the Cold War?

I have a bunch of memories from when I was really young . I lived in Stuyvestant Town in NYC until I was about 3 and a half. However, despite experts stating that most memories start around 3 1/2, I have some from before that. My room had bright yellow walls and a red shag carpet. (It was 1978). I remember driving across the George Washington Bridge with my family, hearing the cats cry in the back seat. The next vivid memory is of my grandfather's dog, Kaleb, collapsing on the living room rug - her front legs going out from under her. The next morning, my mom told me that Kaleb went to doggie heaven.

Another memory? The movie Red Dawn. That's when the anxiety problem began. I was the only kid I knew who was scared to go to their friends' houses because I was terrified that The Bomb would hit and I wouldnt' be with my family. Even now, flipping through the channels, one glimpse of that movie on TNT has me reaching for the Klonopin. I was TERRIFIED that Russia was going to bomb us any day. I had stomach aches every day and trouble sleeping. I worried about bombs and terrorists and hijackings and Jim Jones. (We had a book). And then there were the bees. . Oh God the bees. The fact that I'm not agoraphobic is something of a miracle. Even though I'm scared of lots of things in my apartment killing me. For a brief list:
the poster framed on the wall by the computer that if I lift my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes or stretch, I'm certain will fall down and KILL ME.
the broken step at the top of the stairs, which I'm certain I will slip on, falling down the stairs which will KILL ME.
The creepily poor electrical system and sketchy outlets that I'm scared will malfunction and KILL ME.
Falling out of bed and landing on my head in a way that causes a C2 or C3 fracture, which will, sing along now- KILL ME.

This is why sleeping is my favorite place.

Let's all adore Aughra

So. I'm the luckiest gal in the world. Why, you ask? And why would I say such a thing when all I normally do is bitch and whine?

Because I got mail. Good mail. Super mail. I got a FABULOUS jewelry box that she made that is all covered with tawdry romance novels and super quotes such as
"Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see you when we mate."

Some of the book titles include "What Do You Mean You're a Secret Agent?" and "Savage Kiss" and "Devils Dare"

I also got lots of super chocolately goodness and two fabulous hand-knitted scarves. As soon as I find an image hosting program that isn't scared of Macs I will put up pics of the fab jewelry box and the super fab SQUIRRELS STAY AWAY tags on the box. Any suggestions? These are some quality squirrel pics here, folks.

Does anyone know how to shop for Christmas without spending all your money on gifts for yourself? Cause I kind of have a problem with that.

Insert Clever Phrase Here

So. I work 3-11, which the one person who has read my other post already knows. Usually it works like this- wake up around 11:30 or so, leaving the fabulous comfort of my bed, and then crawl downstairs. Immediately upon discovering the cigarettes, I light one, ignoring the jumping cigarette trolls on my chest and sit in front of the computer. There I sit, checking my little daily update sites, with useless crap like random celebrity gossip, movie shite, and fantasy shopping. Of course this doesn't really stretch till 2 pm, which is when I finally drag my ass to the shower to hose off last night's foot residue and any other icky germs that may remain in my hair. See the MRSA foot? Not only do I have to look at it, I have to change the dressings on it and TOUCH it. Don't you wish you had my job? I knew you did.

So I bitch about my job, but here's the secret. I hate my job, (that's not the secret part) but on the whole, I love my patients. There are always exceptions, but on the whole, I love taking care of them. I just wish their families wouldn't cram 15 visitors into the room and stay for 15 hours.

No Rest for The Wicked

Heh. So basically I'm a drug dealer. Of course, these are all legal drugs that I sign out in one of two big fancy books with carbon paper so there are 12000 copies, but in an average night at work (that's 3-11 pm) I will hand out approximately 14 Percocet, a total of 50 mg Morphine IM, maybe 200 mg Demerol and countless Oxycontin and Vicodin. That's my favorite part of the job - "Do you have pain?" "Ok! Pain med on the way!" I love giving out the pain meds. It makes me happy. We have some people who come in on "Pain Management" who bring a list of the normal meds they take. These are usually the things all the people I went to college with were constantly trying to score. Ask me about my Ritalin someday. We also have in the pharmacy- THE NARC CAGE. I was in there once and I looked all around and just couldn't believe all the shit that was there. I know people who would froth at the mouth and start shaking and drop to their knees and start speaking in tongues if they were in there. Hell, half of my patients would do it. We actually have laudanum. If I can figure out this goddamned link thing, I'll put one in there. Try clicking on the title- and if it works, note that the Goths who wrote the article are wrong about whether or not it's still made. We do have paregoric too.

So for Clarity's sake, we'll call the hospital I work at Sweet Valley General. I'd put it's real nickname here but I don't feel much like getting sued, not when I can actually imagine paying off Visa at this point. At SVG, we have lots of people with broken hips, broken arms, broken shoulders, etc. etc. Recently we had this Really Fun Guy (I don't really mean that) who came in taking 2mg Ativan three times a day. For those of you not in the know, Ativan (lorazepam) is an anxiolytic- which means anti-anxiety, and a benzodiazepine, which means Addictive As Hell. 6mg of Ativan a day is A LOT. This guy had his own bottle at the bedside, stashed in his robe, which he was taking from in addition to the 2mg every 8 hours we were giving him. The bottle he had wasn't your typical pharmacy bottle in the amber color with the label on the front with your name and the dosage and all that crap. No, this was the Big Bottle. Know how when you go to the pharmacy there's these big bottles behind the desk with the pills in them? Like hundreds of pills in each bottle? Those are the Mama Pill Bottles. From the Mama Pill Bottles, your friendly pharmacist takes 30- maybe 60 if you've got a really generous prescribing doctor- of the pills and puts them in the little amber bottle with your name on it. RFG had the Mama Pill bottle. If you or I were to get pulled over with a Mama Pill bottle of anything, especially a controlled drug like Ativan, we'd be writing our blogs from prison. Not RFG. He got discharged before I could ask him how he got it though. While he was gracing us with his presence, he managed to rip out his IV 6 times and wander off the floor and go downstairs 5 times. Yay. My job is wonderful.