Odd dreams and odd thoughts

I had a dream a couple of weeks ago in which I had finally met and fallen in love with my "soul-mate," and he felt the same way. We were spending time together and in the dream we were ecstatically happy. Then I woke up, still divorced, still without a Saturday night date, and no soul-mate in sight. I was terribly disappointed, but I did think it was better than the dream in which one of my patients went "Code Blue,"* and I went to get the crash cart* and found that the defibrillator* was missing--one of those ICU nurse neurotic dreams, I suppose.

* For the medically unaware:
Code Blue: when a patient's heart stops
Crash cart: the thing that holds all of the emergency medications and equipment
Defibrillator: the thingy with the paddles that restarts a patient's heart.

Anyway, two nights ago, I dreamed that I was lying on my back on a hillside in a beautiful forest, in a passionate embrace with this man. Once again, I was so happy in my dream, believing that I had found the perfect man for me. I woke up to find one of my cats sleeping on my chest. That wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind in my dreams!!

Anyone reading this must wonder if I am unhappy or lonely. Far from it. But I have commented before on the difficulty in finding someone compatible. And since I work in a rather unique urban environment, my usual joke is that the men who flirt with me are usually either homeless, over eighty years old, or have prison records.*

*Not the staff members, the patients. Just thought I should clear that up.

Anyway, I am really not sure what these dreams meant, other than to frustrate me. :) I certainly don't believe in the concept of "soul-mates," I think that belief is antithetical to the concept of free will. I just can't believe that the Creator would plan everything out that way before we are all born: okay, Jack goes with Mary, Steve goes with Sue, etc.

But I am starting to wonder if I do have a soul mate and he accidentally got stuck on Iceland or something. Hm. I thought I would have more to say about this but that's about it.

Lost neighbors

I am lucky to live in one of those "everyone knows everyone" types of neighborhoods. Many of my neighbors have lived here for 50+ years, and raised their children here. Others are here still raising their kids, so it's a nice mix of people. Anyway, I ran into my next-door neighbor last night, as I was shovelling snow. Since we hadn't seen each other in awhile, we started talking.

He mentioned a house a little down the street from me, and asked if I had noticed the furniture piled outside. I'd noticed it just after Christmas, and assumed that whoever lived there had gotten a new living room set or something, and was throwing the old stuff away (this was one of the few close neighbors that I have that I don't at least know by sight or first name).

Anyway, my neighbor told me what happened: the people who had lived there had gotten evicted for not paying their property taxes, and someone else had bought the house for the unpaid tax money. My neighbor said that the family had a "heap of cats" and now one (at least) of the cats is running loose in the neighborhood. Luckily for the cat, another neighbor has taken to feeding the cat and putting out a little shelter for him.

My next-door neighbor also said that there had been someone in the house who had been bedridden for quite some time, and family members had been taking care of her. Since I used to work as a community health nurse, as well as a housing advocate, I can be pretty sure that in this case, the local Protective Services would have been contacted, and at least the bedridden woman would have shelter.

But it really saddened me to know that this had happened, and I'd had no idea about it. When I was a housing advocate, the tax laws changed in The Mitten, and many people were suddenly faced with paying extra taxes. I took calls for months from people who needed help with their taxes. Some of the people had just been careless with their money and were suddenly in a panic. But others--too many others--were people who were struggling through life in some way: with a disability, with working multiple jobs just to put food on the table, with gargantuan medical bills, etc.

Even the people in the local counties that I worked with were overwhelmed. As one county treasurer put it, "We do NOT want to become landowners!" Everyone who was involved in this worked very hard to help people to keep their homes. Since I am now living in a much more populated county that I had been in at the time, I can only guess that the people here couldn't have received the kind of individualized attention that some of the people that I'd worked with had received. But still a part of me wonders if I could have helped this family had I known what was happening. I know I can't save everyone, but it really bothers me that this happened right down the street from me.

And of course the wider issue, to me, is: how many others are facing the loss of their homes, or electricity/gas shutoff, or hunger, because they can't pay their bills? I know that there area houses for sale, not only in my own little area, but all across the Mitten. I also know that many of these homes have been on the market for months, even over a year, and the "for sale" signs are still there. This in combination with all of the layoffs and "downsizing" really make me wonder how many people out there are in a desperate situation.

I am lucky to be a registered nurse, as the forcasted demand for nurses is only going to increase in the coming years. But I can't help thinking about all of the other people, many who are highly educated (especially in the engineering and tech fields) who are suddenly looking for work. I certainly don't know what the answer to all of this is, since much of the work industry in this area is changing and I don't think it will improve in the short term, but sometimes it just makes me feel helpless...

...and thankful for what I have: a nice home, good friends, healthy parents and relatives, and a little money in the bank.

Lockout and lookalikes

Okay, I am suddenly locked out of my favorite poetry site, "Poetry Free-For-All." I keep that site as my home page, and I brought it up yesterday, and suddenly, I wasn't signed in. Since I keep myself "signed in" all the time, I have long ago forgotten my password. I clicked on the link that sent a message to the site managers, and got a reply via email, with a link where I could reset my password. Every time I clicked on the link, my email program froze up and I had to do the whole "end program" thing. UGH!!!

Anyway, I worked overtime yesterday and have to go back to work today, so my brain is feeling a little foggy this morning. The other day, I had a patient who asked me whether anyone has looked at me and said "Helloooo, Clarisse," like Anthony Hopkins in "Silence of the Lambs." I thought a minute, and told him that no, I couldn't recall that ever happening to me. He said that I reminded him of Jodie Foster's character in that movie, because I had a "serious air" about me that reminded me of her.

Well, I thought, it has to be her mannerisms that remind him of Jodie Foster because I can't think that I actually have a resemblence to her, other than the fact that we're both female. I especially thought of her long, perfectly straight hair, and the fact that my hair is short and curly and sometimes, by the end of a long shift, it can begin to look as though it was attacked by a pack of wild dogs.

Which reminds me of the time that the Lord of the Rings movies came out and I had several people telling me that I looked like Frodo (dark curly hair and blue eyes). I kept thinking to myself, "Yep, hobbit, that's the look I was going for..." Maybe I should sign up for that show on one of the cable channels, "What not to Wear." I can see it now: "Hi, my name is Willow, and apparently I look like a cross between an FBI agent and a hobbit. Could you please help me?"

Great Literature, Illicit Drugs, and Ice Cream

I browsed through my neglected emails before starting to write this morning, and found that one of my friends had posted a discussion of what she was reading and watching (in the way of movies) to our writer's group. She talked about Jane Austen, Louisa May Alcott, and other writers. She also spoke of seeing "Sense and Sensibility" for the first time the other day. She wanted to know what the rest of us were reading/watching.

I thought of the irony of my recent selections: I already mentioned watching The A Team, but my friend's post had come at a time when the night before, I had just received my first issue of "Critical Care Nursing 2007" and was browsing through it and came across an article on crystal meth. My immediate reaction was, "Cool! an article on crystal meth! I've been wanting to learn more about this drug!" A rather far cry from Jane Austen and other great English literature, but I yam what I yam, as Popeye said.

Anyway, my interest in crystal meth was not morbid, since I work in the ICU of a large metropolitan hospital and I see a rather significant number of people who are on drugs, or who have landed themselves in the hospital for drug or alcohol-related health issues. I figured I'd better know how to care for a meth user if I came across one on my unit.

You know, I can understand addiction to a certain extent, and I won't judge anyone for medicating whatever pain they may be in by the use of alcohol or illicit drugs. Many of the addicts who I have met have managed to survive some extremely tough life experiences, and I can't honestly say that if I'd had some of their experiences, I wouldn't be prone to trying drugs or falling into a bottle, so to speak. But I truly don't understand the fascination with crystal meth. Not only does it (this is rather simplified) pretty much knock out the pleasure centers in the brain, leaving the chronic meth user in a state of depression or psychosis, but one of the components is battery acid. Another component, depending on how it is made, is anhydrous ammonia (apparently it is commonly found in fertilizer). It's as if someone went out into their garage one day, looked at all of the toxic junk stored out on his/her shelves, and thought, "I could make a drug out of this."

Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox now. One of the movies that my friend mentioned was called "Truly, Madly, Deeply," and that she wanted to see it, but it was out of print. Which reminds me of a guy that I had dated for a (mercifully) short time. I am one of those people who tries to give a guy several chances before I decide that he is really a kook/weirdo/not meant for me, etc. This was one of those guys. Now I have to say that I am 42 years old and divorced, and I have been on some dates with men that make me realize "there's a reason this guy isn't married." But I digress, a bit.

So this guy came over to my place one time, and brought what he described as his favorite movie that he wanted to share with me: "Truly, Madly, Deeply." He also brought some ice cream to share (without checking with me, since it was a flavor I couldn't stand). So anyway, we were watching what I considered to be an over-the-top, boring, sentimental love story that he was extremely enthusiastic about. At one point in the movie, I almost turned to him and said, "So when do people start getting into fistfights, and when does stuff start getting blown up?" But I decided I'd be polite and keep my opinion to myself. When the movie was over, I gave it one of those "Thanks for sharing" unenthusiastic comments, and the date ended, and the guy left--without his ice cream.

It was only a date or two later that I decided that this guy was in one of the above categories that caused me to break up with him (I will let the reader guess which category I placed him in). When I told him I didn't want to see him anymore, he actually asked for his ice cream back! Like that was the most important thing in the breakup. I think the only time I was more shocked upon hearing what someone said to me was when I received a call from a recently-fired member of the staff at the place I was working at the time: She told me that she was going for a drug test for her next job and asked me if I knew whether drinking pickle juice would cover up the drugs in her system. Looks like I made the right decision on the guy, and the managers made the right decision about the employee. Yikes.

On a more literary note, I am currently reading Mary Oliver's "Rules for the Dance," a guide to metrical poetry, and Garrison Keillor's "Good Poems." But I also got excited to hear on CNN that someone is making a movie about the Marvel Comic character, "Iron Man." He really isn't my favorite superhero, but hey, a movie about a Marvel Comic character is at least worth checking out!

With apologies, to Mom, Ice-T, and Coco

While looking in my journals and reviewing what I've published on my blog, I found that I have written quite a few pieces that include fictional characters or famous people. I decided that it probably means that either 1. I need to get out more, or 2. I missed my calling as some sort of celebrity commentator or movie reviewer. I'm not willing to dwell on theory #1, but I thought I'd share one of my (hopefully) less political commentaries. This will be a "re-run" for some of you....

One night, I saw this show called “Awesomely Bad Fashion Moments.” Among the prizewinners in this show was Ice-T’s wife, Coco. They were at some awards ceremony, and she was basically wearing a large black fishnet stocking over underpants, and shoes. No bra, nothing else to hide her body. And yes, her nipples (which were “discreetly” covered by the television show with large green blotches) were on display for all the awards shows attendees to see. Coco One and Coco Two, coming at ya! My conservative mother rose up inside of me. Oh-my-God, what would possess someone to put herself on display like that? And that platinum –blonde hair—how tacky! I was embarrassed for her, and also for Ice-T, who dared to be seen with her—to “let” his wife go out dressed like some sort of fishnet dominatrix, AND show her nipples in PUBLIC! For the record, Ice-T didn’t seem to mind the attention one bit. Anyway…

Suddenly, I remembered John Ashcroft. My mind whipped back to about four years ago, to a story that John Ashcroft actually spent $8,000 of the taxpayers’ money to have the female statues in the Hall of Justice draped: so their naked boobs didn’t show. Now, I am reluctant to admit that I share any commonality with John Ashcroft beyond the fact that we are both carbon-based life forms. So it irritated me to no end that I was having a “John Ashcroft” moment. So I told the conservative mother inside of me to shut up, and allowed the wilder, primal, and fierce part of me out of that small, tight box in which I usually kept her. That part of me kept asking, “So what if she shows off her nipples? What are you afraid of?” And I remembered moments of pure, natural body joy as I watch Coco and her green-blotched boobs on the screen:

Taking off all of my clothes after a long hike, and diving into a cold, cold lake that is so clean that I can drink the water as I swim,
Lying on a wolfskin in a spiritual journey, cheek to fur, arms and legs pressed on the body of the Mother Earth.
Running my hands through my damp hair in a Sweatlodge, feeling the hot, moist air flow across my naked skin.

And I start to wonder, what if it was perfectly okay for Coco to show her breasts in public? Now, I am not advocating that everyone strip off their clothes and show up naked at the next meeting with their boss. But Coco’s display made me think about all of the body taboos that our culture has, especially about women. From an early age, many of us are taught (even in this post “sexual revolution” time) to be sweet, kind, demure. Often, the wild, sexual energy that exists in all of us is truncated and shoved so far down inside that we don’t even know what it is. And out of all of this suppression of what is, after all, a very natural drive, comes the stories:

Only “bad girls” are sexual. Good girls are virginal, innocent.
Only bad girls show off their bodies. Nobody wants to be a bad girl, because bad girls come to bad ends.

I probably don’t need to remind anyone of these stories, or others. They are woven as deeply into the fabric of our society as the threads are woven into the cloths that drape the statues in the Hall of Justice.

But back to the boobs.

It occurs to me that Coco was a walking taboo challenge in that outfit. Ice-T said something very interesting as he stood beside her. First of all, he said, “Coco do what she do.” Then he said—I don’t remember the exact words—“Coco makes people do what they do.”

And, unintentionally or not, that was a profound statement. The mischievously humorous side of me can imagine people’s reactions:

“Honey, are those her…”
“Yes. Let’s go. It’s not polite to stare…”

But the other part of me can acknowledge the way a woman displaying her body, with no shame for all to see, can shake those of us who are willing to allow it to. It can shake us right to the core of our minds, our belief systems and yes, the sexual parts of ourselves that have no names in this culture beyond the scientific and the slang.

Okay, I lied. So it's political. Oh, well. I am sure that only a few people read this blog, but I still have the occasional nightmare about finding angry conservatives picketing my front yard.

Weird Fruit Dream Part Two

When I related the story of the "pummelo dream," Agatestone suggested that I eat one, as it must have some sort of significance in my life. But that got me thinking about the Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone (pardon the spelling, I didn't feel like looking the names up). Anyway, for those who are not familiar with the story, Persephone was Demeter's daughter, and Demeter was some kind of weather-goddess (okay, my Greek mythology class was a really long time ago). Anyway, Persephone somehow got lured to the Underworld, and Demeter went into this long depression, and during this time, all of the trees, crops, etc. died. Persephone then escaped from the Underworld, but somehow, she had to spend seven months there every year because she had eaten seven seeds from a pomagranate. I have no idea who made up these rules, but the story goes that that is how winter was created.

I haven't been lured to the Underworld lately, although my most recent class, Financial Management, may be the equivalent. But I was wondering, what if there was some sort of cosmic connection between the pummelo and my eating it? What if I ate it, and all of a sudden the universe changed in some way? I certainly wouldn't create winter, we already have it (sort of) in the Mitten.

Strange things could happen if I ate that pummelo. I could suddenly be transported to another universe, or send this universe through some sort of wormhole in the galaxy where we come out the other end and every thing is different: people are pink, green, and purple, trees are iridescent, and the sky is brown. I just don't know if I want to take any chances with this awsome responsibility.

On the other hand, it is just a piece of fruit that I had a dream about.

Metamorphosis

I was lying in bed one night, thinking about how depressed I was and wishing my life were different, when I suddenly came face-to-face with a fundamental truth in life: I can make my life different if I want to. I don’t have to be a Registered Nurse; I don’t have to finish my MBA degree.

I could sell my house, buy an RV, and drive around the country, picking up odd jobs to pay for food and gasoline, and I could write about everything I experience. I could move, completely relocate to another city, state, country. I could work at Starbucks, or become a stripper. Better yet, I could start a company of older strippers, and those who live in bodies that are outside the airbrushed “Hollywood norm.” We could show men who are brave enough what feminine beauty and sexuality is really all about (I’ve actually had some volunteers in case I decide to form this company)!

But anyway, I was also thinking about change, and about frogs and butterflies and other creatures for whom metamorphosis is a way of life. And I started to think, what if all creatures underwent metamorphosis? What if humans metamorphosed (is that a word)? Would we somehow create a cocoon and hibernate in the winter? What would we turn into? Actually, part of me is convinced that if I had spent my teen years in a cocoon and emerged as an adult, I would be much better off. But I digress.

What if there were no rules about metamorphosis? What if I went to sleep tonight and woke up tomorrow, as, say, a giraffe? My neck would be stiff from lying in that tiny bed and my hooves would all be stuck out on one side. The funny thing is, I wouldn’t be able to get out of my house: no opposable thumbs. I would have to hope that one of my cats turned into a human while I was becoming a giraffe. I would also have to hope that neither of my cats turned into something that preyed on giraffes!

Suddenly, my thoughts jumped to Spiderman, and how Peter Parker was bitten by a spider and began to have spider-like talents. The absurdity of this hit me as I realized that spiders actually produce their webs from what would be the equivalent of our rear ends—if there can be a human/spider anatomical equivalent in the first place. How convenient that Spiderman actually spins webs from his hand.

I suppose that if Stan Lee wanted to be “anatomically correct,” he could finesse something in his cartoons, but I doubt that people would have flocked to see movies about a guy who shoots silk from his butt.

I guess I’ll stick with the RN/ business degree thing for awhile. And anyway, if I turn into something else, I will try to find someone with opposable thumbs to let all my friends know what happened. If you happen to see a giraffe in a hospital…oh, never mind!

Another odd discovery...

While writing a conspiracy theory story for Agatestone, I had to do some research on Bill Oreilly (please don't ask). Anyway, I found that he also has a right-wing website . I thought to myself, "Wow, this is the second time in 24 hours that I actually considered registering to someone's site just so that I could be a troll." I did amuse myself by taking a test on his website that would tell me whether I am a "culture warrior" or a "secular-progressive." Of course I was revealed as a "secular progressive." Apparently that's a bad thing. Anyway, this revelation included a link to where I could order a copy of his latest book. Needless to say, I didn't click on the link. But I hope that I don't get a bunch of spam propaganda as a result of visiting that site. Okay, I'm done with political rants, sort of...for now.

On a less opinionated note, my kitchen leak was fixed today, and the repair didn't turn out to be either as difficult or expensive as I had feared. I never thought I'd be excited about the prospect of washing dishes (I don't have a dishwasher), but after almost 2 weeks of eating from disposable plates and washing the few dishes that I used in the bathroom, it is nice to have a fully working kitchen again!!

Guilty Pleasures, T-Shirts, and an odd discovery...

Okay, I am really going off into weirdland here. First I have a confession: I am a closet "A-Team" fan. I really don't know what the attraction is here, since basically the plot of every show is the same. But actually, I have found that since I entered nursing, I have been attracted to these mindless, action/adventure shows that are full of funny one-liners, and the more separated from my reality as an ICU nurse, and the challenging and often painful situations that I see there, the better. So there is the excuse for my guilty pleasure. The "A-Team" has absolutely nothing to do with the reality of homeless people found on the street, long-term drug users who are facing heart failure in their early 30's, people who have tried to overdose on whatever, etc. But I digress, sort of.

Anyway, my favorite character on the show is Murdock, the institutionalized, but more eccentric than mentally ill pilot of the Team. Since I have days off during the week, I have occasionally caught reruns on TV Land of "The A-Team" and must attest to the fact that they have truly been a guilty pleasure for me. After all, I could be listening to NPR, meditating, or reading the Wall Street Journal.

So anyway, they had too many nurses scheduled on my unit today, so I got cancelled early this morning. Experience has taught me that if I am cancelled in the morning, it will only take a couple of hours for the charge nurse to call me and say "Please come in, as soon as you can make it!" So there I was, at 7:00 am, waiting around for a call (after I had finished cleaning out yet another flooded section of my basement, but that's another story).

So I decided to while away my short time off at the computer, trying to find out one of my favorite "A-Team" trivia questions: What the heck were the sayings on Murdock's t-shirts? He always had some sort of saying on his t-shirt, but it was always obscured by the leather jacket that he wore.

So I checked out the usual places: TV Land, the Internet Movie Database, to no avail. However, I did find out that the actor who played Murdock has a webcast/blog: http://www.howlingmadradio.com for the morbidly interested. (I tried to link the site, but something went kerflewy every time I tried to publish it with the link. Anyone interested will have to access the site the "old fashioned way:" cut and paste. Heh).

So I thought 1. Maybe I will find out the secret of these T-shirts on his website, and 2. this could be quite entertaining.

So much for that. Apparently the actor (Dwight Schultz) is more than a bit right of center, so to speak. I listened to a couple of the webcasts sort of like the way you might look at a terrible road accident: "I can't look, I can't look away."

The first thing that I listened to was Mr. Schultz lamenting about how "we" lost both the House and the Senate during midterm elections, while he was in Spain. If this had been a live cast, I probably would have called in to ask if he had cast an absentee ballot or whether he was complaining about what everyone else did and he had no part of.

I got home from work tonight (yep, they called me in to work), and I decided to give the webcast another chance. So I tuned into a webcast that was supposed to be funny, and ended up listening to a really bad satire of the Vice President talking about how it was politically incorrect to say "Christmas" because the word contained "Christ."

I will admit that I have only listened to two of these webcasts, but it was enough to make me think I had accidentally stumbled upon Rush Limbaugh's website, or the site from Fox News Network. I know that it is unrealistic to attribute characteristics of a character to an actor, but this was absolutely the last thing I was expecting! It was something like looking forward to an interview with John McCutcheon (or Peter Gabriel if you don't know who J.M. is), only to hear him talking like Howard Stern.

Now, before anyone permanently labels me as a flaming liberal, I have to say that I have been involved in state and local politics, and I have found that the issues are much more complex than either party can convey in a three-minute sound byte. I also consider myself to be a raging independent (I think both major parties in the US are old enough to know better), and I am a notorious cross-party voter. So I may tune in again just to make sure my first impression was correct.

Oh, well, I still have "Howling Mad Murdock" and the gang and lots of stuff getting blown up on the "A-Team" on my days off.

But dangit, I still don't know what those T-shirts said.

Stupid Homeowner Tricks

Over the weekend, I had a series of homeowner (and cat) related mishaps. Since I found the corroded hole in the drainpipe running from the kitchen sink, I have not been using the sink. However, yesterday, I awakened early, all ready to do my yoga routine, but decided that I would feed the cats first—otherwise they would just pester me while I tried to do Sun Salutations. So I went down into the basement with their food, and found the same huge puddle of water that I’d had when I originally discovered the leaky pipe. So I went on a hunt for the source of the water, and could not find where it was coming from, other than it was around the part of the drainpipe that went into my basement floor. I took pictures of the whole mess, hoping that it might give the plumber some clue as to what had happened this time. But even after talking to Dad and emailing him the pictures, neither he nor I had any clue as to where this latest flood had come from. Needless to say, I skipped my yoga routine and went straight for coffee and breakfast. I did, however, get a nice picture of my cat Sam trying to “help” me with the mess.

So later that day, I went out grocery shopping. When I returned, it was pouring buckets. Now, Sam, the more loving but much more obnoxious of my two cats, has a habit of trying to sneak outside when I am coming in. I figured that since he hated being rained on, he wouldn’t try anything. Right. I opened the door and out he went, and immediately panicked because it was raining so hard. I chased him up to my front porch and grabbed him as he continued to struggle and meow and try to get out of my arms. I quickly deposited him in my laundry room and shut the door. Somehow in this frantic kitty-corraling exercise, I managed to trip over my vaccum in such a way that it came down on my big toe. I limped out to get the rest of the groceries, and managed to finish without further injury. But oh, the night was young.

I wanted to wash my floors, and decided that night was a good time to do it. So I got out bucket, mop, etc. and got to work. When I got to the landing that goes down into my basement, a little voice in my head said, “Wait until the rest of the floor dries before you do this part. Pergo is extremely slippery when it is wet!” Well, the other voice in my head said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a small area, you can finish in no time.” So I stepped down to the landing with the mop and bucket and immediately slipped, my feet went up in the air, and I landed on the landing, so to speak, full of soapy water and sporting a huge bruise on my arm, a bump on my head, and a wrenched back. It was weird, it was like this story I’d heard as a kid about a kid who was told not to put beans up his nose and promptly went out and—you guessed it—put beans up his nose. As I cleaned up the spilled water, I couldn’t help but think of the television show “Tool Time” and how the star of the show Tim Taylor was constantly getting himself injured while doing home improvement projects.

But at least I haven’t tried to rewire anything in the house….yet. And no, I usually don't have voices in my head talking to me.

A couple of years ago, I had this strange dream involving a piece of fruit that I had never seen or heard of before. I don’t remember eating the fruit, or anything else in the dream, but about a week ago, I found the fruit in the local grocery store. It was called a “pummelo” (I am not sure that is the correct spelling). It looked like a giant green grapefruit. So I bought one, seeing as how I had seen it in my dream. But I never got the nerve to try it, so I gave it to one of my friends who has more culinary imagination than I have.

So over the holidays, I was in the grocery store, and once again found this mystery fruit. So I bought one again, thinking that this time I would have the nerve to try it. Unfortunately I forgot about it, and it “retired” in the back of my refrigerator, so no more pummelo-eating experiment for me. But I still can’t imagine why I would be dreaming about this thing anyway, especially since I’d never heard of it before I went to the grocery store that day.

I have no idea why I am writing about a piece of fruit but it’s 4:30 am and these things tend to fall out of my head at this time of the morning.

A manly woman??

The day after my kitchen flooding mishap, I was at work during an unexpected (and rare) lull in the usual pace on my unit. Of course, I am always willing to tell a story to an audience, so I related my kitchen/basement "rain" incident to my friends at work. One of the nurses wanted to know how badly my kitchen floor was damaged, and I explained that for whatever reason, the former owners had installed Pergo flooring over perfectly good hardwood. I further explained that I thought the hardwood could survive the mishap but didn't really care about the Pergo, as I was in the process of restoring all of the hardwood floors in the place anyway.

So another nurse asked me how hard (no pun intended, heh) it was to restore a hardwood floor. I quickly went through the steps for her, explaining the process of repair, sanding, applying stain or Polyurethane, etc. And, of course, being the honest person that I am, I did admit that my father helped me with the sanding part, because the large machine used to sand the main part of the floor can cause grooves if you don't know what you are doing (and I certainly didn't at that point).

In the middle of this, a male nurse made some kind of comment to the effect that I was a man, presumably because I knew all this stuff about home improvement. I filed the comment away in my mind as "not worth responding to," but when I got home and began to think about it, the narrow-mindedness of it really amazed me. Since when does some knowledge of tools and the desire to renovate my own house require that I be a man? After I had thought about it for awhile, I realized that I could have either 1. asked him what century he was from and 2. told him that based upon that sort of assumption, I would have to assume that he was a woman, since nursing is a field that is mostly populated by women.

But for now, I'll just keep on working on this old house of mine, knowing that my ovaries and my hammer are more than able to co-create without any added testosterone. So there.

Okay, for some horrific reason, I have had the theme from the old television show "Green Acres" running through my head for the last couple of days. I have no idea why. Not only have I never watched an episode of "Green Acres," I would rather watch a test pattern or "snow" than an episode of this series. I am just not a fan of "classic" television, and I don't think, given the theme song that is relentlessly playing in my head, that I would ever want to watch this program.

So why is the theme song so hopelessly stuck in my head?? Why couldn't it be one of my favorite songs by Loreena McKennitt or John McCutcheon, or even a classical piece like Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons?" Sometimes at the hospital where I work, there is a neurologist who gets consulted on patients who are on my unit. He's a bit obnoxious (but also rather entertaining), so he will be the perfect person to corner with the question, "Why do songs get stuck in my head?" while he's doing rounds. They just don't teach this practical stuff in nursing school, since they focus on more mundane things like learning physiology and saving patients' lives. Anyway, I may risk the neurologist telling me that I have some dreadful brain disease, but I figure if he doesn't have an answer, no one does.

Anyway, I am extra-tired this morning. I have had several days off from work, and have been completely committed to doing nothing but relaxing (and writing), during those days. So I was getting ready to go to bed last night, when I decided to do the few dishes that I had in my sink, so that I wouldn't have to worry about them when I get home from work tonight. Well. I was minding my own business, finishing up the dishes, all ready to climb into bed with my brand-new copy of Mary Oliver's "Rules for the Dance," when I heard the soothing sound of rain falling.

But it wasn't raining. Anyone who is the owner of an older home probably is familiar with this sinking (no pun intended) feeling that something has just gone terribly wrong in the house somewhere. So I followed the sound of the rain...into the basement. Yep, there it was, raining from the ceiling. I thought this would be an easy fix, and went upstairs to check the connections to my faucet, which occasionally come loose and leak. Well, that wasn't the problem. To compound matters, the water wasn't coming from any of the pipes where I might expect a leak. It seemed to be coming from under the back of one of my cabinets which 1. didn't make any sense and 2. hinted at a bigger problem than I would be able to deal with on New Year's Day at 10:00 in the evening.

So I called my most reliable and patient homeowner's consultant: Dad. While on the phone with him, and under my kitchen sink with a flashlight, I finally discovered that the drain pipe running from my kitchen into the basement had corroded so badly that there was a 2cm x 1cm hole in it. To make matters worse, the hole was at the very back of the pipe near the wall, which meant that any type of fix would be extremely awkward and difficult.

Dad suggested that I use duct tape or electrical tape to patch the hole until I could find a more permanent solution (such as writing a big check to a plumber for replacing the corroded pipe). That was the point at which I realized that I had absolutely no duct tape in the house. Some homeowner I am! So I patched the hole with electrical tape, but it still leaks, which means that I have no use of my kitchen sink for the time being.

So I spent the next 45 minutes or so mopping up water, repeating the mantra "you wanted to fix up an old house, you wanted to fix up an old house," whenever there was enough room in my brain to silence the "Green Acres" theme song.

On a lighter note, my two cats were endlessly entertained by my watery mishap.

Until my next post, "Green Acres is the place for me..." oh, help!

My mind tends to wander off into strange places while I drive to and from work. Here is the latest of the ramblings:

So I was driving home from work last night, flipping stations in my car, when I happened upon the song “The Devil Went Down To Georgia.” The plot of the story goes like this: the devil decides to try and steal a soul from Johnnie, a fiddle player. He says to Johnnie that if he can play fiddle better than the devil, that Johnnie would get a gold fiddle. But if the devil won, then he’d get Johnnie’s soul. So anyway, as I was listening to this song, I started wondering why anyone would want a gold fiddle in the first place. You couldn’t play it—it would be much too heavy and the acoustics would be horrid. I suppose you could sell it at the going price of gold, but is that really worth risking your soul over?

So I began to wonder about this. I am certainly not immune to materialism—my brand-new SUV and latest book-buying frenzy can attest to that. But is there really anything I would risk my immortal soul for? I really can’t think of anything. And then I got to thinking about the motivation for the contest—the ego wants to be the best, the thrill of the competition, etc. So I suppose the whole “I could lose my soul over this” thought could have gotten pushed to the back of Johnnie’s mind. He could have pictured himself hanging out with his buddies at the local bar, telling the story of how he beat the devil in a fiddling contest. Of course, the story would become more elaborate after a few beers…but I digress.

I can’t imagine that the devil would be much of a fiddle player anyway, what with his main job of stealing souls, keeping the damned in order, and wreaking havoc on the world. So Johnnie probably figured he wouldn’t have a problem winning the contest, risk or no risk.

To be quite honest, though I rather liked the devil’s fiddling better than Johnnie’s. Is that a sin? I don’t know. But I don’t know that much about fiddle playing, either. Of course, I also thought the devil cheated, since he had a whole chorus of demons accompanying him, and Johnnie was all alone. But I suppose you would have to expect that sort of behavior from the devil anyway.

Johnnie won the contest, by the way.

I got home from work last night and noticed that I had a faded number “4” written on my left hand, where I usually write things that I need to remember if they’re especially important or I have misplaced my notebook. Other writings that have ended up on my hand include “EKG with next lab draw,” various phone numbers, a patient’s vital signs if it's an emergency and I have to call the doctor right away. “Dinner!” frequently appears on my hand, as I often have to call the doctors to remind them to order food for patients once they have gotten back from procedures and operations.

I’m not the only one who does stuff like this. I once watched a doctor explain a procedure to a patient while sketching said procedure on the patient’s bedsheet. But anyway, I have no idea where the number 4 on my hand came from.

A few weeks ago, I woke up to find this red mark on the edge of my earlobe. It wasn’t irritated, which eliminated an accidental scratch from a cat, and I had no memory of any kind of earlobe-related accidents recently. So I finally concluded that the aliens brought me up to the mothership and tagged me for further study. The earlobe mark faded after a few days but my mysterious number 4 got me wondering about it again. Maybe I’m “Human Subject Number Four,” nicknamed some unpronounceable (to humans) but endearing (to the aliens) name for whatever the alien equivalent of a National Geographic Special is.

Or maybe I’ve just been watching too many late-night reruns of “The X Files.”

I decided that the first of the year is as good a time as any to start a blog. But I have used up my last shred of imagination on the "random question" section of my profile by making up the story about the bald frog. Oh, well, I wasn't really planning to create the Great American Blog every time I sat down to write something.

I went out with friends last night for New Year's Eve. We sat in the restaurant near a couple who looked rather unhappy, so we began to make up stories about them:

1. They were set up by eHarmony (looonnnng story)
2. They are having an affair, and he just noticed her husband was walking toward the table.
3. She is looking forward to a romantic, lovely evening, but he can't get his mind off the latest Brittney Spears pictures that he downloaded from the Internet.
4. She found said pictures just before they went to dinner.

Never in my life did I think that any sort of diary that I would be writing would include the name "Brittney Spears."