The lunatic is in the hall. And, sadly, the break room.

One of the things that happens when the management of a place starts to break down is that the weirdos come out of the woodwork.

It doesn't happen immediately. Sometimes it takes a while, as the nice, normal, everyday people in the place get replaced by nutjobs. Eventually, though, when things get weird enough, the weird (as H.S.T. said) turn pro. And, oh my children, it has been the Masters' Tour of Wack on the unit lately.

The ontorexics and tanorexics I can handle. The woman with sixteen fluffy little dogs (I exaggerate; it's really only something like four) is no problem. The nurse who wears what is probably the entire stock of Sephora and jumps like a startled rabbit every time you speak to her doesn't bother me a bit. The golf-obsessed? I don't turn a hair. The Cultist, though, really threw me for a loop.

He doesn't wear white robes and Nike sneakers, at least not at work. I've never caught him offering any sort of sugary drink to anyone else. And, for a while, I thought he was okay, if a bit overbearing and loud. Well, and self-righteous. And strange. Until, that is, he started talking about religion.

(Rhetorical question: What *is* it about religion and politics? I mean, I get weird too, if I start talking politics. Anyway.)

We had a run of people who had just been diagnosed with HIV the other week. Two things about the epidemic are really fucking depressing: the fact that AIDS is the leading cause of death for African women, and the fact that HIV infection is beginning to increase again in the very young and the older-than-40. We were seeing a few of all of those groups. It's a shock to be transported back to the bad old days of the late 1980's when you see a 20-year-old who's just been diagnosed with full-blown AIDS and had no idea he's positive. It's depressing to have the second immigrant woman in a week come in who contracted HIV from her husband. And it's difficult to have to talk to a guy in his 60's about how, exactly, he managed to get this infection that "only" young/gay/Black/whatever people get.

So we're talking about this over lunch (because we know how to have fun) and The Cultist pipes up that HIV is a reason he's glad *his* wife was a virgin when they got married.

Pause for contemplation on the part of the rest of the crew.

Sweet Loretta asked, carefully, if he thought that lack of virginity was the issue with the two positive women on the floor. Well, of *course* it was, silly! Because everybody knows that only nasty, dirty strumpets (and, I guess, Godless pervs) end up with nasty, dirty diseases.

Longer pause as we all digested this.

The Cultist took the longer, more aghast silence as an invitation to explain why and how this was a fact, and how it was supported by Biblical texts, and how the truth of the matter (about the nasty, dirty strumpets, I mean) had been covered up for years by a secret cabal involving the Pope, the government, and the WHO.

It was like a combination of Monday morning at the health department and "The DaVinci Code". I think the Illuminati actually got mentioned once; I wasn't paying that much attention. I was too busy checking to make sure that the world was still on its axis and gravity was still working.

I'm still not sure how we all got out of there. By some miracle, beepers started going off and people started remembering meds they had to pass; within about five minutes, only The Cultist was left, eating his sandwich and muttering about the Four Horsemen. I've never been so grateful for patients who call every ten minutes, let me tell you.

That was, of course, before I walked 'round the corner and smack into The Bully....but that's a different post.

44-38-44; Or, Jo Has A HOLY SHIT Moment

Welcome to the inaugural Wednesday Whine here at Head Nurse.

I bought a swimsuit the other day. Not just any swimsuit, but the swimsuit I've dreamed of for years: A very modest tank top (black, with red seaming, but you can't have everything), shorts that come midway down my thighs (solid black), a keypocket in the shorts (closes with Velcro!); in short, the only thing I could wear that covers nearly as much as a swim burqa without looking like an idiot. (I should mention here emphatically that swim burqas are the bomb. The only reason I would look like an idiot is that I am Not Muslim. It would be like me dressing up in, oh, a kimono. Or a hula skirt. I would not be workin' it.)

I got this swimsuit in a size 16W.

I am not pleased by this.

Not at all.

Now, I'm fairly mobile. I'm short and stocky and still quite strong, despite not having seriously lifted (read: lifted at all) since Atilla moved off to the Big City. But I am Not Happy with wearing a size 16W.

I should mention here emphatically, and not at all parenthetically, that I am not fat hating. People come in different shapes and sizes, period. What is healthy for a woman who was born to be a 16W is much different from what is healthy for me, who has the bone structure and genetics to be a size six. I am not fit or healthy (look at that waist measurement: it speaks of increased risk of stroke, heart attack, diabetes) at the size I am now.

So it's going to change. I thought about starting another blog to chronicle what I'm doing fitness-wise and diet-wise, but I got stumped by the title. "Fat, Flatulent, and Forty"? "Dammit, No, I'm Not A 16W"? "Holy Shit, That's A Lot of Beer"?

I decided to just do a weekly check-in here. According to SiteMeter, I get about 10,000 hits here a month (Hi, everybody!) and I am going to need every single last one of you to keep me accountable. Weight Watchers might be easier and more personal, but I am counting on the level of impeccable snark that you guys have displayed over the last five years to get me where I need to go.

Because not everybody wants to hear a blogger whine about how haaaard it is to do 3 miles in 44 minutes on the treadmill (Dammit! I used to be able to do it in 25!), I'm segregating the Wednesday Whining posts with a tag, with title, and sticking to one day a week. Y'all can scroll on by if you don't want to read about what I did with my treadmill during the past seven days.

It's scary to do this. I'm scared it's too personal. I'm scared I'll fail. I'm scared that there's some weird metabolic thing that has nothing to do with Cheetos or sedentary living or too much Mirror Pond going on, even though I know that that's highly unlikely. I'm frightened of putting this much of my not-anonymized life out on the Intarwebs, though you've read damn near everything else I've done in the last five years.

Join me. Bitch away in the comments about the cramp in your lats or how much you hate eating frigging vegetables in the morning.

One very important note: Anybody who posts fat-hating or attack-dog bullshit will be deleted. I don't care if it's about me or toward another commenter, it's going to go. Save your keystrokes for something else; you get a predetermined number in this life. (I wouldn't be this cranky about it, but I've been reading comments about Regina Benjamin and whether she's qualified to be Surgeon General because (*gasp*) she's fat!)

Next Wednesday: First week's schedule, goals, and comprehensive bitching about shinsplints.

Fuck passion.

Oh, for cryin' out loud.

Some well-meaning person told me yesterday, after I excoriated him for using a toothbrush on an incision, that I must have a real passion for my work.

No. I do not have a passion for my work. I have a commitment to it, and a love for it, and I felt like a fish finally in water for the first time in my finny life when I got to nursing school, but I do not. Have. A passion. For nursing. I have a deep, consuming dislike of people who scrub incision lines with toothbrushes, though.*

I certainly do not have a passion for people who use the word "passion" as a positive term.

"Passion" is like "artistic". People who are artistic tend not to show up for work on time. They tend to be a little ADD. They tend to freak out and need a certain level of excitement in their lives that normal people can't tolerate. In short, they're drama queens. "Passionate" people are the same way: try to live a normal life with one of 'em and you'll find yourself on the receiving end of invented crises and tearful midnight phone calls as they attempt to keep things off-balance enough to make themselves happy.

A patient's wife told me the other day, as I was tranferring him to the ICU with a raging case of bacterial meningitis, that he had ignored two cerebrospinal fluid leaks following surgery because, you know, he's an artist. He has a mind above such things, don't'cha know. He had apparently ignored the clear, yellowish fluid running out of his nose in favor of demolishing old car parts, or whatever the hell it is he does for art, until the headache and nuchal rigidity got to be so bad that he couldn't stand up. The pus leaking from his incision should've been the first clue, but oh, you know these artistic, passionate people--he felt he simply had to finish chopsawing that radiator to get his Vision out into the world.

My ex-husband told me, after he and my best friend had started screwing like rabbits, that he'd done it because he missed the Passion in our Relationship. Uh...dude. Passion, with a few exceptions, does not last for fifteen damn years. If you're lucky, you can build a good, strong, solid, deep-rooted something that outlasts passion and over-reaches it. You were not lucky. You were, in fact, a drama queen asshole, which is pretty much what I told him after I finished laughing. 

See? Passion bad. Workhorse good. Boredom positive. Excitement debatable. Butterflies early, good; butterflies late, a sign of needing to up your Xanax.

I am sick and tired of artists and passionate people. Give me a good, strong, not-too-brilliant workhorse of a surgeon any day rather than the passionate, artistic guy with a gift who tells patients to shut up when he's talking and is prone to fits of the sulks. Give me the uninspired, hardworking nurse who shows up on time, doesn't miss details, and gives a decent report rather than the one who feels drawn by some Higher Shiny Cosmic Power to the field. The ones who are so very drawn to this marvelous, wonderful, fulfilling thing are the same ones who either end up in management, fucking things up for the rest of us, or who go back to accounting or truck-driving or whatever it was that they could actually pay attention to and be good at.

Give me a nice, good, workhorse of a boyfriend, while you're at it. I don't care if he bradys down into the 50's when he's relaxed; it'd be a nice change from constant tachycardia. If he spends days silent, punctuated by the occasional grunt, so much the better. Keep your Jack Russell terriers and your people in search of something all-consuming; I want somebody dull and reliable and not prone to causing crises for the sake of excitement.

Which is why I love my dog. Max is passionate about one thing only: bully sticks. Even then, he won't bite my fingers taking one from me, or stay out in the yard with one when it's raining. He's my new benchmark for sensible behavior.

*And while I'm bitching, what is it with you people scrubbing your incision lines with a damn toothbrush? Doesn't common sense tell you that that is a bad idea of the first order? Don't you think about things before you do them? What posessed you to...oh, wait. I'm getting back into excoriation mode. Sorry.

Hot Air Vent

Every year at Sunnydale, we have a big Christmas party. I mean *big*. Our floor feeds all our employees, the employees from various other departments, and sundry patients and family members. We plan the thing for weeks in advance and everybody chips in.

There are rules. If you don't bring enough food to feed a minimum of twelve folks (or one hungry resident), you have to pony up cash. There's no set amount, but whatever is given should be given without our having to pester you or your whining about it. Likewise, if you didn't bring something or pay money, you don't get to take any leftovers home. And, finally, we leave the vast majority of food for the night shift and residents, who reciprocate throughout the year.

Sounds reasonable, right? And you know where this is going, right?

I have two coworkers: The Thiever and The Bitcher. 

The Thiever steals anything and everything that isn't tied down: potted plants, toilet paper, items left unclaimed in the lost and found, people's empty totebags that are left a moment too long, clean Tupperware from the kitchen.  I understand that two kids and a deadbeat husband can make things tight, but c'mon. There is a limit.

Plus, she hates giving money for parties and doesn't cook.

The Bitcher has not--and here I do not exaggerate, for once--ever eaten anything besides meat and starch in my presence. Everyone else's food is fair game for her wrinkled nose and expressions of disgust. Vegetables are a foreign concept, as is any cheese that is not processed. She lacks even the most basic dinnertime manners. She would give my mom a heart attack.

Plus, she hates giving money for parties and doesn't cook.

I know you can see the end of this tale, like the steeple of a church rising up from the Alberta horizon, but bear with me. My blood pressure is insanely high.

Friday was the annual Xmas Do. Those of us who cook spent hours preparing food (and a good chunk of our own change), setting up the tables, and making sure things were hot. There was a turkey. There was a ham. There were various side dishes including, but not limited to: greens, macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, bean casserole, an enormous green salad with walnuts....you get the idea. I made four pies and a cake for the dessert course. We rocked out. 

Come afternoon, The Thiever arrived with--and again, here I am not exaggerating--a stack of plasticware and a couple of trash bags, and proceeded to scrape, pile, dump, and ladle all of the leftovers she could fit into the plastic containers. This after not giving any money or time to the party fund or even bothering to show up for the damn thing.

The Bitcher joined her in the kitchen and offered a running commentary on what was good, what was bad, and what was just plain too weird to eat. 

I was washing dishes and so got to see and hear the whole thing. After hearing my beautiful Potatoes Savoyarde denigrated as being "funny-tasting" (that would be the Gruyere, thanks), I lost it. I put down the sponge and grabbed the plastic container with the half of an apple pie in it.

And I snarled, "Get OUT." Like a pink-eyed pig on a fire escape, I was.

I was met with expressions of disbelief.

"Neither one of you," I hissed, "Did one fucking thing for this party. You" (stabbing finger at The Bitcher) "refused to eat anything without complaining about it. And you" (ditto at The Thiever) "didn't bother to show up, pay even five bucks, or cook anything. You do not get leftovers. Bitcher, you do not get any more food from me."

"I am not done cooking, but I am done cooking for you two damn fools."

And with that, my beloved, blessed, wonderful coworkers, who had heard the whole thing, all stood up silently and began to unload the various plastic tubs and boxes from The Thiever's bags and return them to the fridge for the night shift. The Bitcher stood there flummoxed and protesting that she was only joking, but everybody ignored her.

And on Christmas Day? When we're all working together again and a few of us are bringing breakfast? 

My two worthless colleagues will have to brown-bag it or buy something from the vending machines. I am *through*.