Boxcutter+Stupidity=Emergency Room

Many things happen by accident. Or as my mother would say, by stupidity. I think this might qualify. I'll tell the story, you be the judge.

It was a normal rainy afternoon, no threatening bolts of lightening hurtling from the sky as the gargoyle statues loom menacingly in the night. It was just kinda dreary, and I decided to do the fairly normal task of organizing my room. No stitching together a living creature from dead body parts with Igor lurching in the background. But stitches were to come.

In a flash of brilliance, I decided to fit a smaller drawer designed for jewelry into a larger drawer designed for my inconvenience. But the smaller drawer actually turned out to be 1/4 of an inch too tall. It was so frustrating to ALMOST be able to close the drawer, but not quite. I was tempted to howl at the moon it was so irritating. But since it was not night, there was no moon to howl at. So I contented myself with having another flash of brilliance. A box cutter! Of course! I can just cut the imposing 1/4 inch off the box and viola, problem solved.

And then the stupidity...er...accident happened. The box cutter decided it liked the taste of flesh much better and slipped right into my finger. Pulsating blood began to ooze everywhere. Being the level headed nurse that I am I quickly rinsed my finger in the kitchen sink, but making a big splattering mess in the process. And then I decided since I was all alone, it would be a good time to meet the neighbors.

"Hi, my name is Julia, I'm your neighbor, would you be able to take me to the emergency room?"

They were incredibly gracious, and I was kind enough not to bleed on their carpet. Four hours of emergency room waiting later, I was seen by a doctor who had his med-student stitch me up. Let's just say, seeing other people's blood for a living does not prepare you to see your own blood up close and personal. Or experience all the excruciating pain associated with it. Moral of the story, don't be stupid, especially when sharp blades are involved.

Independence

Well, now we can all see how good I am at keeping resolutions. Wasn't this a fun experiment? The pressure was building to keep telling funny, creative stories. But nothing funny or creative was happening in my life, all I could think of was sad things to write about. And who wants to read a sad blog? I know I don't. And so I left it. And now I'm back! And it's the 4th of July. A happy occasion, which I can write about. Unless you start thinking about all the bloodshed which transpired for Independence to come about. All the brothers and sons and fathers dying and all the sisters and mothers and wives grieving. I hear the sound of firework cannons blasting and my windows rattle, and all I can think of are families huddling in their homes, wondering with each blast if it was their family at the receiving end. Because a king wanted to rule a country across an ocean. When will all this death and dying and suffering and grief and loss end? When our true King returns, and calls us home. It can't come soon enough. And that my friends IS a happy thing to write about!

Time is money

Consider the following conversation:
"I need to go to the time machine first before we go."

"Um, okay Julia, you sci-fi weirdo."

"How is that weird? Or even science-fiction?"

"Time machines don't exist."

"Yes they do!"

"No they don't!"

"Then where else am I supposed to get my money from?"

"The bank?"

"Time machines are at the bank. You've never heard of one before?"

"Only from H.G. Wells."

"No, no, not TIME machine, TYME machine. You know, Take Your Money Everywhere?"

"Never heard of it."

After several phone calls to prove I wasn't off my rocker we finally did a drive by so the proof could be tangible. Because I do know time machines don't exist. But teleportation on the other hand... well, that's a different story.

Ewww

*WARNING: this post is bordering on the gross, read at your own risk*

Yesterday I dealt with a lot of snot. And I'm not trying to be poetic. There was nothing poetic about the thick and creamy ooze coming out of my poor patient's nose. And snot should not be thick and creamy. Only my Wendy's frosty should be described that way. It was also stringy and sticky. Like string cheese. Or taffy. And it was a lovely yellow color. Like puke. Or cream of broccoli soup. Which, incidentally, is what I had for lunch.

This is why I get in trouble with everyone I know. I can't help but describe the disgusting things I see and deal with, in vivid detail, because it's more fun that way. How am I supposed to help it if it always comes up during times food is present? It's because when it comes to food and bodily secretions, the analogies are endless. Think about it. I'm sure you could come up with a few. And now I'm going to eat some broccoli soup with side dish of string cheese and a frosty for dessert. But hold the puke please.

Worshiping

The ixthus. I have always liked this symbol. Not in a cool faddish type of way. But in thinking about it in the context of the historical church. How Christians were killed for worshiping together, and so developed this symbol to recognize one another safely. I can just imagine, going to the market place to pick up some fruit and seeing the fish symbol carved into the wood of the fruit stall. I meet the eyes of the stall-keeper with a knowing glance and outline the fish with my fingertip. He understands my meaning and gives an impercebtible nod. "We'll be discussing everlasting fruits at my house this evening, come and join us." Finally found, a place to worship, all through the simple image of a fish.

I have one on the back of my car, the outline of an ixthus. While I praise God for being able to openly worship Him, it is a good reminder to me of all my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ who are unable to do so. May they still have found ways to gather together and praise His name this past Easter weekend.

Tornado!

Whenever I'm stressed, or some big change is coming along, I dream about tornadoes. It's very predictable. The night before taking my nursing boards... cyclones galore filled my head. Last night was no exception.
I was driving down a deserted road. Roads are always deserted in dreams. I can hear the warning sirens. I see two funnel clouds behind me, meandering destructively close. I see two more starting to form in front of me. There's no way to avoid them all. I pull over on the side of the road, thinking I'll lie flat in the ditch. Then I spy a farm house. There are some children playing in the front yard and their pregnant mother is hanging laundry in the wind. Can't they see the impending doom?
I run over to warn them about the tornadoes, telling them to get to a cellar. Because of course, farm houses never have basements, but they do have cellars. I find out these dream people can only speak Spanish. I know even less Spanish as my dream self than I do as my real self. But the tornadoes are coming closer and speak for themselves. We rush to a cellar. The two little kids, the pregnant woman and myself squeeze in. We close the doors and I magically have a flashlight in my hands. We all crouch on the floor around the light. We hear the wind, feel it rattling the cellar doors and the ground. Then it feels like we're flying. I peer through some loose boards and we're definitely up in the air. But none of us are scared anymore, because as long as we stay in the cellar we'll be safe. And then I wake up. The thing is, I can't figure out what I'm stressed about this time.

Smiley-Face Saturday

Maybe the basketball was artfully placed... but the swing has always been there, with the ropes knotted just so. Happy Smiley-face Saturday!