This, my friends, is the amazing story of the recent (as in last night recent) trip my roommate and I took to the Emergency Room last night. It is a tale full of excitement, fast cars, work romances, and attractive EMT's. It's great, let me tell you.
Anyway, our wonderful little adventure begins last night around 9:30 at night, as I was speaking with my mother on the phone. It was a normal night, nothing to suggest that anything exciting would happen. Except that it wasn't a normal night. I got a text message while I was on the phone and saw to my alarm a text from my roommate, Stephanie, which read, "Can you help me up? I got stuck on the floor." Now, I cannot pretend that I knew what was going on at this moment. I mean, all I could think about was those commercials for the old people that say, "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up." But, I went upstairs anyway to check on my roommate. And she was indeed stuck on the floor. In the process of sitting up on the floor something in her back had popped. Not a good sign, folks. After a (not-so) quick call to the Nurse Hotline to see if that was normal and a phone call to her parents, I managed to help her up and she managed to walk down the stairs of our apartment (which are so steep I usually fall up them at least once a day) and to the car. To the Emergency Room at UMC we rushed. We were quickly followed by dear friends (whose names I will not mention because if I do, I will owe one of them $50) who came to Stephanie's aid with their amazing Priesthood power to give her a blessing.
The boys waited with us for an hour and a half before it became apparent that we wouldn't be getting out of there soon. Knowing they had work and class to go to the next day, we sent them home, bravely facing the dangers of an ER after midnight alone, with nothing but the memory of the laughs we had shared to sustain us. Finally, after what felt like years, we were moved to the hallway, where Stephanie was seen by a nurse and a doctor, who told her that an X-Ray was necessary. So, while she was sent off, I was left in the hallway with a very sleepy crazy man (who really wanted to stand up even though he couldn't even remember his own name) and two nurses who were obviously deep in the thralls of an inter-office romance that was quite distracting to me. Even though all I was trying to do was read Catcher in the Rye. Seriously, they had some definite chemistry going on in that hallway. At least, that's what I thought until the nurse who had seen my roommate left and her supposed boyfriend moved on to the very next nurse who walked into the hallway. And let me tell you, that nurse, so not a catch. I mean seriously, I have no idea how he managed to convince two nurses who were clearly out of his league to be so into him. It was unbelievable. And then came the female paramedic. Who was also under his powers. I'm thinking he uses a magic love potion or something. Plus, I totally didn't like the shifty-ness of his eyes.
Anyway, back to my roommate. After she came back from her X-Ray the nurse came back and brought her some Percocet. Which is when things got incredibly interesting. It only took about twenty minutes for that stuff to kick in and Stephanie found everything around her incredibly humorous. Except the crazy man who was still in the hallway and now very much awake and wanting to share his pain with everyone. Him she didn't like so much. In fact, as we were (finally!) being moved to a room, she looked back at him and said, "That guy has a broken brain." Now, just imagine if you will, that last sentence being said with the most disgust in the planet and you'll understand how my roommate was feeling about that guy from the hallway. Still, though, I hadn't realized the drugs had actually kicked in until we got to the room and turned on the TV. What happened next can only be understood if you have seen the Pringles commercial that involves to guys sitting outside, looking at the moon, and ends in them breaking a chip that causes the entire moon to burst into millions of little cheese pieces. Well, as soon as my roommate saw that commercial, it took her fifteen minutes to stop laughing. And then she started up again when the Doctor asked her how the Percocet was doing.
By the time we made it home, everything was funny. It was around 3:30 in the morning when we left the ER and since we'd been there for six hours, we were hungry. Only, McDonald's employees aren't very nice at 3:30 in the morning and they won't make you anything with bacon in it before 4 am. Which is stupid. Because we were literally fifteen minutes to 4 when they refused to give us the bacon. After making it very clear how she felt about this and getting our breakfast, Stephanie went back to laughing at everything. Some very memorable quotes from the night include these lovely tidbits.
As we drove by a very bright sign. "This sign is too bright. Can we shoot it?"
About the lovely effects of Percocet on the human brain. "You know, Percocet really shows you what a person is really like. I think we should give it to all of our first dates. Like, just a half of a half of one." When I asked her if she thought that was actually a good idea she just said, "This stuff is really fun."
On where she should be getting her drugs. "I think I should go to Mexico. Prescriptions from Mexico are better."
About how much she loves Percocet. "I'm really funny on Percocet!"
It was quite an eventful evening, let me tell you. And now we have a thank you dinner to plan for our friends, a list of movies to watch while Stephanie is under the influence of painkillers and exhaustion. But we learned a lot. Mostly, that an actual emergency room is way not as exciting as any medical show ever created. And definitely not as entertaining as say, Scrubs or Grey's Anatomy or even the show ER. Never trust television, people. Hollywood lies to us.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Why Being a Grown-Up Isn't a Good Idea
Let me tell you the story of how I can, actually, be a grown up when the time calls for it. This is also the story of how it's not fun to be a grown up sometimes. This story, like many other stories that I will end up telling, involves my job. More specifically, the job where I am a job coach at a so called "Ranch" (I'm pretty sure I've made my feelings on the legitimacy of what constitutes a ranch out here in Tucson) which involves me being responsible and helping people better do their jobs. It's great. Until now that it is now summer time, we're working outside, we're in the desert and it's snake season. Not just any snake. Rattlesnake. Which is the worst kind. And as you should know, I am terrified of snakes. They are my biggest fear. But this is the story of how I faced my fears.
Let me set the scene for you:
Recently (Thursday if you must know), I was at work at the Ranch. It was after lunch, and since there were only four clients and two job coaches, everyone was busy working on their respective jobs. I was helping one client prepare supplements for the horses when suddenly a scream broke the silence. All eyes and ears turned to the shed where one of our clients was supposed to be getting out the muck rakes to clean up the horses pen. She kept screaming, "Snake, snake," which of course caused all the clients to run in the general direction of the shed, because, hello, there's something super exciting going on and who wouldn't want to be in on that? Me, that's who. Now, normally even just hearing the word snake will cause me to fear exceedingly. I'm serious. Usually when there is a snake sighting I flee to the nearest possible place of refuge.
Now, here is why being a grown up is totally not a good idea. Because inside, I was calculating how long it would take to get into the house and lock all the doors. But on the outside, I totally had to be calm and convince the clients that it was best to stay away from what could possibly be a snake in the shed and just keep working. The client who discovered the alleged snake was the only one who fled the scene. But as soon as the other job coach confirmed that it was, indeed a snake (and not just any snake, but the dreaded rattlesnake itself) everything sort of deteriorated in our work day. Oh, sure, we got the supplements to the horses and the pen was successfully cleaned out and I managed to keep my clients from going crazy. However, the strangest thing that has ever happened to me, happened. I had no concern for the snake whatsoever. I was more concerned with making sure my clients stayed on task. I was responsible. And adult. And I didn't even fear the snake!!! Amazing.
However, the most exciting part of the story happened after the snake was discovered in the shed. While the other job coach was keeping an eye on the snake situation, mostly just trying to re-find the snake in the crowded shed, I was tasked with calling the fire department so that they could come kill the snake for us. Now, where I'm from, if you call the fire department to come kill a snake for you they would probably laugh and tell you to either kill it yourself or just leave it alone. But I'm in Tucson now, where apparently even the manliest of men do not feel equipped to kill a rattlesnake. Seriously. I would have laughed, except that would probably not have gone over well. But come on, I've actually witnessed my Grandma kill a whole nest of rattlesnakes once while I escaped to higher ground with the dog. If my Grandma can kill a whole nest of rattlesnakes I'd assumed that a guy who works at a ranch, even a ranch that isn't really much of a ranch in my opinion, could successfully find and kill one snake that was hiding in the shed.
As it turned out, it took three firefighters to do that. And unfortunately, I'd been working all day and therefore didn't look my best. So, no husbands were found that day. But at least I learned something about myself that is actually pretty great. I can be a calm and collected adult, even when snakes are involved, when I have to be. But of course, now I'm slightly terrified to walk outside in the dark, lest snakes be lurking and waiting to strike.
In other news, that rooster from before still hates me. He hasn't attacked, but he keeps giving me the crazy eye. I'm fairly certain he's just waiting for the right moment to go all ninja on me again. In the mean time, watch out for snakes and eat a lot of chicken!
Let me set the scene for you:
Recently (Thursday if you must know), I was at work at the Ranch. It was after lunch, and since there were only four clients and two job coaches, everyone was busy working on their respective jobs. I was helping one client prepare supplements for the horses when suddenly a scream broke the silence. All eyes and ears turned to the shed where one of our clients was supposed to be getting out the muck rakes to clean up the horses pen. She kept screaming, "Snake, snake," which of course caused all the clients to run in the general direction of the shed, because, hello, there's something super exciting going on and who wouldn't want to be in on that? Me, that's who. Now, normally even just hearing the word snake will cause me to fear exceedingly. I'm serious. Usually when there is a snake sighting I flee to the nearest possible place of refuge.
Now, here is why being a grown up is totally not a good idea. Because inside, I was calculating how long it would take to get into the house and lock all the doors. But on the outside, I totally had to be calm and convince the clients that it was best to stay away from what could possibly be a snake in the shed and just keep working. The client who discovered the alleged snake was the only one who fled the scene. But as soon as the other job coach confirmed that it was, indeed a snake (and not just any snake, but the dreaded rattlesnake itself) everything sort of deteriorated in our work day. Oh, sure, we got the supplements to the horses and the pen was successfully cleaned out and I managed to keep my clients from going crazy. However, the strangest thing that has ever happened to me, happened. I had no concern for the snake whatsoever. I was more concerned with making sure my clients stayed on task. I was responsible. And adult. And I didn't even fear the snake!!! Amazing.
However, the most exciting part of the story happened after the snake was discovered in the shed. While the other job coach was keeping an eye on the snake situation, mostly just trying to re-find the snake in the crowded shed, I was tasked with calling the fire department so that they could come kill the snake for us. Now, where I'm from, if you call the fire department to come kill a snake for you they would probably laugh and tell you to either kill it yourself or just leave it alone. But I'm in Tucson now, where apparently even the manliest of men do not feel equipped to kill a rattlesnake. Seriously. I would have laughed, except that would probably not have gone over well. But come on, I've actually witnessed my Grandma kill a whole nest of rattlesnakes once while I escaped to higher ground with the dog. If my Grandma can kill a whole nest of rattlesnakes I'd assumed that a guy who works at a ranch, even a ranch that isn't really much of a ranch in my opinion, could successfully find and kill one snake that was hiding in the shed.
As it turned out, it took three firefighters to do that. And unfortunately, I'd been working all day and therefore didn't look my best. So, no husbands were found that day. But at least I learned something about myself that is actually pretty great. I can be a calm and collected adult, even when snakes are involved, when I have to be. But of course, now I'm slightly terrified to walk outside in the dark, lest snakes be lurking and waiting to strike.
In other news, that rooster from before still hates me. He hasn't attacked, but he keeps giving me the crazy eye. I'm fairly certain he's just waiting for the right moment to go all ninja on me again. In the mean time, watch out for snakes and eat a lot of chicken!
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Sometimes I Write Blogs
It's my spring break and since I don't have enough to do with my life - like spring cleaning and getting a head start on the reading for all my classes and generally just getting my life together - I've decided to create a blog instead. This is probably because I was looking for jobs that I could - hopefully! - get after college and became depressed at the words, "Five years work experience required," like it's that simple to get five years experience when every job requires it. So it seems like a great idea to just not worry about that right now and instead start my writing career in a much different way. A way that allows me to fail from the privacy of my own living room in a prolonged sense instead of failing before I've even started. Plus, here's a novel idea, I could actually succeed. And at the very least I'll be writing more which is super important. What's this blog going to be about, you ask? Everything. Life. Books. Things I've learned in class. Interesting things I've seen on Netflix. Crazy things that will inevitably happen to me while working. Crazy things that will inevitably happen to me due to the fact that I'm a clutz. You know, just normal stuff.
Essentially, I just want to write stuff. So I will. And hopefully people will actually read it. I don't actually have anything funny or witty to say write now, which is kind of shocking since I usually feel most creative after I'm supposed to be sleeping. So, instead of giving this whole big story, I'm just going to tell you what it's like to get attacked by a smallish rooster. Repeatedly.
I recently started new hours with my job - I work with people with developmental disabilities - where I am a job coach for what passes as a ranch out here. The set up is actually kind of cool, though. There are horses that need different supplements twice a day, a green house and other garden-y things, some desert tortoises, goats - which are some of my favorite animals - and of course, "free-range" chickens. At first I wasn't too sure about this free range thing, since the chickens don't spend all of their time out of the pen, but after being in charge of their foray into the world of free range I'm completely satisfied with how long they are outside of that wonderful little pen of theirs. One of my clients and I were tasked with the job of making sure they didn't get too far away from the house. We have to be able to find them, after all, if we want to sell the eggs. Everything started out fine; we were basically just herding them around, making sure they didn't go off the property and stuff. But then, when I was walking by a group of them, it was like the medium sized rooster just sensed something in me that he didn't like and - Bam! - attacked like a ninja. Seriously. The thing was fast. It ninja kicked and got my leg with the spurs on it's claw. And it ripped through my supposedly durable jeans. As much as this hurt, and oh man did it hurt, I had to be a professional. So, I just pushed it away with my foot. But after what was probably the fiftieth time this had happened I straight up retaliated with a swift kick in the beak. Unfortunately, that only made the little demon more angry. Probably understandably, from the rooster's point of view. And he retaliated on my retaliation by actually drawing blood this time.
It was fun, for sure. But it totally brought back my - perhaps not so irrational - fear of chickens. The thing is, that rooster still gives me the evil eye every time I walk by the pen. I'm pretty sure he is plotting my untimely death. Or at least the untimely death of every pair of jeans I own. Either way, it's not good. So here's hoping I can be stronger than a rooster that's actually not much bigger than a squished together chihuahua on steroids with the jumping capacity of an NBA player. No matter what happens, this experience has taught me a few things. Like, I can totally handle being attacked by a deranged rooster so long as it's not my clients being repeatedly rooster ninja-kicked. Also, chicken nuggets definitely need to be a bigger part of my diet. I mean, if a crazy rooster is going to harbor a grunge against me then I might as well make it justified by eating his cousins or whatever.
Anyway, I hope people actually read this thing! As our lovely friends at Chick-fil-A like to say, "Eat more Chicken!"
Essentially, I just want to write stuff. So I will. And hopefully people will actually read it. I don't actually have anything funny or witty to say write now, which is kind of shocking since I usually feel most creative after I'm supposed to be sleeping. So, instead of giving this whole big story, I'm just going to tell you what it's like to get attacked by a smallish rooster. Repeatedly.
I recently started new hours with my job - I work with people with developmental disabilities - where I am a job coach for what passes as a ranch out here. The set up is actually kind of cool, though. There are horses that need different supplements twice a day, a green house and other garden-y things, some desert tortoises, goats - which are some of my favorite animals - and of course, "free-range" chickens. At first I wasn't too sure about this free range thing, since the chickens don't spend all of their time out of the pen, but after being in charge of their foray into the world of free range I'm completely satisfied with how long they are outside of that wonderful little pen of theirs. One of my clients and I were tasked with the job of making sure they didn't get too far away from the house. We have to be able to find them, after all, if we want to sell the eggs. Everything started out fine; we were basically just herding them around, making sure they didn't go off the property and stuff. But then, when I was walking by a group of them, it was like the medium sized rooster just sensed something in me that he didn't like and - Bam! - attacked like a ninja. Seriously. The thing was fast. It ninja kicked and got my leg with the spurs on it's claw. And it ripped through my supposedly durable jeans. As much as this hurt, and oh man did it hurt, I had to be a professional. So, I just pushed it away with my foot. But after what was probably the fiftieth time this had happened I straight up retaliated with a swift kick in the beak. Unfortunately, that only made the little demon more angry. Probably understandably, from the rooster's point of view. And he retaliated on my retaliation by actually drawing blood this time.
It was fun, for sure. But it totally brought back my - perhaps not so irrational - fear of chickens. The thing is, that rooster still gives me the evil eye every time I walk by the pen. I'm pretty sure he is plotting my untimely death. Or at least the untimely death of every pair of jeans I own. Either way, it's not good. So here's hoping I can be stronger than a rooster that's actually not much bigger than a squished together chihuahua on steroids with the jumping capacity of an NBA player. No matter what happens, this experience has taught me a few things. Like, I can totally handle being attacked by a deranged rooster so long as it's not my clients being repeatedly rooster ninja-kicked. Also, chicken nuggets definitely need to be a bigger part of my diet. I mean, if a crazy rooster is going to harbor a grunge against me then I might as well make it justified by eating his cousins or whatever.
Anyway, I hope people actually read this thing! As our lovely friends at Chick-fil-A like to say, "Eat more Chicken!"
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