Monthly Archives: April 2010

Well, At Least I Have Options.

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So, I didn’t get that full time position I was hoping for.  It was down to me and one other person, and the other person got it.  Probably they had more nursing experience than I do, which is to say “any nursing experience at all.”  The person who interviewed me could not have been nicer, and while I’m really kinda bummed, I’m also glad I have other options.

I was unable to stay up all night studying for my drug test — and many thanks to those of my friends who suggested I do so — due to having a sick kid on my hands.  (The elder spawn woke up suddenly hollering and blubbering with what later became fairly clear was a rapid and unpleasant stomach virus.  She is still running a temperature but appears to be doing all right now.)  Nonetheless, I managed to pee in the cup with fair accuracy and will probably begin orientation at oncall position #1 in about a week.

Tomorrow I will have orientation at the other oncall position that I accepted, and Saturday I’ll be instructed in How Not To Get Beaten Up By Patients.  Always an exciting subject! And one dear to my heart, as Not Getting Beaten Up is among my very top priorities in life, particularly at work.

On a completely unrelated topic, it is raining to beat hell outside right now, like blowing-sideways-gullywasher-rainstorming.   The Very Loud Frogs that live a street over are singing their approval of the weather.  I love this place in the spring.

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Employ me, O I implore you

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So, I’ve taken an oncall position — thus earning me the right to say, I Am An Employed RN.  Never mind that I haven’t started.  I pee in the cup tomorrow.

There’s a lot of peeing in cups when you’re looking for a job as a nurse.  I’m okay with that since I am not particularly interested in abusing substances (other than chocolate which is still perfectly legal).  They teach us in nursing school that nurses are at somewhat higher risk than the general public for substance abuse issues due to high stress, availability of substances, etc.  This doesn’t frighten me a whole lot since as I said, it’s not interesting to me.  I don’t even take most of the painkillers actually prescribed to me.  And I’m one of those people who hates to get in trouble.  God, I’m a pain in the ass goody two shoes…

Today I’m supposed to be getting a call from another place that is going to offer me a position.  Not sure what kind of position, or the salary, but I’m supposed to attend an orientation on Wednesday which does inspire a certain amount of confidence that I will be offered a position. ~~Update: I am now an oncall at this place too, which is what they hire new nurses at. Yay me! ~~

And I’ve begun the complicated and arcane application process at the local VA hospital, which involves calling someone, getting an email, filling part of it out and submitting it online, then printing the attachments out (including the one you filled out online) and submitting the hard copies by mail with your transcripts (if your GPA was above 3.5, which mine was YAY ME)  and a note from your mother.  (Okay, not the note from your mother.  I was just kidding about that.)  Then you wait for the powers that be to decide you are worthy, as with any other application process.  I’m thinking of lighting some candles, burning some incense, doing a little mojo dance, whatever it takes.

You know that “nursing shortage” they’re always talking about?  Yeah, not so much around here, where there are several nursing schools churning out new grads every three months, and not so much right now with the Current Economic Climate being what it is, i.e. a giant wad of crapola.  Hospitals all want you to have a year of  acute care experience but nobody will hire you to get the experience you have to have to get hired….

Nonetheless, I am employed, and perhaps full time employment will be forthcoming.  Kindly cross your fingers and spit into the wind for me, or whatever it is you people do.  You’ll be glad you did!  Or at least I will.

Eight Lives Left Apiece!

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We adopted these two kittens last fall.  A black one who turned out to be a hefty brute, he came prenamed by the Humane Society as “Tank,” which we kept for his name.  And a black and white tuxedo who we named Healz (this is a gratuitous World of Warcraft reference, for you non-dorks, and is riotously funny to gamers but befuddling to the common muggle).

A few weeks after we acquired these little darlings, Tank’s curiosity got the better of him and he spent an exciting few minutes learning what the inside of a tumbling dryer looks like.  And feels like.  I recall standing by the washer sorting another load, having just started the dryer to fluff for a minute or two, thinking to myself “Hunh.  Wonder what’s in the dryer making that ka-thumpa, ka-thumpa sound?  I don’t remember putting anything in there that — OH CRAP!”

He more or less defined the term “dazed and confused” for a little while after that but eventually recovered his mojo and no permanent harm done.  I swear that kink was already in his tail when we got him.

Today it was Healz’s turn.  We returned home from some creaky post-Helga swimming and as I prepared to retire to the bed to read the last bit of a juicy Terry Pratchett paperback, Rhonda told me how the cat had just come in from outside and was all wet and looked really angry.  I went to have a look at him — he was furiously chowing on kibble at the time, which I later surmised to be to get the taste out of his mouth.  The taste of whatever the hell he was covered in.  It smelled like kerosene, or some other dank and horrible petroleum derivative.

Rhonda called the vet, and poor Healz was re-introduced to the cat carrier (“Oh cool, what’s this?  And why are you stuffing me into it headfirst? HEY I DID NOT AUTHORIZE –“)  and he and I sped to the clinic, where he was introduced to the bath, the IV, and the complete loss of any dignity he might have had left.  We are now obligated to syringe allegedly chicken-flavored famotidine and sucralfate into him for the next few days to protect his digestive tract from any of this mystery substance that he might have ingested.

We have no idea what he might have gotten into, and it never occurred to me that someone might have doused him with this substance in order to then set him on fire, but this possibility was raised by a friend after I posted on Facebook about it.  I hope so much that that wasn’t the case, but I am so mystified by how he could have gotten covered in kerosene if not by someone pouring it on him.  I’m so glad he made it home all right.

He spent the greater part of the afternoon clinging to me and purring.  I wore him like a greasy stole as I sat at my laptop, and if my shirt is stained I do not mind.  So far he seems to be all right.

Fresh Hell

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So it turns out that all personal trainers are just replicants fashioned after a prototype I like to call Helga.  Helga is from East Cherman Svim Team and eats nothing but fiber and protein, sleeps six hours a night exactly, and takes invigorating plunges into icy rivers to build character. She bounds around in stretchy form-fitting clothing expounding the virtues of cardio and can hardly wait each day to torment unsuspecting innocents introduce new gym members to the joys of fitness.

Our new trainer at La Fitness (it’s French!) is male and African American, yet I will still refer to him as Helga because he is obviously cut of the same cloth.  Neither I nor the Ol’ Ball and Chain can bend at the waist right now, and I see fistfuls of ibuprofen in our future.

Okay, all kidding aside, Helga totally kicked our asses today — and he was just ASSESSING us.

Pray for us, internets…

Bogrs

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The elder spawn came home from kindergarten today with a “5 Senses Notebook.”  There were places to draw pictures of things, for instance on a page of things you can hear she drew a boom box, labeled “STEREO,” and some stick people wearing party hats, labeled “PRTEE.”

Under things you can taste she drew “DOHNUT,” “ICE CREAM,” “WET THINS,” and — drum roll please: a little round brownish thing labeled “BOGRS.”

Raining, Pouring

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So, I’m a nurse.  I’m a new nurse, still all shiny in the package, shrink wrap hasn’t even been cracked yet.  I’m a new nurse (licensed in January) who needs a job.

Okay, needed a job.  Because today I got two job offers within about 90 minutes.

One job is oncall at an inpatient alcohol/drug program, and the other is at a private psychiatric hospital.  That one may be full time although I won’t know for a while.  And I’m still waiting for word on another position for which I am in the final cut as far as candidacy goes.

So, a hundred years ago in my misspent youth I decided I would NEVER be a nurse.

Then I went to nursing school, and said that I would NEVER work in mental health.

Now I’m saying that I’m NEVER going to be a filthy rich world traveling misanthrope.

Just sayin’.