For the holidays, you can't beat... your relatives.

that will send you to jail.

But in spite of our storied history, being with family for Christmas made for a fabulous time. I didn't properly journal while I was at home, so here are the highlights as I remember them:

Saturday -- Christmas with the Conrads! Silly me, I thought the gift swap was a Secret Santa Situation. This was untrue, so as labeled gifts were being unwrapped and thanks given, I had to divulge that I was Maggie's Santa. And not very secret. eep. And the cheesecake? I dream about that stuff.

Later, the three amigas hit the South Side. Literally nothing beats a microbrewery/bar wherein a cover band in lederhosen sings Billy Joel and patrons young and old dance on the benches and sing German drinking songs. Except maybe having deep life-conversations standing on said benches. What can I say? I love my girls. On the drive back, Diddle noticed that one car had been following us for an abnormally long period of time. Given the suburban setting and multiple turns, it began to put her on edge. We slowed to a halt in front of Aunt Eileen's house, and so did our followers. Mild panic set in inside the car. are all the windows up? doors locked? is that a man walking up to the house? are we witnessing a robbery? Oh, no. that's just Joshua! ha-ha.

Sunday -- a man with an improbable name gave us his Steelers tickets for the day. I watched Pittsburgh Dad on the big screen while eating a Primanti Brother's sandwich. Is there such a thing more Yinzeriffic than that? [probably not] 'twas the 40th anniversary of the Immaculate Reception, and there was many a celebration: Terry Bradshaw's daughter sang the national anthem, and Steelers players past congregated to remember what was arguably the luckiest darn play in all sports history. [see link posted earlier if you are unfamiliar with the play]

We left after the halftime show for MOAR FAMILY THINGS. Group holiday charades took our collective minds off the football heartbreak. Further cushioning included food that would increase physiologic cushioning: ham, macaroni and cheese, stuffed shells, and you guessed it. more cheesecake. We followed dinner up with the game that could get bloody, Pictionary. The "mature" team made for one my all-time favorite Pictionary moments. It was an all play, difficult. The item our teams needed to guess was "health." I hadn't even drawn my second running buddy stick figure when the mature team thunderously rose to their feet, danced around and shouted, "STOOOP THE TIMER." Befuddled, we asked what on earth they drew. The pad revealed two trees and a tree stump. "In your face, stuuuuump."

"But the word was 'health,'" I said. Three shocked faces stared back at me, and the room erupted in laughter. The other two teams compared drawings and conferred about what to do. It was decided that the mature team did guess a word, so they took the round (if only because we couldn't bear another difficult all play).

Monday -- a day of relaxation and reflection and dishes.In the morning, we visited the cousins. The tree! The cookies! The teasing! My intractable case of foot-in-mouth disease! I was seated on the opposite end of the table as the adults (I will never be leaving the children's table), and our conversation lulled just in time for me to hear "C. Diff." I could be automatically failed from nursing school for my response: GROSS. "Caitlyn knows. Yeah, it sucks." oh, shoot. we were talking about someone in the room having modern day dysentery? ughhh, hate my life.

 The discussion all afternoon centered on whether or not I would attend church. church on Christmas Eve? who does that? well, apparently, I do. you know, atone for my big mouth and all that. and I'm so very glad I did. I met my friend's beautiful, blue-eyed baby -- he is five months old! How time flies. :'( And I quite nearly chased another old friend into the bathroom. No fear, I caught up with her.

~sidebar: boys, I will never understand themz.

Tuesday -- Christmas morning, we headed over to the little brothers' house for brunch. I will never leave the kids' table, and here's another reason why. My lovely stepbrother, Alex, has had his share of self-inflicted hardships. And over the years, he has projected his deep unhappiness onto others, siblings included. This Christmas, he interrupted our five-way bickering and poking fun at each other to announce to Joshua and I that, "even though you're probably not legally my brother and sister, we're still family."

I couldn't just let a gooey sentiment go un-mocked. In reply, I answered, "To answer your question, Alex, yes. It would be weird if you asked Joshua out on a date."
"I hate you. for so many reasons." mmhmm, I know.

Speaking of how I am a terrible person, between the brunch and early dinner, I accompanied Aunt Kay to her friend's house, who lives in the same neighborhood as an ex-friend. Every time a car drove up the hill, I dove behind the bushes. Why every time, you ask? Because aforementioned friend didn't answer the doorbell because the sound of our knocking was obscured by a hairdryer. We were standing outside for a tepid minute. The visit was lovely, though, and certainly worth the wait.

Back at Aunt Eileen's house, I met her boyfriend, Jim. Yeah, that awkward moment when the most vehement man-hater you know has a boyfriend, and you don't... sadface. Back on point here. So, he and his nephew leave after a very short while. What do Aunt Mary Kay and I decide to do? Tease her, of course! "So, Aunt Eileen, is he your booooyfrieeeend?"
"Temporarily, yeah."
"Temporarily? Aunt Eileen, what scandal!"
"Yes, temporarily. He is in the habit of leaving me."

I... wow. way to take it to a dark place. Only after I made this comment was the story confirmed of how this same Jim was the guy who Aunt Eileen called to confirm their date one Saturday evening when an older gentleman answered the phone and told her that no, he was not in. He was at his rehearsal dinner. His wedding was the next day. Caitlyn jerk points +7. [Joshua says, "only seven?!?" and now he's whining about my punctuation. wah, wahh, wahhh.]

dinner. presents. fake mustaches. love. peace. Pittsburgh.

what do you burn apart from witches?

MOAR CAITLYNS.

Okay, so maybe "witch" is a strong word.  recipient of mild premonitions and rememberer of dreams is probably more accurate.

For example, at the end of last week, my darling daddio sent me a text message at midnight, which said he sent me a check for Joshua and I to split. Those of you who know me well may be thinking, was that the dream? No! That was real life.

For those of you unfamiliar with my life-tale thus far, my dad has prematurely advanced Parkinson's Disease, which I somewhat unfairly equivocate with his habitual cocaine abuse. So for him to send me a text message AND spare money is quite of character - and at midnight? Come ON. We immediately took bets on what the amount of money would be and if it would ever arrive. Yes, I may burn eternally... but he started it!

The dream took place last night. The check arrived to the house. I cannot remember the exact sum, but I do recall divulging to everyone in the kitchen that this check would be a big help because I had less than five dollars in my checking account at present. I deposited the check at my local branch and left. Little did I know walking out of the branch that the check had bounced.

At the end of the evening, a girl entering data came upon an error message. I had less than five dollar in my checking account. The check I deposited had bounced. My checking account has a protective feature wherein I cannot overdraft. Error. In a flash of fire and concrete confetti, my local branch blew up. I received the typical call from my bank after close to ask how my experience was, but all I heard was an electric static sound, followed by a high-pitched whine. I was promptly arrested on charges of manslaughter. At my hearing, I lamented, "THIS ALL COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF DAD HAD JUST SENT CASH!"

you know, 'cause that was the largest plot hole in my dream.

then today, the check from dad arrived. It's Western Union... so it's pretty much the same as cash, yes? no bouncing?

weird.

81 81 81 81 81 81~

not my best, but I'LL TAKE IT.
last semester of nursing school, here I co------ome.

and now, to read a book with a plotline. kbaiiiiz.

pizza grilled cheese and the evolution of atherosclerosis

I decided to stop being the study monster today and run and shower and eat - you know, put into practice all the healthy living habits I'm always reading about... And let me tell you, did I learn a huge lesson in compliance this morning. I worked every day for four months to achieve a level of fitness I was proud to tout. Seven weeks of stress and relative inactivity, and I have lost it all.

I made a point to warm up in my driveway, a step I often ignored, since I figured I had backslidden a bit. I started slow, sped up at the incline, let up a bit where the street starts to slope down, and realized I was already short of breath. I crossed the street to the cranberry bog, entered the gate, and was forced to stop. I cannot tell if the discomfort was from the shock of the cold air, the wind that made a quick joke of my layering technique, or if I am legitimately so out of shape already that one mile of running arrests me so. The rest of the trip around the cranberry bog consisted of equal parts power walking and twenty-step intervals of running.

In addition, my nose was running. My eyes were a-watering. And I had the sickly sweet-metallic taste in my mouth that frequently precedes vomiting. It. Was. Awesome. I truly feel the best part of the experience was passing another cranberry bog fitness enthusiast -- twice. The first time, I was still mid-run and was still capable of saying, "Good morning." The second time, this seventy-something gentleman was still power-walking along with his water weights, and I was a sad, hypoxic mess. "How ya doin there, little lady?" he asked me.
"Well, I'm using an old soccer sweatshirt as a snotrag and I'm pretty sure I can't breathe. But otherwise good." He laughed and continued on. I contemplated life, the universe, and all its tiny cruelties. I'm 23 and being laughed at by an elder in better shape than I.

Looks like it's time to renew my vows to my own physiology. Sure, education is great, but what good will it do me if I throw a clot and die before graduation? Pretty much nothing. Because I'm pretty sure my cheap-ass school would NOT print my certificate if I became deceased too close to graduation day.

so, I've armed myself against laziness tomorrow morning: cute sports bra on my bedstand. leggings to bed. filled water bottle at hand. alarm set to 0600, being woken up by the pleasant sounding yet angry lyric'd Ok Go. shall not fail.

 PS I was trying to give you an idea of what sort of visual appeal I need to get up and go by posting a picture of my favorite sports bra. this was close enough. picture blue instead of white, and GOD, NO PINK:

but in my search, I came upon this little gem:

this push up guaranteed to imitate a cup size larger than you are is being sold under the guise of "sports bra." LIES PROPAGANDA SLANDER SELF-LOATHING. dearest readership, if you go running in a sports bra, do your lungs a favor and STOP. STOP IT. if you want to attract attention, there are less scummy ways to do it. if you want to induce syncope and hypoxia, don't. take an acting class and feign fainting if you want that muscled guy at the gym to catch you.

ahem, anyways. so then I came home and made myself a pizza grilled cheese and studied the evolution of atherosclerosis and coronary artery disease. yay irony. why? because [expletive] you, heart. that's why. you'll get yours tomorrow morning.

yellow gummy bears and invaluable life lessons

a friend told me today that the way to distinguish losers from non is to "observe, analyze, and feel nothing."
what a goddamn manswer.

another lesson I haven't the slightest clue how to implement: learn confidence. oh, b'okay! feel nothing. ON IT.


"did you soak those gummy bears in vodka?"
"hah, no. but I bet they'd taste better if I had."
"that's unfortunate."
"well, they're the yellow ones. what do you expect?"

Exploding Gummy Bears  -- trying this. Anyone want to venture a guess as to how expensive potassium chlorate is these days?

P.S. I mourned for my Hoops and Yoyo mug again today. While emptying the dishwasher, I nudged the remnant of my Liquid Heaven Mug, seen here.

I have the talking base, which slurps and says, "MMMMMM LIQUID HEAVEN" and other raunchy-if-taken-out-of-context-subject-matter, but no context. I went to reclaim my mug, and no one had seen it. Saddest day.

the only fascinating thing

about today is how gorramn boring it is.

carry on.

ch-ch-ch-ch check 'em out!!!

as is evidenced by past blog entries, my memory from my childhood is spotty at best. ready for another fuzzy entry? okay, good.

I cannot remember when the first time I heard of the Locks of Love Foundation was, but I expect it was around the time of second grade. I feel like my mom was either still alive and receiving some diesel chemotherapeutic treatment that would leave her without hair, or she had just recently died. But what I do recall is this, Scruff McGruff plush toys. I wanted one quite badly. I remember pestering someone for it, and while I was begging for Scruff McGruff because he would keep me safe from everything bad in this world, I noticed on the next page of the magazine [the one facing me whilst begging] was an article about Locks of Love. A girl my age had lost all of her hair from a rare genetic disorder called "alopecia areata," and how thankful she was to a fledgeling organization called Locks of Love for donating a real human hair wig to her, so she didn't feel quite so sick and alone.

The story made me cry, and at the time, I still wore my hair so long I sometimes forgot how long it was and sat on my braid. Oftentimes, I wouldn't notice till I tried to move my neck and realized that I was anchored in place by my own ass. So I had more than enough hair to spare.

The article went on to say that it takes approximately ten hair donations to create a single wig, and I am proud to say that I have donated almost enough times to make my own wig. I aim to chop off my hair every other year. As you may expect, it's almost donatin' time. One hour's time, to be exact.

Even the littlest actions can create a lot of good, so this is what I aim for. Here is my hair as of three o'clock this afternoon [disregard the lack of styling. It's being chopped for heaven's sake. also disregard the fact that I am still wearing pajamas. I'm doing laundry, and it's finals week. you're lucky I'm wearing pants.]:

The ruler should give you a pretty good indication of where my hair will be cut to (allow for additional half-inch of length for curl-shortening). And this is the look I'm hoping to achieve post-cut [which I am acutely aware is very ambitious because it's Carrie Bradshaw, and I am lazy... but at least today it should look good]:

mignonne, n'est-ce pas?

so in case you were not a 90s kid, or your life was just extra-terrible and you didn't get the pleasure of growing up with Scruff McGruff or Locks of Love, here are the websites.

SMG -- http://mcgruff.org/ [McGruff on the main page sounds quite a bit like a less-constipated Strong Bad]

LoL -- http://locksoflove.org/

and if you don't know who Strong Bad is -- http://www.homestarrunner.com/vcr_sb.html

UPDATE:

this is me, post-cut.

given the fact that it is raining outside, I'm pretty happy with the result.

P.S. did you know that Locks of Love is not the only hair donation foundation out there? I didn't! Nor was I aware that there has been some brou-ha-ha surrounding these foundations in recent years, with donations being thrown out and other scandals. Pantene Beautiful Lengths is by far the most lenient place to donate, if you are willing. Eight inches of unbleached hair, and you're good to go. if you're looking for more donation options check out this comprehensive list.

please and thank you.

don't misunderstand; I do what I want.

I was all nervous for my final clinical evaluation earlier today.
I sat down in my professor's office, professionally dressed.
she took one look at me and laughed. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm a little nervous, but otherwise really good. How are you?"
"Well, don't you know you passed? What is there to be nervous about?"
"Uhm, well... I do now."
"Don't be silly, you would know if you weren't passing."

a thousand mental pictures of rolled eyes, gritted teeth, and stamped feet flooded my mind's eye. my heart rate climbed.

"Uh, how?"
"We would have created a plan together to help you suck less."
"Thank you?"

She went on to say that on a scale of embarrassment to the program and the institution to self-directed, I was graded a "supervised" because I "lack confidence." Otherwise, I would have been a sure "self-directed." [FUUUUUU----] She passed me her summary of my clinical performance which, by the by, was written free-hand and without all the stuff-me-in-a-box clinical jargon with which I struggled. I whispered that I was jealous that she got to write in free form.

She asked if there was anything I wanted to say because if not, I could leave. I stared at her for a moment. Wait, this is what I sweated all morning? Uhm, no. I was going to fill the void with words until I felt I had overstayed my welcome.

Quite unprovoked, I said, "The most learning I did this semester was about myself. Sure, my dexterity improved and I learned how to manipulate my voice for those hard of hearing to better understand me and skills I wasn't aware even existed. But mostly, I learned that I am smart. I am capable. I am compassionate. My work is worthy of praise. And above all, I learned that I can no longer subsist on the opinions of others. Approval won't always be forthcoming, so I need to learn to stand on my own two feet. Be confident in the face of adversity. Because I am good at what I do. I have no idea how to implement that, but I think I'm making progress."

In reply, I got, "you should be a writer."

heh. heh. I TRIED THAT ALREADY. Also, you just told me that if I wasn't so damn insecure, I would be an early self-directed. so I'm stickin' with nurse. final answer.

"But you're right. You should be confident. You're smart. You have no idea what your strengths are. I think that's because you have so many. So work on that. Learn from this, okay? Anything else?"

If I hadn't been seated already, I may have hit the ground. Learn confidence. Okay, no clue how to do that. But uhhhh -- confidence. And before I even really understood what was happening, I was ushered out the door. I continued walking down the hallway in a bit of a fog. is this real life?

there is only so much solace one can take in

the thought that hey, it's not mouth-cancer. and therefore, we don't know what it is.
but you better believe I'm taking ALL OF IT.

gratitude, thy name is Caitlyn.
speaking of, I did a fabulous job on exam number four.
and in two weeks' time, I will be immune to this season's flu arsenal.
hot chocolate on a chilly afternoon. polished nails for a whole month. no five am till January. good friends. good slow cooker creations. nostalgia. naps. confidence. character arcs. encouragement from an unexpected source. patience. perseverance. spell check. Joseph Gordon-Levitt. mmmm. gratitude.

honesty's a real bitch.

okay. here it is.

my mom died when I was little little little. of a cold. in an ICU. because a rounding doc or ICU nurse or fellow patient or a visitor was ill in her general presence. it all happened in four days, from surgery to signing the "time of death" paperwork. I didn't even get my Friday visit. I was pissed. My dad returned the teddy bear I bought for my mom in the hospital gift shop to me before I got the talk. I tried to tear its head off. I lacked the strength. I remember sitting in the wicker chair, crying, trying desperately to behead a bear I had bought less than a week before and when my dad asked, "are you going to say anything?" I looked at him and said, "It should be her telling me about you."

Meanwhile, Joshua ran around the house at top speed, screaming, "Mommy's on a vacation with JEESUS."

I have to give moms credit. they do all the dirty work. all the emotional stuff, like heartbreak and death and triumph and hitting a rut and puberty and everything that is most glorifying and horrifying. the two years preceding my mom's death were a rough patch for our family. my great aunt, my uncle, my grandmother, and my grandfather all passed before her. and each conversation started the same way. my mom would flop on her back beside me on my purple canopy bed. she would talk about the flowers on the canopy piece and transition the conversation from the beauty of flowers to life and how beautiful life is and how we celebrate the life of a beautiful person with beautiful things like flowers. and then she would tell me of the Beauty That Is To Come in heaven, where Jesus and the angels were ready and waiting to rejoice with us. and inevitably, the conversation circled around to who died and when the funeral was.

the first funeral I attended was scary. I cannot remember much, aside from being yelled at for staring at the casket for too long because I was blocking prime prayer views. I remember thinking, "why bother praying for her now? can't she just walk next door and say hi to Jesus herself?" oh, and how cold her hands were. after being extricated from the viewing area, I overdosed on Almond Joys in the basement of the funeral home with my cousins and threw up for days.

my mom's funeral was different. I asked several times if I could stay with her -- the cushions looked comfy, and she was sleeping so soundly. I remember silly little things from my mother's funeral, like the lipstain she wore. and how mad I thought she would be when she woke up and saw the purple hat they put her in. I remember trying to talk to family members who could manage four words before sobbing. I remember standing on the burial plot. My cousin looked Pastor Denny in the eye and demanded him to open the casket one more time, to "give Aunt Cathy one more hug." I remember thinking that I never loved her more than in that moment. I remember leaving the burial site with my aunt who smoked in the car, and even though I pretended like I hated her for it, I secretly loved the excuse to choke and cry because I felt like I had already reached my tear quota.

but you know what? I don't wonder. I don't think, is there more we could have done? she got poked and prodded, as did we all. she found a marrow-match. she walked boldly into surgery that would leave her more vulnerable than the day she was born. her bone marrow and the scar tissue forcing it outside the bone was sucked out, and the donor marrow replaced it.

and you know what? I love you. I want you to fight. I want you to win. you know why? because the only thing that I can think of worse than reliving that whole experience is adding the heartbreak of inaction to it.

so, be cool man. go. fight. win.

patience and penlights.

I have crevices in my teeth, the deepest craters of which are impenetrable by even the goofiest looking toothbrush. as a result, I periodically have acrylic gook pumped into them as a prophylactic measure against decay because I went through a lot of pain -- both physical and psychosocial -- to get my teeth so straight and so clean-clean. not gonna give that up now.

only trouble is, I hate that gook. It smells like acrylic nail sludge was concentrated, with a little added hate. and my teeth are like ticklish. It's weird. my current dentist tells me I'm the only client of his who laughs during the procedure. Though, if it's nerves or veritable ticklishness, I cannot be sure. and that typical teeth polishing business? forget about it. just hearing the polishing brush turn mildly sets off my gag reflex.

so today, I almost made it out the door without a proper checkup by the dentist. shucks and darn, he caught me. and he suggested I take a seat in the next room over so the hygienist could continue cleaning up my microscopic tooth shards off my pre-warmed chair. it's always funny to reflect on what matters are most pressing at a given time -- in that moment, all that mattered was my cold bum.

my dentist was just finishing up the exam, when he points out a 2mm by 2mm bleb on the left tonsillar region of my oropharynx (not quite throat, for you lay-folk). He prefaced the explanation with, "this is outside my scope of practice, but..." which sounds a bit like "OMFGZ HOLICRAP" to me. He suggests I go check it out, biopsy it if I must. It could be nothing. It could be a papilloma. It could be early stage throat cancer.

In all likelihood, it's like that skin tag on my chin... you know, that thing my dad tried to perform the horrifying, parent-patented "lick the thumb, swab it away" method every Sunday at church for my first eleven years. you'd think after the first time I shouted, "DAD! That has always been there!" he would have learned. You would be wrong.

but let's be real here. I do not use tobacco of any sort. I have been vaccinated against many, many strains of HPV. I eat fruits and veggies. I exercise. I de-stress. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'll be eating a metric eff-ton of leafy greens and adding green blurfs to all of my beverages and taking ALL the vitamins and practicing ALL the yoga between now and Wednesday. but fo serious. I have cried it all out (I think). I can't wait for Wednesday to hear, "legit. it's nothing."

P.S. pro tip: if you are trying to use a penlight to look down your own throat, point it at you in real life, not your mirror-throat. that will only complicate things and leave you with floaters.

because now my eyeballs feel like they're vibrating and other reasons why I need to stop caring what other people think.

when I'm home for Christmas, I do believe I'll need to invest in some Steelers stickers to apply to items I enjoy [or need] and wish to not-lose. In three days, I have misplaced as many mugs. the only two vessels for drinking I have not lost this week are adorned with Steelers' praise: one mug, one thermos.

speaking of thermoses (I wanted so much for "thermi" to be a word -- alas!), why are they not still popular? I remember in my grade school days, I could not purchase a lunchbox without also getting a thermos. granted, I cannot recall a single instance in which I used one. in fact, I actively tease my boss who brings one to work. BUT TODAY, I understand.

for a really embarrassing reason, too. I packed up my gear and holed myself up in the library for studying and homeworking. I'm not sure how many ounces of caffeinated liquid this thermos can hold, but there seem to be a lot of them. And in this library, drinks and noises are prohibited. Though to be fair, in this little cubicle, I have nothing but my own possessions to destroy with my ginger tea and plenty of swiped alcohol swabs floating in the bottom of my purse with which I can clean up if the worst should happen. plus, the librarian is holding a gigantic DD cup, so I've pretty much rationalized my way out of guilt... though, at this point, I don't think I'm capable of many thoughts different than AM I GOING TO DIE?

See, the second floor of the library is dedicated to "quiet study," an oft-ignored sentiment enforced today because of...

-squints, turns around-

CPT post-testing, whatever that is. grand! I needed this. however, I didn't realize just how big of a douche I would sound like, popping my thermos open and closed every time I wanted a sip of ginger tea. And two times in, I figured, well. this is it. crankypants is going to bust me for making a ruckus, so I may as well drink all of my hot beverage now before it gets cold, since I left the thermos open. Thermoses work amazingly well, I noticed. Four miniature cups of ginger tea in, it was still piping hot. but I could not wrap my mind around the fact that my mini- I want to say colander, but I know that's not right - hot-thing is doing its DAMN JOB and keeping my tea extra hot, just south of boiling. Plus, of course, I couldn't have made coffee like a normal person. No, I had to make that anti-inflammatory Dr. Weil tea with an incomprehensible amount of dried ginger and honey in it, so I hack a little after each sip. it's good. it's hot. it's sweet. it's spicy. and it seems to be doing a number on the cold I woke up with, but the whole noises thing? not helping.

so yes, I consumed -- CARAFE. that was the word I was looking for. ahem. sorry. -- yes, so I drank all of the tea. so now I'm jittery and giggly and self-conscious because care plans for urinary tract infections aren't this funny and legit NOTHING is funny about the renal system and its dysfunction and I am not at all productive and I'm pretty sure I'm going to die because my heart is beating so loud in my eardrums and my eyeballs feel like they're vibrating and I really should have eaten something for lunch by now but my lunch is all the way downstairs in my car because I thought it would be poor form to bring a thermos and a packed lunch in the library but I'm thinking I kinda need it now.

also, I sort of didn't do my weekly self-evals because up until now, I have been writing them based on how I felt someone else felt about me. but now, I know I'm not as big of a jackass as some others believe me to be, so it's difficult to conjure up what I really think about myself. because I do tend to respond to people the way they respond to me. so when someone is impatient with me and mad because they think I'm messing up, I'll like drop shit and feel like a doofus. but if nothing else I have learned this semester, it's that I cannot define myself by other's standards of me or I will never survive. I need to figure out who I am and what I'm capable of and ask for help when I need it and rise to a challenge when I ask for it. because I learn quickly and adapt adeptly and make new friends begrudgingly and care infinitely and prepare thoroughly and misplaced humility or lack of confidence isn't worth a damn in nursing school because everyone loves a good character arc and I'm changing all the time. and it's a beautiful thing. but remembering where I started compared to where I have been is difficult when I didn't fill them out in a timely fashion, so I'm trying to hit the highlights here. I can spike and prime a bag. I can make a grand gesture to win a stranger's trust. I can find out what is most important to a person. I can teach what I have learned to many different personality styles and levels of comprehension. I can remember names and faces and stories and triumphs and trials and failures and loss. I have never hugged so many strangers or blessed so many with green tea lattes and an encouraging word. I can perform an NIH stroke scale from memory. I can apply mascara at five am. I can listen. I can talk. I can speak up. I can do this.

think I can print out this blog entry and hand it in for my final eval?

freaking best day of clinical EVER.

It was all Luck, but I definitely got the better deal this morning. Upon arrival to the ICU, I was ushered into a room of a patient who did not tolerate cardiac surgery well. One peek at the client's cracked open chest and the bypass machinery was all I needed. The charge nurse must have been a bloody good telepath because even though I feigned fascination, my heart was elsewhere.

Heh.

She suggested that I make my way to the other side to observe another cardiac case where one couldn't directly visualize the heart. I left my classmate to observe where we were and made my way to the other side. My nurse had two patients whose combined diagnoses and treatments summed up my entire semester of learning: droplet precautions, influenza, acute renal failure, ventilator (PEEP), central line inserted into the femoral artery, NG and OG tubes... the list goes on and on. Plus, I could not have asked for a more patient or opportunistic teacher.

I was pushed into a room (and some poor med student) to watch an extubation. I was asked to discontinue a nasogastric tube. I have good form. I'm a compassionate soul because I got the client tissues. Oh, no. I just have Professor Seabury forever in my brain. If I thought that time I shot hot coffee out my nose hurt, imagine HCl, a much stronger acid, burning my mucosa. Nooooo thank you.

"Have you ever done a blood draw from a central line?"
"Not on a human."
"Gown up."
"Wha--?" and miraculously, a gown flew at my head at an alarming speed. Remember that skill I was nervous to perform as my skills final? yeah, that was it. But A put me at ease, even when I thought out loud about how it was disconcerting to feel the warmth of the waste blood I withdrew for the first time. The Sim Man doesn't prepare you for the heat. Both she and the phlebotomist got a kick out of
that one. Ha ha, bodies are warm. Got it. It was a rush, like meeting a celebrity. I suppose I'm lucky I didn't say to the central line, LIKE OMGZ, I SAW YOU ON THE INTERNET. But by the end of the day, I had done it three times, so the butterflies were gone. Oh, yeah, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and I have had lunch three times. We're old friends now. No big deal.

Actually, huge deal. I think if I met Jospeh Gordon-Levitt for lunch three times, I'd still geek out a bit. I might be a little better at hiding it by then, but I love him.

Later, I administered medication through an OG tube, another of our lab skills. A asked me how to check for placement. I gave the textbook answer: aspirate gastric contents and check the pH level with litmus paper. A laughed and asked me when the last time I saw litmus paper was. I panicked and said, "Miss Sladik's eighth grade science class." A doubled over with giggles this time. Okay, then how do I check for placement? Auscultate over the epigastric region while administering an air bolus quickly, listen for a swoosh. Yeah, buddy. A appreciated my technique and adherence to proper procedure. Well, yes. I would like to practice in a safe and responsible way and exude professionalism. But also, I lack the creativity to be properly lazy.

We ran back to the med room and each prepared an IV med. my line didn't have a single bubble. I wish my clinical prof could have seen it. She probably wouldn't believe it. We go to hang both bags, and the pump is whining about a bubble in another line. I went to work right away, flipping the bag upside down and flicking the bubbles back toward the bag of solution. If nothing else, growing up with four brothers made me an excellent flicker. Still, it was slow-going. A asked me if I wanted to see a trick. Always, yes. She clamped the tubing beneath the offending bubble, attached a syringe to a Y site between the bubble and the clamped portion, sucked out the bubble, detached the syringe from the Y site, pushed up the plunger to dispose of the air bubble, reattached the syringe to the line, and shot the collateral solution back into the line, so the client didn't lose any medication.

I was thoroughly impressed. So much easier than flicking a bubble back up three feet of tubing, I'll tell you that much right now. I was so engaged, that I didn't realize it was time for me to go until I was 35 minutes late for post-conference. I rushed out of there, forgetting my Hoops and Yoyo mug in the break room. Oh, shucks. I'll just have to go back.

if it doesn't pay in dividends,

then what good is bravery?
because it feels a lot like lunacy.

-sigh-

speaking of fear, I am pretty sure I have a hypoactive thyroid. or at least I exhibit the following symptoms during lecture: extreme fatigue, cold intolerance and accompanying numbness in the fingers, irritability that descends into apathy and depression, dulled mental processes, and slow speech. In addition, my hair was dry and falling out at an alarming rate this morning. It may have been the straightener, but one can never be too careful. The only thing keeping me from ringing up my doctor's office was [well, one, they've sort of cut me off from wellness visits] the lack of weight gain and absence of peripheral edema.

SO DO I HAVE HYPERTHYROIDISM?
kidding. no.
I don't sweat enough.

in other vaguely amusing news, I accidentally called a friend from high school, Zachariah, instead of my little brother, Joshua, the other day. (before you get too confused, one is called Gigantor in my phone and the other is called Giuseppe. ohh, that didn't elucidate things for you? have you met me once?)

'twas a happy accident. I feel I have half-convinced him to take a position in radio broadcasting if this whole paint-selling business doesn't pan out. I would love for him to be a man-Delilah, giving out terrible relationship advice and playing the worst songs ever released.

"you're having money troubles, are you? Quit buying crap and get a job. here's Kanye West's masterpiece, 'Gold Digger' on W-letter-letter-letter."
I'd stream that shit.
Stream because right now, he'd be broadcasting from rural Maryland, which I also find quite funny. I can't wait to get into another one of our epic fake arguments, so I can tell him to go hack in a spittoon, dress a deer, and/or fall in a ditch... which is probably his whole driveway.

I am such a good friend!

so Phyllis decides

I NEVER WANT TO STOP EVER, but Honda cannot recreate it.
This sounds similar to another car company who shall remain nameless.
Oh, man. Sorry your legs are mushed, but like, we totally can't get the car to do it again. Uhhhhhhhhmz, what?

They've been taking Phyllis on the road, and she seems to be in full working order.
No accelerator sticking. No rug interaction [the suspected cause].
so now what? drivin' Beeze, I guess, while we wait for Honda head honcho to ch-ch-ch-check it out! Because I, for one, am hesitant to take 'er out on the open road. And back roads, for that matter.

quick character review: Phyllis is the name I use to describe the Honda Accord I typically drive whenever it misbehaves. Because " f*** you, Phyllis" is fun to say. Beeze is the Ford Taurus' name. I honestly can't remember the story behind that one.

But hey guess what!
everyone in our year passed the skills testing!
we are literally the best class of all time.

somebody up there loves [messing with] me.

dread.dread.dread.dread.dread.

passed skills testing this morning. but first, twenty minutes of despair, tears, hugs, and generalized panic occurred. blood draw from a central line.you mean the only skill I was nervous about performing? FFFFFUUUUU----

I needed no prompts of the allotted three. though others claimed tunnel vision, I couldn't help but notice that I was speaking the loudest of the six other students also being assessed. Perhaps I was speaking loudly enough for both my laryngitis-stricken instructor and I? Though it pained her to say it (speaking literally here -- she doesn't know me well enough to hate me), I asked her to confirm the words I thought she insinuated. "Yes, Caitlyn, you passed."

happy dance. happy dance. Keltic Kitchen. Keltic Kitchen. fab company. fab company.

I volunteer to pick up little brother from college because nothing could kill the happy dance.
The Universe said, "challenge accepted."
Little brother and little brother's friend packed up, and we headed out. Traffic in Worcester was a gorramn nightmare. One particularly irksome individual driving a yellow Protege received the concentration of our rage. YOU SAD, DOWN-GRADED BUMBLEBEE, DRIVE RIGHT.

Ten minutes out of Worcester, and the accelerator pad got stuck. I thought, 'perhaps I just forgot I have the cruise control on.' toggled the button. no deceleration. I took a deep breath and tapped the brakes. The entire car started to shake. Even though two teenaged boys were jabbering on and the entire car was shaking beneath me, I could not hear. I turned on the emergency lights, uttered some hugely heroic phrase like, "OH SHOOT!" and pulled over on the side of 290. Not without considerable effort, however. Flooring the brakes and pulling the emergency brake only slowed our progress. I threw my whole body weight into shifting to park and cut the power. only then did we grind to a halt.

We three sat in shaky silence for a moment. "Wouldn't it suck if we were still behind the Protege when that happened?"
"Gorrammit, must you find the silver lining in EVERYTHING?"

[we kid -- but yes. ten minutes earlier, and we would have been a donut. dead meat. not alive to tell the tale. somebody up there loves us. or just wanted to hear how we would tell this story.]

And just like that, the tension was lifted. A tow, a taxi, and a ride home -- activate! A Ford Taurus that vaguely resembled a decommissioned cop car took us to Herb Chambers Honda in Westborough, approximately two hours from home. AAA assured me that said taxi accepted credit cards because I don't typically carry cash. We pulled into the lot, and I double-checked that he did indeed take cards because the inside of the car did not make that readily apparent to me. The driver reluctantly pulled out a paper slip and took down prominent billing information. He tore a piece off the end, a handwritten receipt for twenty dollars.

In retrospect, it was probably an idiot move to trust that a handwritten receipt with my credit card number was a legitimate business interaction, but at the time? it seemed the only way. A little being ignored here, a little frustration there. after some time, I had next to no answers, but at least I had a numbered key-chain. So little brother, little brother's friend, and I braved the wilderness between the Honda dealership and Target in search of hot foods.

highway dance party. unexpected elevation change. almost fall into a ditch. highway dance party. highway dance party. coping mechanisms! highway dance party. adventure time in Target.

>.> Apparently, all Targets of the super variety do not contain Subways. Starbucks, it was. breakfast sandwiches. Coke Icee is a regular fountain beverage, right? omma nom noms. adventure time in the dark. back to the dealership we go. Aunt Mary Kay was waiting for us like a knight in shining armor. we raided the Honda for valuables and were once again, Cape Cod bound.

and now we are home. and now we are safe. and now I have taken far too long writing this semi-coherent post. and now I am going to bed. good night!

love is like a can of beef vegetable soup.

sure, it warms your core, but are all the creepy mystery-meat cubes worth it?
>.>
the world may never know.

in related news:
"The valet asked for my last name to write on the ticket I need to pick the car back up. Guess what it said?"
"what?"
"FATzsimmons."
"Maybe it was a typo."
"But it was hand-written!"
Mmmmmm.

sometimes, if something is really important...

you allow yourself to be vulnerable. to let go of anger. to ask for what you want. to ask for what you need. sometimes, you get exactly what you asked for. sometimes, the answer is less than ideal.
sometimes, the answer isn't an answer at all.

so maybe you dodged a bullet?
and maybe, you've just got to dust yourself off and try again.
I am looking at my pile of cried-in tissues and laughing and crying all over again.
sometimes, you just need to be human.
and it [expletive]-ing sucks.

congratulate me.

As of four o'clock this afternoon, I obtained a liberal arts degree.
I needed it in order to pursue my associates in nursing with a little help from Uncle Sam.
Tomorrow, my refund check will be printed and mailed, so I will have the money to cover my last semester!
Still bitter about not getting a raise at work.
Oh, leave for six weeks = kbaiiiforeverzman.

>.> oh, wellz. the mental gymnastics I had to perform to follow both of those arguments has left me in brain-knots. off to go consume some caffeine, help it catch up.

graduationpartytimes.

it's okay.

I didn't put on pants till 7 pm.
The Steelers were losing for a good portion of this game to the Kansas City Chiefs.
we all have our days.

let's just end this game the way I finished up the day, huh?
with a success.

yeahhh, paper written, cited, and printed.
I spent much of the day in my underwear, sitting in bed, cranking out this paper.
It was actually far less tortuous than I had made it in my mind.
but you know, when there are pictures of grumpy cat to behold, writing about teaching yogic breathing to someone with COPD is way less fun.
I probably need to thank the internet gods that I tripped a cord while moving a rug today and unplugged the wireless router. Otherwise, who knows what could have happened?

srsly, boys? let's close this up, gorrammit.

"Pittsburgh is charged with their third and final time out.
Kansas City is charged with a fourth time out."

... it's the new math.

you are some kind of evil genius.

oh, don't worry, I won't tell anyone.
don't bother. I'll tell everyone for you.
FFFUUUUUU---

outlining creativity.

I started out life as a Creative Writing and Publishing major. life is a stream of consciousness, experienced in real time. my writing occurred in much the same haphazard style as life happened to me, both in the professional and for pleasure fields.

you may then imagine my frustration in writing this paper, thirty pages of planning ahead [at which I am downright dreadful] and teaching [at which I am innately quite good].

I wrote an outline for the first time in my academic career, revised said outline, and wouldn't you know it... the paper's just flowing out of me.
so I felt the need to blog about it to impede my progress, I suppose.

breeeeeathe, just breathe.
which, coincidentally, is also the topic of my paper: yogic breathing strategies taught to a client who presents with COPD exacerbation and also thinks I'm a nutcase.

May I present to you, lion's breath, source of my nutcasery.

Nothing dispels tension faster than a few lion's breath cycles. Try it! Be seated comfortably in an upright position. Inhale through the nose, let the shoulders float up toward the ears. Exhale vigorously through the mouth, making a sound akin to a lion with laryngitis [HAAAAA]. feel the vibration in the back of the throat. stick out the tongue, relax the shoulders away from the ears. Come to neutral with another inhale. repeat.

If you're looking for a good chuckle, practice in front of a mirror and watch a physical manifestation of your frustrations melt them away. Or practice lion's breath in front of a baby. Babies think this is hilarious.

If you're looking for a new scar on your face to brag about at work, perform lion's breath within striking distance of your furry pet.

procrastination begets procrastination and other laws of the universe

facebook is like my fridge.
nothing really changes unless I change it.
but that doesn't stop me from checking every hour or so.

paper-writing creates fodder cravings in my brain.
that girl I barely spoke to in high school is with child again?
that guy I cannot stand but never get around to blocking is still bitter about the results of the election?
SCORE.
Oh, educating adults present the following.. -snore-
I have to pee again. fancy that.

boy. this is going to be a long weekend, isn't it?

it started off so well, too.
I have figured out the secret to getting respect in the clinical setting: glasses.
yes.
a week ago today, I awoke with a migraine and wore glasses out of necessity.
thankfully, I had a person who needed a minimally stimulating environment.
low noise, low lights.
and I got my first compliment! backhanded and mean as it was, still counts.
I tested my hypothesis on Tuesday morning. my findings were consistent.
this morning, I was told I did "a great job."
I nearly fainted.
later, a man on the unit whose call for help I answered gave me a chocolate turtle.
another told me I was beautiful. I missed another complimentary comment from a peer's patient's family.
[it's probably for the best.]

I HAVE THE POWER! (of prescription lenses~!)
also, the risk of infection is cut significantly.
it's science.

maybe I can write a meta-paper about my own learning? or maybe I can take a nap?
yeahhh, that one.

signs you may be a nursing student

your social calendar is packed with labs, study parties, and lunches before Med-Surg prep.
you forgot your best friend's birthday because it was during midterms.
"but you have a whole week to study!" elicits a fear worse than death.
you had Hep G, ectopic pregnancy, a life-threatening arrhythmia, possible CVA/TIA, and respiratory failure in the last month.
your doctor's office has cut you off from Wellness visits.
"am I dying" texts of varying personal nature and probability arrive in your inbox daily.
you consider stabbing a friend whining about an English course.
required reading is more effective than the Ambien regimen you've only recently started.
you know how your professor prefers to handle a penis.
you can curtsy in scrubs.
you are no longer flattered by the question, "Are you a doctor?"
you have a love-hate relationship with your recorder.
you abhor the color white. and pale yellow.
you've never been more affection-starved than mornings of clinical.
HIPAA requires you to talk about your homework like it's special ops.
you brag in code.
you're suddenly really good at crying.
you lose the freshman fifteen when sophomore lecture extends through lunch.
you gigglesnort at the phrase, "lead by example."
you haven't slept for more than four hours since summer vacation.
your [already sh***y] running blog goes seriously downhill after September.
your neck disappears a little more each day. you propose to a classmate who works out a kink.
you age faster than the President -- maybe. who knows what he or she looks like any more.
you relish a challenge. you don't dig the smell.
you reminisce about the day you stood around watching colonoscopies.
your cuticles are a goddamn nightmare.
you forget how to dress yourself on days without scrubs.
you value the work you do for free more than the work you do to pay for school.
"personal growth" is a dirty word.
it takes several minutes to decode a text or email from someone using chatspeak because in medicine, there's an abbreviation for that.
the right answer is also the wrong one.
if all else fails, wash your hands.

painting the town red, white, and blue.

AMERICA!

Today, I voted, bought popcorn from Boy Scouts, and ran. (oh, and excellent patient care.)
I have to go eat something with bacon on it and speak my mind, and I will be the perfect American.

The question is, will I be 2 for 2 in Presidential elections?
It will be most interesting to see how the state questions will be answered.

dissatisfaction

November is almost as terrible as October was wonderful.

"guhhhhhhhhhhhh" is the only thought I have entertained today.
Off to go manufacture some endorphins naturally.
Maybe get back to that self-hate baseline.

-headdesk-

UPDATE: after a run and a little message-reading on my profile, I'm rocking a superficial self-esteem boost. I wish I had signed out before I read this message, however: "you can come over and cuddle if you wanna. nothin sexual about it, just wanna sleep tonight."

I... what? hi, person whose first name I don't even know. I would totally love to show up at your house at eleven pm for no sex. does that typically work on girls? is it nice that we're not heading back to my place and therefore, you insinuate that you trust I'm not a psycho who will burn down your house? is it nice that you're not pressuring me? because I feel like it's a little weird to skip straight to snuggling... and knowing addresses.

call me old-fashioned.

oh. my. word.

Men like to perpetuate the myth that women are the crazy ones, when in reality, their territorialism and acts of emotional terrorism make them the less sane sex.

On the previously-mentioned dating website, I told someone who expressed interest in me that I like coffee. He creates a whole day around the statement (which, great. I'm extra indecisive. make as many decisions as you like) and tells me he'll email me with the details about when he can do it. okay, let's.

... two days later, I return to thirty-one unanswered messages. 31! (oh, but zero e-mails) The last of them told me to tell the guy I was with that he (the speaker) won because I trusted him [about what place on Main Street has good coffee] but he's walking away like a man with dignity and that I'm probably a whore anyway.

right. dignity.

I reply with a message that essentially says "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" his only reply is, "oh, I will follow through and email you later." I almost want to say, 'honey, you are out of your damn mind if you think that I am going anywhere near you after that outburst. I think you entirely missed the point of what I was trying to say.' But saying such things would only encourage more conversation. and that, I'd like to avoid.

gor-RAMN.

so...

I signed up for an online dating service last night. I confessed that I decided to run a marathon on my profile, AND OH MY GOD. I should be more precise with my wording.

I decided that I am going to run a marathon. I didn't say I can run a marathon next Sunday with you. aye ya-ya. oh, and French pop? yes, I like that mixed tape my high school French teacher made for me... and several songs I discovered through DDR.

I anticipate several funny and/or sob stories will result from this decision. stay tuned.
also -- in case you were wondering, I didn't go running the last three days. Hurricane Sandy and all. I stayed in and did cardio/weight workouts OnDemand. still counts.

a month in one-liners.

The world is slated to end on my sarcastic uncle's 50th birthday. Well played, Mayans, well played.
And what would have been my mom's 54th. not as funny.

There is no more joyous place than a Primanti Brother's eatery after a Steelers win.

I am far more productive on non-school days. well, not all the time.

"Caitlyn, I like you. Are you gonna sleep with us?" 4 year olds don't mess around!

I am familiar with the adage "if you don't use it, you lose it," but how long till you get it back?

Wanna dress up like a turkey? :D

I wish I had the sex life people judge me for all the time. My skin would probably be better.

"Remember when you didn't know anything about Harry Potter and I didn't wear mascara? Those were good times, simpler times."

Open bar? I knew all along that Beth was my favorite.

Tacos, margaritas, and Presidential debates are for America-lovers.

Kale is not for eating. It is for storage in the fridge to impress yuppie friends and wellness by virtue of ownership.

Heels are not for walking. Homeless guys in the South Side are kinda hot.

"Do you even know who Joss Whedon is?"
"Pretty big talk from a man who has never seen Firefly or Serenity and just saw The Avengers two weeks ago."

Pumpkin EVERYTHING.

I have issues. I am more concerned with a bag of Twix's safety than I am about coffee dumping on my white lab coat or my homework's general well-being. No amount of training myself to enjoy healthier living seems to help with my chocolate habit.

"Don't tell anyone, okay?" in Caitlyn language means, "TELL EVERYONE YOU HAVE EVER KNOWN WHO WILL PROBABLY NEVER ENCOUNTER THIS PERSON IN LIFE AGAIN (or ever, depending on how juicy/depressing the news is)!"

"You must be a teacher. They were so nervous to say hi to you!"
(is visibly hungover, wearing a cheerleading hoodie that has seen better days, leggings, and disproportionately dressy boots) 
"I sincerely worry for the future of our children if this is what your teachers look like."

To those whining about Hurricane Sandy NOT decimating their homes: you are the product of billions of years of evolutionary success. f&*$ing act like it.

Amish ice cream? Pretzel Taurus.

Pro tip: if you're not young, thin, pretty, or creative as Regina George, being as big of a bitch as her isn't doin you any favors.

The theme of my life these days is "Caitlyn gets sad at parties, Patrick cheers her up."

I did not perfect the art of running in the rain.

A current trend in running right now is minimalist running. The belief is that without shoes to boss the muscles in your feet around, more muscle layers are engaged and running is more natural. I was more than happy to tap into my evolutionary roots for running full speed, but no shoes + acceleration = count me out. I tried that once a couple of weeks ago, actually.

Not on purpose, mind you. My real reason for going outside was to get the mail, so I deemed shoes unnecessary. (I know, too lazy to put on shoes. This is the sort of motivation I am working with here, people!) Once I was outside, I thought 'well, if I don't go running now, I just won't do it today.' Yes, first I was too lazy to put on shoes to get the mail, and then too unmotivated to go back inside, so I ran. I am a weird amalgamation of spotty logic, mild hypocrisies, and bizarre contradictions.

I made it across the street, took about four steps in the cranberry bog, landed on the natural equivalent of a Lego figurine on a carpet, and almost hit the ground. I tiptoed gingerly back onto the pavement and ran home. None of those creepy toe-shoes for me. No barefoot running through the woods. Give me my Ryka's or give me... a day of rest.

If you're wondering what I did after my disastrous au naturale run, I put on my tennis shoes and took the elliptical for a spin. I figured I had had enough nature for one day.

Speaking of environment, I felt dedicated enough to take a run on a day whose forecast predicted a 40% chance of rain. I don't believe I even own a raincoat, and I wasn't about to run with an open umbrella. I am not to this level of fitness yet:



But seriously, though. I'm not. Will accept as a Christmas gift, however. I wonder how much those weigh. Erm, anyhow. The improbable floodgates opened overhead while I was making some good progress. I was peed. I booked it back to my abode and spent some quality time with my elliptical and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart reruns. I should raid my closets for a weatherproof jacket of some sort. Cape Cod isn't exactly known for its lack of precipitation, though goodness knows everyone drives in it like they've never seen rain before.

>.>

P.S. it's almost wedding tiiiime. =D

I suck at incentive spirometry and other truisms.

Nursing school is the worst possible place for procrastinators, hypochondriacs, and perfectionists because if you didn't already exhibit these qualities, they will emerge. During respiratory lab, I convinced myself that I have both a restrictive and obstruction respiratory disorder. I could sustain inspiration for ten seconds (like you should with an incentive spirometer) at a pitiful 1500. Others in the group could make their cartridges climb much higher for shorter periods, but not markedly shorter periods. The lab prof praised me for pacing myself properly because anyone can move a cartridge with force. Not everyone can move a cartridge with patience. Well, when I inhaled as vigorously as I could muster, no... not everyone can move a cartridge with force. It hovered around 1750. At least I'm consistent?

Then it was time for measuring what's known as forced expiratory volume, a good indicator of how well asthma medication is working. Well, I'm deficient in this area, too.

WHY? :( I run three miles (well, like I said. What I think is three miles. I'm still not confident enough to test my theory) and cool down with a yoga sequence of my own design. I should be better at breathing! Just the fact that I'm alive should make me better at breathing. Geez. You should see me now, trying to practice my yogic breathing while running. I'm pretty sure my neighbors think I'm nuts. No matter. I'm going to get my hands on an incentive spirometer.

listen to your body tonight

Running the cranberry bog in its entirety was no fluke. However, if my practice of yoga has taught me anything, it is this: listen to your body.

You are a new person with each new day. Yesterday's accomplishment is not necessarily a possibility today, as I learned two days after my first full completion. It is interesting to see how big of an impact external factors make. Is it muggy? Is it hot? Am I angry? Am I sad?

huge difference in run times, breathing capabilities, everything! I mean, y'all probably knew that -- but hey. I'm learning, k?

In somewhat unrelated news, I have replaced my computer chair (which was a bum-sore and an eyesore) with a medicine ball. Strong core, strong body, right? we shall see. The only bad thing about it is I feel less associated guilt with skipping runs on days I do a lot of homework because dangit, I've been busy stabilizing my core.

derp.

by the road called river, I laid down and wept.

That pesky goal I set for myself at the beginning of the summer? Finally done. Yesterday, I ran the entire length of the cranberry bog, approximately 3 miles, without stopping. -raucous applause- And then, as the title implies, I laid down by the road access to the bog and cried. Happy tears, happy tears.

I'm off to go make sure that wasn't a fluke.

stay tuned.

Mo!

he would not accept my lettuce offering.

not really on board for the photoshoot, either.

 

Everyone, meet Mo, denier of love. Typical man. (probably. I didn't check him for parts)

uno, veggie lasagne, and the great date sasquatch, or the story of how my friends are wonderful and boys are terrible.

"Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end; then stop." Aye, aye, Lewis Carroll.

I did as I had promised the other day, I ran (ran so far awaaayyyy). When I'm crunched for time, I like to set an alarm on my phone to let me know when my time frame is nearing its end. I mistook two phone calls from Valet Man Man Man Man for the alarm. But then I realized, gosh, that seemed like a really short five minutes.

Three missed calls. Woops! VMMMM asked me what I was doing that evening. I told him that I had plans with some friends to sample an almost-famous veggie lasagne recipe, and that I couldn't flake. He was more than welcome to join us if he so wished. He readily agreed and asked if he should bring anything. I was a little impressed. Alright, VMMMM, maybe I misjudged you.

--ERRRRRNH--

We set a rendezvous point and time. I hopped in the shower. When I emerged seven minutes later, I found that I had missed another call from Valet Man Man Man Man. He called in a panic because he's "not good at meeting more than one new person at a time," and he wasn't sure he'd like all the vegetables in the lasagne. I assured him that it was all right. Three new people at a time was the maximum. He breathed a sigh of relief and told me he'd meet me. "Call me when you get there," he says.

 I picked up my partner in crime and her main squeeze and headed to the cafe for a caramel apple spice. I called, as directed, which was directly forwarded to voice mail. I guessed that perhaps we had tried to call each other at the same time and shot him a text. Once inside, we discovered that Bestie was just about to go on her fifteen minute break, so we pounced on a large, open table and waited for her. We chatted away with Bestie until she had to return to work. At this point, two others in my inner circle joined us at the large table during their dinner breaks.

I received a text that said something along the lines of, "Hurry! The lasagne waits for no man!" at the tail end of the inner circle's dinner break. Still no Valet Man Man Man Man, after several more text alerts and phone calls sent directly to voice mail. Without even an ounce of guilt, I bade my inner circle goodbye and left in search of lasagne. Thankfully, I was distracted. But in retrospect, I sat there for at least 45 consecutive minutes. I was safe. I was surrounded by friends. But still, being stood up sucks.

The rest of the evening was lovely. English word games with competitive spirits who have a limited vocabulary in the language and Uno with colorblind schemers was the most fun. In the middle of one such game, the host disappeared on his bike for a quick jaunt to the liquor store. It's like he knows us. It is a wonderful thing to have friends who love you and laugh with you and cook you dinner to get your mind off your status.

err, but so running.

I have been running every day. Thursday was truncated. Friday, I made my tiny goal! I said I wanted to run to this little silo lookin thing without stopping. I did. Then I said out loud where I was going to run the next day and the next day and the next day without stopping. Today, I exceeded the goals for all three days!

Admittedly, this was probably only 300 or so more steps than yesterday's goal, but hey. I need small goals to feel like I'm accomplishing things because clearly, the three miles thing was out of my league. Once I can get around the entire cranberry bog, I figure I'll do that thing where I run to my favorite beach because I trust the global positioning satellites in my car more than my pathological liar of a pedometer.

Also whilst running today, I found a tortoise. I decided to name him Mo. If Mo is still around tomorrow, I am offering unto him an offering of lettuce leaves.

nudity, bridal showers, and myth bustin.

I thrive on the bizarre, emotional, and awkward. I picture it like that rain cloud featured in depression med commercials, but instead of darkness and precipitation, my raincloud drops unicorns, confessionals, and giggle-snorts.

Today was no exception. (Names disguised to protect the innocent. Not very imaginatively, either.)

Walking to meet my clinical group this morning, I found myself closing the gap between my clinical professor and I. Now, I am at an age where I know intellectually and legally, I count as an adult, but I don't quite feel like one yet. It makes for an awfully awkward time in social situations. How do I address other adults that do not fall into my age bracket? Do I call my clinical professor Jane or Professor Doe? Do I call my friend's divorced mother Sandra or Mrs. Lee? Is she still Mrs. Lee, or is it Ms. Lee? Is calling her by her first name a bigger faux pas than calling her by a name she kept for convenience? I DON'T KNOW.

Instead of greeting her like a normal person while this inner monologue plagues me, I slowed my pace. I still caught up with her at the base of the stairs, where Valet Man Man Man Man faithfully waits and greets everyone who enters the lobby. He said hello to Professor Doe (I guess I'm sticking with guardedly respectful here); she raised her eyebrows and her hand in response. He said hello to me and congratulated me on making it to the second year. I asked him how he managed to work on a fishing boat all summer and walk away with no more tan than I remembered in May.

Professor Doe laughed to herself and said, "It's so funny you two know each other like that."

Instead of offering up a generic answer like a normal person, I divulged, "Oh, well, he sort of asked me out the last day of clinicals last semester... and then we never spoke to each other again because he sort of stood me up once. Well, until just now, of course." -facepalm-

This comment is still infinitely less socially inappropriate than the one I served up to my last clinical instructor. My friend (shall remain nameless) has gotten herself engaged and is nervous for her wedding night, shall we say? I decided to be that friend who will buy her a seemingly harmless gift and fill it with things that will horrify her. I was dismayed to find the empty, barred husk of Simon Mall real estate that was once Spencer's gifts. Determined to make a quality buy, I turned on my heel to hunt for lingerie in the Macy's across the hall. I couldn't decide if I wanted to buy the lacy hipsters she may actually wear or the granny panties that would fit my friend like an unflattering one piece bathing suit. Comedy or kindness, comedy or kindness? I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I suppressed the urge to shriek, whipped around, and recognized my latest clinical professor as the tapper. Always friendly, she asked what I was up to. Always honest, I answered. completely. How CVS had aesthetically displeasing lube options, how Spencer's was out of business, how good of a deal I got on the reasonable, red herring item. I am sure that during this speech, I must have noticed the eagerness in her eyes to leave the conversation or the unexpected nature of my answer, but that didn't stop me. Just before her successful escape, a regular customer of the cafe in which I work walked by and told me how good it was to see me "wearing clothes."

...

awesome. THEN, when I got the email that notified students of their clinical group and placement, my stomach stole the show on the uneven bars because I had precisely the same floor assignment as last semester... and oh my stars and garters, does that mean I had the same clinical professor, too?

Thankfully, no. I shan't start off the semester with the woman in control of my grade thinking I'm a sexual deviant. Just a girl that gets stood up on dates. wah-wahhhhhh. Hey man, I'll take pity points if she awards them.

STRIKE THAT. This lady just got a call from Valet Man Man Man Man Man. squee! :D date tomorrow? b'okay.

He says "definitely" a lot. He should stop that.

P.S. I'm gonna go run or something.

holy foreshadowing, Batman.

first day. second year. yeah buddy.

I've never been a proponent of the practice, "dress for the job you want, not the job you have." At least not on purpose. Three continuous weeks of putting off laundry forced me to put on a skirt for lecture and patient prep one day last semester. With all the positive feedback (I was even mistaken for a doctor twice), I decided to continue the trend... of not doing laundry. But mostly dressing for my goal, not my current standing.

This morning, I pulled out all the stops. Well, as many of the stops I could pull out, considering I slept through my alarm and, therefore, didn't have time to wash or style my hair or shave my legs. Sleek, gray slacks; blue, ruffled top; black wool sweater; and these babies:

try to contain your drool.

Bear in mind that these are the first heels I have ever owned or worn. (training wheels are for suckers!) Strutting in them in the level, carpeted Cole Haan outlet store felt so natural that I considered suspending my nursing career for a spell to pursue modeling. It would pay for grad school, k? Don't judge me.

This morning, walking on uneven surfaces made of pavement proved to be slightly more challenging, but not enough to shake my confidence. Stairs served another unique challenge -- it's harder to walk up them when they're taller. Between forgetting that I had already baked pastries because I set them on top of the oven instead of placing them on the countertops or the cooling rack and walking up three lengthy flights of stairs in (very) high heels, I feel like I completely sympathize with the rest of you (short people).

Getting back down the stairs was an entirely different matter. I almost ate cement. The heel caught in the excess fabric of the boot cut of my pants midair. I flailed about, not unlike Wile E. Coyote attempting to fly, and, by the grace of the Almighty, caught the railing in my hand. Inertia whipped me around one hundred eighty degrees, panting and giggle-snorting. My markedly shorter classmate accompanied me to my car, in case I made an additional pit stop to pirouette atop another outdoor stairwell and didn't stick the landing.

We made for a comical pair, the wary giantess and the diminutive spotter. I'm pretty sure I broke a sweat descending a flight of stairs. That cannot be healthy. It is probably related to the random dependent edema I experience when I run. (and you thought I couldn't circle back!)

This is true. I know it is time to stop running when my knuckles swell too much to curl my fingers. Is my heart failing? I doubt it. I've never heard of exercise-induced heart failure, and I'm a nursing student. I'll google it. Or maybe not. I swear, if I google'd half the stuff I said I would, my name would probably be atop every no-fly list out there.

To sum up the last month or so of exercise, I've been pretty consistent. for me. I make an effort to run around the cranberry bog across the street from my house daily. The occasional early shift that is CRAZY busy waylays me, but let's be honest. Cape Cod has had fabulous weather this summer. There haven't been many of those. As a result, I also feel like I haven't been properly tested for commitment to my fitness goal. It's one thing to say, "gee willikers, I fancy a run today," on a day free of humidity and clouds. It is another to say the same thing when it's pouring rain or snowing or hailing or tornado'ing outside.

I am terrified of tornadoes. I would divorce running for the day if there was a tornado. Can you blame me?

Erm, anyways. I took online advice to tell others about my plans to run a marathon. All the world's a passive accountability partner, I suppose. I do slip it into conversation with some individuals that I am still on the market for a proper running partner. I even have a sponsor! A regular customer who regularly badgers me en cafe offered to sponsor my ass. Considering he's a white man in his sixties and said "your" instead of "yo," it concerns me that his intention is to see his name printed on the seat of my shorts. Listen here, Creepy Allen's jacked younger brother, this is NOT happening.

I have made many strides. I'm slowly but surely running for longer stretches of bog, making loops and adding steps to my run. Only problem is, I have no idea where I am distance-wise. My seven dollar pedometer sits on a throne of lies when it comes to step-count. Phyllis (the pedometer) also feels that I take tiny baby steps because the mileage math is askew -- and different every day! If I ever work up the courage to find out if what I think is three miles really IS three miles, I will run to my favorite beach, three miles away.

I feel as though I need a few more weeks of practice before I get there. And considering lecture starts tomorrow, I will be put to my first real fitness test: where does physical fitness rank in the list of importance whilst competing with things like education and stress management.

The Descent, the Caitlyn story.

I've got the KNACK for SPEED.

I've no need for speed yet, but I have found that I am actually quite good at speed training.

Two days nigh, my little brothers, aged ten and twelve, and I were playing frisbee in the back yard. After the third time we had to hop the fence to retrieve the frisbee from the wood behind our house, I suggested foot races. (Before you judge me too harshly, I gave them head starts.)

In the heat of the competition, I hit my stride. I loved running for a few minutes.

As soon as bragging rights or short-term goals were taken away, it felt like I was punishing myself again. Lesson learned. I need more manageable goals in order to push myself toward the ultimate goal.

Day two, I took the youngest brother down the street and across the way to the cranberry bog where it all began. We turned miles into a series of short races, half of which he didn't run. I still scoped out my target, ran to it, and returned to him.

Even without the immediate threat of "loss," I still outperformed with company and with speed than I did when I jogged alone. It's almost as though using my whole body -- arms slicing the air in front of me, obliques twisting with effort, strides wide -- tapped into a more primal feedback loop. Intellect went right out my flaring nostrils. I was at once a prehistoric woman, scooping up her child and running to safety from a saber-toothed tiger. I was a prokaryote, chasing down a weaker counterpart to envelope and consume it. I was then. I was now.

Conversely, jogging -- in place or through space -- already feels half-assed, so I can't bloody well push through the pain of a lackluster performance. I quit. I wheeze. I grumble.

Now, to be fair, I've no idea how to apply this principle to my loftier goal -- a marathon, just yet. I am reasonably sure there is no physical way for me to run so hard for 26.2 consecutive miles. I get the feeling I would die. Speed training is supposed to come AFTER achieving distance. Ack-basswards just fits for now.

10,000 daily step average is in the works, too. I'll let you know how it goes.

A Caitlyn in motion tends to stay in motion

until acted upon by an outside virus.
or a barrage of adult beverages.
or quality time with a cute guy.
or four consecutive days of less than two hours of sleep.

or anything even vaguely distracting.
blurf. sorry.

My average number of steps in a day is 9000. My number of steps taken in one mile is 2373. Sooo, yeah. I only have to pepper in -- wait, summer math.

26.2 * 2373 =  62172.6 steps in a mile, approximately.
62172.6 - 9000 = 53172.6 steps needed to add to my daily routine to walk a marathon-length.

... that's not so -- okay, that's pretty unbelievable. I may have even skewed my results a little because I knew I was wearing a pedometer. who has time to take that many steps? looks like I have some work to do.

Starting tomorrow, I am going to wake up early (I'm thinking 7 -- anything earlier on a day off is purest blasphemy) and see if I can't up my step-count. get back on track, yeahhh.

How many days is it again to create a habit?? 21?

I can see your muscles when you move.

"Nuh-uh, you have skin."

Creepiest compliment ever received? perhaps not, but someone noticed my progress!

I have some Michelle Obama ie rockin' arms. I have more than one ab. I still can't run three, unbroken miles. This begs the question to be asked, WHY IS THIS SO HARD?

It could be that cup of chocolate whipped cream I consumed on my fifteen...
I need the calories.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

P.S. Finally bought that pedometer. today. footsteps research will be conducted this week and reported immediately.

progress.

I have not made a whole lot of it. I'll tell you that much right now. Let's begin at the beginning, shall we?

Days 1-7: totally forgot. I had an 11 day stretch at work, so I pretty much focused on getting through those days without ending a life.
Day 8: rained, so I awarded myself a day of rest.
Day 9: finally, a beautiful day! I stretched, warmed up, and power-walked over to the cranberry bog whose circumference is just over 3 miles. It fit with the running plan I had chosen, to start running three miles and work your way up.

Trouble is, I am one of those runners who gets halfway through a thirty minute workout on the elliptical and grumbles because it's only been fifteen minutes. So, I overshot my abilities by about a mile and a half by assuming that 3 miles my first day was doable. Never mind that I would have to increase my running time by a mile each day until the weekend.

Well, reader, I got halfway around the cranberry bog at a light jog in the muggy Cape air... then stopped and dry-heaved.

And this, my friend, is why I have never met a man at the gym. Partially because I don't have a gym membership, but also because I feel as though I need to work out before I can qualify for a gym. It's a sad state of affairs to watch me work out after a break from fitness. Even at my peak, my nose runs when I do. Ahhhh-tractive.

And the first place to break out in a sweat is the skin above my upper lip. I have yet to find a sweatband designed for under one's nose. So even if someone spotted me from afar and thought, hey, that girl is cute despite the wet dog-nose reaction, the dry-heaving would probably dissuade most (if not all).

I digress.

So I finished the walk, powerfully I may add, jogging whenever I felt able (which admittedly was like twice). I sat down on the couch and felt like dying. A cute delivery man at the door did not help matters. BUT he did leave me with a good thought: how am I to push my limits if I don't know what they are?

Right, every day a little better, a little stronger. This thought has become my mantra. Every day a little better, a little stronger.
I haven't yet exceeded my three-mile continuous mark yet, but I've only just begun. I hurt in all of the places there are to hurt. I sleep better than I had at the beginning of my journey. I am making my own health and wellness a priority. I don't stretch enough.

I am imperfect.

As are we all. But still, I carry on. Next on my to-do list is a pedometer. (Tony the Tiger pedometer is dead and gone after three steps. With free stuff, sometimes you get what you pay for.) I want to figure out how many of my own steps are needed to make up one mile. A quick google search says 2000, but some days that seems like too many, and some days that doesn't seem like nearly enough. And then I want to add more steps to my daily routine instead of being a couch potato and kill myself running. Well, off to my elliptical since the weather is less than stellar! Have a lovely existence.

running for someone who REALLY hates running.

to put it plainly, I hate running. hate. but yours truly needed a summer project (and an excuse to meet Michael J. Fox), so I have decided to start training for a marathon. the Boston Marathon. apparently, I dig discomfort.

I would like to claim a loftier fitness goal, but really, all I'm looking for is to be more graceful than this:





           
I think that's doable, right?

magical thinking.

you make your own happiness.

you make your own sadness.

either way, it's up to you.