Wednesday, May 16, 2007Poor Persecuted Dear
You might have noticed that my post count has begun to creep back up. This job I'm currently working -- well, you know, there's not just a whole lot to do. Which isn't a complaint; it gives me plenty of time to study and ponder life's mysteries, and it's vastly better than slinging coleslaw. But I do find myself with some extra cycles.
The other thing is that the job has involved a lot of needles so far. I work at an organization that deals with lots of immuno-suppressed children, so avoiding exposure to contagious diseases -- especially childhood viruses, like chickenpox and measles -- is a big priority. And apparently they recently ramped up efforts in that direction, instituting a policy in which every new employee -- even low-level administratives like me, who never come into direct contact with patients -- have to demonstrate immunity to said childhood viruses. And in my case, that has meant blood tests. But it hasn't been that simple.
My veins run deep, and they are (I'm told) small and somewhat fragile. The upshot is that the first three times I got stuck, the nurse couldn't hit a vein. Another nurse made a fourth attempt, and hit, and filled two vials with blood -- but one of the tests came back inconclusive. So I had to go back again this morning for a fifth stick. And the nurse hit the vein again, except this time she hit it too well, probably went through the other side, and now my vein has blown out. A few minutes after I left the nurses, I looked down and the spot where she stuck me was swollen and stingy, puffed up with blood. So now I'm sitting here with a big ace bandage wrapped around my hand (the only place where they could find an accessible vein) and an ice bag balanced on top of that. Tomorrow I'll have a nice, big, ugly purple splotch.
So I haven't had the best luck with the needles so far. On the other hand, this job has involved more cake than any job I've ever had. Needles and cake, cake and blood, death or cake.
And everybody seems to be gunning for me lately. In the last week I've been nearly run over twice while crossing the street, almost fendered by another car in the parking garage, and today some fucking Arkansawyer in a pickup loaded down with stained mattresses and miscellaneous rusty metal stuff (not making that up) almost ran me off the damn road, changing lanes straight into me with no blinker and not the slightest notice of my frenzied honking. There was a cop fifty feet back with a clear view of the whole thing, watching me hit my brakes and swerve onto the shoulder. I was hoping for a little sweet vindication, but... nothing.
Oh well. Maybe somebody will offer me some cake soon. In the meantime, I can enjoy a little vicarious satisfaction in this: "Protestors Dance on Grave For Anti-Falwell Memorial". No, it won't win them any admirers, but seriously... who can blame them? It's probably the best excuse for dancing San Francisco's GLBT community has ever had -- as if they needed an excuse.
PS: Falwell's dead, and Larry Flynt is still wheeling his ass around. I wonder what heavenly message Pat Robertson will divine from that? Does anybody have a link to that old "first time in the woodshed" ad from Hustler?
PPS: Ah, here it is. I knew somebody would dig it up. |