I have recently taking up something that I swore I'd never do.
Running. For pleasure.
Now, I'm not exactly 'running' at this point. More like kinda-jogging while sweating profusely and actively wanting to die. I feel bad for any unfortunate people who happen to drive or walk by me on these horrifying endeavors. I'm sure it's supremely unpleasant to have to watch a sweaty, jiggly mess of a person panting and sweating and flailing all over the place.
(I tried for like two hours to effectively draw a representation of this, but was unable to capture the true horror of that visual. My apologies.)
See, I always said that I would never run unless something large and scary was chasing me. But then one day it dawned on me - if I didn't run under ideal circumstances, then if I ever *had* to run for my life, I would die. Quickly. So I haul my ass around the neighborhood, wheezing and cursing.
So far, the best thing about running is the cool female voice on my trainer program who says "workout complete" when I can stop running. THAT is a great feeling.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Crafty-time
Yeah, yeah. Again with the sucking at posting things. I know. I'm going to try and do better. For example, I made a new wreath for my door.
I think it's a pretty sweet wreath, and I'm going to tell y'all how I made it. So if anyone out there in Internet-land wants to make one, you'll know how. At least, you'll know how I made mine. Anyway. Here are the things you'll need:
Once the boa is secured, carefully wrap it around the wreath form. (I say carefully because if you're an impatient person like me, you'll start wrapping before the glue dries and end up burning your fingers.)
Like I said earlier, the wrapping doesn't have to be super tight. You just want it to cover the wreath form. My first boa covered about a third of the form.
Once the boa is completely wrapped, carefully glue both the end of the first boa and the beginning of the second boa to the form, and continue wrapping.
Repeat until you have completely covered the wreath form.
The idea is for it to look like grass. I saw a similar wreath using fuzzy green yarn, but it just didn't look as lush as I wanted. Once your form is wrapped, glue one end of the ribbon to the inside of whichever side you want to be the back of the wreath.
Loosely wrap the ribbon around the wreath. Mine was just long enough to go around six times, and I wanted it to have a more scattered look. If you want your grass to be just bursting with flowers, then wrap that ribbon to your heart's content. Secure the other end to the back side of your wreath. Voila!
One super cute spring wreath. I think my wreath form was about $4, plus three $5 boas, plus $2 worth of ribbon. So the whole project cost around $20, and I can leave it up for at least a couple of months.
See? Isn't this better than reading about my incredibly depressing job? I have two more big craft projects in the pipeline, so that means at LEAST two more blog posts. And since this is what the stinkin' thing is supposed to be about, I present to you my socks:
Sparkly rainbow toe socks. Could life get any better?
I think it's a pretty sweet wreath, and I'm going to tell y'all how I made it. So if anyone out there in Internet-land wants to make one, you'll know how. At least, you'll know how I made mine. Anyway. Here are the things you'll need:
- Wreath form (I used a 12-inch smooth white Styrofoam to make the wrapping a bit easier, but you can use any style or size.)
- Marabou feather boas (For my 12-inch wreath, I used three. You don't need to wrap it super tight, just enough to cover the wreath form.)
- Flower ribbon (I used daisy ribbon, but any springtime flower will do. Also, I bought the ends of a spool, which ended up being about 18 inches, I think.)
- Hot glue gun
- About 15 minutes time
Once the boa is secured, carefully wrap it around the wreath form. (I say carefully because if you're an impatient person like me, you'll start wrapping before the glue dries and end up burning your fingers.)
Like I said earlier, the wrapping doesn't have to be super tight. You just want it to cover the wreath form. My first boa covered about a third of the form.
Once the boa is completely wrapped, carefully glue both the end of the first boa and the beginning of the second boa to the form, and continue wrapping.
Repeat until you have completely covered the wreath form.
The idea is for it to look like grass. I saw a similar wreath using fuzzy green yarn, but it just didn't look as lush as I wanted. Once your form is wrapped, glue one end of the ribbon to the inside of whichever side you want to be the back of the wreath.
Loosely wrap the ribbon around the wreath. Mine was just long enough to go around six times, and I wanted it to have a more scattered look. If you want your grass to be just bursting with flowers, then wrap that ribbon to your heart's content. Secure the other end to the back side of your wreath. Voila!
One super cute spring wreath. I think my wreath form was about $4, plus three $5 boas, plus $2 worth of ribbon. So the whole project cost around $20, and I can leave it up for at least a couple of months.
See? Isn't this better than reading about my incredibly depressing job? I have two more big craft projects in the pipeline, so that means at LEAST two more blog posts. And since this is what the stinkin' thing is supposed to be about, I present to you my socks:
Sparkly rainbow toe socks. Could life get any better?
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
I suck at posting things
So again, I have neglected my little corner of the Internet. I feel like it's a combination of things that keep me away - laziness being the main factor. Although there's also the bone-numbing exhaustion that comes from working a split schedule (meaning I work days and nights). It's kind of horrible when I leave the hospital and can't remember how the hell I got home. I tell you, the worst time for anyone to medically fall apart in a hospital is between four and six in the morning. The entire night shift has already checked out for the evening, and the second wind that comes from knowing that work is almost over hasn't started yet.
So there's that reason. Also, about a month ago I had a hilarious diatribe about public transit and behavior all ready to post, but it got eaten by the gods of the Internet. Either that or the MBTA has my computer bugged in the off chance I might make disparaging remarks about it on a blog that - and I'm not trying to brag or anything - has had over 100 hits in its entire existence.
So what, you may ask, has prompted me to overcome my months of laziness, apathy, and writer's block to again put fingers to keyboard?
Through the combined delights of StumbleUpon and Pinterest, I have recently come across several blogs that detail the (usually female) writer talking about how they've recently lost a lot of weight, or how they're trying to lose a lot of weight, and how much better their lives are now that they're skinny, or how hard they continue to work every day to maintain their new hotness. Now, I'm not out to rain on anyone's parade, but I'm gonna have to call bullshit on some of these.
I've been on the larger side for most of my life. And I don't care ONE BIT. I can't wear skinny jeans. Fine by me. Personally, I don't think anyone can.
And what breaks my brain about these girls is that they think that losing weight will magically help them find love. Really? Is this what you think life is all about? Making yourselves miserable and thin in order to attract a douchebag who wasn't man enough to see past whatever external flaws you may have had to see the person you really are? Because no matter who you are, no matter how hard you work, looks fade. Whatever paint and polish and Botox and Shellac you put on will eventually chip away. And you're left with what you have inside your body. And even before that, you're going to get sick one day. I don't mean cancer or something, but like a really bad cold. And you're not going to put on makeup and you probably won't shower and your face will be all splotchy and your nose will be swollen and crusty and you're going to look terrible. And that douchebag that only gave you the time of day because you were skinny is going to take one look at you and head for the hills.
I've been in double-digit dress sizes as long as I can remember, and it hasn't slowed me down one bit. I'm smart and funny and sexy as hell, when I want to be. I got more attention from men in college than my skinny, miserable friends, mostly because they were too worried about what they looked like than having a good time. I have love and friendship and fulfillment in my life, not because of what I look like, but because of who I am. And nothing can ever change that about me.
So there's that reason. Also, about a month ago I had a hilarious diatribe about public transit and behavior all ready to post, but it got eaten by the gods of the Internet. Either that or the MBTA has my computer bugged in the off chance I might make disparaging remarks about it on a blog that - and I'm not trying to brag or anything - has had over 100 hits in its entire existence.
So what, you may ask, has prompted me to overcome my months of laziness, apathy, and writer's block to again put fingers to keyboard?
Through the combined delights of StumbleUpon and Pinterest, I have recently come across several blogs that detail the (usually female) writer talking about how they've recently lost a lot of weight, or how they're trying to lose a lot of weight, and how much better their lives are now that they're skinny, or how hard they continue to work every day to maintain their new hotness. Now, I'm not out to rain on anyone's parade, but I'm gonna have to call bullshit on some of these.
I've been on the larger side for most of my life. And I don't care ONE BIT. I can't wear skinny jeans. Fine by me. Personally, I don't think anyone can.
And what breaks my brain about these girls is that they think that losing weight will magically help them find love. Really? Is this what you think life is all about? Making yourselves miserable and thin in order to attract a douchebag who wasn't man enough to see past whatever external flaws you may have had to see the person you really are? Because no matter who you are, no matter how hard you work, looks fade. Whatever paint and polish and Botox and Shellac you put on will eventually chip away. And you're left with what you have inside your body. And even before that, you're going to get sick one day. I don't mean cancer or something, but like a really bad cold. And you're not going to put on makeup and you probably won't shower and your face will be all splotchy and your nose will be swollen and crusty and you're going to look terrible. And that douchebag that only gave you the time of day because you were skinny is going to take one look at you and head for the hills.
I've been in double-digit dress sizes as long as I can remember, and it hasn't slowed me down one bit. I'm smart and funny and sexy as hell, when I want to be. I got more attention from men in college than my skinny, miserable friends, mostly because they were too worried about what they looked like than having a good time. I have love and friendship and fulfillment in my life, not because of what I look like, but because of who I am. And nothing can ever change that about me.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Nothing funny in this one, folks. Sorry.
So I'm not ignoring this blog. I'm really not. The problem is that I have this amazing new job that I adore. It's not taking up all my time or anything - hell, I work 12 hour shifts, so I have four days off a week. I have lots of free time.
I have to let you in on a little secret: people who work in hospitals are terrible, terrible people. Not really. It's just that with the work we do, we have to make jokes about it. We have to complain about patients who refuse to die and make fun of people who have really crazy illnesses or injuries. We have to do this because our work environment is kind of horrible.
It's almost worse since I work in a pediatric hospital. Which means I work with sick children. So when we complain about train wreck patients who are almost certainly going to die, we are talking about someone's child. When we make jokes about medical conditions and the horrible lives our patients are going to have if they ever leave, we are cracking jokes about how these people are going to live for the rest of their lives.
But the thing is we have to be like that. Because in the last three weeks, nine of my patients have died. Which means nine children died. I was there for three of the deaths. One was a rather peaceful affair - the parents decided to withdraw support, so they were able to gather all of their family together, and the little girl died in her mother's arms. Quiet and beautiful and heart-wrenching. One was a horrendous, messy affair - we worked like fiends, trying to save this kid. But nothing worked. And when we all straggled out of that room, covered in sweat and blood, the only sound from the room was the low, anguished moaning of the mother, holding her child for the last time. The last was the strangest of all - the little boy looked at his mother and his nurse, who were chatting in the corner, and said "It's time for me to go with the angels. I love you all very much." And then he just... died.
So we have to make jokes. We have to say things that sound horrible and heartless to others, because if we didn't, we would all lose our minds. It is our job to be caring and compassionate, yet for our sanity we have to maintain a level of detachment from our patients that seems inhuman sometimes. But every second we spend with these kids, they wiggle their way beneath our armor. We empathize with them, with their families. And when the unthinkable happens, we grieve and mourn alongside them. Only we can't show it. We have to put on a professional face and move on to the next child, the next family, the next heartbreak.
I have to let you in on a little secret: people who work in hospitals are terrible, terrible people. Not really. It's just that with the work we do, we have to make jokes about it. We have to complain about patients who refuse to die and make fun of people who have really crazy illnesses or injuries. We have to do this because our work environment is kind of horrible.
It's almost worse since I work in a pediatric hospital. Which means I work with sick children. So when we complain about train wreck patients who are almost certainly going to die, we are talking about someone's child. When we make jokes about medical conditions and the horrible lives our patients are going to have if they ever leave, we are cracking jokes about how these people are going to live for the rest of their lives.
But the thing is we have to be like that. Because in the last three weeks, nine of my patients have died. Which means nine children died. I was there for three of the deaths. One was a rather peaceful affair - the parents decided to withdraw support, so they were able to gather all of their family together, and the little girl died in her mother's arms. Quiet and beautiful and heart-wrenching. One was a horrendous, messy affair - we worked like fiends, trying to save this kid. But nothing worked. And when we all straggled out of that room, covered in sweat and blood, the only sound from the room was the low, anguished moaning of the mother, holding her child for the last time. The last was the strangest of all - the little boy looked at his mother and his nurse, who were chatting in the corner, and said "It's time for me to go with the angels. I love you all very much." And then he just... died.
So we have to make jokes. We have to say things that sound horrible and heartless to others, because if we didn't, we would all lose our minds. It is our job to be caring and compassionate, yet for our sanity we have to maintain a level of detachment from our patients that seems inhuman sometimes. But every second we spend with these kids, they wiggle their way beneath our armor. We empathize with them, with their families. And when the unthinkable happens, we grieve and mourn alongside them. Only we can't show it. We have to put on a professional face and move on to the next child, the next family, the next heartbreak.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Nancy Drew and the Vanishing Signs
I am, by definition, a Southerner. I was born and raised in Louisiana, came of age in Arkansas. I have the accent and everything. I love sweet tea and ceiling fans and festivals named after whatever random critter/crop/nickname you can think of. But I recently relocated far away from my home, and as such have been abusing the hospitality of some of my very good friends.
Now, I have always been of the opinion that having houseguests is a lot like having a large parasite attached to your skull:
With two major differences: you can get rid of a parasite with medications, and houseguests usually smell better. (Although as I can unfortunately tell you from experience, this is not always the case.)
I've been trying to keep to myself as to stay out of the hair of these generous people who have so graciously agreed to let me invade their lives for a while. In fact, some days I think I hide away too well. These are the days I get text messages like this:
Host Friend has been so great to me, but I think I baffle him. He gets very agitated when I tell him that I don't have plans for my days off. Granted, I imagine his brain looks a little something like this:
So naturally, my lack of planning is something he doesn't seem to understand. I'm beginning to think that I may give him an ulcer or something by the time I leave by virtue of my seeming refusal to plan anything more than a few hours in advance.
The other thing I'm dealing with for the first time in my life is traffic. Now, where I come from, a traffic jam is caused by a cow in the middle of the road or a large piece of agricultural equipment is being moved up the highway at top speed (4 MPH). Our highways are at most three lanes going each way, and most aren't even that big. Speed limits range from 40-70 MPH and are strictly enforced. Well, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. Sure, you'll get pulled over for speeding, but generally once the cop reads your ID and realizes that he knows a) you or b) your mama, he'll generally let you off with a warning.
There are more people in this strange new city than are in the entire state of Arkansas. Which means that when I commute into the city, I'm driving mile for mile with more people than live in my entire town back home. And while the posted speed limit is like 55, the traffic is moving at 80, and even going that speed, I routinely get passed by state troopers.
The other thing I've noticed is that down south you see this:
And it is repeated about nine times before any lane of traffic ends. Whereas up here, the lane just mysteriously vanishes with little to no warning. Maybe it's the whole Southern hospitality thing, but I really don't think it would kill anyone to put up a sign or something, instead of leaving it unmarked and watching the cars veer and swerve suddenly when the lane ends abruptly. Or maybe it's a vast conspiracy by whoever it is that gets paid to clean up the mess when someone wrecks on the highway.
Now, I have always been of the opinion that having houseguests is a lot like having a large parasite attached to your skull:
With two major differences: you can get rid of a parasite with medications, and houseguests usually smell better. (Although as I can unfortunately tell you from experience, this is not always the case.)
I've been trying to keep to myself as to stay out of the hair of these generous people who have so graciously agreed to let me invade their lives for a while. In fact, some days I think I hide away too well. These are the days I get text messages like this:
Host Friend has been so great to me, but I think I baffle him. He gets very agitated when I tell him that I don't have plans for my days off. Granted, I imagine his brain looks a little something like this:
So naturally, my lack of planning is something he doesn't seem to understand. I'm beginning to think that I may give him an ulcer or something by the time I leave by virtue of my seeming refusal to plan anything more than a few hours in advance.
The other thing I'm dealing with for the first time in my life is traffic. Now, where I come from, a traffic jam is caused by a cow in the middle of the road or a large piece of agricultural equipment is being moved up the highway at top speed (4 MPH). Our highways are at most three lanes going each way, and most aren't even that big. Speed limits range from 40-70 MPH and are strictly enforced. Well, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. Sure, you'll get pulled over for speeding, but generally once the cop reads your ID and realizes that he knows a) you or b) your mama, he'll generally let you off with a warning.
There are more people in this strange new city than are in the entire state of Arkansas. Which means that when I commute into the city, I'm driving mile for mile with more people than live in my entire town back home. And while the posted speed limit is like 55, the traffic is moving at 80, and even going that speed, I routinely get passed by state troopers.
The other thing I've noticed is that down south you see this:
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Once more unto the breach
I got to visit my favorite alley again today.
See, for my profession, there are two base credentialing exams: the CRT and the RRT. I took the CRT back in January, but in order for me to actually graduate in May, I had to take my RRT exam today. Well, today and yesterday, to be specific. I was lazy and didn't feel like cramming the entire thing into one day.
Anyway, this time I had someone drop me off so I didn't have to venture passed the vagrants at the bus station, which was nice. Instead, I got dropped off by an elementary school playground that looks ridiculously out of place in the area. This section of town isn't horrible, but it's not the nicest. In fact, there's a large-scale urban renewal project going on all over the city. Which will make it lovely in about ten years, but for now it's still a mess of broken concrete and abandoned buildings. And this shiny, brand-new elementary school playground filled with shiny, brand-new playground paraphernalia, all of which was being completely ignored by the schoolchildren in favor of huddling by the fence trying to shield their iPods and cell phones from the monitors.
Anyway, after wandering passed the children, I found myself facing the alley once again.
I took pictures this time, because I felt like some of y'all didn't quite believe me last time. Here's some of the poorly-executed graffiti:
And the door, which has since been marked, to an extent:
I can't really say much about the tests themselves - other than I think our professors were intentionally giving us practice tests that were harder than the real thing. I mean, they scared the bejeesus out of us when we were preparing for them, and they wasn't nearly as bad as I thought they were going to be. And all that matters is:
Erin the Great, RRT. I kinda like the sound of that.
See, for my profession, there are two base credentialing exams: the CRT and the RRT. I took the CRT back in January, but in order for me to actually graduate in May, I had to take my RRT exam today. Well, today and yesterday, to be specific. I was lazy and didn't feel like cramming the entire thing into one day.
Anyway, this time I had someone drop me off so I didn't have to venture passed the vagrants at the bus station, which was nice. Instead, I got dropped off by an elementary school playground that looks ridiculously out of place in the area. This section of town isn't horrible, but it's not the nicest. In fact, there's a large-scale urban renewal project going on all over the city. Which will make it lovely in about ten years, but for now it's still a mess of broken concrete and abandoned buildings. And this shiny, brand-new elementary school playground filled with shiny, brand-new playground paraphernalia, all of which was being completely ignored by the schoolchildren in favor of huddling by the fence trying to shield their iPods and cell phones from the monitors.
Anyway, after wandering passed the children, I found myself facing the alley once again.
I took pictures this time, because I felt like some of y'all didn't quite believe me last time. Here's some of the poorly-executed graffiti:
And the door, which has since been marked, to an extent:
I can't really say much about the tests themselves - other than I think our professors were intentionally giving us practice tests that were harder than the real thing. I mean, they scared the bejeesus out of us when we were preparing for them, and they wasn't nearly as bad as I thought they were going to be. And all that matters is:
Erin the Great, RRT. I kinda like the sound of that.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The elephant in the room
It has been over a month since I graced this site with my presence. Over a month. I mean, I did so good in January with the posting, and then I just disappeared. Poof.
See, I kept sitting down to write something, ANYTHING, but I kept getting interrupted by the stupid elephant.
This stupid elephant has been stomping around my room, demanding my attention. I've been doing my level best to ignore it, but it just won't leave me alone.
Cleaning, writing, driving, no matter what I do, the elephant is there. I tried hiring some ivory hunters to get rid of it for me, but they informed me that 1) ivory hunting is technically illegal and 2) this is an untusked elephant, so they couldn't really help me anyway. I brought in a bunch of mice, hoping that they would scare it off, but no such luck. And the mice were chased off by the ancient cat that lives in our garage, anyway.
So really, the only way to make the elephant go away is to talk. To tell y'all that I found out that I was pregnant at the beginning of February. I was... I don't know what I was. Terrified? Excited? Stunned? A little of each, I think. I couldn't concentrate for anything, and was absolutely EXHAUSTED all the time. I was getting used to the idea of being somebody's mother.
I went to my doctor's appointment and had an ultrasound. I got to see my baby. Or what would become my baby. The doctor took some measurements, and announced that my baby was 5 weeks, 5 days old. I was supposed to be 9 weeks, 6 days.
The doctor had me come back a week later to be sure, but there was no change. My baby had stopped developing.
To say that I was devastated is an understatement. I felt every horrible feeling imaginable. I felt angry and depressed and upset and betrayed by my own body. I didn't want to do anything but lay on my bed and cry for hours.
A few days later, I was scheduled for the surgery that removed the 'products of conception' from my body. The procedure itself was fairly quick, and I spent the following days in a haze of painkillers and sleep. My pregnancy symptoms gradually started going away. I wasn't sad to see the last of the heartburn and gas, but I kinda miss the ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
So that's my elephant. That's why I couldn't post anything. I didn't want to talk about it. But I have to talk about it. I have to put it out there, because this was a real and terrible thing that happened to me. It happens to a lot of people. And it's universally devastating. But I will go on. I will wake up in the morning, and I won't cry. I'll be able to be happy for other women when they have their babies, and God willing, I'll be able to have one of my own someday. And the first thing I'll buy him (or her) is a stuffed elephant. To remind us all that life goes on.
See, I kept sitting down to write something, ANYTHING, but I kept getting interrupted by the stupid elephant.
This stupid elephant has been stomping around my room, demanding my attention. I've been doing my level best to ignore it, but it just won't leave me alone.
Cleaning, writing, driving, no matter what I do, the elephant is there. I tried hiring some ivory hunters to get rid of it for me, but they informed me that 1) ivory hunting is technically illegal and 2) this is an untusked elephant, so they couldn't really help me anyway. I brought in a bunch of mice, hoping that they would scare it off, but no such luck. And the mice were chased off by the ancient cat that lives in our garage, anyway.
So really, the only way to make the elephant go away is to talk. To tell y'all that I found out that I was pregnant at the beginning of February. I was... I don't know what I was. Terrified? Excited? Stunned? A little of each, I think. I couldn't concentrate for anything, and was absolutely EXHAUSTED all the time. I was getting used to the idea of being somebody's mother.
I went to my doctor's appointment and had an ultrasound. I got to see my baby. Or what would become my baby. The doctor took some measurements, and announced that my baby was 5 weeks, 5 days old. I was supposed to be 9 weeks, 6 days.
The doctor had me come back a week later to be sure, but there was no change. My baby had stopped developing.
To say that I was devastated is an understatement. I felt every horrible feeling imaginable. I felt angry and depressed and upset and betrayed by my own body. I didn't want to do anything but lay on my bed and cry for hours.
A few days later, I was scheduled for the surgery that removed the 'products of conception' from my body. The procedure itself was fairly quick, and I spent the following days in a haze of painkillers and sleep. My pregnancy symptoms gradually started going away. I wasn't sad to see the last of the heartburn and gas, but I kinda miss the ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
So that's my elephant. That's why I couldn't post anything. I didn't want to talk about it. But I have to talk about it. I have to put it out there, because this was a real and terrible thing that happened to me. It happens to a lot of people. And it's universally devastating. But I will go on. I will wake up in the morning, and I won't cry. I'll be able to be happy for other women when they have their babies, and God willing, I'll be able to have one of my own someday. And the first thing I'll buy him (or her) is a stuffed elephant. To remind us all that life goes on.
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