I just got my very first piece of mail addressed to "Krista [Tom's-Last-Name]." I am a bit freaked out and a bit giddy!
Two weeks ago, Tom and I went to Myrtle Beach, SC, for a wedding. We were actually able to finagle our work schedules so that we could make this trip into a weekend vacation. Since this was to be our only summer vacation this year, and since it was only a couple days long, we decided to get a hotel right on the beach. However, with our own wedding coming up soon, we needed to keep things cheap.
Result: our hotel was a bit of a dive. But! It was right on the beach. You walked out the door onto the sand. And unlike at the Long Island beaches, I could actually swim in that water because it turns out the ocean is about 20 degrees warmer in South Carolina.
So it was worth the sacrifice of a nice hotel, but I do have a story to share. This being a dive of a hotel, we had some nighttime insect visitors--roaches. And since we were in the South, these were Southern roaches (roaches only get big in the South, I've learned). They weren't quite up to scale with some Texas roaches I've seen, but still, they were impressive enough.
You may remember from a previous post that Tom absolutely despises roaches. There was an incident when we were getting ready to go to bed one night and I spotted a roach on the wall.
Tom became an insane roach-destroying machine, smashing it good and leaving its guts behind on the wall.
However, the real story here is not killing the roach. It's that Tom took the time to pull the comforter up over his pillow before the killing to prevent roach guts splattering his pillow.
Notice that my pillow was left uncovered. Thanks a lot, honey.
Result: our hotel was a bit of a dive. But! It was right on the beach. You walked out the door onto the sand. And unlike at the Long Island beaches, I could actually swim in that water because it turns out the ocean is about 20 degrees warmer in South Carolina.
So it was worth the sacrifice of a nice hotel, but I do have a story to share. This being a dive of a hotel, we had some nighttime insect visitors--roaches. And since we were in the South, these were Southern roaches (roaches only get big in the South, I've learned). They weren't quite up to scale with some Texas roaches I've seen, but still, they were impressive enough.
You may remember from a previous post that Tom absolutely despises roaches. There was an incident when we were getting ready to go to bed one night and I spotted a roach on the wall.
Tom became an insane roach-destroying machine, smashing it good and leaving its guts behind on the wall.
However, the real story here is not killing the roach. It's that Tom took the time to pull the comforter up over his pillow before the killing to prevent roach guts splattering his pillow.
Notice that my pillow was left uncovered. Thanks a lot, honey.
The Half Blood Prince teaser trailer finally came out!
In other news, I got my annual TB skin test today, and my arm looks like it has leprosy.
In other news, I got my annual TB skin test today, and my arm looks like it has leprosy.
TEENAGE GIRL: I cut my leg shaving. It bled a lot for a while, but it's pretty much stopped now.
ME: Uh, so do you still want to be seen? Seen by a doctor in the emergency room?
TG: Yeah, I guess so.
ME: Uh, so do you still want to be seen? Seen by a doctor in the emergency room?
TG: Yeah, I guess so.
Lily in a baby carriage?
My best friend from nursing school, Mary, had a baby girl early this morning! I am incredibly happy for her, because this is what she's always wanted.
Exciting times!
My best friend from nursing school, Mary, had a baby girl early this morning! I am incredibly happy for her, because this is what she's always wanted.
Exciting times!
I am somewhat obsessed with the Olympics. I don't know why, because I don't really watch much sports outside of the Olympics. Maybe it holds my attention better because it only happens every couple of years.
I watched most of the U.S. Olympic Trials which took place over the past couple of weeks. I have to admit, I developed a crush on the winner of the 1500m and 5000m runs, Bernard Lagat. His running is amazing, but what I like most about him is he doesn't sound like an idiot when they interview him after a race. I hate the post-race interviews with most of the male athletes. They have this glorious athletic achievement and then say something like "I think I done real good" to the TV reporter. Stupid Americans (Lagat is originally from Kenya).
Also, I discovered after some Googling that Lagat even has a pug! It's official, I love him.
Do you think this woman is on steroids (or some other performance enhancing drug)?
This is Dara Torres, the winner of the 50m and 100m freestyle swimming during the trials. She even set a new American record in the 50m. No big deal, except she's 41 and swimming faster than she did in her teens and twenties (and thirties, for that matter). She has a two-year-old daughter. At first I was all excited to see a middle-aged mother doing so well. Tom had to burst my bubble by comparing her achievement of peaking in her 40s to the "achievements" of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds. Now I just don't trust her.
And now I'm done geeking out over the Olympics, at least until August.
I watched most of the U.S. Olympic Trials which took place over the past couple of weeks. I have to admit, I developed a crush on the winner of the 1500m and 5000m runs, Bernard Lagat. His running is amazing, but what I like most about him is he doesn't sound like an idiot when they interview him after a race. I hate the post-race interviews with most of the male athletes. They have this glorious athletic achievement and then say something like "I think I done real good" to the TV reporter. Stupid Americans (Lagat is originally from Kenya).
Also, I discovered after some Googling that Lagat even has a pug! It's official, I love him.
Do you think this woman is on steroids (or some other performance enhancing drug)?
This is Dara Torres, the winner of the 50m and 100m freestyle swimming during the trials. She even set a new American record in the 50m. No big deal, except she's 41 and swimming faster than she did in her teens and twenties (and thirties, for that matter). She has a two-year-old daughter. At first I was all excited to see a middle-aged mother doing so well. Tom had to burst my bubble by comparing her achievement of peaking in her 40s to the "achievements" of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds. Now I just don't trust her.
And now I'm done geeking out over the Olympics, at least until August.
No, seriously. Elope. Planning a wedding (and paying for said wedding) is just awful. It is completely beyond me to understand how some people enjoy this task. Some people enjoy it so much they make a career out of wedding planning. Mind blowing!
I guess I hate it mostly because I have no idea what I am doing. I have no experience putting small events together, let alone large, fancy ones. I am afraid I will leave something out, and all the wedding guests will be staring at me, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. I will be wearing a big white dress, so I won't be able to hide.
I get comics on my Yahoo homepage, and I've been amused that the comic strip For Better or For Worse has been chronicling wedding stress right along with me. This was yesterday's strip:
For the record, I struggled with that decision as well. Verdict: The wine will be served. My wino friends will be wasted if I leave it out on the tables--too easily accessible.
I guess I hate it mostly because I have no idea what I am doing. I have no experience putting small events together, let alone large, fancy ones. I am afraid I will leave something out, and all the wedding guests will be staring at me, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. I will be wearing a big white dress, so I won't be able to hide.
I get comics on my Yahoo homepage, and I've been amused that the comic strip For Better or For Worse has been chronicling wedding stress right along with me. This was yesterday's strip:
For the record, I struggled with that decision as well. Verdict: The wine will be served. My wino friends will be wasted if I leave it out on the tables--too easily accessible.
I obviously took a lengthy hiatus from posting in my blog, or at least from posting publicly. I have written a handful of posts in the past few months, but for all your sakes, I made them private. All the posts I wrote while on Lupron were emotional diatribes about how horrible I felt while I was on Lupron. In summary: it was horrible.
I had headaches, hot flashes, weight gain, joint aches, and bitching mood swings. I completely lost sight of why I had decided to engage in those six months of hell. I yelled and cried a lot. Tom miraculously put up with me and is not too much worse for the wear, though I may have threatened him with bodily harm more than a few times.
I had my last injection over a month ago, so I am slowly going back to semi-normalcy. I say "semi" because I am still taking progesterone pills to prevent me from ovulating. I am still a bit moody and extremely prone to weight gain and pimples...lovely side effects for any bride-to-be to deal with. But at least my body is not completely devoid of all estrogen.
So, as the Lupron leaves my body and the estrogen returns, I thought I would celebrate feeling more like myself again by writing again.
Ironically, I seem to have written about how horrible I felt on Lupron yet again. I promise, this is the last one. Tomorrow I will rant about how much I hate wedding planning!
I had headaches, hot flashes, weight gain, joint aches, and bitching mood swings. I completely lost sight of why I had decided to engage in those six months of hell. I yelled and cried a lot. Tom miraculously put up with me and is not too much worse for the wear, though I may have threatened him with bodily harm more than a few times.
I had my last injection over a month ago, so I am slowly going back to semi-normalcy. I say "semi" because I am still taking progesterone pills to prevent me from ovulating. I am still a bit moody and extremely prone to weight gain and pimples...lovely side effects for any bride-to-be to deal with. But at least my body is not completely devoid of all estrogen.
So, as the Lupron leaves my body and the estrogen returns, I thought I would celebrate feeling more like myself again by writing again.
Ironically, I seem to have written about how horrible I felt on Lupron yet again. I promise, this is the last one. Tomorrow I will rant about how much I hate wedding planning!
(Besides all the mushy stuff about being in love, of course)
...is all the free stuff. I had no idea the great quality and quantity of free stuff that engaged couples enjoy.
Not long after Tom and I got engaged, we visited our parents in Texas. My mom gave me a wedding magazine to peruse on the plane ride back to New York. During the flight, a flight attendant noticed the magazine and saw my engagement ring and actually brought Tom and me two mini bottles of champagne!
That was just the tip of the iceberg, though. Once we started the hardcore planning in Texas a couple weeks ago, I realized we had hit the jackpot. We showed up for our first cake tasting, and the baker laid out eight different flavors of cake, two cake fillings, and four kinds of icing. The day after that, we met with our caterer, who allowed us to sample the hors d'oeuvres, the salad, two entrees, two vegetables, and the yummy garlic mashed potatoes. It was a full meal, and it was totally free. The florist gave me a free bouquet of flowers. A harpist gave us a free, private, mini-concert in her home. A photographer gave us some nice fountain pens.
Tom and I are seriously considering hitting up some Long Island bakeries for cake tasting, and conveniently leaving out the fact that the wedding is taking place in Texas...
...is all the free stuff. I had no idea the great quality and quantity of free stuff that engaged couples enjoy.
Not long after Tom and I got engaged, we visited our parents in Texas. My mom gave me a wedding magazine to peruse on the plane ride back to New York. During the flight, a flight attendant noticed the magazine and saw my engagement ring and actually brought Tom and me two mini bottles of champagne!
That was just the tip of the iceberg, though. Once we started the hardcore planning in Texas a couple weeks ago, I realized we had hit the jackpot. We showed up for our first cake tasting, and the baker laid out eight different flavors of cake, two cake fillings, and four kinds of icing. The day after that, we met with our caterer, who allowed us to sample the hors d'oeuvres, the salad, two entrees, two vegetables, and the yummy garlic mashed potatoes. It was a full meal, and it was totally free. The florist gave me a free bouquet of flowers. A harpist gave us a free, private, mini-concert in her home. A photographer gave us some nice fountain pens.
Tom and I are seriously considering hitting up some Long Island bakeries for cake tasting, and conveniently leaving out the fact that the wedding is taking place in Texas...
1 brand new pediatrician
+
1 annoying charge nurse
+
2 idiotic, vomiting, drunk teenagers
+
3 babies spurting diarrhea
+
4 crappy veins while trying to start an IV
+
countless parents who need to be smacked upside the head with some common sense
+
my first "at work" hot flash
=
not my finest shift
+
1 annoying charge nurse
+
2 idiotic, vomiting, drunk teenagers
+
3 babies spurting diarrhea
+
4 crappy veins while trying to start an IV
+
countless parents who need to be smacked upside the head with some common sense
+
my first "at work" hot flash
=
not my finest shift
I started injections for the treatment of endometriosis shortly after my surgery. These injections are going to put me in a temporary menopause (yes, at the age of 25). My doctor told me that I would first start feeling typical menopause symptoms two weeks after my first injection. That was two weeks ago.
Earlier tonight, I was shopping at the grocery store. I was in the medicine/vitamin aisle looking for a calcium supplement to combat the inevitable loss of bone density that will happen as I go through my menopause. I saw an herbal remedy for menopause symptoms, one of those non-FDA-approved supplements that I never use, but I was curious so I picked it up and began to read the label.
Ironically, it was while I was reading that label that it happened. I felt a flush of warmth start creeping down my chest. Then suddenly the warmth was everywhere, and I felt quite certain that my face was bright red.
My first hot flash.
My scalp and chest felt like they were on fire. I had to cool off! Now! I tore my coat off and threw it in the shopping cart. I grabbed the checkbook out of my purse and started fanning myself frantically. Not good enough!
Out of some subconscious instinct, I ran to the frozen foods aisle and found myself standing with one of the freezer doors thrown wide open, a bag of frozen peas clutched to my chest. I breathed a sigh of sweet relief.
Then I looked to my left and noticed the old lady standing at the very end of the aisle, hesitantly pushing her cart toward me.
“Oh, um, hot flash,” I mumbled. “These peas look good,” I added as I tossed them in my cart. I didn’t feel like I should put them back in the freezer.
The old lady just stared at me, her mouth slightly open.
So I suppose my temporary menopause has officially commenced. I’ve prepared by putting a small handheld fan in my purse and in my work bag. After tonight, I’m pondering some way of carrying those frozen peas with me at all times as well.
Earlier tonight, I was shopping at the grocery store. I was in the medicine/vitamin aisle looking for a calcium supplement to combat the inevitable loss of bone density that will happen as I go through my menopause. I saw an herbal remedy for menopause symptoms, one of those non-FDA-approved supplements that I never use, but I was curious so I picked it up and began to read the label.
Ironically, it was while I was reading that label that it happened. I felt a flush of warmth start creeping down my chest. Then suddenly the warmth was everywhere, and I felt quite certain that my face was bright red.
My first hot flash.
My scalp and chest felt like they were on fire. I had to cool off! Now! I tore my coat off and threw it in the shopping cart. I grabbed the checkbook out of my purse and started fanning myself frantically. Not good enough!
Out of some subconscious instinct, I ran to the frozen foods aisle and found myself standing with one of the freezer doors thrown wide open, a bag of frozen peas clutched to my chest. I breathed a sigh of sweet relief.
Then I looked to my left and noticed the old lady standing at the very end of the aisle, hesitantly pushing her cart toward me.
“Oh, um, hot flash,” I mumbled. “These peas look good,” I added as I tossed them in my cart. I didn’t feel like I should put them back in the freezer.
The old lady just stared at me, her mouth slightly open.
So I suppose my temporary menopause has officially commenced. I’ve prepared by putting a small handheld fan in my purse and in my work bag. After tonight, I’m pondering some way of carrying those frozen peas with me at all times as well.
I just now finished my first three shifts back to work since being out on medical leave for a couple weeks.
(Turns out I have endometriosis. Oh, and one of my fallopian tubes twisted in knots, died, and had to be removed surgically. But I'm feeling much better now.)
Shift one, Friday: I got a bad trauma about 1:00 AM. After dealing with the most asinine surgeon ever, I ended up running the patient up to the OR for surgery. You probably shouldn't run with a stretcher two weeks after having abdominal surgery. It hurt.
Shift two, Saturday: I got a respiratory arrest at 10:00 PM. Everything about this code was jacked up. No one was charting. I couldn't find the Etomidate. Or the Sux. Or the Diprivan. And there was a massive, massive Code Brown. 'Nuff said.
Shift three, Sunday: Triage. Triage usually involves lots of verbal abuse and psychotic patients, but last night was the first time someone called me a "tramp in cheap scrubs." The drunk idiot did say he thought I was hot before calling me a tramp, though. And he's right; my scrubs are cheap.
During the two weeks after my surgery, I was pretty much confined to the couch with occasional, slow, cautious trips to the bathroom or kitchen. I eventually got to the point where I felt like I only needed to sleep 5-6 hours per night. Now that I just finished those three shifts, I feel like I need about 14 hours. Good thing I'm off today...
(Turns out I have endometriosis. Oh, and one of my fallopian tubes twisted in knots, died, and had to be removed surgically. But I'm feeling much better now.)
Shift one, Friday: I got a bad trauma about 1:00 AM. After dealing with the most asinine surgeon ever, I ended up running the patient up to the OR for surgery. You probably shouldn't run with a stretcher two weeks after having abdominal surgery. It hurt.
Shift two, Saturday: I got a respiratory arrest at 10:00 PM. Everything about this code was jacked up. No one was charting. I couldn't find the Etomidate. Or the Sux. Or the Diprivan. And there was a massive, massive Code Brown. 'Nuff said.
Shift three, Sunday: Triage. Triage usually involves lots of verbal abuse and psychotic patients, but last night was the first time someone called me a "tramp in cheap scrubs." The drunk idiot did say he thought I was hot before calling me a tramp, though. And he's right; my scrubs are cheap.
During the two weeks after my surgery, I was pretty much confined to the couch with occasional, slow, cautious trips to the bathroom or kitchen. I eventually got to the point where I felt like I only needed to sleep 5-6 hours per night. Now that I just finished those three shifts, I feel like I need about 14 hours. Good thing I'm off today...
All the residents at my hospital have a pager. Whenever there is a code anywhere in the hospital, all the residents are paged in case they are working somewhere in the hospital that permits them to respond to the code. I suppose this is because codes are a good learning experience for them.
Now that Tom is in his second year, he mostly only works in the ER. In our ER, we only respond to our own codes (meaning, we don't run to assist other parts of the hospital), so Tom does not usually wear his pager to work these days. Today was one of the days he left it home, and I swear it has been going off all day long.
It has gone off at least fifteen times today, and I feel kinda bad that so many people are dying or nearly dying at my hospital. And also, I feel bad because it feels like the grim reaper is living in my house.
Now that Tom is in his second year, he mostly only works in the ER. In our ER, we only respond to our own codes (meaning, we don't run to assist other parts of the hospital), so Tom does not usually wear his pager to work these days. Today was one of the days he left it home, and I swear it has been going off all day long.
It has gone off at least fifteen times today, and I feel kinda bad that so many people are dying or nearly dying at my hospital. And also, I feel bad because it feels like the grim reaper is living in my house.
My four-year-old nephew, Michael, was old enough to write his own note to leave out with the milk and cookies for Santa this year. Instead of thanking Santa for the presents or encouraging him to enjoy the homemade cookies, Michael's note said:
Dear Santa,
No juice! Only milk and cookies!
From
Michael
It seems Michael was very worried that Santa would raid their fridge and steal his beloved orange juice. Hence the bossy and somewhat threatening note.
Dear Santa,
No juice! Only milk and cookies!
From
Michael
It seems Michael was very worried that Santa would raid their fridge and steal his beloved orange juice. Hence the bossy and somewhat threatening note.
1. Tom and I don't actually like many of the residents. This sounds rude, but with the exception of three or four of them, they're mostly either very weird or very mean.
2. The residents (and attendings, I might add) are not very fun party people. There are plenty of people at these gatherings, plenty of booze, plenty of food...so what's the problem?? They're all boring, that's what.
3. Speaking of food, Tom and I are currently so sick to our stomachs. Our little house only has one bathroom, and we are basically taking turns using it. We pass on the way in or out and grunt, "Are you okay?" The other one groans, "I'll be alright" as they stagger towards the toilet. It's quite sad. Tom is currently trying to sleep with a trashcan handy by the bed. I'm obviously out at the computer because I cannot stand the smell of sick people, even if I'm one of them. (I know, ER nurse was a poor career choice.)
On that note, I'm going to go get some Gatorade and jello ready for tomorrow.
2. The residents (and attendings, I might add) are not very fun party people. There are plenty of people at these gatherings, plenty of booze, plenty of food...so what's the problem?? They're all boring, that's what.
3. Speaking of food, Tom and I are currently so sick to our stomachs. Our little house only has one bathroom, and we are basically taking turns using it. We pass on the way in or out and grunt, "Are you okay?" The other one groans, "I'll be alright" as they stagger towards the toilet. It's quite sad. Tom is currently trying to sleep with a trashcan handy by the bed. I'm obviously out at the computer because I cannot stand the smell of sick people, even if I'm one of them. (I know, ER nurse was a poor career choice.)
On that note, I'm going to go get some Gatorade and jello ready for tomorrow.
Tom and I just put up our Christmas tree last night, and it is lovely.
However, I have been neurotically watering it every hour or so after watching this:
(Originally from the U.S. Fire Administration website.)
However, I have been neurotically watering it every hour or so after watching this:
(Originally from the U.S. Fire Administration website.)
I had just informed an elderly woman that she was going to be admitted to the hospital. I stepped out of her room to head back to my desk and heard this:
PATIENT: I really don't want to stay. I want to go home.
PATIENT'S HUSBAND: Look on the bright side, honey. At least you won't have to take a shower for a few days!
Huh?!
PATIENT: I really don't want to stay. I want to go home.
PATIENT'S HUSBAND: Look on the bright side, honey. At least you won't have to take a shower for a few days!
Huh?!
By the way, I'm engaged. Tom and I are getting married October 11, 2008! So exciting/scary/wonderful!
I have advice for those of you who may be engaged in the future: Do not announce your engagement until you have a date for the wedding, and until you have some goddamn colors picked out for the wedding. These are the first two things people ask you. I have a date now, but I still don't have any colors, much to my mother's chagrin. I might pick some colors if weddings came in normal colors. Weddings come in colors like aubergine, which I discovered is the same as eggplant, which I discovered is the same as purple.
Wedding planning is definitely not my thing. I am not one of those girls who planned out her ceremony at age seven with Barbie, Ken, Skipper, and Midge dolls. I am totally confused about why shopping for the wedding gown (not a dress, apparently) is supposed to take upwards of eight months to accomplish. And god help me if I'm to understand the purpose of chargers. Or wedding favors. Do people actually keep and cherish cheap little trinkets with my name embossed on them?
So far, when Tom and I sit down to discuss the wedding, we always gravitate to three topics: the food, the alcohol, and the honeymoon. I think our priorities are clear here. But since neither of us cares about tablecloths or cocktail napkins, it's entirely possible that those of you who show up to our wedding will be eating off of bare tables and wiping your mouths on paper towels. But the drinks will be plentiful!
New strategy: Booze up the guests so much they don't notice the lack of proper wedding decorum.
Since I am hopelessly clueless about what to do, I decided I should buy one of those planning books. I skipped over Martha Stewart and all the other pink books and bought Wedding Planning for Dummies. Not very romantic, but appropriate. For creative, unique ideas, I decided to look on the many wedding websites that exist. I quickly ditched TheKnot.com in favor of IndieBride.com because I just couldn't stomach the sexism.
Lord, the sexism. This has been the most challenging aspect of wedding planning--trying to plan something that doesn't portray Tom and me as being from two centuries ago while hopefully not departing from tradition so far that our moms will have heart attacks. Wedding traditions are seriously in need of modernization and some good feminist pruning.
I'm really thrilled to be marrying Tom. I'm just somewhat less thrilled with our ridiculous, sexist, consumeristic society.
I have advice for those of you who may be engaged in the future: Do not announce your engagement until you have a date for the wedding, and until you have some goddamn colors picked out for the wedding. These are the first two things people ask you. I have a date now, but I still don't have any colors, much to my mother's chagrin. I might pick some colors if weddings came in normal colors. Weddings come in colors like aubergine, which I discovered is the same as eggplant, which I discovered is the same as purple.
Wedding planning is definitely not my thing. I am not one of those girls who planned out her ceremony at age seven with Barbie, Ken, Skipper, and Midge dolls. I am totally confused about why shopping for the wedding gown (not a dress, apparently) is supposed to take upwards of eight months to accomplish. And god help me if I'm to understand the purpose of chargers. Or wedding favors. Do people actually keep and cherish cheap little trinkets with my name embossed on them?
So far, when Tom and I sit down to discuss the wedding, we always gravitate to three topics: the food, the alcohol, and the honeymoon. I think our priorities are clear here. But since neither of us cares about tablecloths or cocktail napkins, it's entirely possible that those of you who show up to our wedding will be eating off of bare tables and wiping your mouths on paper towels. But the drinks will be plentiful!
New strategy: Booze up the guests so much they don't notice the lack of proper wedding decorum.
Since I am hopelessly clueless about what to do, I decided I should buy one of those planning books. I skipped over Martha Stewart and all the other pink books and bought Wedding Planning for Dummies. Not very romantic, but appropriate. For creative, unique ideas, I decided to look on the many wedding websites that exist. I quickly ditched TheKnot.com in favor of IndieBride.com because I just couldn't stomach the sexism.
Lord, the sexism. This has been the most challenging aspect of wedding planning--trying to plan something that doesn't portray Tom and me as being from two centuries ago while hopefully not departing from tradition so far that our moms will have heart attacks. Wedding traditions are seriously in need of modernization and some good feminist pruning.
I'm really thrilled to be marrying Tom. I'm just somewhat less thrilled with our ridiculous, sexist, consumeristic society.
I have documented on this blog my history of being attacked by squirrels. A couple of weeks ago, I had my most traumatic squirrel experience yet. Why am I posting about this if it happened so long ago? Because my former roommate laughed at me when I tried to tell her the story last night. As if squirrels breaking into my house was amusing! So I am posting the story here in all its gory detail so that the frightening squirrel viciousness may be fully appreciated.
===
I came home from work one morning and found that Tom was running late and only just then in the shower. I was looking through the mail when I heard an odd scratching sound. Going to investigate, I discovered an enormous, hairy squirrel lurking in the dining room. I screamed bloody murder, ran to the bathroom, and locked myself in with Tom (who was a bit confused at that point). Tom eventually convinced me to go back out and at least open the front and back doors so the squirrel could escape if he wanted to.
However, this was the stupidest squirrel on earth. Every time he attempted escape, he did one of two things: 1) Throw himself against a window repeatedly; 2) Hide in the fireplace. Eventually, the squirrel climbed halfway up the chimney and would not come down.
Tom had to leave for work, and I was just too exhausted after my shift to deal with it, so I had to leave the squirrel where he was. After consulting this website, I left a bowl of water in the fireplace so the squirrel would not die. I would like to note here that I may hate squirrels, but Tom was actually in favor of lighting a fire to get rid of the squirrel.
I was horrified to be supporting the squirrel's existence, but the only thing worse than a squirrel in your house is the stench of dead squirrel wafting out of the chimney for years to come.
I put our heavy fireplace grate in front of the fireplace opening so the squirrel would be trapped there, unable to come out and get me while I slept. I woke up that afternoon around 5pm and went to check on the vile squirrel, but I immediately discovered that he had escaped the fireplace and was jumping on my couch.
"YOU'RE SUCH AN EVIL BASTARD!" I yelled at it.
It stared at me defiantly. And then hid behind the washing machine.
I never could shoo out the squirrel. Eventually he left on his own will after camping out in my house for over 24 hours, the damn rodent. Now that I know they are coming down the chimney, I live in constant fear of one randomly dropping into the fireplace like an ugly, bristly Santa. I think we need squirrel traps on the roof...
===
I came home from work one morning and found that Tom was running late and only just then in the shower. I was looking through the mail when I heard an odd scratching sound. Going to investigate, I discovered an enormous, hairy squirrel lurking in the dining room. I screamed bloody murder, ran to the bathroom, and locked myself in with Tom (who was a bit confused at that point). Tom eventually convinced me to go back out and at least open the front and back doors so the squirrel could escape if he wanted to.
However, this was the stupidest squirrel on earth. Every time he attempted escape, he did one of two things: 1) Throw himself against a window repeatedly; 2) Hide in the fireplace. Eventually, the squirrel climbed halfway up the chimney and would not come down.
Tom had to leave for work, and I was just too exhausted after my shift to deal with it, so I had to leave the squirrel where he was. After consulting this website, I left a bowl of water in the fireplace so the squirrel would not die. I would like to note here that I may hate squirrels, but Tom was actually in favor of lighting a fire to get rid of the squirrel.
I was horrified to be supporting the squirrel's existence, but the only thing worse than a squirrel in your house is the stench of dead squirrel wafting out of the chimney for years to come.
I put our heavy fireplace grate in front of the fireplace opening so the squirrel would be trapped there, unable to come out and get me while I slept. I woke up that afternoon around 5pm and went to check on the vile squirrel, but I immediately discovered that he had escaped the fireplace and was jumping on my couch.
"YOU'RE SUCH AN EVIL BASTARD!" I yelled at it.
It stared at me defiantly. And then hid behind the washing machine.
I never could shoo out the squirrel. Eventually he left on his own will after camping out in my house for over 24 hours, the damn rodent. Now that I know they are coming down the chimney, I live in constant fear of one randomly dropping into the fireplace like an ugly, bristly Santa. I think we need squirrel traps on the roof...
When I first became a nurse and was doing my emergency room internship, one of the instructors posted a list of ridiculous names that ER nurses supposedly always come across in the line of duty. I was baffled as I read the first name, Abcde (pronounced "ABB-suh-dee"), but knew it was fake when I read the next one: Shithead ("Shih-THEED"). Other popular rumored names include:
I have been an ER nurse for over three years, and I must have seen over a thousand patients' names by now, but I have never seen any of those names. Still, everyone knows someone's cousin's ex-boyfriend's sister who took care of Meconium in the newborn nursery or helped little Shithead through his first case of the flu. These rumors will never die.
I say all this to set up my non-story here. While working a couple nights ago, I came across not one, but two patients with hilarious first names. I saw these people and triaged them, so I know their names to be true. However, this is a non-story because due to privacy laws (good ol' HIPAA), I cannot tell you their names.
I actually couldn't speak their names out loud while they were in the ER, either. "Hey...you...I need to check your blood pressure, can I have your arm?" I mean, it just feels wrong to call someone asshole, even if that's their name.
(Snopes.com's take on the subject)
- Asshole ("Uh-SHO-lee")
- twins named Orangejello & Lemonjello ("Or-RAHN-juh-lo" & "Leh-MAHN-juh-lo")
- Meconium (the mother is supposedly too stupid to realize this is the medical term for newborn poop, but thinks the word is so pretty)
- Female ("Feh-MAH-lee"...this also involves a stupid mother)
- Male ("MAH-lee" or "Muh-LAY"...can also be Female's twin brother)
I have been an ER nurse for over three years, and I must have seen over a thousand patients' names by now, but I have never seen any of those names. Still, everyone knows someone's cousin's ex-boyfriend's sister who took care of Meconium in the newborn nursery or helped little Shithead through his first case of the flu. These rumors will never die.
I say all this to set up my non-story here. While working a couple nights ago, I came across not one, but two patients with hilarious first names. I saw these people and triaged them, so I know their names to be true. However, this is a non-story because due to privacy laws (good ol' HIPAA), I cannot tell you their names.
I actually couldn't speak their names out loud while they were in the ER, either. "Hey...you...I need to check your blood pressure, can I have your arm?" I mean, it just feels wrong to call someone asshole, even if that's their name.
(Snopes.com's take on the subject)
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