Wednesday, March 28, 2007


Kevin Federline. Poop. Et al.

I would like to state for the record that Kevin Federline's handlers have, to this moment, ignored last week's retort to their first ignoring. Bastards. Incidentally, while telling my older sister the saga, she stopped me and said, "So wait. I'm still caught up on the fact that A) you knew he had a search engine, B) you went to it and actually searched on it with hopes of a prize and C) pester their webmasters about grammar?!" Clearly, she doesn't feel my pain. And she's totally missing the point. Clearly. Pashaw.

And with absolutely no attempt at even the slightest of segues:

I got to watch a colonoscopy (pooper on up) yesterday -- and then a subsequent endoscopy (pie hole on down) -- don't worry, the classic joke says, they changes the tubes in between procedures. I've been courting a pretty involved love affair with fiber for nearly a year now. Yeah, yeah, fiber = poo, but it's so important to understand why that's... important, man.

Most of the most Americans do not get anywhere near their daily recommended fiber intakes -- roughly (ha! roughly) 25-35g a day. Fiber's main function in the body is to huddle around fat globules and carry it out of the body -- and slick up the pipes in the process. Otherwise, fat roams free and makes a beeline, generally, for your ass. That's why it's ok to have a higher fat food if the fiber is high, too. Not that too many exist.

When you're getting your daily fiber (I won't split hairs here about soluble and insoluble fiber, both good, but you all know how to work google.), you are reducing your cholesterol, promoting your heart's health, dodging colon cancer (cause, I'm not going to lie and tell you anything can stick around long enough in the pipes to even think about cancer when you're getting your daily fiber), and for the ladies, with your daily fiber, it can prevent up to about 230 calories from being absorbed and later signing a lease in your ass. That's a candy bar. Seriously. A good candy bar. I read a recent study that said that for athletes who are familiar with the pre-competition "carb-loading" might benefit more from "fiber-loading" instead.

There's a really great product out now -- and it's the most evolved product of a long line of past products (Metamucil, etc)-- called FiberSure. It's in the vitamin section of the store in a big blue bottle. Each teaspoon is 5g of fiber and it dissolves completely and, more importantly, tastelessly into anything -- ANYTHING. I put it in spaghetti sauce, yogurt, coffee, anything. Yeah, we're pretty regular in this house.

So much is being said these days about whole wheat, whole grain products. Read the label to be sure. But on the upside, there are so many better tasting products that are delivering more fiber per serving -- which really makes getting all your fiber so much easier. Whole wheat pasta, for example, sucks. But, Barilla Plus (in the yellow box) is a whole wheat pasta that doesn't taste anything like whole wheat, but still has all the goodness in it. And potato bread -- who doesn't like potato bread? Try the whole wheat version -- 4g per slice -- with all that potato bread goodness.

In any case -- back to the colonoscopy. Dude was having some issues with the pooper (I won't get gross about the details). As we're all taking this vicarious trip through his colon, you can see what years of bad eating does to a pooper, and in turn, a body. Uclers, diverticula and general irritations. I leaned over to the nurse and said, "What causes all of this, really?" and she whispered back, "What prevents it is easy. Fiber, fiber, fiber." I leaned back into the corner (because that's where all health care students (medical, nursing, etc.) all end up at some point -- smashed into a corner so they can watch, but surely to not be in the way.) with a big grin.

I get a lot of flack (I was going to say "crap", but that seemed, somehow, inappropriate here) from my close-bys about how I'm always, ahem, tooting the fiber horn. Well, here it is. It's a good horn to toot. Keeps weight off, promotes health of so many body systems and hell, you end up so regular you can set your watch by it.

The moral here is eat more fiber. Oh, and boycott Kevin Federline.

Monday, March 26, 2007


What really happens when the Grey's Anatomy Drs are making out.

I have just woken from the "recover sleep" of my first 12 hour shift on the ICU. The shift was great and in 12 hours I learned so much, remembered that I remembered so much and changed more bedpans on two patients in 2 hours than I had the entirety of my nursing education thus far.

It was new knowledge, old knowledge and poo. As it should be. Ahh, all is right with the world.

What else happened? It was gooey, to be sure. I'll offer some scenarios, let's say, and you can attempt to assemble the gooiest 12 hours possible, kay?

1. I helped to hold down, by physically putting myself nearly on top of him, a combative patient who they were attempting to start a new line on because he had ripped out (dahhhhhh!!! Poop is cool, but ripping out one's own lines gives me the willies) all of his previous IVs. The man was detoxing from quite.the.binge and was hallucinating some awesomely scary things in the room. I wonder if "nursing student pinning me down" was one. 'Cept that totally happened.

2. The non-English-speaking patient who would sweetly ask for the bedpan by pointing at his crotch and saying "Poo-poo." Once on it, he would clasp his hands in front of himself with a big smile of satisfaction.

3. I removed the arterial line on a patient's wrist and had to apply the requisite 5 minutes of pressure on it (it truly, truly squirts otherwise.). We sat together and watched trick-billards on tv while we waited. As I was bandaging him up, I asked him when he was buying me dinner. Obviously he had to buy me dinner since we had just held hands for 5 minutes and don't tell me it didn't mean anything to him. He burst out laughing and said he'd be happy to tell his buddies that he had held hands with and then had dinner with Gloria Estefan, because, of course, I look very much like Gloria Estefan. (On the level, do I?!)

4. A patient had recently had a liver surgery. The incision, called a mercedes incision (you might creatively figure out why), went across his entire torso and was closed with staples. He asked me how it looked and I said, "Well, the good news is that this ensures your pirate costume for Halloween will be awesome." He quickly retorted, "Oh good. I just need to find my eyepatch and convince the parrot." He, incidentally, was about to be transfered to a step-down unit. I assured him that at least here, in the ICU, the jokes were free. They weren't free in the step-down.

5. Why you need to, even at your age, put your advance directive/DNR wishes in writing ASAP (In Virginia, you don't need to have it legally notarized, only witnessed. If you know how you'd like to be handled if you can't handle yourself, get one, fill it out and sign it. Make sure your loved ones have copies.) An elderly stroke patient who was long ago brain dead sits in the ICU. He is on a ventilator, fed by tube feeding and is systematically shutting down so much so that he is on continuous bedside dialysis. As we turned him and changed his sheets, he is so dead that his bright yellow skin is falling off. It is disgusting and terribly sad. The man is rotting in his hospital bed. His sweetly smiling and doting wife sits close by, keeping the hope ever alive, asking when he'll be on the kidney transplant list and won't it be grand when she can get him home.

6. A patient who had attempted suicide and failed, somehow managed to get his suicide note into his chart. Which I promptly read. It was sad, it was desperate. It was written on a post-it. Is it tacky to write your suicide note on a post-it? As I said to the nurse, "A suicide note on a post-it says, 'Goodbye cruel world! We need milk.' Is that how you want your last words on earth?" At least it stuck to the chart.

7. Another bed-panned patient would ask for it, get one and when we came back ten minutes later he'd sigh heavily and say, "Ahh. False alarm. Sorry girls." Dude, it's totally cool.

8. Jack Bauer came in and tortured one of us until we gave up the location of the cafeteria.

9. All of the above.

10. All of the above except, sadly, for 8. Which would have been awesome.

Don't you all want to be nurses?! You pay in bedpans for the awesome stuff. Just wait until I start working nights.

Thursday, March 22, 2007


Now I know how Britney felt.

I've been bamboozled by Kevin Federline!

You'll please remember that two days ago I alerted the powers-that-be at Kevin Federline's new search engine about a simple, yet glaring typo on the front page. It was a sweet email. Kind in its way of gently reminding them of what Mrs. <insert elementary school teacher name here> taught them so diligently all those years ago. Kind, like the reassuring hand of a mother guiding her young to righteousness and prosperity.

And those fuckers bamboozled me. They made the change alright -- but they failed to A) email me in response, hell, any response, to my sharp, sharp eye. or B) award me a prize. Either would have been acceptable, though B would have been preferable. I mean seriously. Who doesn't like prizes?!

Based on my general impressions of the American population's grasp of basic English grammar, I can't imagine that they would have been beset with all that many emails, similar to my own, about their all-too-common typo. So I felt it only fitting that they hear from me one final time. And no, I have no shame when it comes to outright asking for verbal appreciation and/or (preferably) prizes.

Dear Sirs:

I am delighted that you have made the appropriate corrections to Mr. Federline's website. However, I feel that your lack of acknowledgment of my grammatical prowess a little offensive. Does this not in the least warrant even a "thank you" email? Would you have preferred that I remained unknown to you and left such a garish error on Mr. Federline's site such that others might regard him as less intelligent?

Instead of making funny jokes about Mr. Federline (who, let's face it, has been a fairly easy target these days) amongst ourselves, on our blogs, on MySpace, myself and some pals, graduates of accredited four year institutions of higher learning, decided to help a brutha out and bring your kind attention to the typo.

Perhaps I could still beseech you for a small prize of some sort? Com'on, you must have loads sitting around your workspace. Some small recognition in the form of a thank you email or some other such Kevin Federline paraphernalia.

Seriously. My feelings were hurt.
All the best and with English grammar love,
Cathy Laws

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


Arr, I be your nurse.

The mailman just came. And yes, it's been a slow day for me, hence 3 posts.

Back to the mailman. He brought me my recent online purchase. Isn't it awesome?

On that same note, I asked my mother if she could sew me neat scrubs for work out of fun fabrics (instead of the current choices which are en mass: A) cartoon characters. I refuse to wear cartoon characters unless I work with children. Which I also refuse to do. They squirm, they have parents and you have to calculate everything that goes near them and I hate math. B) old lady floral prints. I am not an old lady. I like old ladies. I like old men more, they complain less. And the more I look less like an old lady before my actual old lady time is great. Besides, just because I can't wear all my oldjob Ann Taylor gear anymore doesn't mean I have to wear the Chico genre scrubs now.). My first suggestion was pirate scrubs -- jolly rogers all over it or some such. However, it was pointed out to me that while they would be the awesomest, it might unnerve a patient if their nurse was wearing skulls and crossbones all over her top. Point taken. I might need to tone it down a little bit.

But no one can stop me from wearing this underneath. Ha!

(I will attempt to refrain from posting further regarding the goings on of the rest of my day. Attempt to.)


I still haven't found what I'm looking for.

If you're like me, you were very much looking forward to the very public and very cruel demise of Kevin Federline -- and were given just the opposite. KFed has managed to pull through this looking, by comparison, mind you, COMPARISON, like the mature, head-of-haired, business savvy adult.

I have just learned that he has, in his genius, launched a search engine. (It could have been worse, really. He could have launched a porn site or something equally as heinous.) The best part is that if you're searching something at some specific and mysterious time, you stand a good chance at winning some magical KFed prize. I've been searching for the last 30 minutes, nonstop.

But don't be fooled by his flashy and mesmerizing search engine. There is a typo on the front page. Written in that thug, gangstah font trying to look all hard is a typo. I love it. Shame, too, because it was just SOOO classy to begin with.

I, red pen always in hand, wrote their webmaster a quick email:

Hey friends

You have a typo. "Its that simple" on your front page should read "it's that simple". Apostrophe "s".

Do I win a prize for being grammatically astute and saving KFed's good name from academic shame?! Hope so!

Cathy Laws

I'll spend the rest of the afternoon with my fingers crossed.


Sock it to me.

I'm good at a lot of things. One of which appears to be recovering gracefully (I use the word loosely. If "gracefully" means that I've just become accustomed to laughing at myself, then yes, it's fitting here.) from the daily onslaughts of embarrassing situations that I find myself in.

This morning as I prepared to exit the house, I appreciated the fine, fine weather that appeared to be the pleasant harbinger of the spring to come. I put away the heavy coat in hand and instead reached for the airy windbreaker (proudly emblazoned with the Betrothed's employer from last summer's company trip to Canada. 300 employees beset this poor little town with matching windbreakers -- but hey, it's a quality jacket nonetheless.).

I drove to school (I know, and here I told you all I was done on campus. For good. And then they make me go back for a 30 minute refresher on the hospital computer system. ). I parked. I walked the normal distance from a college parking lot to the college classroom. I stopped and talked to friends. I made my way to class. Sat there. Then left. I went to the nursing office to pick up some forms.

And it was then that I noticed someone was tugging on the back of my jacket. I turned around to see one of my fellow students pulling something off the velcro air-flap on the back of my jacket. Ahh, clearly some fuzz that accumulates mystically on velcro things. Yeah. No. In a flutter of giggles, the student hands me one of the Betrothed's brown socks. Which had been stuck on the back of my jacket. All day. All over campus. A sock. His sock. Inexplicably living on the back of my jacket in the coat closet for, presumably, months -- and making its big debut on my back all the way across campus today.

That dastardly jacket is seen here -- with all of its clones all around. It's still a quality jacket. Awesome. Glad his underwear isn't as like minded. I may not have been able to laugh that off as well. It's clear that his laundry is out to get me.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007


Hellooooooo nurse

This last (non-Spring Break) Thursday marked our final day on campus for our nursing program. Please, a moment of silence for classroom studies. ~~~. Thank you.

As part of wrapping it all up, we had a "skills lab" in which we moved from station to station refreshing our ever packed and bulging memories with all of the techniques we had learned over the last two years. Maybe it's the impending spring, maybe it's my complete lack of tolerance and patience built and pent up from each semester's brutal assault by my fellow very under-undergrads on my sensibilities . I was feeling punchy. (But really, when am I NOT feeling punchy?) Lab-Partner and I spent the time between stations goofing off. Why not? And what's worse, she had a camera. So we documented it.

It was mostly me being the horse's ass for the benefit of the camera. Sadly, I'd do it whether I was playing to the camera or not. It's all just part of my charm, really.

I firmly believe, in all honesty, that humor can heal just as fast as anything that comes in pill form.

This is our "Sim-man". He's entirely electronic and can, you guessed it, simulate, via computer command, medical conditions that we, as students, can react to. His blood pressure changes, he vomits (at least he sounds like he does -- and then, if you do the right thing, he says, "Thank you, I feel much better now!" Someone raised HIM right.), he talks and he's a terrible flirt. He and I have spent the last two years exchanging charged glances. It was about time I made my move on him. If loving him is wrong, then hell, I don't want to be right. And lord help me if the Lady of the Lab saw me doing this.

I understand that in order to get in with the Sim-Dad, I have to be in with the Sim-Kid. So Lab-Partner and I made a big attempt to make the Sim-Kid feel a part of our new blossoming family. Besides, I think Sim-Kid walked in on his Sim-Dad and I. Whoops.

Unfettered access to a plethora of latex gloves begs each and everyday for someone to blow it up and make it flick off someone else. I was merely answering that noble call.

Ahh, a dressing change of a fake-you-out abdominal gash complete with staples. While changing the bandages the instructor, in black, asked me, "Now what kind of dressing do you want to put on that now?" I waited a second, put on my most pensive face and said, "Probably thousand island." I know, I'm hilARIOUS.

Here's where I prove to you all that nursing school has honed more than my ability to make a funny joke out of someone else's medically and painfully obvious misfortune. Look at my concern! My caring! My body language says, "Yes, I'm your nurse. And yes, I care. Here. Have some oxygen." {Off to the left, in green. It's one of our class's "murses".}

The face says: "Ohhh, whoooopps." The reality was me making a swishing and sputtering noise to satisfy the instructor that I understood and observed the action in the absence of actual swish and sputter.

"Yeah, it goes in your nose. Yup. All the way to your stomach. Gross, I know. So hold still. I'll be aspirating your stomach contents through this hose in JUST a second. It'll be awesome. And don't mind that I'm doing this without gloves. They only had small-sized ones at this station -- which, on top of NOT fitting me, are cheap and make my hands smell like a gym sock."

Would any of this be complete without some raw, unadulterated money-shot pictures?

TECHNICALLY, this is me inserting a urinary catheter into the fake-man-is. {DO notice the fake-woman-gina just behind it. Male blog readers may suddenly wonder how A) they can go to nursing school with such a male/female ratio and B) how they can get the fake-woman-gina -- to practice. You're gross.} This is how the pros do it. I swear. Sadly, the fake pelvis' do so little for the general feeling of awkwardness when you're actually inserting these. Though I did have a woman in the ER once who, no lie, read a magazine, totally straight faced and spread eagle while I "cathed" her. And no, I haven't overlooked the fact that many of my friends call me "Cath" -- so "cathing" someone seems so much more of a double-deal for the patient -- a tube in the pee-pee and a really bad joke, simultaneously. What a deal.

So long as a camera is involved, I may as well make a funny face and grab-on.

Lab-Partner gets it on with fake-woman-gina.

And finally, Lab-Partner tries her hand at her best nurse-poker face. It's the face that says, "I can see what YOU can't see and really, it looks, uh, good. You're going to, uh, make it."

A word on the importance of hospital humor and humor in general from my favorite author, John Steinbeck (yes, I read Grapes of Wrath and yes, I liked it. I liked Of Mice and Men, too. Yes, someone likes Steinbeck. It's me.). He says, "A sad soul will kill you quicker, far quicker, than any germ." 'Tis true. Tomorrow I start my last 7-week session of nursing school. I will be working full time in an ICU, 40 hours a week. Though tomorrow is badges, tours and parking passes, wish me luck.

Be well, dear friends, be well!

Monday, March 12, 2007


The Hamburgler makes me Grimace.

I spent the weekend flowering my upcoming nuptials with my Betrothed in the city of our would-be union and deciding what to feed our rowdy band of wedding revelers. It was a success all around and we are sure to have a sweet-smelling, well fed day complete with a groom's cake -- unheard of north of the Mason-Dixon (heathens).

Sunday I arrived home to pay some bills and make sure I was good and ready to head into my spring break. While checking the ol' credit card statement online I happened to notice that someone had mysteriously spent about $1300 at Macy's and $300 at 7-11 on my behalf. Also called, fraudulently. Only thing was that my credit card was sleeping soundly in my wallet the whole time. Apparently, according to the good and overworked people of the fraud department of my credit card, the information off of the magnetic strip of my card had been lifted with some sort of criminal device and then put on a dummy credit card that was toted all over northern Virginia last weekend.

Though I'm sure that credit card theft is my official initiation into adulthood -- a rite of passage suffered by most of the adults I know, it goes without saying that the whole thing sucks. Not only did I spend the better part of Sunday feeling so oddly violated, but I've been credit-cut-off for the next week awaiting the replacement (hello, debit card. Remember me?). And THEN I get to spend the next week calling each of the vendors who have my credit card on auto-pay and changing the information. I am likely to forget a few and then get that sad letter in the mail about how it didn't go through.

But first, let's talk about some of these charges. $300 at 7-11 is not only insane, but practically and feasibly impossible. What on earth does 7-11 have worth, collectively, $300? Please, enlighten me. Some of the going items are: lottery tickets (though I am fairly certain you can't buy them with a credit card), pre-paid cell phones, gift cards, cartons of smokes or fill 1 SUV (har, har, I had to make the requisite gas-guzzle joke).

The funny thing is this: the BFF was called last week by her credit card company (hereafter: CCC) for a similar string of purchases outside her normal spending habits. Same days, same places and same outrageous amounts. At the time, we didn't think too much about it -- except that it sucked for her. When it happened to me, though, with large magnifying class and swirly pipe we deduced that we last met, credit-card-to-credit-card, when we split a check for burgers at a Red Robin two weeks ago -- a fact both of our CCCs were delighted to learn. Elementary! Allegedly, our waiter allegedly took both of our cards and allegedly swiped them through this alleged device to obtain the strip information and then allegedly create fake cards with which to allegedly splurge all over town with. We'd been hamburgled. And this is why crime doesn't pay. If it had only been done to one of us, we never would have been able to trace it back or make the connection.

{The Betrothed makes a solid point on this matter. People are wont to complain about the security of online purchasing. Putting your credit card "out there" for anyone to grab up. True. But think of all the times that you have been out to dinner and you HAND your card to some 17 year old who walks away with it for 5 or 10 minutes with complete and ample opportunity to do whatever the like with it. It just makes you think, doesn't it? I hate it when the Betrothed makes me think.}

Not only that, the powers that be at Red Robin have not only been notified (I'm a tattle-tale 'til death) that they have have a potential thief in their midst, but they are hot on the trail. In the meantime, Red Robin has lodged its apologetic self so far up the BFF and I's asses that we've been tasting burger and unlimited fries all day. Which, really, isn't a problem. There could be worse corporations in our asses when you think about it. In fact, this Friday, we've been invited to dine with the regional manager for the eastern seaboard so that he can personally apologize to us, give us gift cards and treat us (and even the Betrothed) to dinner. We shall, therefore, be spending the rest of the week preparing to eat our faces off, Red-Robin style. There will be appetizers involved.

Today, I decided, then, to do my best to wipe the whole unpleasant experience from my mind. Debit card in hand, I went to an afternoon showing of a movie I've been dying to see (but have been yet unable to convince the Betrothed is worth his time to see). 300. Yes, I said it. I wanted to see 300. I'm a girl and I want to see 300. I've wanted to see it since the blood first splattered across the screen during some preview months ago. I was the only chick in the theater today-- which wasn't a terrible ratio, really, since there were less than 10 people in the theater.

300, in a blood spattered nutshell, was completely, freaking awesome. I have never in my life wanted to be a Spartan more (or really at all until today) than this afternoon . I was nearly pumping my fist in the air cheering them on. I also considered that the movie could be alternately titled: Numerical Porn. Naked chicks and hot gladiator sex scenes. It was like the Matrix meets Gladiator. Only awesomer. It was a great story. It had great characters. It was a visual, artistic feast for the eyes and absolutely majestically created computer graphics that made the whole theater feel like some darker part of their Sparta with upholstered seats and sticky floors. I have spent the rest of my afternoon contemplating a workout that will buff me out more Sparta-style as well as how to talk the Betrothed into leather speedos and a red cape on a regular basis.

If only I could assemble such an army to seek out and gruesomely destroy my own hamburgler.
Watch your credit cards, friends. And if that fails, go see 300. Well, go see 300 anyway. But keep a close eye on that concession stand kid.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007


You can't go wrong, if you shield your dong

Next week is spring break. (Which, conversely, means that this week sucks.) To an extent unlike any other college campus I have ever spent even the smallest speck of time on, George Mason is campaigning for its students to have the safest spring break, like, totally evah. (Saftey is, like, hot.)

To that end, today in the student center (and incidentally during my lunch) the Office of Alcohol, Drug and Health education put on QUITE the show. Not only did they have a lone steel-drummer setting the calypso (except that it was 30 degrees and snowing outside) Spring Break mood, (except that he played the ultra-long version of "Brother, brother, brother" which, who knew, translates well to the steel drum. The song still sucks, but it translates well.) but they were giving out popcorn and free knapsacks all emblazoned with their Safe Spring Break emblem. While my lunch table mates and I complained to each other about the next table singing "Hot Hot Hot" by mumbling every other line until they got to "....feeling HOT HOT HOT" (because, let's be honest, do YOU know any other words?), it was brought to our attention that there were goodie bags being doled out. Not one to ever give up the freebie, I went to investigate.

At the far end of the student center and piled high in a basket were ziploc bags labeled in large letters: "HEALTHY HOOKUP KIT". Is it just me or is this genius? The college sophomore in me writhed in the delight that only the word "hookup" could induce. The bag contained several things: glow in the dark and flavored Rough Rider condoms (on the level, what about Teddy Roosevelt's infamous cavalry of the same name makes the synonymy even slightly sexually appealing? Incidentally, Teddy's gang suffered nearly 75% casualties on pretty much their only raid -- which doesn't bode well for one's confidence in a condom of the same name.), flavored dental dams (blechhhh) , female condoms (double blechhhh... there just isn't anything sexual about something I could theoretically fit over my head or stuff my 20lb cat into.) and lots of sample-size lube.

{An aside about the sheer number of odd condoms that have come my way thanks to Mr. George Mason & Co. As a lowly first year nursing student last year, I had to work a few hours at the GMU health fair. The usual: tables set out in a large hall with vendors and organizations all promoting some element of health. The Fairfax County Public Health table was brimming with students. When I made my way to the front of their table, I saw that they had hundreds of condoms out and they were being scooped up like they were gold coins. After the crowds dispersed, I, too, began to fill my lab coat pockets. Again, not because I have any real need for condoms-en-bulk, but because of the TYPE of condoms. FCHD was touting the "Jimmie Hatz" brand condom. The front of the packaging features a scary looking dog, under which it reads: The official condom of hip-hop kulture. And under that: 'For playaz puttin' in REAL work'. Please. Do you think I could actually demonstrate any manner of self control with an item like that being offered to me for free? Other students coming up to the table looked at me funny, but I knowingly tapped my engagement ring and said, "Hey, I do this without shame." The Betrothed was admittedly a little off put when he got home to see about 50 assorted condoms on the kitchen table (with lube) and worried aloud that this was some sort of indication that things around here were about to get much freakier -- in a bad way. Then he asked that I not leave them out on the kitchen table.}

Back to today -- I, of course, took several of the fun-filled ziplocs (one of which is headed directly for the BFF -- who is working on her Jimmie Hatz collection -- because, really, what better to make a little pee come out than a ziploc bag labeled thusly that includes a treasure trove of sinful things AND a glossy health-center pamphlet on the importance of safe sex) and instructed the fellow students at my table to follow suit; one of whom is entrenched in a long term relationship (holla!) and the other who lives at home with mom and pop. None of us, myself included, displaying any real need for the sex-supplies-in-a-bag that our tuition dollars ultimately funded. My intentions are to see how awesome a female-condom water balloon could be and to put on a finger puppet show in a darkened bathroom with the glow-in-the dark condoms.

Which got me thinking two things.
1) Is it fair of the three of us to take said bags for our own entertainment (and yes, quite possibly for YOURS as I will be doling out these goodies to you, my dear sexin' friends, in the weeks to come.) and thereby defeating the purpose of giving out Hookup Kits to people who haven't hooked up in years? (And holy crap, where was this idea when we were all in college?)

2) Taking #1 into honest consideration, I cannot honestly picture Spring-Breaking George Mason students drunkenly digging into their Healthy Hookup ziplocs next week in their sunny-locale of choice. They are stupid enough to wear jeans that don't even remotely begin to cover their asscracks and stiletto heels on cobblestone, so I seriously doubt their ability to manage safe sex.

Hah. So there. Justified! All the fun condoms are mine, bitches.

In any case, our kitchen table is brimming again with sexual goodness. The Betrothed has since learned to not be even remotely shocked by something like this. He knows that worse things could be brimming on that table thanks to nursing school.

So. Lube, anyone?

Sunday, March 04, 2007


Study group goes horribly awry.

It all started out with good intentions.

My presentation group for class was meeting at my house to assemble our poster board for tomorrow's big ado. Our topic was very gynecological (as opposed to mildly gynecological??...) in nature (apparently my subconscious theme of the this semester's project work was all below the female belt. Nice.) and it was joked that perhaps we ought to include a somewhat coyly entertaining and subtle photo of the group on the presentation poster. Alright, it was mainly that infamous lab partner (in blue) and I who proposed it. We proposed it, laughed at our own joke for the better part of about ten minutes, continued to allude to it until everyone else was browbeaten into it. But in our defense, they DID agree to go along with it.

Tomorrow we present on techniques for, what they call, spontaneous vaginal delivery.

Get it?

Saturday, March 03, 2007


Breath of life?

This week our lab class culminated in the mother of all nursing skills: the "Code". You know, the flatliners, the"GET THE CRASH CART!", stay-away-from-the-light, live-goddamnit Code. Each week since our very first semester, we learn a new, more exciting nursing skill. Our first day of last year: Sponge Baths. Our Last-day-of-lab-ever: Life saving. {Much to the chagrin of many, I'm sure, we never had the lab on "naughty nurses".} Admittedly, one of this week's highlights was to actually yell, "CLEAR!", put the paddles to the mannequin and fake like you THWUMPed him. How very "ER"-sans-Clooney of us.

Before our lab class started this, our last week, I was sitting out in the hall with one of my lab partners. We've been fairly inseparable since our Summer clinical and she's always good for a very good laugh. We were discussing the "Code" and what we would have to be performing for our "test out" to pass the skill.

My lab partner went a little silent, a little reflective. "You know what scares me most about a REAL code?" she said to me. I didn't. "I'm afraid that while I'm giving the patient chest compressions that I might fart."

My immediate, cover-your-ass response? "Blame it on the patient. Say you pushed it out of him. Besides, you should insist that everyone operate on the "smelt-it, dealt-it" rule of toots. Just make a face like you noticed it, but act like you can't figure out where it came from."

Now that's good nursing.

{Update: Our test-out scenario was Britney Spears. Apparently while shaving in her new 'do -- for the purposes of our simulation -- she cut herself, bled out too much and went into cardiac arrest from volume-loss. I stopped the code midway and asked the teacher if we could just let her go-to-the-light since her career had already peaced out anyway.

Updated Update: Also, my 7 week preceptorship placement to start after spring break has been determined. Folks, I'll be working an ICU unit. I'm positively delighted and all atwitter with the prospect of awesome experiences I'm sure to have. Those of you with a weak constitution might want to put my blog on hiatus until mid-May.}

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