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.
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*