Friday, August 31, 2007
Get your Colonial on.
Recently I took a quick trip through Williamsburg, VA, what some reading this may refer to as the Mother-Land/Mother-Ship/Place with Mug Night/Land of all that is warm and comforting about not being an adult or expected to be an adult.
Super-quick trip, really. But enough time, clearly, to stop at Snow-to-Go, drive my car-mate and Bestie by the old Soro house, art studio and frat row. Additionally stopping to balk at the new Barksdale dorms (which I'm sure are delightful to live in and bring much needed revenue to our Alma Mater.. BAH..), point out the Marketplace and the Greenleafe and stare blankly at what WAS Common-Glory and is now the new Amphitheater.
A power walk through the Colonial haunts provided a more picture-purging adventure.
I have to caption none of these photos for you.
You, who know these places as well as I do.
You, who have these same pictures with different heads on them in your collection somewhere.
Super-quick trip, really. But enough time, clearly, to stop at Snow-to-Go, drive my car-mate and Bestie by the old Soro house, art studio and frat row. Additionally stopping to balk at the new Barksdale dorms (which I'm sure are delightful to live in and bring much needed revenue to our Alma Mater.. BAH..), point out the Marketplace and the Greenleafe and stare blankly at what WAS Common-Glory and is now the new Amphitheater.
A power walk through the Colonial haunts provided a more picture-purging adventure.
I have to caption none of these photos for you.
You, who know these places as well as I do.
You, who have these same pictures with different heads on them in your collection somewhere.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
If you tell a joke in the woods and no one is around to hear it -- was it still funny?
I have a problem. Well, I have a lot of problems, but one in particular will drive this post.
I really like my job. Like, I really like it. I like it in the way they make movies about people who really like their jobs. My only complaint is that my coworkers, by and large, though wonderfully giving, talented and skilled professionals -- lack any semblance of a sense of humor. I tell jokes, I get confused looks, crickets chirping and then the pity laugh. This could be all about THEM -- in that they have no sense of humor. Or, I'm big enough to suggest that it could be all about ME -- in that I'm not as funny as I think I am. But let's be honest, that's not possible. I'm pretty damned funny.
However, in the few months that I have been at work, I have made hospital-humor jokes that have fallen on deaf, unfunny, PITY LAUGH ears. I have learned to curb my jokes -- which is kind of like holding back a sneeze. It doesn't come out as hard as it would have, but it hurts and your nose gets tinglie.
So I turn to you, my blogging buddies. I have to let out the funny. Please, don't feel obligated to laugh on my account.
1) The majority of my patient-load is geriatric. And when you've lived a long time, your body starts to show the wear of the years and the scars of your past adventures. Like most industries, things come in phases. Some weeks it's all about the poorly controlled diabetics. Or it's patients who don't speak a lick of English. Or it's poo. For the past few weeks, completely regardless of diagnosis, my patients have, for the most part, been missing all of or part of a single finger. Seriously. I have never seen so many 1-finger-short-of-a-high-five cases in my life. And really, it's such a minor observation when, say, they appear to be breathing through two lumps of coal and cigarette ash that were once called "lungs". Details like partial digits missing gets overlooked. So I have found myself coming out of patient rooms and commenting to my fellow nurses: "Hey, did you see that he's missing his entire ring finger?" or "So he apparently lost 3 toes and most of his middle finger in a mine accident."
THE UNTOLD JOKE: "I noticed he was missing a finger. I shook out the sheets and looked under the bed for it but I can't find it. Did he have it last night at change of shift? Think he'll sue?"
2) The proper title to my floor is : Medical Telemetry with a Renal Focus. Sure does pack a wordy punch, huh. None of you have any idea what I do anymore, do you. In any case, in addition to the elder folk, we get a fair amount of transplants. Transplants doing well, transplants on the brink and the organ-formerly-known-as-a-transplant. All of these patients at the time of transplant take oceans of expensive pills everyday for the rest of their lives. One of those pills is an "anti-rejection" pill that does just that -- prevents the body from kicking the new organ out of the abdominal-party. Because I'm new I frequently find myself on the buzzer holding end of a nurse quiz show by my bosses and new hire managers. The process makes me feel incredibly awkward and so I usually try to distract them with jokes they don't laugh at. Strangely, it works. While discussing the functionality and pharmakinetics of anti-rejection meds, I commented:
THE TOLD JOKE: "Anti-rejection meds. Huh. Too bad they're so expensive. I knew a lot of kids in highschool who could have really benefited from such a pill." *insert pause, slow understanding and then a slight pity laugh*
I really like my job. Like, I really like it. I like it in the way they make movies about people who really like their jobs. My only complaint is that my coworkers, by and large, though wonderfully giving, talented and skilled professionals -- lack any semblance of a sense of humor. I tell jokes, I get confused looks, crickets chirping and then the pity laugh. This could be all about THEM -- in that they have no sense of humor. Or, I'm big enough to suggest that it could be all about ME -- in that I'm not as funny as I think I am. But let's be honest, that's not possible. I'm pretty damned funny.
However, in the few months that I have been at work, I have made hospital-humor jokes that have fallen on deaf, unfunny, PITY LAUGH ears. I have learned to curb my jokes -- which is kind of like holding back a sneeze. It doesn't come out as hard as it would have, but it hurts and your nose gets tinglie.
So I turn to you, my blogging buddies. I have to let out the funny. Please, don't feel obligated to laugh on my account.
1) The majority of my patient-load is geriatric. And when you've lived a long time, your body starts to show the wear of the years and the scars of your past adventures. Like most industries, things come in phases. Some weeks it's all about the poorly controlled diabetics. Or it's patients who don't speak a lick of English. Or it's poo. For the past few weeks, completely regardless of diagnosis, my patients have, for the most part, been missing all of or part of a single finger. Seriously. I have never seen so many 1-finger-short-of-a-high-five cases in my life. And really, it's such a minor observation when, say, they appear to be breathing through two lumps of coal and cigarette ash that were once called "lungs". Details like partial digits missing gets overlooked. So I have found myself coming out of patient rooms and commenting to my fellow nurses: "Hey, did you see that he's missing his entire ring finger?" or "So he apparently lost 3 toes and most of his middle finger in a mine accident."
THE UNTOLD JOKE: "I noticed he was missing a finger. I shook out the sheets and looked under the bed for it but I can't find it. Did he have it last night at change of shift? Think he'll sue?"
2) The proper title to my floor is : Medical Telemetry with a Renal Focus. Sure does pack a wordy punch, huh. None of you have any idea what I do anymore, do you. In any case, in addition to the elder folk, we get a fair amount of transplants. Transplants doing well, transplants on the brink and the organ-formerly-known-as-a-transplant. All of these patients at the time of transplant take oceans of expensive pills everyday for the rest of their lives. One of those pills is an "anti-rejection" pill that does just that -- prevents the body from kicking the new organ out of the abdominal-party. Because I'm new I frequently find myself on the buzzer holding end of a nurse quiz show by my bosses and new hire managers. The process makes me feel incredibly awkward and so I usually try to distract them with jokes they don't laugh at. Strangely, it works. While discussing the functionality and pharmakinetics of anti-rejection meds, I commented:
THE TOLD JOKE: "Anti-rejection meds. Huh. Too bad they're so expensive. I knew a lot of kids in highschool who could have really benefited from such a pill." *insert pause, slow understanding and then a slight pity laugh*
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Phrases you likely don't use at YOUR job.
1. "You got poop on my arm."
2. "Let me see your testicular swelling."
3. "When YOU'RE the nurse, you can make that decision. Right now, that's MY job so you'll need to back up."
4. "Don't let your fingers or your penis touch the inside of the specimen cup."
5. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm not here to hold your soda."
Man, and I got to say all of these THIS week.. Wow.
2. "Let me see your testicular swelling."
3. "When YOU'RE the nurse, you can make that decision. Right now, that's MY job so you'll need to back up."
4. "Don't let your fingers or your penis touch the inside of the specimen cup."
5. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm not here to hold your soda."
Man, and I got to say all of these THIS week.. Wow.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Finally facing my Waterloo
Who here can say with all honesty that high school wasn't the biggest social kick in the pants ever. I'd rather re-write my resume or move to a new house (packing, unpacking included) than do a day of high school over.
But I've moved on. I've grown up and am far too mature to dwell on the angst of high school. And really, it wasn't all that bad.
Except for gym class. Where I might be able to use multisyllabic words and find the hidden most meaning of a Toni Morrison book, I was a looser in gym class. I broke a girl's nose once in gym class with a Frisbee. Totally. But the absolute bane of my gym days was my complete and utter inability to ever do a chin up {Sidebar: Who here has ever done one chin up in their life? Seriously. Speak up. I'm curious if I would have hated you for your athletic prowess back then}. Once the gym teacher felt so bad for me (and a few other weak upper-bodied high school girls) that he hoisted us up so that we might feel some simulated version of chin up joy. I'd stand there in my county-issued cotton outfit and glare maliciously at the boys (and butch girls) who would do rapid fire sets of chin ups -- just because they could (and probably seething in my own jealousy because if I could do it, I would have been just another one of those assholes showing off too..).
And now that I've joined a new gym I find that my favorite machine has a direct view to the chin up bar where I spend 40 minutes watching the spirit of my macho high school classmates reincarnated into the young 20-something men that frequent my gym.
ENOUGH, I say! Damnit, teach me to do a chin up!
I met with a personal trainer last night with the simplest of requests --
Me: "My fitness goal? Oh, easy. To do one chin up."
Him: "Just one? You only want to do one?"
Me: "I'm ok with more than one, but one will complete me. Anything after one is chin up gravy."
Him: "I could have you doing a chin up in a month or so. How's that?"
Me: "Awesome."
Me Today: Holy crap. Ouch.
One month, huh. If my arms don't fall off before then.
But I've moved on. I've grown up and am far too mature to dwell on the angst of high school. And really, it wasn't all that bad.
Except for gym class. Where I might be able to use multisyllabic words and find the hidden most meaning of a Toni Morrison book, I was a looser in gym class. I broke a girl's nose once in gym class with a Frisbee. Totally. But the absolute bane of my gym days was my complete and utter inability to ever do a chin up {Sidebar: Who here has ever done one chin up in their life? Seriously. Speak up. I'm curious if I would have hated you for your athletic prowess back then}. Once the gym teacher felt so bad for me (and a few other weak upper-bodied high school girls) that he hoisted us up so that we might feel some simulated version of chin up joy. I'd stand there in my county-issued cotton outfit and glare maliciously at the boys (and butch girls) who would do rapid fire sets of chin ups -- just because they could (and probably seething in my own jealousy because if I could do it, I would have been just another one of those assholes showing off too..).
And now that I've joined a new gym I find that my favorite machine has a direct view to the chin up bar where I spend 40 minutes watching the spirit of my macho high school classmates reincarnated into the young 20-something men that frequent my gym.
ENOUGH, I say! Damnit, teach me to do a chin up!
I met with a personal trainer last night with the simplest of requests --
Me: "My fitness goal? Oh, easy. To do one chin up."
Him: "Just one? You only want to do one?"
Me: "I'm ok with more than one, but one will complete me. Anything after one is chin up gravy."
Him: "I could have you doing a chin up in a month or so. How's that?"
Me: "Awesome."
Me Today: Holy crap. Ouch.
One month, huh. If my arms don't fall off before then.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Extra! Extra! Read about how I'm pretty awesome!
I like my job. A lot. Everyday I think about how much I didn't like that other job that I had and how I am so much more significantly happy at this job.
Better than that, my job likes me. I was hired to my hospital unit over two years ago -- before even starting nursing school. They felt I was a "sure thing", gave me lots of money and I signed away the next few years of my life to work there. Cha. Like I wouldn't be working there anyway. The lady who has been orchestrating this since 2005 in HR and I have developed a friendly relationship. We both drive 10+ year old Volvos with illuminated dashboard lights of some sort -- burned out bulb, check engine, service -- you know, the usual -- it's a good place to build a commonality, man.
Anyway, it would appear that this HR lady does a once-monthly piece for the Health Section of the Washington Post highlighting the awesome things going on at my awesome juggernaut-of-health-care-hospital. And she asked me to contribute this month. It's cheesy, it's saccharin sweet, (it's true..) but man, it's me on the cover of the Health Section of the Washington Post discussing my otherwise uninteresting reasons for choosing health care as my second career. (Me and a few others' reasons, I think, but let's just focus on me, shall we?) Sunday's paper man. Pick it up. If for nothing else, there's coupons in there.
Holy crap, I love my job.
Better than that, my job likes me. I was hired to my hospital unit over two years ago -- before even starting nursing school. They felt I was a "sure thing", gave me lots of money and I signed away the next few years of my life to work there. Cha. Like I wouldn't be working there anyway. The lady who has been orchestrating this since 2005 in HR and I have developed a friendly relationship. We both drive 10+ year old Volvos with illuminated dashboard lights of some sort -- burned out bulb, check engine, service -- you know, the usual -- it's a good place to build a commonality, man.
Anyway, it would appear that this HR lady does a once-monthly piece for the Health Section of the Washington Post highlighting the awesome things going on at my awesome juggernaut-of-health-care-hospital. And she asked me to contribute this month. It's cheesy, it's saccharin sweet, (it's true..) but man, it's me on the cover of the Health Section of the Washington Post discussing my otherwise uninteresting reasons for choosing health care as my second career. (Me and a few others' reasons, I think, but let's just focus on me, shall we?) Sunday's paper man. Pick it up. If for nothing else, there's coupons in there.
Holy crap, I love my job.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Things I Learned This Week by: Cathy Laws
- Apparently, Ebay feels that my user name 'celaws' is too "soft" a user name as it is also the start of my email address. Long story short, I received an Ebay love-note asking me to change it. Great, no problem. After much chin-scratching, I decided to go for a user name incorporating my would-be new-name. It's a good time to start getting used to it, right? Go ahead and change from my 4-letter, all-letters-make-a-sound name -- a name that is an actual plural noun that gets messed up so frequently it might make your head spin -- to a 6-letter, all-letters-make-a-sound name that is never misunderstood - weird. Seriously, I get Lewis, Law, Lawson (and this is not counting people starting my name with a K..) -- I got "Oaws" once and haven't figured out how that one happened. (and why not start the name-transition since my mom's big plan for me to go into the practice of law, ideally a judge, just so that I could use the name more effectively -- ie: "Judge Laws" -- so great it's almost a tv courtroom show....didn't pan out for her..) So yeah -- put that new name into effect early as to give me time to start acclimating to the idea. I thought I might sign a credit card receipt with my new name one of these times just to put into practice what I've been rehearsing on paper at home like a lovesick 6th grader -- but I keep loosing my nerve, fearful the transaction will be voided, alarms will go off and I'll be hauled away for name fraud. A friend of mine, the morning after her wedding, made a big deal to the new-hubs about signing her "new" name for the first time on the breakfast room service receipt. It came, she scribbled and when waiter-dude left, she realized she'd still signed her "old" name. Yeah, I'd like to be all ready to perform when the time comes. It's just how I roll.
- And in the idea of name-changing, I was told that I ought to make all my big bank, rollover, etc. transactions now before my name changes and it gets sticky. Which was awesome, because I really wanted to spend most of my afternoon on the phone with two separate investment companies on several different calls getting that squared away. I know, woe is me. People in the world are starving and I am trying to rollover my 401K.
- This week the hospital is putting me (and others..) through a critical care nursing fellowship to last the next few weeks, intermittently. The first day was the most boring -- primarily because they spent 8 hours introducing to us the foundations of critical care -- foundations that we heard about 10,000 times in nursing school (when to call a code, how to not stick yourself with a needle, what TB is... ). One of the more priceless powerpoint slides that I managed to stay awake through was about the importance of handwashing. Don't get me wrong, it's super important. If you're not all that sick, come to a hospital, hang around and see how much sicker you can get (I should go into hospital advertising... ). There are so many grossy-gross things floating around and it's way to easy to take them, as a nurse, from patient to patient if you don't wash your hands. But screw the patient, imagine what you're exposing yourself to. Ew. IN ANY CASE, the powerpoint presentation was meant to hit on the highlights of when you ought to wash your hands: after using the bathroom, before and after eating, when your hands have visible soil or bodily fluids on them, before and after patient contact and after contact with anthrax. It just seemed like an awfully out-of-place list ender.. La, la, wash your hands when they're dirty and when you TOUCH ANTHRAX. I'll be honest, my biggest concern was that I don't know that I'd recognize anthrax if it were sitting on my lap. But I guess it's good information to tuck away. How about we just wash our hands. Period.
- If this whole "nursing" thing doesn't work out the job that I might be the worst at would be mine-hunter. Well, "minesweeper" I should say. Judging by my abilities, or lack thereof playing it continually over the boring stretches of class these past 2 years, I'd say that in a real world scenario, I've decimated thousands of acres of rural farm land, made amputees and/or widows/orphans out of countless villagers and most likely completely annihilated myself into the tiniest bits more times than I can count. I'm terrible at this game. And I'm legitimately bad -- not like "don't really make an effort" bad. I really try. I stare at it, I think about it, I count out loud. It's a bad scene. Now, if someone needs Bejeweling, I'm there.
- It occurred to me in one of my more thoughtful moments this week that getting married's biggest bonus at this juncture is that I never have to be called out by a DJ as "single" and be made to stand in a lowly clump of women attempting to catch a bouquet. Aww, man. And then there's that chick who is, like, DYING to catch it. My condolences to those of you still left in the clump and my heartiest sympathies to those of you who find yourself on the business end of that girl's elbow-to-your-face when she makes her dive. Your day of exodus will come. I'd advise you to fake-like-you're-not-single, but let's be honest. Someone else at the wedding wants to gleefully watch your ultimate humiliation and spotlight your singleness and will inevitably shout for the DJ to hear: "Get up there XXX, you're SINGLE! Don't you want to catch the bouquet?!"
- Oh, and I officially joined the 21st century this week and purchased a digital camera. Now don't go getting all excited. I have yet to come upon something to photograph that isn't my cat. And it is likely that when I do come upon such a subject I will be camera-free. It has been a hot minute since my sorority days of constant-camera-clutching and so it might take me a while to get back into the memory-capturing swing of things. Unless you just want me to post the random pictures of my cat. I didn't think so.
