On Playing Possum

Many have tried to emulate a possum in the ER, but it rarely works out.  For one thing, most people who take this route are supremely bad actors.  For another, TV doesn't really clearly depict this type of scenario; actual unconsciousness is a bit more complicated than the individual of sub-par attention-seeking intelligence is able to muster.  Finally, faking seizures does not entail grabbing onto the side rails of the gurney and shaking them while moaning loudly and whipping your hair like Cher.

Thanks for playing possum, but your interpretation is an EPIC FAIL.

It will also not get you any narcotics.

Smell You Later

Repost, with an update.  Because I'm bored.

I have one hard and fast rule from which I never, ever deviate.  No matter how compelling or earnest the entreaty or convincing the argument, I refuse to be swayed.

When someone asks me to "Smell this"?  I. Will.  Not.  Do. It.

In fact, when I go to work I will spend 8 hours (or more) breathing through my mouth.  Only when I am safely in my car will I take a deep breath through my nose.

I hate foul smells almost as much as I hate raw chicken.  I can't help it, but I'd rather deal with most of the guts, gore and bodily fluids from any orifice, natural or man-made, than handle raw chicken.

I don't know when it started, but if I have to cut up chicken I can't eat it.  These days I can't tolerate any chicken I buy unless it is already cooked.  Oh, I like chicken well enough and I don't have any problem with eggs.  There is just something sooooooooo gross to me about slimy, nasty raw chicken in a package.

Things I would rather do than handle raw chicken:

gut fish
put live lobsters in a pot of boiling water
put worms on a hook
ladle chum
(can you tell I grew up on the ocean?)

I have a point, I promise.

Given my phobia of raw chicken and intense dislike of foul smells, you can probably understand why I went just a little apeshit when Mr. Ednursasauras took a package of chicken out of the fridge and said,
"Smell this"

Nope.

Except it seems to be getting worse, this, this….bad smell thing.  I have been googling brain tumors and such because it seems I am always smelling the odor of years of cigarette smoke and unwashed human, even it it has been days since I have been closeted in a phone-booth sized triage cubicle with same.

The most recent olfactory assault has been the aroma of some kind of perfume.  Could be conditioner or hairspray.  It's sickly sweet and just WAFTS, this heavy cloying scent.  Not sure what it is, but I was trying to explain it to Mr. Ednurseasauras yesterday while we were wandering around the grocery store.
Naturally I immediately smelled it and surreptitiously pointed out the offender.

Me:  "There it is.  It's awful, walk behind that woman in the black coat and zebra boots.  The one with the really bad hair cut, see, she's taking down a box of oatmeal.  Go smell it and tell me what you think.  It's like that BO episode of Seinfeld; it's like an entity"

Mr. Ednurseasuras: "I'm not going to follow around some lady to smell her.  I will just have to take your word for it"

OK, fine.  I see your point.  Later while we were waiting in the pharmacy for a prescription I decided to smell all of the hair products to determine which brand smelled the most like Shampoo and Death.

...and it's only Monday

In this corner I have Wednesday.  She will do anything to get out of doing her job.  Won't call anyone in her own department to ask a question, "I don't know" seems to be her personal credo, can't seem to figure anything out on her own.  Is definitely more comfortable having someone else do it.  Is definitely not an out-of-box thinker, although I am beginning to suspect a dumb-like-a-fox mentality.  She is a sidler, too.  She sidles right up next to me.  If I am at a computer and typing madly (almost always a triage note or something patient related) Wednesday seems to think that is the perfect time to ask me about my weekend.  Or how much she likes my clogs.   She definitely bugs the shit out of me.  

She also bugs the shit out of Eeyore, the secretary, in the other corner.  Ye Gods, I don't think I have ever heard Eeyore  say one positive thing.  Ever.  And I thought I was the negative one. The interaction between Wednesday and Eeyore should, by all rights, be  kind of funny to watch if it wasn't so distracting, because then Eeyore complains to me.  Eeyore's method of not doing her job is simply to call in sick, but she does her job well when she is there most of the time.  Wednesday persists with her inane questions even if Eeyore is busy assisting other customers.

 Between the two of them I was ready to kill.  Instead, I wrote this:

"Ode to Wednesday", or, "Cereal?  Can you eat it like that, right out of the box?" 

I eat hot dogs with just mustard

How does one work a spoon?

Oh, look!  It's Haley's Comet!

Are there 30 days in June?

You must fax this, I made cupcakes,

Is this stapler out of date

Can you operate this toaster

Do hot-air balloons deflate?

Are you busy? Is that copper?

Have you ever played guitar

I like cheese but only cheddar

I once dropped a pickle jar


My boss is named Morticia
We be just like family
Although it would be more productive 
To hire a chimpanzee.

I Hereby Sentence You....

Mrs. 100 Watt brought in one of her dirty unruly kids for yet another seemingly silly reason.  Inexplicably she had taken one of them to another ER recently where he was admitted for an appendectomy, days after he started saying his stomach hurt.  Normally Mrs. 100 Watt will wait a grand total of 10 minutes before bringing the kids to the ER for various boo-boos; something more serious and she waits days, of course.  

As she prattled on endlessly about this harrowing experience, she informed us that the surgeon who operated on her son thought she was so astute to have had the son seen in such a timely manner that she "should be condemned as a mother".

SHE said it.  She did.  Commendation vs condemnation, just give yourself a pat on the back.  Or a bat. Or whatever.

Yeah, This is How I Operate

If I have to mix medication drips I generally make a big mess.  Yes, we mix our own.  The pharmacy doesn't live here.  Cabinets open, drawers open, syringes and wrappers, papers, calculators.  Usually people know to stay out of  my way when I am mixing anything.

This is my kitchen.  I also make messes at home, so at least I am consistent. I am one of those cooks who, a)doesn't like it, b) isn't good at it and c) cooks all over the kitchen.  As evidenced by the sheer quantity of stuff laying about.

You must be wondering what extremely complicated and amazing dish I was creating to have made such a hash out of my kitchen, right?  Well, it was French toast.  For me.  See that little stack of jam over there?  I made that last week.  The kitchen was in WAY worse shape than this.