner--broken, overworked, and yet still shimmied and jostled endlessly from place to place, obliged to spit out useless information in a reliably imprecise and inaccurate way.

I'm so tired, and have been running on empty for so long, that I feel like the bladder scanner and I, metaphorically, are one: both symbolic and symptomatic of the American working class and their damnation to an eternal redundancy, inconsistency and arcane uselessness--hopelessly overworked, reliably ineffectual, consistently broken, and endlessly ridiculous.

plus ça change...

Because I am apparently a staunch proponent of self-torture, I moved, lock, stock and barrel o'monkeys, on New Year's Eve (and spent the two days prior to that packing up my place, having worked the holiday week).

It was an ironic mix of grim puritanical roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-the-job-done-sleep-and-sanity-be-damned on the one hand, and the blessings of friendship and kindness on the other. (Friends who help you move more than once every ten years? Amazing people! Ply them with lots of good wine and give them lots of hugs!)

Top New Year's Resolution? To NEVER MOVE. EVER AGAIN. (At least not this year.)

Put another way: If there were an Olympic Sport called Moving Way Too Much-- I WIN FIRST PLACE! I WIN THE GOLD MEDAL! Shoo-in! No contest!

Any way. There are still Issuez which are making me contemplate living as far away from urban claustrophobia as possible, which I can't really blog about as They Are Being Sorted Out Right Now and would bore readers silly any way--but at least my stuff is all in one place. For now.

Switching jobs (and facilities) made the move virtually a no-brainer, and the New Place feels like a luxurious palace in terms of space and light (windows! natural light! WINDOWS!) compared to my little shoebox of a studio in Belltown. The studio was wonderfully close to my old hospital (walking distance!) but so is my new apartment (relative to my new hospital)--and it's within half a block to trails, parks and quite a lot of other Stuff To Do. I am well-pleased.

There is also the wonder of a GAS FIREPLACE, which warms the place so efficiently it almost overwarms the place, and this is saying something, coming from The World's Most Perpetually Chilled Woman.

Of course, I am not allowed too much of a rest, and all this idyllic surveying of my domain would, in theory, at some point cause terminal boredom. My last week on the trauma ICU commences tomorrow, and I am chomping at the bit to git-her-done, have a couple weeks off, and start on the cardio-thoracic ICU.