amelia's plum

What a difference a week makes. This past Sunday at work was infinitely better than the last one. I'm getting better with coordinating my care, managing my tasks and charting ad nauseam in the computer. I'm hanging platelets like it's an ordinary occurrence, which is good because on that floor hanging platelets, blood and electrolyte replacements is routine. I reaccessed and changed the dressing on someone's port yesterday, I'm a slut when it comes to acquiring new nursing skills. I'm slowly finding my groove with having three patients, becoming more familiar with where to find what I need and dealing better with the disorganization that's inherent everywhere. I realistically fantasize that I would be a horrible chief nursing officer when it comes to schmoozing but I would kick ass at the organization part. The highlight of my day was at the very end when a younger patient asked when I'd working again. The mother came out in the hallway a few minutes later and said that the patient told her she was going to miss me until Friday. It brought tears to my eyes and makes every other experience that brings me to tears in a not so rewarding way worth it. It's why I wanted to become a nurse.

So with those kind thoughts in my heart I floated out of the hospital after working thirteen hours Sunday night, totally forgot the Oscars were on and wound up renting Drive, which was horrible. It was cheesy, overly reliant on silence to show it was arty and weirdly anachronistic in an eighties sort of way. Albert Brooks cannot play a bad guy to save his life, his voice just doesn't work that way, it belies his sweetness, even when he's cursing. He'll forever be Marlin, Nemo's dad, in my mind. Or I'll think of how much I loved him in Broadcast News and Defending Your Life. He's meant to play lovably, self-deprecating, funny men. His DNA has typecast him. Ryan Gosling might be hot but his voice reminds me of a weasel. He sounds like trouble. Owen Wilson is a hot mess but that man's voice is like honey, his voice could make you overlook how deeply troubled he is. I'd rather listen to him than the weasel any day. But if I had my druthers the voice I'd be listening to daily would be British. Hugh Laurie, Ralph Fiennes, Tim Roth - I'd take any or all of them to listen to. The one real bummer in my quotidian exercise routine is the man at the gym who made me goofy is MIA. He hasn't been there since November. I can't tell you how sad it makes me every time I note his absence. It's not like I knew him but damn he gave me a nice visual reprieve during the hour and a half of torture I put my body through. Hopefully he's hibernating and will be back come April, he'd still be nice to steal glances at ten or twenty pounds heavier. Just come back to the gym hot Tim Roth/Eddie Munster man.