How was your day, Dan?

SPIDER

I am not particularly scared of spiders, but I had to share this story.

I live in an apartment that faces a piece of land that has a creek, and along the banks are lots of trees. It's a bit of a wilderness over there. At night I hear an owl hooting nearby, which is cool. And last year I was visited a few times by a toad, who squatted on my front porch for a few weeks and hopped inside whenever I opened my door. That toad freaked me out for some reason. I worried it was going to jump on me, and...I didn't know what would happen. But I knew I wasn't going to like it. One particularly unfortunate afternoon, I was re-planting some potted plants on my porch and as I pulled a plant out its pot, the toad--which had evidently burrowed into the soil, unbeknownst to me--fell out and flopped onto the ground, its legs jerking around as it tried to flip over and hop away. I screamed. My neighbor, an alarmed look on his face, came outside to see what the ruckus was about. I will spare you the description of his reaction when I told him I had just been attacked by a toad. Needless to say, he wasn't impressed.

This is not supposed to be about toads. This is about a spider. I am not scared of spiders. But still...

DAN VS. THE SPIDER

Grab towels out of laundry basket.

Notice a towel had fallen behind laundry basket, and pick up that towel to add to towels already in arms.

Look down at towel, and notice dead spider attached to that towel, legs curled up into body in death pose.

Walk over to toilet, and shake towel in attempt to knock it off into toilet.

Action of shaking the towel alarms spider, which was just pretending to be dead, but is actually very much alive. Spider flips legs open, and is now the size of a dime. Spider begins to scurry up towel in general of direction of hand.

Shriek. Not knowing what else to do, shove entire collection of towels into toilet.

Stand back and gaze upon collection of six bath towels (plus one spider) in toilet.

Survey clump of towels from multiple angles, looking for spider. See no sign of spider. Plan the intricate task of peeling out towels one-by-one to inspect for presence of spider.

Pull out towel that originally had spider. Hold up above toilet. Spider is, not surprisingly, still present on towel on area that is soaked with water from toilet, but is still, very surprisingly, alive. Spider starts crawling up towel again.

Turn on shower. Hold towel in shower stream. Strike spider directly with water in attempt to wash down drain.

Spider curls up again but does not dislodge from towel. Continue to attack spider with deluge of water from shower, yet spider refuses to relent.

Contemplate the resilience of spider. Waves of guilt flood forth, while trying to kill a living creature for no reason. This spider means no harm. This spider only wants to live. Who am I to kill this poor spider?

Turn off shower. Study spider for signs of life. Spider unfurls legs again, and tries feebly to crawl up towel once more. Wow. What a tough spider.

Holding towel like a bullfighter's cape, walk with towel to front door, dripping water in steady stream along the path. Spider falters on towel, so walk quicker, to get spider outside and off wet towel. Worry that spider may die while on towel and guilt would be too much to bear. Please don't die, spider. Make it just a few seconds more and you'll be outside. And if you live or die out there, I cannot control. But it's a nice day.

Step onto porch, and flick spider outside. Feel warmth of sun on face. Goodbye spider. May you live to see another day.

Turn to go back inside, and notice neighbor, looking back, while I stand on porch. In t-shirt and underwear. 

Walk back inside. Neighbor already thinks I'm crazy anyway.

 

 

THIRTY DAYS IN NEW YORK, part deux

 

I wanted to get a cup of coffee.

This is not a casual decision. I can't go just anywhere, and get whatever swill they're straining out of their coffee bean grinds. It needs to be the good stuff, with labels like "Fair Trade" and "organic" and "made by hipsters" all over the place. I like the kind of coffee beverages that have a lot in common with my ex-boyfriend: both are unnecessarily complicated and slightly bitter. The ex is long gone, but I still like fussy coffee drinks.

So I took a walk, in the hopes of finding an overpriced coffeeshop somewhere. It shouldn't be that hard, right? I was in Brooklyn.

But from what was supposed to be a quick jaunt around the neighborhood, I turned that way instead of this, and ended up wandering aimlessly towards the waterfront, right into the middle of Cobble Hill. 

That's where the rich folks live. When row houses are fancy, they're called "Brownstones." This is Brownstone territory.

I walked all the way to the waterfront, where I stood beneath the expanse of the Brooklyn Bridge and contemplated my place in the universe.

But then I lightened up at the sight of these lovely fellows.

It was a beautiful day. And a beautiful day for a wedding. 

I turned left.

The remnants of piers gone by poked out of the water, just hanging out beneath the sun.

I was extremely intrigued by those old wooden posts. 

That's the Statue of Liberty way back there. Click on the photo to enlarge it, and you can see Lady Liberty a little better. 

I still hadn't had coffee. But it was getting late. Time for lunch. I found pizza. I had a slice topped with eggplant, my favorite.

Actually first I found these cannolis, but I'm embarrassed to tell you I ate them before I had the pizza. And yes I ate both of them. How do I choose which I liked better? It's like Sophie's Choice of desserts. Both were delicious. FYI, cannolis in Brooklyn are only $2.75. In Manhattan they are like $4. 

It was after St. Patrick's Day, but they had leftover green sprinkles, so why not? "Sprinkles are for winners," as the Geico lady says, and I was having a good day. So I deserved them.

And then I turned a corner and was greeted by this:

Well that's a nice how-do-you-do after a lovely meal. Glad I ate the eggplant pizza and nothing with meat. Blech. But again, this is what happens in NYC. And whatever that butcher is making out of this stuff must be deeeeeelicious. Fresh. 

I continued my long walk. The nice neighborhood ended. I walked into the wilds of hipster gentrification, where the brave 20somethings are roosting with their beer gardens and their juice shops, and I passed a shuffleboard club?...playing bad 80's hip hop.

Is this really a thing? I guess it is no more or less boring than bowling. Everyone was drinking huge glasses of beer. Have fun, peeps. I kept walking.

I stumbled upon a coffeeshop where a full jazz band was playing. Ah, that's better.

I never got any coffee! But it was too late. So bought hot chocolate, and had a seat for a little while and enjoyed the tunes. I would show you the audience but it was much lower in number than the amount of people in the band. But again, that's NYC. And there were people waiting by the door to play. Open mic night.

I faced the brisk night air and just walked along the streets, taking photos of the various things to see.

The white building is the Brooklyn Museum. I should go in there.

Perhaps another day.

30 DAYS IN NEW YORK: day one.

Well hello.

I've been thinking about you for a long time, my lovely, sitting here ignored like the stump in The Giving Tree. I've come to sit on your stump again.

~~~

My friend is a scientist who researches primate behavior, and she and her husband spend a month each year studying animals at a refuge somewhere in Florida. They sent out a plea to anyone who could come stay in their house in Brooklyn and care for their cats. They live in a row house in an up-and-coming neighborhood, although almost all of Brooklyn is up-and-coming, and if you ask me I think some of it is not destined to ever arise and make it. But in a city where rent is thousands of dollars just for the privilege of saying "I live in New York," standards of what makes a neighborhood "liveable" are low. And people make the most of it. A Starbucks opens in between a check cashing store and lady who reads palms, and suddenly the neighborhood is being gentrified. And so here I am.

The people in this neighborhood mostly speak with a mélange of lovely, lilting Caribbean accents, and based on the rasta headwraps on a few of the men, presumably the vibe here is Jamaican, although there are also signs for food from Trinidad. Would that be Trinidiadian? Trini? I think Trini, I've heard that before. And the people here are quite friendly. Ordering some chicken fingers to-go may involve a very long wait, because no one behind the counter is in any hurry, but they will definitely greet you politely and sincerely wish you a very nice day. And apparently the ox tail is delicious. 

The day before my friends departed on their road trip south in their Prius, I made the voyage to NYC from Kansas in my Corolla, adding another 1,500+ miles to the 190,000+ already on the odometer, and arrived clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckle death grip after barreling through what was apparently the largest snowstorm of the year. The snow had already stopped in the city, and the streets were clear; but snow plows had piled all the snow into drifts up to the door handles of the cars parked along streets. The next day, after the overnight freeze, all that street slush had formed into a wall of ice. And we had to dig through it to break free their poor little Prius.

It was a definitive Brooklyn moment: a group of Gentrifiers, dressed in flannel shirts and Merrell boots, hacking away at the ice piled up around a Prius, as men with rasta head wraps walked by cheering us on. Hey mon! You gonna do it mon!  

After taking a break to indulge in some Fair Trade coffee from the shop down the street, we cleared a hole in the ice wall, and a hearty final shove by myself launched the Prius through the sludge and onto the street. They were off, into the wilds of scientific research amidst the palm trees of the American sub-tropics, leaving their home and their cats in my care. I watched them zip down the street, past the coffee shop on the corner,, and then marched my weary limbs back into the house empty of anyone except a few cats. And as I flopped onto the couch, I peeled off the soggy boots from my feet and looked around at the quiet, and thought...So you're in New York. Now what?

 

 

Jeremiah Bills and 'The Great American Baking Competition'

I wrote this for Huffington Post: The Great American Baking Competition

 

HOW TO USE GLOVES

I wrote this email to a restaurant chain that shall remain nameless for now. If I go back and they are still having problems, I'm going public.

 

~~~

 

Dear ________,

I believe your employees in SoCal need a refresher on how, and why, they should wear gloves.

 

I say this because I enjoy eating at your fine restaurants, but I also used to enjoy a certain burrito chain, and then they poisoned a bunch of people because their employees were using dirty hands. Now I don't eat those burritos. I don't want to lose you as well. So this letter is for my benefit as much as it is for yours.

 

A little background: I am an RN, and I was also a health department inspector for a little while, so I know gloves. I change gloves daily on countless occasions. I am also not a fan of gloves in food service, because they give people a false sense of security. Because the hand underneath the glove is clean, the worker forgets that the glove itself gets dirty really fast. So people don't take them off when they should.

 

I have seen your employees on multiple occasions (I eat at your restaurant often) using their gloved hands to remove the lids from food storage containers, open cooler doors, touch cash register screens, touch their own clothing, and (gross!) handle money, and then use those same gloved hands to reach into food bins and touch the food that people would then eat.

 

Anyone who took a college Chemistry 101 class probably performed the experiment of swabbing money and placing the specimen in a petri dish, and coming back a few days later to see what was growing. E.Coli usually showed up somewhere in the classroom. So "don't touch money" should be a no-brainer. But as a health inspector, I was also very nervous about people touching doors to coolers or other surfaces, and then touching food. How do we know those surfaces are clean? We don't.

 

I don't understand why California allows mingling of foods--reaching into a bin with a gloved hand, and then reaching into another bin with that same gloved hand, spreads the food residue from one bin to another. You have bell peppers, for example, which are a member of the nightshade family, and are commonly a source of food allergies. When I worked as a health inspector, I was told to require facilities to have separate serving utensils for each bin. But California is a wacky state, so apparently the health inspectors don't mind it here. So let's let that pass.

 

HOWEVER, when an employee wipes her gloved hands on her shirt and then sticks that hand into a bin of food, that entire bin of food should be thrown away.  (I didn't tell anyone to do this. But when I saw this, I didn't get that topping that day.)

 

I have an exhaustive list of infractions by your employees, but it's just the same thing over and over. Grossness, grossness, dirty dirty grossness. You get the picture. So, in conclusion of this long letter, let me just say this: A hand should be gloved immediately before touching food, never a moment before, and then as soon as that customer's food handling is over, the glove should come off. If that worker needs to touch a surface or cooler door or big white tub of cheese, the glove should be taken off and thrown away, and then a NEW glove should be put on to finish the order. This means, unless you are set up like a Ford auto plant and everyone has only one job over and over, each new customer's pizza gets a new pair of gloves. And, duh, never touch a cash register (?!?!?!) and then go back to touching someone else's food.

 

I am available to host a glove-utilization technique class for your employees in LA, for the price of some free lunch. If not me, you need someone to do it, because this is how that burrito chain got in trouble and spread E.Coli to a bunch of people.  All it takes is one person with dirty hands. Watch yourself.

 

Sincerely,
Dan Renzi, R.N.

OLYMPICS

If the Olympics can support rhythmic gymnastics, air rifle marksmanship, and speed-walking, there are some events that I think should be added to the lineup.

1) Tug Of War
The ultimate team sport, this used to be an Olympic event up until the 1920's.

2) Mixed pairs synchronized swimming
If there is mixed pairs in figure skating, tennis, and whatever else is currently an Olympic sport, there is no reason for there to not be men in synchronized swimming. And with all the men who perform in Cirque du Soleil water shows swimming around, obviously there are enough men who can compete like this. Other levels of competition have competitions with men; see Italy here in the World Synchronized Swimming Championships.

3) Darts
Olympics has a competition for air rifles. Translation: bb guns. If they have bb guns, and skeet shooting, and archery, etc., they can have medals for darts.

4) Polo
There are already numerous horse riding sports in the Olympics, and they are mostly technical competitions. Imagine teams of polo players thundering around the stadium. That would be awesome. And polo is a real sport!

5) Chess
Chess is the most intense of any competition. This one is a stretch for the Olympics, but imagine awarding an Olympic gold medal to a chess champion. And it would allow more countries a chance to win--in this age of hi-tech training, the only chance most countries have to earn a medal is if they have athletes who have the money to train someplace like the U.S.  But chess can be learned and practiced anywhere. Anyone has a shot. That's what the Olympics are supposed to be about.

BOOKS

I am heading to the wilderness for a few weeks, or as long as I can handle living out of my Ford Explorer, and I need some books to read at night while I am hiding from bears.

I don't like e-readers of any sort.

So, should you have a book you think I should read, send it to me. I'll send it back when I'm done, or I will drop it off when I pass by your home in the northwestern U.S. I could take recommendations, but I probably won't have the presence of organizaion to go find a book or order it online. I know myself. I won't read it unless someone hands it to me and says "Read this." 

If you don't need your book back, I can instead send you another book I've read from someone else.

 

I WISH SOMEONE TOLD ME...

Things no one ever told me about what it is like to be a nurse:

Working in a hospital means 12 hour shifts, three days a week. But you will then spend another two days each week feeling hung over.

If you get a job caring for patients on a hospital floor, you won't need to understand anything you learned in chemistry. But learn why having too much TSH identifies hypothyroidism. It really is something you will probably need to understand, and be able to explain to your patients.

The better the hospital, the more shit the nurses themselves have to wipe off their patients' asses. The days of nurses' aides doing all the dirty work are over.

When you do cpr, there is no soundtrack playing like in "Grey's Anatomy." It isn't exciting. It is stressful and sad, partially because it usually doesn't work.

Pressure stockings are magic, for both you and your patients. You will eliminate hours of leg pain if you wear them. Just remember, if your patients are wearing them, take them off for an hour every day to take pressure off the skin. And when you peel them off your patient, cover your mouth and nose, because edema damages skin and it sheds off, and a lot of dry skin will fly through the air when you pull off those stockings. When you breathe in a chunk of that, you won't feel clean for days.

An LPN and an RN are different. LPNs usually work in nursing homes, and doctors' offices. Both places can be great jobs, but RNs make more money. RNs usually work in hospitals. The main difference between RNs and BSNs is...honestly, I'm still not sure. Don't worry about it, you can get a job with an RN associate's degree. Not everywhere, but a lot of good hospitals don't care. And the nursing care at the jankiest hospital should, and can, be exactly the same as the fanciest hospital, so take pride in your work and be nice to people, no matter where you work.

If you are nice to your patients, sometimes they will come back and bring you cake. And those hugs, while they are trying to balance some cake without dropping it as they hug you, have an energy that feels really good.

Never talk to geriatric patients like they are kids. Their mental processes may have declined, but they are still adults, and they understand more than they can communicate. Although it helps to slow down. Practice this with your friends: speak slowly, but not in a condescending way. It is really difficult to find the balance.

In job interviews, ask what your nurse-to-patient ratio should be. Then after the manager gives you an answer, ask again, what it is really. If you have more than 1:6, unless you are desperate for a job, it may be best to look for a job elsewhere. Hospital administrators will sacrifice providing nurses for patient care to save money, and then blame nurses when patients complain. FYI: Texas and Florida hospitals are notorious for giving nurses too many patients.

If your patient is in labor, give her an enema and then tell her to walk herself to the bathroom for a little while. It makes everything a lot more pleasant. The baby will not end up in the toilet.

Psych patients know they are crazy. You don't need to talk to them as if they don't know it. But patients with dementia or Alzheimer's Disease are not psych patients. It's quite different. For example, notice I separated "dementia" and "Alzheimer's Disease." Even those are not the same situation.

Family members of patients are far crazier than anyone in the psych ward.

If you learn how to read an ekg strip, you will make a lot more money than other hospital nurses. At least learn the three lethal rhythms.

There is no addiction stronger than an American's addiction to fast food. And those addicts somehow legitimize it by drinking a Diet Coke. Patients will be in a hospital bed, with heart failure, and they will still ask family members to bring them some fast food, with a Diet Coke. You will never get through to these people, so don't try. But document it as "Patient is non-compliant with diet." And let them see you documenting every hamburger wrapper and french fry container in the room. THAT will make them behave, a little.

Male nurses are usually expected to do more heavy lifting than female nurses. This is total bullshit. Equal pay means equal work. Correction: equal pay means equal effort. They have to at least try to help.

Two words: "travel nursing."

When you unplug a gastric feeding tube, bend the tube to kink it before you unplug it. Gas in the intestines often bubbles back up and you don't want one of those bubbles to pop out of the tube while you are leaning over it to attach a syringe or something. Gross.

Wounds can smell really bad. Like, so bad, you start to panic.

If you work on a hospital floor, you may be asked to hook up a bag of morphine to a patient's IV line, with the intention of killing the patient.

If you give someone a bed bath, you will probably use disposable cloths. But bring a tub of warm water and a washcloth and wash the patient's face and back with it, just because it feels good. And otherwise, the patient will tell everyone he/she never got bathed.

The respiratory therapists will be your favorite people in the hospital because they will suction the mucous out of your patients' trach tubes.

Narcotic pain medication is a wonderful tool to use, and we in America are lucky that we get to use it. A lot of countries do not. But a portion of your work day, as a nurse in America, will be spent giving those legalized narcotics to drug addicts who go to the E.R. with fabricated/exaggerated medical conditions just so they can get drugs for a few days. And those drug addicts are very selfish. They have no problem manipulating you for as long as it takes to get more drugs, which keeps you from taking care of your other patients who are actually in pain.

Be careful which coworkers you ask for help. Pay attention to the nurses who like sports. They comprehend the concept of "teamwork." And they won't talk shit about you behind your back. This is REASON NUMBER ONE that getting girls to play sports when they are young is beneficial.

If your charge nurse sucks, ignore him/her. If the doctor taking care of your patients sucks, quit immediately.

Alcohol detox is hideous. Learn the stages of alcohol withdrawl so you can chart them for your patients correctly. And never turn your back on a detox patient. You may end up with a plastic tooth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LOOK AT WHAT I BOUGHT

 

The idea for this trip came a few weeks ago. Why? I don't know. But I thought, I'm going to drop everything and I am going to drive around the country by myself.

Step 1: Decide to take a trip.

Specifically, I shall drive to the Pacific Northwest.

Not Seattle. Been there, done it. I don't need to see packs of hipsters wandering by, drinking coffee sweetened with lavender honey as they talk about "social media influencers" and say things like "No worries" or "It is what it is" or whatever the new catch phrase is. 

I am going to drive aimlessly through Utah, Montana, Idaho, and Oregon, until I pull up to a body of water that resembles an ocean. And from there, I shall turn left. Goal: see mountains, valleys, and a waterfall or two.

But...my Toyota Corolla shall not make it that far. No. Hmm.

Step 2: Figure out how to get there.

The original thought was to fly up to Missoula or Salt Lake City or wherever, and rent a car. But flights to Montana are seriously like $800 from where I live. Ridiculous, I said. I could take that money and use it to buy a car that would make it, I said. Ha ha, that would be funny, I said. And then I listened to myself.

So today I woke up, I read Craigslist, and a few hours later I bought this.

Since I was old enough to contemplate getting a car of my own, I have always wanted a big black SUV. Not the round, quasi-minivan type that fill parking lots at elementary school soccer games. I wanted boxy, raised-up-on-struts, big tires, shiny black with tinted windows, that isn't really for off-roading, but could handle the job if I were ever chased by assassins and I need to cut through a forest to escape.

And whatta ya know? There it is, I found him. Hello, lovely. What shall he be named? I was thinking "Cash," because that's how I paid for him, in a parking lot behind a bar. Or "Vinnie," because when my mother saw me drive up she said "You look like you're in the Mafia!"

With the seats folded down, I can stretch out in the back, so I shall put a memory foam mattress or something of the sort in there and sleep on the nights I am too scared to sleep outside. But I don't want to bring too much junk with me other than that, in case it breaks down and I have to ditch it on the side of the road and take an Uber to the nearest airport and go home. Which leads me to my next issue:

Step 3: Umm...

...I guess I should, like, get some camping stuff. Or something. I don't know.

HORCRUX

I leave stuff from my childhood in my parents' basement like they are horcruxes from Harry Potter, bits of my soul, as if they are being kept safe down there.

The boxes are never opened, the items are never seen. But if they would be thrown away, a piece of me would die.

 

Hopefully I don't know how to talk to snakes.