in case you were wondering what i've been up to. . .

The clock keeps ticking. Today was supposed to be my official hire date at Meth Central Hospital, but unfortunately, they forgot that they are a union hospital, and are required by law to post a position in house for a full week before hiring or some such nonsense. Nonsense because the only Paramedics in house already work in the ER as paramedic techs. But laws be laws, and I want to follow the rules. . .I hope something happens soon, though, because I feel like I'm going to gnaw my appendages off from sheer boredom. To stave off losing a hand (that would be awfully messy, really, and would probably get infected), I decided to dye my hair. Yes, really. It was one of those temporary mousse thingies, and since I won't be working for a couple of weeks, I figured I'd go for broke and go burgundy. What I ended up with was a pink scalp and no hair color difference- my hair, apparently, likes the color it is, and is somewhat resistant to change.
The closest thing I've gotten to EMS lately is my son's bloody nose and my daughter's head injury that happened when I opened the front door and the knob connected solidly with her eye. Whoot whoot! There were definitely some tears, some screaming, the usual. Oh, wait-- there was also that minor episode of projectile vomiting when I picked her up from daycare. . . I think more mothers should be paramedics, really. We're already amply prepared for it. My former field training officer told me once he's a sympathetic puker. And he gets car sick in the back of the ambulance. I raised one eyebrow in wonder. . .I've caught vomit in my hands when nothing else was available to hold it, not to mention accidents out the other end. Bring it on, I say. At the age of two, my daughter walks into the bathroom in her little white nightgown, blood pouring out a gash in her forehead. She looks a lot like Carrie at the prom, covered in pig blood. But this is Miss Diva blood, and the bump on her forehead is amazing. She tells me her brother hit her with a train. She says she needs a bandaid. Bring it on. Blood, guts, goo. Chest pain, abdominal pain, itching, weakness, shock, general furking medical, I really don't care. I haven't started an IV in a month, and I'm getting so desperate I may just start practicing on myself. . .if I didn't pass out at the sight of needles aimed in my direction. Okay, okay, we all have our little weaknesses.

Random other things:
Was at the current interest's house visiting him last week when- lo and behold- (and those of you who know me and my Seabiscuit Syndrome will find this both amusing and typical) his ex-wife called. Wanting to get back together with him. And I say this: to those women who can't make up their furking minds: once you dumped him, he became fair game. Once he dumps you, he's fair game. Oh- and I should add this, because I have gotten crap about this from a few male friends' girlfriends: If you've got a problem with him being friends with women, you should probably address those issues in therapy instead of on my phone. On the other hand, if he can't keep his peepee in his pants, you don't want him anyway, and you should probably thank the women he cheated on you with. Ahem. I do apologize. I just wanted to clear that up. Reading my former training officer's EMS blog, I'm actually jealous. . .bone drill, RSI, dopamine drip, all in one day. I've gotten desperate. . .I hadn't realized just how ingrained EMS is in me until I started drooling when I heard sirens outside. I dug out a few EKG strips from my sock drawer, went through them like flash cards. I'm considering letting my children climb on the roof just so I can do a trauma assessment when they fall off. (And if you think I'm actually serious about that, you obviously do not know me very well. . .) Although perhaps I'll try to convince one of the gangstas on the corner to clean out their gutters instead- while it would be nice to have some peace and quiet around the house, it's much easier to ship the babes off to dads' houses than call 911 for a transport. And- quite frankly- the gangstas on the corner are pretty much a waste of space, and letting me practice trauma assessments would be their one contribution to the good of humanity. Although- to be fair- they do provide good entertainment- SWAT stakeouts, drive by shootings, cops swarming over the property, guns drawn; I'm waiting for a taser episode to happen soon- as a medic, I've seen (and cleaned up) the aftermath, but never watched it happen . . .My nightly prayer: please, do not let me become a product of my environment. I'm overly sensitive to crap overflowing from the garbage, the smell of cat urine, home hair-dye jobs, too much makeup, my children's dirty faces. There is a very, very thin line between poor and poor white trash. As I hang up the wet laundry (the dryer is broken, but I've left it in the garage instead of on the front lawn- that counts for something, right?), I think I'll be okay as long as I don't bleach my hair and start shooting meth. I've been so bored, lately, that I've considered starting smoking cigarettes again- until I walk by the overflowing butt can by my neighbor's door, which does so much for the ambiance of my white trash neighborhood. Super sexy.
Was recently discussing music with the son's daddy. We share a love of the good stuff. I dunno why it is that some music has it and some doesn't. Probably just like any other art, I guess- it's all about the soul. (Was talking to daughter's daddy about art, and he mentioned that he didn't really like photorealism in painting- if he wants to see what a tree looks like, he'll look at a photo. What he wants to see in art is the artist's interpretation of a tree. . .I concur!) Back to music and soul- for example: Everclear's "Welcome to the Drama Club" is, for all intents and purposes, a great album, but I just can't get into it. There doesn't seem to be much feeling behind it. 30 Seconds to Mars, on the other hand, has somehow managed to become my favorite music, and has lasted in my car stereo for far longer than just about anything else but a hip hop mix I made once.
Hopefully, with the tax refund this year, I'll be able to afford to move. Hallelujah! Can't hardly wait. . .even though I've done an awful lot to this place-- put in a sliding glass door, a stone path, a large flower garden. . .I want my kids to be able to play outside without worrying about stray bullets and broken glass.
For dinner tonight, we're having what my son euphemistically refers to as "pasta," but which is really homemade gluten-free mac and cheese. And the babes are screaming for it now. . .better go put on the mama hat again.