Oh. My. God.

Now will you stop eating at McDonald's?!??

Six inches people. Six frikkin' inches.

The Winter of my Discontent

I have to wake up at 6:30 every morning in order to make it to work on time. And now that it's winter, that means that I'm waking up before the sun. I know it's only October, but it's frikkin' cold outside people. It's only supposed to hit 50-something today, and it's going to pour all day long. Which leaves me in a dilemma. Yesterday I did about an hour's worth of work, and then spent the rest of the day sitting in my office doing nothing except shiver. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. This morning I woke up, faced with even less work to do today (since the hour's worth yesterday actually constituted about a week's worth of neglected duties) and the rain and the cold. So, I reset the alarm for 7 AM. Now it's 7:30 and I'm still in my pajamas, listening to The Killers, and seriously contemplating calling in sick. Like..with African Sleeping Sickness. Because I am ridiculously tired. Also there was a fruitfly flitting around in my office yesterday that eventually lodged itself in my eye and I'm beginning to suspect it was actually a tsetse fly.

Calling in sick would be fine...I'm sure I have plenty of sick days since most of the days I've called in sick, I don't actually write it down on my leave form. I just don't show up. I more than make up for it on the weekends. For instance, if I call in today, I've already worked over 40 hours this week...I probably won't even take a sick day. So that's not really a problem. The problem is, when will it stop? My desire to go to work is directly correlated with the temperature. If the temperature is low, my desire to sit in my corner office with absolutely no insulation is pretty low. It can be represented graphically as a "direct relationship." (That's right...I remember some math. Actually, I remember it from physics...some crazy old dead guy's law...Gay Lussac maybe. I don't remember anything about his law whatsoever. I just remember the graph. Maybe this is why the physics part of the MCAT stole my lunch money and stuffed me in a locker. But whatever.)

It's only October. This is only going to get worse. The problem is, I'm probably going to have to get into actual trouble to begin caring. Because as it is, I could be freezing to death in my car right now. But instead I'm at my computer in my flannel pajamas waiting for my bagel to pop out of the toaster. Pretty sweet. I could do this for a few months. ;)

Get Me Away from Here I'm Dying

I had a meeting at 8 this morning. I got to work by 9. I was done with my work by 10. The radio in my office is currently playing "Baby Got Back."

I want to go home.

Conclusion: Occlusion.

I hate the dentist. I hate going to the dentist, I hate being at the dentist, I hate leaving the dentist (because if never fails that I have a follow-up appointment to fill me with dread.) I have always brushed my teeth and all that jazz, and yet I always come back with an ungodly amount of cavities. So I am left to the following conclusions:
1. Dentists are crooks.
2. My toothpaste is made of sugar. Or
3. My teeth are made of cavities.

I had decided that number 1 was the most likely candidate, since every dentist I go to says something different. The first guy that said I only had 4 cavities was very nice, but my parents didn't like him or something. So we went to the next chick, who said the first guy was a crook, she would have to replace his fillings, and then add 11 of her own. At this point I decided that it was impossible for me to get any more cavities since all of my teeth are now 90% shiny metal, so when I moved out, no more dentist.

6 years later, and a considerable amount of prodding by everyone that knows my dental history, and I end up back at the dentist this morning. I went to Dr. Pak who R swears is God's gift to dentistry. He sends everyone there, and everyone is glad they went. Also, I hear his office is really fancypants...so I'm kind of down with that. So, I finally go. My heart is racing. You really don't understand...this is an actual phobia. My teeth are chattering, I really do not want to go in the building, and I am shivering. I go in, sign the paperwork and sit in the waiting room. It's a nice waiting room with fishtanks and leather couches. After about 10 minutes I realize that all that stuff they say about how soothing it is to watch fish? Completely true. I'm sitting in a dentist's office and I can breathe, my teeth aren't chattering, it's great.

They finally call me back..the hygienist is very nice, but she makes it clear that 6 years without a dentist is definitely not okay. She thinks she'll have to spend more than one day on the cleaning because most people who don't come to the dentist in that long are in really bad shape and their gums bleed a lot. She gives me a little test cleaning on a couple teeth before she gets started. She thinks it'll be okay...my teeth seem to look pretty good. Cleaning gets underway. They have a flat-screen tv in the corner and I have the remote. So, Gilmore Girls and lots of tooth scraping. I really don't think dental cleaning is good for your teeth. Surely scraping them with metal is bad for them. And news flash: anyone's gums are going to bleed when you catch them in a metal hook. But whatever. She ends up saying that my teeth look great, especially for that long without a dentist, and boy are my hopes up.

Dr. Pak comes in...sees how long it's been..."Samantha, 6 years?!? Tsk tsk tsk." And the hygienist sticks up for me! "No, her teeth look really good." "Really? Good hygiene?" "Great hygiene." "Wisdom teeth?" "Well, she's been keepin' 'em clean." And I'm sitting there thinking that I am golden. I am home free. Just look in there and I am out. And he looks in my mouth. "Occlusion number 1, occlusion number 13, occlusion..." blah blah blah. I'm no dentist, but I'm fairly certain at this point that occlusion isn't code for "Great looking tooth." Turns out that a bunch of my old huge hideous silver amalgam fillings are cracked. So they need to be replaced. Yay. Also, I should probably have my wisdom teeth out so I don't have to pay to get them filled.

So, in the end, I like my new dentist. He's very professional, he's nice, his favorite city is Chicago...we talked about good places to eat pizza. So I'll go back. Apparently I'll go back 3 times in the next month or so (shoot me now.) And I will think very hard about having my wisdom teeth out. Because I'm having a hard time deciding to pay someone to yank teeth out of my skull and send me home to the care of my parents who will probably argue that tylenol is as effective a painkiller as lortab. That is just not something I'm willing to do.

Stupid teeth.

"I choose vodka. And Chaka Khan."

So the results are in. And after 4 years, countless hours of studying, the never-ending sinking feeling in my stomach urging me to turn off the television and pick up the physics textbook, and 8 hours of test-taking?

I made the exact same score that I made when I took the MCAT four years ago. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. And most likely, do not go to medical school. So, either I have learned nothing in four years, or I have learned the exact amount that I'd forgotten in all that time out of undergrad. I did kick butt in the biology section, but that was just enough to compensate for the fact that with my physics score, I've begun to doubt whether I understand the meaning of velocity. Or what gravity does. Also, it means that four years ago when I seriously undertook the crafting of a well-written and meaningful essay filled with thoughtful arguments and insightful ideas...that pretty much worked as well (read: exact same score) as the essay in which I used a moral dilemma faced by Homer Simpson as an example. I've begun to wonder whether people actually read MCAT essays. I'm pretty sure they're scored by drunk monkeys throwing darts at a random assortment of letters.

So, all in all...not good. Not good at all. But I'm trying to look on the bright side. I'm going to pub trivia with a bunch of my friends tonight. I could stay home and be depressed, but I refuse. Rather I am going to go out with many people that I love, and get drunk. Really really drunk. Laters.

"Alcohol and night swimming. It's a winning combination!"

Guys, what is up with the ocean???

First, they got the crocodile hunter. Point for the ocean...cause seriously I think we all had money on the reptiles.

Then today I hear about this. A stingray jumped into their boat, and then pierced the guy through the chest. Since when are stingrays such cold-blooded gangstas?

Also, is it just me or is this whole thing very reminiscent of The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode where the dolphins decide to take over the land?

I'm just saying...watch out for sea creatures.

Chief Wiggum: (inspecting Lenny's body) "Hmm. Bottlenose bruises. Blowhole burns. Flipper prints. This looks like the work of rowdy teens. Lou, cancel the prom."

I thought I smelled something burning.

I went to pick up my truck after work yesterday.
Me: "Hey, I'm here for the S10."
Mechanic: "Hey Samantha. We got her all fixed up. Um, didn't you say you drove this somewhere yesterday?"
Me: "Yeah, I was coming back from Atlanta when it started making all the noise. You know..the grinding..and the sound of running over hefty children."
Mechanic: "Yeeah. You are incredibly lucky. Mike and I can't believe you drove it all the way back. You're really lucky."
Me: "Haha. Yeah, I'm just glad it wasn't 2 grand to fix."
Mechanic: "No really, you wanna see your rotors? The one on the right was the big problem. We'd never seen anything like it."
Me: "Pretty worn out?"
Mechanic: "Samantha, we had to cut the ball bearings off of your axle. They had so much pressure and heat on them, they melted onto your axle."
Me: "I thought I smelled something burning."
Mechanic: "Your axle wasn't anywhere near where it needed to be. C'mere, I'll show you."
Me: "Okay."

So, I went outside and expected to see nothing surprising cause what do I know about what a rotor's supposed to look like?

Apparently rotors are supposed to look like this:















And my rotors looked like this:















One was fine. The other was missing most of its center. Which means that my axle, rather than secure in that middle hole, was rolling around in that much larger hole (indicated by my crappy airbrushing in microsoft paint.) So, that point in the drive when I thought I had blown a tire? That was actually when the inside of my rotor shattered and my truck's altitude went down by about 2-3 inches on the right. And the axle was bouncing around everytime I turned the wheel going 70 on the interstate in the rain at night. Sweet, huh?

Sometimes I am a complete idiot.

Drawing a Blank.

Because I work in the medical field, quality assurance is a pretty big priority. We're under constant scrutiny from the higher-ups on documentation of every last single tiny thing that happens anytime we're working. Which I understand. I really do. QA is necessary, and they probably prevent me from getting sued a lot. And that's totally something I can get behind. The question is, why do you have to be so stupid about it? Is that part of the required personality for the job? That you can't think outside of the blanks? That if there isn't an N/A in the space, you actually believe with every fiber of your being that something important actually belonged there? Do you really think that I would forget to write that the patient had a third arm or that their kidney was covered in a fine layer of mold?

News flash: I wouldn't. If there is a section for additional comments, and I didn't write anything, there's nothing to be said. I don't think I need to repull this chart from months ago to assure you that I didn't want to comment on anything additional. Additional. As in, "in addition to"...as in bonus material. As in, "I'm not required to write anything in that blank for the love of God leave me alone before I chase you around this office with a 2x4."

I'm okay with you needing me to fill in a blank. I'm just not okay with the lack of independent thought. And lack of effort. I had notes this morning to recopy some lab results that I'd hole-punched through the identifier. The number looked familiar, but we do a lot of cases and they all start to look the same. So I found the information, made the necessary copies, punched the holes, pulled the chart, and went to add the information. Pulled out the pages they'd marked with post-its for replacement. When I pulled them out, I found the new copies that I'd already made last time they asked me about this case. Turns out I had already gone to the trouble of fixing this particular chart. They just hadn't gone to the trouble of removing their post-its and jumping off of my back.

I frikkin' hate QA.

Falling Apart (now with updates!)

A few months ago, my car started doing this thing where if I drive it for a long distance (say, the hour's drive to my parents' house) it will lose the ability to shift into overdrive. It sounds like it needs to shift gears, it's roaring loud, and won't change. So you just drive what sounds like an angry 18-wheeler for an hour. I took the car in for an oil change and had them look at the problem while they were in there, and they told me I needed a new transmission. I usually only drive my car around town, and it wasn't a problem on short trips so in the end I said "no dice" on the new transmission and pretty much forgot about the problem unless I was on a long trip. So, Thursday I had to drive to Atlanta to pick Tom up from the airport. Long trip. About halfway to Atlanta it starts making the loud overdrive noise. I ignore it. It's fine. I get Tom from the airport, we head back to Birmingham, it makes the noise the entire way home. Fine. The next day we leave to go to breakfast. Short trip. Literally like 1/2 a mile. Car is roaring. Apparently the trip has exacerbated the transmission problem, and the car is incredibly loud no matter what the trip length is, for the duration of the weekend. Whatever though, I don't care. So yesterday, I had to take Tom back to Atlanta to fly back to Boston (boo.) Car makes the noise the entire way. I drop Tom off and head back to B'ham. About 5 miles outside of Atlanta, my car makes a huge clunking noise and the steering starts to pull. I figure I've blown a tire (which is AWESOME since I don't have a functional tire iron with which to change a flat) and pull over to the side of the interstate. Get out, nope. No flat tire. Weird. So I pull back onto the interstate.

My car sounds like I am dragging its rusty metal guts all over the road. It is grinding and clunking and the steering wheel is pulling and it's raining and dark outside. I was pretty sure I was going to die last night. But, I made it all the way back to Birmingham. Sure, I went about 60 in a 70 for 2 hours, and even that was a stretch, but I made it. I was hoping that I would wake up this morning, get in the car to go to work, and the gears would have miraculously realigned themselves. Nope. Not so much. Instead I was greeted with the ABS light. Which according to people I work with means that now my brakes are also broken. Excellent. I dropped the car off at AAMCO this morning and am waiting to hear back on an estimate. I'm fairly certain that this is going to cost about $2,000. So the real question is, new transmission or new car? I have no desire to start a car payment right when I'm hoping to start student loans for med school, but I live in a city with no functional public transportation and I have to drive in the middle of the night all the time. Reliable transportation would probably help in the whole Samantha-not-getting-killed-in-a-car-accident-or-by-angry-hobos-on-the-side-of-the-road effort. So, I am sitting at work waiting for that to play out. Stupid transmission.

In other news, I've already broken my new Treo and I was hit in the head with rainwater in my own kitchen this morning. Today sucks.

*** AAMCO just called.
"Samantha, this is Kent with AAMCO. I have some kind of good news for you? I have checked everything on your motor and transmission and that all checks out good. The problem you're having seems to be with your front end. It looks like someone replaced your brake pads a while back, but they didn't replace your rotors. And your front end has these ball bearings that sit in the rotors. Your ball bearings are so wore out, that they're not round anymore. They're egg shaped. And that means they're not fitting correctly into the rotors, so everytime you move, it's not aligned and grinding in the front. I could just replace the bearings but they're so worn into the rotors that the right-shaped bearings wouldn't fit correctly in there anymore. So, I can just replace the bearings, rotors, and brake pads and you won't have to worry about your transmission."

So, the problem was that my front end was out of control. That makes the 2 hours of driving on the interstate in the dark and rain last night not scary at all. Good gravy. My car will be ready by 3. And that is the first good news I've had all day. Well, that and I didn't die driving down suicide hill this morning. Whew. ;)

Sittin', Waitin', Wishin'

My MCAT scores should come in this week. So everyday I do this Bataan death march to the mailbox, stick the key in the hole, and pray that they're not in there. And so far, I've been lucky. No scores. But they're bound to come sometime, so I'm trying to prepare myself. That means I've been spending a lot of time talking to Jesus...and mumbling to myself...and playing out every possible scenario.

• Getting above a 30 and immediately celebrating myself into a drunken stupor, killing all the brain cells that I'll no longer require for standardized testing.
• Getting a 29 and immediately slitting my wrists at the mailbox because I have a harder time rationalizing near-success than I do failure.
• Getting the same score I got last time and thinking back on all the nights I could have been out drinking, dancing, and enjoying my life rather than sitting and torturing myself with physics, chemistry, and biology.
• And for the love of God please no- doing worse than I did last time. This will be the worst possible outcome. Although really anything below a thirty is going to suck and pretty much guarantee that I become either a DO (which I'm kind of okay with), organ coordinator for the rest of my life (which I'm really not okay with), nurse (because I think I'd eventually try to go to nursing school but then I would actually have become my mother which takes us back to the wrist slashing scenario), or hobo (because I would definitely lose the will to pay rent, and trains are cool.)

During today's trip to the mailbox I contemplated intelligence. I've always been the "smart girl" in the class, but let's do some critical thinking here, people. I went to school in Alabama. If you can't shine by comparison in the state that is validated only by the existence of Mississippi, there's a problem. My high school took money that was meant to update textbooks from the 80's, and used it to purchase talking trash cans for the cafeteria. Were people not figuring out what to do with their disposable trays full of leftover concession stand nachos?! Was there an issue with the operation of an open garbage bag?! Honestly if that was the problem, talking trash cans weren't the answer. Shorter buses, perhaps.

So, I don't know what's going to happen. And I'm terrified. And for a while I was comforted by the whole, "I studied like crazy for that exam, so no matter what happens, I know I did my best." But when I really think about it, how is that comforting?!? If you did your best and you sucked, it means that the best you can do is really not much good to anyone. I guess this is how people break into the fast food industry.

The bedroom is alive...with the sound of music

"A miniature loudspeaker and motion sensor implanted in the condom’s upper cuff provides a range of musical tones during sex. Music volume depends on intensity of love-making and tone varies based on the sexual position."

Its name is Treo and it dances on the sand

Actually it doesn't.

It also doesn't:
1. Allow me to call anyone.
2. Turn on all the way? How is it that the PDA is on, but the phone is off? Ri-diculous.
3. Show everything on a website. It does me no good to see bits and pieces of a website. I need the whole thing.

So, I have this monstrosity of a cellphone/PDA. Which I shouldn't complain about because my work bought it, and pays the bill for it. But work doesn't have to carry that thing. They bought the Treo. And the accompanying car charger, headpiece thingie, and belt clip. Let me tell you something about the belt clip. You can clip a brick to your belt, but that doesn't make it any more convenient. You could put two Treos end to end (which is a position it ends up in on its swivel-belt-clip) and the Treos would cover my entire waist. They are ridiculously large. And heavy. I could clip it to my scrub pants, but not only would I look like a derelict, my pants would fall down.

Also, I'm pretty sure this thing will eventually cause my death. I was trying to dial a number from it yesterday, and walked straight into an oncoming gurney in an emergency room. Didn't even notice because I was too busy trying to dial with the stylus without hitting any number twice. You can have steady hands and this thing will make you wonder if all that alcohol really is doing something to your body. You're going to doubletap, and then the paranoia sets in. And if I don't end up walking into traffic while trying to make a call that, even when dialed, won't go through? I'm probably going to get mugged. Walking down the street with a giant piece of electronics and a stylus?! Tar-get.

So, I guess that if I read the manual, I might end up liking the Treo. But for now, it is a monumental pain in the neck. On the bright side, carrying the Treo is like carrying a really big rock. If someone does try to mess with me, at least I have something to chuck at them.

How to Charm Me

Try to bring me a sandwich....

from 1200 miles away.

How to Make Me Hate You

When something goes wrong, call and take responsibility for your actions. Actions that caused the problem and were yours and yours alone. Then in the same breath, lecture me on how I should have stopped that from happening and how I'll be named in the lawsuit right along with you.

Guess what? We use recorded lines. And I did everything right. So screw you buddy.

How to Tell I'm Sleepy

1. I am overly affectionate. Man I love eeeverybody when I'm tired. And I make sure they know it.

2. The music the answering service runs over the phone while I'm on hold makes me cry. Not because I'm on hold, but because I think the song is really beautiful. (I think this morning's selection may have been "Danny Boy." I don't really remember. Of course, I barely remember my own name right now, so it's not that shocking.)

3. I make appointments to see doctors I've been too terrified to go to. I hate going to the doctor and/or dentist. Especially the dentist. But I made an appointment. Because I'm punch drunk.

4. I crave sandwiches. Seriously. I would inhale a sandwich right now.

Sick and Tired

Today is my day off. I had plaaaans for my day off. Glorious plans. I was going to sleep in as long as humanly possible. And then I had a laundry list of things I'd been putting off. "I don't feel like driving all the way to the store (even though it's on my way home) so I'll just buy food Friday." Things of that nature. I was excited. I was going to wake up feeling rejuvenated, and then knock everything off the list. Instead, I feel like I'm going to die. And I can't sleep. Arg.

Last night I went out with one of my friends to "El Cazador." It has the distinction of being our favorite destination for margaritas. But it is certainly not the place to go if you feel like, I dunno, eating. So, I tried to spend the least amount of money possible, and play it safe. Most of their vegetarian options include spinach (which really isn't a no-no right now, but I didn't want to take any chances) so I just got a cheese quesadilla and some guacamole. Simple enough. Their cheese is pretty much some kind of congealed oil (blech), but after your second margarita, you kind of move past that. We ate, I got home, watched some television, all that jazz. Went to bed probably around 11, and by 1 the nightmare had begun.

No, really. I had this insane nightmare for the part of the night that I wasn't awake hurling my guts out. I was in Dodger stadium (I really want them to win the World Series, but it's probably not going to happen) watching a game, and Jim Carrey from "Dumb and Dumber" is sitting next to me. And he's staring at me, and I (as usual) smile at the creepy guy. And from that point on he thinks I'm his girlfriend. And he follows me around the ball park, and he tries to kiss me, and it's really creepy. Blech. So I was kind of relieved when I woke up. Not so relieved when I realized it was 4 in the morning and I was awake because I was sick. Soooo sick. And all I could think was "Is there spinach in guacamole? Do I have e. Coli? What's the incubation time for e. Coli? I know I have that in one of these books. Oh wait, no time to find book, too busy vomiting." It wasn't pretty.

After a couple hours, my stomach settled down. I felt like I was sore from having the crap beat out of me, instead of feeling like I was being actively used as a punching bag. Which was a step in the right direction. So, I decided to go back to sleep around 6 AM. La la la sleep, BAM. TAPPA TAPPA TAPPA. CRASH. ZING! (Well, there weren't any zings, but I thought it'd add a little flavor.) My new management company (who decreased my rent payment God bless them) has also decided to put a new roof over my head. Which is nice, since there is water damage in my apartment that the last company fixed by painting over. It's not so nice; however, when there are 20 dudes walking around, tap dancing, hammering, and laughing their asses off in Spanish above your head at 7 AM. Makes it awful hard to sleep in. Also, hard to laugh cause I don't speak Spanish. It's also nice that they've conveniently parked their little dumpster directly beneath my balcony. I can hear the crash of the shingles every two seconds, and I even have a few bonus shingles that have fallen onto my balcony to keep as souvenirs.

So, it's 10 AM. And I really want to sleep. But there's soo much noise. So, I should probably get up and work on the list. Arg. Stupid day off.

Don't Talk to Strangers

Leaving work, a large African-American woman (clad in a bright orange matching tank top and pants) held the door for me.

ME: "Thanks."
HER: "You're welcome."

And so began the most insanely awkward conversation of my life. My thoughts are in italics.
Further down the hall, she starts trying to tuck her bra strap under her tank.

HER: "I would wear a white bra with this orange tank top."
ME: "Haha." Why? Why do I have this insane need to smile and laugh at people?
HER: "I have an orange bra I could wear, but in the mornin' I ain't worryin' about no colors, you know?"
ME: "Sure. They're just lucky you wore one at all." In retrospect, I don't know why I said this. I guess I pretty much asked for what came next.
HER: "You know?!? Girl, if I was skinny as you I sure wouldn't be wearin' no bra. Back when I was skinny, I didn't wear no bra ever. But then I put this weight on, and they don't tell you but when you gain weight you gain it everywhere. I wish I didn't have these big ol' breasts, cause you gotta wear a bra all the time! They get all close to your body and make ya sweat!" This woman is telling me about her big sweaty breasts. Is this really happening?
ME: "That can't be comfortable." please go away please go away please go away
HER: "I'll tell you what, it's the first thing that comes off when I get home though! I walk through that door and snap snap, I let everything hang loose! I'd do it at work if I could. Sometimes in the winter I do...wear a nice big sweater, go into the bathroom and take that bra off. It's confinin'!"
ME: "Uh huh." Annnnnd, I just died a little inside.
HER: "Oh, I'm parked over here. All this talk, I'm probably gonna take this thing off soon as I get in the car!"
ME: "Okay! Bye."