hashtag, things that would only happen to you.

speaking of daddy issues, I unabashedly omitted information from my dad, concerning the details of my graduation from nursing school. I was simultaneously applying mascara in the mirror, prepping for my night out. I escaped without permanent blindness or a flat-out lie. I told him it was some Thursday in May [true]. He seemed to sense that this was not the whole story, so I conceded that I wasn't sure of the times and stuff because the administration at my school is guiltier of procrastination than I am [also a true statement]. This conversation rattled me, so what do I do? Call my straight, platonic man-friend (SPMF). Super healthy!

I laid out the dilemma: I am graduating - a big life event! My father should be present if he so wishes. But, he has no money for transportation or a place to say. I do not have the funds to front him. In addition, there is the distinct possibility that he will have a "bad Parkinsonian day" once he gets here and be unable to attend anyhow. Some days, the meds are not enough; and he experiences "freezing" and anxiety. Some days, it's too much; and he experiences exaggerated or squirming movements called dyskinesia. Also, there's a small part of me that just doesn't want to deal with the drama.

SPMF laughed and said, "well, then. I think you have your answer. I think you just need someone to say, 'you are making the right decision. you are not a bad person for thinking the way you do.' Allow me to be that person... Also, I can't make it tonight. I'm not feeling well. I think I'm just gonna stay in and be sick."

In the midst of my dilemma and his supportiveness, I forgot all about asking him out. (how could I? I even okay'd the move with my Man-conscience!) I wished him well in his recovery and promised to make time to see him soon, when he is well. I made my way to TD Bank to withdraw some cash. Then I visited work to get a good cup of coffee in me before an evening of dancing. I had already flirted with the idea of a nap but lacked the time. Coffee was a must.

Even though I work there, the menu still gives me order anxiety. Plus, it doesn't help that my coworkers are lovable nuts. We distract/tease/insult one another constantly. In my indecision, I failed to notice SPMF enter the line until he poked my shoulder. I... what? I greeted him amiably; we talked a bit in line. I ordered a sadness pastry and a cup of coffee. He bought his typical biker mag and a large tea because he had "this terrible sinus thing." During this time, Man-conscience spotted me from his department and sent me a series of text messages.
"Oh.My.GOD."
"And you come HERE? Awesome."

totally unaware of the fact that Man-conscience was even working, I paid for and received my coffee. I turned eight shades of red, I'm sure. I told the staff I would return for my pastry and power-walked to his department. Moments before I was about to accost him, a customer swept between our locked gaze and asked for assistance. I turned on my heel and fled the department, to the tune of the buzzer going off for my baked good. I returned to line to retrieve it and explain a bit of the situation to Bestie and the other staff on the clock.

"Oh, no. Caitlyn! I thought you two were meeting here and then going together!"
"No, this is me being stood up and then accidentally catching my stander-up in a lie in public!"

I excused myself to go explain to Man-conscience. I thanked everyone and headed to the back of the store. SPMF and Man-conscience were talking! Grumbling to myself, I pretended to be interested in a display table, keeping most of my focus on the back of the store. I grew more and more irritated by the time lapse, but hey. SPMF hadn't visited in months -- of COURSE they had a lot to say to one another. And before I knew it, I was sucked into a vortex of conversation with a very loud coworker. SPMF approached us and squeezed into the conversation with the coworker's totally subtle comment, "You're cute. Who are you?"

Lord, may you strike me down dead. Right here. Please. The coworker was caught in the act of avoiding her allotted department and excused herself. SPMF and I were free to discuss school, graduation, his job, and other stuff we hadn't shared in a while. My coworker escaped the section and sneaked back to our conversation and essentially forced out SPMF out. once he was barely out of earshot, she suggests, "he's cute. Ask him out."
"I did. This is actually me being stood up."

She laughed heartily, taking an uncomfortably long period of time to realize that I was not kidding. She sobered up fast, and said, "Well, geez, Caitlyn. I just don't get it. You're pretty. What's wrong with you?"
"Hah, thanks. If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't have these problems."

I eventually explained my plight to Man-conscience [who provided the comment that would later become the title to this blog entry] and had a fabulous night out of dancing. but for now, I give up.

thought digestion

Before beginning my community rotation down-Cape next week, our clinical group was together one last time to meet at Gosnold - a local organization that treats addiction as a chronic disease, instead of a series of character defects. Gosnold provides a continuum of services, from acute withdrawal care to community outreach programs designed to keep graduates of the detoxification program stay in a remission period, with abstinence as a goal. Today, we got a brief overview of their philosophies and the evidence they use to fuel their practice.

Most notably, our preceptor focused on emergent neurobiology that supports their thesis that addiction is an illness of a chronic sort, characterized by exacerbations and remissions. Addiction is believed to be the cause of a dysfunction of the mesolimbic-dopamine system, or the "pleasure center" of the brain. In times of pleasurable activity, naturally occurring opioids [you may have heard of endorphins or enkaphelins? those] are released, bind to mu receptors in this system, whose cells release dopamine which causes the "feel-good" feeling.

As with most body systems, this is a negative feedback system -- think of this process as a thermostat. You set the suitable threshold, and once the desired temperature has been reached, the system shuts off. But say you've set the thermostat to 68 before leaving for work and the outside temperature reaches 89. The heating system shuts down its production altogether. Say this heat wave continues all week. The heating system lies dormant. This, too, is true of dopamine-producing cells in the brain in the presence of exogenous opioids [mind-altering substances]. The cells are quieted because the threshold of dopamine has been reached, and if the use continues, the system is overridden and becomes dormant.

Dr. Nora Volkow describes the effects of mind-altering substances in the addicted brain. Mind altering substances affect both reward and motivation centers, and cognitive processes. Using overactivates the reward and motivation centers, which hijack the cognitive processing [logic/decision-making/etc.] center. So next time you look at an addict and think, "DEAR LORD, DO YOU NOT REALIZE THAT YOU ARE RUINING YOUR LIFE," remember that perhaps they do not. The need to normalize/supplement their brain chemistry becomes a compulsion impossible to overcome without multiple intervention strategies -- just as the compulsion to, say, wash hands thirty times before eating is impossible to ignore for the obsessive-compulsive without multiple intervention strategies. For more information on her and her peers' work, she writes a fabulous blog for drugabuse.gov.

I must say, the more I learn, the more these findings put my heart at rest. When the news broke that my father was an addict, I was all, "you love cocaine more than you love me and my brothers, so fuck you and your phone calls." But viewing this problem in the framework of a chronic illness, it really takes the pressure off me. Uhm, his brain is hijacked. He wasn't standing in the doorway of our apartment, weighing his options. His compulsion was driving his decision-making. I am not to blame. I am not less than a substance. I am just an innocent bystander that he hurt in the acute phase of his illness.

What I cannot decouple from my mind is addiction and firsts. I am the direct descendent of an addict, which means I have a four-times greater likelihood of developing an addiction of my own than the next guy. But, like... that shit doesn't appeal to me in the slightest. And much like eating snails, I cannot begin to understand why it is appealing to anyone. So, sure, I may possess the phenotype that predisposes me to such things, but if I never take the first step, I never contract the disease. SO WTF!!!!

In the case of my father, I know this is also not mine. This. is. not. mine. The disease, in all likelihood, was given wings long before I was born. And I just so happened to be present for his periods of remission and reactivation of symptoms. It's a damn shame. But you know what? We approached him. We offered him options. We provided support. But he would not accept the help we were willing to give. So if I want to reunite with the man I remember as my father from my childhood, he will have to come to the conclusion that he needs help and wants to change all on his own.

Can I be angry about decisions he made before I existed? Sure. Will my anger accomplish anything? Apparently not. Slowly but surely, I am letting go. I will love him in the best way I know how. And if he ever approaches me for help, I will not refuse -- as long as the interventions are evidence-based. But until such time, THIS. IS. NOT. MINE.

phew, that feels so good to say.

vulnerability is not weakness and other disputed truths.

hi, all. I must apologize for falling off the face of the earth. I grew accustomed to writing about my personal growth (and completely foolish moments) on here, but for the last few weeks, I have been graded on these thoughts and feelings during my mental health rotations. I also just realized I stopped blogging right after I explored my thoughts and feelings on depression. LULZORZ, sorry if I scared the crap out of some of you. I have no suicidal ideations. In fact, I am completing crisis training for the Samaritans Group. Check out their story here.

So here is a quick synopsis of things I have gleaned from my time in mental health, which I will call "Practicing What I Test Well In." [or perhaps, "How Did You Not Know That, Caitlyn? 'Cause It's More Difficult Than It Sounds, Rude."]
-- like the title of this blog posts suggests, vulnerability is not weakness. possessing the courage to reveal yourself to another is a strength that not everyone is capable of displaying, no matter how evolved the individual claims to be. vulnerability and bravery will not always pay in dividends. you may be disappointed, even heartbroken, but this should not be a deterrent.
-- primitive instincts are still very much alive. territoriality scares the shit out of me. I typically need three weeks to feel at ease with a person/place/thing, a luxury not afforded to an ADN student. my unease was always there, I just never had to journal about it and confront it before.
-- fake it till you feel it. the mind is a great and powerful force, capable of hurting and healing itself. I read an article online about the phenomenon in which acting in a certain way causes brain chemistry to adapt to your state of being. for example, the other night, I went in with the mindset that no matter how paralyzed by fear I was, I would force myself to walk in confidence. and you know what? it worked. I didn't stick to the strict script we are taught in lecture. I cursed myself for initiating a handshake, but all the client wanted to know was that I cared about them. and all that self-doubt and worrying and other silliness just didn't matter because all I need is empathy. I don't need a task to hide behind, like I did in Med-Surg. I just need to walk in heart-first, and I'll be fine.

And if I may share another story with you, I'll include no identifying information, just that information which I feel is essential for everyone to realize. A client who could easily say he or she had "The American Dream" in his or her pocket was admitted to the unit. On paper, everything was great: a happy marriage, a high-power position, a beautiful family, home ownership in the suburbs, good friends, etc. And yet, one day, the client booked an appointment with the family primary care physician and expressed feelings of depression. During the conversation, the PCP explained that in order to diagnose the client with depression, the client would have to exhibit at least five signs. The client demonstrated eleven. The client entered a crisis intervention program, and 4/5 of the way through the program, the insurance company pulled the plug on coverage. Finding no closure, the client returned home. About two weeks later, the client was home babysitting while the client's partner was out with friends and kissed the children for "what felt like the last time." When the partner returned home, the client shared these feelings with the partner, who called in backup to ensure the client's safety until a plan could be set in motion.

I feel this story is important for everyone to hear because the client's physician and family modeled excellent strategies to deal with depression. The partner did not take the client's feelings personally; instead, the partner reached out to their shared social support system in time of need and got the client the help the client needed. The physician did not dismiss or overlook the concerns of the client. Some terrifying fraction like one third of all people who attempt and succeed suicide see their primary care physicians within a week of the attempt. The number of individuals grows even larger, to something like three-fourths,who see their primary cares within a month of suicide. Every day, those with burdened hearts cry out for help and go entirely unnoticed. As a future nurse and citizen of humanity, I seek to keep an open mind and open heart to make fewer of those voices slip through our fingers.

AND IF YOU READ NO OTHER PART OF THIS BLOG ENTRY, LET IT BE THIS:

Sometimes, depression isn’t “caused.” It lies. It grows. It destroys. But mostly, depression just is. Outside things, other people, and accolades cannot make you happy. You have to make you happy. And sometimes, your brain chemistry makes it impossible to do so without drug therapy. Hearing this story – I think – made me really understand that mental illness is not a choice. It is not a product of your environment. It is not an unfortunate side effect of your life, decisions, and circumstances. It is a chemical process. Can depression be influenced by these things? Absolutely. But are these factors always a mean to the same end? no.

So walk in love, equipped with this knowledge, as I plan to do. 

and if by some crazy happenstance, dear client, you find my blog, I wish to thank you for the pleasure of getting to know you. I wish to thank you for the positive role modeling of compassion and understanding for others you demonstrated for us. I hope you realize how large an impact you had on me and my classmates. You are a kind, old soul. And again, I thank you.

on being brave

I'll keep this brief.

I must extend my deepest thanks to all of you who read my last post. also, I feel obligated to respond to the most popular response to it: some mention of my bravery. see, perhaps this is indicative of my line of thinking, I do not think of what I did as brave. in fact, I still sometimes look back at those two parts of my life with embarrassment. yea verily, I feel as though my depressive episodes were composed entirely of selfishness.

intellectually, I know this is not true. some days are fantastic, when I wake up invigorated and encouraged. other times, my self-talk pep talk can last as long as thirty minutes, followed by listening to "Push It" on repeat while doing jumping jacks -- in order to synthesize some feel-good hormones. a little mindfulness, a little effort, and I am whole. also, I am aware that I am lucky, very lucky. not everyone can compensate for their brain chemistry imbalances with a change of pace, with positive messaging, with love, with exercise and exercising gratefulness.

and for those individuals, I am going to fight. I am going to serve.

and what do I think is brave?
being honest with oneself and others. loving oneself and others. being your most authentic self. being.
so maybe, just maybe, I'm a little braver for being honest. and again, I thank you for your support and your love. I am better for knowing all of you.

and now, I must go. instead of using one homemade anti-blemish face mask recipe I found online like a normal person, I decided to COMBINE ALL THE RECIPES AND APPLY DIRECTLY TO FACE! so I should go to sleep before I lose my nerve and towel off my concoction. if it's a disaster, I'll post pictures. and if it's a miracle sludge, I'm taking it to the bank.

goodnight, loves. and like I said, many thanks.

it's, like, meta-homework.

mental health lectures always make me squirm a little.

it is said that in the grieving process, the number and nature of past grief experiences, the importance of the lost object or idea, the perceived number and nature of existing relationships, the degree of ambivalence toward the loss, the degree of preparation for the loss, and the age of the lost person all play a role in just how complicated the grieving process may be.

in my case, I had lost two mother figures in six years -- and in so doing, I lost two extended families, lost the father I knew to unsavory habits -- the nature of which I would later find out, gained the thought that I would lose two little brothers in the divorce, transferred schools, moved out of the first home in which we had settled for more than three months since my mother's sudden, premature passing... I felt like the world-rug was being pulled out from underneath me. Complicating matters, my father's second marriage was far from a happy and healthy and safe one. We all hadn't slept for years, and the suspicion was slowly encroaching upon our happiness. So both grief and elation washed over me, accompanied with guilt for feeling elation during a traumatic life-event.

Moving into the new house and hitting a plateau of relative peace for the first time, I finally had time to move from preservation-mode to grief mode. and it hit me in the form of a major depressive episode. it was tenth grade. I missed three months of school, in segments. I experienced what I now understand is somatoform pain, that pain which is real and terrifying to the affected; but baffling to a healthcare provider because there is no clinical reasoning for it. mine manifested itself in my head and neck, so I tried multiple migraine medications. I used the very real pain as an excuse to hide from school and other forms of reality in the darkness of pulled shades for weeks at a time. My parkinsonian father had to drag me out of bed and into doctor's offices. luckily for him, I've never been fat.

finally, my primary care provider suggested that I try taking antidepressants and seek out a therapist to work through my emotional turmoil. I also juggled a few depression medication regimens and talked to two different child psychiatrists. I didn't feel like myself when I took the medication, so I stopped taking them and stopped filling prescriptions. My dad didn't push me. Day by day, I decided that I would not be consumed by my dark cloud any more. And more than any other factor, my unfairly placed hate for my advisor pushed me to complete my coursework on time. I returned to school my junior year, invigorated and encouraged, ready to kill it. And for whatever reason, I was triggered again. after about a week, I retreated to my room, wedged myself between my bookcase and chest of drawers, and cried all afternoon. I did not leave that spot for an entire week.

Exasperated, my dad sought out my aunt for help. I needed a shock to the system. I pleaded not to be sent away -- the stigma of my inability to cope already weighing heavily on my heart. the solution? a return to the tiny school at which I had started my academic career, Cheswick Christian Academy. I sat my four best friends down at dinner after my week-long absence from school and explained my situation as best I could. In the middle of a busy Max and Erma's, we cried and laughed and shared. only half of them even knew what I had been struggling with, and even without my extensive explanation, they supported my decision to transfer schools and promised unconditional long-distance love. I knew then that I had been foolish to think I was alone. sometimes the best family is the family you choose, not the family awarded to you at birth.

At CCA, I felt I could make a relatively fresh start, revealing myself to only a select few. I remained largely misunderstood, but at least I was renewed and forgiven. and the benefit of a new venue was that I could talk about my struggle in the past tense. I used to be this way. I used to think that. it was freeing, but at the same time, I didn't really deal with it in a healthy way. I just pushed it away from who I felt I was in the present -- Caitlyn the Survivor.

I was accepted to Allegheny College with a sizable scholarship and began what proved to be the best and worst year of my life. I experienced another major depressive episode, during which I purposefully sabotaged relationships; so I could remain in my "safe" haven. I kept my friends abreast of the day-to-day triggers, but not about how it was affecting me. I attended only the classes I shared with them and cried every moment they weren't around. I had to be reminded to eat, to leave my bed in the morning.

the dangerous thing about depression is that it's easy to confuse with laziness and self-absorption if you're good at hiding it. the behaviors that perpetuate the problem are insurmountably simpler to carry out than attacking your problem head-on. it's easy to ignore a phone call. it's easy to close the drapes. it's easy to just say nothing about how your heart is breaking. it's easy to lash out at people who care for you to keep from confronting what is really going on. it's easy to assume that other's actions are steeped in contempt for you, when all you can do is imagine how much contempt you have for yourself. it's easy to attribute a headache or neck ache with a problematic pillow. it is not easy to admit to yourself or others that you are experiencing a major depressive episode, and all that which you thought you had overcome has come back to eat you alive.

it took another large shock to my pattern and lots of lying on the floor, crying, but I eventually was able to work through pieces of my grief with my aunt's help. I have made some great friends up here. I have begun on a path that will facilitate my transition to functional adult life. but I never forget who I was. and sometimes, I hurt people unintentionally because I am afraid of who that person is and her potential return. and sometimes, I throw myself into projects or relationships that cannot fulfill me because I have a need to make up for "lost time." and then I quit them because it would be easier than hurting others with my darker self.

I like to think that as I age with grace, my shame slowly dissipates, and my self-worth returns. I know what I want. I know what I need. I know who I can trust with these concerns. and sure, maybe I don't have everything I ever wanted at my age, but shit. who does?

I have my health. I have a family, both adopted and hereditary, whom I love dearly. I have a career path. I have a bright future. I have self-capabilities the likes of which astonish me. I have a very forgiving metabolism. I have lovely teeth -- and a reason or seven to smile. I have seen the monster in the shadow and shined a light in its face. But I do not forget.

HOW DID I FORGET NO-PANTS LANCE?

Thursday was an odd day, to be sure. But I forgot the most glaring example of how bizarre it was. Ambition is a lovely thing in nursing school. I firmly believe that you get every bit out of it as you put in, and if you ask, you shall receive. However, ambition isn't always practical with us newbs. Newbs are slow; newbs are crazy thorough. Newbs are a bag of nerves. And this particular newb is way smarter after ten am.

Ambition is pushing eight o'clock meds with three different newbs. I admire my professor for her patience and steadfastness. I, however, don't always exude the same qualities. whilst waiting on another classmate's more extensive med list, the third woman and I chatted in the hallway. But again, it was before ten am, so my creativity came to a standstill. so we just kept silent company while we waited. My eyes began to glaze over when a white blur passed through my field of vision.

I snapped out of my partially conscious state. A man in a white lab coat and bare legs turned the corner and out of sight. I consulted my classmate's eyes for confirmation that I did indeed just see what I thought I saw. Our eyes met, and the giggles began. Like the professionals we are, we ducked into the resource room to dull the sound of laughter. Another classmate was using the resource room for its expressed purpose, researching a client's condition, so we shared with her why we were laughing.

The classmate laughed and told us it must be the same man who arrived in man-leggings. He must have ditched them sometime between the then and now. He walked past the resource room just when we had gotten ourselves together. On further inspection, he was wearing an ID signifying that he is an MD... and it appeared as though he was wearing no shorts or undergarments, as white cotton is hardly a forgiving or opaque fabric choice. That was the final straw! He was a doctor!

Imagine yourself in the hospital, desperately ill, when a man wearing no pants waltzes into your room to evaluate you! I would question my sanity. I would wonder what medication was causing me to experience psychotropic side effects.

P.S. Rudy told me today that I look like one of the residents, a man-resident. why? because we're both slender redheads. I'm telling you, I will be on the lookout for this guy. If he doesn't have blue and golden brown eyes, crazy long eyelashes, a straight nose, a girly waist, and shoulder-length hair, Rudy will be on the receiving end of a vicious punch to the arm. I guarantee it.

life's been weird so far.

if your uncorrected eyesight is 20/20 or you opt for only one type of corrective lenses, I pity you. you have never experienced the joys of your depth perception compensating for the distance change between the lens and your eye. has that stair always been two inches higher/lower? no, it hasn't. and no, you're not currently riding a true-to-life carousel.

add to this feeling, one driver's side door frozen open. I don't always hit every green light between Marstons Mills and Cape Cod Hospital, but when I do, I have to summon every ounce of strength in my left arm to keep my car door closed. no respite for the nursing student actively avoiding exercise, I suppose. I parked, threw my body weight into the door, and simultaneously locked the door. I was too nervous to check whether or not the lock-to-close approach worked, so I prayerfully walked away. Though to be honest, since the only time the serpentine belt seems to shut its damn mouth is at the Ford dealership and the car door had been frozen open, I joked that the only thing I'd miss about the car was the Twizzlers.

and I hate Twizzlers.

Each time I visited one patient, he would interrupt whatever I did/said/thought with the question, "Are you married? I don't see a ring on your finger." Cool, I was asking about your bowel movements; but no, friend, I am not married. After I was asked three more times if I was married yet, I replied, "yeah. we found a justice of the peace in the cafeteria. I'm really happy." he caught onto my joke immediately. he wagged his finger and told me that a sense of humor was just another perk of marrying me. Just then, a fabulous aide on the floor walked in to take his noon vitals. She was offered the same question I'd endured all morning. no, she is not married, either.

He was flabbergasted. He asked us why not? (as if the answer to that question could be easily answered before I was to evacuate the floor -- in negative five minutes.) She cleverly answered, "You should ask my ex-boyfriend." The patient laughed and tried to apply the same excuse to me. I laughed and said, "no, you really shouldn't ask him that. I would be afraid to hear the theories."

Later, I joined Maura for dinner. We decided while the food was cookin' that we needed a vegetable peeler... and later, dessert. We ambled around Ocean State Job Lot, for our respective second times. We tiptoed around the place in partial awe, partial fear until we found what we were looking for: vegetable peeler, Dr. Oetker brownie mix, and a pan -- just in case. Mid-Victoria's Secret mishap story, Maura quit speaking in line. She stared dead ahead. It finally occurred to me to follow her gaze. The man in front of us in line was our favorite Sam Diego's waiter: the amicable, irrepressible CJ who puts up with our constant stream of nonsense and gives it right back.

He judged our purchase combination and asked us aloud, "Are you guys making marijuana brownies?"
Instead of retorting with a judgment of my own, I answered, "nope. sweet potato fries." NOT "peanut butter and bubble wrap, CJ -- you's a FREAK!" oh, well. missed opportunities.
"Sweet potato fries for after your marijuana brownies?"
"Have you met me once? no. I don't do that." He laughed, paid his debts, and left the building. The poor cashier made no eye contact and minimal verbal contact -- if any. her expression read that our silliness is above her paygrade. And then he almost ran me over with his car. I rescind my hug.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And here are some quotes that are better left unexplained.

"Hear that? You have really nice veins for a ginger."
PRO TIP: DO NOT CONSULT GOOGLE FOR WHY REDHEADS ARE MORE DIFFICULT TO START IV'S ON. results are NSFW.

"Things cost money. Yay, capitalism."

"I'm excited enough for the both of us."
"You're not invited."

sleep-talking, Moses, and the contagious case of the cold medicine dumbs.

WHAT IS REAL AND WHAT ISN'T?

In my cold medicine induced fog, I blathered on to my long-suffering little brother about what I thought was a recent development, my sleep-talking habit, among other things that he found hard to follow. But this is where he stopped me to point out that he had mentioned this phenomenon to me on multiple occasions. I asked him how I reacted. He shrugged and said, "I don't think you really believed me because you didn't react much."

So, like the level-headed adult that I am, I shrieked, "OH MY GOD, WAS I EVEN AWAKE? WHAT IS REALITY?"

I remember from the dream which Aunt Mary Kay answered in the physical realm that I was talking to her in the dream. We were sitting at a candle-lit dinner because the power was still out, having a typical conversation. She asked if I had seen Way while I was in Hyannis. Earlier in the day, I borrowed Joelle and Maura and Kyle's warm shower and booked it over to Barnes and Noble for a quick shift. It all lined up as reality. I recall having the hardest time forming the first word of my answer: nnnn-nnnnnnn-nnnno. It took me three tries to say no, but once I formed the first word, it was natural as any other speech I use: "No, why do you ask?"
"Ask what?"
"If I had seen Way today. I can call him if it's important."
"Caitlyn, what are you talking about?"
"What? you just--"
"Caitlyn, wake up. You're talking in your sleep."
"Aunt Mary Kay, you can't be serious."
"CAITLYN, WAKE UP."

And with that conversation, I found out that I talk in my sleep. I relayed this information to Joshua, focusing on the difficulty I had with forming the first word. I continued to wildly hypothesize, "IS ANYTHING I REMEMBER REAL? WHAT IF EVERY TIME I STUMBLE OVER A WORD, IT'S A DREAM?"

Joshua laughed and said, "That cannot possibly be true. Nothing would ever be real."

Har-har, Joshua. How's this for real? On Saturday, in the thick of my illness, I was feeling dizzy and gross. Don't you worry, I performed excellent hand hygiene and infection control techniques, washing my hands frequently and wiping down the keyboard with alcohol swabs and wearing gloves while making lattes. But even still, I put approximately zero effort into my looks before, during, or after my eight and a half hour shift. Toward the end, the line finally slowed enough to breathe and have conversations with customers -- finally! It makes the day fly by, but if I can't have a good mini-convo with customers, it makes for a sad day and poor story fodder.

One such customer approached me while I was steaming milk for another's drink. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, sporting a red and black Harley Davidson leather jacket and matching headgear that resembled a surgeon's cap. He wore tinted glasses indoors but did not appear unfriendly. He prefaced the conversation with a disclaimer that he had children older than me, and he definitely was not hitting on me. I laughed politely; what else is there to do? He told me that he is a photographer by trade and noticed that I have a "unique beauty about" me and while "all-American looking," I also possess a look he has never seen before. He encouraged me that if I had never considered modeling, I should pursue that venture. And if not, just know that I am a beautiful girl. His wife shook her head and exclaimed, "Moses! Enough!"

He laughed and said, "What? I believe in compliments. I believe in love." He pulled her close to himself, kissed her forehead, and continued, "That's how we've lasted so long, right? We need to give a little love." They bid me adieu, both wishing me luck in whatever I chose to do and left. It was the kindest sentiment I have probably ever heard from a total stranger. Gail tapped my shoulder, snapping me back to reality with the comment, "Did he ask to photograph you?"
"Thanks for wording that in the creepiest way possible, GAIL."

At this point in the story, Joshua interrupted with, "well, WHAT? You could be his muse, his burning bush, if you will. You know, if you actually experienced that and didn't dream it."
 "Joshua, I'm afraid you've succumbed to my contagious case of the cold medicine dumbs. Don't worry. Keith got it, too."

... so moral of the story is, uhm. Spread a little love today?
yeah. do it.

Nemo, the ABSOLUTE WORST.

Thirteen inches of snowfall and three electricity-free days later, I am embarrassed to say that I had a bit of a mental meltdown. The first night of no power, Friday, the novelty and romance of reading by candlelight in New England were not yet lost on me. Granted, the ambient heat hadn't left yet.

Cut to Sunday night, forty degrees inside the house. When exhalations are visible indoors, Caitlyn loses her freakin mind. Aunt Mary Kay and I tried to figure out which room was relatively warmer, the kitchen or the living room. I was assigned kitchen detail, and even with the gas stoves a-blazin', the chill of the stone floors was enough to break my spirit entirely. I dragged the chaise that doubled as my bed for the entirety of the power outage across the kitchen and into the living room. Before I succeeded, I stubbed my toe so hard, I dropped the chaise down the single stair separating the two rooms -- effectively scaring the sleep out of every other living being in the house.

That was it. I lost it. I started sobbing and shouting about the death of half the Pilgrims during their first New England winter, quite unprovoked. "FLU, WHAT IS THAT AN ACRONYM FOR? They were all cooped up in a sub-zero cabin for the whole winter and killed EVERYONE IN SIGHT." I sincerely wish those two sentences made up the entirety of my rant about the Pilgrims, but that would be a falsehood.

My genius friend, Maura, solved the acronym mystery. Fuckin' Lives Up = flu. mhmm, wouldn't bode well for our Puritan ancestors and their messaging if everyone knew they slaughtered one another in the cold, now would it?

Last night, I finally slept in a heated home. Woke up, feeling fab. And since I get one cold a year, this one seems to be determined to make it count because it came roaring back as my day progressed. I liberated a box of sandpap-- I mean, tissues, from the hospital. The box has been vanquished. I took an absurdly long nap. I have had my eternal fill of herbal tea with honey and lemon. Time for Nyquil and a good night's sleep.

P.S. Guess what? I talk in my sleep. every day. why has no one told me this before? >.> was that part of my chill-psychosis, too?

Nemo, a lifesaver.

I woke up sick this morning. There are only so many mornings of being coughed and sneezed upon before my immune system throws up its hands and allows the organisms responsible for the common cold to take hold. Thankfully, my school closed its doors in anticipation of Blizzard 2013, the terrifying Nemo.

AMK is in a similar health-boat, suffering from a smattering of common cold symptoms. So before she came home from work, she asked if I wanted to order pizza for dinner so our sick selves didn't have to deal with preparing it. uh, hells yeah, I do. I'll stick to preparing more herbal tea and snuggling under a blanket, thanks. I ordered a pizza from Domino's online because my voice is failing me frequently today.

AMK goes to pick up the pizza, without explicit knowledge of what I ordered. The woman behind the desk only saw one takeout order and rung her up for said purchase. "$27.88, please."

Aunt Mary Kay thought, Caitlyn must have ordered chicken or dessert or something. She pays the woman for the order, and she was handed three large pizzas - a red flag. AMK asked to see the name on the order, Susan something. Suspicion confirmed! Caitlyn isn't sick enough to order $30 worth of Domino's pizza.

and let's hope it stays that way.

blushing and other ways to destroy your flat-affect cred:

This semester's lessons thus far have focused on mental health and illness and a holistic look at a person in their 'natural' habitat and the nurse's role in his or her lives. When I do get to see or call my friends and someone inevitably asks, "hah's school?" [because in my head, everyone has a wicked yinzer accent] I have to explain that such things are nearly impossible to learn from a book. One must experience these things in order to truly learn them.

At the suggestion of my first clinical instructor, I have been practicing small mindfulness chunks -- an active process involving awareness of what is happening in the present moment and observing the world without judgment. She acknowledged my almost pathological need to view life through a funny and cynical and judgmental lens and encouraged me to suspend these thoughts every so often. At first, I met it with resistance. I take great pride in my sense of humor, dark and biting though it may sometimes be. But I fake-promised my boss that I would give psych nursing a fighting chance, so I may take care of him down the road. And practiced it, I have.

Ironically, the more aware I am of the present, the more I realize I judge and feel I must judge. Judging my own actions can be helpful to a point. The key is learning when to stop -- too much and I halt my progress. today, man, I realized that I have a lot of work to do.

I had my first real experience with a psych patient today. The client's attention to detail was unflattering at best. A clean-catch urine sample was required of this client. Even before I finished the sentence, the client dashed across the room, grabbed the supplies from my hand, and slammed the bathroom door in my face. Not a moment later, the door opened again, and the client handed me the specimen container. Let's just say aim is not a strong suit in this one, and I hadn't had time to acquire gloves. I accepted it with my best emotionless expression and said, "I thank you for your prompt action. I'll go fill out the lab paperwork now."

The client glared at me and replied, "You're practically red. You can wash your hands, you know." Curse my pale skin and red ears, ruining my hard-earned poker face!!! GARRRRR. But possibly unsterile urine is dribbling down my arm. How does one suppress the dubious effects of the SNS in such times? Better consult my clinical instructor once more... or get a tan. whichever is more painless.

Later, the client asked me what was in the cup of medications administered earlier in the morning. Truth be told, I was not in the med room for the entire process, so all I saw was the nurse pulling an anti-anxiety med and an NSAID to use in conjunction with a stronger opioid to attack pain originating in the bone. Apparently, these were the worst possible answers, each drug prompting a different fixation. First, I had to address the over-the-counter drug that was proven ineffective in past experimentation. In the client's words, "I was eatin' 'em like candy and nothin' happened." I, thankfully, have no concept of what bone pain feels like, but I also imagine that since that one time I had eight teeth removed resulted in opioid 'scipts, over-the-counter meds won't cut through pain like that alone.

I explained the delicate process of finding an acceptable balance of medication, in order to be the most effective in terms of comfort and minimizing side effects of the heavy-duty drugs. The client seemed to digest this information, dismiss it, and ask me about the anti-anxiety coverage -- and another fixation began. How long does it take to kick in? What does it do to my brain? My body? What else can I take if it doesn't work the way I need it to? How can I know it's working?

Living with anxiety must be an exhausting enterprise -- and a cycle not easily broken. Anxiety over the actions of anxiety medication, anxiety concerning how long it will be until relief is found, anxiety just in case the prescribed medication isn't enough to control the anxiety already brewing... just thinking about it makes me want to take a nap. I empathized with the client as best I could and talked the client down to a place where the feelings were identifiable and then the phone rang.

I ran off to find my nurse and explain to her in no uncertain terms what I had accidentally done when I thought I would be helpful by answering a call light, which up until that point had consisted of questions like, HEY, WHAT'S FOR LUNCH? DO YOU DRIVE A TRUCK? The nurse explained to the nurse practitioner [in the kindest way I've ever been called a tactless little shit] that the client may have found out in less than ideal terms that an NSAID had been added to the pain management regimen and that a conversation should be initiated to address the other measures used in conjunction with the offending medication to get the pain under control.

I apologized in every language I knew how, and the nurse replied, "Hey, HEY. Mistakes are how we learn. Keep this."

mmmmmmmmmmmm.

let's just say I did that on purpose.

... so if this whole nursing thing doesn't work out, I have a fine career of stand up comedy to fall back on. I told two jokes that made a room full of hospice personnel snort with laughter. The morning began with a bang -- not a fall, though. thank goodness! a client tore out an IV and made for the exit. And the demand never let up. each Tuesday morning, the hospice team gathers in the staff room for a powwow called "Team Meeting." Healthcare personnel are generally conservative folk. My nurse and I had performed targeted assessments on four clients, acclimated a new client to the environment, dispensed medication, and intervened in two near-disasters in the first hour alone.

Team meeting time began with a time for remembrance, the chaplain read a poem written by St. Francis and said a few kind words of each soul lost in the last week. After acknowledging each life, a single seashell was dropped into a tall vase sitting in the middle of the table and a moment of silence observed. The ceremony left me with goosebumps. Next, each case was discussed in terms of each facet of life each member of the team addressed: spiritual needs, psychosocial needs, physical needs, pain management needs, etc. The holistic look at each client was inspiring. The sort of care provided in this facility is that which you strive to accomplish in any setting. See the whole person as they are -- suspending judgment -- and attack the problems, as a team and in conjunction with the client.

But as often as "continuity of care" is drilled into our heads, it is easy as a nursing student to roll your eyes. I mean, two major nursing roles are communicator and teacher to our peers and to our patients. Why wouldn't we talk to each other? derr. But it inexplicably doesn't happen... ALL THE TIME. [insert signature Maura WHAT here] alright, prof, I will listen to common sense lectures with less cynicism. you were right. I was wrong. don't get used to it. it doesn't happen often.

My head was filled with end-of-life concepts I never before experienced. When my grandmother passed, I was too young to understand what was going on and was often shielded from her suffering. My mother died so quickly, I didn't have the chance to visit her post-op. palliative sedation? mottling? terminal agitation? shwat?

I read many a pamphlet on these topics and more, preparing for a more informed team meeting to discuss an incoming client. Before it began, my stomach rumbled audibly. Everyone turned around to stare at me. Breakfast had been nothing but a cup of coffee. ha-ha, that awkward moment when you've consumed more milligrams of caffeine in a day than you have calories. My colleagues urged me that if I think I should eat, I should eat. I asked if anyone had a nut allergy. The ladies looked at me quizzically. "Well, better to check beforehand and look like a doofus than send someone into anaphylactic shock. Yeah, that Caitlyn girl? She should never come back!" The room erupted with laughter, taking me completely aback. It was nice to hear a little laughter. It was nicer to know I elicited it.

Running, running, running -- documentation? not yet! My long-suffering nurse apologized to me for the hectic nature of the day, as if it was a bad thing and presented me with the option of staying or going at one o'clock. I said that I would love to stay, but I have an ultrasound scheduled at 1:30 in Hyannis. [if you're a little lost, take a look here] My nurse squeezed my forearm, a goofy smile spread across her face. "GOOD ULTRASOUND!?" I looked her in the eye and said, "Given my relationship status, there is no such thing." killed it!

I thanked everyone and dashed over to Hyannis for my ultrasound. I was greeted with, "Oh, good. You're wearing a perfectly low cut shirt." That's a weird way to greet someone, but yes, I dressed appropriately. I was ushered into a room not unlike a massage parlor and laid down on the examination table. I cursed myself for wearing my glasses to clinical because I couldn't directly visualize the screen. Yeah, I planned this. Therefore, I cannot see the screen and freak out about shit I don't understand. The report should be in by the end of the week from a radiologist in Boston. we shall see. we shall see.

until such time, I'm hittin' the salad -- hard.

all about the morbidity, baby.

I cannot recall if I ever told y'all about my discussion with the otolaryngologist -- the head and neck dude, for you layfolks. He performed a total head and neck assessment (because what else am I paying him a copay for?). Did I mention that he is a certified plastic surgeon? Foreshadowing alert.

Yeah, so he talks to me for a solid ten, fifteen minutes about the condition of my face. Conversation exaggerated for lack of documentation of exact wording, bear in mind.

Oh, you have breakouts. you should definitely see a dermatologist, or mayhaps our medical aesthetist. your face! your face! you're gonna come to me thirty years from now, looking to undo this damage, and I won't be able to do anything about it. [like his prehistoric ass would still be practicing medicine thirty years from now] Did you recently get engaged? Because some girls just kinda give up on their appearances once that happens...

blah blah blah.

so finally, I said, "I have approximately zero interest in systemic antibiotics for a vain issue. I have even less interest in the risk of developing C. diff as a result of vanity. I resent the fact that you even asked if I gave up on my appearance because I met a man. Not only is this sexist but absurd, and I think you owe me an apology."

He back-pedals, saying, "No, no. Don't think of this as a vanity issue. It's like brushing your teeth, washing your hair. These aren't vain measures. These are basic hygiene measures. Think of it this way, and maybe you'll change your mind about a dermatologist. And I don't think antibiotics are for you. In the meantime, I'm sorry. I should not have assumed that you need a man to make you happy or comfortable. maybe you're gay."

... yes. maybe.

so then, he is dictating to his recorder about my assessment. I corrected him when he said my birth year was '87. He glared at me, rewound the recorder a moment, and said my birth year. "Sorry for being born in 1989," I grumbled.

Then he dictates, "Nodule found on the right thyroid, upload prescription for ultrasound, and schedule follow up appointment."

I... what?! Thyroid nodule? When were you going to tell me about that, BRO? He stops the recorder, again annoyed, and says, "It's probably nothing. Probably as clinically significant as that growth you had me remove. But it's still worth watching. May I?"

Oh, yeah. treat me like I'm the a-hole here. so I called the number provided to set up an ultrasound for this Tuesday afternoon after clinical. UHM. I kinda forgot about it for a while. but now that the day approaches, I'm a little nervous. Not like, actively so, but when I think about it, I'm all like, I KNEW IT. see: I dream of thyroid issues. It's a little disjointed. But enjoyable. Promise.

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Now for a little levity. Here is the best thing I have ever heard to describe Taylor Swift fandom.

At breakfast this morning, there were three girls sitting on a bench to my right, talking about [what else] boys. One of them complained of a boy who went with her to a Taylor Swift concert when she was "in the seventh grade." since that time, he has given her numerous gifts referring to this time together. "Sure, it's super sweet. But, like, I'm sixteen years old. I don't listen to that shit any more."

aaaaaand good night. (:

in defense of the Corporation~

I spotted Petore and Karenina today in the cafe, whilst trying to isolate myself for studying in a place that does not smell vaguely of feet. -coughlibrarycough-

They live but allude to "the accident." Stay tuned to see what this mysterious accident is... and if they will order a scone! wound healing requires higher caloric intake, after all.

I am off to go take advantage of the sunshine and go for a proper run. Gotta look good for my lady-date tonight.

a small case of the sads.

It didn't occur to me until about two in the afternoon that our "favorite" morning personalities had not been present yesterday. Both Petore and Karenina had missed their daily word vomit sessions with the cafe staff. Which made Scar's words seem all the more foreboding: "Our club is losing its members one by one!" At the time, I dismissed it as one of those weird non sequiturs he employs as what he thinks are brilliant conversation starters with me and replied with a half-hearted, "yeah."

BUT HE WAS RIGHT. Even the guy who comes in and asks if we have any coffee left as early as three minutes after opening our gates did not show his face yesterday.

Have Karenina and Petore expired? Is the Corporation behind this? they have been adamant about increasing the average dollar amount of each transaction... how far have they gone to meet this end?!

dun dun duuuuuuhn!

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Just kidding. Now to real news. Today, I turned in my Intent To Graduate Form. In order for the Registration Office to accept it, I needed my advisor's signature. I love her to death, but she is a tough woman to reach. So I staked out her office and slunk through a sea of first years to get her signature while the line of people waiting to see her snaked around the corner and down the hall.

as they say, NEENER NEENER NEENER.

as we typically do, we began to talk about futures. she knows an associate degree is not my end goal, by any means, and is dedicated to helping me find an appropriate challenge. as such, she often throws out ideas that are totally absurd. last time, it was all, move to the South. The fat Republicans need you! today it was, if you want a job in acute care, move to Hartford, Connecticut -- like, yesterday. actually, regardless of what you want to do, GOOOO THEREEEEE.

an oddly specific prodding, to be sure. in fairness, three of our school's graduates landed a job in acute care in hospitals in Connecticut last year within a month of passing NCLEX. and it is one of those states where Massachusetts licensure is valid and welcome without months of additional testing. and allegedly, the training programs and internship learning are phenomenal there. I laughed along and said, "well, sure, but then I'd have to live there. and worse, drive there." But nooo, this wasn't a good enough answer. She says with the money I'd make and the cost of living savings, I could pay someone to drive for me. yeah, not happening.

ha - ha.

still, she insists that this is the place for me, what with a UConn satellite school in the city and so close to what I identify as home...

Iamnottellingyouwhatisreallythemattersoletitgo,woman!

thankfully, another faculty member came to my rescue with her urgent need to talk to my advisor about a meeting with a neurological oncologist. saved by the neurological oncologist. say that five times fast.

welp, as the great and philosophical Thomas said to me rather recently, "Keep your chin up. Don't settle. Good things come to those of us that have to wait."

mmmmmmmmmmm. there's a story there, too. another time, perhaps.

intent to graduate strut causes collision and other Caitlyn Problyms.

For three days, I have had adequate amounts of uninterrupted sleep and woke up far from refreshed. Instead of reaching a reasonable conclusion of any kind, I began to suspect that I was harboring a Tyra Durden of sorts. GET IT? 'cause I'm a girl. and also, I have nice arms. Then last night, I began a new uterine cycle.

of course!

my fuse was short and my attention span, shorter. but let me tell you, I felt like the air was made of syrup I was moving so slowly. that is, until I signed up for my final three lab slots and picked up my "Intent to Graduate" form. with these [minor] accomplishments complete, I had a certain runway element to my walk. and instead of looking at the hall unfolding in front of me, I was reading the verbiage over and over.

and blop! I straight up collided with someone in the hallway -- which, in retrospect, was damn near abandoned. I look up and meet eyes with Valet Man Man Man Man Man. His eyebrows furrowed, and he wordlessly pointed to his head in what must have been a reference to the rather drastic haircut I got since last I saw him. I, however, did not stick around to find out. I may or may not have actually verbalized my apology before breaking into a run and booking it out of there. nooooo thaaaanks.

this encounter comes on the heels of my last date disaster, masterfully summed up by the beautiful Norma, "CAITLYN, you could be chopped up into little pieces, sitting in a freezer right now. Have you tried Match?"

begin scene the night before, at which point boy asks girl to go ice skating in Plymouth. girl, knowing nothing about Plymouth but where to find the plantation and the Mayflower, agrees on the condition that boy directs her. boy replies with an address.

girl wakes up late, googlemap's said address, and runs out the door. girl arrives, not at an ice skating rink, but at a residence five minutes before agreed upon rendezvous time. instead of turning around, like her stomach intimated to her that she should do, girl rings doorbell. boy answers door in pajamas. at noon. boy invites girl inside, and instead of leaving LIKE A REASONABLE GIRL, girl follows boy inside. boy blames girl for his lack of preparedness and sets up Netflix for girl while boy showers and blows his hair dry.

boy was an excellent skater. girl was not. girl had absolutely no patience for the purposefully disjointed conversation, composed mainly of mammal excrement. girl pushed up the meeting time for a wake two hours in order to make a speedy escape. boy asked girl when the two would see each other again. girl, despite having a terrible aversion to disappointing others on purpose, was able to say never.

so in essence, I am going directly to hell. I am not passing go. I am not collecting two hundred dollars. but I am not chopped up in little pieces in a freezer somewhere. so there's that.

Life

Is weird and beautiful and tragic and hysterical and way too short.
Tell someone you love them today.
Better yet, show them.

lest we forget... and how I wish we could.

[names have been changed... and not in a particularly original or identity-protecting manner, but they're changed, so shhh]

Waiting at the mall-bookstore threshold each morn stand a sorry band of elderly misfits, all of whom congregate in the far corners of café and cause mischief of all sorts for hours, despite making purchases the sum of which often don't break the ten dollar mark.

Let's call the lead-miscreant Karenina. She remembers details like the exact date the bookstore moved from a strip mall across the street to its current location but forgets little things like wearing undergarments and what day it is. She has been a faithful pain in the rear end for seventeen years and tells anyone who will listen this news each day. She orders the same thing every day, and gods save your soul if you don't know what it is: a small coffee. TOTES ORIGINAL, MAN.

A newb who either honestly has no idea what Karenina's "usual" is or is under the mistaken impression that acting like she doesn't will result in less conversation, asked Karenina the other day what she would like. Karenina scoffed at the newb's lack of knowledge and implored the person behind her in line to join her in taunting the newb. Like a pro, the newb said, "well,  if you don't quit making fun of me, I can't get you what you want."

Karenina cautiously answered, "small coffee, room for milk."

"house or dark roast?" Karenina blanked. All color left her face. She turned to me, eyes aglaze, and asked, "Caitlyn, what do I get?" After I recovered from the shock of Karenina calling me by my actual name, I could not help but reply, "YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR ORDER? KARENINA!" and descend into a fit of giggles.
I caught my breath and informed the newb that she likes light roast and a side of ice.

The next day was my fourth of five consecutive cafe opening shifts, each more bizarre and less busy than the last. Karenina arrived a few minutes late and avoided eye contact with me. oh, no. I couldn't let it go. The usual was waiting for her, but I shared with my coworker that yesterday, "this one forgot her own usual! always givin us guff for not knowing the order when someone's a little rusty herself, hmm?"

"You know what ladieth? When you get to be my age, you forget stuff." a trim woman wearing workout clothes walked up to the counter and unsuspectedly into Karenina's argument. "Ithn't that right, mith? [nudges her for emotional support against the whippersnappers] I turn seventy in three months. I feel every minute of it. Thankth." She lifted the cup in the air in thanks and retreated to the milk bar. The next woman in line's eyes were opened to an alarming width.

"You and your eyeballs have no idea."
"No, you don't get it... I just turned seventy a few weeks ago." My associate and I eyeballed this woman in a skeptical manner. She was in possession of all of her teeth, mental faculties, and publicly appropriate undergarments. Not only that, but she was fit. And her hair was stylish. I didn't buy it. My face betrayed my thoughts. "Thank you, but I'm serious. I'm seventy. And I would love a double tall nonfat cappuccino."
"As you wish!" -- the woman later revealed that she was "off to do a little exercise" by walking the mall, which made her claim slightly more believable than before. The shock and awe, friends. shock and awe.

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And who could forget the time Karenina and the crew were late to the gate? A skinny twenty-something who works at Forever 21 ordered himself a quad venti iced caramel macchiato and set up shop with a text book, notebook, and laptop over at The No-Breakfast Club's typical table. Karenina was the first to arrive but not the first to order coffee. Karenina's even less bright compatriot of the same name, Kerynina, bumbled through her tall decaf order and lost her daily battle of wits with the credit card machine. Kerynina could not fathom what had taken Karenina so long to hop in line for hers, so she joined Karenina in gawping at the oblivious boy with earbuds in, typing furiously.
A full five minutes elapsed before the boy finally acknowledged the women's presence and asked if he could help them. Karenina bleated, "WE SIT THERE."
"... I... okay? well, I need the space for homework." He reinserted the earbuds and immersed himself in whatever he was doing. The Kareninas stood, defeated, mouths agape for several more minutes until their "knight in stretchy waistband jeans hiked up far too high" proclaimed that they shall sit at the other large table until the offending individual left. Probably before he swiped a macaroon or seven. The other members of the No-Breakfast Club followed suit and positioned their chairs in such a way that all of them could touch the table if necessary but still shoot eye-daggers at the boy, who I still wonder to this day if he had any idea of just how much mind-hate was slung his way.

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The youngest and newest inductee into the No-Breakfast Club, Scar, may also be the scummiest. He charms his way into free coffees almost every morning, all the while looking like the human impersonation of Pig Pen all grown up. His boots leave dust on the floor behind him every day, and I swear I can see an aura of brown surrounding him when he sits. Worst of all, he goads the Kareninas into having hugely inappropriate conversations, resulting in mental pictures that make me want to gouge out my mind's eye and quotes to make even the steeliest resolve crumble and cringe.

The best occasion on record [for which, I was apparently present but somehow missed] was the day Karenina and Scar engage in their weird flirtation in line, so Karenina entirely forgot her cream. Karenina returned to the milk bar just in time to intercept Gandalf, slimy lord of the mall realms -- a most deserving victim to what was to come. Karenina elbowed him playfully and said, "Arrest me. I'm a naughty, naughty girl." Gandalf power-walked out of café, leaving his beverage behind.
Scar laughed uproariously AND SWIPED HIS TEA. dark days, dark days.

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A casual No-Breakfast Club member [so casual I do not know her name] ordered a mundane prepared beverage, probably a caramel macchiato. probably skinny.
She sat with the the other members for a while before they trickled out. Only after everyone else left did she realize that she had dribbled coffee all down the front of her. She sat bewildered and alone, so she switched tables. Right, because it's all the gravitational pull of that table's fault. Finally, she returns to the pick up counter and asks for a new lid because, quote, "I can't be that bad with my mouth, can I?"

you chose the worst possible audience for that question, love.

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Boston Clam Chowder and the Masked Man~

Not four days ago, a painfully slow morning yielded odd customers, as they often do. But no one could have anticipated the weirdness of the Masked Man. maybe. I'm not gonna be judgy. Maybe it was an unfortunately shaped/voiced Masked Woman. This individual was covered from face to toe: Timberlands, light wash jeans, red plaid jacket, black pleather gloves, black ski mask, sunglasses right out of the Matrix, and a skully cap. In what can only be described as skulking, The Masked (Wo?)Man weaved his way through magazines, pausing to snap a picture of the occasional magazine. At first, my associate and I gave the customer the benefit of the doubt -- it was a chilly-ass day. Maybe he didn't want nose frostbite. But as time went on and his face remained obscured and the skulking continued, it became less and less acceptable.

My associate said, "I am gonna be SO mad if he shoots up the place when this wasn't even my shift." The words lingered with both of us. We held hands and began to plan our best route of escape. Still holding hands, we tiptoed to the phone to call the manager on duty. The line was otherwise engaged, so I hung up and called back till I got visual confirmation of her presence. She made a bee-line for the cash wrap line at which he had stationed himself and accosted him. We were too far away to hear the exchange, but it ended with the Masked Man storming off toward the escalators.

The MOD made her way over to the café, FINALLY. My associate and I grilled her for details. "Well, I told him that he needed to lose the mask because he was making my staff and my customer base very uncomfortable. Not to mention the insensitivity of coming in here dressed like that, given what has been going on malls in this country lately. So I told him he had the choice of complying with my wishes or leaving the store. He walked away, doing neither, so I called the police. I don't know where I found the strength to say all that. I think I was enraged over the Boston Clam Chowder, so I channeled that energy into protecting my staff. Okay, bye."

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Otherwise homeless quotes:

"and when he says Mocha Almond syrup tastes like burned nuts, I think human balls cooked for too long. seriously, it's gross. Mocha and hazelnut here is way better."
"So they found a used condom on the benches in the kids' section this morning." "How does such a thing go unnoticed?" "Mmmm, probably the same way we missed someone defecating in front of the beverage case." "wasn't us. doesn't count."

it's that feeling...

you get when something mortifying happens that lingers with JUST you for days, but to the outside world is nearly immediately irrelevant.

the other day at work was exceptionally busy, followed by an hour and a half of shoveling a thin sheet of ice topped with powdery snow -- at the end of which time, my tailbone ate cement. the next day reached nearly sixty degrees for the high temperature, taking all of the offending snow and ice with it... and with those, my excuses for not running, excepting, of course, my bruised tailbone/ego.

but I did, however, play Just Dance 2, so yay! cardio?

and uh, go 49ers?
ughh, Superbowl XLVII, Hissy Fit v Temper Tantrum.
no amount of buffalo chicken dip can make such a thing not-insufferable.

P.S. establishments that give terrible directions on their website deserve no visitors.
P.P.S. "Plug-in vulnerable, download Adobe Plug-in update now?" I like surprises, moodle. I'm just reading my emails. don't have to download excrement.

pure. simple.

unmotivated.

so how to tackle my not-so-unique excuses?
I has no timezz ~ false. I sat and watched Battlestar Galactica for at least an hour, then promptly took an accidental nap... time which could have been better spent on fitness.
I'm bored, man ~ how hard would it have been to fire up the elliptical during BSG time? So not. And my increased heart rate would have been a little more acceptable.
My workout buddy went back to college ~ bastard! kidding, of course. I, too, have educational commitments, around which I will need to fashion my workout plan once more. time to crack out the giant whiteboard, y'all! another blog I browsed suggested I make use of social media to keep me honest in real time. sure, tell your friends about your pipe dreams, but keep 'em posted about the progress. ehh, tweet me?
Not seein' a difference here ~ seeing is believing, but seeing me cross a finish line of a race is sort of... a pipe dream. let's be honest. speaking of honesty, I need to be a little more honest about my workouts and a little more observant. I learned over Christmas just how big a difference diet can make in my energy level, mood, and digestive patterns... I can't decide if this is me, growing up and losing my iron stomach and hummingbird metabolic rate or acquisition of knowledge-based observation skills.
Same must be true of exercise. this is what I did, this is how I felt.coming soon. bwahahaha.
PS - didn't exercise today. so sometime.

resolutions

like good comebacks and Halloween costume ideas, always materialize a little late for me.
But better late than never when it comes to self-betterment, yes?
So this year, I strive to finish that which I begin.

books, running plans, applications, nursing school, that bottle of vitamins I bought, sentences... you name it!
I fully understand that this is a resolution easily broken, but absolute adherence isn't the key here. It is an exercise in mindfulness to see my efforts through to completion.

in the spirit of the notion - I am off to eat brunch, take a vitamin, and begin my week 2 Couch to 5K workout... and make a few phone calls.

>.> all in good time, pretties.

UPDATE:
"I'll bet before she recognized us, she thought, 'is that man wearing a scarf.'"

all I got were sweet grapes -- an exercise in gratefulness.

I may have skewed the results a bit by toasting the new year with a delightfully dry champagne and throwing out the obviously shriveled grapes, but I got all sweet ones. And though some would argue that luck is mammal excrement and it's all chaos anyways, I have come to believe that in life, you make your own luck. you make your own happiness. you make your own sadness. you make your own light and dark.

I loved. I lost. I conquered. I failed. I cried. I laughed. I ran. I adopted a cat!

 

Her name is Margaret.

[didn't realize how pissed she looked till after I posted the picture]

I read a couple books:

January~

1. The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss-- main character's a rambunctious, brainy redhead. what's not to love!

2. I am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced by Nujood Ali -- this book gave me goosebumps. an eye opening account of child brides, women's rights, and abusive partners. a must read.

3. The Gospel According to Larry by Janet Tashjian -- tired teen angst about consumerism and paparazzi culture.

February~ [nursingschoolatemylife]

March~

1. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot -- forewarning: it took me three tries to get into this book. but once I did, it was at once a biography of a selfless woman and her family and a layperson's bio research. it will challenge you, intrigue you, and creep you the HELL out.

2. Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K. Rowling -- you'd think that like 100 pages wouldn't be hard to get through, especially for a Harry Potter fan. you would be wrong.

3. Partly Cloudy Patriot by Sarah Vowell -- another deadpan, informative hit! Sarah Vowell is a delight, bringing life and drama to the dates and words half-remembered from grade school.

4. The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins -- because sometimes, I like to know what books pay my bills. the premise is crazy dark and most of the characters are insufferable cliches, but you know what? I'm always down to read about teens killing each other.

5. Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins -- did I say always? I mean, I want to kill everyone in this book. and that damn, whiny poor skank is still alive. ughhhhhhhh.

April~

1. Fluids and Electrolytes Made Incredibly Easy! -- written for a seventh grade student, not a nursing student. but you know what? those stupid cartoons stuck with me. so if you ever find yourself needing to memorize how a dearth of serum calcium manifests in the elder adult, this book is for you!

2. Shit My Dad Says by Justin Halpern -- this made for a fabulous audiobook. 

3. Seriously, I'm Kidding by Ellen Degeneres -- this didn't. it felt like a one-way conversation. perhaps the book-book version would be better?

May~

1. Billy Lynn's Long Halfway March by Ben Fountain -- 'twas advertised as a Catch-22 of the Iraq War, did not disappoint. it was a little raunchier than I remember Catch-22 being.

2. If I Stay by Gayle Foreman -- cute teeny bopper affair, about a devastating car accident and the power of loooove.

June~

1. Shades of Grey by Jasper Fforde -- have I mentioned how much I LOVE THIS MAN YET? if not, you should definitely read and adore his books. this is a little more approachable for non-literature dweebs, such as myself.

2. Wise Man's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss -- I was less thrilled with book two than one, but still a gripping read.

3. Freakonomics: the Hidden Side of Everything by Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner -- oh, my gosh, this book. read it.

4. Sway: the Irresistible Pull of Irrational Behavior by Ori and Ram Brafman -- a little redundant but totally relatable. you'll be diagnosing yourself in no time.

July~

1. The Fourth Bear by Jasper Fforde -- yes, I believe we're picking up on a theme, here. I love me some Jasper Fforde. the second of the series about nursery crimes. yes.

2. Monkey Mind by Daniel Smith -- this is several hours of my life I'm never getting back.

3. Gold by Chris Cleave -- perfectly timed to the summer Olympics, perfectly juicy story - full of Star Wars references. loved it.

4. Prisoner of Heaven by Carlos Ruiz Zafon -- this story knits together all of his previous tales with a web so involving, you want to re-read all of his other works to better understand this one.

5. Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson -- I'm not sure why I still read Bill Bryson, honestly. I feel like he missed his calling as a used car salesman and instead, writes in such a way about [in this case] his childhood. I cannot buy your childhood. I cannot go back in time to see the fifties. so, like. stahp.

6. Practical Demonkeeping by Christopher Moore -- like most of Christopher Moore's books, it didn't change my life, but I loved it!

August~

1. Yoga Sutras of Patanjali translated by M. Stiles -- interesting verse to focus thoughts during a yoga practice. not as quotable as I was expecting.

2. This is a Book by Demetri Martin -- I like him better as a standup than an author. but the chapters of drawings? genius!

3. Best American Non-Required Reading edited by Dave Eggers -- a fascinating cross-section of American authorship throughout the year. that being said, some portions are better than others.

4. Every Day by David Levithan -- it was actually embarrassing how much I liked this book. even worse, I read it before it came out, so I couldn't talk to anyone about it. and now, I cannot remember for the life of me why.

5. Incendiary by Chris Cleave -- I liked Gold so much, I immediately bought another of his titles. biggest. miss. ever.

September~

1. Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess -- never before have I read a book and feared that I might pee myself from laughing so hard. well done, The Bloggess, well done.

Novermber~

1. The Woman Who Died a Lot by [you guessed it] Jasper Fforde -- I was displeased with the last Thursday Next book, but this one more than made up for it. As ever, lovely cliffhanger to make me hate that I'm all caught up.

December~

1. The Last Dragonslayer by Jasper Fforde -- Quark!

2. Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris -- this book makes me both happy and sad, full of Christmas cheer and hate.

I read 32 books this year, not bad -- considering.