SonRise Scandals

You can tell when spring has come to Happy Valley, and the indicators stretch far beyond the young lovers lounging on Thatcher lawn. No, there is far more to it than that, for suddenly it seems that all the men have decided to grow extensive amounts of facial hair. I didn’t really take notice of this until a few weeks ago when my best friend Rachel pointed it out to me. But you see, the reason for this sudden burst of testosterone is quite simple. SonRise, the annual Easter resurrection pageant, is but a few short months away and thus, to fit their character they habitually stop shaving.

In what seemed like a mere blink of an eye, I woke up and it was SonRise weekend. Being that the opening scene is performed in the Collegedale Church we were notified that Friday night vespers would be held in Thatcher chapel. I chuckle to myself upon receiving the news. Surely the deans did not expect to fit the entire student body in Thatcher chapel. But of course, they did.

Sardined into the already uncomfortable pew, this was not the time to be shy towards one’s neighbor. Hip to hip, you could practically feel the other person breathing. Despite the congestion I managed to survive the evening and afterward was invited by my dear friend Olga to accompany her for a quick stroll.

Having not changed out of my church clothes, I clip clopped along the promenade in my little black thongs. All day K.R. Davis and other church leaders had dedicated their time and efforts into transforming the promenade into ancient Jerusalem, and I felt privileged to be one of a few that were seeing it before the pageant began.

As we approached the Student Center I could see the props in place of the Last Supper scene. Chatting back and forth, Olga and I soon found ourselves directly in front of the Upper Room. Turning to admire the handiwork that had gone into preparing this vital scene, my eyes caught sight of two figures. Straining through the darkness I looked again. Sure enough, there were two people, and they were not doing any last minute sprucing up of the set. There, in the Upper Room, loafed one of those infamous spring couples. As if they couldn’t find a better place to smack some booty, they just had to choose the Upper Room. For Pete’s sake, Jesus is going to break bread there tomorrow! Disgusted to my innermost core I commented aloud on their behavior, and mind you, I was not bashful in my tongue lashing.

It’s degenerate moments like these that make me ever so glad to be single.

Summer Donna -or- Simmer Down Now!

Today definitely proved to be a memorable Monday. With renewed enthusiasm, I threw back the covers at 4:45 AM, anxious to prepare myself for my last clinical. What’s more is that it was my last pediatric clinical. Long ago when I first started nursing school, and was still wet behind the ears, I recall ranting and raving about practicing pediatric nursing. Yet surprisingly my clinical experiences have inspired me to take a different nursing pathway, one which I always vowed I would never even consider – telemetry.

Despite the fact that I was assigned to a pediatric unit for this last clinical, I was open to the experience and ready to close the book! Hence, I donned my gay apparel, for what might be the last time, and mounted my faithful steed, Wanda, and zipped over to Erlanger hospital. Those of you who know of my driving record can be witness to the fact that when I use the term “zipped”, I mean it in the most literal sense. Consequently, I arrived at the hospital a half hour early and puttsed around the unit until my partner in crime, Greg, the Polish Stone Kaminski, arrived.

Once Greg arrived, we busied ourselves getting report and swapping stories about our diagnoses and our patients’ prognoses. As is expected, there was an early admittance and thus Greg and I decided to get in on the action. We watched attentively as the respiratory therapist debated with the doctor concerning whether to intubate the 4 week old patient. In the midst of the deliberation I decided that it was time for a coffee break. Both Greg and I had ingested next to nothing for breakfast, and reasoned that some coffee might take our minds off our grumbling stomachs.

Thus, we shuffled down the hall into the nurse’s lounge. Conferencing like Knights of King Arthur’s Round Table were two pompous pediatricians, which I promptly ignored. Finding the coffee pot quite desiccated I began pulling draws open left and right, and in no time had whipped up a steaming pot of java for me and my Polish pal. I quietly perfected my starter fuel with some powdered creamer and extra sugar while Greg experimented with some flavored coffee in another coffee-maker. As I sipped down the rather bitter concoction Greg presented me with his very own coffee challenge. On the counter in front of me sat 2 styrofoam cups, each filled to the brim with a different flavor of coffee. With a snicker Greg dared me to taste each one and try to convince him they were actually different flavors, as indeed they were. As is my nature I giggled and accepted his challenge.

After a bit of friendly bickering, I laughed and agreed that although he had brewed 2 different flavors, they tasted exactly the same. At this time one of the pediatricians who themselves had been bantering back and forth, piped into our conversation. “Could you excuse us?” he inquired rudely. I was flabbergasted. Of course by this time the various retorts began swirling around in my head. “First of all. . . . .” I thought “. . . .there is good reason why this is called a lounge. Could it be because it is a lounge? Secondly, its intended purpose is for the relaxation and escape of the overworked and underpaid nurse from uptight, hoity toity, egotistical, individuals such as yourself.” Appropriately my eyes reverted to the extra cup of coffee that Greg had brewed. As Greg motioned for me to quietly and passively exit, I was ever so tempted to dump the coffee into his crotch and advise him, “It would be in your best interest to simmer down!” Realizing the unprofessionalness of such behavior, I decided I would rather not stoop to his level and followed Greg into the other room.

Approximately 5 hours later, as I prepared to leave the unit for post conference on Children’s 300, my eye caught sight of that extra cup of coffee. Shame it went to waste like that.

You're So Vain, I Bet You Think This Blog Is About You

There are two types of people in this world; those who are fully aware of their physical endowments, and those who could make a living as the poster child for contraception as a result of a most dreadful combination of genetics. Those belonging to the first group often deny their outward beauty in a most pathetic attempt to save face, while those belonging to the latter group, thoroughly examine the hand they have been dealt and cash in what little chips they’ve been rewarded.

When faced with the question of how I view my physical assets, my response is synonymous with my description: plain and simple. I often feel as though I dove into the shallow end of the gene pool and hit my head on the bottom. Yet despite my occasional feelings of discontentment, I would not quite consider myself a candidate member of the second group as described earlier.

The relevance of such thoughts is better understood in the context of the events of Tuesday. Late last week I received a memo in my mailbox in Herin, the nursing building. I was provided with strict instructions to sign up in order to have my photo taken for a class photo or “composite.” The university will then display our graduating class photo along with the other classes that have graduated from the Southern Adventist University School of Nursing. Despite the many joys of graduating, repeatedly having my picture taken does not fall under this category. Thus, with much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I squeezed myself into the 5:00 PM slot, allowing myself a half hour between work and my appointment to make myself somewhat presentable.

Tuesday the 15th, 4:25 PM rolled around and as expected I was becoming more and more restless to just get it all over with. Hence in my moment of anxiety I asked Jeri, my supervisor at the cafeteria, if I could clock out a few minutes earlier then usual to provide myself with a few extra minutes to get all gussied up. She gave her approval and like a streak of lightning I was out the door and back to the dorm plugging in numerous electric hair gizmos.

Promptly, as my appointment indicated, I arrived at 5:00 PM sharp in the skills lab downstairs, to have my photo taken. Upon entering I filled out some initial paperwork while the photographer gabbed with another girl who had just had her photo taken. I watched as he assisted a classmate who had the appointment prior to my mine. In the meantime he introduced himself and asked if I had finished the required paperwork. While I could still get a word in edgewise, I expressed some anxiety concerning my tendency to blink when someone tries to take my picture, to which he chuckled and promised that he would take care of the problem.

After positioning me on the photographer’s stool, he began asking me rather elementary questions such as, “What comes after the number 5?” to which I replied “6” followed by the closing of the camera shutter. Suddenly his questions became a little more not so elementary as he inquired, “Do you have a special man in your life right now?” Ever so slightly bewildered I attempted a smile as I replied with a resounding, “No” to which he retorted, “Well you should, a pretty girl like you.”

After 4 photos and extensive retinal damage, I staggered across the room, dodging the occasional flash halo. We continued to chat about school as my photos printed from his laptop computer. He then instructed me to choose the photo I wanted to appear in the composite. After some debate with another classmate I decided to request his professional opinion. Handing him the sheet of photographs he tapped his nose with his ballpoint pen and hesitantly murmured, “I don’t know. You’re such a pretty girl. All these pictures are great.” At this point I was more aware his ever emerging tendency to smother his subjects in compliments that were slightly less than sincere. I was tempted to reply, “Cut the crap Gramps” but instead offered a forced chuckle, quickly chose the first photo, and made a swift turn for the exit.

Recently, in competition with my own definitions of beauty, I researched how other people convey the concept of beauty and discovered one that I particularly enjoyed and thought it mighty applicable for my photographer fellow.

"Truth is beautiful, without a doubt. But so are lies." – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ya Get More Mileage From A Cheap Pair Of Sneakers

Thus were the lyrics written by the renowned song writer, singer, and pianist, Billy Joel. There's something about a new pair of shoes, sneakers in particular. Over Spring Break I went out on a limb, appeasing my inner voice and satisfying my shoe fetish with a bargain pair of NewBalance. The occasion was one of special significance, for this was my first pair of NewBalance sneakers. Possessing a Type-A personality complex, and being rather anal retentive, I always purchase Nike Airwalks. Thus, for me to step out of my comfort zone was truly celebratory, although I'm quite sure that my purchase was heavily influenced by the fact that the shoes were almost 40% off the original price!

I wore the shoes only once over the break for a total of a few hours. But this past Monday I sported them all day long, and as I said before, there is something about a new pair of sneakers. I have seriously debated the various reasons for my excitement, but have not been successful in narrowing down my conclusion. I suspect it may have something to do with the crisp white fabric as opposed to the grungy brownish color of my other shoes buried in the closet. Or maybe it has something to do with the new laces. No frayed ends makes for easier tying. Yet, as disgusting as it sounds, I'm really more convinced that it has something to do with how they make your feet smell. Despite even the most perfuse perspiration or mafungo flare up, your feet will not adopt that usual aeromatic waftiness until those babies are well broken in. Call me crazy, but that's my theory.

The Recant

With life hanging in the balance, and while I still have 2 shreads of dignity and sanity remaining, I thought it best to post a notification concerning the recant of my most recent job offer. Please do not worry yourself with the who?, what?, where?, when?, why?, and how? of the situation, for even I do not have the answers. My only surety is that now I must muster up some patience and wait for the dreaded callback from the unit director. Until then, we wait.

A Time For Firsts

Someone once said, “There is a first time for everything.” While digesting this expression, I ponder what first time event was occurring in their life to extract such a profound maxim? As I continue to dissect the meaning behind these words I find myself examining my own life.

This year has presented me with a collection of firsts:

For the first time I loved unconditionally.
For the first time I felt genuine rejection.
For the first time I became acquainted with real depression.
For the first time I met Jesus.
For the first time I accepted His embrace.
For the first time I stood steadily on both feet.
For the first time I gazed into the mirror and smiled back at my reflection.
For the first time I’m not searching.

This past Friday also posed another first in my life. But prior to Friday was Wednesday. There was some speculation concerning whether we were having Mission Nursing class that evening at 5:00 PM. While waiting for the down-low from a classmate, I had a strange urge to check my voicemail on the room phone. It is fairly out of character for me to check this system. It is always malfunctioning, and thus I disregard it as a source of communication and distribute my cell phone number as my basis of contact information. Yet I had this inclination to check my messages, and consequently called downstairs to the front desk to pathetically request my mailbox number which I had long since forgotten.

“You have two unplayed messages.” Hmmmmmm. I guess it was worth the effort. Message one was a callback from Vicky, my little sister. Message two was another callback. This one from a woman named, Sue Matthews, sporting a heavy Indian accent. I had just recently applied for a job as a nurse intern at Memorial Hospital in Chattanooga. I shushed my roommate while scribbling her phone number on the pad of PostIt notes on my desk. I promptly returned her call. Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, click. “Hello?” We set up an interview.

Friday 11:00 AM. Donning my Agent Scully high heels and most professional attire I pulled into the parking garage with 5 measly minutes to spare. Mid-morning traffic was killer as usual. Driving in circles, my eyes darted to and fro frantically searching for somewhere to park Wanda. Already slightly nauseous, this was not helping. But ah, there’s one! Whipping around, I threw the car into park and flung myself out the door. Now comes the most spectacular feat. I took off into a full run, uphill, in 3 inch heels. Squealing like a little girl as I rounded the corner, a man smoking a cigarette turned and raised his eyebrow at the sight of this little blond running and squealing, just barely smacking head first into the automatic doors that were not quite quick enough for me.

Panting, I arrived on 1 Central and paged Sue. Anxiously tapping my right foot on the tile floor, I zoned out for a few minutes to collect myself. As I began to phone-home again, Sue emerged from around the corner with another Southern student. She offered me a drink which I quickly refused and then directed me to her office. For the next half hour we discussed the details of orientation and the stipulations behind hire. She then offered to give me a tour of 1 North, the unit I applied to work on, and where I did my management practicum in January. Thus, we wandered down the hall to 1 North. Suddenly voices and faces that were all too familiar tapped into my senses. Of course the nurses recognized my laugh from down the hall and greeted me. Sue took me to Lynn’s office. I sat in a swivel chair as he pretended to “interview” me. While working on 1 North in January I had the opportunity to establish a rapport with the nurses and the charge nurse especially. Lynn, being the charge nurse, was the one who informed me about the job opening. He turned to me and smiled. “We want you.” That was all he said. “It’s that easy?” I inquired. He smiled again.

This was definitely a first. My first major job interview. My first nursing job. Johnny on the spot! What first is next? Only time will tell.

Jockey Q's

We simply had to have one last horrah before Spring Break ended, and thus Rachel and I decided to arise early Sunday morning and visit the Jockey Lot which her dad, Dean, describes as a glorified flea market. Upon our arrival I certainly could not argue with his characterization of such an establishment. Yet at the same time I was stuck with an ever pervading sense of nostalgia as we wandered past the pink hotdog shack. The various sights and sounds of the Jockey Lot conjured up dusty memories of old pastimes, inevitably assisting me as I construct my own personal portrayal of the Jockey Lot.

Travel with me, if you would, back to a little town called Quakertown, Pennsylvania. Tucked away, along the outskirts of town is a conglomerate affectionately referred to by the natives as the Q-Mart, or to be politically correct, the Quakertown Farmer’s Market. After only a single visit one may find themselves dumfounded, as if the English language took a blow below the belt and there were no words sufficient that could paint a picture that would accurately depict the potpourri of activities taking place.

In a nutshell the Q-Mart is a smorgasbord of circus outcasts trying to sell you an overpriced Romex watch. As if that was not bad enough, it seems that the orchestrators of the Q-Mart are completely ignorant of the Surgeon General’s warning, for a thick ever-present cloud of smoke wafts throughout the facility, mingling with the freshly baked danishes at the bakery, and dancing with the pig intestines that hang from the ceiling of one of approximately 50 butcher counters. But please, I beseech you, do not leave just yet because waiting just around the corner is a man who specializes in the sale of cow tongues, which he considers to be a delicacy!

I’m still quite perplexed though, as to what provoked the comparison between these two places. Surely it must have been the fluorescent pink hotdog shack that prodded deep into the confines of my brain pulling out such memories of the Q-Mart. Whatever the case may be and however strange, the Jockey Lot proved to be quite impressionable.

Unlike the Q-Mart, the majority of the Jockey Lot peddlers spoke discernable English although smothered in a good ole-fashioned southern accent, which believe it or not, helps to facilitate an actual sale. Yet as with all places, there are people that come from all walks of life. In fact, my first purchase was from a lady who retained her own special uniqueness. She was introduced to me as the Sox Lady. Her hair was nestled neatly under a knitted hat, trying to escape the early morning chill. Smiling eyes offered a friendly greeting from below the canopy of rather interesting eyebrows, which had been painted on with a purplish colored lip liner. Yet, her Colombian accent cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, differentiating her from the throng of southerners as she whispered, “I’ll make you a deal on these.” while pointing to some dress socks. Anxious and excited to see Rachel, she made the request for some contact information, which Rachel graciously provided. In her tattered address book she referred to Rachel as, “The socks I like.” After recovering from a rather bad case of logorrhea we managed to escape to do some more exploring.

Dogs, birds, hardware, food, cosmetics, clothes etc. You name it, and we found it at the Jockey Lot, including a Russian taxidermist who tried desperately to sell Dean a very fashionable lamp made of deer legs, hooves and all.

In a sense the Jockey Lot, like the Q-Mart, has left me speechless, perhaps from a more positive perspective. Thus I am left with no choice but to advise you that if you are ever in Anderson, South Carolina and are looking for some fun, laughs, and even a few good buys, head to the Jockey Lot. It gets a 10 in my book!

Technical Difficulties

Never underestimate the anger that boils deep within the soul of someone who has just experienced technical difficulties. I have just spent approximately an hour and a half composing a blog detailing the events of my most recent hiatus in South Carolina. Due to its lengthy nature I decided to save my artistic expression, just to be on the safe side. Writing is not something that I take lightly, and thus, beaming with satisfaction I clicked the save button, confident that performing such an action would ensure that my work was engraved on cyber-tablets-of-stone for all eternity. Yet my efforts to preserve such a jem for later sharing have proved to be in vain. Consequently here I sit, stewing behind the computer screen, gritting my teeth, and choking back obscenities.

Thus my patience has been pushed to the max this evening, leaving me with no other choice but to cool my jets and hit the sack. With weeping and gnashing of teeth I shall return to the drawing board tomorrow and attempt to recall my story in its most original form. Until then, the suspense continues.

Back To The Grind Stone

Since my return to Happy Valley, I've pondered and prodded for something to write about. Please do not assume that I did not have an eventful Spring Break, for it was quite the contrary. South Carolina is always kind to me, despite my Yankee heritage. I suppose I've just been away so long that my writing skills are getting a little rusty and are in desparate need of some honing. Or perhaps, I have so much to relate that my poor brain is too overwhelmed and cannot translate it into English as well as I would like. Whatever the case may be, ya'll at the very least know that I am still alive and well, and have returned to the grind stone with greatest of fury.