Sunday, March 30, 2008

- In which shit hits that fan

Dear Taxpayer (bonehead):

Enclosed is your economic stimulus check! 300-600 dollars! Go on out and spend that shit!


So while I was in rehab (read: under a rock) apparently the Big Bosses came up with this little scheme: everyone gets a check to spend on crap!

Has anyone seen that episode on futurama where they do the same thing, and everyone gets 300 dollars?

Surely someone has.

By the way, if you're not reading, you need to be.

Ya jerks.


Saturday, March 22, 2008

- Cut your damn hair! And get off my Lawn!

I really miss my mohawk.

Back when I was a young March, not yet a Medic, fresh out of high school, I got one shaved into my head. I was in a punk band at the time, but that really didn't have too much to do with the decision. Really it was all my teenage immaturity - the rebelliousness, the shock factor, the attention it drew. Boys, if you're thinking about getting one, let me tell you one thing I think it's very important for you to know - Chick LOVE the 'hawk. They like to look at it. They like to touch it. Instant cool.

But luckily that all faded away once I was no longer a teenager.

Yeah. That happened.

The thing is, I'm still kind of immature. So at a point in time last summer, I got my hawk cut again. I even brought in my company hat and the back end trimmed to fit in, so as long as I'm wearing my cap, no one could tell it was there. Alas, having three quarters of a hawk wasn't working for me, so I shaved my head. That was fun for a while, but I decided to let it grow out into my big Italian pompadour I have now-really a cross between a rockabilly type thing and the spike up strands of the guys in this video. But I like my haircut.

The lady we've just loaded up is very upset with me. Typical butterfingers (really, I don't know why XXXX Ambulance Service trusts me to hang onto a handful of air, much less an IV needle or a slippery, freshly crapped out newborn - it really boggles the mind. Also, 'andy tip for all you newbies - If you drop a baby, pick it up.) I've dropped her wig on the dusty ground. I pick it up and dust it off, hand it back to her, and apologize.

She's in a foul mood already, which is understandable, cause I know that if I couldn't poop, I'd be upset too. Anywho, she makes the comment that I probably wouldn't like it if someone dropped my hair on the ground. I told her she was absolutely correct, and I meant it, though technically it wasn't her hair, even though she owned it. Unless she shaved her legs and braided it into a hairdo. When we picked her up last week (for constipation! Imagine that!), her gams looked like two uncooked chicken drummettes that had come out on the losing side of a fight with a five gallon jug of UltraStrength Rogaine. The reason I agree with her is because my hair is connected to my head still (Hah! Take that, old people!) and dropping it would involve said head striking the theoretical ground which is something I try to theory and in real life.

Uh, I digress, and suddenly realize I'm not going anywhere with this post.

Also, I've got a girlfriend. Woo!


Sunday, March 9, 2008

- First Day

"He must be nervous as hell," says Cool Old Medic,"the way he's going through that bag. Hell, MM, you only been gone 3 months! It's just like you been out for a few days!"

"3 and a half. "

"The bag's fine! Here! Take the damn narcs so I can get out of here!"

Cool Old is messing with me, playing, but I really am nervous. Scared I'll miss something stupid, something I take for granted because I would do it all the time. I've been out for a while. I run through the normal inventory, recount my narcs. I feel like it's my first day again.

We get our first call and I still feel nervous on the drive over, as I walk in and glove up.

I immediately slip back into Zen as I step in the house. I can remember it all.

The call goes smooth.

The day goes smooth.

I'm back, and it feels good to be sober, happy, alive and a paramedic.

Then, towards the end of the day, my boots fall apart.

I've had these old Bates for 3 years and they finally gave it up today. I had to run my last call with the shank of my boot taped to the tread and sleeve.

It was bittersweet - what kind of jackass gets emotional over a pair of boots? But all the same those stupid, well priced boots have protected my feet for three years of blood, sweat, and tears and I'll miss them.

They went back into their original box, and were deposited, with full honors, into my garbage can, layed respectfully as I placed them on top of a pizza box.

So then, wiping a tear from my eye, I found myself in the boot aisle at Academy.

And I was looking at a pair of the same, wistfully, and then, out of the corner of me eye, I see these puppies.

I bought them. I couldn't deal with some more Bates. I HIGHLY recommend and endorse them - I got 10 times the use from them than what I paid. Comfy and tough.

So I'm officially a weirdo.



PS - Please welcome Guitar Girl RN to the link list. Funny and in the medical field, and a musician! Go Girl!

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

- Suiting Up

I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around my waist, and step out onto the carpet. Opening the cabinet I grab my bag and in short order have my face and neck slathered in foam. I shave quickly and throw on some aftershave, briefly doing the Home Alone Face Slap as I always do. Teeth get brushed.

I quickly put on my jockey shorts and uniform pants, pressed straight. Socks go on next because I never remember to put my socks on before I put my pants on. I slide my feet into my old reliable Bates zip ups, freshly polished. Undershirt is next, followed by belt and a quick trip back to the bathroom for deodorant and hair gel (I'm Italian - it's a rule, okay?) and then back to my closet for my shirt. It sits quietly on the hanger, my disco patch staring up at me from the sleeve: Let's go, it says. Let's go save some lives today. What hell are you doing staring at me when we could be out there working?

I put on my shirt, button it, and tuck it in. Pen, sunglasses go into front left shirt pocket. Pocket knife into right pocket. Cell phone into left pocket. Unit keys clipped onto my belt, Id tag into my shirt. Walking out to my car, I see my reflection in the window. I haven't worn this uniform in over 3 months. I take a deep breath and step into my truck, grab my sunglasses and put them on. My clipboard, steth, and vest are resting in my back pack next to me.

Game Time.

* * *
Well, I finished up my treatment and have moved into a recovery house in Metropolitan Area. I finished my checkout with our FTO today and should be back in action Saturday.

Look out, America! MedicMarch is BACK!


Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Porketta, my tollbooth angel, our secret love shall never be consumated.

No content today because I'm moving!