The Man With the Smallest Penis in Existence and the Electron Microscope Technician Who Loved Him

This Post Contains a Photo of Me Sans Pants

You think your day was bad? Today, I got my ass handed to me by an 87-year-old man.

So, in the gigantic bathing area, we have multiple curtained off sections containing special bathtubs to allow us to bathe the residents. We have two different types in our facility, one of which is similar to this:

On this one, the tub can be raised or lowered to accommodate the needs of both residents and care givers. I tend to like it better than the other one. The second model contains a chair… lift… thing (yeah, it’s a technical term, ellipses and all). Here’s a picture of a tub with a chair lift, though ours isn’t much like this one:

Ours has a chair lift, like the above image, but it opens from the front. I like to say it’s front-loading, but no one gets the joke. See, while the whole “opens from the front and has a chair lift that slides in and out of the tub in a super fancy manner” seems awesome, it’s really only useful at the beginning of the bath. After that, the stupid chair lift gets in the way of everything. It sometimes requires maneuvering on a step ladder to do everything you need to. I hate it.

Now let’s segue into the story proper.

I am bathing an 87-year-old man with extremely limited functionality. He’s unresponsive and unable to do anything for himself. He’s also heavy as hell, but then, there are few residents who are light <feel free to inject your own snarky remark about American obesity rates here>.

The bath is over, and I’m ejecting the man from the front-loader. I’m having Chris help me transfer the man onto a horizontal lift (it’s kind of like a gurney, only with hydraulic lifting action), which resembles:

We are going from the chair to the lift when…

The man freaks the fuck out.

This is one of my regular residents. I have never had an issue with him. In fact, he doesn’t really do anything at all. Ever. So today, when he suddenly begins thrashing and flailing wildly, I’m surprised I didn’t drop him in shock.

Though I didn’t drop him, Chris and I can’t continue moving him while the man’s twisting and lashing his limbs about. We get him to the floor as gently as possible, yelling for a nurse. Chris runs out to the nurse’s station, while I try to keep the man from hurting himself. I have two arms. He has four limbs and a head. This proves difficult for me.

During this process, he manages to punch me in the arms and legs several times. This fit of crazy seems to have given him massive amounts of strength, because his hits hurt like hell. I’m having a bitch of a time restraining him. Finally, Chris comes back to help me, and a few seconds later, a nurse runs in and sedates the man.

We get him back to his room, call the doctor, and I continue on with the remaining hour of my shift.

After returning home, I survey the damage. Here’s the worst of it:

I imagine this image is less sexy than you envisioned when reading the title of this post. So sorry to disappoint.

 

It’s not great picture quality, but you can see the bruising. The big, ugly, painful bruising.

I’m so glad it was my Friday. Christ.

Nursebot 3000, Please Report to the O.R., Stat

At work last night, R.J. (the only coworker I can hold a moderately intelligent conversation with) and I were discussing robots/cyborgs, the current limitations of technology and cutting-edge robotics research, and the definition of humanity. And by “R.J. and I,” I mostly mean R.J. would say something, then I would explain why he was wrong or elaborate on the topic for him.

Which is funny, given that, when I got home today, I was browsing one of my science news sites and discovered an interesting article about robotics that relates directly to the world of health care.

Juan Pablo Wachs, an assistant professor of industrial engineering at Purdue University, is working on a robotic scrub nurse.

That’s right… a nursebot.

While not the first robotic nurse to hit the hospital scene [Do hospitals even have scenes? In my experience, the answer is no. Latex gloves, sure. Irritating, beeping machines and oxygen hookups? Oh yes. A “scene?” Unless that scene involves disinfectant and intense periods of boredom, I’m gonna have to go with a no.], Wachs’ robonurse has something the others don’t- hand gesture recognition technology.

You know… like Tom Cruise uses in Minority Report:

What was once relegated solely to the land of science fiction films could now become a reality. But… why use this kind of tech to replace nurses?

The reasoning behind Wachs’ research centers around improving operating room efficiency. He’s hoping that the robotic scrub nurse could help speed up surgeries and, more importantly, lower the infection risk in the O.R.

In terms of potential infection risk, simply eliminating another germy human from the room isn’t the only benefit of the nurse-o-tron. Wachs’ nurse would not only be able to recognize hand gestures and be able to hand surgeons the proper tool, but it would also be able to display medical records and images. Currently, surgeons have to step away from the operating table and handle a keyboard and mouse to access these files. This both delays the surgery and increases the risk of spreading infectious bacteria. The robot nurse would be able to provide hands-free access to this information right at the operating table. Which, I’ll admit, would be terribly useful.

Of course, this technology isn’t quite ready yet. Anyone who has handled a Wii or Kinect or whatever-the-fuck-the-Playstation-version-of-this-shit-is knows about the limitations of commercial motion capture systems. And, while Wachs’ version is much more precise than the video game versions, it’s still imperfect. One of the biggest challenges he’s facing is in the development of “…the proper shapes of hand poses and the proper hand trajectory movements to reflect and express certain medical functions,” Wachs said. “You want to use intuitive and natural gestures for the surgeon, to express medical image navigation activities, but you also need to consider cultural and physical differences between surgeons. They may have different preferences regarding what gestures they may want to use.”

Not only that, but Wachs’ algorithms need to include a way for the computer to understand the context of the gestures, namely the ability to discriminate between purposeful and accidental gestures.

“Say the surgeon starts talking to another person in the operating room and makes conversational gestures,” Wachs said. “You don’t want the robot handing the surgeon a hemostat.”

He’s also working on giving the robot prediction abilities, so it would be able to anticipate what images or tools the surgeons would need next.

I’m torn on this issue. I’m a health care worker with a more menial job than a scrub nurse. If anyone is going to be replaced by a robot, I feel it would be me. To see them focusing on jobs more important than mine makes me feel like I should be starting the job hunt again soon, as there’s no hope my job will last much longer (not like I want to be in this damn job much longer, but that’s my choice, dammit, not some usurping robot’s).

As a tech geek, however, I think this is awesome.

On a practical note, however, this is tech that’s a long way from seeing completion. Without the anticipatory abilities of an actual human being, the robot nurse would only serve to slow down the surgical process. A good scrub nurse knows their shit and can accurately predict what a surgeon will need next probably 85% of the time (critical emergency situations aside). This actually speeds the surgery up, because the surgeon doesn’t have to waste time asking for the next implement.

And based on my recent readings on the subject of robotics and A.I. research (were I not so tired, this post would have expanded to include that information in a more in-depth fashion), while scientists are currently attempting to create a robot that has the capability to learn using a look-and-follow method all children use (a primary way children learn how to identify objects is to track the movements of their parents’ heads to determine objects they are referring to), they have yet to create a solid working model. Considering the anticipatory features of Wachs’ scrub bot are entangled in the same principles as this particular feature of A.I. research, I just don’t see this idea becoming a feasible, working nursebot for at least another year or two.

So… I guess my job’s probably safe for a while.

Yay?

A Penetrating Look at Human Stupidity

A few months back, a Southampton man found himself in the hospital after getting his penis stuck in a metal pipe. Why he was banging said pipe remains an official mystery, but I think most of the mystery bleeds away when you really think about it. You have a dick… you see a hole… there is a part of you that wants to stick said dick into said hole. Most of the time, you don’t act on those ridiculous impulses (much as ladies don’t always shove any ol’ vaguely phallic-shaped object into their snatch), but then there’s the guy (or gal) whose curiosity overrides his commonsense. And dignity.

Anyway, the Southampton man was in a real bind (literally), as the pipe had constricted blood flow to his prick, giving him a permanent hardon. Like a Viagra-coated steel sleeve, this pipe wasn’t coming off his penis of its own volition… or his. Looks like a trip to the emergency room was in order.

So this 40-ish-year-old man hobbles into the ER, sporting a shiny new accessory attached to his nether regions. Naturally, the nurses just blink and, in a bored tone of voice, direct him to a waiting area. Because ER nurses see weird shit like this all the time. Southampton man is, by all accounts (and expectedly), “quite concerned and anxious.”

After trying all the usual routes to free the man’s penis, doctors were forced to call in the big guns. So, in come the Hampshire Fire and Rescue Service. Not just one or two, but seven firefighters show up to handle the delicate situation.

And they show up with a fucking angle grinder.

For those of you who don’t know, this beastie is an angle grinder:

And this, in case you’ve forgotten, is a human penis. Note the squishy, fleshy nature of it:

 

‘Sup?

And this is an angle grinder injury, to another fleshy, squishy bit of the human body:

Frankly, I would not be too keen on allowing something that can do that anywhere near my junk. No wonder they needed 7 firemen to take care of the job- 6 were required to hold the Southampton man down as he flailed and gibbered and tried anything to get away from the death machine coming toward his cock.

Said cock did not suffer any grievous injury, however, despite the obvious fears and the also important but less readily apparent issue of things getting too hot during the cutting. The anesthetized penis was free after 30 minutes of cutting, suffering nothing more than some bruising and swelling after the whole ordeal.

And while this whole incident seem worthy of the highest honors in the Darwin Awards… it’s not the first time something like this has happened in Southampton. Watch manager Greg Garrett from the Redbridge fire station told the Southampton daily Echo: “I’ve only come across this type of thing three or four times in my 17 years as a firefighter. It’s not a daily occurrence.”

Three or four times? Really? Good times.

This is probably why I’m not allowed to have a penis. I would be stupid enough to do something like this.

***

And now, we’ll reverse positions. Instead of having a man penetrating an object, we’ll have an object penetrating a man.

While Stumbling, I came across the delightfully named post, “Anal Penetrating Chair Kills Teen.” Now I ask you… could you resist reading that?

So here’s what supposedly happened:

Over in China, a 14-year-old was killed when the computer chair he was sitting on fucking exploded, propelling shrapnel up into his ass, causing extensive, fatal bleeding. Though the boy was alone when the chair violated him, he managed to make a phone call through the haze of pain. Not to a hospital, but to his father. What was he going to say? “I love you, daddy, and I’m sorry I was going through your porn stash again. Guess I got my comeuppance, eh?”

The father had the presence of mind to call the fucking hospital, but it took an hour to get the kid to the hospital, and he died en route.

The murderous, rapist chair was actually your average, everyday pneumatic desk chair. Highly pressurized gas is stored in a cylinder on the back of the chair, and you use this device to raise and lower the height of the chair.

 

*cue 'Jaws' theme*

So… how did this perfectly ordinary chair suddenly become an exploding death device?

“Allegedly, energy created by the seat cushion caused the explosion.”

…What? No, seriously, what does that mean? What kind of energy was created by the seat cushion? Are we talking friction, maybe? Thermonuclear energy? This is not an explanation, dammit. And, despite my best efforts, I was unable to find anything that elaborated further on the seat cushion energy question.

There were more adequate explanations given, however. Non-nitrogenous gases contaminated the cylinder of the chair. Or the cylinder might not have been airtight. Or it might have been crafted out of faulty materials. Whatever the reason, the end result was still an ass-raping deathsplosion.

But again, this was not the first time such an incident had occurred. In fact, three other incidents were reported within the same month alone. You’d think the manufacturers of these chairs would, oh, I don’t know, fix this problem. Maybe. But apparently, a few asses are the price one pays for profit.

And you thought office jobs were cushy, that your greatest risk of injury was burning your mouth on your coffee or getting a paper cut off a report. Now you know better.

Apathy and Arsenic and Apollo (Oh My!)

So… I had entirely too much free time on my hands at work today. I couldn’t leave early, but I also couldn’t just sit at the nurse’s station and do nothing. I took to wandering the halls, pretending like I was doing something, or hiding out in the bathroom, playing solitaire on my iPod (and never winning a damn game).

This reminded me of two things.

First, the whole “hiding in the bathrooms at work” bit made me think of Shane in Apathy and Other Small Victories. He would always fall asleep in the bathroom of his boring office job.

Second, as I wandered the hospital corridors, I was reminded of a conversation I’d had two nights previous:

Ben: you should slip them arsenic in their pills
Ben: be the greybull angel of mercy [NOTE: For those of you who don’t get that reference, here you are– follow the link to start crawling out from under that rock you’ve been calling your home]
Sam: heh
Sam: i would if i could get my hands on some
Ben: its a hospital, they have it somewhere
Ben: i’m sure you’re crafty enough to get ahold of it

So then, naturally, I wanted to know if I could somehow access the more dangerous drugs (maybe not arsenic). If evening shift really was as unsupervised as it seemed.

However, the most promising hall (the one with the pharmacy and lab) is attached to the ER. The ER was being overseen by a cute bearded man, who kept watching me as I walked past.

The fact that one cute bearded man was preventing me from doing what another one suggested was not lost on me.

I ended up in the old people’s recreation room, reading a National Geographic from 2007.

Yeah…

It was actually pretty interesting. One of the articles was about the future of the U.S. space program. Considering the recent upheavals in NASA and NASA’s government funding, I found this old article amusing.

I’ll share some quotes with you (yes, I stole it and brought it home with me… sue me):

President George W. Bush has outlined a new ”Vision for Space Exploration”: to return American astronauts to the moon by 2020 and eventually send them to Mars.

Yeah… no. We’re not going to the moon anymore. So much for that plan.

NASA calls the new space mission Constellation, and has already ordered construction of new spacecraft- a 1960s-like capsule called Orion, famously described by NASA Administrator Michael D. Griffin as ”Apollo on steroids”…

The first few Constellation moon trips- to begin perhaps as early as 2018- will be sorties to reconnoiter a projected outpost at the lunar south pole. Longer missions will follow.

Again, not gonna happen. In February, we heard Obama talk of canceling Constellation in 2011. Though he’s proposing a new plan for the future of space travel, it looks like the big moon-Mars initiative that’s been in the works for years is out of luck.

Anyway, the article as a whole discussed the ol’ space race (those were the days) and the future of space travel. It focused on the goings on in China and Russia, plus it ventured into the “promised land” of commercial space travel.

As I said, it was an interesting article. Nothing I haven’t read before (which would only make sense, seeing as it’s three years old), but I always enjoy me some National Geographic, regardless of the year.

However, I was not pleased with the quote at the end of the article:

“I do not see any need at all to justify human spaceflight on the grounds of what it’s going to do for science. It will do a lot for science, but that’s an ‘oh, by the way,'” Griffin says. “The drive to extend our reach- human destiny- is reason enough to go.”

First, I’m not entirely sure the overwhelming desire to conquer every bleedin’ thing we see can be classed as “destiny.”

But more importantly…

Science is never an “oh, by the way”!!

Damn you, Mike Griffin. Damn you.

In Honor of My Personality Type Switching Back to INTJ… Let’s Talk About Introverts

Orientation for the hospital involved a Myers-Briggs test.

No joke.

Anyway, during said test, I discovered my E/I rating has moved firmly into “I” territory again. The only time I’ve been an “E” was when I was in Michigan. And even then it was only borderline.

Being an introvert doesn’t make you a hermit. It doesn’t make you antisocial. It doesn’t make you arrogant, stuck-up, or a “party pooper.” The fact that most extroverts don’t understand introversion (but expect us to not only understand them, but to conform to them) is a problem.

An even bigger problem is the fact that the American Psychiatric Association is considering including introversion as a determining factor for diagnosing mental disorders in its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

What the hell?

Their proposed definition of introversion is: “Withdrawal from other people, ranging from intimate relationships to the world at large; restricted affective experience and expression; limited hedonic capacity.” The definition also includes “deficit in the capacity to feel pleasure or take interest in things.”

This frustrates me to no end. And, if you are an introvert yourself (highly likely, considering you are sitting at your computer, reading this blog, instead of out partying or playing miniature golf or… doing something with people that’s less lame than mini golf), it should upset you, too. Because, if the APA does adopt introversion as a way to identify various mental disorders… we introverts are in for even more ridiculous social stigma than before.

Also, did I mention that introverts constitute about half of the population? Seems like a pretty shitty diagnostic tool to me… but what do I know?

So, APA, let’s have us a little palaver. Pull up a chair- you might be here a while.

***

What does it mean to be an introvert?

Okay, APA, your definition of introversion sucks balls. Also… it includes the definition of fucking apathy along with it.

Introversion is not apathy. And it’s not a “withdrawal from relationships.” Introverts and extroverts handle relationships differently. That’s all.

So, what makes an introvert? Well, it’s mostly a question of how they recover their energy/where they draw it from. Extroverts draw their energy from other people. They like crowds, groups of people, lots of chatter. It’s invigorating to them.

To an introvert, however, those situations are decidedly not energizing. They are, in fact, rather draining. In order to recover their energy, introverts need time away from people. Time alone with their thoughts. This prolonged time away from people would drive an extrovert crazy, but it’s exactly what an introvert needs.

But it’s more than that. When it comes to small talk, introverts are the masters of the maladroit. Not because we are stupid or have nothing to say, but because we just don’t see the point in such a frivolous activity. Extroverts love small talk because they love to chatter. That’s fine. But introverts do not. When introverts talk, they want to talk about something important to them. They want a conversation, not a mundane bit of useless talk.

For this reason, the telephone is often especially abhorrent to the introvert. Most telephone calls lack real substance. Which can be fine for checking in with your parents, but if an introvert really cares about you, they won’t bother you with the needless chatter a telephone call would entail. If they don’t call, it’s not because they don’t like you. They might like and respect you very much- telephones are just not the proper venues for the kind of talking they want to do with you.

I mean, okay, maybe they do hate you. But that has nothing to do with them being introverted or extroverted and probably more to do with you being a dumbshit douchebag. Or something.

When introverts are in a group of people, they can come across as being extremely quiet. This comes from a difference in how introverts think and communicate effectively. Extroverts love to chatter, which means they think best by talking. By talking through their problem, they can often solve it. They might say a few wrong things along the way, but the constant stream of conversation is part of their thought process.

Introverts, however, like to think about things before they say them. They turn over the possibilities in their mind, holding entire arguments in their head before they come up with an opinion and share it with the group. This opinion is unlikely to change, whereas the extrovert’s can go through a series of mutations.

Two different means to accomplish the same end. Two different ways of life. Two different personalities.

It’s neither better nor worse to be an introvert. It simply is.

***

Reading through that, you can probably see how introverts and extroverts can clash on a variety of topics (and, more than likely, you’ve experienced this in your own life, be you introverted or extroverted).

I know this is coming across as a bit biased, but hey, I’m an introvert, we’re pretty misunderstood, and it’s my goddamn blog. Suck it up or leave.

I don’t know how many times my more extroverted friends have tried to drag me to a party (or guilt me into attending), even though I had absolutely no desire to go. Parties, for me, are usually pretty draining. I start to feel claustrophobic if the crowd is crushingly large, and I can’t handle feeling like my personal space is being invaded. It’s always too loud, I can’t hear anybody, and conversations tend to revolve around how “wasted” everyone is. When I attend parties, I tend to drink too much in order to deal with how nervous and uncomfortable I’m feeling.

But my tendency to self-medicate with alcohol (something I’ve finally stopped doing, thankfully) is not the issue here. I’m not alone in feeling uncomfortable in large gatherings. Most introverts do.

That’s not to say we can’t enjoy parties. Of course we can. But they do drain us. And we tend to be able to handle them for a shorter period of time than extroverts. We will duck out early or find a quiet balcony to spend time on. We need that space, and you just can’t find that at a party. For us, people are… tiring.

So please, don’t get upset or offended if an introvert doesn’t feel like partying or going to the bar with you. Again, it’s usually nothing to do with you. If you are an extrovert, you just need to respect the fact that introverts might not enjoy these situations as much as you do.

I know this is difficult, extroverts. It’s hard for an extrovert, who is so revitalized by other people, to understand someone who prefers time apart from people. It’s a little easier for introverts to understand extroverts simply because they spend so much of their time volubly working out who they are and what they believe in in groups of people (groups that often include introverts). But nobody can read minds, and extroverts don’t get that same glimpse into how introverts discover their identities and opinions.

But I have faith in you, extroverts. With a little effort, you can understand us and respect us. As we do you. Sure, we’re still going to clash, but we’ll be able to better respect each other, which will lead to fewer misunderstandings.

***

Did you know that many actors tend to be introverts? Which can seem strange to you extroverts, since acting is such an in-your-face activity. It often involves a room full of people. You don’t get space onstage- you are constantly in the eye of the public. How can introverts be actors?

It’s actually incredibly easy for introverts to be good actors. Much of this is because, in social situations, many introverts feel like they are acting. When interacting with others, introverts are often putting on a different, more social personality. It’s not theirs– they are simply acting. They feel they have to do this because, to be themselves is to be misunderstood by the extroverted masses. Plus, remember that performing onstage is not the same as mingling at a party. There’s no need for the introvert to engage in banal chit chat or really interact with large groups of people in any way. They are presenting something to you. They engage your mind, but not your mouth. Which is the perfect situation for the introvert.

As an aside, introverts, while quiet in small groups, often make the best presenters because they think so very hard about their presentation before they give it. Everything they say is planned and well thought-out.

***

Introverts might think more before they speak, but that doesn’t make them more intelligent. Yes, gifted individuals tend to be introverted more often than not. But much of that is developed (personality is a combination of innate and developed traits, which is why your personality type can change during your lifetime). Extremely intelligent or artistic individuals tend to become more introverted simply because they do have a hard time relating to other people. Others can’t understand the leaps their minds are making. If you can’t talk about your thoughts with people and have them understand, you tend to stop talking so much with them.

But highly gifted individuals are extreme cases. Your average, everyday introvert is no more or less intelligent, creative, or sensitive than your average extrovert. Extroverts can be brilliant, but they need to bounce their ideas off someone else in order to solidify them. Introverts of the same intelligence level prefer to have their debates and arguments about their new ideas within their own minds. Two paths to the same goal. Neither is better.

You’ll find members of both sides preaching they are smarter, happier, more sensitive, and all-around better. Ignore them. They are just jackasses.

***

You may have noticed that this post (like many I write) is rambly. Not focused. Not always perfectly thought out.

In short, not much of an introvert’s post at all.

That’s another misconception about introversion and extroversion- that everyone is concretely one or the other. Most people blend the two to some degree. Sometimes (usually on here), I tend to enjoy just talking for the sake of talking. Wending my way through topics, ideas, and opinions with my words instead of just thinking them through. This doesn’t mean I’m not an introvert. While exhibiting traits of both, I’m much more introverted than extroverted.

It can easily be flipped. Extroverts might adore being in groups of people and find them revitalizing and fun, but an extrovert might also need to catch an hour alone every few weeks. Almost everyone has traits of both. Use these as a bridge between the two personality types, a path to tread to help you relate to each other.

***

If you have an introverted friend who tends to just stop talking when you are on AIM together, without trying to find a new topic of conversation, don’t fret. I, for one, enjoy talking to most people on AIM. However, when I exhaust one topic, if I don’t have a topic off-hand that I think is interesting or that ties into what we just discussed, I tend to just stop talking. It’s not because I dislike you (probably far from it). It’s often because I do enjoy talking with you, and I don’t want to spoil it with cheap and silly small talk and chatter.

So don’t freak out if they don’t always say “goodbye” before signing off. An introvert just doesn’t see the need for that kind of thing. Don’t be offended. Just smile and chalk it up to one of your differences.

Remember, it’s exciting to be different from your friends. Their differences from you keep them interesting.

***

At this point, does the topic of introverts in relationships even merit a response? We think before we act, which means we might do more analysis before leaping into a romantic entanglement. This has it’s pros and cons, as does spontaneity. When in a relationship, however, there’s not this huge fucking wall between us and our significant other.

See, introverts adore conversation. Real conversation. And who better to be having those kinds of deep, meaningful talks with than your lover? Introverts listen when their partners speak and really think about what they say before they say it, which can lead to fewer spats about poorly chosen turns of phrase.

True, to an extremely extroverted partner, an introvert can seem a tad bit aloof at times. And they might not always want to attend all the functions you do.

But here’s a piece of general romantic advice that also applies here: In a relationship, partners need to maintain independent identities. They need to have their own interests, their own friends, their own pursuits. When that happens, it doesn’t matter if you are introverted or extroverted- you’ll have a strong relationship and be able to handle each other’s differing personalities.

When that doesn’t happen, you get the “high school romance.” Classy shit, there, you dependent, needy bastards.

***

APA, tell me- do the traits of an introvert (the real traits of an introvert) honestly sound like a good way to help diagnose mental disorders? I think what you are looking for is true antisocial behavior. Contrary to popular belief (something I would hope that you, APA, were above considering fact), introversion and antisocial disorder are two very different things. To the untrained eye, they might have some similarities…

But your eyes are trained. Quit being so fucking stupid.

Also… apathy has nothing to do with introversion. Apathy is a whole ‘nother beast. What the frak is wrong with you guys?

Rant over.

***

As a general note to you loyal few galleons who read this every day… posts are going to (probably) get more sporadic. And they will be coming at different times than before (used to be that I’d post once late at night and, possibly, once in the early afternoon… but no more). This is because, for the next 8 weeks, my schedule is fucked up. Depending on the week, I’m working:

Day shift (LTC): 0600- 1430
Evening shift (LTC): 1400- 2230
Day shift (Med/Surg): 0700- 1900

As you can see, shifts vary a bit, so you never know when I’ll be sleeping, when I’ll be working, or when I’ll be free to post.

Enjoy the insanity.

An Open Letter To The Women I Work With (And Women In General)

I have a bone to pick with you, ladies.

So, you’ve squeezed out a kid or two. Fine. That’s great (I guess). If you’re happy with it… whatever. I don’t care.

And that’s the kicker. I. Don’t. Care. I don’t give two shits about your offspring. I really don’t. Just because I was born with a uterus doesn’t mean I like children, want children, or think children are even remotely interesting.

See, a woman’s success is not measured in the number of times she’s snipped the umbilical cord. It’s just procreation. On a scientific level, in terms of the sperm’s journey to the egg and the combining of genetic material and the growth of the blastocyst into an embryo… sure, procreation’s pretty damn interesting. But socially? Popping out a baby isn’t novel, exciting, or in any way interesting.

Do not get offended when you ask me if I have children, and I chuckle and tell you I will never have kids. It’s my decision whether I decide to carry around a parasite for nine months, birth it, and then have it leech off me for the rest of my life, or whether I keep my vagina intact, keep my sanity, and enjoy my freedom. My decision. Not yours.

Frankly, I don’t think you should ever start a conversation by asking if I have children. At least ask my name first.

And the proper follow up to me telling you I have no desire to breed is not to puff out your chest and proclaim you have five children. Because I just don’t know what you expect me to say in response to that. I’m not going to congratulate you for doing something women have been doing for thousands of years. What do you want me to say? Good for you? Because that’s the only response I can think of. I’m not going to ask you anything about them. I don’t want to know their sexes, names, ages. I don’t care how they’re doing in school. I don’t even know you. Why would I care about your faceless spawn?

Also… do you cease having interests once you give birth? Because I just spent 8 hours locked in room with three women roughly my age who could talk about nothing but their children. And the birthing process. Can’t we talk about anything else? I’d settle for a discussion about shoe shopping. Seriously.

Because it’s just flat-out boring for me when you yammer away about little Miah or J’nelle. [as an aside… people, name your fucking children normal goddamn things]

When I have to be around you, interacting with you, for a prolonged period of time, there’s nothing I hate more than to be served a heaping platter of maternal smugness. Oh, I have carried a life within me and released it upon the world and now am nurturing and caring for it, raising it to be a real person. Aren’t I special? Don’t you just envy everything about me, from my stretch marks to my post-partum depression to my lukewarm marriage to the man who planted his seed in my womb all those months ago?

I feel all you women could learn something from this video, because seriously, it’s not just pregnant women who are smug. It’s new mothers, too. Anyone who thinks that having a baby makes you better than other women. Anyone who thinks they are suddenly wiser and more mature because they’ve ejected the product of meiosis and fertilization from their body.

So, you have a baby. That’s nice. It’s not something that has to be brought up every three minutes. Because some women just don’t care about your kids. I’m one of those women. Don’t assume that my vagina means I believe in any kind of female solidarity. That I think procreation is a sacred, beautiful act. That I want to listen to you tell me about your epidural and how your belly felt right before your water broke.

Deal with it- your greatest success in life is of absolutely no importance to me.

Shut the fuck up about your goddamn baby.

In Which I Am Thoroughly Baffled While Shopping, Then Proceed to Bleed a Lot

Scrubs.

More than just an awesome television show, scrubs are the clothing worn by surgeons when “scrubbing in” for surgery. They’ve trickled though the entire hospital infrastructure now and are worn by nearly all medical personnel, from doctors to orderlies.

Which means that, seeing as I start work next week, I needed to purchase some scrubs. This was a learning experience for me.

I had been told by my employer that I could purchase scrubs from Walmart. Which was news to me. Sure enough, wandering back by the pajamas (where I never shop), I found a section devoted to hospital garb.

And then I ran into a problem I didn’t anticipate having while shopping for fucking scrubs.

I had too many options.

My supervisor had told me that I wasn’t allowed to wear purple scrubs (one of the other departments uses those exclusively), but that any other sort was fair game. When she said that, I didn’t realize how many fucking choices I’d have.

Patterns.

Colors.

Cuts (of tops and pants).

I mean, for fuck’s sake, these are scrubs. They aren’t attractive. They aren’t supposed to be attractive. They’re functional. They’re pieces of clothing created to remain as clean as possible due to simplicity of cut and style. And yet, somehow, people have had to make them fashionable.

So there I am, standing in Walmart, staring at this wall of scrubs. And I have to make a decision. Pick a few. But I can’t. There are so many types. So many colors. Everything in me is screaming that I’m going to pick the wrong ones, that my supervisor was exaggerating when she said I could wear “any” of them, that I was going to be shamed for wearing something ridiculous.

And speaking of ridiculous, I didn’t want to look like an idiot. Is it bad form to wear black scrub bottoms every day? Will printed tops make me look like a fool? And why do I have the option of “low rise” on scrub pants? Will these fucking things be long enough for my legs, as so few pants are?

Too many questions. I grabbed a few of the least offensive tops, a few bottoms (not all black), and booked it out of there. They’re just a uniform, after all. No woman looks good in scrubs, so it’s silly to be too caught up in the “fashionable” side of things. I’m going to work, not trying to pick up blokes at a bar.

***

Speaking of the hospital… I have to finish filling out my insurance paperwork.

***

In other news, I stabbed myself today when I was cooking. Because I’m awesome like that.

For the record, this happens every few weeks. I get cocky, forget that I’m klutzy and that knives aren’t my friends, and try to cut something from a dumb angle. Because I’m invincible in the kitchen. Iron Chef Sam, that’s me.

And then I slip and slice some portion of my hand and remember that I’m not invincible as I curse and dig a bandage out of the cabinet.

Today, I was cutting into a bell pepper, cradling it in one hand as I sawed at it with my other, knife-wielding extremity. I was startled and thrust my knife through the pepper a bit too forcefully. So, the knife just kept going… right through the pepper… and into my hand.

But, I’m a pro at the whole “kitchen accident” situation. Without dropping either the knife or the food, I deposited them on the counter, went to the sink, and began washing the wound out.

See, stab/slash wounds hurt, but it’s a rather universal hurt. A shallow one can hurt just as much as a much deeper one. I can never tell just how bad the injury is until I clean it off and look at it.

This one was pretty deep (but didn’t go all the way through my palm, so I call it a win). It’ll be a lovely addition to my collection of kitchen-related scars (a pizza oven burn, two regular oven burns, a gash from broken glass, and now two stabs).

Oh, don’t act like this is any big thing- no matter where I am, I’m a damn klutz. And yet I still manage to complete construction jobs (I’m damn good at ’em, too) and be an awesome cook and walk in heels and ice skate (…I miss that). I just sometimes hurt myself. Don’t fret- I’m used to it. And, by now, I have a high pain tolerance. Slap a bandage on it and move on.

***

I just finished reading a pretty great book. I picked it up a year ago at a sale in a church basement (which sounds like an odd place for me to frequent, but around here, that’s the best place to buy used books, outside of my favorite used bookstore). It’s The Hotel Eden by Ron Carlson.

It’s a collection of short stories. And, like the works of Mary Gaitskill, Kevin Brockmeier, and Italo Calvino (some of my favorite short story writers), Carlson’s pieces manage to capture a bittersweet, amusing, poignant, melancholic, heartbreaking feeling. Every story in this collection begs you to pause upon completion, to examine the complexities of the emotions it evokes, to chew on the language and the beautifully flawed characters.

I love stories like that. I knew, from the moment I picked this book up last year, that this would be exactly the type of short story collection I adore. But it’s sat on my bookshelf for a year now, gathering dust. I would think about reading it, then have something better to do. Like schoolwork or WoW or reading any number of other books.

Three days ago, I picked it up and decided to finally read it.

And I’m pleased I did. I highly recommend it.

While on the subject of Ron Carlson, I Wiki’d him last summer when I first bought this book. His page used to include a line that read, “Ron Carlson is also a collector of rare and endangered badgers.”

Of course, this turned out to be a fabrication (oh, Wikipedia). Still, I like to pretend it was real and that Mr. Carlson really is that badass.

***

WordPress keeps telling me about some “prompt generator” that I should use, because it’s so awesome for bloggers and blah blah blah. I’m tired of seeing that, frankly. I don’t approve of using generated “prompts” in my blog.

I first created this blog so that I would be writing something every day, which would hopefully help my actual writing. But I keep this blog because I have things to say. Funny things. Silly things. Thoughtful things. Intelligent and witty things. Stupid things. Emo things. Things I remember.

I don’t approve of people using prompts on blogs because it feels like you have nothing to say. That you aren’t interesting enough or smart enough or clever enough to come up with something to talk about in your bi-weekly posts (because, let’s be honest, most people don’t update with the frequency I do). And I don’t want that to be the feeling people get when they come to this blog. If I run out of things to talk about, someday, then I’ll stop writing in this. Period.

So no, WordPress, I don’t want your damn prompt generator. Leave me alone.

***

Continuing the trend of unrelated topics, I have an irrational fear of having the windows in the car rolled down halfway when the wind is blowing with any real intensity. I feel that the window is more structurally sound if all the way up or all the way down. If left halfway down, there’s the chance that the wind will gust so hard that the pressure will shatter the glass and a large chunk of it will lodge itself in the side of my neck and I will die. Horribly.

…Listen, I’m a very morbid individual. And full of weird fears. It’s all part of the awesome package that is me.

***

And finally, did you notice the color change, galleons? *grin*

The Only Advantage to Unemployment is That I Can Get Away With Not Wearing Pants For a Much Greater Percentage of the Day

Something I Am Really Bad At: Feminine Rituals

My eyebrow region currently feels like a swarm of angry fire ants have taken up residence above my eyeballs. Seriously, who the fuck decided it was a good idea to rip out their hair one goddamn piece at a time?

Oh yes, this sounds like a pleasant way to spend my Saturday, Olga- yanking out all the hair on my body, one little strand at a time. Yes, Olga, literally ripping each hair from it’s cozy follicular nest. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? All the men about the village are sure to love me after this!

I really, really hate plucking my eyebrows. And thick, unmanageable brows run in the Hederman family. Those stereotypical caterpillar brows? Yeah… I could totally have that if I let myself go for a month or two.

Of course, I’m a super vain individual, so that’s not gonna happen.

I know that I could wax instead, but… When I was in the eighth grade, I bought a home eyebrow waxing kit. It seemed simple enough. You affixed one of the papery brow guides over your eyebrow (to get the desired shape), heated the wax up in the microwave, then applied it to the region surrounding the paper guide. Put stupid cloth over wax, rip off, and presto! You have perfectly sculpted brows.

Of course, because it seemed so simple, it didn’t go as planned.

The guides were made of the world’s flimsiest paper. It was hard to get them to stay where you wanted, and they really didn’t do much to keep the wax out from under them. The wax itself was also really runny (it only had two phases- brick and soup), so it seeped under the little guides.

The only part that worked the way it was supposed to was the actual ripping. Oh yeah, that worked (and took off a little skin with it). It worked a bit too well. I was left with two dot-like-patch-things for eyebrows.

So hot.

I spent weeks drawing those puppies on so as not to look like a Babylon 5 reject. Needless to say, I tend to avoid waxing (home or professional) now. Which means I have to pluck them in order to prevent this:

Though if the über-brow came with her artistic ability, I might reconsider.

Now that my eyebrows have stopped stinging, I’ll tell you about my second female failure today.

While in Powell, doing a hand washing test (more on that in a bit), the nurse I was with looked down at my hands and said, “Oh, wow, look at your cuticles.” *condescending laugh* “Yours are even worse than my daughter’s. She’s 9.”

Fuck me. Lady, I did not come here for you to insult me. I don’t have dainty lady-hands. You don’t need to rub it in.

Then she proceeded to quote something from Sex and the City at me, which I had to pretend to understand, because I loathe that show. LOATHE. IT.

Something I Am Really Good At: Moderate Germaphobia

So, I went to Powell today to have the hospital read my TB test and for me to fill out a form I’d already filled out once, but that they’d fucked up and now I had to redo.

Huzzah. A two-hour round-trip that I’m not getting paid for… to be in their offices for less than fifteen minutes.

After the nurse “reads” my TB test (otherwise known as looking at my arm and ascertaining there is not a lump there from a reaction to the PPD tuberculin they injected me with on Friday), she tells me that she also has to give me training on proper hand washing technique.

Which makes sense- most people don’t know how long to wash their hands or how to do it properly.

So first, she squirts this Glitter Bug lotion on my hands and tells me to rub it all over them, as if I were using hand sanitizer. Then, she turns out the lights and flips on a black light. Because the lotion is black light sensitive and will show the spots you missed. Like this:

I passed the crap out of that, because I have an insane love for hand sanitizer and use it all the time.

Then, it was time for the actual hand washing. There was even a little diagram above the sink showing the most frequently missed areas. I ignored it. I know how to wash my goddamn hands. So, I did so.

And then it was back to the black light. To see what I’d missed.

Yeah… this nurse was super surprised at how thorough I had been. She wouldn’t have been, though, if she knew of my obsession with hygiene.

I love washing my hands. I do so a lot (not, like, obsessive compulsive “a lot,” but a higher-than-average amount… which isn’t saying much, really). Because I hate germs. When I was little, I always used to imagine germs were like invisible bugs. And I have a serious phobia of insects. So, I’ve been scrubbing the crap out of my skin for years and years now.

As an aside, I always imagine the greatest germ death scene ever when washing my hands (skip to 5:16 of the video).

So, I totally passed their basic hygiene test. Aren’t you proud, galleons?

BE PROUD OF ME! This is all I accomplished today.

Unemployment is really boring…

***

I wore this rather recently acquired striped bra today. And all day, it kept making me think about candy and gum. And I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

Until right now, when I realized it looks like fucking FRUIT STRIPE GUM:

Guess what my new favorite bra is?

Because I Said I’d Tell You Lot About This… Here’s My News

Last night, I promised you, dear galleons, that I would tell you some wonderful news today. So…

When I was a freshman at MSU, I earned a nickname from the much-esteemed Derek: Watchtower. And here’s how I acquired that nom de plume (not really the correct usage of this phrase, but I like it and it’s staying):

It was a Thursday night. Fall semester. Before I started drinking much at all. Note that this was during the time when Derek would actually buy for us young ROIALies. And he had done so on this fine Thursday, providing the room with Popov (sweet JESUS, why does anyone drink that swill?).

Good times.

So, Thursday night. We’re all piled into Stauff and Nick’s room (the room of the UNIDENTIFIABLE STENCH that bled into the ROIAL office and caused poor Derek no end of suffering… seriously, what the fuck was in their room?!), most of the crowd trashed. Said crowd included myself, Sasha (who was crushing on Stauff), Stauff, Nick, Christine (who wanted in Nick’s pants), Grix (who had the option of getting in Nick’s pants but didn’t want to), Derek, and Ainsley (who was trying to get into Derek’s pants but had only succeeded in plundering his mouth).

People are drinking, and we’re all playing Halo (sometimes, I feel my freshman year can be summed up with Players, Van, Popov, and Halo). Ainsley is on Derek’s lap, trying to Hoover his face off. Then, Nick gets a phone call. And promptly leaves the room.

Hours pass.

Eventually, Nick returns. He was drunk when he left, but now he’s obviously worse. To this day, I can only assume that more alcohol and copious amounts of pot were consumed while he was away. He collapses into a sitting position on the floor, leaning heavily against the bed. He’s so far gone that he won’t respond when I try to talk to him.

Christine, on the other hand, cuddles up to his side. She’s drunk and still trying to get laid. I am trying to make sure Nick isn’t going to die.

He’s unresponsive. I drag the trashcan over and tuck it under his head. I hold him over the trashcan. I make sure that he doesn’t vomit all over the floor and/or pass out and suffocate in his own vomit.

I do all this because, at the time, Nick was one of my closest friends.

I’m there for hours. I’m practically elbowing Christine in the face to keep her off the half-comatose Nick. I’m starting to worry that I’m going to have to call 911 and get him to the hospital because he is suffering from alcohol poisoning.

I’m scared, I’m tired, and all I want to do is go to bed, wake up, and realize that this was all a horrible dream. But, of course, it wasn’t. I’m in a room full of people, and I’m the only one doing anything.

It was awful.

At the end of it all, after holding Nick up for nearly two hours and force feeding him water, he starts to come to. I almost cry. That’s how relieved I am. I get him into bed, and he passes out.

Derek has watched this whole thing, with Ainsley in his lap (and often in his mouth). Eventually, he says something.

“That was…”

There’s a heavy silence. I look at him, worn out, my arms shaking from supporting Nick’s weight for so long. There’s a moment where we just look at each other, and I know that something has changed, but I don’t understand it. Then he speaks again.

“Sam, that was incredible. I always knew you watched out for people, but… Tonight, you were like a Watchtower. Nothing was getting through.”

I’m almost crying at this point. I asked Derek if what I did was right. If I should have just called the cops/hospital instead. He tells me he doesn’t know if what I did was right, but it was admirable and it worked and, in the end, Nick is going to be fine.

And then he told me that anyone would be insanely lucky to count me among their friends.

This was the man who, just over a year later, broke up with his girlfriend and cried onto my shoulder in the middle of the Phillips lobby. We stood there, surrounded by the bags of props for Clue that I, as the AD, was in charge of, with me holding him in my awkward-yet-sincere way and him soaking my blouse with his tears.

I don’t know if people are lucky if I count them as friends, but I do think that the nickname “Watchtower” makes a lot of sense.

I’ve spent so much of my life putting everyone else before myself. My family. My friends. All the people I even remotely care about.

So, I’ve decided to twist this weird need to help people/be there for them to my advantage. For once.

This week, I’ve interviewed for, been offered, and accepted a position as a Nutritional Support Assistant at a hospital in Powell. In this position, my job will mostly consist of feeding old people/long-term care residents. Which isn’t the greatest position in the world, but is a step in the right direction.

Because, in September, I’ll train to become a Certified Nursing Assistant. And, after a year, they’ll pay half my class expenses should I want to become a licensed nurse.

Which, I’ve realized, I do. Some people who know me know that, in the last two years or so, I have spoken on multiple occasions about my desire to work in the medical field. The thing is, unlike all those people I went to school with at MSU, I can’t afford medical school. My parents would neither pay for it nor sign the loans to let me attend.

This way, I can actually get into a field I’ve been eying for a while now. Of course, in order to do so, I’ve had to sign a contract saying I’ll stick around for at least a year.

Holy shit, I made a commitment. What does this mean for me? Am I finally over my fear? Can I be in a real relationship?

Maybe.

Anyway, this position is great. I have real, great benefits (health insurance and life insurance among them), an ID card (which is just cool)… I’m terribly excited.

I don’t start until July, though. And I have to wear scrubs (no woman looks good in scrubs). And, in order to chase this position this week, I actually had to forfeit my current minimum wage position.

So… I’m unemployed for a month. Woo?

Seriously, though, I did not expect to be photographed and jabbed with a needle at a “pre-employment screening.”

On the plus side, I don’t have TB.