the lone pager

Last night, I forgot to turn in my pager. I got as far as the lobby, and realized I still had the damn thing, and I wasn't about to go back.

This afternoon, before I went back to work, I noticed I had two messages on the stupid pager, from night shift (when I was, you know, asleep at home and not at work).

The one I took a picture of says I have a call on line one, at about 3 a.m.

Isn't it comforting to know that when someone at work pages you, they have no idea that you're actually not there, because you've gone home.

This reminds me of a nurse whose patient demanded to know, "So, why do I get a different nurse every shift?!"

Uh. Maybe because we have a home to go to, unlike school teachers, who we all know live in the teacher's lounge and never go home, because that would be Against The Logic of Schoolchildren Everywhere.

happy piper.

Non-pet people (those soulless shells of human beings!) probably think I'm anthropomorphologizing when I say I think Piper has moods. Sometimes, he's cranky and pissy, and wants to be left alone. And sometimes, he's happy and smiles.

I think I have photographic proof of the latter, don't you?

chalk walk

The first thing I thought of when I saw the thin rope around this chalk art was, "Dude, did someone like, die or something? What's with the rope?"

Then I realized police tape and save-the-art-until-it-rains-tomorrow ropes are two different things.

shave and a code cart.

PATIENT CARDIAC MONITOR:
A highly undesirable rate in the 200's.

JAMIE:
[looking at monitor, squinting extra hard to make sure she doesn't have that patient]:
Uh, that rhythm/rate looks like crap.

CARDIOLOGIST:
Hmmm. It looks like SVT to me, not V-tach.

MONITOR TECH:
Yeah, and the guy's obviously perfusing, because he hasn't passed out yet.
[yells to another nurse, who is running around looking frantic]
Hey! I don't know if it's Vtach or what, but he's been sustaining in the 200's for a minute now.

JAMIE:
[thinks]
He won't be perfusing for long if that's his rate and rhythm. Hey, I know this isn't my patient and all, but why are we standing around having a philosophical debate about this rate? Shouldn't somebody like, go into his room? Should I go into the room?

CARDIAC MONITOR:

Flatlines.

NURSES:
Collectively run into the patient's room as a code is called.

Minutes pass. Patient "wakes up" to find several nurses surronding him doing "cardiac emergency stuff."

PATIENT:
Wow. What happened. Where am I? Oh dear. I haven't shaved today. This isn't right, being around this many women without having shaved!

JAMIE:
[thinks]:
Dude, shaving is the least of your problems right now.

IVP Placebo

If there's one drug for blood pressure that any nurse worth her salt knows is crap, it's Labetelol.

Every fucking time someone (and usually, that "someone" is a resident or intern) orders that crap, I'm like, "Great. Now I'm going to spend more of my precious time "close monitoring" the patient for an IV push drug that's fucking completely useless."

I'm telling you now that shit doesn't work, I don't care what the studies show.

I'm also convinced that residents/interns order this crap because they, too, know it does nothing, and secretely, they're glad, because it means they don't have to manage shit side effects like hypotension or heart block.

The other Useless IVP Drug I've had to use is Hydralazine.

I'm convinced this is a drug that lazy community doctors who don't-want-to-be-paged use, so you they can say the nurse did something about the neuro patient's high blood pressure while they get in another round of golf before maybe answering a page.

I've pushed and pushed and pushed that crap on patients before, with nothing as a result. In fact, one time, I remember the blood pressure going up after a dose.

Then again, it was one of those situations (not at Current Hospital) in which I realized I might as well be using guided imagery to get the patient's blood pressure down if we didn't stop the bleed in the patient's head.

But, at a place where people mysteriously and routinely forgot to broadcast important things like the fact that half of their MRI machines were out of commission for a day or two, and no one was sure when they were going to be fixed, who cares about a random brain bleed, any hoo.

ideal ideas

When I was staff, we had this "Idea Board."

This stupid board was not, by the way, the nurses' idea.

It was our manager's stupid idea.

She liked this idea, because every so often, she'd drag us into the nursing bubble with our little index card suggestions to questions like, "How do we improve staffing on our floor?" and, one by one, she'd summarily dismiss our common sense approaches to chronic problems. (My favorite answer to that particular question by the way, was "Hire more staff.")

Her reponse to these logical employee-offered answers was inevitably, "No, we can't do that [i.e., hire more staff to fix staffing problems, make people do their jobs if they weren't doing them, etc.]."

So, the "idea board" was her way of pretending to give us some control and input into decisions that we knew from the get-go we had nothing to do with what we as staff nurses needed or wanted.

It was pretty farcical, and I think her flagrant and very public disregard for our actual "ideas" to "our problems" just contributed to our burn-out, nursing angst, and disgust with the general establishment. Also, quite frankly, I think it would have been better had she not asked us to "own our problems," which I thought of as generally her problems.

When she told us we needed to "own the problem of staffing" and that it wasn't "her responsibility" to staff the floor, I thought, 'Well, then, here's an idea, bitch: can we fire you, and get someone else who thinks it's a manager's responsibility to staff her own floor?'

That was my idea, and it really hasn't changed. (I didn't have too many ideas that made it past the idea-board-in-my-head if you hadn't already guessed).

I also thought it was a bit suspect when we'd put "ideas" up on the "idea board" and mysteriously, they'd be spirited away, as if by the manager fairies, and we'd never see or hear about them again.

I felt the whole stupid idea board was sort of like the parenting model where the parent supposedly gives the child input into their own punishments and rewards, and then says, "No, sorry, we're not going to do that, because you're the kid, and I'm the parent, that's why, so shut yer trap."

In other words: it was a completely inconsistent and completely untrustworthy method of leading people.

Any way.

Yesterday, when I came into work, I felt like that blind guy Jesus cured, or something.

Because lo, there was our manager taking patient admissions.

Let's see.

If I could explain this phenomena of nurse managers "working the floor" to non-nursing folks, it would be like finding out things like God, the concept of hen's teeth, or Sasquatch, the Loch Ness monster or lenancy in the legal system actually exists for people other than Paris Hilton (although we now know that, thanks to her jail-time, God does exist for Paris.)

Or maybe, it would be as if George W. actually went to Iraq and fought his own stupid war. Or at least, sent his own daughters and friends' kids to fight the war.

Any way, I was writing a friend of mine who used to work on Old Crappy Staff Floor, and said, "'Have nurse managers take patients when it's really busy': now there's a suggestion I'd like mail in to that fucking stupid Idea Board."

Seems to me like the only "idea" our manager ever had on Old Crappy Staff Floor when we were busy is to ominously glide onto the floor like some grim-faced Jacob Marley, decide it was necessary to float half of the incoming nurses at change-of-shift, and agree with the staffing office that charge nurses and staff nurses taking two admissions a piece at evening change of shift on a busy cardiac floor was completely safe staffing, and admonish us for "not being better team-players" if we protested her stupid-ass "idea."

Then, the manager would be gone. I never did see her fly out the window like Jacob Marley in the t.v. version of A Christmas Carol, but I imagine there were quite a few nurses that would have liked to have shoved her out the window.

Or least, shove her stupid fucking Idea Board out the window.

full moon fever.

There are many, many lessons to be learned in a hospital setting.

One such lesson: you should try to avoid being a hospital, especially if you are an employee of said institution. (If you are patient, definitely avoid the hospital).

Another lesson: In the time it takes for you, the annoying lazy hospital employee, to bitch out the nurse for something you're supposed to do simply because you don't want to do your job, you could have done the goddamn thing about three times, and no, I don't really care, even if I have to pretend I care, about your stupid whining. (I care about my own whining.)

And finally, a big lesson: If you ever have a night where you have to ask, "Jesus Christ, is it a full moon or something?" that if a) Jesus Christ actually answers you, I'd suggest getting a different job or maybe asking some other deity/switch denominations and b) you have to ask that question at all, the answer is always going to be, "Yes."

So don't ask. Just go do your job before I have to figure out what your job is and do it any way.

play on, playa

Have you ever watched The Arts channel? It's the equivalent of Vh1 or MTV for Dorky Classical Musicians.

Any way, I was watching it last night (you don't need to tell me I'm a complete geek, okay?) and a pianist was playing Chopin's Prelude No 15 in D flat minor, "The Raindrop" Prelude.

I used to play that piece, among other things, when I was in highschool.

I can kind of see now why my mom sometimes hints that I should "play the piano again." I never realized how beautiful music sounds when you no longer have the skills to play what you once did, or how impressive it sounds to people who don't play instruments (I don't consider myself a pianist any more, which is sad). Friends are always like, "Why don't you play any more?"

Well, it's not really like riding a bicycle. It's more like training for a marathon. You don't ask a former runner to just run 26 miles tomorrow when she's been out of training for 13 years. I haven't seriously played piano since I was sixteen. I used to compete in regionals and state.

And you know what? I still thought I sucked. I'm doomed with the inferiority complex, I'm telling you.

Anyhoo.

I know moms are like, paid by the mom mafia or something, to tell their kids they're pretty and nice and talented, even when they're not, so I don't think my mother is an objective party when it comes to anything regarding her kids. For example, she thinks I'm brilliant, which is just patently not true. If I were brilliant, I certainly wouldn't be wiping ass in a hospital for a living. I'd be making money off of someone else's porn, or something. Or at least I'd have a doctorate in something by now, or a published author.

Any way. Sometimes, I think I did everything fucking wrong in life. Or, if not wrong, just ass backwards.

Maybe I'll get back to music and writing and the things that matter some day.

For now, I have bills to pay. And I'm a long way from paying them. That shit just totally dampens your creative muse.

kant for kids

One thing I miss as a travel nurse is all my books.

I miss my copy of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, and God knows why, because it's all falling apart, and everytime I start to read it, I feel like stuffing and then burning an effigy of Kant full of its pages.

But, I love Kant.

And one of the reasons I love Kant is that when I was a kid, I had this phenomena/noumena theory about stuff.

No, seriously. I did.

(No one is saying I was a normal child, okay? I'm just saying I had a Kantian connection as a kid).

I remember thinking that there was the physical "stuff" of life... but what if the "stuff" we saw in everyday life was really something else, and we weren't seeing it properly for what it really was? And who knew what the "stuff" really was? I used to be very interested in the question of "essence" and when I learned about atomic theory in grade school, I thought about it a lot in a philosophical sense, even though I didn't know that was what I was doing at the time.

I didn't have any theological underpinnings to this theory, and I certainly had no idea at nine years old that my intellectual heritage was deeply imbued with the ideas of Plato's Cave and Cartesian duality.

But, it makes you wonder, doesn't it?

space: the final frontier

I've said for a long time now that I could never be Buddhist, because I'm too damn neurotic. (You know that character on South Park, Tweak? The one that screams in fright and falls over all the time, apparently from high stress levels? I'm sort of like the nurse version of Tweak, with a little Cartman potty mouth thrown in there. Okay, so a lot of Cartman potty mouth.)

Because I'm neurotic as hell, I can't fall asleep easily at night. I can fall asleep during the day (but not if I work nights. My life is like Catch 22 meets Murphy's Law meets the Analytic Section of the GRE). And, I can probably only sleep during the day because I can't fall asleep at night and am therefore narcoleptically tired during the day.

I watch the clock all night, freaked out that I can't go to sleep. I've had this problem since I was a kid. I used to worry about going to sleep so I could be well-rested for school. My sister thought I was a freak. "Dude, just close your eyes and think about nothing!" was her sage advice.

Therein is my problem. Some people think of night time as this very peaceful, quiet time in which one thinks about nothing. I think of it as a vast pit of anxiety driven neurotic thought, in which I obsess over every little part of my day, and worse, the future. When work was really bad, I used to spend my days off worrying about going back to work, which made the night before the actual shift some what, ummm... hellish, actually.

So, yes, I do think of "nothing" at night, but in a much more existential way than I'm sure my sister meant (didn't Kierkegaard talk about "nothing" and "anxiety" being the same?) It's really sad, but I feel pressured to sleep at night, so I can't do it. It's like I have performance anxiety over sleep. Who has performance anxiety over sleep, I ask you?!

Well, yesterday, while I was at Target, I broke down and bought one of those lame New Age sleep cd's, with the delta waves and ocean sounds, and pan flute crap. I was hoping it would help put me to sleep. (I knew this wasn't really going to work but I was fronting like maybe I could be one of those normal people who don't stress out about things like guided relaxation or the thought of meditation. The couple of times people have tried to do the guided relaxation thing during school or whatever, I get totally bored and stressed out. I open my eyes, actually, and look around and see if everyone else is closing their eyes, and then started wondering if I was "relaxing" in the correct manner.)

So... the jury's in. The CD doesn't put me to sleep, goddamit! I want my fucking money back, bitches!

(The music also makes me feel like I'm in a planetarium field trip, circa fifth grade, except without the stars. Remember that music they played in the planetarium? I'm pretty sure they just transposed it to CD. And, it would probably be a lot more fun with the stars and planets and trippy music if you actually had some LSD to go along with it).

Sure, you're laughing now, but next time you take the kid to the planetarium, you're gonna think about this post.

crack rock bitches.

I know it would be nice if I didn't have to resort to crude language to express my Angry Feelings.

Actually, right now, I'm too exhausted to be Angry. But if I was going to tell you a story about my shift tonight, it would include the words "crack rock bitches." It would probably also involve the phrase "domino-effect of poor systemic issues" and would include very unflattering depictions of yours truly fucking up, and several other people acting pretty fucking clueless as well.

(Note Bene/Legal disclaimer crap: EVERYONE IN THE STORY IS FINE. FINE I TELL YOU. EVERYONE.)

But, I'm too tired to even go through any of it, and you'd just be left thinking, "Huh?!" if I told you the story any way. I'm not even sure I get what happened tonight, and I was there. Allegedly.

I'm just like, thinking about how stressful this job is, and how sometimes I wish I had a job that was just kind of chill, like nuclear arms dealer or mine-sweeper.

Non-sequitar:

You know how these days it's all en vogue to acknowledge the Stay At Home Mom? Well, I want society to start recongizing the efforts and sacrifices of the Stay At Home Pet Owner. I've had my dog for eleven years, man, society needs to validate my contributions to the pet-owning world! I'm an important part of my dog's life, and if I'm not there to tell him about drugs, who will? Who?! I ask you. I need to stay home with my dog, man, and be there for him. No more latch-key life for Piper!

I'm also saying here that I think I should be able to stay at home with the dog, and this mode of life should be equally as acceptable as staying home with your kid. Hey, nobody made you have the kid. Unless, of course, you live in Texas, are married to the Most Clueless Sperm Donor on the planet, and had a bunch of kids while known to be completely schizophrenic. Not that we've heard any stories about that phenomenon lately.

I should also get money for staying home with the dog. I mean, think about it. I'm a single pet owner, working hard, barely making ends meet. Hey! I gotta fucking sob story here! There should be state funds involved, because I'm not sure who my baby dog daddy is, and Piper is clearly suffering without a father figure in his life. I'm afraid any day now, he might turn to street living and gang activity due to this lack of parental guidance, especially now that I'm working evenings.

Or, maybe I want to be one of those women like I saw on Law and Order yesterday, who gets to "own" a cafe, but she doesn't really have to work in the cafe, because she's rich as hell. So she just hangs out at the cafe, and gets her employees to do all her crappy scut work for her, and takes all the credit (that doesn't sound like a hospital at all, by the way).

Plus, she makes a pact with another wife and they kill each other's husbands.* (I know, it seemed circuitous to me as well. But clever.) Wow! Working in a cafe, and forming super-secret murder pacts! What a simplified life I'd have if my life were more Law and Order and less Hospital Crap.

Or, I could just stay at home with Piper. I see a lot of homeless people with their dogs around Seattle.

The dogs look pretty damn well fed, too.

(*Note Bene: I have no desire or intent to form a pact to kill any one's husband, okay? I'm just saying it was a really weird Law and Order episode. And, I'm kind of confused. Maybe this is called a "plot hole," but seriously, that wife who had all the money? Like, why kill the dude? He sounded like a nice guy. Was it really that hard to have a fake job while your husband went out and made millions of dollars? Maybe I spaced out and missed something crucial, but if your husband is worth $26 million alive, and dead, he's worth $13 million... uh, don't you want him alive? I mean, who wrote this episode, some math-impaired slob?)

latin: the language of kick-ass.

I spent a lot of time on my days off a) sleeping b) watching crappy t.v.

I realize this is time I could have just as easily spent "improving" myself or "educating" myself by reading up on the latest stroke research (ahem to certain attendings).

But, sometimes, you have to sit and watch The Independent Film Channel, with That One Film Depicting Lives of Gay Men, Including a Strangely Cast Jason Alexander, and That Other Film, With Sandra Oh Before She Became Dr. Yang on Grey's Anatomy, and Still Another Film In French.

Because, if you haven't stolen cable lately, and don't have a foreign film channel, let me just remind you of the Mysterious Life Fact: most independent films are French. I think there's some contract somewhere, that states that 70% of the films on such channels shall be in the French language, on pain of death, or more inappropriately cast gay male movie characters.

I think my favorite line in the French film was, "See, I told you. All women are sluts." It sounded a lot more sophisticated in French, which is why I wish I could speak French in a hospital setting, so that when I'm dealing with idiots, I could just say, "See, I told you. All women are sluts!" and not only would most people have no idea what I just said, but sadly, I would have probably said something that the majority of the American public actually believes deep down inside their crappy little corrupt souls.

(Of course, anything in French sounds more sophisticated to Americans who don't speak French. You could say, 'My Aunt Georgette smells like my dog's ass!" and Americans would think you were saying something really complimetary about your dog's ass.)

Sometimes, I wish Latin were more popular in schools today, so that when I cuss people out in Latin, I wouldn't just have to do it silently. I'm telling you, there is nothing more satisfying to a School Dorkling than to curse your opponents under your breath in Latin by saying things like, Puella defutata! (A fun fourth/fifth century way of calling someone a "Whore!") or mumbling, "Dixit Dominus Domino meo: sede a dextris meis donec ponam inimicos tuos scabellum pedum tuorem!" (Loosely put, this is Biblical speak for: "God's gonna kick your ass, bitch!")

the peeved piper

for the love of bulk.

It makes a lot of sense, because Costco is a Northwestern Original, but my work colleagues are constantly talking about Costco.

Last week alone, there were about half a dozen references to Costco, two in one shift:

PATIENT FAMILY MEMBER:
Try these! The fruit and vegetable platter is really good. Don't worry, it's from Costco!

JAMIE:
Oh yes, it looks good. Thanks!

PFM:
[as if trying to convince me it's not melamine laced food from China, or anything]
Yes, it's from Costco!

And later:

CHARGE NURSE:
Try these peanut butter bars!

JAMIE:
Ooo! Those are good. What's the recipe?

CHARGE NURSE:
No recipe! They're from Costco! And did you know, you don't even have to bake them? Just defrost.

JAMIE:
Rilly? From Costco?! No-bake?

CHARGE NURSE:
I know. They're from Costco, isn't that great? I love that place.

People are always talking about stuff you can get at Costco, and how, if you can't find something somewhere else, why not try Costco, because they have everything.

I'm pretty sure you could even find Jesus at Costco if you looked hard enough. (Which might be a snappy thing to tell evangelists when they ask you if you've found Jesus, or been saved: "Sure, at Costco! And boy, talk about savings when you buy Him in bulk!") You could probably throw in a line about "two for the price of one papal indulgences" but they might not get that remark, either.

(Note: If you look closely on the advertisement on the side of the truck, you have to wonder what made the Think Tank include "Red Vines" and "Oberto Beef Jerky" as office/business supplies. )

forget about it.

I admit I got suckered into watching the syndicated version of The Sopranos last night.

Why, I don't know.

It's actually a very cleverly written show. I mean, that whole dialogue between Tony Soprano and his associate about the difference between Notre Dame and Nostradamus? That's classic.

I'm a chronic late-bloomer with t.v. shows, which reminds me of when I was in highschool. When everybody else was into Beverlyhills 90210, doing drugs, each other, and possibly a couple band instructors (okay, so not at my school, they weren't cute enough by any means) I was like, completely oblivious.

You probably would have had to shot me up with thorazine and haldol to make me watch crap like 90210, even as a teenager, any way. Especially since it always bothered me how damn asymmetrical Shannon Dougherty's eyes are. I mean, I know everybody has asymmetrical facial parts--but I couldn't figure out how an actress with one eye like 1 cm lower than the other eye could actually ever find work in Hollywood.

But maybe this is one of those mysterious cult secrets of Hollywood, like how studios keep writing parts for Nick Nolte, in which all he has to do is show up to the sound stage completely drunk and high on coke, and mumble whatever, and make a movie and a million bucks.

the boob tube

This post is kind of a response to Katy's recent blog post about the amount of time Americans spend watching t.v. (seven hours a day!)

I was thinking about this last night, and even commented to David the other night about how much more I watch t.v. when I have cable, as opposed to three, very fuzzy English channels and one quite clear Spanish channel, like Telemundo (which I sometimes watch, because if you've ever watched a soap opera on Telemundo, you know there's nothing quite like it. Except a Korean soap opera, where lovers say to each other romantic things like, "You know, when I look at you, the dopamine and serotonin just flow within me. It's amazing, what neurotransmitters do to you when you're in love!" I'm surprised, incidentally, with awkward, esoteric one-liners like this, that Korean people still exist, because how do you ever get laid saying things like that? Well, apparently you do if you're on a Korean soap opera.)

I now have a habit of sitting and vegging out in front of a lot of very violent, gory t.v. programs. I like to say I'm into detective shows because of my dad, and how he used to come home and tell us funny stories about autopsies at dinner (you see now why I adapted so well to life as a nurse). I even wanted to be a forensic scientist as a kid. That, or a vet. Or a concert pianist. Or, you know, a Las Vegas flaminco dancer, or whatever.

Okay, so I had this habit before, I was just too poor to afford cable and/or tired off out from working night shift to indulge it.

I don't know if I've ever sat and watched 7 hours of t.v. continuously, or even throughout the course of a day, though. I do know the most depressing, crappy Christmas I ever had involved me watching some real heartwarming movie like Road to Peridition (watch gangster Dad die!) and The Pianist (watch everybody die!).

battle ax.

Just to clarify the last post:

No nurse in his/her right mind wants to spend their precious time arguing pointlessly with an attending. Honest to God, we have better things to be doing with our allocated shift time, like, uh, helping our patients.

As a nurse, you learn to choose your battles wisely.

But, with this particular doc, everything, even routine care, is a battle. I let a lot of this attending's rudeness, temper tantrums, and frankly, odd reasons for things he orders sometimes, slide, but last night, ethically and from a nursing standpoint, I couldn't.

And unfortunately, sometimes as a nurse, you have quite literally have to fight for what you think is best for the patient.

The problem is, you don't always get what the patient needs, and that makes the job frustrating sometimes.

Most attendings have years and years of experience, and have skills and insights and specialized knowledge nurses don't. But, that's not the point. The point is, there is a better way to do things and we're supposed to cooperate to get those things done.

Calmly cooperate. Without the yelling and red-faced anger, please.

Then again, if cooperation always happened in a hospital, they probably wouldn't think nurses were necessary, and we'd all get fired. And, too, if they really wanted to simplify things and get rid of us pesky nurses, why doesn't someone just hurry up and invent those magical hand merchandise scanner-looking things you wave over people to diagnose, treat and cure people, like they do on Star Trek: The Next Generation?

I mean, come on, let's get cracking on those scanner-things! The future is now, people!

bring it on.

Work has been busy this weekend.

I could tell you the whole story, but it's a Long Story, and actually, not very interesting when it comes right down to it.

Short version: there was a lot of drama when there shouldn't have been drama.

Actually, I can pretty much summarize the pleasant collegial atmosphere that pervaded the "discussion" I had with an attending by quoting South Park dialogue between Cartman and Stan:

Cartman: Now stop wasting Mel Gibson's time, you little pussy prick.
Stan: Don't take that tone with me, kid. I'll kick your ass.
Cartman: Yah. Well, I'd like to see you try. I'm, like, 6 feet tall.
Stan: Yah. Well, you sound like a little bitch to me.
Cartman: Bitch! Don't call me bitch, bitch!
Stan: Bring it on then, bitch!

Cartman: I already brung it, bitch. I brung it, opened it, and set it on the table, bitch.

I mean, okay, so nobody actually the other person a "pussy prick" or a "bitch" during the actual confrontation, but that's pretty much what was said any way, without the profanity. (And I think the word "bitch" got tossed around quite a bit afterward, in private and out of earshot of the patient and family).

The thing is, nobody won the argument, and I'm pretty sure the patient lost out, any way, because nothing got done despite all the time that was wasted with an attending up in my face, yelling for no good reason.

It shouldn't be that way, but sometimes, it is.

breakfast of champions

I know. I know, okay?

It's not the Cat Advice Stand, or the Dog Mafia band (with live dogs looking really bored while their owners sing for pennies an hour in donations!) you've been looking for.

But, it's the best I can do.



Maybe we can have a blog contest (which mmr would win, by the way, due to her super sleuthing abilities): guess which filling is inside the piroshky.

the truth about cats and dogs

Alright, I realize this post would be a lot funnier if the batteries in my camera hadn't died at a most unfortunate time, and I had actual pictures to post along with this entry.

But believe me, it was worth blogging about.

This morning, Piper and I did our usual Sunday morning jaunt to the Market. I take him, despite the crowds, because it is a great educational, fun place to be.

Educational, you say?

Educational, I say.

As evidenced by: "World of Cats: Cat Advice" stand, which was basically a guy in this this tiny, makeshift stand, with a poster and a cat. The cat appeared to have some kind of cat clothing on, I think. When I walked by the stand, the guy was talking very earnestly to some random guy who had been suckered into asking what the Cat Advice was all about. Cat Guy was, it seemed, talking ferverntly about the mission statement of "World of Cats: Cat Advice." (You could tell Random Guy was only standing there listening to be polite, and wasn't really interested in the schtick, and was getting sorry he'd ever asked Cat Guy anything at all.)

Okay.

To be honest, the first thing I though when I saw the stand was, "Oh my God! I wonder if this guy claims to be a cat psychic!"

(Yes, they exist. No, I haven't consulted one. Yet.)

I wanted to ask Cat Guy if his Cat Advice included some kind of psychic component, but he seemed to be talking about how Neutering Cats Is Good For The World rather than offering Sophia Brown For Cats advice, so I deferred the question.

Any way, as I continued on my my way to Piroshky, Piroshky for my overpriced-but-worth-it breakfast piroshky, I started thinking I could do the same thing. You know, set up a Dog Advice stand, with Piper as the mascot. I could stand around all day, showcasing Piper, asking for donations for "free advice" (never mind it's supposed to be free).

I could get kickbacks from market merchants by doing some advertising with my "psychic advice": "Your dog is saying to me quite clearly that he would like a pirkoshy. I'm not sure if I'm getting a read on beef and cheese or the smoked salmon, but he definitely wants you to take him to the piroshky shop."

Here is where another fun little picture would have been posted, had my friggin camera been working.

A little way past the piroshky shop, they had a little band playing, called "Dog Mafia," replete with several large, bored-looking dogs lying at their owners' feet. It was priceless.

And of course, my camera batteries were dead.

See, if I had a Cat Psychic, maybe I would have already known my camera batteries were going to be dead, and I wouldn't have been so disappointed when I couldn't take pictures of this stuff.

girl friday

In other boring Jamie-related news, I can't believe it's Friday already.

How did that happen?

I sat around mildly ill from some kind of tummy bug and allergies for the first half of the week, and seem to have spent most of my evenings off recuperating by watching crap t.v. and knitting on my Seattle Scarf, which was going to be my Seattle Socks, until I realized my neck gets a lot colder than my feet. Or, more precisely I tend to lose more scarves than socks, typically, so I stock up on the former.

I'm Wurking this weekend.

Such is my life.

o ye of little faith

While I'm bitching, I have to mention just one more thing (I guess I have to do my monthly quota of bitching on this blog, so that my loyal fans--all like, two of them--don't think I've gone soft with the Awesomest Job of Awesomeness Ever).

When I have an alert and oriented patient who can damn well tell me what his pain management need are, please do not think I am lying to you, the family member, when I say I can't give the patient any more pain medicine for a couple of hours.

Like, I get that family members feel helpless when patients have surgery, and want to help. I'm glad you're concerned about mom or dad or little old nana.

But seriously, when I tell you all this information, and the patient is like, "That's cool, thanks." do not say, "Really?" like you think I'm just making this shit up, because I don't want to give so-and-so pain medicine, and am just saying this for the hell of it, or lying because I'm lazy and don't feel like doing my job right now.

That, too, is totally obnoxious, and condescending.

notes for note-takers

Okay, so if you're in health care, there's always a few things, no matter how good the job is, and how nice your co-workers are, that just bug you.

One of the things that annoy me, personally, is Weird Family of Patients. And okay, in a hospital, you get a lot of weird, and you deal with it.

But sometimes, certain kinds of weird just sticks in your craw a little more.

For me, I get personally annoyed with the family members I like to call The Note Takers.

These are the people make it very obvious that they're taking notes on patient care. They want to know your name, so they can write it down in their spiffy spiral notebook, in case they want to sue you for not bringing the water pitcher fast enough. And they always leave the notebook out in plain site, in case it wasn't obvious to everyone what it was in the first place.

This note-taking really annoys me, because the point is to try to subtly threaten and intimidate care givers into giving better care. In reality, what it does, is make us not want to be in the room as much--but we are any way, because it is our job. So, you writing down, 'Nurse Jamie brings in pitcher of water, precisely 15 minutes after it was requested.' is just plain condescending to us as professionals. It does not make us bring in the pitcher of water any faster. It does not make us respond to call bells any quicker, or give better care in emergencies.

Because, our job is to do those things any way, regardless of any other criteria.

And, the other part that is stupid about the note-taking, is hey, we take notes too. Notes that are part of a legal record.

We already understand you can sue us for malpractice. We get it, people.

And, if we see you with your notebook, and it's not to write down important things we say, or the doctors tell you, so you don't forget them, and instead, it's to document "our every move, in case we want to sue" I'm telling you, the first thing I think is that you're hunting for a lawsuit, and you know what?

Your ridiculous litigation-seeking behavior doesn't impress me. This doesn't say to me, "You care about my husband/wife/grandma/grandpa/sister/brother." This says: "You're one of those annoying litigious bastards who drives up the cost of malpractice insurance with your frivolous lawsuits."

What I'm trying to say here is: that kind of behavior is totally obnoxious, no matter what Good Morning America says you should do when your loved one is hospitalized.

flying high.

Okay, okay. I know all the non-picture text in the latest blog entries probably feels like we've graduated from highschool Fun Color Photo History Textbooks to dull college Where Are the Color Pictures and Cartoons To Explain Hegelian Hermeneutics, Anyway?

So, I thought I'd break up the monotony with an outtake of Piper.

The shutter speed on my digital camera is s---l----o-----w.

Ergo, the picture I thought I was taking of Piper was more like, "Hi, I'm Williard Scott up on some random building about to show you the picture of some 114 year old walnut who claims to be a great-great grandmother!"

Instead, what I got is more of a parody of a still from a C grade, Japanese monster movie, with the how-low-tech-can-you-go special effects (i.e. David's hand,visibily propping up the dog) and really poor editing (i.e. David's hand, visibly propping up the dog).

I'm not sure what this picture says about Piper's superpowers, though. I guess maybe portability could be a superpower, if the photo somehow doesn't manage to convince you he's flying through the air unaided.

how to save a life

JAMIE:
[walking into a patient's room]
Hi there, Mr. [name protected by HIPAA].

PATIENT:
Oh, hi! Nice to see you again! I just wanted to say, thank you for saving my life the other day.

JAMIE:
[thinking, "Huh?"]
Oh. Well, uh. Thanks, but that had a lot to do with like, other nurses and doctors and stuff. Not to mention your surgeon, with the bypass surgery.

PATIENT:
No, you saved my life. You were the one that knew something was really wrong in the first place.

JAMIE:
Uh, thanks. I appreciate that, but really, it was really like, a whole bunch of people.

PATIENT:
Well, still. You saved my life. Thanks, Kim! Your name is Kim, right?

The Notorious P's Paparazzi

So, today being my day off, Piper and I went For A Walk.

First, we went to the bank, so I could withdraw some cash. We walked along Second Street, which was kind of dumpy and the kind of street you wouldn't want to be on past twilight, probably. However, some guy sitting on the stoop outside Ture's Diner motioned to pet Piper, and I felt like a good citizen, because I had done my one altruistic deed for the day.

For breakfast, I went into Piroshky Piroshky, where the savory Piroshkies of all sorts tempted, but in the end, the Rhubarb Pirkoshky won out.

GIRL #1 IN PIROSHKY LINE:
Oh my God! Look at the dog!

PIPER:
[stands there, does nothing.]

GIRL #2:
Oh, cute, a dog!

PIPER:
[stands there, does nothing.]

[Jamie pays for piroshky and exits shop]

GIRL #1
Oh look, they're going now!

PIPER:
[walks two feet to the left]

GIRL #2:
Goodbye, doggie!

JAMIE:
[thinks to self: What am I, chopped liver?]

Okay, so maybe I wouldn't have been so miffed, but we had just been about fifty feet from Piroshky, Piroshky, when a woman crossing the street immediately dropped her flowers on the trunk of her car and crooned, 'Oh! I just have to pet your dog!"

And at the vegetable stand, he got more props and a carrot which he otherwise would have turned his nose up, but stood there, holding the carrot in his mouth ever just-so, as if waiting for a photographic opportunity.

It was practically a Piper paparazzi in there:

OLDER VEGETABLE STAND GUY:
Lookit, Sarah! The dog's got a carrot in his mouth!
[to Piper]
Do you like the carrot? Do you? Are you a good boy? Are you! Lookit you!

PIPER:
[wags tail, looks impressed with self.]

VEGETABLE STAND STONER GUY:
[to Jamie]
So, your dog's name is Pipe?

JAMIE:
Uh, no. It's Piper.

STONER GUY:
Oh man, that's like so weird. Did you ever see that one kid's show, with all the music on there? Like, they had some real cool musicians on there, like [names bands I can't remember] and LL Cool J.

JAMIE:
[thinks, "LL Cool J?", then tries to assume an air of polite interest]

STONER GUY:
Any way, like, there was this one puppet thing on there, and his word was like, "Pipe." Like, he'd just say it all the time. "Pipe." "Pipe" was like, his word.

JAMIE:
[thinks, "As in, I-totally-made-this-up Bong Pipe?]
[says outloud:]
Oh, that's, errr.... very nice.

CARROT:
[now on the floor, having been discarded by the dog, who looks vaguely bored like he's Lindsay Lohan, "Okay, this party is totally lame. When can we go to LL Cool J's afterparty?"]

chest pain roulette.

Today is my day off.

I say this like I didn't just have an unexpected day off two days ago.

I say this like "I've-been-working-on-a-railroad-all-the-live-long-day."

I say this like I don't have the best nursing job I've ever had.

I mean, yeah, yesterday was busy. I had four patients, one of whom wanted morphine every two hours for mysterious 6/10 chest pain, then got up and walked around, looking completely normal (except for the orange lipstick smeared indiscriminately and with complete disregard as to the boundary of her lips).

If she saw you coming, she might start huffing and puffing. Or maybe not. It just all depended on her mood, or the alignment of the stars, or how out of whack her chakras were (take that, Hattie!)

Then, at change of shift, I went up to five. My fifth patient was a little old lady who was "Italian speaking only" but mysteriously seemed to understand everything you said to her in English, except when it was something she didn't want to hear. Then, suddenly, she'd just smile and look blankly at you.

I love these old people with their selective sensory capacities. They crack me up.

They also make me a bit sad, because the end of human life looks so damn dumpy and depressing.

"Don't get old." If I've heard it once, I've heard it a thousand times in the hospital.

I'm like, "Okay, I'll try not to."

dream on, dreamer.

I think I classify myself as a "dreamer."

Others may classify me as a "lay-about" or "slacker."

But, maybe it sort of explains why I went to post secondary school for nearly seven years, and have nary a post-doc to show for it.

And, maybe it sort of explains why right now, I have no intention of "furthering my career."

In a related vein, I have always been, as my sister bluntly used to put it, "dense." I used to help her with book reports in school, and she'd always say, "How do you come up with stuff?"

I'm not sure, but my talent in Gratuitous Skills Not Needed In Any Practical Sense has really expanded my opportunities to die an accidental death, due to the fact that Gratuitous Skills Jamie seems to have sapped all the power from Practical Skills Jamie.

I remember when I was a kid, and we had those stupid math problems, which they called word problems. I didn't really care about when Mr. B. was going to meet up with Mr. Y if Mr. B's train is headed towards Mr. Y's car at 80 miles an hour, and Mr. Y is only traveling at 50 miles an hour.

But, I was always fascinated by the story behind these word problem characters. Like, why was Mr. B going to meet up with Mr. Y at some random point? And what's more, who cares? Does Mr. B. even know Mr. Y? What if Mr. Y. decides to stop a fireworks stand and stays for the porn display for a couple of hours? What if Mr. B.'s train derails, or Mr. Y's car crashes?

So, I'd be thinking about this stuff, composing a haiku about it, and meanwhile, everyone else would be solving the math problem and getting scholarships to MIT or whatever.

Okay, so mostly, I didn't like math because I wasn't good at it, and I'm in the habit of not doing things I'm not good at, like sports, for instance. I suck at sports. It requires like, hand-eye-coordination and strength. These two words make me chuckle, but I always wondered why they made me suffer through physical education. I was like, "Hey, assholes! I'm not fat, and I'm never gonna play touch football as an adult. I promise I will never go near a basketball court and annoy people with my complete and utter lack of height, or inability to hold any solid object in my hands for more than five seconds without dropping it. Can I just go read Beowulf or learn Greek, or something?"

But, I've realized "things that I"m not good at" involve mostly useful, marketable skills like math, and playing basketball.

And, even less advanced skills than that, there's every day "figuring out how to operate vertical blinds."

Okay. So, I have a confession to make.

When I got here to Seattle, I couldn't figure out how to make my vertical blinds work properly. So, when David came to visit, I told him I thought they were broken.

This was the ensuing conversation:

DAVID:
Uh, no they're not broken. You just do this [does something completely magical to the blinds, and they miraculously glide over to one side with nary a problem].

JAMIE:
[with sincere incredulity]
Really?! Oh, wow! That's so simple! I never knew that! I thought like, all the vertical blinds I ever in my life were like, the crappiest things ever, because I could never figure out how to do [that magical thing]. Seriously, they're not broken? That's all you have to do?

DAVID:
[bemused]
Uh, yeah.

Okay, so that's not the most embarrassing part. The most embarrassing part is, now that he's gone, I can't figure out/don't remember what it was I'm supposed to do to the blinds, exactly, and now they're are all fucked up again.

Like, I'm not even sure how I get through my day without electrocuting myself, falling down a well--yes, even in a city--or drowning myself in half an inch of water.

If I were born during Roman days, I would have been the kid who was abandoned on the floor shortly after birth, because it would have probably been clear at birth I was not going to be a good carpenter or centurion, and everybody hated those tax collectors who could read and write, any way.

great expectations

One thing I was thinking about yesterday, when my stomach hurt and I was feeling like Not Working, was what an unmotivated slob I've become since essentially dropping out of a nurse practitioner program two years ago. (And then, the Magic Nursing Fairy called and sprinkled Fairy Dust--no, that's not like angel dust--all over my day by saying I didn't have to go to work, because we had practically no patients.)

It's like, if I could do it all over again, here's what I'd do:

Plan B: Or, How Jamie Could Have Ended Up Just Like She Is Today, Except Without All The Student Loan Debt, And In About Half the Time:

1) Blow off highschool like everyone else who had any common sense did.
2) Go to community college. For a semester.
3) Drop out of community college, and work some crappy job.
4) Go back to a state university for a Bachelor in Something Useful, like nursing, or religion. Oh wait, nursing isn't useful!

Or even the industrious Plan C:

1) Go directly to college. Do not pass Go. Do not get a master's degree. Do not drop out of a second master's degree program.

Because I could have saved myself thousands of dollars by doing it the alternate slacker way (as opposed to the expensive slacker way I did college) and what good did investing in a six figure education do for me, any way?

I still have as much earning power as I did under Life Plan A, where I noodled around incessantly for nearly a decade spending thousands of dollars--while ironically, living in sheer poverty--accruing pointless degrees and having people say, "What are you going to do with that degree, any way?" (After about the fifth time you hear that in one week alone, you start silently thinking, "Shove it up your ass, if you ask me that question one more time.")

At least no one asks what you're going to do with a nursing degree.

On the one hand, I find if the nursing job is good, I can be happy with what I do for a living. I mean, I love my job now. Nice nurses, nice staff, mostly nice patients. It's like I died and went to WunderHospital. I could see doing this for a little while longer, if nothing else, to get those Perkins loans canceled (three. more. years. of. indentured. servitude. three. more. years.)

But, on the other hand, I feel like there's all this sort of external pressure--probably completely imaginary--to do something with my life.

Like, I could go back to school, and get an advanced degree in nursing, and probably have as much earning power as I do now.

Or, I could even get a PhD.

Or, I could just jump off a tall building, and save every one the agony of having to listen to me bitch for five years about how much the degree program sucked, etc.

Also, I kind of did school for a very, very long time, and I'm burned out even thinking about applying for another program. Like, it would take five weeks just to sort out all the places from which I'd have to request transcripts.

I hate applying for schools. You always have to write this essay in which you have to say things like, "I love your school and program so very very much that I've dreamed about supplicating to your admissions board since I was a wee tot of three, and I plan to name my future children in honor of your institution. I promise, if you let me into your program, I will be the best intellectual slave you ever, ever had!"

I don't know. I wrote a lot of those essays. And spent time revising them. And begging people to read them. And rewriting them. And begging people to read them again, until those people seemed to go on extended vacations or run screaming whenever I drew near.

This essay-writing is time I could have spent doing much more useful, fun things, like picking my nose, or sleeping.

Also, you have to pretend you're interesting in researching things. I am not really interested in academic research. I just like to use google a lot, and I don't think that counts as a scholarly source.

And I'm too lazy and short-attention-spanned to write an entire thesis on something, and if I did, it'd be some "soft" multidisciplinary crap at which real scientists turn their noses up in disdain.

Maybe I'm much too scatterbrained, not to mention complacent any more to do anything Hard Core Academic. I don't know how these Super People I know like, work 40 hours a week and go to school and change constitutional law and do triathalons, and I can't seem to do one simple thing at a time, like either go to school, and stay put for more than two years, or go to work, and stay put for more than three months.

robodog.

Does any body remember the old school Scooby Doo cartoon--the one before the anathema big screen movie?

And, does any body remember the opening theme song and credits--where that creepy robot with the glowing eyes pops forward and glares menacingly for a second?

Well here, Piper reminds me of that robot.

Or, possibly, Linda Blair.

drug use 101

Okay, so here's some suggestions and tips for any one on illicit drugs who might one day visit a family member overnight in the hospital.

First of all: that red cart in the middle of the hallway, the one that says "Code Cart" on it?

Well, I know this might not be obvious, but, it's a code cart. You know, for medical emergencies. You might be able to tell it's used in emergencies, because of the scary looking equipment on top of it. Or the fact that it might have the word "Emergency" written on it somewhere.

One good thing to do, though, is to remember when you're looking for your fix, that when you read one of the code cart drawers has "meds" in it, that not all "meds" are "narcotics."

(To those who actually need this lecture, I'd show you a Venn Diagram here to illustrate the important lesson that: "All narcotics are meds, but not all meds are narcotics." Something, however, tells me I'd be wasting my precious time and energy. And, I might mean a Euler Diagram, but I don't want to go wiki it to make sure.)

Therefore--(now pay attention, kids, this is important!--)

The code cart is not full of heroin or crack.

Why not? Because this is a hospital, not a crack alley or heroin house.

It is also not full of legal narcotics for you to steal.

Why not? Because, as a rule, we don't leave legal narcotics in the middle of the hallway in some twist-tied shut drawers.

And, here's another tip:

If you already have heroin stuffed in your pockets, then a good thing to do would be to not get the heroin confiscated when you are arrested for going through the code cart, which--once again, boys and girls!-- does not contain narcotics.

In conclusion, the old adage rings true once again: a handful of narcs in your pocket is better than digging through a code cart for two handfuls of ACLS drugs, getting arrested and having another hand shoved up your arse to make sure you don't have more heroin up there.

the daily planet.

Looking at this makes you feel like you're Clark Kent working for The Daily Planet.

But, you'd actually be working for the Seattle Post Intelligence, because like, everybody knows that The Daily Planet headquarters out of Metropolis, not Seattle, dude. And we all know that Metropolis is in New York City, or somewhere like it. Duh.

And, you wouldn't even be working in that building any more, because they moved the offices somewhere else.

But, it still makes you feel like you could be working for The Daily Planet.

amperstand

come on baby, light my fire.

whee!

David's first comment when he saw this next sculpture was, "Hey! Do you remember those?!"

I was looking around, in my usual hair-brained, clueless way, and thought, "Huh? What, cars? Buildings? The highway? Boy, does he think I'm that big of a space cadet?"

And then I saw this sculpture:

It took me a couple of seconds to process what it was: a giant replica of one of those wheel erasers with the brush, circa 1985.

Being a Nerd in elementary school meant having a school supply fetish, so yeah, I'm sure I had one in my repetoire at some point in academic year 1985-86 or what have you. And, I'm just as sure the stupid eraser got summarily lost, or broken, or eaten by the family dog.

I don't remember those things working very well, any way. Like, the wheel part really didn't erase very well, and what was the point of having a brush when it takes just as little time and effort to brush the eraser bits away with your hand?

the space needle.

...with a pointy red sculpture framing it.

We also learned in Seattle that people like to put up lots and lots of signs to tell you what to do, and what not to do, such as:


Or:


Or the mysterious, almost prophetic pronouncement:


It's kind of like having a version of mom, Jesus and some wacko prophet like, say, I don't know, Weird Al Yankovich or Tammy Faye Baker, giving you life advice etched into or attached to practically any concrete public surface available!

So, clearly, some people aren't reading the signs of life:

[The sign says: "Thank you for staying on the path so the grass can grow."]

LOOK PEOPLE! HE IS NOT ON THE PATH! HE IS ON THE GRASS! AAAAAGH!

Whenever I pointed these signs out to someone, someone flagrantly disregarded said sign.

Which is funny, because whenever someone points out to me that the car is going to run you over if you step into the street now, I listen!

Oh wait, maybe that's different somehow.

fun forest

I think the killer klown post may have explained a lot about the Weird Factor that seems to pervade the park around The Space Needle.

I'm not sure what it explained, exactly, but am still ardently convinced that this was further proof that whatever they were trying to accomplish in terms of aesthetics here, well... sort of missed "sophistication" by a long shot.

And, whoever dreamed up this weird little park obviously thinks a multitude of sins can be hidden if you put the word "fun" somewhere in the title--because look, that's what they did across the street at killer klown fun house:

DAVID:
Uh. This is kind of wrong, don't you think?

JAMIE:
Uh, yeah. Where's the "forest," and why is it "fun" exactly? I'm afraid.

seattle ugly.

We're not trying to put any one down here, but David and I both thought this was really ugly and tacky:

DAVID:
Clearly, someone had a "vision" of what this was supposed to look like. Like, maybe it would look cool from the highway, or something?

JAMIE:
Yeah, but it doesn't look cool from the highway. And what was the "vision" supposed to be, any way? It just looks... kind of ugly.

corpus collosum

You may be wondering if I'm suffering from corpus collosum, or starring on an episode of Scooby Doo, and pretty soon you'll find out I'm really the Evil Caretaker at the end of the episode "who would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for you meddling kids."

The reason you might be wondering where Bitchy Wurk Jamie went is because she was so prominent for about six months on this blog--okay, so like, for longer than that-- and now Bitchy Wurk Jamie seems to be replaced by all this Picture Pages Bill-Cosby-Before-the-Paternity-Scandal happy crap.

I know. Sometimes, I miss her, too, because she came up with some really funny, awful stories about hospital nursing.

But most of the time, I find it's much better these days now that Bitchy Wurk Jamie seems to have gone on an extended leave-of-absence.

Don't worry. I'm sure Wurk Jamie lurks on this blog in stealth mode, ready to troll a few posts.

knit-picky

I had a few lovely patients tonight, one of which the most important thing you need to know was that she was, despite her relatively advanced age, a recent acolyte to the ranks of knitting.

She proudly showed me all her little skeins of cotton yarn, and the dish cloths she was making, and rambled on about how she had made two baby blankets for her grandchild and great-grandchild, and how "even if they didn't ever use them, I still feel good that I made them something."

I don't know why this kind of thing charms me about patients, but it does.

i love the rain the most...

....when it stops" croons Joe Purdy.

And he's right, to some extent.

On the last day of his visit (sob!) it finally stopped misting and spitting outside, so David and I took Piper on this colossal canine cardiac work out walk, the last few blocks of which a prostrate Piper had to be carried.

We went somewhere, to this lookout vantage point that I could probably remember if I didn't have to use my last remaining brain cells to invest in work tonight, and Piper got to see this view of Seattle:

I wish I wasn't having intermittent cluelessness of the young adult, because I could tell you more about this picture, but I can't right now.

I can, however, tell you about the last six patients I had, in really boring, pedantic detail, and also some scary information I didn't know about venous blood clots to the brain, which you probably don't want to really know, just like I'm kind of regretting I know something about now, too.

newsboys.

Katy: This post is in response to your newspaper-vending-machine-in-creek post.

I think we may have a serial newspaper-vending-machine killer at work, or perhaps a copy cat, moving freely about the country:


Note in the background, the row of unscathed newspaper-vending-machine mourners. This incident probably may have even made the printing press news, had someone not melted the dispensing machine normally disseminates that sort of information.

Sigh. Now, the world may never know.

Or they did, but don't care.

windblown.

big fish.

Piper wasn't all that interested in looking at the fish in the Seattle Aquarium display, but one of the fish seemed pretty intent on staring him down:


I guess it was funnier in person, without all the window-glare.

Piper on demand.

We here at Pied Piper Incorporated know it's been a few days since there has been a picture of Piper up on the blog. In regard to this egregious oversight, we can only say to his ardent and loyal fans, we at Pied Piper Inc. are sorry for the oversight.

We wouldalso like to hasten to reassure his loyal fan base that while there may be some confusion in the media surronding that other celebrity with a five letter "P" name, Piper has not been been recently incarcerated for peeing on a suspended license, nor does he have an unspecified medical condition requiring immediate psychiatric evaluation, as previously rumored. Piper wishes to send his support and condolences to the other P celebrity, stating simply, 'Being a famous bitch ain't easy, and neither is going to the doghouse. Paws for peace, man!'

We here at Pied Piper Inc. think we've all learned something--although we're not sure what-- from this brutal deprivation of Piper images, and we can only hope his fans can take that message--whatever that actually is--to heart, and try to learn from this trying experience, forgive, and move on, without the need for jail time, home arrest, or an electronic ankle bracelet.

We do ask that you respect Piper's privacy during this intensely emotional time.

Thank you,

Piper's Management Team and Lawyers.

what can brown do for you today?

"Brown" can build you a water fall garden in the middle of Seattle, apparently:


Here's the plaque so you, too, can learn more about this fake waterfall:



And here's... well... who is this person? I kind of feel like I'm a National Geographic photographer on safari, trying to take a picture of a member of a rare species of animal, one that doesn't like flash photography at all--like Piper, for instance--and seems to elude full photographic capture:

piroshky, piroshky!

And this picture is for Katy...

We found Piroshky, Piroshky!


And okay, so I confess we had the sweet, not savory piroshkies, but I did take a picture (of a picture) of the owner, V-L-A-D-I-M-I-R K-O-T-E-L-N-I-K-O-V (unlike people with normal intelligence levels, I have to spell it out loud slowly in order to then pronounce it). Mr., uh, K. apparently has written a book about his most excellent piroshky adventures:

I'll bet its even critically acclaimed, and climbing its way up the New York Times Bestseller list!

Well, maybe not. But, I like the picture. Vladimir seems to be saying, "I'm signing this book for you, my friend. Now quit taking my picture before I throw my day old piroshkies at your camera."

costco prophylaxis.

This picture is for David. He'll know why, even if the rest of you are baffled by its seemingly random inclusion on my blog:



(I know you're thinking, "I wonder what aisle those are on?" and "Are there coupons for those?!")