Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Well Now.

I've spent the past two days cleaning, and the past three days all-adither. Why? Because I have LOST MY FREAKING STETHOSCOPE.

How the eff does one lose a stethoscope? Mind you, I've been reduced to barely being able to remember my lunch, come dinnertime, so the events of the week of 12/9 are a bit hazy- but the last date I can recall having it is the day of our student assessment. I used it on my partner, and thought I threw it in my nursing bag, then got assessed. Then hung out and knitted for an hour, then got assesessed by another partner, and then went home. I took the bag, and knitting to my mom's, then took out the knitting when I got home, but honestly, can't remember ever taking the scope out of my bag. Now, I go to whip on the neato light P got me for christmas, and it's missing...

Needless to say I'm freaking out because, A. it was not cheap, B. it was a gift, and C. IT IS NOT IN MY HOUSE OR CAR, which leads me to believe it's up in the lab at school, which means that someone has probably fucking stolen it, because my name wasn't on it (I've tried several times to keep a nametag on it, and they always pop right off.) I can't get back into school until after the new year, so I've got a pretty perpetual sick feeling in the pit of my stomach till this is resolved.

On the upside? My back room (also known as the pit of despair) is cleaner than it's been in ages, as is the rest of my apartment, and the entire place smells like delicious hot chocolate, thanks to the yummy candle my Aunt sent.

Worst case scenario, I will use P's scope till he starts clinicals, and if necessary, pick up a littman lightweight II to tide me over till graduation. I was going to upgrade to a cardiology master anyway when I graduated (and have that fucker engraved with my married name anyway) so...
The irony is I had been looking at what it would take to have my classic engraved now, because of the whole nametage issue the night before I figured out it was missing... *sigh*



So I finally finished the quilted throw from Amy Butler's "In Stitches." I learned a few very important lessons on this project, the most important being this: Pin-wale corduroy is not the best material for making a throw.

Seriously, the quilt looks like a 4 year old sewed it, and not even one of the talented sweatshop four year olds. The corduroy made it get sort of puckery in places, but frankly, I don't care. It's warm as hell, and it's long enough to cover my feet AND my shoulders without me having to contort. (This should not be difficult, it's not like I'm an amazon at 5'2".)

Her seam allowances are Whack, you need more pieces than stated to get it to the appropriate length, and again, with the corduroy, but... it's mine, it's done, and it's warm. Yay.

This comes in the nick of time, because the heat pump in my apartment sucks ass. The recent cold snap has taxed it beyond its means- it can barely keep it 62 degrees in here when it's really bad outside. I've given up on calling the landlord, because the thing is old, unreliable, and they refuse to just replace it. (and the "fixes" only last a week or less) So I'm keeping it set at 60-62 when it's really cold, and spending my time elsewhere as much as possible/piling on the blankets. Thank Elvis I'm only in this apt another year.



Our Christmas tree lost to psych again this year. Of course, if I had a gaggle of crazy people to make ornaments for me, and fucking sing christmas carols when the judges came by, I'd probably win too. I bet they even got one of the really insane ones to play fuckin' Tiny Tim.

I came home last night to find that my idiot upstairs neighbor was home. Mercifully, he got the memo re: stomping around like a bariatric clog dancer. I wish he had an upstairs neighbor that he could listen to. Then he could enjoy the sweet sounds of someone else's home theater system, listen to them pee (from his living room!) and hear them running like a clydesdale in a hamster wheel at all hours. THAT is my Christmas wish for him...

On a brighter note, I came home to a sack of "Baptist Cookies" last night. Sure, they're totally an effort to recruit the neighborhood to come to church, but I'll enjoy their homemade goodness, and still probably gripe at them if they park in my space on Sunday mornings when I go out for groceries. But hey. Cookies!


Death, Dying, and Shit they don't teach in school.

So. We had the froofy and sensitive lecture on death and dying a few weeks ago. And how you'll know when someone's fixin' to die from one to two months out, from one to two weeks out, and when death is imminent. And one of the petite little fleurs in the front row asks the prof in this little squeaky voice "Have... YOU ever seen someone die...??" and was aghast when the seasoned prof said "Why yes, Virginia, I HAVE seen someone die." *sigh*

Hell, I was just surprised that they'd been able to figure out that someone was FTD that long out. When we see 'em die it's more of the "Oh shit, they're crumpin'!" or "Fuck! He's coding!" or "Hey! The dude in bed 1's got a HR of 20!!! is that SUPPOSED to be that way?" Death is generally not peaceful or gentle or quiet on my floor. It's generally accompanied by far more people crammed into the room than there should be, a ripping off of clothing and an abandoning of decency for the time being, (the patient's, not ours) and a bit of yelling. We do our best to stop people from dying. Sometimes we succeed for a few hours, or a few days, or sometimes it sticks for a few years- those are the good ones. This is what they don't teach you. And they don't tell you about how much you ache for the "good ones" when they go.

The ER's a bit different. P's down there a lot- people code there all the time. There is no prissy hours to days scale there... things are more immediate. The worst one he had was
a woman who somehow got herself off the gurney as she started to code. AND she was miscarrying. They ran in, scooped her up and got her back up to start compressions, he got in to get his blood, and apparently stepped right into... well... it. Or where it used to live. Not something they warn you about either.

He's seen a lot of codes, but that's the worst he's had in a while. Not sure if she made it, but I hope so. Scary, and horrifyingly funny (which will send me to hell). Something else they don't teach is how cynical you'll get. I noticed that a particular gentleman was in the ER as an anonymous PT, noted his age, and name and said to myself "Anonymous pt due to act of violence." and sure enough, definitely there by act of violence. Then there was the write up in the paper today that said he died, and that the police were playing the act of violence pretty close to their chest, yet they'd know more about the COD once the autopsy was done. I dunno.... could it be that the act of violence killed him? Inserting metallic stuff where soft tissue should be , in large enough quantities is likely gonna be detrimental to your well-being... Just saying...


I've made it this far...

And aside from reconfirming my general disdain, loathing, and outright hatred for group projects, I'm doing really well with the last week and a half of school. Got a solid B on my exam, did really well on my assessment of a student, and the part *I* did on my group project was kick ass. I can't help it that A. College students can't pronounce words larger than two syllables, and B. the folks in charge of the outline, despite repeated entreaties to the contrary still didn't put the objectives in the proper format. ("It's just like when you write a careplan. 'By the end of the session, the students will ... ' OK?" Yeah. Didn't happen.) So we got a solid B, when we should have had an A.

And I'm sure I earned some enemies on that group, but you know what? I didn't rat out half the group to the prof for being slacker assholes, and for me doing their research for them so I could get a better grade. So they can suck it.

Man, do I hate group work. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

PS. How hard is it, to show up in business casual for ONE effin' day?

Anyway. Finals are next week, then I can rest for a month. Thank you jeebus.


According to the Radio...

"Christmas is Just Around the Corner."

Shit. I guess I'd better get crackin'.

In school related news, that crackin' is referring to my psyche. With the mountain of utter shite that is due in the next few days, I think a stalwart refusal to climb to the top of the nearest water tower with the semiautomatic weapon of your choice should automatically grant you a passing grade.

As far as holiday giftie giving goes, I'm actually in good shape this year. I've got a handle on my handmade gifts, and am almost done with the feared most-time consuming one (embroidered flour-sack towels for G. monkey's vintage kitchen). I've got an idea for mom's giftie- hand-dyed fabric (thanks to a really great article I read, this? Totally doable). I'll do 3 or 4 1/2 yard pieces that she can mix with batiks of her own choice to make a quilted piece. Odie's getting a fleece scarf, and that's the extent of my handmade for now. P's mom's wreath is awesome, and I'm actually ahead of schedule. YAY.

(This may or may not be why the end of semester is so evil.)

now, I'm off to go practice my assessment of another student. Where the eff's my tuning fork?