"In the Border"

So Phil 'n' I will be going to Canada this weekend to follow the Admirals around for a few games. Just a fun lil 2010 roadtrip to ring in the new year. Which is awesome. We're hoping to meet up with DitchDoc as well, God willing!!

So naturally I gave T-mobile a ring this afternoon to find out how much I'm charged per minute for Canadian calls because I really don't know other than that it's something. What a joke that was. I called, explained that I would be driving to Canada, and politely asked my customer service rep how much I'm charged, per minute, for calls made to Canada and calls made to the US from Canada. His response? "Oh, you're driving there? Well you're just charged for normal minutes, cuz you're in the border." That... did not make sense to me. "In" the border? What the? So I acknowledge that I do not know what that means and asked for clarification. So he responds "Well you know, if you're calling either the US or Canada from in the border there is no additional fee." Still got nothing. I'm confused... is this coming up because I live IN a state that borders Canada? Don't see how that should matter... so right. I ask again. "No, no. That doesn't matter. You just don't pay any additional fee so long as you're in the border." He's not cute anymore: "Where IS in the border?" He starts faltering, then comes out with "You know, the line. Between Canada and the U.S...."

I'm a little disgruntled. So basically he was telling me that I just spent 10 minutes of my time having him totally misrepresent how "I'd only be charged normal minutes" during my trip.... by leaving out the part that it's only AS I'M CROSSING THE FREAKING BORDER. I finally got him to spit out a number and that it's 20 cents per minute extra for when I'm either in the U.S. or Canada, but whatever. That's just ridiculous. What a slime ball, with his tricky prepositions.

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.

I have a blog

yay. (like)
I also have a facebook account. (unlike)
I stopped liking it.
heh, silly facebook.

anywho, The Admirals won, woooo! that's the minor league hockey team of Milwaukee and they scored with under a minute left in sudden death overtime. We had an excellent view of the game winner which more than made up for both of the Ad's other goals being scored at the far end of the rink. It was an altogether excellent home opener and I'm glad hockey season is back.

Also, I would like to know what is up with the almost overwhelming impulse to tell someone - anyone or everyone- when you are in pain. How is that helpful? It's not, that's how. Yet still it is always there (at least for me... but I think I am not the only one) urging, pressing, begging me to say something to whoever I'm talking to.
"Hey, my back hurts. I know that's irrelevant since you are not asking me to pick up something heavy. Also I am aware that you cannot make it stop hurting. Just file it under 'B' please."

so file this post under "at least it's something" and we'll see if I can get back into this thing.

Shooting Range

The other day Phil took me shooting at the range. Well. Actually, I didn't initially want to go. At all. We bargained: I'd come along to the range with him- "just to watch"- in exchange for him making up a story to tell me that was at least 5 minutes long. I love being told stories. It's like playing pretend or daydreaming without all the exhausting planning.

So we went to the range. I was crabby. And then of course at one point he offers to let me shoot his pistol. (Men are so tricky.) But oddly enough, for the first time I really WANTED to shoot. Don't get me wrong. I love the idea of being able to shoot. I really like the idea of going shooting. But the reality is I grew up with absolutely no experience with weapons. ZERO. And gleaned about as much from movies and what not. It's not something I ever really thought about until I fell in love with someone who was in the Army. I like the idea of being able to defend myself. I appreciate the usefulness of weapons in that respect. But the fact of the matter is guns have always been to me a scary hunk of metal that can kill people. Very scary. Sure I've shot before a few times with Phil and I WANT to learn to be comfortable enough with a gun in order to be competent with it... but it always seems that I don't really want to go shooting when the occasion arises. But I guess after a year of living in the same place as Phil and him having guns at his apartment and watching him fiddle with them and clean them and having explained how they operate and how they are to be handled DOZENS of times it finally sunk in enough that I don't panic as much when I actually have one in my hands.

It probably sounds silly enough to anyone reading this that is familiar with guns (thinking of you in particular, Jack), but my past experiences at the range have consisted of me trying to stuff down panic and not really understanding how to clear the weapon and that I shouldn't put it down until I clear it and how to do that and being weirded out by my clumsiness with them and how much- to me-, handling them seems to be much more a matter of force than finesse. That's not really how I do things in my line of work. You don't FORCE a catheter in. You finesse it. Or people scream.

But at any rate, I was pleased because for the first time I actually felt like I knew what I was doing. It had finally sunk it how the pistol operates. I didn't forget the second I picked it up and need to look to Phil every 10 seconds. I remembered what to do and I did it. I was able to focus on actually shooting instead of dreading when I'd have to put it down and trying to remember what to do when that time came. I didn't have freaked out anticipation of every bang every time I squeezed the trigger. I was no longer scared that I'd drop a loaded weapon or do something stupid.

It was kind of a big deal for me. I felt in control. I need a LOT of work... but at least I was in control. It was really cool.

We should bargain more often.

Also, Phil even mentioned letting me keep his 45 caliber Springfield Armory 1911 pistol at my house for the first time. I feel so honored and Responsible. Maybe I'm a Hound after all.. hehe...

"Men" and "Ladies" is quite sufficient. We don't need to make it all cute-sy. And other things.

So this last Sunday Phil and I went to Holy Hill for Mass after I got off of a 12 hour work shift. It was pretty cool. On the way up we passed a hand-painted sign out in front of a house saying:

"Eleven kids. No Health Insurance. And we do NOT want help from the Government."

Rock on. We hung out up at Holy Hill for an hour before Mass. Got to remember stuff from over a decade ago when I'd walked there on a pilgrimage. Things are much further apart on foot. Strolled the grounds. Checked out the view. Admired the windmills from 25 miles away (location in relation to Holy Hill verified by Phil on googlemaps after the fact cuz he rocks like that). Mass was fantastic. Father Jorge with the awesome beard translated for a visiting priest from Nicaragua. His impressive hand-gestures and accent alone had us sold. The beard sealed the deal. Managed not to doze off, as it commonly our problem on Sunday mornings because we work 3rd shift. I've largely become an afternoon/evening churchgoer as a consequence.

At any rate, on our way home we stopped at the Fox & Hounds Restaurant for Sunday brunch. Had a mojito. Some good food. Good conversation. Excellent company. Coffee afterwards. It was great. But I'd been having some stomach problems (sigh.) the night before and had been up quite a long time at this point and was getting tired. We were about to leave when I felt that horrible gurgling in my tummy that meant I had to get to a bathroom fast. So I make for the restrooms which were conveniently located down a flight of stairs. I get to the bathrooms and there are two doors. One says "Foxes," the other says "Hounds."

Now I realize for a normal person there wouldn't be much question as to which restroom they were intended to use. I just get a little funny-off in my head sometimes. I somehow COMPLETELY forgot that bathrooms are separated according to sex. The panicked internal conversation I had as I did my little dance standing dumbfounded outside these doors went something like this:

"Well that's just great." (vague remembrance of there being some crappy situation like this at outback steakhouse, quickly abandoned by being unable to remember what the heck to word those aussies used for ladies was) Then refocusing, I tried to determine which door was meant for me, knowing choosing the wrong one would go over badly. "Foxes are clever, and so am I. I must be a fox. But I'm pretty respectable, too (glancing longingly at the Hounds door)... sometimes..." But then, "But wait... liberals are clever. Maybe it's a trick. I'm a conservative Hound. darn liberals and their tricky doors." Scoffing. But then, "Hold on... Hounds are brown and foxes are red. Brown's a boy color and red's a girl color. Maybe I've got this all wrong." With that I chose red over brown and rushed in on account of another, much more pressing gurgle. The crazy part is I didn't ACTUALLY fully get it until I was already finished up in my stall... and it dawned on me, "Ohhhh. 'FOXy lady.' Right." The whole thing was rather distressing.

I could just acknowledge personal ridiculousness, but I think the more important issue here is that these places need to stop trying to make bathrooms all cute-sy. It's not cute. And the use of facilities can be a pretty pressing emergency. These are hardly times when one wants to be trying to compare themselves to random animals to figure out which one they're more like. The room men use should be labeled "MEN" and the room women use should be labeled "WOMEN" or "LADIES". Either will do. But none of this fox and hound garbage. There is nothing "foxy" or glamorous about peeing on a seat. Or worse. So give it a rest.

Other than that it was nice place for Sunday brunch, though. They had little old men drinking beer out of small glasses. There's nothing not to like about that...

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.

Dear Matt

Nudism may be gross, unattractive, immodest and impractical, but it sure does have its upsides and appeal

So here I am. Not wearing much clothes. Because I really need to do laundry. And being stressed. Because I'm going to have company soon. So clothes are no longer optional. And he'll be here soon. So I don't have time to do laundry first. Oh, and I should probably straighten up and do some dishes. Thus compounding the clothes crunch. AHHHHH!

Is anyone else as pathetic as me by the end of the week?

I vote "yay" for nudism. Save us all time, quarters, decisions, and stress. Who's with me??!?

(and if you are with me, meet me at Bradford Beach in Milwaukee, WI next July)

Friends

Please note the updated links in the sidebars... Matty G and Jack, the newest and the brightest members of our blogoburb.

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.

Maggie Musings

The other day while dozing off on the couch, my dazed, pre-sleep brain was contemplating how to wrap my birthday presents for Phil.

At first, I was thinking to wrap them all separately... but then I had vague apprehensions along the lines of it maybe coming across as too much cuz I know he's not that into the whole birthday thing. But then, all sleepy and what-not I thought, "But if I put them all in the same box, and he shakes it, then something might break." But then another me countered, "You dork, nothing in that package is breakable!" Chimes another me, "But if I put an egg in it, THAT'D sure teach him to shake his birthday presents. Hehe... sucker."

Then I forgot all about Phil and his upcoming birthday, and got lost in wishes of having a friend who compulsively shook all of his/her presents. As a practical joke I would wrap a box with dozens of loose raw eggs in it, JUST so that when they shook it I could jump in and say, "AHA!! That'll teach YOU to try an' count your chickens before they're hatched!" And then I peacefully dozed off with a smile upon my lips.

Malt-O-Meal Party!!!

Today at the Vandenberg residence in Milwaukee the first documented Malt-O-Meal party was hosted with guest of honor, Maggie Gordon. Great times were had, Magic Muffins were consumed to excess, and the undisputed queen of Malt-O-Meal was crowned. I'd love to say more but you really just had to be here.

A Group Shot (Minus Camera Man!!)

Malt-O-Meal Malt... a surprisingly sweet treat

Suicidal Bunny Literature... for the socially responsible members of the party

The Spread

Magic Muffins! Betcha thought no one had ever made that recipe on the box...

Long Live the Queen!!!


For those of you wondering who came up with such an ingenious party-theme, and moreover are concerned for posterity's sake as to who to credit in the origin of this party, said individual remains disputed. It is clear that either Phil, or his sister Lil, came up with it when passing Miller brewery and noticing the distinct aroma of Malt-O-Meal originating from the complex. Whether it was Phil or Lil who suggested with a laugh that someone was having a Malt-O-Meal party, it remains undisputed that it was Phil who when discussing the stakes of a poker game suggested that the winner would be the reigning guest of honor at a Malt-O-Meal Party thrown in their honor. And this is the history of the first Malt-O-Meal Party, thrown in the honor of Maggie Gordon, the winner of said Sunday-night post-family-volleyball poker game.

If we both cut our hands, the same depth, the same length... whose will hurt more?

There's something that's been troubling me for quite some time now. Since I'm working on a predominantly (and technically) surgical floor, prior to surgery patients will commonly ask how much it will hurt afterward. And fair enough-- it's a legitimate concern when you're about to submit to a complete stranger cutting you open and fiddling with your insides. I usually give a safe and appropriate response which is that there will of course be pain, but that we're usually very good at keeping it under control with appropriate pain medications as ordered by their doctor. What they hear is they'll be drugged and not feel anything. But really what I mean is just that-- under control. Mitigated. Diminished. But not always (usually?) eliminated. There will be pain. How much? I have no clue. I've never experienced it. And even if I had, I still couldn't tell you. I understand why people insist on asking about something so ridiculously subjective and relative, but why do they insist on asking about something so ridiculously subjective and relative?

I don't mean to be insensitive. But removed from the situation of another person in distress or pain, the sensitivity feelings don't come so readily. I'm a reactive person. And there's no stimuli to react to right now. I'm just trying to be upfront about a tricky topic called pain. And pain straight up sucks to begin with: and it's a nightmare when you get all emotional about it.

But back to my troubling. One thing I've pretty much universally observed is that young people are way more intolerant of any shadow of pain than older adults. A 90 year old wisp of an old lady can have the exact same surgery as a prime, sturdy 28 year old man, and yet she'll be smiling and thanking you, and he'll be sobbing and using you as his verbal whipping-boy, hating to his core every fraction of your being simply for being present and a representative of the institution that has traumatized his innards (despite the necessity, and overlooked life-preserving qualities of the procedure). And then of course later on when he's at the max dose of vicodin and a morphine drip he'll still be whimpering, though pretending his earlier abuse never happened.

Now my question about that is this: Do younger people in general just have lower pain thresholds due to higher physical sensitivity (pain receptors presumably encounter some degree of deteriorating with age like the rest of the body), greater general use/abuse of pain killers, or what have you, or are they just more self-consumed and less capable of gratitude towards others or being aware of themselves as being part of something bigger, rather than a whole unto themselves?

Don't get me wrong. Gratitude is not a requisite for me at work as a caregiver. Most of the time I couldn't care less; it makes my job easier on a personal level, but doesn't change all that much in terms of what I do or what I need to say. I have to set more boundaries with ungrateful people-- mainly because they tend to be more abusive and needy to their detriment. But I still need to do the same things regardless of their attitude, because that's my job. I have clearly defined responsibilities and standards of care. (Ugh. When will I stop "being careful" and feeling the need to explain myself when talking about this stuff. WHEN will my readers stop doubting my professionalism!! ;))

But that being said, does anyone else see how ingratitude and being self-consumed, self-pitying, could play into this whole pain relativity thing? It just sets the standards so high, and therefore the pain threshold so low. If that makes any sense. But yeah. Just something I was wondering about in relation to how older adults are so much more capable of handling pain than younger adults. The more I observe it, the more it seems like it's not just a matter of the physical (pain receptors, drug ineffectiveness due to overexposure), but a matter of attitude. And well, older people in general just seemed to have learned that there's more to the world then themselves and their tribulations, and reflect that in their attitude-- not just their attitude towards others, but their attitude when thinking about and perceiving themselves in the context of that greater world.

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.

Self Defense

So Phil and I went to the shooting range today-- weren't able to shoot (range was closed), but he got me some pepper spray. I chose the pink one. Not because I like pink- I rather hate pink generally-, but because it amused me. Light hearted is good. Especially about things you're naturally heavy hearted about. Like the distinct possibility of needing to use pepper spray. At least now I won't be quite AS scared coming home at night.

domestic violence

So I had an incredibly traumatic experience this week. I moved into my new apartment which I LOVED, and things have been going pretty great. Yes, the new place is not in that great of an area (sigh. I know, heard this before), but the price was TOTALLY right, and the apartment itself was in pretty good condition. I just figured I'd keep to myself and save money on rent. This is my first place I've had by myself in a very long time. Brother Matt and I got a roommate divorce and it seems to have vastly improved our relationship. Oddly we spend more time together while living apart then when we're sharing a one bedroom apartment. Strange. At any rate, the new place has been great so far and I've been really happy with it.

And then Monday night happened. I was fast asleep when I woke to the sound of a woman screaming her head off and the intermittent blows of a man beating the living shit out of her. I sleep holding my cell phone as it doubles as my alarm clock. So I immediately called 911, even before I could get to the peephole to try and confirm what my mind automatically recognized the sounds to be. It went on FOREVER. Grunt, sickening thud, more screaming, and repeat. I nearly went mad. Maybe I did. The whole time I was on phone with the 911 dispatcher and a good 7 minutes after... no exaggeration. It went on FOREVER. The only reason it came to an end was because a neighbor finally managed to grab her and drag her into his apartment and lock the door while the psycho was winding up. So then the perp grabbed her kid who couldn't have been much more than 5 years old, who also was screaming throughout this, and dragged him off down the 8 flights of stairs with him. The police sirens (thank God) were nearing by this point and he left the kid behind, realizing a screaming child wouldn't help him try to escape. The woman was pretty badly hurt; he had been using a fire extinguisher he ripped off the wall to beat her. The kid was physically alright. Blood on the walls, her ripped off weave on the floor. The whole thing was insanely disturbing and messed up. Savage.

When the detective came round to talk later I found out that this was (from what she said) all because she had tried to break up with him the other day. I've gotta assume there was a bit more to the story, but still pretty ridiculous. The child was not his. They had never lived together. He was not a tenant of the building. She did not live on that floor... but was trying to run to the safety of a friend of hers' apartment on our floor. The next day all the mess was cleaned up like nothing had happened, save the dented fire extinguisher still lying broken at the end of the hall. I wouldn't even have known it had happen had I been at work.

And now here I am, less than a month into my year lease, living in this place. Sure, domestic violence CAN happen anywhere. But my God. I'm terrified. I haven't been able to sleep there since. Yesterday I finally broke down at napped at Phils... I'm sure the fear will fade. But I'm scared. And just all mixed up. I know being unarmed and defenseless myself going out there would have been ridiculously stupid given the crazed bestiality of this very large man. But my gosh. The helplessness... of someone MANIFESTLY NEEDING HELP, and just not being in any position to do so... it's the most nerve-wracking experience I've ever had. I'd almost rather be beat down myself and hospitalized or crippled than have to experience that again. The frenzy of impotence and powerlessness in a critical situation is unbearable.

Regardless of whether I find a way to get out of this lease or not-- I'm still researching my options both financially and legally--, I'm finding myself no longer resistant to the idea of being a gun owner. I never want to feel that kind of fear and defenselessness for myself or another again.

Summer T-Storms

The thunderstorm the other night was AMAZING. Cracks of lightening that make you fear for your ears, howling winds, raindrops like hail stones. I tried to drive home at 3am and it was ridiculous. I know this area like the back of my hand, and still ended up driving 3x the necessary distance to get home because there wasn't enough visibility to see landmarks much less lanes, curbs, or street signs. It was OUT OF CONTROL. Just sheets of slated water, my windshield wipers on crazy high might has well have been off for all the good they did. Two + inches flooding the streets at all times. In dips in the road it was shin-deep lakes we faced where if you stopped your car was going to die on you...

It was so dang fun!!! I was parked directly in front of the building yet in the 3 seconds it took to run out it was still as though I dumped a pitcher of water on my seat cuz there was so much just ON my body.

Matt was at work doing deliveries and recounted an added complication of people running around naked in the streets everywhere... Haha... I love the violence and energy of Summer Storms in Milwaukee!!!!

Reality check

So I was a sitter at work the other night. When the Old Lady I was keeping an eye on 1-on-1 woke up in the middle in the night and was clearly disoriented, I asked her a couple questions to determine just how much so. Her responses were as follows:

M: Do you know where you are?
OL: Halloween.
M: ... Do you know what year it is?
OL: .... *long pause, trying very hard*... the year 32 hundred...
M: Do you know what month?
OL: Christmas!
M: Can you tell me your name?
OL: Mary.

Her name was not Mary. Straight up 0 for 4. She was cute, though.