my blog now has so much wordvomit all over it


awwwwwwwwwww yeah.

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As it turns out,

nursing management is not all papers and telling people what to do.

Okay, yes, there are a lot of papers. And a lot of statistics and number-juggling, and a lot of writing and organizing and transcribing and communicating in general. But it also means that even though you have to sit through two-and-a-half-hour meetings, you don’t get a free pass out of holding emesis bags and moving furniture.

Huh. How bout I start this over?

I should start with the same thing my day did: a meeting.

The meeting where we discovered that the hospital was out of beds today.

Wait, you say. Out of beds? Aren’t hospitals basically made of beds? Can’t they just chip some bedstuff off the wall and strew it on the floor to serve as a gurney?

Sadly, no. And when the hospital is out of beds, surgery does not stop. So PACU piled up and piled up and piled up and….

….and Monica had to go to another meeting, so she left me alone in the old angiography-recovery-room-turned-storage-cave, where everything unwanted had been stashed for a YEAR.

So, you know. I cleaned it. Because that’s what I do, when the pressure is on. I clean things. I was a custodian once and sometimes the sight of a burly dude wrestling a roto down the middle of a hallway fills me with a sweet nostalgia, like the remembered scent of floor-wax fumes.

It wasn’t even that bad of a job. I’m not as wussy as I thought I’d be, and it felt good to lift chairs over my head again.

That’s not to say I survived the second meeting. It went on for one thousand years and all my internal organs were displaced by my increasingly way-too-full bladder and I literally could not keep my eyes open even though I was making eye contact with the nursing supervisor, who was talking directly to me.

Finally, two hours in, I excused myself and went to the bathroom and locked the door and did my business and washed up, and then I climbed up on the vanity and propped my head against the cabinet and fell asleep. For like ten minutes. Oops.

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Pregnancy, and why it scares me.

I would like to begin this post with a disclaimer: I am most definitely not pregnant. Trust me. I know.

However, nursing school has done terrible things to my maternal instincts. Pregnancy is like a ceaseless fountain of horror and deformation.

Did you know that pregnancy can cause varicose veins IN AND AROUND YOUR VULVA? (This is in addition to hemorrhoids, discolored discharge, and constipation, which are ostensibly temporary.) Varicose veins are, barring painful and costly surgery, permanent.

And everyone knows that pregnancy takes your nice pink maidenly nipples and replaces them with somebody else’s nipples, somebody whose nipples are dark and a totally different texture and sometimes a completely different shape. Some people suffer permanent scarring on their breasts; others have breasts that suddenly grow completely out of control and become unbearably heavy. Permanently.

But, you know, while you’re developing that weird brown line from your navel to your pubic arch (which, I have to admit, I think is kind of neat), your vulva is turning weird colors too, and it will never go back. Some women experience chloasma, the ‘mask of pregnancy’, a raccoon-like bruised-face decoration that, for some women, is (say it with me) permanent.

I suspect it’ll get easier as I get older, when my biological clock starts ticking, or when my body starts changing with age. I hope so.

It’s just… I like my body. I like it thin and supple and willowy and pale, flat-chested and gawky and freckled and inviolate. I can’t keep it forever, but I can’t imagine willingly giving it up before its time to go.

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I party hard.

My plans for tonight: click a series of tiny circles until a green check mark appears by one NCLEX prep module.

During breaks, I will watch youtube videos about candy-making, because the last time I made fudge it granulated pretty wonky and while it wasn’t quite sugar-and-cocoa goop, it wasn’t exactly fudgey.

When the clock strikes ten, I will immediately fall asleep where I sit, and wake up at six to get ready for work.

Truly, I lead a life of debauchery and sin.

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I just spent like thirty minutes

writing a post about unicorns, because I am deranged and exhausted.

Needless to say my better sense kicked in when I realized there were more boobs in the post than there were unicorns. Sometimes that happens. I’ve learned to let it be my DO NOT POST THIS alarm.

Matthew is trying to trade his Civic SI in for a van. He prefers a station wagon, the more outrageously strange-looking the better, but he’s been test-driving Transits. (Yes, those are fleet vans, the kind that carry vacuum cleaners and plumbing equipment.) I really hope I can get to Washington before he does something rash, especially since he assures me that he has a ‘plan’ that requires a van and will result in his becoming a ‘rock star’. God help us all.

As an experiment, I introduced a number of my friends to Battle Racks. They were, of course, appalled. Once you start clicking, though, you can’t stop, and pretty soon you’re shouting at the screen: “WHAT, THOSE ARE AMAZING BOOBS, HOW DO THEY ONLY HAVE 17%, WHAT IS WRONG WITH AMERICA” etc etc etc until the neighbors think you’re watching some really interesting sports event. After fifteen minutes you are reeling from what I shall delicately term ‘titshock’, and it stops even being about the boobs. You don’t know what’s wrong with your mind, or why you can’t stop clicking, and finally you feel like you are rating the carapaces of alien beasts against each other by arbitrary criteria you couldn’t begin to explain.

Dammit that’s the third post in a row that’s violated the boob rule.

If I keep deleting these I will never post anything, so… sorry. If boobs offend you, you are probably reading the wrong blog.

(All two of you. XD)

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In case all two of you are wondering

(hi Jamie, hi Hannah!)

(okay this isn’t for you guys because I blather about Matthew and his hilarious nerditude all the time)

(it’s in case I ever get enough KOALITY CONTENT to be worth sharing with more than two people)


Matthew is my brother-in-law, Kevin’s older brother. He lives in Seattle, where he is a nerd artist who draws dinosaurs and architecture for Guild Wars. He is hilarious and brilliant and one of my favorite people of all time. His dog Abby is pretty much the bright center of his universe.

Star Trek is not nerdy enough for him; he prefers a Trek-like milieu in which the Enterprise’s interior is holodeck-stuff, false matter (he postulates) created and controlled by the manipulation of the Higgs boson to fundamentally change the interactions of matter at scales so tiny that reality dissolves into a granulated infinity. (Don’t worry, I had to get him to explain it to me too.)

The point is, with the decks and quarters and cargo areas of the ship defined by rapidly-alterable holodeck-stuff, and the transporter able to swiftly move real matter (or, as in the case of crew, hold the matter in buffer while the ship rearranges itself), the Enterprise should be incredibly maneuverable simply by virtue of inertia: throw all the mass to the right side of the ship, and see what happens.

I like Star Trek because Spock is hot.

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Meet Matthew

Elise says:

scientific explanation for the Star Trek transporter?

silly matthew

this is



Matthew says:

without the higgs, particles do not have the ability to interact with space in the manner we associate with mass

Elise Barrett says


ffffffff combobreaker

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