Huh?

Peter Gabriel once said, "I wanna be your sledgehammer." When I was little, and MTV still actually played music videos, this was one of my favorite videos ever.

I've heard this song twice in the last 2 days and the lyrics really got me to thinking. When I heard the intro for the song come blaring through my stereo speakers I could almost see the video replay in my head. There's something especially strange about the one particular scene where they animate a sledgehammer which swings and cracks open 2 eggs, and inside are 2 cooked chickens like you'd find on a rotisserie spit, who dance with each other. Now that's imagination at it's finest! But what I really want to know is, what the heck was he saying? "I wanna be your sledgehammer." Should I be blushing? What does it mean?

Thought For The Day

This too shall pass, much like a kidney stone - long, drawn-out, and excruciatingly painful.

Tis The Gift To Be Simple

Despite my sweaty palms and racing heart I clutched the microphone as if I had a magnet in my hand, and belted out my solo part to Simple Gifts. That was in the seventh grade. The Second and Santa Claus both have birthdays which are rapidly approaching. A few weeks ago I decided that I wanted to get them something, but I'm still not quite sure what.

Generally I'm much better at giving gifts than receiving them, yet there is something about shopping for men in particular, that leaves me full of apprehension and dread. I like to believe that because I know them well I would do a good job making my individual selections, yet I'd proven myself wrong in that department before, so who am I trying to fool?

I'd just returned from Thanksgiving break which I'd spent in South Carolina with Rachel and Ronald. As tradition demands we'd drug ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn to hit the Black Friday door-buster sales. Thus I was not surprised when I found myself lugging twice as much stuff up the 3 flights of stairs to my dorm room in Thatcher Hall.

Tucked neatly inside one of my suitcases was a crimson red, silk necktie, that seemed to call to me from the rack on which it hung. While waiting in line to make my purchase I closed my eyes and could almost see his face. He was smiling at me. And it was almost as if I was dreaming in black and white because all I could see was the brilliance of that tie, and how it seemed to compliment his sheer existence. I was pleased with myself.

In the midst of studying for finals I managed to find the time to make several trips to various craft stores in search of the perfect tissue paper and ribbon. Sitting at my desk one evening I carefully folded the tie and placed it in the little green box I'd made with Rachel's mom. I secured the lid in place with gold ribbon and stepped back to look at what I'd accomplished. It was almost too pretty to open.

A week and a half later, as I prepared to travel to Pennsylvania for Christmas break, I took the little green box out of my closet, and along with a stack of loaner books, headed to his house. I was cold and rainy. He was tying his shoes when I knocked on the door, which communicated that he did not intend on our visit being long. I handed him the books, the little green box balanced on top. "What's this?" he asked. "It's for you." I replied with one hand on the doorknob.

As I drove away I felt proud of myself. He'd rejected me repeatedly but my spirit was far from weakened. The day before I departed for home the phone rang. It was him. What followed was a pathetic attempt to choke back laughter, intermingled with words of supposed thanks for a gift too simple. He never wore that tie. He couldn't have hurt me more than if he had spit in my face. We didn't speak to each other after that.

That was the last time I ever bought a gift for a man, except my dad of course, who would've never laughed at me, even if I'd presented him with a sack full of dog crap.

People often try to justify their ungratefulness by saying, "It was the thought that counts." But this went far beyond a cliche. I'm not saying that a necktie is anything to get particularly excited about. That, in and of itself is rather cliche. But there was so much of my soul in that little green box, something far more priceless and even beautiful. Perhaps had he known me at all he would've seen that. So I suppose it's not what you give that matters, but why you're giving a gift in the first place. For me it's never been an obligation. The calendar doesn't dictate what I do for the people I love.

Yet none of this makes it any more clear what I should buy. Sigh. . . .

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

Growing up my older sister dubbed us as follows: she had the talent, Vicky had the looks, and I had the brains. Yet with each passing year I am beginning to think that perhaps anything of genetic worth found its way into her DNA, leaving the rest of us lacking.

The other day she related to me a conversation that she had with D.B. look-a-like. If I remember correctly he said something to the effect of, "Aren't you in love?" And being the woman she is she retorted, "Aren't you in love?" He returned the question with the typical male response, "Of course." Again prying just a little deeper she asked the obvious question, "With who?" Finally after ping ponging back and forth he admitted it was her that he loved. I simultaneously felt pangs of both joy and discouragement. Joy in that she had found love and seems to be the only one in our family thus far to find it, yet discouraged and probably a little jealous because it seems no matter what I do, I'll never be able to get someone to fall in love with me.

It seems she has this inherent ablility to get men to fall in love with her. Foreign, American, young, old, it really doesn't matter. And she doesn't even have to be looking for it either. She's the posterchild for my favorite Sting song. Put her in a room with a man and you can almost hear the lyrics and melody being piped into the background - Every little thing she does is magic. . . . .

Someone once told me that not everyone in this world is meant to be with someone. I'm not sure if they were truly being honest or if they were trying to depress me. In a few weeks I'll be 24 and I'm really beginning to believe that love just isn't in the cards for me. I'm fully aware of the fact that I'm still young and I have "plenty of time for marriage etc." But I can't help but wonder why I can't seem to set fire to someone's soul.

Maybe it's not in my numbers. I'll have to ask Voodoo Number Lady.

The Name Game 101

At work we have a lingo all our own. 1 North is the only unit in the entire hospital where you're either working on The Predator, The Jungle, The Killer Corners, or The Back of the Bus. And there's little point in wearing a name badge because everyone's got a nickname. When other nurses float to our floor we have to educate them so they know who's who, and what's what.

The nurse's nicknames all have a story behind them, which really we should make into book to publish and sell for a profit. It's all just too funny. For the sake of this blog, you're just going to get the names, and if you care to hear the story behind it all, give me a call:

Hickey quit quite awhile ago, and just recently we lost Tea and Crumpets as well. If you want to be able to give your meds on time you must learn to appease the Pyxis Troll. If you want to know what's in your future just ask the Voodoo Number Lady. If The Barracuda calls from the monitor room you can be sure that something's wrong. If you ever have a problem there's little to no point in talking to Cletus, it's likely you'd be referred to talk to Bin Laden. Pray that you're not in charge when Hop-A-Long Bananas is working because you won't be able to get anything done. Stand clear of Princess Pomeranian because she's sure to be fixing her hair.

It's been said that location is everything, so get ready for your virtual tour:

The Predator is the front hallway, and it is called such because there's nowhere to hide. You're right there at the double doors, and whether you're looking to escape the night supervisor or Hop-A-Long Bananas, you might as well forget it.

The Jungle is the middle hallway, and it is called such because the patient clientele vary from day to day, or really from minute to minute. One minute everything is peachy keen, and the next you've got some crazy breaking out of 4 point restraints and a Posey vest, wandering down the hall like a zombie.

The Killer Corners are the corner rooms of each of the 3 hallways, and it is called such because you usually find yourself running from room to room all night long caring for the most needy, ungrateful people this side of the Mississippi.

The Back of the Bus is the back hallway, and it is called such because you're far away from everyone else, and the patient load makes you feel like you're being punished, and you're not quite sure why.

Got it? Get it? Good!

Bringing Sexy Back

On 1 North we're always bringing sexy back. I don't care who you are, or what you do, or even if you intended on bringing sexy back - it's happening! Our nurses, our techs, our secretaries, our phlebotomists, our respiratory therapists, and a specially select few of our doctors have truly got it going on. Perhaps I'm a little biased, but it just seems to me that we do what everyone else does except with a little extra pizazz.

Last night, for the first time in about 2 weeks, I actually had a good, productive, relatively easy, night at work, despite the fact that I was on the Killer Corners. At about 2 or 3 'o clock in the morning Momma called out to me from room 187, and before she even opened her mouth I knew what she needed. Just a few days before I'd dealt with the exact same scenario 3 times over! Thus I was not surprised when she admitted with much dismay that the patient's colostomy had come off yet again, and she needed some help getting him situated. But really if the story was that easy I probably wouldn't be telling it.

This particular patient was on contact isolation due to having certain infections, mandating that whenever you went in the room to care for the patient you were required to wear a long sleeve, blue plastic gown, face mask, and gloves. Lucky for me, having cared for the patient before, and being deemed colostomy expert by the family, I headed down to the room to offer my assistance. I feel like I ought to own a brown cape with a "C" on it or something. Anyway, I got all decked out and headed into the room. I suppose now would be an ideal time to tell you that the aforementioned plastic gown swallows me whole, literally. Once I have this costume completely on I look more like an astronaut ready to head into outer space than a nurse. It's all but flattering. But I digress. . . .

So I'm in the room doing that amazing colostomy thing I do, and for whatever reason the I'm Too Sexy song jumps into my head, and the whole time I'm trying to concentrate and do what needs to be done I can't help but hum to myself, "I'm too sexy for this gown, this mask, these gloves. So sexy it hurts!"

Later I told Momma that we should perform our version of the song for hospital administration. I bet they'd like it.