Got Hitched?

No, not me... but Chris and Grace did last Saturday, and it was great. The wedding ceremony was really nice-- it took place at a surf/country club type of place at the back of the building on a beach overlooking the sound. What a romantic and beautiful venue. It took about 45 minutes, but to me, if flew by. The priesty stuff was kind of Goddish, but they're Catholic, so that was to be expected. The whole thing went without a single snafu (except for the butterflies Grace and Chris tried to release at the end of the ceremony that just didn't want to fly out of the box), and then it was on to the party.

What a great time! They had a lot of guests-- almost 200, I think. Most of them were family and long-time family friends. And all of them were Italian, so Italian in fact, that the MC made every speech and announcement in both English and Italian so all of the guests would understand what was going on.

Lots of food was served, lots of drinks were had, and lots of dancing occurred (mostly to Italian folk music). All in all, it was a blast. As it was all going on, I commented to Matt that I couldn't wait to have my very own bachelorette party and wedding. He turned to me, smiled, and very coolly commented "I can."

Heh. I bet.

Not An Egg Carton

Ok, Noodle Fans, here's that broken car story I promised you all about eight thousand years ago.
So, my car is cute and runs all right... it's a little 2000 Honda Civic EX, and it's all mine. Mostly good enough for me, I'd say. It's not perfect though, evidenced by semi-frequent discouraging internal noises and the occasional breakdown/repair cycle. But for the most part, it's a good little car, and I don't have too many problems with it.

For the last couple of months though, I'd been hearing this noise... you know, another one of those discouraging ones. It sounded like a cross between a jingling and a grinding... similar to what my parents' horrific old washing machine sounded like every time it started on the spin cycle. But the noise didn't happen that often-- maybe once every couple of weeks or so and only for a second or two at a time, so I never thought it was too big of a deal. I even tried to have my parents witness the noise, but every time they got into the car, it behaved perfectly. Oh well. Not terrible, right? Wrong.

Apparently the whole time I was driving the car around, it was breaking more and more a little bit at a time, so slowly that I didn't even notice that anything was really wrong until the one fateful Saturday morning when all hell broke loose.

Ok, well maybe all hell didn't break loose, but the part shown here did:
(My broken brush guard from inside and outside views)

So I was driving to my last K(r)aplan class early on a Saturday morning and all of a sudden that terrible grinding/jingling noise happened. Now, I was on the highway driving about 70mph, so as soon as I could, I got over to the right lane, put on my flashers, and slowed down. 50mph wasn't slow enough-- the car still was making the noise, so I got it down to about 35mph and prayed that my exit was near. There was no shoulder, so I couldn't pull over, but before too long, my exit came up and I got off the highway. I tried pulling off onto the shoulder of the exit ramp, but it was kind of banked and the angling seemed to make the noise worse. So I reluctantly pulled back onto the road and turned onto the first side-street I came to.

When I pulled over, I got out of the car, leaving the motor running and the flashers flashing. I looked all around to see if anything was on fire, and feeling quite certain that nothing was going to blow up, I crouched down on the ground to check out the undercarriage. Lo and behold, was my brush guard, hanging by a thread, and dragging against the ground. So all those little noises for the past few weeks had apparently been the bolts holding the part up coming off. The piece itself is kind of rusted out and must have been slowly unhinging all that time.

So, I'm realizing all of this while laying on the ground staring at the underside of my car, I'm almost late for my class, wondering if I should just call for a tow-truck, and just kind of spacing out at the poor timing of it all, when this little old Italian man comes walking by on the sidewalk. The following is a real conversation that took place:

Man:Did you break down?
Me: Yeah-- my car's making a noise.
Man: Oh, can you see something down there under it?
Me: Yeah. Something's hanging. I don't know what it is.
Man: (Getting down to the ground on his hands and knees) Oh yeah, there is something hanging down there. Wait-- it looks like an egg carton. You're dragging an egg carton.
Me: No, I don't think it's an egg carton. It's metal. I think it's a piece of my car.
Man: Yeah-- that there is an egg carton. Hmmmm. Maybe we can knock it away.

At this point, I get a big stick from the lawn near where I'm parked. And, thinking in advance, decide to turn the car off before trying to knock anything out from underneath it. So I went back to where the man was laying, and shoved the stick at the hanging metal piece to no avail. The man takes it from me and, after giving it a few healthy whacks, the piece falls to the ground. I take the stick from him and drag the part out from under the car. After testing to see if it's cool enough to touch, I pick it up and turn it round and round in my hands.

Man: Oh, I guess that's not an egg carton after all. What type of car is this?
Me: It's a Honda Civic.
Man: Oh, I have no idea what that piece is, but it's probably not really important if your car can run with it hanging off like that. Oh well, good luck.

So I thanked him and he walked away, leaving me with a rusted out metal car part in my hands, not knowing quite what to do. I got back in the car, chucked the piece onto the back seat, and drove away. The car handled fine-- the noise was gone, and I didn't feel any pulling or smell any smoke, so I continued on to my class. Later that week, my parents took my car into the shop for me and the guys there said I didn't need it after all, and that it was only a protective measure for if I was going to be parking the car in thick brush.

Sheesh.

All that for something that didn't really matter. Oh well, I guess all's well that ends well. The car's running ok now. It hasn't made any strange noises in at least a month, and I now have an excuse not to take that tropical safari trip in my little Civic my friends have been bugging me for. Because I mean, come on, we wouldn't want any more tropical rain forests to burn down now, would we?

Diarrhea Sucks

Just to inform all you Noodle fans-- if another one of my patients has uncontrollable explosive diarrhea again anytime soon, I'm going to quit.

On the spot.

With absolutely no feelings of remorse.

Until I get to the parking lot.

At which point I might end up turning around and telling my boss "just kidding!" and getting back to work wiping up those damn merciless butts again.

Ugh.

Random Funny

Haha!! I thought this was interesting:

Elements Waiting Patiently for Inclusion on the Periodic Table.
BY SCOTT GOLD AND KATIE MCHUGH
- - - -
Cranium

Delirium

Xylophone

Planetarium

Exxon

Effluvium

Solarium

Museum

Peon

Requiem

Premium

Deuteronomy

Bachelorette Parties Rock!

I can't wait to have one of my own!! Well... I guess I can wait, if I must. I can't believe I'd forgotten how much fun it was to just go out and get crazy with a bunch of girlfriends-- what an absolute blast. First we went to Carmine's on 90th and 1st for dinner, and then to a bar somewhere near Elena's new apartment on the lower east side. The bar wasn't packed, but with the music playing and everyone joking and dancing, we made the night into quite a party. Also, before we left for the restaurant, I had the idea of coming up with a bachelorette treasure hunt kind of game for Grace, so me, Elena and Megan came up with a bunch of tasks for the lucky bachelorette to do during the course of the evening. Grace is kind of reserved, so some of the tasks I knew would be out of the question-- like have somebody do a body shot off of her, get up on the bar to sing and dance to "Like a Virgin" and write her real phone number on the bathroom stall. But she did get some of it done, like kissing a bald guy on the head, handcuffing herself to some random guy and telling him she lost the keys, and getting a girl to call Chris and flirt with him on the phone. The last one was the best-- when the girl called him up and tried to get him to say something flirtatious or racy, he ended up hanging up the phone immediately after saying to her "look, I don't know who you are, but why don't you do me a favor and just lose my fucking number, ok?" Awww... what a good guy!

A little later in the evening, the boys showed up. They'd been having the bachelor party at the same time in another part of NYC, and for some reason decided to meet up with us. It was a little strange, but a nice end to a fun night. When they got to the bar where we'd been hanging out, we took some photographs, hung out for a little while, and then split up to go on to our separate destinations. I went home with Elena (oh, baby!), slept on her futon, and then caught a train home today.

Overall, it was a really nice time. I'm glad that Grace was such a good sport about drinking out of a giant penis all night (even though she did make us put a party hat on top of it during dinner) and sitting with us as we all sipped our drinks through penis straws... what a hoot. She's such a great girl, and the two of them are absolutely perfect for each other. I can't wait for next Saturday to have a (slightly more toned down) repeat performance of the fun times all over again! Congratulations Chris and Grace!!

Nothing-To-Wear Blues

I'm going to Grace's bachelorette party tomorrow night and I'm psyched for a chance to hang out with some of my girlfriends from high school. Since leaving Binghamton, my hypoactive social life has been astounding-- besides going to work and on the occasional trip to the grocery store, I've all but become a hermit. So this get-together will hopefully bring me out of my shell and help on the no-contact-with-anyone-except-sick-people-and-cashiers front. I'm also really looking forward to actually going out at night, too-- I haven't been to a bar since Boston with Matt. And to be honest with you, I'm feeling a little bit of withdrawal for that familiar laid back just-having-a-drink-and-playing-some-pool feeling. Not that that's exactly what's going to happen at this party-- most likely we'll be bar-hopping, and it'll probably be anything but laid back, but I'm still really excited. For the occasion, Elena and Megan have bought all kinds of silly sex-related goodies for Grace, and I'm planning on purchasing for her some sexy underwear (not to be worn out to the bars) and some Hawaiian leis and party honkers so that everyone we pass on the streets and in the bars will know that she's the special lady of the evening. It'll be utterly tacky and absolutely amazing!

That being said, I've also been trying to plan what I'll wear to this shindig. I think I'm almost set on a wedding outfit for the following weekend, but for tomorrow, I'm kind of in a hole. At first I thought about a pair of jeans and a cute little top. But then I remembered that I don't own any cute little tops. And when I remembered the jeans I have that aren't falling apart and are ok to be seen in in public, I happened to remember they're a little too tight, thus creating an interesting phenomenon at that itsy bitsy tiny little section of belly that happens to get squeezed out of the jeans and hang around the four or five inches directly above the waistband every time I try to button them. Endearing, yes, but not too attractive. Especially when paired with a cute little top that's likely to be a bit snug and/or revealing (not that I own one, mind you). Oh well... no matter what, if I wear those jeans, my belly fat will be quite apparent for all who happen to look my way, no matter the top I put on. And since I don't even have a top to wear anyway, maybe I should just skip buying a new one and not wear one altogether. I could just go in jeans and a bra. I mean, that way, people would be more likely to look up towards my breastular region rather than down towards my fatular region, right?

Ok, so maybe that's not the best idea in the world. Oh well... maybe I'll just wear a skirt.

Comment Spam

Ok, I've almost had enough of this crap. I like it when my friends read my weblog and comment to my posts. I also like it when friends of friends read my posts and comment on them. And though slightly strange, I even appreciate it when random people leave valid comments. But I don't like it when random people comment and it's just spam.

And no, I'm not talking about that amazing catchall-of-animal-dregs-cleverly-compressed-into-a-neat-little-can, I'm talking about unwanted garbage left on my blogs for the sole purpose of practice in point-and-click deleting. And what's with those comments anyway? Do people really maintain sites for hearing-aid manufacturers and pharmaceutical distribution? And more importantly, do they really think they're going to get business by randomly dropping their links on people's blogs? Rather than helpful or entertaining, it feels to me to be the equivalent of getting shat on by some weird internet bird... over and over and over.

I guess the easy thing to do would be to change my settings so anonymous people couldn't post... but then I'd lose the good anonymous ones I've been getting. And that's not something I want, either. So, how can I fix this?

Ugh-- the frustration of it all!

Ok, so if anyone knows how I can fix this... either by editing *parts* of comments without deleting the whole thing, or by making it so that random people can comment but only if they leave a name (like, they wouldn't have to be a member of blogspot or of my blog), please feel free to clue me in. Just don't leave me any suggestions mixed in with any bird-crap or meat-in-a-can links.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ok, just to let you all know how irritating and ridiculous this is, just as I posted this last entry to my weblog, I noticed four new spam messages on my last emotional levitation post! That's crazy!! If it doesn't stop soon, I think I might start to develop carpal tunnel syndrome from clicking that stupid mouse so much.

Emotional Levitation

Ok, that last post about the cardiac arrest made me too sad... so I didn't want to leave my weblog on a low-note. This is an effort at lightening things up for me.

Above you will find some amazing hotties... aka: me and a couple of friends/coworkers. These were all taken in May '05 at the SOS Shelter, Inc., a shelter for victims of domestic violence. I did some work there volunteering and teaching and stuff for part of my nursing clinicals the last two years. I loved it so much-- not only were the people I worked with amazing, but I really learned to appreciate the strength that isn't always inherent or apparent in women and children who have been hurt by someone close to them. Some of the people I met at the shelter really taught me important life lessons (that I won't go into now)... a fantastic experience indeed and I'd not trade it for anything.

Anyhow, on to the hotties. The top picture is of Carrie, one of the friends I met at the shelter. I thought this shot was really cute and exemplified a tiny bit just how sweet of a woman she is-- she's always smiling like that! The one in the middle is a self-snap of me and Jennifer, another one of my SOS friends. One great thing about Jen is her sense of humor... I didn't always feel like getting up early to go there during the semester, but as soon as I arrived, there were always tons of laughs and jokes waiting for me. Jen and Carrie made the slow days a lot easier and faster... thank God! The last photo is one I can't really explain. I have no idea what Jen and I were doing, but it looks interesting and makes me laugh every time I see it, so I posted that one, too.

Enjoy!

Flatline

As I walked out of the elevator onto my floor this morning at work, I heard the overhead announcement I'd been simultaneously dreading and hoping for since I started at the hospital-- there was a code on my unit. I walked closer, knowing that I wouldn't really be able to participate since I didn't know the meds or quite how a cardiac arrest was run in the hospital, and basically picked a spot from which to observe.

I did that for awhile, and then realized when they started running out of stuff, that I could help by grabbing new supplies from the medroom. So on my first trip, I got saline, syringes and needles with which to draw up flushes. All went well until I went to make up the first syringe... I mean, I've done it a million times by now, but I was nervous and a little frightened about the whole situation, and I guess my hands were shaking more than normal, because I stuck myself on the tip of my dominant thumb with a needle I'd just unwrapped.

Crap. So now, not only was the flush I was trying to prepare garbage, but I'd also rendered my dominant hand out of commission for the next couple of minutes that it was going to take it to stop bleeding.

Oh well... I guess I hadn't really helped that much with the code after all. More importantly for me though, I learned a lot. Not enough to participate quite yet, and certainly not enough to be able to help run one... soon though, I hope. With all the excitement that had gone on, with all the people who'd been running around, and with the upset for the patient and his poor family, I was just glad not to have been in the way. And glad too that it was a clean/unused needle I stuck myself with. Phew... at least that was a relief.

Addendum, posted @ 7:12pm, 17 August 2005: Well Susan, when I posted this entry, I purposely didn't specify whether or not the patient survived the code. I don't know if I was trying to keep people guessing or just provide a little mild respect for the patient and family, or what. Who knows? I guess whatever it was wasn't effective though, and at this point it doesn't really matter much. So if you must know, the answer is no, he didn't make it.

Money Shots

Ok, so back to money shots... this seems to be a popular question since my last post. Just to clarify, it's been a long standing phenomenon that I've had a fairly strong aversion to seeing that particular moment in porn movies. Not that I watch porn all the time, because I don't. I mean, come on, I'm not a perv. Not that that there's anything wrong with watching porn or that if you do, you're pervy... I just don't, really. Mostly because I almost vomit every time I see it. But whatever, let's just get back to the story.

So anyway, I don't know if there was one particular moment in my life that traumatized me enough to cause this somewhat permanent cinematically induced physiological response. But I do know of a couple specific times during which I was watching pornographic videos and almost ralphed. Like, for instance, the time I went with my friend Tera to this showing of an Annie Sprinkles film... it started out innocently enough with a documentary about a woman having a surgically created penis crafted out of an inside-out piece of her own colon, but then all of a sudden, it got racy and was somehow time for the money shot, and I just about choked on my own chunky regurgitation before I was able to realize what was happening and turn away. That was, I think, the strongest response I ever had to one of those scenes.

The other most memorable time I can recall where I had a pretty strong reaction to porn was when I was watching it with Craig, Robin and Brian. It was a *really* awful video, created what seemed like sometime circa 1972. But anyway, I knew I was going to react that way when the final scene from each of the little vignettes was going to come on, so I asked my friends to tell me when it was all over. I then turned away, each time hoping to miss those terrible moments, and each time being assured that it had passed, only to find out each time that it was, in reality, just about to occur. The first time, I kind of laughed and half-heaved. The second time, though slightly pissed off, I didn't really think anything of it besides contemplating my own digestive contents. But the twelfth time, I probably screamed.

What's that old adage again? "Fool me once, shame on you... fool me twice, shame on me..." So where does "fool me 12 times" come in? Oh yeah, I think it goes like this: "Fool me 12 times, because I'm a big turd and I'll just take it."

Vomit and Feces

Two of my favorites, I must say. Well, maybe not my favorites, but they are liquids (solids?) I deal with on an almost daily basis. Not too terrible, actually. I think watching someone get suctioned is worse, and maybe almost as bad as watching a money-shot on some cheap porn movie. Ok, so that last one isn't necessarily something that's likely to happen at work, but it is something that causes me to develop a narsty case of the dry-heaves.

What, too much information? Shudder.

But anyhow, in case anyone was wondering, I think it's appropriate for me to comment right this very second that going to work five days a week is highly overrated. And even though 12.5 hours seems like a lot for one day, three workdays a week is waaaaaaaay better than a zillion dumb 8-hour shifts a week. So poo on you to all of you suckers who have to go to work Monday through Friday week in and week out. You suck and I rock. Ha!

Now, it's true that I work some weekend days every month, and it's true that I have a tendency to dribble other people's urine on my sneakers, but it's also true that I'm tired for fewer days a week now, I can get more done with my patients, and the honest truth is that I couldn't have constructed a more rational workweek setup if I'd been God herself playing with Tinker Toys (Ok, so that last part about God and Tinker Toys made much better sense in my head than it did in writing, because what do God and Tinker Toys have to do with my work schedule? Whatever-- shut up, I'm tired. I just came off a 12.5 hour shift).

So, to conclude, I know this post wasn't groundbreaking or hilarious. It was just an update, for any Noodle fans who might have been concerned. Perhaps soon I'll post a good one-- about the last time my car broke down... kind of rivals the lost-in-Brooklyn one for ridiculous, though it's much less involved. If you're lucky, I'll post it tomorrow. If not, you'll just have to keep waiting.

Mwahahaha... I'm so evil.

Dichotomy Revisited

I love the way things work out sometimes... like right now, how I decide that I want to be slightly healthier. So, in my quest for a more sustainable personal fitness level, I go out and purchase a pedometer, a new pair of running shoes, and a high quality bathroom scale. Granted the kicks and the pedometer are also serving the dual purpose of supporting my feet as I pound the floors running up and down the halls in the hospital and in keeping track of just how much pounding I actually do during a shift. But, the scale was bought with the main idea that I'd like to know how much I weigh accurately and consistently as I journey along towards becoming a healthier me.

That being said, I find it amazing that immediately after making the above purchases tonight, I stopped at the grocery store and purchased soy ice cream sandwiches, egg-free/dairy-free frozen dinner rolls and a big bag of Jelly Bellies, without even the blink of an eye.

It wasn't even until I'd gotten back into my car to drive home that I realized what I'd just done. And what was it that I had just done, you might ask? In my opinion, I had just played out a scene that most Americans are guilty of on a daily basis-- eating fat but thinking skinny.

I mean, come on, as much as I'd *like* to be healthier and more in shape, and as much as I *think* about building up physical fitness, I also think about the kinds of fats and carbohydrates that would taste the best as I sit on my rotund rump, kicking back with The Goonies.

But simply thinking and liking just don't cut it. So now, as I sit with all of my purchases spread out around me, I wonder what my next step will be-- bump up the activity level and become the healthier me I want to be, or chow down and become the digestively-satisfied me my tastebuds want me to be.

Sigh. Why can't life's decisions ever be easy?

Yanks Fans Cheer, Family Appalled

I always knew my family was pretty progressive and daring growing up. I mean, I never had a curfew, I was allowed to explore all avenues of creativity for hobbies and potential career interests, and I've been allowed to have co-ed sleepovers for as long as I can remember. But still having this kind of freedom, and realizing that any of the children in my family had an equal chance at experiencing fun and exciting things, I still didn't consider a combination of major league sports and stunt acrobatics to be something one of us would try.

Until today.

I woke up this morning to a frantic answering machine message from Scott's mother saying something about him having an accident and the baseball stadium and the hospital. I was worried about his safety, but figured things would be mostly OK since she said he wasn't physically injured. It wasn't until I got to work and heard some of the girls in my orientation class talking about this, however, that I pieced two and two together. And when that happened, God help me, I just about curled up into a ball and croaked.

When my mind finally cleared from the shock of it, and the dismay started to set in, three thoughts popped into my mind simultaneously:

1. How could he not only think up something that stupid, but then go ahead and actually do it?

2. How embarrassing is it to be one of his family members??

3. How amazing is it that we're only related by marriage?

As my thoughts stopped swirling and my embarrassed blush finally subsided, I once again took the stance of the soberly behaving realistic once-youngest-but-now-somewhere-in-the-middle child and repeated to myself three times "he's only your STEPbrother, he's only your STEPbrother, he's only your STEPbrother." Perhaps if I click my heels a couple of times, it'll all just go away.

Lost Soul in Brooklyn

Not to frighten anyone away, but might it ever have occurred to you Noodle fans that my life isn't always as boring as I seem to document it to be? Well, occasionally I do seem to encounter some excitement... or, a change from the daily grind, at least. The following is a true story from a poorly executed return trip home to Westchester from JFK International Airport (which is nowhere near Brooklyn, I might add).

I'm terrible with directions. I know it. My friends know it. And god help my family, for they all know it, too. That's why, when I leave to go somewhere from home, my parents try to make sure I've got a good set of driving directions written out and ready before I set off. So when I was leaving my house to take Matt to the airport on June 27th, and my hands were carrying the directions both to and from the airport, noone was too worried. Unfortunately, I am a master at botching up even the simplest of tasks.

Getting to the airport was practically a snap, except for one small part where I went to the wrong terminal's parking, but that really wasn't my fault because there was construction and the sign was infinitely misleading. But anyway, we got to the correct terminal a few minutes later, said a rather extended tear-filled goodbye, and then I left the terminal to go find my car in the massive parking structure (parking spot 204). But clearly I was still crying, and clearly I had splashed tears onto my hand-written driving directions home, so clearly the ink must have smudged... for why else would I have gotten on the Belt Parkway going in the wrong direction? I also must have had some form of time-released-semi-permanent eye damage, for why on earth would I have continued on the Belt in the wrong direction for an extra 20 or so miles, passing Staten Island and the Verizano Bridge, and driving right into the heart of Brooklyn via the BQE?

When I finally realized what I had done, I understood that I needed to get off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and find an entrance ramp to go in the other direction. Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. Third Avenue in Brooklyn was perhaps the worst place for me to have attempted that seemingly simple move, as I ultimately would discover, while desperately searching for another on-ramp to the BQE. Ugh-- what a disaster.

Now, just to note-- I don't usually get scared when I'm lost. I've been in that predicament enough times to know that eventually things will work out and I'll find my way back to somewhere I'm familiar with. But just because I don't get scared, that doesn't mean that I don't get frustrated. And driving around Third Avenue for three hours, I think, warrants a little bit of irritation.

Mind you, it didn't start as a three-hour adventure. And I didn't really get upset until after trying to get back on the damn highway several times by backtracking with a ton of really difficult U-turns, going around lots and lots of blocks because of all the one-way streets. My emotions didn't even really escalate significantly until I realized with horror that I'd just passed the exact same gentleman's club for the third time. That's when the tears of frustration actually started a tiny bit, which only pissed me off even more. Grrr.

At that point I was only about an hour and a half into my trip, so while incredible frustrated, I wasn't quite worried yet. Logically then, I called home to get some assistance, but that unfortunately proved unsuccessful. My next move was to stop at a gas station where apparently nobody spoke English... so I drove away and tried to get back on the road myself, only getting more lost. After another half hour or so, I realized that if I didn't stop to get gas soon, I'd run out of fuel before I ran out of Brooklyn, so I stopped once more. This time, while filling up, I also was able to get directions home. By that time though, I'd really started crying (something I don't often do while lost) and was really beginning to feel desperate. So desperate actually, that I had considered three options involving potential solutions to my predicament:

1. I was never going to find my way out of Brooklyn so I might as well start looking for an apartment to move into in the neighborhood.

2. I could drive straight into Manhattan and then call home again to get directions from a place my family knew more about driving around in.

3. I could slash my own tires and call roadside service to tow me home to safety.

I was actually about to pursue options 2 or 3 more seriously when the guy at the gas station saw my quivering chin and teary eyes and realized just how upset I was. Here is the conversation that ensued:

Me: Hi-- can you help me? I'm lost and I need directions.
Attendant: You're lost? Where do you need to go?
Me: The Throgg's Neck, or the Whitestone Bridges.
Attendant: Why? You want to go to Long Island?
Me: No, I want to get to Westchester.
A: Why do you want to get to the Bronx again then?
M: I don't, I just want to go home to Westchester.
A: So you need directions?
M: Yes, please.
A: OK, you got a dollar?
M: Are you kidding?
A: No-- we're in Brooklyn, honey.
M: Uh... ok. (I started to pull out money)
A: Wait, where did you say you were going? Upstate?
M: Yeah, to Westchester (the only time I've EVER willingly called Westchester "upstate").
A: Ok, that'll be two bucks then.
M: (shock!)
A: No, no-- just kidding. Ok, you got a pencil and paper?

So at that point, he gave me excellent directions, made me write them down and then read them back to him just to be sure, and I was on my way. An hour or so later, I made it home. Phew! It was by far the most stressful and irritating three-hour long driving experience I've ever had (even more stressful and irritating than the time my homemade duct-tape-and-paint-tarp sunroof cover blew off my car while driving 90mph on the Massachusetts Turnpike, even more stressful and irritating than the time I turned a complete 360* circle coming out of a parking lot into oncoming traffic straight towards a pedestrian in the snow, even more stressful and irritating than when I dropped my oil pan while driving home on Route 17 and my engine seized and my car died, and even more irritating, though slightly less funny, than my "egg carton" adventure, which you will also be able to read about shortly). But it also set me up to realize something important-- if you ever need help in Brooklyn, just show up at a gas station crying and offer the attendant all the money he wants to help you out. Or better yet, don't ever drive into Brooklyn. Trust me, it'll be worth it.

I am the Blog Queen

Ok, so maybe only according to Julie, but that's good enough for me! Apparently, she likes "hearing about the adventures [misadventures?] of emily," which is more than what I'd call my daily life activities. But hey, if she likes reading them, then I'm happy for her. ;)

In general though, I don't consider my life to be any more or less exciting than anyone else's. I just like to document it. Because I figure that if I have to suffer through it, then at least everyone else should have to as well. Heh.

Where Does Your Pancreas Live?

So I think I owed all Noodle fans an update on classroom orientation days 3, 4 and 5. Well, mostly they were uneventful and decidedly less dry, which is good. We've begun to do more nurse-oriented learning, so now we've gone over the following topics as per institutional policy: restraints, documentation, organ donation, ethics, quality control, infection control, pain management, MRI, pressure ulcers, patient education and discharge planning, body mechanics, line therapy (as in IV therapy and right atrial catheters), airway adjuncts, code procedures and drugs, and medication safety.

Phew! It was all very interesting, but I did get scared when we started talking about how a code is run and I realized that pretty soon it might be me responsible for running a cardiac arrest event on my unit. I don't really get it, but my training as an EMT didn't really help quell my fears... running a code freaks me out. Oh well, I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

Another thing we discussed that I found interesting enough to take notes on was part of the discussion on patient education. The lecturer pointed out that the average American has only about a 5th or 6th grade reading level. As a reference, the Daily News is about an 8th grade level, the New York Times is about an 11th grade level, and to grasp most of the concepts in a PDR (Physician's Desk Reference or Drug Guide), one must be able to comprehend at the college level. Keeping this in mind, the main idea is that we need to make it easy for our patients to understand what we're talking about when we tell them about their diseases or educate them on how to care for themselves once they're discharged.

Makes sense, right? Right. So this includes being sensitive with illiterate (or underliterate) patients, who will make up approximately 27% of all the people I will treat, and teaching those with barriers to learning (like language barriers, plus learning disabilities, hearing or vision impairments, etc.). It seems funny then that since so many people will have trouble understanding medical jargon or complicated illustrations that so many of the patient handouts have a typeface that you need a microscope to read, or are made of shiny paper that has a glare to someone older or someone with glasses. And as the lecturer pointed out, the general population just doesn't know how the human body is wired. So when you're trying to teach about diabetes and want to illustrate/describe the role of the pancreas in the disease, it's important to give references showing where in the body the pancreas is situated. Images of independent or floating body parts don't help, so a picture of the full body with the appropriate organ highlighted is the only real effective method to accomplish this. And to kind of test this idea, we could try it out on normal people-- like, go to a store with pictures of random organs and see if anyone knows what they are. An even simpler idea, as the lecturer pointed out, would be to "go to Shop Rite, turn around to the person in line behind you, and ask them, 'Excuse me, but could you help me out? I want to know-- where does your pancreas live?'"


(floating pancreas = ineffective) VS (whole body + pancreas = effective)

I thought it was actually a really neat idea... until I remembered the kinds of people who shop at the grocery store with me. Honestly, they can be a little aggressive at times. So when I went there tonight, I actually considered attempting that test for about one second. But I wizened up when I looked around and saw that all the woman behind me was buying were huge sections of bloody meat and a couple of whole pineapples, none of which I suspected would feel very good upon contact with any of my body parts. Needless to say, I passed on the opportunity. Perhaps at some point in the future I will conduct that test... but maybe at a fruit stand or something, where the food sold is a lot lighter and nowhere near as sharp.

Post In Progress

I know how much you all have been drooling to find out about the rest of my week in classroom orientation, but I've been too tired or busy to get to finishing up a post. But I promise I'll do it this weekend (hopefully by Friday afternoon). So, while I encourage you all to NOT hold your breath, I would ask you to please consider checking back here soon for an update.

You won't be disappointed!

Thanks and sorry for any inconvenience,
The Management

Megahalitosis

One entry found for halitosis:
Main Entry: hal·i·to·sis
Pronunciation: "ha-la-'tO-sis"
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin, from Latin halitus (breath), from halare (to breathe) -- a condition of having fetid breath

Yes, well. Ahem. I guess that's what a bunch of cups of bathwater coffee will get you while you're sitting listlessly through classroom orientation day #2. Well, bad breath and a giant case of the jitters. I drank it yesterday, too, but I didn't notice the bad breath (probably because I kept refilling my cup with more coffee) or the jitters as much until I tried falling asleep around 3 o'clock in the morning.

In case you were wondering, here's what I drank yesterday: three giant cups of coffee (which is *very* out of the ordinary for me-- I hardly ever drink any at all), each with four sugar packets. Today, since I was trying to be more aware of my coffee/sugar consumption (and keep a handle on the jitters, mind you) I only had two giant cups of coffee-- one with three sugar packets, and the other with just two. So I'm seeing progress. If there's coffee at all tomorrow, the plan is to only consume one giant cup with two sugar packets, and that will be that. And if they don't have any for us, I'll jitter my way miserably through classroom orientation day #3, trying desperately to pay attention, and wondering all the while about the root cause of my non-coffee induced megahalitosis. Just in case you were wondering, that is. Heh.

So anyhow, if anyone was wondering about classroom orientation day #2, besides my coffee consumption that is, it mostly went like this:
-someone came in to talk about something
-then someone else came in to talk about something else
-then someone came in to talk for a long time about handwashing
-then it was time for lunch
-then someone else came in to talk about benefits
-then someone came in to talk about something else
-then I went home

See how exciting that was? You probably would have enjoyed it more if I'd written on and on again about coffee.

A bunch of my friends have been asking me about how work is going. I don't know, I want to tell them, but I just don't seem to have the energy to go into it over and over again. So instead, I've just been directing them to here so they can all read about it en masse. It's kind of funny... limiting interpersonal communication like that. Pretty soon I won't really be chatting with anyone real-time. I'll talk with friends solely through this blog and their posted comments, with my parents by text messages perhaps for a little personal attention, Matt might be blessed with an email or two, and Ezben (if he's *really* lucky) might receive some snail mail once in a blue moon. I wonder how I'll communicate with my patients once I start giving bedside care. Smoke signals, maybe?

And just one last thing before I sign off for the night-- I wanted to entice you into coming back to read about how classroom orientation day #3 goes, but I have no idea what we're going to be doing, so I can't give you a preview. I do know that it'll take place in a different building on campus, and that it has something to do with staff development, and that I have to be there by 0800, but other than that, it's a big surprise. I wonder if they don't tell us more than one day in advance for a reason... like, by keeping us guessing, we'll feel enough curiosity and intrigue to keep coming back. I mean, I guess we have no other choice... because where else could we get such high quality bathwater coffee?

Don't Feel Left Out, Susan!

Susan was wondering where the picture of her was on my blog, though I think she might have been joking. Oh well... here you are, friend! These are actually pretty cute... from commencement this past May. Don't you think those black gowns make me, Susan and Lynn look amazing? I think I might start wearing mine out... like when I go to bars and weddings and stuff. Ahem.

So anyhow, brought to you by popular demand. Enjoy!

Survival of the Boredest

Ok, so I survived my first day of work... and I have *almost* come to terms with the idea that I'm an actual member of the workforce. Today wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, and I'm actually mildly excited about tomorrow. Or, well, does not-dreading count as mildly-excited?

Eh, whatever. So today was day 1 of classroom orientation. We learned about such riveting topics as fire safety (RACE, or Rescue anyone in danger, Activate the alarm system, Confine the fire by closing doors, and Extinguish if the flames are manageable), the benefits of good communication (verbal AND nonberbal... jeez-- how demanding), our security badges (woohoo-- almost as attractive as a DMV photograph), and what to do if someone's prostate implants fall out (you know, those radioactive metal pieces embedded into one's prostate to help in the treatment of cancer). We actually passed around a packet of these implant pellets. I wonder if they were ever inside of someone's prostate...

I think tomorrow, classroom orientation day #2, will be just as invigorating, with one of the key topics being our benefits package. That's actually something I'm interested in finding out about. I think it'll be the first time in my life that I'll be able to afford to go to the doctor (free!) or dentist (subsidized!) and will finally be able to get my eyes rechecked by someone other than Walmart.

So we'll see... and of course, I'll keep my adoring public updated!

PS- Just to note, my parents hated the post I did last night with their photographs. I think my mother said something to the effect of: "But why did you have to choose *those* pictures? Dad looks drunk... and naked, and I look like a whack-job!" Gosh, I love my parents. :)

PPS- I'm eating microwave popcorn right now and a kernal fell onto the floor. Since it's my floor, the tiny piece of fluffy goodness had just fallen, and is not a particularly moist food (come on, you know the rules about eating food off the floor), I quickly took the opportunity to gobble it back up... only realizing milliseconds too late that I'd also gobbled up what now appears to me to be a long, black cat hair. Ew. Want to know something even better than that? We don't even have a cat. Heh. I'm so gross.