Why I don't smoke outside my apartment

Me: *puff puff* *puff puff*
CreepyDude: Hey. You got a cigarette?
Me: No, sorry. I roll my own and only brought one.
CreepyDude: Well then give me a drag of yours...
Me: Uhh. You want me to give you the cigarette that was just in my mouth, let you put it in YOUR mouth, and then take it back...??
CreepyDude: Yeah
Me: Yeah, that's not going to happen.
CreepyDude: Well why the hell not? The F***'s wrong with you? (getting disproportionately pissy)
Me: I don't share things I put in my mouth with random men off the street.
CreepyDude: *protesting as if it's open for discussion*
Me: We're through talking here. (partially turns away, while feeling in pocket for pepperspray)
CreepyDude: *grumbletalkingtohimselfashewalksaway*


I do not like how mean I am with strangers around here. But I like even less being taken advantage of by bossy creepy dudes who feel entitled to what I have. Screw that. So I choose aversion: no more smoking out front.

Classy

There was a sign posted on the entrance to my apartment complex saying they were looking for "hot girls" for their escort service with a number to call.

Classy.

Life After Matt

My household has been in shambles lately.

It started with the oatmeal incidents. My cupboard I've been keeping oatmeal in has shelves too short for the canister to stand upright, so I've kept it lying on it's side. Well that cupboard happens to be above the stove, so while I was cooking rice one night, I reached up to get something out of that cupboard, and as soon as I opened the door the oatmeal came spilling out all over the stove, into my rice pot, and onto the floor. I had rice-oats for dinner that night.

But due to a couple glasses breaking while washing dishes on account of my not having a dish rack because it takes up counter space, I had broken the vacuum and was unable to clean up the oatmeal right away. It might seem like a nonsequitor, but after (I thought) picking up all the large glass chunks I had vacuumed to double check, and a large piece of glass had migrated into the living room and I hadn't noticed it and it broke my vacuum. So right. The oatmeal wasn't going anywhere fast.

The next day I decided to pot my plants in the living room on top of some brown paper bags I'd spread out on the floor. That didn't work, and so dirt, literally DIRT, was all over my living room floor.

The next day I was making mac&cheese quick before I left for work, and the SAME EXACT THING happened with the oatmeal, which I had not thought to move to a safer location. So I ate some mac&cheese-oats quick and left.

So then I'm coming home to an apartment, and there is literally dirt and oatmeal tracked/blown all over my entire apartment. Eventually I borrowed Phil's vacuum and took care of that, but it was quite the blow.

Now this week I've been having trouble with my toilet not flushing right. Two plungers (yeah, I borrowed Phil's. Surprise, surprise.) and three days later I'm still a little iffy about it, though it's getting the job done. Eventually.

Oh, and the last... I don't know, say, 6 times?... I've made cookies, I've burnt the hell outta them. Also, I've been microwaving tortillas and bagels. Which apparently is a domestic sin.

Sigh. Someday I WILL have a respectable home life. Mark my words.

***BLEEP***

I totally just set my bangs I'm trying to grow out on fire lighting a cigarette on my gas stove burners.

Might be time to quit cigaretting.

A two-fold point.

The other day Flatlander mentioned a post I wrote over a year ago. Looking at it again and thinking of that time in my life really brought a lot of memories back. I miss this blog. Back when I was living in my parents basement, going to school, and working at the nursing home, when I wanted to post on the blog I would go outside, smoke a cigarette, reflect on my day, and identify 1-3 things I'd been thinking about or of note that happened that day. Then I'd retreat back to my cave in the basement, sit down in front of the computer and write about them. Easy-breezy.

I miss that luxury.

Looking after my own home and overscheduling to the point of insanity has left me shell-shocked and brainless. Well not brainless, but it's hard to make my brain delight about something random or reflect on something past for more than 5 minutes any more before I start reviewing what I need to do in the future. And that's a crying shame.

After of summer of recuperation and just recently getting to a point where I'm comfortable with my routine of JUST holding a FT job at the hospital and looking after daily cooking/cleaning necessities, I have to admit that I have fleeting regrets that I haven't made recreational writing more of a habit again while I had the time to. And now school is starting again. Granted, at a much lesser rate as I'm only taking one 7-credit clinical, but it's still a good 12 hours of face time between lectures and clinicals at the hospital, plus all the papers, projects, readings, and prep that goes with it. Plus 40 hours of work a week. Planning out my schedule I was somewhat horrified that THIS was cutting back. What was I thinking last semester.

At any rate. The point I wanted to make is two-fold: one, I want to blog more because it's good for me. It makes me reflect. It decreases worrying and anxiety because the focus is on the past and present, not the future (except this post). And that's good. That's healthy. And two, .... Okay, there isn't really a two. Twofold points sound more impressive, though... so... right. I'll try again: And two, please feel free to harass me if I'm not posting enough. Man... writing socially in a coherent manner is harder than I remember...

Thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Racial Dialogue

Lately I've been learning some interesting tidbits from my black coworkers at the nursing home about things that are culturally different between us. For example:

1. Black women wear brown, black, or purple panties underneath white pants/skirts so that their panties don't show through. Makes perfect sense. But that NEVER would have occured to me. Please don't ask how it came up.

2. When a black woman says "He favors so-and-so," don't be confused and think that it's a matter of social preference, because then she'll think you're an idiot. (Sigh. I'm such an idiot.) "Favors" in this context means "resembles."

3. Black hair is incredibly difficult to style, but once styled far easier to maintain. Also, it needs to be washed WAY WAY WAY less. Apparently this is because it's easier for oil/grease from your scalp to slide down a relatively straight/finer hair shaft than it is down a kinky-curly/coarse hair shaft, making split ends and moisture deficits more of an issue for them, and greasy hair more of an issue for us. This I knew. I guess I'm not really communicating the new knowledge I've learned, because I just realized it's too hard to explain hair styling for someone with as limited experience as I have. I'm not really into all that girly crap. I'm on top of things if I remember to brush it. I bought my first bottle of hairspray in around a decade a couple months ago and have hardly used it a half-dozen times. So much for that.

4. White girls often interact by talking lovey or flirting with each other. At least this is what I have observed, and what has been my experience- maybe I have creepy female friendships. This is not appropriate with any of the black women I work with. I've attempted to bond with some of the ones I'm closer to in this manner and they looked at me like I was crazy and I had to very frankly explain, no, I am not in fact a lesbian or in any way posing a threat to your sexuality-- I was just messing around and trying to bond with you. Then they thought I was even crazier.

5. The black women I work with seem to be vehemently opposed to interracial mixing, to the point where I would never DARE mention to the majority of them that I've dated black men in their presence for fear of being shunned or causing tensions in the workplace. I don't know if this is common, but it's incredibly pronounced with the women at work. I was talking to one woman who I'm closer friends with and it came up, and she told me point blank that she found interracial mixing offensive and even went so far to admit that it wasn't just on a sexual level, and when she told her sister she was going out to breakfast with me after work, her sister was affronted and asked her what the hell she thought she was doing hanging out with me. She said it was hard for her not to be embarrassed when her family all saw her being dropped off by her white girl friend. I was baffled by this. And honestly, it kinda hurt my feelings a little. Whatcha gonna do.

6. Okay, I don't know if this one is normal either, but let's talk about those head scarves that some black women wear. I had no idea, but apparently it's not just a fashion statement-- it's quasi-"political," kind of a flashback to how female slaves used to wear them on their heads in the fields. Our black supervising nurse said something to a black coworker about how she should not wear her headscarf in the building because it was inflammatory. I didn't see how it was in any way an issue- it was a floral print scarf, for goodness sake!- and asked her what on earth she meant. And apparently it's supposed to be reminiscent of slavery days, reminding people of the oppressiveness of their cultural heritage. She explained it as kind of like a "fuck you" (sorry) to white supremicists. I guess that while the younger generation (I'm assuming I'm not the only naive one) isn't aware, it's a bigger issue for all the racist old people at the nursing home and they find it offensive as there are lots of very racist old people (though some of them remember to try not to be openly). It was weird. I felt naive.

Okay, that's all I got. I wonder if this is a weird post. Is it not PC to talk about cultural differences? Hmmm. Dunno. Don't care. I thought it was interesting.

You could say I dropped the Ball...

If by "the ball" you meant a 375 lb. woman. Yeah. That was not a high point tonight at work.

I was trying to get this woman washed up and dressed this morning. Normally we use an EZ-Stand contraption pictured below. It also has a blue harness, but in order to put it on around the resident and then attach it to the red handle hooks (again, refer to illustration), the person has to be close enough for it to hook in.

Buuuuut... this woman had these hugie blue plastic boot-things on to protect her bum ankles. Normally this is no problem, but they were impeding our ability to manuever the EZ-Stand close enough to her. The bed height needed to be adjusted. At this point, however, I had already hoisted her dead-weight into a sitting position and was physically holding her there (she's pretty much immobile save some minor to moderate upper body strength)... consequently it was quite the reach. So as I'm reaching around full stretch trying to get the bed down a mere 4 inches or so, she starts panicking a little and pulling with her hands on the EZ-Stand... resulting in pulling her weight FORWARD... resulting in the beginning of her descent to the floor.

I really thought I could stop it. So I grit my teeth, abandoned trying to adjust the height, and focussed on throwing all my weight against her sliding body.

And then there was a flash of clarity where I realized, duh Maggie, you can't stop the fall of a 375 lb. woman. It's just not happening. So, true to my training, I changed my objective to "easing her fall." Old people's bones seem to be made of porcelain and their skin tears like tissue. I was DETERMINED not to have either of those scenarios.

So I "eased" her down. But what really ended up happening in the process was in easing her fall, I mainly just broke her fall.

... and took all 375 lbs. on my inner thigh, trapping a leg and an arm beneath her. It was soooooo painful and hard to get my leg free. My leg is... not happy. BUT! On the bright side, she was completely fine. It was incredibly embarrassing, though. I mean, come on. I dropped an old lady. I know accidents happen-- I just don't want them happening to ME. Poor old lady. I must say, the whole thing was a rather undignified and an unfortunate way to start the day.

Self-Restraint

Given the nature of my work as a nursing assistant, I am continuously placed in (and placing others in) what under normal circumstance would be very awkward situations. Sure, they're still awkward- but you get over it quicker when it's a matter of necessity. I've also developed a calm, confident, comfortable, considerate, and undaunted can-do demeanor (CCCCUCDD) to assume when necessary to put my residents at ease. This invovles enormous self-restraint at times when stifling a wide range of very natural responses to unideal situations.

A few examples of my work-situations that require unusually high levels of self-restraint:

• Not being embarrassed by complete nudity, bodily functions, or the most pitifully unfortunate modes of existence.
• Not wrinkling my nose or gasping when I turn away due to the obscenely foul odors originating from the resident I'm cleaning's body.
• Not cringing when someone accidentally urinates on me.
• Not rolling my eyes or getting exasperated when an evil old lady verbally abuses me and threatens to have me fired for letting her pillow fall to the floor ("..and get covered in bacteria!") when she kicked it.
• Not showing my disgust and rage when an ornery old man deliberately knocks his bed pan over and says to me, "Now get down on your hands and knees and clean it up."
• Not showing that I'm startled or caught off-guard when I first realize that the person I'm undressing is in fact unbeknownced to me an amputee.
• Not panicking (or freezing) when I walk into a room to discover that the reason why my resident (with thighs the thickness of wrists who cannot walk on her own) is not in her bed is because she's lying face down in a pool of her own blood out of sight on the other side of the bed.
• Not tearing up in desperation when my recently deceased resident's eyes WILL NOT stay shut.

Individually they're doable. But add them all together in one night and it can be REALLY HARD to stay in control of yourself. Honestly, that's HOW I stay in control of myself-- by reminding myself that at least I can modify my behaviors, and that's not necessarily the case with all of my residents. And the craziest thing at this point is that there are a number of things I'm presently restraining myself from sharing because they're just too horrible to share, even without identifying the person in question. I guess some things are better off never mentioned again. I hate to say it, but sometimes I'm actually relieved that certain people have dementia-- because they won't have to be ashamed of themselves for what they just did later. It must be really hard to get old. But I gotta say, it's not exactly easy caring for the elderly either.

But that being said, the particular type of restraint I routinely have to exercise that I would like to discuss here is:

• Not laughing insensitively at old people, no matter how funny what they said might have been.

Granted, sometimes it's okay and GOOD to laugh things off, especially if they were awkward to begin with, but most of the time it would be oh-so-unhelpful and just plain insensitive. ***

Now maybe I'm too easily (or even wrongly) amused, but here are a few of tonight's work experiences that challenged my ability to restrain my laughter:

"THE CATFIGHT"

So I was in a shared residents room responding to one of their call lights. Two women lived in this room. As I was determining what the woman who put on her call light (Woman A) needed, her roommate (Woman B) piped up. It all happened so fast. The conversation that took place between them went something like this:
WB: Heeeeyyyy!! (screeching) Shut up already, I'm tryin' ta sleep!
WA: Shutcherr trap, you old HAG!
WB: I'M a hag?? Have you SEEN yourself? Can't a person get some SLEEP without you flappin'?
WA: YOU TALK IN YOUR SLEEP THE WHOLE DAMN NIGHT. You think I want to hear you blab to your dead husband about some damn drapes? Now MIND YOUR G-DAMN BUSINESS.
WB: *drops the F and N Bombs*
In the middle of WB's last comment I gathered up my jaw and quickly intervened. Okay. Maybe it's not so funny to you guys, but if you HEARD how sugary sweet and innocent each of these ladies are individually and how in a flash-bang they went to cranky old lady versions of the Hulk-- Wow. That and I've never heard anyone actually called a hag, in earnest, to their face. It was hard not to laugh-- It was so sudden!

"THE DEMENTORS"

Crap. This one is also going to seem so insensitive. "Dementor" is the term that I fondly use to refer to people with obvious dementia when I'm far far away from work or school-- in fact, this is the first time I've used it other than when speaking to my mother over a cup of coffee in the privacy of her kitchen, or for the sake of making my little sister's ill at ease in the same location. Somehow wrong seems more right over a cup of coffee with mom. I've also tried out the terms "dementoids" or "dementards" but those just didn't have the right feel. I usually only use it when they unwittingly terrorize me. Yes, I'm a terrible person picking on the weak and helpless. Get over it.

So like I was saying. This is actually a two-fer because the set up for both of these isolated situations was the same. So I'll just start with the first. I was in a particular dementor's room changing her particularly poopy adult brief (giant diaper). We were making small talk. But here's the thing about dementors. Sometimes they can make perfect sense, but much of the time they just sound like they do. This particular woman was at least using words (as opposed to garbled sounds with only the appropriate tone of voice), but they were not concrete words and didn't make any sense whatsoever- just stringing them together left and right. When she began it seemed like she was talking about the diaper changing, but her tone of voice more fit a conversation where she was commiserating with an acquaintance over the childish rebellions of a distant relative's son, or perhaps how unsatisfactory the preparation of last night's chicken was. My response in these situations, particulary given that I work nights and everyone's groggy, is to play along so as to avoid causing them unnecessary anxiety or distress when they realize their inability to communicate effectively. Again, mind you, I must stress that she's saying words but they are NOT MAKING ANY SENSE. I have no clue what she's talking about at this point. So I throw in a "Isn't that terrible!" or "what a shame," or a "you must be so proud!" or even a "tsk tsk"... whatever sort of ambiguous, noncommital response seems to play into the tone of voice, and body language, she's using. If I'm feeling cocky I'll even ask ambiguous questions in response, even though neither of us it really talking about anything at all.

So we were harmlessly chatting away about God-knows-what, the dementor and I, and as I turned her on her side to continue cleaning up all the BM, she get's really quiet. And then, mid-wipe, again, WHILE I'M WIPING HER BOTTOM, she quietly says, "It's rather tempting, isn't it." It was SO.HARD. not to laugh!!! I REALLY want to know what on earth was going on in her head at that point! Does it get any more randomly bizarre and awkward than that?? No, lady. I cannot think of a single situation where the poop on your bottom could EVER.POSSIBLY. be tempting. My goodness.

But maybe it does get more awkward. In a very similar situation with a different dementor, I was ALSO wiping her bottom (though there was absolutely no verbal communication on her part preceding this), when her gravelly voice inquires, "How does my butt look?" Uhhhhhhh. Tricky. My oh-so-professional response was, "Hmm... Healthy!" I mean c'mon- how the heck am I supposed to answer that one!!

"THE LITTLE PIG"

This one actually was the funniest. And the most awkward (funny how that works). A little context. It can at times be awkward for a man to have a woman doing intimate, personal cares for them (and vice versa even more so, but that's outside of my scope). Generally speaking, most men don't seem to have much of a problem with it, and are pretty comfortable being naked (or get to be quickly) in front of people. One of the things I've noticed, however, is that while my WWII vets seem to be the most comfortable with actually being naked or exposed, they're also the most uncomfortable with it-- because they're worried about scandal for the sake of the women doing cares on them. Common variations I've heard are, "You're too young to have to look at this!" (response: "Not looking!-- just washing!") or "You poor thing, this job must be TERRIFYING for you!" (granted, he WAS rather formidable). And nearly exclusively I've heard these sorts of concerns coming from WWII veterans. Most non-vets act (and maybe they even are) oblivious to any sort of awkwardness that could arise from such situations.

Tonight's WWII vet variation took the cake, though. I heard distressed sounds coming from this vet's room as I was walking down the hall, so I went in to ask if he was alright. He shyly admitted that he was not in fact alright. So I asked what was the matter. He hemmed and hawed a bit, and then came out with, "Well...er.. ah.. is there actually a man that could help me?" Which there was not. So I explained that there weren't any men working that night, and asked if perhaps there was something I could do to help? His response was, "well... yes. I suppose so-- If you're strong enough." So I turned on the bedside lamp and the problem was clearly illuminated. He'd futzed with his adult brief and consequently peed all over himself in the bed. Nothing too difficult or that uncommon, really.

So I started getting supplies together to change his clothes, bedding, and clean him up nice. But while I'm preparing he was getting a little anxious about the whole thing (he is, by the way, a borderline dementor). For some reason he seemed to have it in his head that I didn't know the difference between men and women and would be traumatized by what lies hidden beneath his cheery-patterned PJ's. So naturally, when I asked him if he's okay (seeing his mounting anxiety), he tries to gently warn me by saying, "Now, ah... you see... well... there's a little pig in my bed!"
Me: (pleasantly) A little pig, huh? (not understanding what he means, but assuming he'll keep talking.)
V: Well... not exactly in my bed, actually... it's more... here... *very generally indicating groin region with a wave of his hand*
Me: Ohh... I see... (internally having a brain-chuckle while wondering if he's blaming the "little pig" for the mess in his bed, and not quite clear on why he's bringing it up)
V:(cutting me off, not yet convinced that I do see and very concerned as my preparations are nearly complete-- girls can't possibly know about men) No, you see... it's not a REAL little pig! ... it's more like.. (grasping).. like the kind that's cooked and ready to eat!! ... *pause*... (HORRIFIED, realizing his attempt at circumlocuting the crass illusion to his "sausage" was even more crass than saying it could have been)... err!.. I mean!... I just don't want you to be frightened is all!!!

It was really hard not to laugh. He was so incredibly distressed that he was going to scandalize me. So sweet, however clumsy. I have to admit, I have a serious soft spot for oldey veterans...

Anyways... this got to be a lot longer than I intended. Good for you if you read the whole thing!

*** Note: At this point I feel inclined to warn you that I am not a very sensitive person when it comes to matters of humor. I stand by the level of care I provide to my residents. And while I do make jokes at their expense sometimes (as you can see), I have never ONCE made any sort of comment at a residents expense at work, not even to a coworker. My humor in no way compromises the level of care I provide.

intellectual desirability

Yesterday at school I had 5 people independently ask for my phone number.

... so we could study together. Yeah, I dunno why they want to study with me either. Man, I've got these people fooled... it's like they desire my intellect... or something...

But this is also a delightful context in which to play dumb and mess with people, and an opportunity which I took advantage of to make others squirm. For example:

Vicki: Because of the divorce I have the house completely to myself so it's nice and quiet; we can go there any time. Here, let me give you my number- what's yours?
Me: Oh... Vicki. I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to mislead you, but I actually prefer men...

Or there was this:

Carlos: Hey, what's your number?
Maggie: Umm... are you asking me out?! (sudden aloofness, mild disdain, and clipped words)
Carlos: *uncomfortable, startled glance*

Hehehe. So much fun.

The reason why I don't write love poems anymore:

My
dearest *BLEEP*,
Shall I compare
thee to a sundae? You are
sweatier (er, sweeter) and creamier by
far. Your grimy fingers are like pecans
with fudge coating its numerous cracks. No dollar dainty
are you, but rather a bounteous bowl brimming
with cool, creamy caramel
with fanciful figures
traced in fudge.
My darling *BLEEP*,
only a message from you could
be the cherry this delicacy dearly deserves.


I just stumbled upon this from long long ago. The original was sent via email and formatted in the shape of a sundae. And the words were colored to make it look like a sundae. And uhh... yeah. I guess none of that makes it make any more sense. What was I thinking?? You can laugh at me. I did. Once I finished my grimace.

Now you know why my girly letters lack poetry, Phil. Relieved?

Oral care= brushing teeth, flossing, denture care, mouth swabbing, etc.

Today at work I had to go in for this "training" session. But it was really more like a 5 hour quiz. With occasional little "informative" video clips showing you what an acceptable attitude is interspersed.

There was a manikin set up for us to go through and demonstrate cares complete with a removable wig to reveal old-Ken hair, removable male genitalia to reveal female privates, holes for a colostomy bag, needles, catheters, etc. It's all pretty basic stuff, nothing that any of us should have hesitated on because we've all already been trained on what is and is not acceptable. Just a little refresher course so people don't get in the habit of doing shortcuts and compromising the quality of care our residents recieve. Today they left the manikin as a woman because someone misplaced the man parts.

So at one point she wanted someone to demonstrate the proper procedure for performing oral care on an unconscious resident. And some girl (I won't voice my judgments about her based on her attire) chimes in uncertainly, "Ummm.. you mean on a woman...? Or a man."

Everyone turns to stare vacantly at her, just blinking. A few look at the floor and turn away a bit.

Sigh. Some of my coworkers really suck.

Not-So-Nifty Gadgets

Lately since I started working at the nursing home and going to school for nursing, I've been getting increasingly paranoid about germs and hygeine and what have you. I was at the grocery store and I had to pick up a bottled of hand sanitizer because I kept thinking about the handles of the grocery cart and my imagination was going CRAZY thinking of all the grodiness the hands that had been touching it before mine might have been exposed to. It's driving me nuts.

Then I stumbled across this little gadget and my mind nearly exploded. WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO KNOW? Ohhhh my goodness. Too much. That is just too much. It's not as though the heat impression is going to last as long as the germs are alive (they can live a long time, guys), so it's not like you have any new handy information. It's not as though it's any more "safe" when it's not showing a thermal imprint of their bum. And personally, I don't like my toilet seat preheated for me. Not one bit. So basically it just screams out this glowing flourescent reminder of someone else's ass. And that is out of control...

I swear, all elderly people are on crack.

Today at work I was:

1. Told I was beautiful.
2. Told I was a ***damn indian b***h. (It's a real shame how so many old people are incredibly racist, yet unable to distinguish between races.)
3. Peed on. Literally. Just straight up peed on. Whatcha gonna do.
4. Hugged.
5. Scratched.
6. Told to "Go to hell."
7. Kissed.
8. Slapped.
9. Told I was gentle and would make a great mother.
10. Told, "Wipe my damn butt off. And no funny business about it." Can we say awkward.
11. Told, "Don't be scared to wipe my butt, sweetie. Get in there really good." Even more awkward.
12. Told, "I thought you were an angel!" by sleepy old lady.
13. Told, "Go back to Africa!" Different person. Again, racist. Again, unable to distinguish between races.
14. Told, "Scratch my left (butt) cheek, will ya?"
15. Told, "I love you!" At least 20 times.
16. Escaped an attempt at being bitten.
17. Begged not to leave.

Seriously. It really does a number on you after a few hours or so.

Working at Nursing Homes is like being trapped in Oz or Wonderland, but with a lot more butts. I wonder if there's an online quiz that'll tell you what kind of old person you'll be. I think I'm gonna be pretty damn crotchety, just for kicks...

Shingles

Today at the nursing home I'm working at I had to give a bed bath to a woman with shingles, at a point when it's highly contagious (the vesicles, blisters full of pus, are erupting). In case you guys didn't know, Shingles is caused by residual viral tissue or something from ChickenPox that can remain in your body and might remain latent for life, or after decades erupt into a painful rash with or without blisters- namely, shingles. It also can be caught from someone who has it. Although the blisters usually heal within two to four weeks, in some people residual nerve pain continues for months or years, a condition called postherpetic neuralgia. It's pretty nasty, and INCREDIBLY painful from what I can tell. It's symptoms are commonly followed by sensations of burning pain, itching, and hypersensitivity. The pain may be extreme in the affected nerve (the blisters and rash tend to follow a certain nerve on one side of the body). These sensations are often described as stinging, tingling, aching, numbing or throbbing, and can be interspersed with quick stabs of agonizing pain. Lots of quick stabs of agonizing pain.

It was horrible on several accounts. First, because I'm WASHING this ladies agonizing, bursting blisters and she's whimpering and screaming and wailing and it's horrible, horrible, horrible. It's so painful, she can't even wear a gown to bed. That's crazy. Second, her poor roommate is in the room getting frantic and near tears about the whole thing. And third, I've never had chickenpox before, so this highly contagious disease is even worse news for me because I haven't had to fight it off before-- it's supposed to be harder to deal with the older you get. Plus it can last 4-6 WEEKS. So I was supposed to be taking extreme infection control measures. And that really stressed me out. Especially because I'm trying not to let my person or clothes (granted, I had a gown on) touch or be touched by anything, and she's grabbing at me begging me to make it hurt less.

It was pretty crazy. Nursing is fascinating. Fascinating like a siamese twin or a car crash.

Highschool Poetry Meme

Okay, so quite a bit ago, asiankp tagged me for a meme. The rules for this meme are as follows:

1. Find a poem (or two, if you're ambitious) that you wrote in high school. If you can't find a poem, find a piece of prose. If you can't find a piece of prose, find a history paper or something.

2. Post it!

3. Tag a few people to do the same.

It has taken me quite a while to find something as none of the computers we had in highschool are still in existence, and I didn't put much attention into saving things of that sort. Also, I had a situation where I got all out-of-hand and burnt my huge box full of old journals, letters, poems, stories, etc. in highschool (I used to write a good 2-3 hours every night- couldn't sleep), so not much has survived the years. I did, however, after a good deal of digging around on hardrives and boxes come up with a number of old papers and a couple of poems, including this one from February 23, 1999. I'm a little embarassed about it, but I guess that's what this meme's all about, eh? So here goes:

Dance with the Devil

Tempestuous nature of forbidden fruit
You whisper foreboding whilst attraction takes root
Purity cries out, while it’s pulling me in
Yet dark impulse swirls forth, beckoning sin
The vigilant guard of a conscience arisen
Societal guilt erects ethical prison

To lose the chains truly, you must see them first
Just then can you slake this unbearable thirst
Government quails and imprisons the free
Barring the doors, through which you could once see
The gates to redemption with impulse released
To quieted mind when repression has ceased

This portal still beckons; you’ll then know the way:
By all mores and false gods that hold sway
Think new ideas, dissident thoughts
Curse all the lies that you had always sought
Take trips through your mind, forget all these tears
Realize that society created your fears

You say this to me, with a tilt of your chin
You say “dance through the darkness and emerge free of sin”
Yet when you dance with the devil sin holds the soul
So refrain from these larks and then regain control
You know what is right, the values you hold
Remember the truth and the rest will unfold

I don’t tell you you’re evil, I don’t tell you you’re blind
You say my morals aren’t right or wrong- simply mine
Yet regardless of age, education or class
Ethics should not be viewed through this cold, tinted glass
The glass of opinion, of bias and time
Which labels my beautiful blessing a crime

So, right. That's the kind of poetry I was spewing out as a 16 year old.

I'd like to tag: the Natural Inquirer, Rayna, Krista, and Erin to share their own.

Memoirs of a Nursing Home Resident

Why do so many people in nursing homes seem to be writing their memoirs lately? And where is the need? Is it some sort of Homerian desire to live on after death if only in the minds of people to come? Is it worthwhile for the ordinary, or do we only really benefit from the shared experiences and reflections of the extraordinary? Recently two people in my life in one way or another wrote their memoirs while in nursing homes. His was not published, hers was. I had a very strong reaction to them both, though in different ways.

One of them (which granted, I only was able to spend 45 minutes or so glancing through), seemed really beautiful and incredibly valuable for his family once he passed. He was a WWII veteran and shared stories, photos, and various little anecdotes and things documenting the course of his life. It seemed smart and pithy, but not self-important. It was very beautiful and touching from what I saw: he lived his life to the fullest.

The other made me cringe. It seemed on the surface to be sincere, but what is the point in being sincere with others when you're being dishonest with yourself? I feel a bit strange harshly criticizing the elderly, particularly people I know, but I have never read anything so patently selfish and self-promoting. Clearly she was not familiar with the maxim, "If you can't say something nice..." I can't understand why someone would choose in her memoirs to reinforce bad blood between family members and publically air in a published book not just her own dirty laundry, but that of her close family... and not out of any sort of concern for them, but just in a feeble attempt to present herself as a martyr or a saint. Regardless of it's childish content and horrendous lack of ethos, however, what reinforced its not needing to exist in my mind was how poorly it was written, despite the fact that she was at one point a journalist. Even the most basic of grammatical errors had not been corrected, there was no accurate or discernable chronology in what was presented as a chronological work, and this was a published book. I was not impressed: it more closely resembled the private diary of a young girl, a silly young girl, than it did the reflections and stories of a mature elderly lady looking back upon her life.

Then I got to thinking about the difference between these two people. I can't ignore or fail to mention that the latter woman shared in her writings that she had been diagnosed with dementia, while the man remained alert and oriented up until the point he was put on pallative care (he passed way early last tuesday morning, please keep him in your prayers)- long after he finished his memoirs. I know dementia is a serious mental illness and you cannot afford to take personally or hold them accountable for things people suffering from something like that say or do. But my goodness. I find it so hard to deal with the fact that this woman presented, with such great pride, this unflattering account of her life for her to be remembered by, dementia or no.

But moving away from the problem dementia presents, I've been wondering more about the content and what it is these people at the root of the matter had to offer. Putting aside presentation and personal issues, and even attitude, to just look at the content of both of their lives as they presented it, it seems to me that whatever drama she was able to conjure up, her life seemed more ordinary, and his seemed extraordinary. Her stories dealt with all things personal, while his stories transcended mere troubles and approached addressing issues. However biased a reader I am, I'd be willing to offer a guarantee that most all of you would in retrospect have enjoyed reading the WWII Vet's memoirs more. I don't think it is unfair to apply standard expectations of literature to autobiographical works, particularly those written in a nursing home (that is, while headed "down hill"), and praise it in virtue of it's meritorious content, the praiseworthy accomplishments of the author, and good presentation. Am I cruel and unfeeling for being so decidedly appalled by the selfish, poorly written memoirs of a little old lady with dementia in a nursing home? It still is quite the feat given her situation. I just can't bring myself to in any way praise it.

I'm not doing a very good job presenting the problems with this situation as I see it, so maybe I'll come back to this later when my mind is more clear. Also, perhaps I ought to mention that the woman I'm speaking of is closely related to me. I find it so difficult to try and objectively critique literature not just written by someone you know, but about the very same person. Maybe I shouldn't even bother trying to be objective. My small little mind just does not know what to do with it.

Nothing gives you the heeby-jeeby's...

.. like being in a public restroom and just as you start your business to look up and read "I stubbed my vagina here" on the stall wall.

Nice. Real nice. Asshole.

In reaction to this experience, I've been reflecting on the seediness of public restrooms. They are a blight. As such, I propose that someone invent something small and convenient that goes under your pants and takes care of everything so that we no longer have to frequent such horribles places. Perhaps a device that instantly evaporates your pee while releasing a smell-good, feel-good substance would work well. You wouldn't even have to wipe that way. Anyways, I'm working on it. I'll let you know how it goes.

A Sincere Apology to Readers

Okay, WHY didn't one of you give me a heads up about the title of my last post!! Dear Lord. I was just checking out "stats" for the blog this morning and I noticed that we'd gotten hits from someone seaching "how to kiss a camel." That's a bit random and vaguely disturbing, but many searches are. We were #8 on such a search. But when I was looking at it... I noticed that #6 was "What does 'kiss the camel' mean?" So I thought to myself, "Well look at that... it's an actual expression? Other peoples boyfriends confuse them with camels, too! Haha!!" And then I read the answer. And I must say, I'm truly mortified. I am so sorry guys. No wonder no one commented on that post. How incredibly embarrassing. I swear I didn't know. And thanks to the pervy person from Malaysia or Romania who went to the blog searching for that crap... I would never have known what an idiot I am if it weren't for you. I'm gonna go be miserable somewhere now far, far away from the internet...

Cha-ching!!

I finished selling my car to a super cool guy named Egor today!! I'm so freaking happy!

It was kinda ridiculous though... pretty much everything that could have been embarrassing was. I told him coming between 5 and 6 tonight would work out great. Then he showed up, but for some reason our doorbell wasn't working so they were out there forever and finally called the house... while we were in the middle of my mom's birthday dinner that I wasn't told was going to happen until after I committed to a time to him. So right, I go get the door and they come in- and someone moved all my paperwork, the title, the bill of sale, and what not. So RIGHT I go searching all over for it like an idiot while they're standing there uncomfortably.

In the meantime happy family sounds and laughter can be heard intermingled with childish squeals of both delight and dismay from my neice and nephew. And THEN they all start singing happy birthday.. and this guy is SO UNCOMFORTABLE. He and his brother (who drove with them there so he could pick up the car) just looked at each other with this pained awkward look and he started apologizing and saying I should have told him. But the thing is I didn't KNOW we're were doing a birthday thing until he was already on his way! So right... what do I do? I lie, of course! Like a total idiot, I go right ahead without batting an eye and lie in a feeble attempt to make them feel more at ease. And it wasn't even a GOOD lie. I make up a family member who's birthday it is like "my brother in law's brother" trying to make it seem more distant and try to explain that I didn't know about the birthday thing until the last minute myself. So then they're slightly more comfortable... but then in walks my adorable little neice! So they strikes up an amiable conversation with her... and she offers that it's her Grandma's birthday... right after I introduce her as my neice. They know it's my parents house. *slaps forehead* What sort of daughter am I, anyways?? So right, I looked quickly down at my paperwork trying to suppress an embarrassed grin and pretending not to notice. Again... squirmingly awkward.

So right! I ran outside to get the odometer reading for on the title, and guess what. I can't get the door open. The car's been just sitting outside the last couple weeks and in the meantime it snowed a few days ago and then rained on top of it and then turned all that snow slush into a thick 5 inch crust of ice on everything. So I'm trying and trying and trying other doors and trying... no luck. Finally I have to go back inside and red-faced explain this to them. So they come out to help. Still no luck. Then I go inside to see if my dad has a crowbar or something we can use to pry it and they tell me I need to use a hair dryer and an extension cord. So just as I'm shamefacedly trudging back outside, gay-ass hair dryer in hand instead of a manly crowbar, he calls out that he got it open. Huzzah!! Close call. For real. I really didn't want to go out there like a girl with a hair dryer. I mean, I AM a girl. But it's a CAR we're "working on" here! And crowbars are manly; hair dryers are girly gay. Anyways.

They had brought lightbulbs for the headlight that was out, and so when he went to change it... turns out it was just in there loose and all I had to do was twist it more! Eesh. Why didn't I think of that? And then we tried to move the car from the ice-covered drift it was embedded in. The shovel was pretty much ineffective because the ice was harder and thicker. We were pushing and pushing and shoveling and pushing and finally got it loose. It was pretty silly and took a full hour for everything all told. But fun. They were damn good sports and made me laugh.

The only problem was it was my mom's Birthday and apparently the reason they were having the birthday dinner was so I could be there to give mom her Christmas-Birthday Present (Bose ipod dock... sweeeeetness!!), and then I ended up missing it afterall.... there was a wee bit of harumphing and unpleasantry about me. I'm such an uncanny bad guy. It was pretty unfortunate that would should have been a pretty quick exchange- sign the title, do a keys-for-cash handoff, and give a friendly wave buh bye-, ended up being such a fiasco. Why does it seem like every time one thing gets done, another gets messed up! Oh well. Do whatcha gotta do.

I'm just so glad that Egor is as happy about the whole deal as I am...

Ugh...

Okay, I think it's great to turn to the Lord in your time of need. But the last several weeks whenever I go on facebook, this girl who asked to be my friend who I haven't held a conversation with... ever... in my memory, and who I guess I went to the same highschool as (though I'm not even sure if we were there at the same time... I think our families went to the same church?)... asked to be my friend. So I said "OK" on facebook, because one of the few things I do remember about her is that she didn't have many friends and was incredibly volatile and depressive. That's all I know about her. So I made her my friend.

ANYWAYS she's got this saga going on where she broke up with this guy... and yeah. I hate to say it, but it makes me sick. Every time I'm on facebook it has another horribly awkward comment about her journey to emotional healing in the wake of this guy. One of her Favorite Activities on her profile is "kneeling at the foot of the cross, begging God to heal her broken heart." Maybe I'm just a bad Christian or something, but somehow I find this to be a huge turn off, particularly displayed on a public profile that everyone I know reads. I'm more into that praying behind closed doors thing. And not sharing grief with anyone other than good friends. Am I insensitive for being so put off by this?