Some people keep pets to protect themselves and their families from the gamut of intruders, burglars, murderers, and rapists that regularly prey on innocent people. Because they’re always talking about that on the local Fear Segment of the news, so it must be true.
Dogs are a common favorite for this. My brother, for example, trained his German Shepard to attack me whenever I walked into the house. There is no love lost between us, obviously.
My parents have 2 large dogs that alert them when: a) Someone is approaching the house b)Another animal is approaching the house or c) a squirrel farts down the block. It’s actually quite tedious to live with if, you know, you ever want to sleep or study or talk on the phone.
I’ve HEARD of people having cats that do similar things, you know, meowing and hissing whenever someone new comes over. My own cats would NEVER do anything of the sort because they are much more concerned with napping or licking their own assholes. Although Finnegan, my 25 pound cat we call “The Deer Hunter” may attack someone carrying in a cheeseburger or spinach salad, but only so he could eat some of it.
Who am I kidding, he’d eat ALL OF IT.
Apparently, over at Casa de la Sausage, we have inadvertently developed a new hybrid of attack-critters. A nest of wasps decided that our back porch was the perfect spot for a summer home. We cohabitated quite well until this morning, when I was ruthlessly attacked by the mess of wasps.
I guess that wasps are too stupid to train to attack “undesirables,” despite my sorted efforts, which mainly consisted of putting pictures of Pashmina out by the hive and chanting “attack the beast” over and over.
So now, in a haze of insecticide, my porch rests.
Like the 25-year old adult that I have freakishly become, I celebrated college graduation AND passing of the Nursing Boards by committing to a surprisingly adult job. I know. I KNOW.
I must admit that my job hunting, unlike my English Major cohorts, I have been blessed to enter into my chosen (for the VERY short-term) a field that is interested in 3 main criteria:
1. A CPR/ACLS card
2. A License
3. A Warm Body
It’s nice in one sense, as I have my pick of positions at any number of hospitals, kick-ass benefits, and shifts. It is, however, decidedly unflattering, in the way that you don’t actually get picked on merit or awards, more on pulse and respirations. If you’re a warm-ish body, you’re pretty much hired.
This has been one of two weeks of orientation that I have had to undergo and I’m stuck in a room with 40 people who are so toothfully chipper and GO NURSING that it almost makes me ashamed and embarrassed. Not one of them knows that I’m really not looking forward to getting onto the floor and wiping asses and taking shit from people. They’ve all been waiting years for this day and I would rather be applying latex paint to a house with my tongue.
I’m trying to be optimistic about the next week as it will be one of the only times that we get a free lunch and more or less free reign over what we do. I do not scoff at free lunches. The size of my ass should tell you that.
So, for eight hours every day I am forced to sit through lecture upon lecture from EVERY department in the hospital because they’re still dating us right now and trying to woo us and make us take off our panties so that we can go all the way with them. I don’t mind being wooed. I do mind that we’re about to be butt-raped, but that’s neither here nor there.
Of the more interesting things that I’ve learned is this: If you’re at work and you accidentally run into your co-worker who is carrying a sheet of glass and you cut yourself, and he picks up the pieces of broken glass covered in your blood, he SHOULD NOT stick the bloody glass in his eyes.
I am very glad that they cleared that up for me because I had spent most of the week before that wondering about that exact same scenario. It’s like the hospital is psychic or something.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off too find some glass to break before I have to listen to a scintillating lecture about what Laundry Services does. It’s certain to be a nail biter.
I got my first tattoo almost three years ago for my 22nd birthday. It’s a gecko that takes up most of my right foot, very niftily colored and adorable and he’s there to remind me to always be true to myself which is something that I had to learn the hard way.
Location was key because I needed to be able to hide it. I have enough foresight to know that in 50 years, getting “I HEART KURT COBAIN” on my boob probably wouldn’t be a huge hit at the rest home and might require a little explaining on my wedding day, so the foot it was.
It hurt like a motherfucker. Of course it did. For weeks.
To celebrate becoming Aunt Becky, RN, BSN, I decided to do something special for myself because what I just did–graduate school after completely flipping around my educational dreams and desires and change career paths entirely–that’s a Big Fucking Deal. It needed to be commemorated with something more than a haircut or a purse.
My other foot is now the proud new owner of a throbbing swollen foot covered by a large, pink tattooed seahorse.
It’s the other lesson I want to remember with The Wedding That Ate My Life looming just around the corner: I can always make it on my own.