Siren Song: Part I

I fucking love ambulances. Not really, but I got your attention didn't I? Alright, I actually DO love ambulances--because they are specially-equipped vehicles that help paramedics and EMTs save lives. And also because I feel like a total bad-ass when I ride in one.

As those who read this blog regularly undoubtedly know, I'm currently enrolled in a class preparing me to become a licensed and certified EMT. As such, I am required to complete 112 clinical hours. What that means is: I had to ride-along in an ambulance (and work a few shifts in the ER) for 112 hours. I had a little blue booklet that I was required to bring along with me on every ride. In this blue booklet I wrote down all my experiences with patients, plus I was required to have the paramedics and EMTs that I rode with sign the booklet to verify that I had completed a shift.

As a third-party rider in the ambulance, I always sat in the back of the ambulance--in the "jump seat," as they call it, which is the seat at the head of the patient. I was allowed and expected to help with patient care. I would do things like set-up the IV (get the tubing in place, "spike" the bag, hang the bag, etc.) and take vital signs (blood pressure, pulse, breathing rate, oxygen saturation, and blood sugar level). I also helped with loading the patient onto and off of the cot, lifting the patient, and getting the patient's medical history. Plus I helped with all the mundane tasks that needed to be done, like changing out the O2 tanks, emptying the "sharps" container, and "rig check," which is where we would go through the ambulance to ensure that we had the right amount of all the proper supplies: backboards, straps, cervical collars, duct tape, head blocks, traction splint, board splints, KED board (short backboard, usually used for removing a stable patient from a car), oxygen tanks, flares, nasal cannulas, bag-valve masks, nonrebreather masks, needles of all different sizes (18 gauge, 20 gauge, 14 gauge, etc.), 4x4s (gauze), portable suction, suction tubing, IV fluids and tubing, blood sugar lancets (small needles used for getting blood sugar readings), alcohol wipes, rubber gloves, trauma shears (for cutting clothes off of a patient), drug box (a locked and sealed box full of medications to be administered only by the paramedic and usually only in the event of a real emergency), IV box (extra IV stuff, should we run out or get called to a mass-casualty incident), towels, teddy bears (for scared kids), blankets, and sheet sets (for the cot).

I've been promising (threatening?) to write a blog about my ride-alongs for a while now, and I'm finally ready to deliver. Here's how this will work: I've decided to consolidate my most interesting ride-along experiences into one action-packed story, to be written out in a saga-like series of entries. So, if you like Part I, you'll have to stay tuned for Part II (and perhaps Parts III and IV!). Ready to get started? Here goes:

It's dawn. The sky is slowly brightening and light is beginning to creep into my bedroom. Lying flat on my back and still as a corpse, I open my eyes and look out my skylight. A gray-pink sky and the chirping of eager young birds greet me. It is spring, but I feel no joy. Even though it is just now dawn, I've been awake since two AM, because I was too nervous and filled with dread to sleep. Every time I tried to close my eyes last night I saw images of bloody disembodied limbs, HIV-infected needles, and angry drunks wielding chainsaws. But it is dawn now. I have to get up. And so I do.

I shower and put on my uniform. My uniform pants make me gag a little. They are men's navy slacks, and they are huge. I could fit a small neighborhood inside of them. I ordered them a few sizes bigger than what I needed because I was so worried that they would come in the mail and be too small. I didn't get to try them on before placing an order. Nonetheless, I suck it up and slide on my uniform pants. They make me feel obese. The tone is set for the day. My uniform shirt is a light blue short-sleeved button-up heavy-duty cotton weave with the word "Genesys" embroidered above the pocket. I have no beef with the shirt. Beneath my uniform shirt, I wear a men's ribbed gray tank top and a sports bra. My uniform is complete when I slide on a black leather belt, my ID badge, and black leather steel-toed boots. I hastily eat breakfast (Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal) while watching the news (as if I wasn't already depressed enough). It is now 5:40 AM. I need to get my stuff together and go. I'm a nervous wreck. My eyes well up. But I dutifully pack my messenger bag. Into the bag I place: my EMT workbook (fill-in-the-blank style homework that I figure I can work on when we're not "running" (doing a call)), a novel (in case I get sick of homework), my cell phone (turned to vibrate), money, and my blue booklet (remember, the one that needs to be signed to verify my ride-time?).

The base station is so close to my house that I can walk there. And so I start walking. The birds are chirping loudly. For some reason--maybe it's the stillness of the air around me or the desolate street or the screaming birds in the still-leafless trees that are silhouetted black against the pink dawn sky--I am reminded of horror movies. I think I see a zombie, but then I realize it is just my own reflection in a plate-glass window (in case you didn't already know this: I live in a downtown area that's filled with stores. In fact, I live above a bar! It's not as cool as it sounds.). I look weathered and pale, and my gait is graceless.

When I arrive at the base station--a small, unassuming brick building with a large garage, few windows, and a blue EMS flag flying on the flag pole--my heart is pounding in my chest. I can hear and feel the blood rushing through my veins. The base station is dark, save for one beacon of yellow light that calls out to me through the small window on the heavy white door that leads inside. I reach the door and peek through the window. I see no one--just an empty, dimly-lit hallway. I knock on the door. No one comes. I try the handle. It's locked. I knock again, louder this time, hoping upon hope that someone will come to open the door (while simultaneously wishing that no one would ever come).

A man opens the door. He is a short, round man--not obese, but stocky. His head is shaved and he is tan with a circular face and big, somewhat bulldogish features. I guess him to be in his mid-50s, at the very least. He is wearing an EMS uniform--slightly different (and better) than mine. He wears navy blue cargo pants (the pockets are filled with goodies, like neon-green-handled rescue shears!), a tight-fitting navy short-sleeved polyester uniform shirt, complete with cargo pockets and decorative pins that spell out things like "EMS", "Paramedic", and "CPR certified" in posh silver letters. I think to myself: I wish I had pins! But alas, all I have are my disgusting uniform pants and an ugly ID badge that identifies me as an EMS student.

"Hi," I say in a meek little voice that fills me with shame as soon as I hear it escape my lips, "I'm here to do a ride-along." Commence: terror. This is the moment I've been dreading ever since I began EMT class months ago.

"Ok," the man says, humorlessly. "You'll be riding with my partner and I. I'm Ivan** and my partner is Wendy**." He doesn't smile at me. He just steps aside so I can come in, then turns and walks briskly down the dimly lit hallway. As the door slams shut behind me, I can't help but be reminded of the sickening echo a cell door makes as it slams shut, locking it's prisoner in a tiny, cold, windowless room for all eternity. I don't know what else to do, so I follow him.

To Be Continued...


The view from the "Jump Seat"

**Names have been changed

Liz's Movie Review Corner

Today was my mom's birthday. So we saw a fun-filled family movie called "Drag Me To Hell." Let me just say this: I love you, Sam Raimi. The movie was what all horror movies should be: suspenseful, dramatic, eerie, a bit gross, and at times both heart-wrenching and hilarious. From the retro opening titles and the jarring eastern European violin score and the stellar cast (including a favorite of mine--Justin Long of "Jeepers Creepers" fame) to the tidy, almost folkloric plot, "Drag Me To Hell" is storytelling at it's best--and a total delight for a longtime horror fan like me. It hearkens back to some of the very best episodes of shows like "The Twilight Zone" and "Outer Limits," building tension and raising the stakes in each and every scene without even one wasted line of dialogue or unplanned dutch angle or rapid dolly zoom. Sam Raimi's film idol is Alfred Hitchcock, and while his influences certainly shine through in "Drag Me To Hell," Raimi is a writer-director with a voice all his own--a voice I look forward to hearing from again soon.

Flesh Prison

Sometimes, when I've been lying around in my room for three or four hours straight, I start to get a little restless. So usually, I'll get up and come over to my computer...you know, for a change of "scenery." Instead of looking at the TV screen, I look at a computer monitor. Instead of clicking the buttons on the remote, I click the keys on the keyboard. And sometimes, like today, it doesn't really work to cure my restlessness.

It just got worse. I opened iTunes and started playing music that makes me feel melancholy. I'm now listening to Anecdote by Ambulance Ltd. This song makes me feel melancholy because it reminds me of when I lived in the dorms at Columbia College Chicago--or, as my friend Kate and I refer to our dwelling back then: "Apartment 215" or simply "215." Those were two of the best years of my life.

Not that my life isn't good now. It is--very good. It's just, on days like today, I get all restless and I start wishing for things that I may or may not ever get. Like, I hate to beat a dead horse (actually, that might be kinda fun!), but I always imagine that I'll have a better body in the future. But I've been doing that since I was like 10 years old, and I still haven't achieved that goal. When I close my eyes and picture my distant future, I sometimes imagine myself sailing on a boat, or standing atop a rocky cliff overlooking the sea, or riding a dolphin, or playing the violin on a darkened stage in an empty auditorium, or driving the PCH in a cherry-red convertible, or leading an archeological dig (and then a man flies in on a helicopter and offers to fully fund my dig for another 3 years if I agree to come see his "theme park")--but no matter where I am, I always have rock hard abs.

Will it ever happen? My dad is worried that it won't. In fact, he thinks I need professional help. I feel like a pregnant teenager in the 1960s.* He wants to send me away. We had a big fight about my "weight issues" this past Thursday. Me wanting a bite of cannoli was the catalyst. If I write it out, blow by blow, it will just make you think my dad's a jerk. He's not. He loves me. But sometimes it feels like the only thing he notices about me is that I'm fat. And he's the living embodiment of all the things I already tell myself in my head: "Fat girls don't get to ride dolphins, Liz."

I'm not ready to throw in the towel on weight-loss just yet. So I think I'll go kayaking right now. If I'm not back in a week, assume I've been shipped off to a fat farm. Don't come looking for me. We are all on our own journey.

*In this movie, Cheryl gets pregnant and is shipped off to a "home for girls." It's a good movie.

Summer Lovin'

It's summer! Well...not officially, but as far as my brain is concerned--it's summer! Now is the time to enjoy the outdoors, to sip lemonade, to wear flowy dresses (or for you guys out there, flowy linen shorts) and sandals. Now is the time to buy new moon boots, to see Saturday matinees, to swim with manatees, to make a crown out of daises, to go spelunking in uncharted caves and fight off the half-man-half-bat carnivorous creatures that live there, to "accidentally" run over someone's pet marmoset. These are all things I do each and every summer--along with a few road trips to Niagra and three weeks at mime camp.

But THIS summer, I've decided to forgo all that craziness in favor of three months of...lying in my bed and watching summer programming. So without further ado, the TOP FIVE REASONS I'M EXCITED FOR THE SUMMER OF 2009:

1. Big Brother: Season 11



I know all you haters out there think Big Brother is trashy. And maybe it is, but who ever said reality TV had to be classy? I'll tell you who: nobody. Strangers locked in a house, forced to compete at life-sized Tic-Tac-Toe and eat slop? That's a recipe for entertainment, my friends. And if you're too cool for that, I pity you.

2. The Bachelorette: Jillian Harris



Wow. The Buzzhunters are really special--they kinda remind me of the characters on that PBS show "Ghostwriter." You know? Ghostwriter?? The series that features a group of New York City teenagers who solve mysteries with the help of an invisible ghost who can communicate with the kids only by manipulating whatever text and letters he can find and using them to form words and sentences?? Tell me you've seen it! Well, I guess it doesn't matter. The Buzzhunters can get the buzz on all our favorite shows even without an invisible ghost who helps them by manipulating text and letters. And this time, they got the buzz on the new Bachelorette, Jillian Harris!! Huzzah! Yes. I do watch The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. No, I won't apologize for it.

3. So You Think You Can Dance (Otherwise known as: SYTYCD)



I don't give a shit about Dancing With The Stars. Newsflash: stars aren't good at dancing. But the kids on SYTYCD are FAN-bloody-TASTIC dancers! I watched this show for the first time last season, and it consistently took my breath away. I particularly love when the contestants dance lyrical hip-hop numbers.

4. Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood



People love to hate on Tori Spelling, but I just love to love her! What can I say? Donna is my homegirl. Of all the celebrity reality shows (Dina Lohan? Puke. Denise Richards? So you've got a lot of pets--who the fuck cares?), this is the one I can stand.

5. HawthoRNe

"Jada Pinkett Smith is the latest actress to bring her talent to TNT’s arsenal of strong, complex female characters, following in the footsteps of Kyra Sedgwick on The Closer and Holly Hunter of Saving Grace. This summer, Pinkett Smith executive-produces and stars in HAWTHORNE, a character-driven drama series about a nurse who is a true everyday hero.

Pinkett Smith plays Christina Hawthorne, a compassionate and headstrong Chief Nursing Officer heading up a group of dedicated nurses at Richmond Trinity Hospital who spend long days and nights on the hospital’s front lines. Hawthorne is the kind of nurse you want on your side when you or someone you love is in the hospital. She is the kind of nurse who fights for her patients and doesn’t let them slip through the cracks. When necessary, she takes on doctors and administrators who are overworked, distracted or just unable to see the human being behind the hospital chart."

As I future nurse, I think this sounds interesting!! Who's with me? Come on, who's with me??

A Letter To My New Roommate Heather

This is a letter that I wrote when I was transferring to Columbia College Chicago, after I received that little piece of paper in the mail that gives you the names and numbers of your new roommates. At Columbia I had three roommates, not just one, as we shared a large apartment two-bedroom that was nothing like a normal dorm room at all (it had a stove, a full-sized fridge, and a dishwasher!). For some reason the name "Heather" stood out and I was compelled to write this letter:

"Dear Heather,

Hey Heath. I just wanted to write and say that I have been thinking about it, and I’m not sure that we’re going to make good roommates at all. My idea of a good roommate is someone that you can sit around in your underwear with and eat, like, raw cookie dough and mourn the loss of a boyfriend or a parent or a puppy with and watch David Letterman at the same time and tell each other dark secrets after we smoked a joint one of us had hidden in the jewelry box that one of our mothers gave us when we were ten. From the messages I have received from you over Internet email, I have deduced that you’re not the optimum match for me as roommate. I want a roommate with whom I can share deep revelations about life and mostly about sex and about my sexual relationships with men. Usually I have revelations while I look out the window and watch the rain and listen to droopy music and eat a stack of tootsie rolls that I bought at the nearest CMS gas station. I feel like you’re the type of woman who would make a comment about my rolls. You would look down your crooked and probably big and probably ugly nose at me and you would say that tootsie rolls are disgusting or undesirable because of how sticky or clunky or how unlike real chocolate they are because they’re like when a package says ‘cola flavor’ instead of actually being cola or something. And after you made that comment, and after I got sick by looking at you and had to spew a hard chunk of roll on our sure to be dingy carpet, which had we been better friends we could have made light of, but since we’re not just made me feel a lot sicker, I wouldn’t be able to share my revelation with you about the maybe mediocre sex I had with a grad student earlier that afternoon--and then I would be sad, but not like melancholy like how I always get after sex, but because we weren’t as close as I maybe could have been with another roommate, a different girl. Another thing is that I like to do my laundry and then smell the fresh newness of my t-shirts and sometimes when other people’s clothing and shoes (some people wash tennis-shoes) get in with my things, the smells get mixed together and sometimes remind me of smells that I don’t like to be reminded of. It doesn’t happen with every person, but it often happens with people who aren’t good matches with me. And somehow, when I lie awake at night, and when I crawl out my window and go downstairs and listen to my cat cough and then sneak out and ride my bike, and sometimes see another person on a different bike in the empty parking lot behind a Coney Island, and I can smell the special garbage receptacle that is just for grease and also the night air, and I think about how the person on the other bike who is singing church hymns loudly enough for me to hear and I are doing the same thing but we’re on two different life paths, I realize that you are a woman who will never understand how deeply I go. Will you? I hope I’ve been clear enough about the way that I feel, and I also hope that I can get another assignment for a roommate. See you around maybe.

Sincerely,

Lizzy"


Not my best writing, but you can see why I belonged in the Fiction department. And yes, I did send it. Actually, no, I didn't send it. But after Heather and I became friends, I read it to her and she laughed...which means maybe she WAS a good match with me after all.

A List: Things I Want To Do This Summer

In no particular order...

1. Make friends with a hobo



2. Learn to fly. No--not learn to fly a plane. I mean, learn to fly MY BODY. I just think that would be a neat thing to know how to do.

3. Go to Oscoda, Michigan for a long weekend and walk on the beach, canoe, play mini golf, ride a horse, eat at the Turkey Roost, go to the Red Barn and buy polished rocks, contemplate my life while staring at the impossibly brilliant starry sky and feeling the delicate caress of a cool breeze on my face. Lansy, you coming??

4. Immerse myself in a swimming pool filled with cooked spaghetti noodles.

5. Lose a ton of weight, because I'm sick of feeling like a disgusting giant and having almost-constant insecure thoughts. And I don't want to lose weight just because it's going to be shorts season soon! As if I would ever wear shorts. I wouldn't. Even if I had a better body, I wouldn't. You pretty much have to have a perfect body to look good in shorts...and even then I think shorts look tacky. You wear shorts, you live in a trailer park, or you're a hooch who wants to show off the Hello Kitty tattoo you have on your upper thigh, or you're an old woman who likes to garden and has stopped caring about covering up her unsightly varicose veins. I just want to set myself free from my always-gets-in-my-way-makes-me-second-guess-myself-constantly-and-keeps-me-from-being-the-person-I-really-want-to-be body. Also: I'm getting kind of sick of Cheeseburger Mondays, Donut-Ham-Hamburger Tuesdays, Marshmallow Peeps Wednesdays, Liter-a-Cola Thursdays, Fried Fish Fridays, Souvlaki Saturdays, and Chinese Pork Rib Sundays.

6. Go to some Tigers games.

7. Go to Chicago a number of times to see Kate. Go to Taste of Chicago (see list item #5). See Sean and Catie. Finally go to Rainbow Cone (see list item #5). Finally go to Medieval Times. Go see something in 3D at the Imax on Navy Pier, then ride the Speed Dog boat. Of COURSE, visit Novelty Golf and Games and maybe, hopefully, if all my wishes and dreams come true...find a way to ride the Tomb of Doom again.

8. Go to the Detroit Zoo, perhaps weekly.

9. Walk the edge of a live volcano.



10. Go shark diving in South Africa.

11. Go shark diving in South Africa. What? I already said that??? Well, I REALLY want to do it.



12. Do one of those work outs where you get to swing around on a trapeze.

13. Win a GIANT plush toy at Lapeer Days. And I'd like to win it without having to spend any money. This may mean giving out sexual favors to carnies...but I'm ok with that. You don't know how much I love giant plush toys. Also, when you "do stuff" with carnies, they give you VIP ride tickets and corn-dogs (see list item #5). Totally worth it. True story.

14. Go to Naaaawlins. Kate, you're planning this. Thank you for being my travel bitch.

15. Lie on a lawn of freshly cut grass while rose petals fall gently from the sky and land atop my naked shoulders.

16. Stumble upon a duffel bag full of money. And by "stumble upon," I mean watch from behind a tree as a criminal buries it in the woods, then come back later and dig it up, then skip town and start a new life in Bratislava, Slovakia.



17. Find Narnia...because even though he's half-man-half-fawn...and a tiny bit creepy...I'm pretty sure Mr. Tumnus is my other half.



18. Spend an inordinate amount of time inside a darkened, air-conditioned, movie theater watching every summer blockbuster, every horror movie, every indie film, every action movie, every thriller, every rom-com, every everything!! Fuck, I love movies.

19. Go on an ill-fated summer-school sailing trip.



20. Marry this man (because he reminds me of summer):

8 Days a Week

I can't believe I've been away from my blog for so long! Well, alright, I can believe it. I haven't had time to blog lately because I've been super busy wallowing in self-pity. I've also been organizing my desk drawers. Like I said--super busy. But for serious, because I know you're all curious, I'll go through every last thing that I did this week. Here goes:

Sunday:

That's right! The week technically starts on Sunday! You forgot, didn't you? Actually, the fact that the week technically starts on Sunday really pisses me off...kind of the way that the hour of midnight technically marking the start of a new day pisses me off. Midnight doesn't feel like a new day, any more than Sunday feels like the start of the week. That shit is fucked up. When the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve, there will always be some asshole in the room willing to say, "Hey you guys! It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" But I guarantee you that that asshole will be met with nothing more than a chorus of not Christmas carols, but eye-rolls.

I digress. Sunday. I went to a bridal shower for my lovely friend Em Caskey. It was a lovely shower with lovely people. It was pretty. The food was good. The bride was gracious and charming. After the shower, I drove home beneath somewhat cloudy skies with the windows partially rolled down. I drove the back way, on a winding road past farms and sheep and donkeys and dead woodchucks and trailer parks, listening to the non-fiction book "Columbine" by Dave Cullen. It was uplifting listening for a Sunday.

When I got home, my dad knocked on my bedroom door. I said, "Entre!" Yes--I said "Entre," because it sounds kind of like the word "Enter" but it's more exotic and reminds me of food. So my dad came in, a gleeful and somewhat mischievous look on his face. He said: "I want to go see 'Obsessed.'" I said: "I'd go see that!!" He said: "Really? Mom said you'd never go because you're studying." I said: "I don't care! Let's go!" He said: "We have to get mom something from Taco Bell afterward." I said: "Great!" As we drove over to the Lapeer Cinema 6, I hugged myself and thought happily that when you don't expect good things to happen to you, that's when they do. I didn't expect my dad to want to go to a seven o'clock movie, as we almost never do that on Sundays (we ALWAYS go to matinees on Sundays). And I certainly didn't expect a Taco Bell dinner. The lord works in mysterious ways indeed.

Monday:

Remember that test I didn't study for on Sunday night, in favor of watching Beyonce beat up Ali Larter? Well, I had that test on Monday morning at nine a.m. sharp. It was a test for EMT class--120 questions covering 10 chapters. I got to the Genesys parking lot about 10 minutes early, as is customary for me. I took a few minutes to go over my notes, annoyed because the kid in the car next to me had his bass thumping so fast and hard it made me feel like I was going to have a small stroke or go into a-fib. The kid with the thumping bass was, of course, one of my classmates. He's the kind of guy that clearly thinks he's awesome, though I don't know who gave him that idea. He's all skinny and tan and greasy and he goes on "smoke-breaks" and sneers at people and never holds the door open for anyone. I don't know about you, but to me that spells awesome. Um...no it doesn't.

Inside the tiny, antiseptic-scented, florescent-lit EMT classroom, I sat down at my rickety table and was greeted by my 60-year-old table-mate, who proceeded to talk ceaselessly until the test began about the inevitability of all of our deaths by Swine Flu, in a shameless display of fear-mongering. I somehow ended up telling her that I "didn't care" about all the Mexicans who died of Swine Flu, when what I really meant to say was "Shut the fuck up about the goddamn Swine Flu before I make you eat your hand!"

I got a 97% on my test. Thank you very much. It turns out I can have it all.

Tuesday:

Since I'm finally done with the semester at Oakland University, I didn't have anything at all to do all day Tuesday, so I (what else?) went to the movies. I decided to see "earth"--you know, that DisneyNature movie about our planet?? I used to love watching nature shows when I was little. I remember many an elementary-school Friday night spent watching National Geographic movies with my mom. Alright, fine--I spent many a high-school Friday night watching Nat-Geo movies with my mom too! Fuck you for judging me. Is it such a crime to love Wombats?

But anyway, aside from voraciously watching Shark Week every July (Shark Week ALWAYS coincides with my birthday week--true story), I've started to feel like I'm losing touch with the natural world. So, in order to solve this problem, I raced to the NCG Trillium Cinema in Grand Blanc, bought a bucket of popcorn (and soaked it in butter-substance from the self serve butter pump) and a box of Milk Duds and settled in for a lazy afternoon of movie-watching and face-stuffing. I enjoyed "earth" the movie almost as much as I enjoy Earth, the real thing. The mountains! The fields! The majesty! The baby caribou! Plus the fact that I didn't actually have to be outside to experience it was a giant plus.

The only thing that frustrated me about the movie was narrator James Earl Jones' constant reminders that "our planet is sloooowly dying." We'd see two rambunctiously adorable polar bear cubs frolicking on the powdery snow of the arctic and we (the audience) would be filled with warmth and glee and then James Earl Jones would say something like..."Unfortunately, due to the fact that Americans are FUCKING UP THE PLANET FOR EVERYONE, at least one of these polar bear cubs is likely to die a painful death and never see adulthood...and even if one of these cubs DOES survive, it will probably starve as an adult." Ok...he may not have put it exactly like that, but his rampant insinuations were very thinly veiled, and I didn't pay $9.50 (plus another $17 for popcorn and Duds!) to be reminded that the polar ice caps are melting and the ozone layer is being eaten away and baby polar bears are doomed. Fuck you, James Earl Jones.

Wednesday:

I walk into EMT class and what does my 60-year old table-mate say straight away? Literally, the FIRST thing she said when I sat down was: "So a baby in Texas died of the Swine Flu." You should have seen the excitement in her eyes--the kind of excitement that is ignited by danger...like the look a tornado chaser gets in his eye when it's storm season in Kansas (you've seen "Twister"). People that get all "happy" over disasters and imminent human death are a MAJOR pet peeve of mine. So I said: "I don't care." Then I realized that I sounded pretty cold. I mean, I obviously DO care about babies dying. But I don't care about getting all panic-y about the goddamn Swine Flu. So then I said, "I mean, if I get it, I get it." And I shrugged and spread this goofy, maniacal grin across my face that probably looked super creepy. But that's the face I make when I want to punch someone and I can't.

I spent the rest of the day in bed watching trashy reality shows, eating junk food, and pitying myself.

Thursday:

It was a rainy, piece-of-shit day, and on top of it all I had to work. Fuck work! Ahhhhh! Work makes me want to scream! I have small bald spots on my head because every time I have to work, I rip a chunk of hair out. It's the only thing that can calm me down. That, and plunging my naked body into a tub filled with freezing cold water and ice cubes. Pulling out my hair is a lot less work, though. It takes a long time to make enough ice cubes to fill a tub. My freezer can't hold that many ice cubes. That stresses me out. And when I get stressed out I want to plunge my naked body into a tub filled with ice! But I can't! Because my freezer won't HOLD that much ice! Goddamn it, everything sucks! Why, God, why? Why?

Work was ok. We weren't that busy. Since school at Oakland is out, I'm working at Blondie's now on Tuesdays and Thursdays (and maybe some Saturdays and Monday evenings and the occasional Wednesday and Friday and Sunday). Blondie's is the candy/ice cream/fudge/gift basket shop that my mom owns and runs. So, on Thursday My mom made me make fudge packets. I've made fudge packets A LOT in my life, but my mom still felt the need to make about FOUR fudge packets in front of me before she let me fly solo. When she finally went upstairs to her office, I made fudge packets, sipped a diet soda, chatted with my friend (and fellow blogger) Emily Caswell, bagged caramel corn, read People magazine, ate a turkey sandwich with too much mayo, read Breaking Dawn (the last book in the Twilight series), swept, emptied the garbage, cleaned out the popcorn machine, made polite conversation with customers, and locked the door at the end of the day. I made 50 smackeroos in one day! Next time you see me, give me a high-five, will ya?

Friday:

Cringety, cringety, cringe cringe. Friday was the day I did my third ambulance ride-along. I was so nervous that my spoon shook as I tried to shovel Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal into my mouth that morning at 5:40 a.m. That's right. I have to get up super-ass early on ride-along days. And I have this theory that "bad things happen in the morning." Um...it's pretty much a rock-solid theory. I think it kind of has something to do with the fact that everything is scarier in the early morning. You know, that hour when the sun is just rising and the birds are chirping deafeningly, like a chorus of vengeful wizards, warlocks, hobgoblins, and trolls? It's a positively ghoulish time of day and NOT the optimal time for me to be on my way to an ambulance base station, gearing up for hours of extreme awkwardness punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Plus my uniform pants are ridiculously big and they make me feel like a walking egg. They make me look like I have a front-butt!

So--the ride-along. Let me just say, ride-alongs are interesting, for sure. The patients are usually sweet and their afflictions aren't as scary as you're probably imagining. I mean, so far we've only had one patient who lost all the fingers on his right hand in a freak garbage-disposal accident. But while I'm on a ride-along, I always feel like SUCH an outcast. EMS people are an extremely tight-knit group, probably because they work 24 hour shifts, so they literally LIVE together a few days out of the week. It's hard to feel at home when you're surrounded by people who've known each other for years and pretty much view you as an annoyance--some dumb kid that needs to be taught everything. That's why it's amazing when you meet up with an EMT or Paramedic who is truly kind and will go out of his or her way to show you the ropes. I've been lucky enough to meet a few of these. And I've had some rides with people who literally ACT LIKE I'M NOT EVEN THERE.

I promise a more in-depth account of what a ride-along is like when I've finished all my rides. I'll do a week-long series! I'll do it up right! But for now, you've gotten a taste. A preview. An aperitif. I hope you're happy with that. But if you're not, I'll buy you an orange push-up pop. In my experience, orange push-up pops pretty much solve everything.

Saturday:

Because my ride-along stressed me out so much, I gave myself permission to sleep in on Saturday. So I slept. And I slept. And I slept. Then when I woke up, I ate a big bowl of Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal and enjoyed a cup of pulpless orange juice. Then I decided to catch up on old episodes of ER. You see, I never watched ER when it originally aired, so due to the magic of Netflix I'm working my way through all 15 seasons of it. I appreciate them so much more now than I would have if I'd watched them when they were originally airing, because NOW my brain is all full of medical knowledge.

I watched three episodes of Season 6 of ER, with my cat Jack nestled close to my side the whole time. Jack does a good job of pretending to love me, but I know that he's just using his feline wiles to get me to feed him Fancy Feast's Beef Feast in Gravy cat food. Manipulative bastard.

After watching ER with Jack, I decided to...go to the movies in Grand Blanc again! God DAMN it, I'm a creature of habit. After the movie, I drove home, got some dinner from Abruzzo's (the bar we own) with my mom, and cried to her about how I don't want to do any more ride-alongs and about how stressed out I am that Oakland University STILL hasn't posted our final grades! Then I went upstairs, talked on the phone to Lansy for a while, and watched 6 more hours of television.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty productive day.

The End:

Now you've gotten a real window into my life. I hope you still like me. But if you don't, I understand. I am not cool. I look in the mirror, and do you know what I see staring back at me? A Garbage Pail Kid.