Of Baltimore's many monikers (including Charm City, The Greatest City in America (seriously--it says so on the public benches), The City That Reads, The City That Bleeds, and Mob Town), my personal favorite and most used is Smalltimore. One, because it just sounds silly, and two, because it's true. Don't let the big city trappings fool you--if you spend even just 24 hours here you WILL run into someone you know. Case in point: My friend who came to visit this weekend got hit on by a dude in a bar. We went to brunch the next morning on the opposite side of town. Dude was our waiter.
After spending such a long time in New York City, I find this aspect rather comforting. It makes me feel like I'm a part of something, and it's forcing me to deal with my social anxiety--the "look at your cell phone and pretend not to notice" trick doesn't work as well when you're the only two people on the sidewalk. And you're more accountable to how you treat people. Not that I was ever a total jerkface or anything, but it's making me think hard about my moments of inconsideration. No longer can I just ignore the texts of someone I've been on a few dates with and say to myself, "Oh well, it's not like I'll ever run into him again." (Which doesn't mean I won't still ignore the texts, just that I can't say that...IT IS A WORK IN PROGRESS HERE, PEOPLE.)
A new element of the smallness I hadn't considered until recently is the likelihood of running into patients. Unfortunately, ICU patients are less likely to be seen out and about than those from other areas of the healthcare continuum, but their family members aren't. Two weeks ago I saw the daughter of patient I took care of for three days crossing my street. This morning I noticed the son of another one at the farmers market. And then I noticed the wife. And then I noticed...the patient! I was more than a little bit surprised. Three weeks ago, I suctioned bloody sputum out of his lungs and stood by as a newly minted MD performed her first paracentesis (i.e., draining the "beer" out of a beer belly). And here he was, all cleaned up and inspecting peaches with his family on a sunny summer morning. There was a tear or two beneath my sunglasses. And then I felt kind of creepy.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
from the "poignantly sad moments in nursing" files
I arrive to work and one of my two assigned patients is already in a body bag. We spend the morning taking care of the living one and waiting for Transport to take the dead one to the morgue and for Housekeeping to clean the room. I look in and notice an "About Me" poster on the bulletin board. I make a mental note to make sure it's gone before the next patient arrives. (Housekeeping sometimes forgets about the bulletin board, and having cards and things from a prior patient in the room is, obviously, not ideal.)
Sometime in the late afternoon (this transport and cleaning business takes forever), the new patient arrives. We do all the new patient things--vital signs, EKG, swabs in various orifices for various cultures, etc. I open the garbage can to throw away the used blood glucose finger stick supplies. At the bottom lies the "About Me" poster. "My name is John," it says. "My pet is Lucy--Chow-Chow mix. I like astronomy, running, and classical music."
Next!
Fuck.
Sometime in the late afternoon (this transport and cleaning business takes forever), the new patient arrives. We do all the new patient things--vital signs, EKG, swabs in various orifices for various cultures, etc. I open the garbage can to throw away the used blood glucose finger stick supplies. At the bottom lies the "About Me" poster. "My name is John," it says. "My pet is Lucy--Chow-Chow mix. I like astronomy, running, and classical music."
Next!
Fuck.
Friday, July 15, 2011
from the "wildly inappropriate moments in nursing" files
Two nurses and I are bathing a patient--a 23-year-old girl with acute liver failure due to drinking a pint of vodka a day since age 15. She is in bed, yellow as a Simpsons character, and on the wrong end of the coma scale. I am holding her up on her side so that Nurse 1 can scrub her back. Nurse 2 is emptying her rectal tube drainage bag into a measuring container.
Nurse 2: I kind of want to go to Nearby Pub tonight. You working tomorrow?
Nurse 1: Yeeeeah. Sorry.
Nurse 2: Just for a little bit?
Nurse 1: Ok, sure. I guess a drink won't kill me.
Eye contact is made. Jaws drop. I turn my face away from the patient because I am trying to suppress that particular kind of laughter that comes on in awkward situations and it is not working. We go about the remainder of the bath in silence.
Nurse 2: I kind of want to go to Nearby Pub tonight. You working tomorrow?
Nurse 1: Yeeeeah. Sorry.
Nurse 2: Just for a little bit?
Nurse 1: Ok, sure. I guess a drink won't kill me.
Eye contact is made. Jaws drop. I turn my face away from the patient because I am trying to suppress that particular kind of laughter that comes on in awkward situations and it is not working. We go about the remainder of the bath in silence.
Sunday, July 03, 2011
speaking of nursing having its own language...
In the hospital, there is no time for actual, you know, words. As a result, medical professionals have come up with various acronyms, abbreviations, and mnemonic devices to document patient data and aid with assessments. Some of them have more than one (very different) meaning, and many of them make no sense to anyone not high on marijuana (or whatever the kids are getting high on these days...someone in the pediatric ICU let me know?). Here are some of my favorites, so far, in vaguely alphabetical order:
B-52 (or, how to knock out a belligerent psych patient) - Benadryl, 5 mg of Haldol, 2 mg of Ativan
BM - black male, bone marrow, bowel movement
BRBPR - bright red blood per rectum
BRP - bathroom privileges
BURPS - building and understanding roots, prefixes, and suffixes
CABG (pronounced "cabbage") - coronary artery bypass graft
DIAPERS (when assessing for urinary incontinence in the "older adult") - delirium, infection, atrophic urethritis, pharmaceuticals, excess excretion, restricted mobility, stool impaction
ED - eating disorder, emergency department, erectile dysfunction
FFF - fat, female, forty (the most common gallstones demographic)
The Six F's of Abdominal Distention: fat, fluid, flatus, fetus, feces, fibroid (such a ring to it, no?)
DNKA - did not keep appointment
NKDA - no known drug allergies
GSW - gunshot wound
DSW - discount shoe store
(just kidding)
CVA - cerebrovascular accident (woopsies!)
I GET SMASHED (when assessing for pancreatitis) - idiopathic, gallstones, ethanol (booze), trauma, steroids, mumps, autoimmune, scorpion sting (WTF), hypercalcaemia, hypertriglyceridaemia, hypothermia, ERCP (endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatography), drugs (e.g., azathioprine, diuretics)
LLL - left lower lobe (of the lung)
RRR - regular rate and rhythm (of the heart)
mg - miligram
Mg - magnesium
MG - myasthenia gravis
MVA - motor vehicle accident
MVP - mitral valve prolapse
OLDCARTS (when assessing anyone complaining of anything) - onset, location, duration, characteristics, associated symptoms, radiation, treatments, summary
PE - physical examination, pulmonary embolism
PROM - passive range of motion, premature rupture of membranes
PUPPP - pruritic urticarial papules and plaques of pregnancy (in other words, an itchy rash)
SOB - shortness of breath
TLC - tender loving care, total lung capacity (RIP, Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes)
B-52 (or, how to knock out a belligerent psych patient) - Benadryl, 5 mg of Haldol, 2 mg of Ativan
BM - black male, bone marrow, bowel movement
BRBPR - bright red blood per rectum
BRP - bathroom privileges
BURPS - building and understanding roots, prefixes, and suffixes
CABG (pronounced "cabbage") - coronary artery bypass graft
DIAPERS (when assessing for urinary incontinence in the "older adult") - delirium, infection, atrophic urethritis, pharmaceuticals, excess excretion, restricted mobility, stool impaction
ED - eating disorder, emergency department, erectile dysfunction
FFF - fat, female, forty (the most common gallstones demographic)
The Six F's of Abdominal Distention: fat, fluid, flatus, fetus, feces, fibroid (such a ring to it, no?)
DNKA - did not keep appointment
NKDA - no known drug allergies
GSW - gunshot wound
DSW - discount shoe store
(just kidding)
CVA - cerebrovascular accident (woopsies!)
I GET SMASHED (when assessing for pancreatitis) - idiopathic, gallstones, ethanol (booze), trauma, steroids, mumps, autoimmune, scorpion sting (WTF), hypercalcaemia, hypertriglyceridaemia, hypothermia, ERCP (endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatography), drugs (e.g., azathioprine, diuretics)
LLL - left lower lobe (of the lung)
RRR - regular rate and rhythm (of the heart)
mg - miligram
Mg - magnesium
MG - myasthenia gravis
MVA - motor vehicle accident
MVP - mitral valve prolapse
OLDCARTS (when assessing anyone complaining of anything) - onset, location, duration, characteristics, associated symptoms, radiation, treatments, summary
PE - physical examination, pulmonary embolism
PROM - passive range of motion, premature rupture of membranes
PUPPP - pruritic urticarial papules and plaques of pregnancy (in other words, an itchy rash)
SOB - shortness of breath
TLC - tender loving care, total lung capacity (RIP, Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes)
Monday, June 13, 2011
a letter to a friend
because sometimes it's easier to write to a person than to the black hole that is the Internet
In other news, I am seven shifts into my job in the ICU. Things are going really well, which is more a relief than anything because I was so scared going into it. I'm learning a ton and am starting to feel somewhat competent! Also hospital nurses are a pretty hilarious, salty bunch. Especially the older ones. The weird part though is that in school I'd always joke that my main goal was just to not kill anyone, but in there I almost wish I could. For the last two days my patient was a homeless man being kept alive on a ventilator and various meds that kept his blood flowing, and he was absolutely going to die, but we couldn't withdraw any care because he didn't have anyone to speak for him. By the end of my shift yesterday my preceptor and I were just kind of fed up, and when hospital staff would come by to inquire (he was obviously in horrendous shape), she'd say, "Oh, you know, we're just letting him slowly suffocate." Which is exactly what we were doing. And what we legally had to do. If I saw a freaking cockroach going through such suffering I'd feel like a bad person for not putting it out of its misery. The man was unconscious but you just don't know what's going on in there... So yeah, I'm thinking I'll go into primary care. Your Friendly Neighborhood Nurse Practitioner! With healthy snacks in the waiting room! (That last part is probably illegal.)
In other news, I am seven shifts into my job in the ICU. Things are going really well, which is more a relief than anything because I was so scared going into it. I'm learning a ton and am starting to feel somewhat competent! Also hospital nurses are a pretty hilarious, salty bunch. Especially the older ones. The weird part though is that in school I'd always joke that my main goal was just to not kill anyone, but in there I almost wish I could. For the last two days my patient was a homeless man being kept alive on a ventilator and various meds that kept his blood flowing, and he was absolutely going to die, but we couldn't withdraw any care because he didn't have anyone to speak for him. By the end of my shift yesterday my preceptor and I were just kind of fed up, and when hospital staff would come by to inquire (he was obviously in horrendous shape), she'd say, "Oh, you know, we're just letting him slowly suffocate." Which is exactly what we were doing. And what we legally had to do. If I saw a freaking cockroach going through such suffering I'd feel like a bad person for not putting it out of its misery. The man was unconscious but you just don't know what's going on in there... So yeah, I'm thinking I'll go into primary care. Your Friendly Neighborhood Nurse Practitioner! With healthy snacks in the waiting room! (That last part is probably illegal.)
Saturday, May 21, 2011
emphasis on the "maybe"
Ok, so I'm going to try to write about this nursing business. Since, you know, "write what you know", and right now I know nursing school. And cats. But there's enough of that on the internet.
I'm on break between school and a summer job, and because I didn't have much time in between and mostly because I am broke, I stayed in Baltimore. And because most of my friends have fled our funny little city, I've had to get creative with my time. A few nights ago I took my most recent clinical instructor up on her offer to let students shadow her at her day...er, night job in the ER (which is now called the ED, "D" for Department, I guess because it's not really just a room? I learned this about halfway into the first semester. Anyway.) I should also probably backtrack at this point and explain what a "clinical instructor" is. Nursing has its own language and when almost everyone you hang out with is in nursing, it's hard to remember that the rest of the world doesn't know the lingo. So a large part of our curriculum involves clinical rotations aka "clinicals", which is basically just time spent learning in the hospital. We're divided into groups of 6-8, and, along with an instructor, we invade a particular type of hospital unit once or twice a week and try really hard not to kill anyone.
We don't do Emergency or Urgent Care or Shock/Trauma in school, so I didn't want to pass up the chance to hang out in the ED, because it really is just so fucking cool. (And yes the doctors--male and female--are as hot as they are on TV. Something about those teal scrubs and saving lives and stuff.) Anyway, I was only slated to be there from 7-11 pm, and my instructor paired me the with the trauma nurse with the hope that I'd get to see some action. By the time 8 o'clock rolled around, pretty much all I'd seen aside from the requisite drunk man tied to a bed in the hallway was a gangrenous foot. Now, if you've never seen a gangrenous foot, I highly recommend you not do a Google Image Search for "gangrenous foot". I wanted my instructor to feel like I was learning something, so I joined her in triage to describe the soon-to-no-longer-be appendage. "Well," she said, rearranging her face after expressing a combo of joy and disgust, "I don't want to say it's a slow night, because that'll jinx it and make it the opposite, but it really IS quite a slow night." And then, of course, the ambulance dispatch phone rang to report that three people who appeared over the age of 16 were currently being extracted from a car wrapped around a tree, and they would probably be arriving shortly.
I can't even really begin to describe the intensity of what happened next, and I probably shouldn't since the accident made the news and, you know, privacy laws and stuff. Suffice it to say, CPR, unlike the doctors, looks absolutely nothing like it does on TV. And, I have a ridiculous amount of respect for everyone who works in emergency care. Twenty people can be in the same tiny trauma room working on one patient, and somehow everyone fills their roles without getting in the way of anyone else. (My role, in this case, was plastering myself against the wall, trying to keep my jaw off the floor, and occasionally handing someone a roll of tape.) When my mini-shift was over, my instructor asked if this was something I could see myself doing in the future. I gave her an enthusiastic, "Yeah, maybe!" and then went outside, cried, and called my mom.
I'm on break between school and a summer job, and because I didn't have much time in between and mostly because I am broke, I stayed in Baltimore. And because most of my friends have fled our funny little city, I've had to get creative with my time. A few nights ago I took my most recent clinical instructor up on her offer to let students shadow her at her day...er, night job in the ER (which is now called the ED, "D" for Department, I guess because it's not really just a room? I learned this about halfway into the first semester. Anyway.) I should also probably backtrack at this point and explain what a "clinical instructor" is. Nursing has its own language and when almost everyone you hang out with is in nursing, it's hard to remember that the rest of the world doesn't know the lingo. So a large part of our curriculum involves clinical rotations aka "clinicals", which is basically just time spent learning in the hospital. We're divided into groups of 6-8, and, along with an instructor, we invade a particular type of hospital unit once or twice a week and try really hard not to kill anyone.
We don't do Emergency or Urgent Care or Shock/Trauma in school, so I didn't want to pass up the chance to hang out in the ED, because it really is just so fucking cool. (And yes the doctors--male and female--are as hot as they are on TV. Something about those teal scrubs and saving lives and stuff.) Anyway, I was only slated to be there from 7-11 pm, and my instructor paired me the with the trauma nurse with the hope that I'd get to see some action. By the time 8 o'clock rolled around, pretty much all I'd seen aside from the requisite drunk man tied to a bed in the hallway was a gangrenous foot. Now, if you've never seen a gangrenous foot, I highly recommend you not do a Google Image Search for "gangrenous foot". I wanted my instructor to feel like I was learning something, so I joined her in triage to describe the soon-to-no-longer-be appendage. "Well," she said, rearranging her face after expressing a combo of joy and disgust, "I don't want to say it's a slow night, because that'll jinx it and make it the opposite, but it really IS quite a slow night." And then, of course, the ambulance dispatch phone rang to report that three people who appeared over the age of 16 were currently being extracted from a car wrapped around a tree, and they would probably be arriving shortly.
I can't even really begin to describe the intensity of what happened next, and I probably shouldn't since the accident made the news and, you know, privacy laws and stuff. Suffice it to say, CPR, unlike the doctors, looks absolutely nothing like it does on TV. And, I have a ridiculous amount of respect for everyone who works in emergency care. Twenty people can be in the same tiny trauma room working on one patient, and somehow everyone fills their roles without getting in the way of anyone else. (My role, in this case, was plastering myself against the wall, trying to keep my jaw off the floor, and occasionally handing someone a roll of tape.) When my mini-shift was over, my instructor asked if this was something I could see myself doing in the future. I gave her an enthusiastic, "Yeah, maybe!" and then went outside, cried, and called my mom.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
an overachiever's guide to overcoming anxiety
I can get competitive about pretty much anything. Except for sports involving a ball, in which case, take the ball...no really you can have the ball...I do not want the ball please get it away from me. (This does not include bowling. I love bowling.) Anyway, there often does not even need to be another person involved for me to get my game face on. Since I've started riding a bike I can't help but race my school's shuttle bus to school. I usually win. Granted, the bus doesn't know it's in a race, but still. Last night was the night before our last day of final exams here in nursing school, and I was befelled by a pretty serious bout of anxiety. I really, really don't like anxiety (depression suits me much better), and by god if I wasn't going to kick that anxiety's ass. Here's a list of my plays, in chronological order, to the best of my ability to recall:
* some yoga poses (I like downward dog, child's pose, and a supported fish, if you were wondering. No? Fine then.)
* one can of delicious Resurrection Ale
* petting of cats
* 3/4 of a cigarette
* making of a to-do list and detailed schedule of tomorrow's tasks
* a lot of mint tea
* impulsive ordering of Tina Fey's book (including downloading of the Kindle app so I could read it RIGHT THEN)
* 1/2 a Klonopin
* hugging of cats
* staying up past my bedtime reading 1/4 of Tina Fey's book
Note that nice balance between healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms! And now here it is, 7 a.m., I'm bright-eyed and rested and enjoying hearty breakfast, ready to get in some last minute cramming for the exams I'm no longer worried about (probably because I never really had a good reason to be worried about them in the first place). Most importantly, I WIN.
* some yoga poses (I like downward dog, child's pose, and a supported fish, if you were wondering. No? Fine then.)
* one can of delicious Resurrection Ale
* petting of cats
* 3/4 of a cigarette
* making of a to-do list and detailed schedule of tomorrow's tasks
* a lot of mint tea
* impulsive ordering of Tina Fey's book (including downloading of the Kindle app so I could read it RIGHT THEN)
* 1/2 a Klonopin
* hugging of cats
* staying up past my bedtime reading 1/4 of Tina Fey's book
Note that nice balance between healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms! And now here it is, 7 a.m., I'm bright-eyed and rested and enjoying hearty breakfast, ready to get in some last minute cramming for the exams I'm no longer worried about (probably because I never really had a good reason to be worried about them in the first place). Most importantly, I WIN.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
itchy and scratchy
I don't know why, but I kind of feel like blogging again. Maybe it's because I have big kid things to do like find an apartment and figure out how I'm going to get all my stuff and my two cats to Baltimore (oh yeah, I'm going to nursing school in Baltimore) and take that last college course I need to take before school starts in TWO MONTHS and this makes me feel like I'm being productive while avoiding actually being productive. Or because I'm going to be leaving all my friends and the place I've lived for the last 11 years and that is scary and maybe my friends will read it again and that way I won't disappear into a black hole of 7 a.m. clinical rotations and pharmacology flashcards. I don't actually have anything in particular to say, though, so here are some links to things that other people wrote.
It's been a long long time since I felt compelled to read someone's personal blog from start to finish, errr...from most recent post to start. But I fucking love this girl Allie Brosch (a 25-year-old unemployed elite-level distance runner and super-funny ADHD sufferer living with her boyfriend in rural Montana) and a few months ago I did just that, in about two days. There's so much good stuff on there, but I'll go ahead and highlight her most recent post, which pretty much sums up my entire life, and the improved pain rating scale she designed and sells on Zazzle and that I bought to motivate me to start my own healthcare practice someday, largely so I can put it on the wall in the waiting room.
Also, I still love Mimi Smartypants. Because of stuff like this:
I go through phases with Gawker that range from mostly love to total meh. I've been feeling it again lately. Still, I am ashamed to admit it is pretty much my primary news source. I should really start watching The Daily Show more regularly. Anyway, they even have a health section now! Science!
It's been a long long time since I felt compelled to read someone's personal blog from start to finish, errr...from most recent post to start. But I fucking love this girl Allie Brosch (a 25-year-old unemployed elite-level distance runner and super-funny ADHD sufferer living with her boyfriend in rural Montana) and a few months ago I did just that, in about two days. There's so much good stuff on there, but I'll go ahead and highlight her most recent post, which pretty much sums up my entire life, and the improved pain rating scale she designed and sells on Zazzle and that I bought to motivate me to start my own healthcare practice someday, largely so I can put it on the wall in the waiting room.
Also, I still love Mimi Smartypants. Because of stuff like this:
I saw this on the blog of someone in the process of adopting internationally: Mom’s Without Boarders.Me too. Maybe. Sometimes.
You know, I don’t really want to live in a fascist grammarian dictatorship where people have to grasp how the English language is used and punctuated before they are allowed to become parents. Except I kind of do. Maybe. Sometimes.
I go through phases with Gawker that range from mostly love to total meh. I've been feeling it again lately. Still, I am ashamed to admit it is pretty much my primary news source. I should really start watching The Daily Show more regularly. Anyway, they even have a health section now! Science!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
an announcement of sorts*
So, uh, I am going back to school. About nine months or so ago, thanks to either my therapist or my chemically stabilized moods or my waning ability to sell cheese with a smile 40 hours a week or my weariness of the ill effects of an irresponsible hedonistic lifestyle or probably some combination thereof, I got to thinking that maybe it was time that I get, like, a career, or something. Actually, the word "career" used to make me super squeamish and still does (I think it's the nerdy nasally sound of the "eer" part), so I'll just be calling it a profession. So long story short: I am applying to nursing school.
I've talked about it with my friends quite a bit, but it still feels weird for me to say out loud (or on the internet). Almost every major life decision I've ever made has been based on impulse and often irrational** gut feelings (see: Going to Columbia, My Five Apartments Since 2003, My First Tattoo). Except for the tramp stamp and the two times I attempted to save money by living with roommates, these have all been good decisions. But for me to be choosing a path that will affect the rest of my life based on practicality and lots of forethought and planning just doesn't feel like the me that I've been growing accustomed to for the last 28 years. And then there's the fact that I've been wavering on "what I want to be when I grow up" for, like, ever, and at times I've been so paralyzed by indecision that I've gotten overly excited about plans that never ended up getting realized. I'm afraid of crying wolf again.
But I've officially begun the application process with a pre-requisite college course I cannot afford, a volunteer gig at a hospital, and a GRE book (I recommend the SparkNotes version!), so I think I'm probably actually doing this. Change is hard, but I think I can do it. Case in point: I just made a week's worth of lunches for myself and no peanut butter or jelly was involved.
*The first time I typed this it came out "aorta," and I just registered for an Anatomy and Physiology class, so this MUST be the right decision, right?
**See above.
I've talked about it with my friends quite a bit, but it still feels weird for me to say out loud (or on the internet). Almost every major life decision I've ever made has been based on impulse and often irrational** gut feelings (see: Going to Columbia, My Five Apartments Since 2003, My First Tattoo). Except for the tramp stamp and the two times I attempted to save money by living with roommates, these have all been good decisions. But for me to be choosing a path that will affect the rest of my life based on practicality and lots of forethought and planning just doesn't feel like the me that I've been growing accustomed to for the last 28 years. And then there's the fact that I've been wavering on "what I want to be when I grow up" for, like, ever, and at times I've been so paralyzed by indecision that I've gotten overly excited about plans that never ended up getting realized. I'm afraid of crying wolf again.
But I've officially begun the application process with a pre-requisite college course I cannot afford, a volunteer gig at a hospital, and a GRE book (I recommend the SparkNotes version!), so I think I'm probably actually doing this. Change is hard, but I think I can do it. Case in point: I just made a week's worth of lunches for myself and no peanut butter or jelly was involved.
*The first time I typed this it came out "aorta," and I just registered for an Anatomy and Physiology class, so this MUST be the right decision, right?
**See above.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
a 28 year old's first omelet
No, not the first omelet I have ever eaten (ooooh, brunch...), but the first I have ever made. I vaguely recall attempting an omelet back in the summer of 2003, but since I only recently learned that eggs should not be cooked on full blast but rather a medium-low heat setting, every time I've tried to make an egg dish I get frustrated and end up scrambling it and dousing it in salt and pepper to make up for the rubbery blandness. But no more!
I almost never cook for myself, so what prompted this extreme culinary adventure? Aside from financial woes due to a summer of living like a person who makes twice as much money as I do (woops), I have been selling cheese at the NYC Greenmarkets. Perks include outSTANDING people/dog watching (I've got an essay floating around in my head somewhere about market demographics, but until I regain comfort writing anything longer than a Facebook status update, I recommend this video from the amazingly insane Bill Cunningham), meeting character-filled country-mouse vendors, and, of course, free food.
Last week I snuck away from the cheese and paid a visit to the farm stand a few stalls down where one particularly attractive country mouse sells his produce. After a few minutes of swooning and pretending to inspect his organic pea shoots, I had to make a selection and grabbed the nearest item--a carton of eggs. (From his own chickens! He put them in that carton himself!) Anyway, so I got some eggs. And thanks to this fine lady, I made an omelet! Certainly not the "perfect" omelet, and not as pretty as hers, but it only stuck to the pan in a couple places and when you stuff something full of fresh goat cheese, well, you're doing pretty alright for yourself. I have also had recent success with egg salad, thanks to a website on how to hard boil an egg called How To Hard Boil an Egg.
I'm turning over a new leaf here, my friends.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
a woman after my own heart
From Jezebel's Midweek Madness:
A note to any future boyfriends: if I am ever crying uncontrollably or being otherwise irrational, just promise to buy me tacos and I can pretty much guarantee that the issue will be 100% resolved.
Relatedly, here is the SNL Taco Town skit. An oldie but a goodie.
And here is the first Google Image Result when one does a search for "britney spears taco":
Perfect. I love the internet.
Is Britney "unraveling" again? Recently she went shopping and changed her outfit in every store. Then, in London, she "tearfully shut herself into a closet" and "her assistant had to coax her out by promising to buy her tacos."
A note to any future boyfriends: if I am ever crying uncontrollably or being otherwise irrational, just promise to buy me tacos and I can pretty much guarantee that the issue will be 100% resolved.
Relatedly, here is the SNL Taco Town skit. An oldie but a goodie.
And here is the first Google Image Result when one does a search for "britney spears taco":
Perfect. I love the internet.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
on trend!
Oooh look, a Style Section article about this complex phenomenon of people abandoning their blogs. (I always knew my friends were ahead of the times.) Now where's the trend piece about people who basically abandoned their blogs three years ago when they stopped working in offices but just can't let go of the dream of internet fame and fortune and "sharing their genius with the world" (where "world" equals their friend Ellen who uses their sidebar for websurfing--Hi, Ellen) and therefore keep their blog hooked up to life support by posting occasional lazy links and uninspired inanities? Look, I can pose with my laptop and look serious, too!
Gina G. still writes on her blog, sometimes, and frequently uses a stability ball for lumbar support, and also needs new blinds and/or curtains.
Gina G. still writes on her blog, sometimes, and frequently uses a stability ball for lumbar support, and also needs new blinds and/or curtains.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
stage fright
I love a good dorky competition, and I especially love a good documentary about a good dorky competition (see: Spellbound--spelling bees, Wordplay--crossword puzzles, Word Wars--Scrabble, King of Kong--Donkey Kong, Air Guitar Nation--uh, air guitars, Monster Camp--LARPing). So I was pretty excited to learn about the Air Sex Championships via Jezebel, and I look forward to the inevitable indie documentary. It is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.
And they're coming to New York soon (no pun intended). Anyone? Please???
Anyway, not to discredit the efforts of my fellow Americans, but the Japanese, who created this phenomenon of public competitive simulated humping, really know how to bring it. And, unlike their irony-loving counterparts, they take their air sex seriously.
"If there are no children being born because we're all having air sex, we will become extinct."
So true.
And they're coming to New York soon (no pun intended). Anyone? Please???
Anyway, not to discredit the efforts of my fellow Americans, but the Japanese, who created this phenomenon of public competitive simulated humping, really know how to bring it. And, unlike their irony-loving counterparts, they take their air sex seriously.
"If there are no children being born because we're all having air sex, we will become extinct."
So true.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
more!
A recent text from my friend Ellen: "I'm in a cab listening to a country song called 'god is great, beer is good, and people are crazy.' Truth."
The whole truth.
And the Youtube comments prove the truth of at least one of Mr. Currington's assertions.
The whole truth.
And the Youtube comments prove the truth of at least one of Mr. Currington's assertions.
playing ketchup
After three years working in direct contact with actual human beings, I am back to spending an unhealthy amount of time on the internet. Aaaah, it feels good to be home. Some recent highlights:
*A slow-moving strepsirrhine primate native to Southeast Asia (thanks, Wikipedia), called a slow loris, not to be confused with a slender loris, getting tickled. [Cute Overload]
*A blog about psychotic letters from men, called Psychotic Letters From Men. Gender generalizations aside, I highly recommend this as a way to kill four hours and marvel at the magical workings of the human mind. Plus, there's great commentary:
And even the occasional video! Read back story, watch video, send me your lobotomy bill. You're welcome.
*A blog about awkward family photos, called Awkward Family Photos. A lot less reading required for this one. It's hard to pick a favorite, but if I must:
*A band called Garfunkel and Oates: Two cute LA actor girls with musical-theater voices singing folk songs about annoying boyfriends and annoying pregnant women and annoying 90's top 40 hits.
More time wasting to come. Maybe.
*A slow-moving strepsirrhine primate native to Southeast Asia (thanks, Wikipedia), called a slow loris, not to be confused with a slender loris, getting tickled. [Cute Overload]
*A blog about psychotic letters from men, called Psychotic Letters From Men. Gender generalizations aside, I highly recommend this as a way to kill four hours and marvel at the magical workings of the human mind. Plus, there's great commentary:
Even at 12, Lea realized Matt had a controlling and bossy personality. In fact, Matt was hellbent on teaching Lea about the two most important things in life.
First, Lea needed to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Saviour. Only Jesus could lead Lea to happiness, and only by following His word would Lea would be accepted into Heaven. Lea needed to be saved, and Matt would willingly assist Lea in accepting Jesus Christ.
Secondly, Lea needed give to Matt a blowjob.
And even the occasional video! Read back story, watch video, send me your lobotomy bill. You're welcome.
*A blog about awkward family photos, called Awkward Family Photos. A lot less reading required for this one. It's hard to pick a favorite, but if I must:
*A band called Garfunkel and Oates: Two cute LA actor girls with musical-theater voices singing folk songs about annoying boyfriends and annoying pregnant women and annoying 90's top 40 hits.
More time wasting to come. Maybe.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
since i don't have internet access in my new apartment yet
I am so boring right now. I go to bed before 10pm. I drink exactly one beer after work (and none during work--yeah, not working at the Cheese Store anymore). I generally accomplish at least 30% of my daily To Do List. I am reading a self-help book called The Renaissance Soul and have nothing sarcastic to say about it. I am trying to lead a more goal-oriented existence and have started a tabbed notebook for that purpose. I am not wasting any time on Facebook. I am not watching crappy television shows on my laptop in bed. I am reading literary (non)fiction for fun. I engage my cat in interactive play daily.
TWO MORE WEEKS.
Unrelated: this is an item for sale on Amazon.com:
TWO MORE WEEKS.
Unrelated: this is an item for sale on Amazon.com:
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
in defense of drinking, sort of
From the New York Times' booze blog:
My years of heavy drinking were roughly coterminous with my youth, and looking back now, it’s hard to figure out which one of them I really miss.
The association between the two is not just Pavlovian. Drunkenness and youth share in a reckless irresponsibility and the illusion of timelessness. The young and the drunk are both reprieved from that oppressive, nagging sense of obligation that ruins so much of our lives, the worry that we really ought to be doing something productive instead. It’s the illicit savor of time stolen, time knowingly and joyfully squandered. There’s more than one reason it’s called being “wasted.”
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
subphyla
My apologies. All my creative energy has been taken up lately with trying to make myself sound like someone people would want to give money to to do work for them. It's tough. So I'm just going to type. I like typing (and can bang out 84 words per minute, according my latest temp agency office skills test!).
From David Foster Wallace's essay about the 1993 Illinois State Fair, "Getting Away From Already Pretty Much Being Away From It All," an excerpt that embodies the attitude toward a certain group of Midwestern people held by another certain group of Midwestern people (*cough*):
Booth after booth. A Xanadu of chintzola. Obscure non-stick cookware. "EYE GLASSES CLEANED FREE." A booth with anti-cellulite sponges. More DIPPIN DOTS futuristic ice cream. A woman with Velcro straps on her shoes gets fountain-pen ink out of a linen tablecloth with a Chapsticky-looking spot remover whose banner says "AS SEEN ON 'AMAZING DISCOVERIES,'" a wee-hour infomercial I'm kind of a fan of. A plywood booth that for $9.95 will take a photo and superimpose your face on either an FBI Wanted poster or a Penthouse cover. An MIA--BRING THEM HOME! booth staffed by women playing Go Fish. An anti-abortion booth called LIVESAVERS that lures you over with free candy. Sand Art. Shredded-Ribbon Art. Therm-L-Seal Double Pane Windows. An indescribable booth for "LATEST ADVANCE ROTARY NOSE HAIR CLIPPERS" whose other sign reads (I kid you not) "Do Not Pull Hair From Nose, May Cause Fatal Infection." Two different booths for collectible sports cards, "Top Ranked Investment Of The Nineties." And tucked away back on one curve of the mezzanine's ellipse: yes: black velvet paintings, including several of Elvis in pensive poses.
And people are buying this stuff. The Expo's unique products are targeted at a certain type of Midwestern person I'd all but forgotten. I'd somehow not noticed these persons' absence from the paths and exhibits. This is going to sound not just East-Coastish but elitist and snotty. But facts are facts. The special community of shoppers in the Expo Bldg. are a Midwestern subphylum commonly if unkindly known as Kmart People. Farther south they'd be a certain fringe-type of White Trash. Kmart People tend to be overweight, polyestered, grim-faced, toting glazed unhappy children. Toupees are the movingly obvious shiny square-cut kind, and the women's makeup is garish and often asymmetrically applied, giving many of the female faces a kind of demented look. They are sharp-voiced and snap at their families. They're the type you see slapping their kids in supermarket checkouts. They are people who work at like Champaign's Kraft and Decatur's A. E. Staley and think pro wrestling is real. I'm sorry, but this is all true. I went to high school with Kmart People. I know them. They own firearms and do not hunt. The aspire to own mobile homes. They read the Star without even a pretense of contempt and have toilet paper with little off-color jokes printed on it. A few of these folks might check out the Tractor Pull or U.S.A.C. race, but most are in the Expo to stay. This is what they've come for. They couldn't give one fat damn about ethanol exhibits or carnival rides whose seats are hard to squeeze into. Agriculture shmagriculture. And Gov. Edgar's a closet pinko: they heard it on Rush. They plod up and down, looking put out and intensely puzzzled, as if they're sure what they've come for's got to be here someplace. I wish Native C. were here; she's highly quotable on the subject of Kmart People. One big girl with tattoos and a heavy-diapered infant wears a T-shirt that says "WARNING: I GO FROM 0 TO HORNEY IN 2.5 BEERS."
Have you ever wondered where these particular types of unfunny T-shirts come from? the ones that say things like "HORNEY IN 2.5" or "Impeach President Clinton...AND HER HUSBAND TOO!!"? Mystery solved. They come from State Fair Expos. Right here on the main floor's a monster-sized booth, more like an open bodega, with shirts and laminated buttons and license-plate borders, all of which, for this subphylum, Testify. This booth seems integral, somehow. The seamiest fold of the Midwestern underbelly. The Lascaux Caves of a certain rural mentality. "40 Isn't Old...IF YOU'RE A TREE" and "The More Hair I Lose, The More Head I Get" and "Retired: No Worries, No Paycheck" and "I Fight Poverty...I WORK!!" As with New Yorker cartoons, there's an elusive sameness about the shirts' messages. A lot serve to I.D. the wearer as part of a certain group and then congratulate that group for its sexual dynamism--"Coon Hunters Do It All Night" and "Hairdressers Tease It Till It Stands Up" and "Save A Horse: Ride A Cowboy." Some presume a weird kind of aggressive relation between the shirt's wearer and its reader--"We'd Get Along Better...If You Were A BEER" and "Lead Me Not Into Temptation, I Know The Way MYSELF" and "What Part of NO Don't You Understand?" There's something complex and compelling about the fact that these messages are not just uttered but worn, like they're a badge or credential. The message compliments the wearer somehow, and the wearer in turn endorses the message by spreading it across his chest, which fact is then in further turn supposed to endorse the wearer as a person of plucky or risque wit. It's also meant to cast the wearer as an Individual, the sort of person who not only makes but wears a Personal Statement. What's depressing is that the T-shirts' statements are not only preprinted and mass-produced, but so dumbly unfunny that they serve to place the wearer squarely in that large and unfortunate group of people who think such messages not only Individual but funny. It all gets tremendously complex and depressing. The lady running the booth's register is dressed like a '68 Yippie but has a hard carny face and wants to know why I'm standing here memorizing T-shirts. All I can manage to tell her is that the "HORNEY" on these "2.5 BEERS"-shirts is misspelled; and now I really feel like an East-Coast snob, laying judgments and semiotic theories on these people who ask of life only a Republican in the White House and a black velvet Elvis on the wood-grain mantel of their mobile home. They're not hurting anybody. A good third of the people I went to high school with now probably wear these T-shirts, and proudly.
Testify.
From David Foster Wallace's essay about the 1993 Illinois State Fair, "Getting Away From Already Pretty Much Being Away From It All," an excerpt that embodies the attitude toward a certain group of Midwestern people held by another certain group of Midwestern people (*cough*):
Booth after booth. A Xanadu of chintzola. Obscure non-stick cookware. "EYE GLASSES CLEANED FREE." A booth with anti-cellulite sponges. More DIPPIN DOTS futuristic ice cream. A woman with Velcro straps on her shoes gets fountain-pen ink out of a linen tablecloth with a Chapsticky-looking spot remover whose banner says "AS SEEN ON 'AMAZING DISCOVERIES,'" a wee-hour infomercial I'm kind of a fan of. A plywood booth that for $9.95 will take a photo and superimpose your face on either an FBI Wanted poster or a Penthouse cover. An MIA--BRING THEM HOME! booth staffed by women playing Go Fish. An anti-abortion booth called LIVESAVERS that lures you over with free candy. Sand Art. Shredded-Ribbon Art. Therm-L-Seal Double Pane Windows. An indescribable booth for "LATEST ADVANCE ROTARY NOSE HAIR CLIPPERS" whose other sign reads (I kid you not) "Do Not Pull Hair From Nose, May Cause Fatal Infection." Two different booths for collectible sports cards, "Top Ranked Investment Of The Nineties." And tucked away back on one curve of the mezzanine's ellipse: yes: black velvet paintings, including several of Elvis in pensive poses.
And people are buying this stuff. The Expo's unique products are targeted at a certain type of Midwestern person I'd all but forgotten. I'd somehow not noticed these persons' absence from the paths and exhibits. This is going to sound not just East-Coastish but elitist and snotty. But facts are facts. The special community of shoppers in the Expo Bldg. are a Midwestern subphylum commonly if unkindly known as Kmart People. Farther south they'd be a certain fringe-type of White Trash. Kmart People tend to be overweight, polyestered, grim-faced, toting glazed unhappy children. Toupees are the movingly obvious shiny square-cut kind, and the women's makeup is garish and often asymmetrically applied, giving many of the female faces a kind of demented look. They are sharp-voiced and snap at their families. They're the type you see slapping their kids in supermarket checkouts. They are people who work at like Champaign's Kraft and Decatur's A. E. Staley and think pro wrestling is real. I'm sorry, but this is all true. I went to high school with Kmart People. I know them. They own firearms and do not hunt. The aspire to own mobile homes. They read the Star without even a pretense of contempt and have toilet paper with little off-color jokes printed on it. A few of these folks might check out the Tractor Pull or U.S.A.C. race, but most are in the Expo to stay. This is what they've come for. They couldn't give one fat damn about ethanol exhibits or carnival rides whose seats are hard to squeeze into. Agriculture shmagriculture. And Gov. Edgar's a closet pinko: they heard it on Rush. They plod up and down, looking put out and intensely puzzzled, as if they're sure what they've come for's got to be here someplace. I wish Native C. were here; she's highly quotable on the subject of Kmart People. One big girl with tattoos and a heavy-diapered infant wears a T-shirt that says "WARNING: I GO FROM 0 TO HORNEY IN 2.5 BEERS."
Have you ever wondered where these particular types of unfunny T-shirts come from? the ones that say things like "HORNEY IN 2.5" or "Impeach President Clinton...AND HER HUSBAND TOO!!"? Mystery solved. They come from State Fair Expos. Right here on the main floor's a monster-sized booth, more like an open bodega, with shirts and laminated buttons and license-plate borders, all of which, for this subphylum, Testify. This booth seems integral, somehow. The seamiest fold of the Midwestern underbelly. The Lascaux Caves of a certain rural mentality. "40 Isn't Old...IF YOU'RE A TREE" and "The More Hair I Lose, The More Head I Get" and "Retired: No Worries, No Paycheck" and "I Fight Poverty...I WORK!!" As with New Yorker cartoons, there's an elusive sameness about the shirts' messages. A lot serve to I.D. the wearer as part of a certain group and then congratulate that group for its sexual dynamism--"Coon Hunters Do It All Night" and "Hairdressers Tease It Till It Stands Up" and "Save A Horse: Ride A Cowboy." Some presume a weird kind of aggressive relation between the shirt's wearer and its reader--"We'd Get Along Better...If You Were A BEER" and "Lead Me Not Into Temptation, I Know The Way MYSELF" and "What Part of NO Don't You Understand?" There's something complex and compelling about the fact that these messages are not just uttered but worn, like they're a badge or credential. The message compliments the wearer somehow, and the wearer in turn endorses the message by spreading it across his chest, which fact is then in further turn supposed to endorse the wearer as a person of plucky or risque wit. It's also meant to cast the wearer as an Individual, the sort of person who not only makes but wears a Personal Statement. What's depressing is that the T-shirts' statements are not only preprinted and mass-produced, but so dumbly unfunny that they serve to place the wearer squarely in that large and unfortunate group of people who think such messages not only Individual but funny. It all gets tremendously complex and depressing. The lady running the booth's register is dressed like a '68 Yippie but has a hard carny face and wants to know why I'm standing here memorizing T-shirts. All I can manage to tell her is that the "HORNEY" on these "2.5 BEERS"-shirts is misspelled; and now I really feel like an East-Coast snob, laying judgments and semiotic theories on these people who ask of life only a Republican in the White House and a black velvet Elvis on the wood-grain mantel of their mobile home. They're not hurting anybody. A good third of the people I went to high school with now probably wear these T-shirts, and proudly.
Testify.
