If You Can't Run With the Big Dogs, Stay on the Porch!

Today went beyond ridiculous. I have carpal tunnel from flicking between The Weather Channel and MSNBC. My thumb hurts. I am somewhat worried. If Mareseatoats would call to tell me she is getting the hell out of Houston, I'll feel better. I'm also highly amused by the pot calling the kettle black politics. Miss Piggy is probably fuming with all this slanderous talk about pigs.


This little piggy picture was found by googling lipstick on a pig in google images. It's from May, 2008. Did she run crying foul in response to this? I don't really recall her doing that when this politician had this to say about her:



It's time for Sarah Palin to put her big girl panties on and quit whining about how the democrats are smearing her good name.

If you want someone to crucify for this, go after Torie Clarke. It's her fault for coining this dumb phrase. Her book ,is the root of this idiocy (look at her bio-if you dare). As for McCain's camp crying foul, what's good for the goose should be good for the gander. OK, I'm almost to the end of this exhaustive post. After this, it'll be all knitting, all the time here at The Knitting Nurse's house and you won't have to look at anymore pictures of dolled up pigs. At the least, I'll try hard to stay apolitical. I can't promise it'll work, but I'll try.

This Day in History

This day in 1981 began with me going into labor with my first child. I suspect, as with any expectant mom, it's hard to recall anything else that may have occurred during the time of pregnancy. It's possibly the most self absorbed period of time of any mother's life. When pressed though, I can recall a few things of import from the year of her birth.

J.R.R. Tolkien

I had a big fat tomcat named Tom Bombadil. Years before my daughter was born, I'd fallen hard for the written words of J.R.R. Tolkien. So hard, I named my cat for one of my favorite characters. Bombadil, with a name like that, was a cool cat. To this day, I will read and reread any Tolkien book.


I was reading the bestseller, The Bourne Identity, that had just been released. Hard cover books were very dear in price but somehow, I managed to buy this one. I was about half way through this very wordy book when I went into labor. It was another year before I finished it; someone else kept me occupied and entertained that year.


Prince Charles married Diana Spencer about a month before the birth of my very own princess. It was very romantic. I remember being glued to the television to watch it happening live. The only other wedding that year that could compare, was Luke and Laura's wedding on General Hospital. Laura looked like a princess too. I know deep in my heart, I loved Luke as much as Laura did.


I had a few nighttime shows I liked to watch. I was enthralled with the characters on Dynasty. I thought Krystle was a little too whiny and much preferred the dastardly deeds of Alexis. Alexis also had the best clothes. All of them had big shoulder pads and bigger hair. Dallas was a close second for my favorite TV shows that year and I never missed an episode of MASH. I think I still love Hawkeye Pierce but I didn't care too much for Blake.


I was not so secretly in love with Harrison Ford. After the release of Raiders of the Lost Ark in June of 1981, the deal was sealed. I continue a seemingly life long infatuation where this man is concerned. I know for a fact, a lot of women felt the same way about this man as I do did. And, I'm not so sure that Callista what's her name deserves this man.

I also loved this song:



So much so, I used that name when choosing what best fit the beauty lying in my arms.

Even though the labor pains are a very foggy memory, I should give myself a bit more credit for what I really recall from 27 years ago. What I remember most is the stupendous joy and my first real experience of unconditional love. I was astonished by the way she made me feel. Thank you for being the best daughter a mom could ask for Sebba. Happy birthday.

Three

Three is a significant number. In mathematics, it is the first odd prime number, a number divisible by one and itself. It's also the fourth number (0 is first) in the Fibonacci sequence, a number that is the sum of it's two preceding numbers (the first two numbers are 0 and 1, add 0 +1=1, 1+1=2, 2+1=3, 3+2=5, and so on.) The most interesting way I know to use this mathematical sequence is by knitting the Fibonacci scarf. Patterns that utilize this sequence are aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Designers use Fibonacci and so do architects. A Fibonacci sequence was a key part of the book The Da Vinci Code proving that authors can also be clever with this concept.

Nature's clever use of Fibonacci. A perfect spiral.

Things in nature often come in threes. In science, the three parts to an atom are the proton, neutron and electron. Sheesh, I promise this isn't a science lecture. If you look up in the winter sky at night (best visible October through January), you'll see that Orion's belt has three stars. The genus Homo has 3 species, the homo habilis, homo erectus and homo sapien (that would be us humans.) There are also 3 types of primates including prosimians, monkeys and apes. My husband likes gorillas. He has been to the Detroit Zoo three times this month in an attempt to actually see gorillas at the zoo. I think he was convinced that there weren't any at all and that their natural habitat exhibit was really a sham. It wasn't until his third visit that he actually saw the gorillas. This proves that three is indeed a lucky number. Depending on the source, three is either the first lucky number, or the second.

Orion's Belt

Three represents the number of patients I admitted last night. It takes me about 3 hours to admit a patient if the whole thing goes without a glitch (patient is comfortable, doctor calls back promptly, family is receptive and calm.) If you've been polishing your math skills while reading this, here is an equation for you:

3 x 3=_____ + 2 =_____+ 1 =_____= Rudee's night. Not surprisingly, the answer is divisible by three. Mixed in between these admissions were multiple, and I mean multiple calls for problems. Things like, "oh, I didn't notice but I'm all out of my prescription and the pharmacy is closed." Uh, OK. I'll get right on that. I had to pull a rabbit out of the hat on that one, but I did get a script called in THREE minutes before another pharmacy closed. Lucky number three.

Three is also the atomic number for lithium. I wish one of the people I visited last night had a little of that on hand. Hell, I wish I did for that matter. Three is the number of hours it is going to take me to finish charting on the admissions I did last night. After I finish this, I officially begin my three day weekend. Three days of doing NOTHING. I don't go back to work until THREE on Tuesday.

ETA: three is also the number of times I edited this post after I published it. Four if you include this note.

Nothing

As I was out running errands today, I passed by the local high school band out raising money by washing cars for donations. Even though they wake me up every morning in August with loud band practice, I hold no ill will towards the members of the band. Not much anyway. I could hold my breath and walk to the high school. On the mornings they practice, I've considered trying to see if I could spit and reach anyone. They still pretty much suck right now. In another week, I may be able to open the windows and listen to them and the birds at the butt crack of dawn. If I'd had a camera, I'd have shown you a picture of the students washing the local fire truck. Instead, you'll have to use your imagination since SOMEBODY has "borrowed" my camera.



Well, I won't argue with Buddha, will you? This is same sort of wisdom Mom used to use. "Just because everyone else is jumping off the bridge, doesn't mean you have to join them." Thanks Mom. That little nugget came in handy on more than one occasion and I never once had a desire to jump off any bridges. I did plenty of other bad sh*t, but never jumped off a bridge.



Although this looks like desert, it sort of reminds me of my drives through Pennsylvania. There is not a damn thing to do on that turnpike-except speed. Mind boggling, butt numbing nothingness. I was missing Virginia today until I remembered my last drive on the turnpike.



I worked so hard all week and was looking forward to nothing. Nothing to do and nowhere to go. My wish has been granted and right at this moment, I'm bored out of my ever-lovin' mind. I'm so bored, I've been over at this place wasting time. Let me just say I'm sorry in advance.

If that doesn't suit your fancy, even if I don't know why, maybe this will. I watched this movie again and I always laugh my ass off during this scene:



There's something to be said for doing nothing all day.

True Confession: I don't like eggs.

Really. If it were up to me, I'd live without eggs. I don't like the flavor of them and I don't care too much for the look of them once cracked open. I can taste them no matter how you try to mask them in a dish. I know when an egg is inside. Eggy cookie dough? Ick. Same thing for egg drop soup. Egg salad sandwich? Oh my; no way! I don't care how much mustard you put in a deviled egg, I won't eat it. Egg whites are so slimy, I just can't get past those either. I never used to be like this. I used to enjoy eggs just like everyone else. I can't stand them anymore.

This isn't good, particularly when it comes to one of my favorite comfort foods on the planet: rice pudding. For years, I've played around trying to get rice pudding I think is perfect. It can't have eggs and it can't have raisins. There aren't too many recipes out there that don't have the incredible binding power of the egg. I've found the secret though. It's in the rice. Starchy, beautiful rice. Specifically, arborio rice.

Here is my recipe for creamy rice pudding.

In a stainless steel pan or the top of a double boiler combine the following:

1 1/2 cups arborio rice (any other rice will yield only rice soup)

12 cups (yes twelve) whole milk-this is dessert so whole milk is OK!!!

1 cup of sugar (whole milk is sweet enough)

1/2 teaspoon of salt

1 vanilla bean sliced lengthwise and scraped. Put scrapings in the pan along with both sides of the bean. (if you don't have a vanilla bean, you can put 1 tablespoon of real vanilla extract in but don't add it until you're done cooking. It's better with vanilla beans. If you're feeling adventurous, instead of vanilla, put a tablespoon of rose water in at the end of cooking for a totally different and surprising flavor. If you need rosewater, just go to any Arabic food store and you'll find it there.)

Turn on the heat and bring to boiling, cover and reduce heat to a simmer, stirring every 10-15 minutes (a labor of love) for an hour and a half. Remove the vanilla bean and pour rice mixture into a bowl. It'll be soupy but I promise, it'll set up. Lay plastic wrap directly on the rice so it doesn't form a skin. Refrigerate until icy cold.

When serving, drizzle with honey and crushed pistachio nuts or walnuts.

It's heavenly, trust me. And not an egg in sight.

Knitter Down

Today is my best friend's birthday. I've been knitting like a fiend to finish what I started for her. A fiend. Since last Saturday, I've knit a sock and a half and now, I'm sitting here writing this one handed with an ice pack on my left hand.

I can't believe I have tendonitis. In my left hand. In the thumb joint where the thumb meets the hand. It's exquisitely tender. The onset was so abrupt that I was taken by complete surprise. I was fine and then I wasn't. It seems like an odd spot for a knitting related injury since all my left hand does is hold the needles. I use my right hand to knit. Well, I obviously use both because knitting would be near impossible one handed. As I've discovered.

This is where the injury resides. Just remove the pencil and insert a US size 2 knitting needle.

This is the Finklestein test for a particular type of thumb tendonitis. I think Finklestein was a sadist. And yes, I have a positive test. I think if there was audio to go with the video in that link, you may get a better idea of how painful this condition is right now.

I feel badly, but Fanette is going to get one sock for her gift today. Unfortunately, she has two feet and I have one sock completely done and the second is waiting to have the gusset stitches picked up. I wanted to start the project I bought the Seduce yarn for too and it looks like that will be on hold for awhile. At the very least, I wanted to swatch for that.

I've started my low tech healing process and I hope it hastens my recovery. I'm taking an anti-inflammatory medication around the clock. Once an hour, I go to the freezer and take out the bag of peas. I apply the bag to my thumb and let it sit until the peas thaw. I put the peas back in the freezer and wait for them to get icy cold again and repeat. I need to get an immobilizer to rest my thumb and my knitting needles are idle. Sniff.

What is up with people?

Twice this past week, I've driven to downtown Detroit to go out for dinner. I'm two for two with road closure of a major artery into the city. There isn't any warning. It's four lanes and then no lanes and one is forced into exiting the freeway-with thousands of others and all at the same time. The first time, roads were closed for placing barrels which are used to decorate the landscape (I never see road crews out.) Tonight's closure appeared to be for a very serious accident.


The problem with this type of traffic jam is that people seem to lose their manners, if they even had them to begin with, turning this mess into a free for all. There were people jumping lines, racing up the shoulders and forcing their cars ahead of other, more patient drivers. I swear, it was like a demolition derby. I was also in close confines with a person who abhors traffic jams and takes them all as personal affronts. I heard more swear words tonight than I think I've heard this entire year. After what seemed like forever, we finally got creative and got off the freeway by driving up the on ramp. We'd still be in traffic if we hadn't gotten creative and done our share of partaking in the melee. By this time, it had taken us 1 hour to negotiate a quarter of a mile.

When we left the restaurant, the southbound portion of that road was still closed and backed up for miles. Now, more than 4 hours after this accident, shouldn't they have closed the whole damn road down? Maybe it's a Detroit thang.

In Pursuit of the Maillot Jaune

AKA, Men in Lycra

"Ready, for an arduous ride into treacherous territory."

Phil Liggett

By now, everyone should know I'm a leg girl. 

 I also have a thing for the color blue.  Light blue.

Green isn't so bad either.

.

I think my eyes have been assaulted.  Definitely TMI.  

I prefer a little more lycra than this-a little something for the imagination.

Question of the day:  what is a domestique in the cycling world? 

Here is a picture of some.  I wish I had domestic help that looked like this. 

Yellow is such a happy color. In this competition, it is also the color the winner wears.  Hence, the title of this post.

The domestiques of team Garmin-Chipotle.  Do you think they have a built in Garmin-Nuvi mounted on their cycles?  Do they keep food from Chipotles' under their helmets?  Since Garmin comes first in their team name, did Garmin pay more for the honors?  They look pretty good in lycra.  I like their white and light blue outfits the best.  I'm not so crazy about the one with too much argyle; a little argyle goes a long way.  Click on the link above and tell me what you think.  Does he have legs, or what?  I'll tell you one thing, I am not erasing the Stage IV time trials from my DVR for quite awhile.  Whew.  Is it warm in here, or is it just me?

Viva le tour!

You Can't Always Get What You Want

Inquiring minds want to know:

What is up with shoe sales personnel? If a shoe I ask to see is not available in a size 10 medium width, why does the salesperson bring a 9 wide and tell me it may work? Does added width make the length of my foot shorter? I think not, but this has happened enough to make me wonder what the hell is wrong with them. I'm also curious why they bring out stilettos when I tell them I can't wear heels. Are they deaf?

While I'm in the attire department here, do designers really think I'm all that foolish? I wear a size 10-10-10-10-10. I do not wear a 6. Ever. Sometimes, a 10 is tight and I wear a 12. So, when I enter a store and find myself swimming in every size 10 they have, do they think I'm dumb enough to think a miracle has occurred overnight and I've gone down an entire clothing size or two? I think they do. I think that they think I'll buy that size 8 just to know I can fit my behind into it. I did in fact do just that the other day. I'm still telling myself I bought what I did because I liked the clothes-size had nothing to do with it.


If I am out eating Asian food and I select a Szechuan dish, does waitstaff think I don't know what the pepper symbol next to the menu description means? If there is more than one pepper, I think I know it means it's spicy.


I don't need to be told 3 times before they place the order that it's spicy. I get it. That may be why I'm ordering it. And I may even order it if there are three little pepper symbols too. Some like it hot.

And this just in from the Department of Redundancy Department: I was fingerprinted for my new job today. That was a new experience for me. I've had two fingers scanned by the drug computer at work, but never all ten digits. As Tony was printing me today, he told me he had heard the state would soon be requiring us to do this annually. Is that not beyond the dumbest thing you've heard? Will my fingerprints change in a year? I guess I could have traumatic bilateral hand amputations that would require hand transplants. That could necessitate re-printing if I was lucky enough to still be working after such an accident. Still, that's $40 a pop for employers that have staff that enter peoples homes. Not just nurses but EMTs, cops, firefighters, nurse assistants, physical, occupational and speech therapists, social workers, etc. You get the picture. What a waste. I'd like to know which numbskull in Lansing dreamt this one up.

Oh yes, it did not escape me that this entire fingerprinting exercise was a huge invasion of my privacy. Hello big brother-my name is Rudee. I will now be in the FBI's computer data base of known fingerprints. Maybe that can help identify my own hands after the traumatic amputation. What's next? A little spit?

What's In a Name?

When I named all three of my children, I researched their names. Not hard mind you, but I did look into their meanings none the less. My oldest was given a Hebrew name. She was really named by Hall and Oates. I always had a thing for them and named her after one of their songs. According to wiki, her name indicates a woman of high rank, and is sometimes translated as "princess" or goddess, or "high holy one". I didn't know it at the time, but she was really well named. I don't think she'd disagree.

My son's name means strong and is of Celtic origin. My youngest daughter's name is also Hebrew and means, lamb of God. If that isn't a prescient accomplishment in naming someone, I don't know what is. At least I was more original than George Foreman who named 6 of his 10 children some variation of George.

My sister and I were named on the spot at the hospital and under duress. She was named after a famous movie starlet and I was named after my father's favorite book in the bible. My father put his foot down when it came to his mother in law for it seems she wanted both of her granddaughters to be named after her side of the family (Belgian.) We would have been Irma or Matilda if he hadn't named us first (not that there is anything wrong with those names-I just don't think he wanted daily reminders of his MIL.)

This naming business has been on my mind since yesterday. It's come to my attention that my new boss over at hospice told everyone at a staff meeting that Lucy from the ICU I work in would be the newest member of their staff. Now, I know most of these colleagues from frequent run-ins at work. It shouldn't come as a surprise that ICU's utilize hospice. A lot. My new coworkers were perplexed because they didn't know any nurses from my hospital named Lucy. When the error came to light, these women made a solemn oath to call me Lucy from that point on.

Since this is my new name, what does it mean? According to my source (thanks wiki), it's Latin and means light. I like that. Is that as in I've seen the light? I really like it.

St. Lucy is the patron saint of eye conditions. Just last week, I bought a new pair of readers and two pair of sunglasses, one an Rx and one plain. How fitting. This picture is a bit freakish with the eyeball thing going on.


Here are some other famous women named Lucy (I may be in good company here):

Lucille Ball

Lucy Liu

Lucy Lawless

Lucy van Pelt

Lucy Burns (she was a suffragette and we probably owe her our gratitude.)


I knew that in taking this new job, I was in for some badly needed changes. I'm embracing them all, including the new name. By the way, Lucille Ball was a stunningly beautiful woman in a way I Love Lucy never really showcased.

From the Dark Side

When I was little, I used to read the funnies everyday. Today, I don't get a news "paper," but instead get most of my news from the radio (only if I'm listening to a news station which is rare) or from the internet. I don't read the funny pages anymore but prefer a somewhat darker humor.

I've written before that I hate the fear mongering news and avoid it at all costs. Today, while waiting to hear a weather update, I heard the following stories and just want to share the what I heard on my drive home from work:

From the Associated Press, we have this story fresh from the bottom of the gene pool:

MOBILE, Ala. -- Joshua Mullen just wanted to kill the bees swarming around his utility shed. When Mullen, 26, walked away from the gasoline-soaked towels he was using, he heard a "whoosh" and turned around to see the shed in flames that spread to his rented home and wound up causing some $80,000 in damage. "There were no injuries, unless you count the bees," Mobile Fire-Rescue spokesman Steve Huffman said. Huffman said the fire appears to have started when the pilot light of a hot-water heater in the shed ignited fumes from the gas.



Swimming right along in the shallow end of the gene pool, we have some Detroit thieves who tried to steal Jesus. This is what the Detroit News said about this tragedy:

DETROIT -- Church of the Messiah members repaired copper pipes damaged by thieves and replaced aluminum gutters stolen over the past few months. But the theft of a statue of Jesus nailed to the cross from the east side Detroit church is harder to accept. "It's priceless to our church. I don't know how valuable it could have been to any thief," member Donya Ray-Gregg said Wednesday afternoon of the statue, which is at least the age of the 107-year-old church.

Church of the Messiah leaders believe the answer is in the look of the plaster statue. Ray-Gregg said it was green, resembling "tarnished copper."

Now, I think this is really bad when people steal Jesus right off the cross to make a buck. What's really pathetic is what the rest of the world must think about this. When I googled the following detroit thieves steal plaster jesus, look what came up. I had to scroll half way down the page to get a local perspective of the story. The first option was from CHINA!!! (Like they have room to talk!)

When Jesus' hand fell off, his plaster innards must have been exposed and the thieves abandoned him behind some bushes. Here is a picture of the minister with the amputated appendage. Hasn't Jesus been through enough?


Can you possibly stand one more story from the (obviously crowded) shallow end? It would seem this handsome fellow, doesn't like the sketch the courtroom artist did of him. Specifically, he doesn't like the nose. WTF? Do we give two shits?

USA TODAY's Alan Gomez reports that Khalid Sheikh Mohammed raised an unusual objection during today's proceedings at Gitmo: the courtroom artists' rendering of his nose.

You can click to read this story. I couldn't make this BS up if I tried.

He also said he doesn't fear the death penalty as he would become a martyr. Isn't this moron's 15 minutes up yet? I think tomorrow, the artist should show him a sketch of this:

Meet Achmed

My Poor Back

I don't talk about my back much. At least I don't on this site. My family hears about it (and sees it) pretty much on a daily basis. The truth of the matter is I live with chronic back pain. I don't take many drugs to help me out with this as I prefer to stay clear headed. Instead, I meet the pain head on and do stretches, yoga exercises and when really bad, I go to my chiropractor.

There are two women who run the chiropractic office I go to. Both are good and have different ways of getting the job done. It's Dr. Maria I dread seeing when I drop in unscheduled, but she will stretch the living daylights out of me. This deep stretching business, beyond what I can do by myself, is what helps the most. Deep heat and electrical stimulation are beneficial as well.


This past weekend, my patient workload was 557 pounds (divide by 2.) One was on a continually rotating bed which was a Godsend, the other required frequent manual turns. Patients like these are the reason I can't do my job anymore. I am 100% convinced that this backbreaking workload and chronic pain have worn my psyche to the core. In one article I read in the American Journal of Critical Care, according to OSHA recommendations, I shouldn't be lifting so much by myself. In fact, 46 pounds should be my limit. OSHA also says the following to try to prevent back injury:

"A reduction in the size or weight of the object lifted. The parameters include maximum allowable weights for a given set of task requirements; the compactness of a package; the presence of handles, and the stability of the package being handled."

I've never had a patient come complete with handles (we aren't talking love handles here) or conveniently weighing only 46 pounds. I don't work in peds but I don't think they come with handles either. Although other areas of the hospital have lifts, our ICU does not. The lifts in our unit are human. My, but isn't this patient pictured here cooperative? Not reality.

Yesterday wasn't a bad day for my back but today, I could hardly roll out of bed. I couldn't do it without stretching first and then I had to apply my tens unit (I obviously need to see Dr. Maria today.) This seems to be how it goes for me. After a couple of days of work, on my second day off, I will be brought low by excruciating pain. I measure the injury by where I feel the pain. If it's centrally located in the middle of my lumbar back, I've overdone it a wee bit. If I feel aching deep in my left gluteus most maximus, I'm heading toward trouble. If I feel it behind my left knee, I've been an idiot.

Nothing, nothing was like the initial few weeks of this insult 3 years ago. I felt pain in my toes. It was weeks before I had the MRI that diagnosed my problem: herniation of L4 to L5 and L5 to S1 and piriformis syndrome. This explained why I had a throbbing toothache-like pain in my toes. It was weeks before I could sit on a soft surface. I would work a full shift and never sit down (since I was training a new nurse, all I did was teach and supervise; she did the backbreaking work.) When at home, I sat on the hardwood floor or had family drag a kitchen chair in front of the television for me. It was a celebratory day when I could finally place my ass on a balance ball and sit there. It was even better when I could once again do a back-bend over said ball.

Nowadays, I try very hard to listen to my back when it starts squawking at me. It's a bit hard to listen when I'm at work and responsible for lifting, turning and repositioning objects that weigh more than 46 pounds and have no handles. Five more shifts and this will end.