Third base

I finally did it. The procedure that drives fear into the hearts of nursing and medical students alike.

I inserted a foley catheter today.

I won't go into details, but it was a lot more difficult doing it on a lab dummy, but for some reason it was less stressful. I can't say it went off without a hitch, but the important part is the patient has been given some needed relief.

We're halfway through our first clinical now, and I've done tube feedings, helped change wound dressings (and the most foul odor I have ever smelled is a stage four decubitis ulcer), performed neurological assessments and full assessments.

And I've done the stuff people warned me about: bathing patients, transporting them, repositioning them, making beds -- both unoccupied and occupied -- cleaning up vomit, changing a Depends and wiping dirty bottoms (my mom would be so proud).

Don't get me wrong, that stuff is pretty unpleasant to do. But seeing how much better a patient looks and feels after doing that stuff for them -- well, when the patients' discomforts went away any doubts I still had about becoming a nurse pretty much left, too.

What's up Doc?

Well, I changed careers for a day.

I became a Doc. Not a physician, but a dwarf -- as in one of the seven dwarves. Me and some of my classmates dressed out for a school competition, having seven of us afflicted with hypothyroidism, a queen and a witch, the mirror and of course Snow White. We put our own spin on the fairy tale, giving the medical conditions of our dwarves (Sleepy was also called Narcolepsy, Dopey was Overdose, and as Doc I was also known as Obsessive Compulsive).

I think this was the first time I dressed up at all for Halloween in 19 years.

And yes, we won the competition, beating the EMT class that was dressed as a car wreck, some princesses from the medical assisting class, and a pregnant gypsy from dental assisting.

We could have gone with a scary theme, but instead went the Disney route. I think it's because we want to save the scary stuff for tomorrow. Nov. 1 is the first day of clinicals.

Hardcore Days and Softcore Nights

I'd explain my absence from blogger, but I think everyone has pretty much heard about the seven tests, two presentations and paper I had at the beginning of the month leading up to last weeks fall break, which marked the start of my new job.

So I'll start with the newest development: financial aid. I was awarded another loan, this one that covers tution and then some, meaning I can give an update of the London Fund, which is alive and well, sitting at $750 and awaiting another contribution after disbursment.

And so with the new job and a pending influx of cash, it's time to get a place of my own again. Maybe something closer to both school and work, and someplace cool. So my first stop in scouting a new place to live was Oklahoma City's arts district, The Paseo.



Unfortunately, the apartment hunt got off to an inauspicious start. My first stop was at Galileo for a light lunch of soup and fried olives, washed down with a Bass Ale. But it was just a few steps out the door when I stepped on a crack in the sidewalk, causing my left ankle to turn and my right knee to come slamming down onto the concrete. A middle-aged guy standing in front of me flail about before whacking my knee, and was able to hold his huge smile until he entered the nearest shop. I could still hear him burst out laughing after the door closed.

But I've turned my injury into a positive: One of the tests I took recently was on wound care. Now I get to practice what I learned on myself. I have to say I'm amazed at what all I've learned in just a little over two months. It was really evident as I went through mu nursing orientation at the hospital.

But I think the most interesting stuff I've learned lately has to be from my gastrointestinal lecture. It was taught my Danielle, the evening instructor. She stands about 4 feet 10 inches and is as cute as a button, especially when she says the word "poop." She doesn't like saying bowel movement, so she probably said "poop" at a rate of 50 times per hour during the lecture.

She lectured us for two days, and for some reason on the second day she stopped using the term rectum, instead referring to it as the "bobo," as in: "if a patient has a fecal impaction, you do a digital disimpaction by taking your finger and sticking it up the bobo."

I have to admit, if I ever need to answer "fingerfucking" on a test again I can put "digital vaginal stimulation." Of course, Danielle would probably just phrase it as "sticking your finger in her hoo-ha and goin' to town."

But after hearing "bobo" more and more it was hard for me to keep a straight face at that point, but when Danielle stopped the lecture to ask me what I was laughing about.

I told her I still hadn't gotten past what she had told us about her experiences with gerbils as a GI nurse. Neither had the rest of the class, and opened up a flood of responses from everyone.



Apparently the urban myth about sticking gerbils up the rectum is true. But what I nor anyone else in the class had heard about was that the most common reason to put a small rodent up your butt isn't a sexual thing; it's to get high.

The rectum is a mucous membrane, and the quickest way to get medications into your system, other than an IV, is through the bobo. So to get the most effective high, you roll a gerbil in cocaine and stick it in the fudge factory. The gerbil will be in contact with the rectal walls, as well as stimulate the vagus nerve.

Of course the big problem is when you can't get the little ass-spelunker out (we also learned from Danielle that you don't use hamsters because they don't have tails). And so it's something she's seen many times.

I have to admit, Danielle -- as weird as she is -- makes me wish I'd applied to the evening program instead. Not only are her lectures interesting, to say the least, but I'd also get to sleep in every day, and I wouldn't have up to four tests a week.

But even though GI is done, I haven't seen the last of Danielle. We're now co-workers at the hospital.

Driving me nuts

My mom, for some reason, is always on those car dealers' mailing lists. Whenever there's a promotion, she gets plenty of junk mail telling her about it. Like this week, when a dealer down in Norman sent her a coupon for a free digital camera just for stopping by.

So she planned to go there Saturday to get a free camera. I told my sister that it was a good thing my mom has lousy credit -- there's no way any car dealer in his or her right mind would finance a car for her. She's more or less on a fixed income, living off my dad's retirement, her social security and working as a substitute teacher a few times a week.

Well, she got the camera; a Largan Chameleon XP, which sells for about $40 online. No digital display, no expandable memory and no zoom capabilities. It's not much of a camera -- 350,000 pixel resolution, while my cell phone has a resolution of 1.3 megapixels.

But I did use it to take a picture of the other thing she brought home:



A 2003 Lexus ES 300 with 54,000 miles, leather interior with wood trim, moon roof, power everything and probably plenty of other features I don't even know exist. And she paid more than twice as much for it than she did for her '98 Honda Civic, which she even admits is the most dependable car she has ever had. But she says she was embarrassed to be seen in it -- it was too small and too cheap. So now she'll be paying more for insurance, gas and maintenance to go along with the big car payment.

I asked her whether they had anything more practical there; an Accord or a Camry. But it's her dream to have a Lexus. I admit, I think she should have a Lexus. At her age she's earned it, even though she doesn't need it. But she does need to pay her mortgage, her insurance and everything else.

Though my half-sister who lives in Austin, Texas, (and retired early off her tech stocks) did offer a solution for her: dip into my savings account with what little money I was able to squirrel away while in Tulsa -- which of course is what is paying for nursing school. At least my mom understood that it's not a possibility.

She says she'll wait a few years before I get to take over the payments for her.

I haven't earned any salary as a nurse and already my first paycheck has been spent, and not by me. But I guess I do get something out of the deal.

My mom let me keep the digital camera.

The M word

For those of you waiting for me to get a nursing job to start with the murse jokes, you get a head start: I have a new job as a nurse tech at St. Anthony Hospital in OKC.

The hospital's namesake is also known as the Evangelical Doctor, and it's part of one of the largest Catholic health networks in the country, so I think it really impressed them when they called kc for a reference and she told them I could walk on water. I owe you another one, kc.

I guess it also helped that the floor manager knows three of the nursing instructors at my school, with one currently working on her med/surg floor, another being one of her former oncology nurses and the third being a former patient. The last instructor is a five-year cancer survivor -- the job is in the oncology unit and fits my career goals, plus is flexible in that I more or less choose my shift.

I know it'll be a tough job, which is why I'm starting to rethink what my mom said about nursing being "women's work." Although it's not what she intended, but it's a pretty big compliment to the ladies, because while I knew this new field was going to be demanding, I didn't appreciate the full scope of just how challenging -- physically, intellectually and emotionally -- it was going to be, and I'm sure I still don't. (It's also why I haven't been blogging much lately; and because the school's network filters don't allow access to blog sites.)

But after a week from Monday I'll start to have a better idea of what it's going to take to be a good murse -- whoops! -- I mean nurse.

My talented friends

Probably all of you have heard how I've had about 15 different majors during my college career. And since I've been collecting college transcripts while going back to school, I've got a more accurate list of the majors I've declared:

Chemical Engineering
Classics
Letters
Professional writing
English writing
University College (no major)
Biology
Biochemistry
Microbiology
Cell and molecular biology
Computer science
Film and Video Studies
Zoology
English literature
Journalism

So after earning 243 credit hours (thanks to a few W's I actually attempted 252) you can say I know a little bit about everything -- though I've always said it also means I don't know much about anything.

And nothing drives this home as much as seeing how talented my friends are, and how untalented I am in comparison.



This past weekend I heard Ben and his barbershop quartet sing. Ben being an ex-attorney reminds me of my friend Austin in that both are musically talented. And I like that Austin is working on being an ex-attorney as well -- even though he's in law school he still has goals of making it as a writer, filmmaker and musician.

And speaking of ex-attorneys, there's kc, who has a long list of things she's better at than me, but I'm really jealous of how her drawing is coming along. (for those of you wondering, yes, her sandal really does look just like that). I've also bought books on drawing and writing for comics; kc's almost done with her first comic.

She and Christy also are great at cooking; I like to think that I could cook if I didn't avoid it so much because I'm too lazy to want to clean up afterward.

Through kc I met Rick, who's really into rock climbing; he has the most buff hands I've ever seen. But what really makes me shake my head is how he knows as much or probably more than film about me, and his cinema studies he did on his own. Sure I've got an actual degree to show for it (still stuffed in the back seat of my car), but he's not saddled with more than $30,000 in student loan payments.

And I've never really wanted to be a filmmaker, but any thoughts of that would have been dashed anyway after seeing this clip my friend Wes sent me.



He makes me think I was holding him back on our senior capstone project.

I've always conceded that Ruben is the better dancer, but he's another amateur film buff like Rick; Wes and I took all the classes, but Ruben is just at good at analyzing a film.

There's also Randy and Chris, who have both flourished during the dot-com bust as programmers, something I tried but couldn't get the hang of past my first Java class. (I believe I can make a better cup of java than them, though).

I took my first photography class in ninth grade, and had a passive interest in it since. I even took a lot of photos for the OU paper. And everyone who's seen her blog knows how good Jill is at taking photos.

And the ones who really make me feel inadequate are Wendy and Erin because they can write circles around me, Erin particularly because she was a better writer than me when she was 14. Good grief.

But maybe I'm fixing that. For example, this week in nursing school we're learning to insert catheters. So just take my word for it that I'm good at my nursing skills, that way I won't have to demonstrate them on you.

Q&A

There are two nursing classes at my school; Friday we both took our test over patient environment, and I was the first one finished in my class, so I left the room to do some reading in the break area. After a few minutes, a girl in the other class appeared, having finished her test.

"Did you find that last question confusing?" she asked me.

"Umm, not really. I just put that an open bed was ready for a new patient." I replied.

"Open bed?" she asked. "You mean 'open bedpan,' right?"

Part of me hoped to have read the question correctly, but really I hoped that I got it wrong and she was right, because my answer still was sort of right if I had read it wrong. If she read it wrong, which she did, meant she put that an open bed was ready to be pooped on.

In her defense, she had gotten even less sleep than I had.

And I felt for her, because I have had my share of bad answers. Like my freshman year at OU, when on my zoology test I drew a blank on "cysteine," which I will never forget is an amino acid that is an essential part of proteins, but for the test I wrote that it was a chapel that had a ceiling painted my Michaelangelo since I couldn't think of anything else to put down.

But the all time worst answer I ever gave was for my Women in Film class. The film "Go Fish" had a scene were two girls are on a date, and at one point one is clipping the fingernails of the other. The quiz over the movie asked the significance of this act.

Well, I really didn't have a clue. But I figured it was logical that if two girls are going to be intimate, and might be putting certain digits within certain orifices, they don't want sharp fingernails. So the problem was trying to word this without using the terms "fingerfucking" or even "fingerbanging."

I finally settled on writing "Having sex with fingers" as my answer.

The instructer's response when grading my quiz:

"???"

Beat the meat

One goal I set for myself during my 11 months in nursing school is to eat healthier. It's something I've tried in the past with limited success -- as in I did it for a limited time only.

So this time around I'm trying it in stages. For the first two months I've cut beef and pork out of the diet -- it's just poultry and fish. I've pretty much gotten used to it, and I'm trying to eat a salad a day, which isn't going as well, but getting better.

But as far as limiting the meat I eat, I find it odd that I have to explain it so much.

Such as one of my classmates, who didn't understand what the benefit was of avoiding the cafeteria sausage. "Oh, sausage is made of pork?"


Or when I went to Taco Bueno, and asked if the Chicken Club Burrito didn't have any meat in it other than chicken, and made me feel like a dork as he scoffed at me.

"It is a CHICKEN club."

And he didn't understand why I was mad because it had bacon in it.

"I think it's a chicken bacon," he said.

The worst might have been at 7-Eleven; all the stores in OKC are selling odd items and foods to raise money for MDA. Yesterday was a guy selling barbecue beef brisket sandwiches, and was giving me the hard sell as two clerks and some other dude were standing around chatting.

"I don't eat red meat," I declined.

The one of the clerks tried to help the guy out. "Well what about brown meat?" she said.

Everyone laughed at her apparent joke -- until she asked them why they were laughing and one of them had to explain it to her.

Is it any wonder this country's getting fatter?

If the shoe fits

I thought I had finally hit the jackpot looking for a suitable nursing shoe.

After visiting three Oklahoma City-area medical supply stores, I found one where they had something my size -- 13 -- and fit school policy. And since it was on the clearance shelf, it was cheap.

But the shoes didn't fit right at all. One of the clerks at this place was watching me, and came over to help. It didn't take long for her to figure out what was wrong.

"Let me see if I can find a more masculine version of that shoe."

The shoe looked pretty generic to me, and I didn't see anything on the box that indicated it was a women's show. But then I did notice the model name on the side of the box: "JENNY."

I know what it's like to be in a woman's shoes now.

I don't really mean figuratively; it's more in a literal sense -- sort of for a medical podiatric drag show.

But maybe I got just a slight taste of what it's like for a woman in a man's world. Like I said, this was the fourth store I had been to that day: One didn't have a thing my size and two didn't have any men's shoes in stock at all. It's like when I looked for my scrubs and the place had two sections: women's and unisex.

No, it's not even close to the same thing as what women go through. And then I saw ads like this plastered all over the walls of several of these places:



Maybe it's another way to try to get more men in the profession.

Dyssomnia

dys·som·ni·a
n.
A disturbance in the normal rhythm or pattern of sleep.

"Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep."
- Fran Lebowitz

I think pretty much everyone has heard me bitch at one time or another about having to work nights and weekends. But hey, now that I'm in nursing school, I've got those times free!

So how did I take advantage of this opportunity? See a movie or play? Go hit the bars?

Well, Friday night I stayed in my room and read all night. And tonight? As you can see, I'm home alone in front of my computer -- blogging.

Mainly I've been getting caught up on sleep. Getting up in the morning at a time when just weeks ago I was going to bed has wreaked havoc on me the first two weeks of school. What's made things worse is my rediscovery of the beauty of an afternoon nap.

I've rediscovered a few things as I've readjusted my sleep schedule:

- the importance of not just coffee, but some good coffee in the morning (And yes, kc, the Merc's is great).

- how much I like listening to NPR News' "Morning Edition." I should listen to NPR more, but usually the only time I've listened is during morning commutes; since I have one again, I've tuned in.

- the dangers of the snooze button. When you don't have to be at work until 5 p.m., you don't really even need an alarm clock. I'd forgotten how easy it is to tell yourself: "just 10 more minutes."

I admit that what I loved most about living on campus was heading over to my dorm room between classes and taking a power nap. A quick half-hour to recharge the batteries for my afternoon classes.

And in our lab rooms there are hospital beds set up that make me want to knock the anatomically correct patient dummy occupying it to the floor and snooze.

So late last week I decided to take a nap before doing my reading for the next day's lecture. I woke up three hours later.

And that meant I had less time to do everything I needed to get done for tomorrow. And as much of a problem these naps have been, I haven't been able to stop. The naps have been getting shorter, but it still takes away from my free time. A few weeks ago kc asked me how it was going to be without working on deadline anymore; turns out I still have one: it's called bedtime -- get all my crap done before I have to hit the hay, or risk having to stay up late.

That's bad because I know that while I've worked for two weeks to fix my sleep cycle, it'll take one night of staying up to watch "Futurama" reruns to throw it all to hell.

But hey, after this week I'll only have 186 days in the program to go -- 186 days of waking up at 6 a.m.

Boob tube

No, this is not another post about porn.

Growing up, before moving to South Korea, I didn't see my parents much. My dad, having five kids to support after I was born, took on a second job at Montgomery Ward. My mom was studying in school. That's why I often tell people I was raised more by my sisters than anyone else.

But that's really not true. My three half-sisters, being teenage girls, were not that interested in watching me all the time. So their solution? Set me in front of the television.



My parents, nor anyone in my family ever talked to me about drugs. No, it was Dr. Huxtable who told me to stay away from pot on "The Cosby Show." It was Dr. Drummond and Gary Coleman teaching me about racism on "Diff'rent Strokes." And can you believe Michael J. Fox had me believing I was a Republican? And when I was a little older, I watched these shows in South Korea, and the Armed Forces Network had no commercials -- they could squeeze three half-hour shows in an hour. I much more productive with my TV watching than the average American kid.

Those types of shows are what I like to watch anymore. And really, I have a hard time watching TV anymore. It's too difficult to schedule my time around when most shows come on so it has to be pretty damn good for me to actually make to to watch something. Rick told me how he might watch something but not want to wait another week for the next installment. I'm the same way -- when I find a Great Fucking Show, I want to be able to lose myself in a show, watching not just and episode at a time, but a whole season at a time. And like when I was a kid watching sitcoms, I want thses shows to mean something to me, and I want them to make me think.

And for it to earn the title of Great Fucking Show, it has to really mean something to me. Everyone knows how I feel about "Futurama," but it doesn't even get that title. I love that show because it fits my sense of humor, and I've hinted at how big a sci-fi nerd I was in my youth, and the show can really hit home for me.

But I'm talking about shows that I really feel a connection with -- where after watching an episode I'll be thinking about constantly until I can watch again. And my biggest fear becomes that I get hit by a bus or something and die before the show is at some sort of resolution point.

But there are no shows like that for me now. "Scrubs" I think of as a Great Fucking Show, but it really has run its course. "Six Feet Under" I think may be the best TV show I've ever seen, and I hadn't even seen an episode until after it went off the air. (Of course, watching all the episodes on DVD all at once really is the way to go.)

But that changed with a show that I really didn't expect to like this much, especially given the fact that I've been such a square, as evidenced by the fact that I just used the term "square." I had seen teasers to "Weeds" during my stops at motels earlier this summer. It looked like an interesting show. When I was at kc's last week she told me about it and how we could watch some episodes since she has Showtime OnDemand.

We watched the entire first season in one night.



I actually knew I was really going to like this show watching and listening to the opening credits. A great cast and clever writing, the show is damn funny as it comments on suburban conformity and hypocrisy, something I experienced, too. But the show also surprises when it reveals a lot of heart -- sure, then main character is a drug-dealing mom, but I know how much my own mother struggled when my father died (it's sort of the same reason I connected with "Six Feet Under"). If my mom felt she could provide for her family, I know she probably wouldn't have been opposed to peddling some chronic on the streets of OKC's Asian District.

And this weekend, back up in Lawrence, we watched again, this time with Erin and cl joining in -- just no one tell Bill Cosby we were watching a show about pot. And even though we didn't even get far enough into the season to when it really got good, it is clear why I could connect with this show. In reading stuff online I came across a few reviews that kind of slammed the show for its stereotyping, calling it unoriginal, and its use of racial stereotyping in its humor -- but that was the damn point! Growing up where I did I was pretty sensitive to stereotypes, that's why I love it when they can be turned on their ear, and disarmed with some humor (I also watched Sarah Silverman's "Jesus is Magic" last weekend: "Guess what, Martin Luther King, I had a fuckin' dream, too! I had a dream that I was in my living room." -- that was for you, kc).

And of course I don't have Showtime. At home we have HBO, but in the spirit of the show I'll still be watching the new season, which just started, through "alternative" methods. And really, I can get pretty much any show this way. So, wise readers, tell me: What are some other shows out there you watch? Anything you were able to connect with, I'd like to hear about it.

The Nightingale

I think everyone has noticed the new name of the blog; I felt a change was in order as I start a new chapter in my life. In trying to come up with something I came across Nattergalen, and I'm using it in what I'll call it a slight nod to Florence, but mainly a reference to Hans Christian Andersen's story.

For the full translation of the tale, you can click here. But this is the truncated version:

There was a Chinese emperor who had built himself the most beautiful palace in the world with a beautiful garden, all built at a great cost. And visitors who came to the palace would all compliment the emperor on his beautiful home. Except they would all tell him that the most beautiful thing of all about it was the nightingale that would sing there.

So the emperor had the nightingale come sing in his court, and all were in awe of her beautiful song. Until the emperor was sent an artificial nightingale to sing to him. The fake bird sang just as beautifully, but could only sing one kind of song. However, it was also beautiful to look at, being encrusted with jewels. The real nightingale left the court and the emperor banished her.

So the fake bird sang for the court until one day it broke. And as the years passed the emperor became ill. But when Death came for the emperor as he was wasting away, the real nightingale returned, turning Death away with her song and healing the emperor.

So do you see why this is a fitting story? Me, like the nightingale, being cast aside because others have valued looks and outer beauty over what is beautiful about me from within. And that inner beauty being able to heal and bring someone to tears.

If you're thinking I'm full of shit right now, you would be right. It is a crock, and it is not why I'm renaming my blog after this story.

I haven't been like the nightingale; I've been the emperor.

Too many times I have valued looks over what's inside, or cared about what others would think over what I should have felt was important. Or tried to live in places considered "cool" -- like Florida and California -- over places I could make a real home for myself. I have to admit that when I made to shift to nursing the fact that I could move around was pretty appealling.

I said before that what attracted me to journalism was what I could contribute to my community; to provide a civic service. But I had lost that -- my career had become about what I wanted, and I was bitter because I felt (somewhat erroneously) it could not provide these things: a nice big house, nice car and a life outside of work. Really I just blamed the job on me not being able to save money nor have the self-confidence to go out and socialize or, God help me, actually date anyone.

So I decided on nursing because I needed something else for myself. And sure, the chance at more money and advancement were factors, but I needed something that wasn't going to just be about me. I want to be able to help others who really need someone.

I've been the emperor, but I'd really like to be the nightingale.

Stuff to forget

OK, prepare to be appalled.

The only headline I remember misspelling that was really bad is when I was an intern in Tulsa. Tahlequah, my friend Austin's hometown, I spelled "Talhequah." It made it through on the first edition. Sharon, you might remember that. You weren't mad because spellcheck said I had spelled it right. We made the fix for the Final Home Edition, but Tahlequah is a first edition city.

And since I brought it up, last month I screwed up the edition line. For first edition it's "FINAL EDITION," and the software we use has funky coding, so when I change it I copy and paste "FINAL" to make it say "FINAL FINAL EDITION." I changed "INAL" to say "OME", but I changed the wrong F.

It ran as "HINAL FOME EDITION."

Going back to internships, the worst thing I ever did as an intern was at The Boston Globe. When writing heads, I'd usually write two or three and the slot editor could choose the one he or she liked, or write a different one.

One pay I worked on a centerpiece about city pools possibly losing funding, and it had a photo kicker. A joke headline popped in my head and typed it, just to see whether it would fit. Of course, later in the night I saw him chatting to someone else saying "He has really been doing well, but tonight he wrote this:" and I saw him paste in my joke headline:

"Wet dreams"

Really, the worst stuff I did was when I was at OU. I remember what I kind of think is the best headline I never wrote, a story on a problem on every large campus: parking. The movie had just come out, so this headline was timely:

"Dude, where's my car lot? UOSA says."

But since I was now a journalism major, I had an inkling of news judgment and chickened out.

This next thing I blame on me not knowing any better because I wasn't yet a journalism major. I wrote this story. Don't bother reading the article. I mention it because I did a big no-no: I used two of my friends as sources. I was working at the paper doing about eight to 10 stories a week, taking a full load of summer classes and also working at the theater company. I was desperate.

I used the aforementioned Austin about how great Waffle House is. But what was really bad was when I went through my tape recorded interviews and found a quote from my roommate, Randy, that he said jokingly about video rentals. I decided to use it:

Computer science senior Randy L. also chooses to rent videos from Hastings.

“Hastings is a good place to get movies pretty cheap, porn especially,” he said.

I remember the reaction from Wendy, his future wife:

"Awwww, George ... he's going to move out. You're going to have to find a new roommate, because he's going to move out."

If Randy was mad when he found out, he did a helluva job hiding it -- he laughed and said it was funny. Randy, thanks for being such a good sport.

That article was for the giant 2000 Back to School special section. I think I had more than 20 articles in it, and we were desperate to fill all the space. There was one thing in particular I wrote for it that I was hoping to find on the archives, but no dice. It wasn't there.

But on a hunch, I checked my closet -- as luck would have it, it's among the few clips that survived the tornado of '03.

It is my review of the OU bathrooms.



"It is something on this campus everyone has experienced one time or another. You have 10 minutes until your next class, which is on the other side of the campus, but nature is calling. So you pop into the nearest powder room and find a broken down sewage plant waiting for you.

Here's a little guide to the best and worst campus restrooms that may help you in your next time of need. The ratings are based on crack research so our findings aren't just full of crap."

Yep, that's the lede. Writing about the student unions upper-floor toilets I got away with "This place is usually pretty quiet, and the union's late-night access makes emptying your poop chute there a 24-7 possibility."

I reviewed 10 bathrooms, relying on intel from our female staffers for the ladies rooms, and used a ratings system of one to four urinal cakes, with four out of four being the best. But for the mens rooms, I really did do the research myself. An example: I called up the office of David Boren, the OU president, getting his secretary. I told her who I was and that I was with the school paper, and she tried to transfer me to the press secretary.

"Wait," I said. "I just have a quick question. Does President Boren have a private restroom in his office?"

"No," she answered suspiciously.

"Oh, so he uses the public toilets in Evans Hall with everyone else."

"Well I would assume so!"

That's when I realized how this sounded. I tried to explain, but she had already hung up.

It was just as well. I had to use the bathroom, and I now had to walk to Evans Hall.

Greatest hits

I tried unsuccessfully to find a copy of the first article I had ever written. Even though it was just a poorly written movie review of a really crappy film -- "Play It to the Bone" -- I thought it might be amusing for people to see it. But because the OU paper switched its Web host there's a gap in its archives that includes my first semester, and I don't have LexisNexis access to see whether it's still there.

It's just as well. When I wrote it I didn't know what the hell I was doing; I just did my best to trash the awful movie (I think I rated it too high when I gave it a 3 of 10), and filled out the review by inserting quotes from the actors in the press kit, something no one does. Sheesh!

Of course, that first article combined with my "Chicken Run" review to take first place for entertainment reviews at Oklahoma SPJ. Go figure.

So in what I hope to be my final goodbye to journalism, I give you some of the works that stick out in my mind -- and didn't lose after moving five times -- during my newspaper days.

Best front page column
OK, this is my only front page column. I don't recommend reading it. But it's worth remembering because it's the last article I ever wrote. The J-W city editor approached me just before the 10-year anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing. He felt that it made perfect sense for me to write a column about it because I'm from the state. I thought it was a dumb idea because I didn't have a direct connection to the tragedy, but he wouldn't take no for an answer, so I wrote it. I never felt so unworthy of a subject matter in my life.

Best news headline


I used to have actual clips of this story, which ran across the bottom of the front page, which is why I had enough space to be creative. The story started off with all the problems the first Mars rover, Spirit, was having, and how dejected the JPL scientists were, but the second half of the article was all about the optimism surrounding the second rover, Opportunity.

Best first effort

This is actually the second front page I ever did as a pro. The first I did in Tallahassee when two designers were off, two were sick, and another was on vacation. That left me.

It turned out OK, considering. The page had been sketched out for me by the NE, a six-story front. It was very crammed and not a great page, but fine for my first.

But I thought this turned out pretty well. I did it on my own and more or less made the decisions on how to play the stories. I do wonder whether I jinxed the Jayhawks, though. (Let me add that the best redesigning of a page I ever saw was the night Bucknell beat KU. It was pretty much assumed the Jayhawks would win, so after the upset there was no backup plan. KC put together a great page with a great photo and headline.)

Best job of listening

The state trooper across the bottom of the page was supposed to be the centerpiece. But kc and I saw this picture and she knew what I had to do, even before I did. And I also spent a lot of time on the J.R. Giddens refer, another Oklahoma boy who screwed up in Lawrence.

Best page everyone else hated

Actually, the other designers and the features people all like this page. But I was in the afternoon budget meeting the day this ran, and I got reamed for this one. A lot of complaints about the white text over black type. After this, though, the other designers wanted me to show them how I had faded the four-color black from the image into one color to keep the type from being fuzzy. Now the World loves when the other designers do it know. But I never did after this page.

Oh, and another complaint was that it looked like it was a waste making a page look this good over a mediocre movie. I thought I should try to do my best work no matter how good the movie was -- shouldn't I be trying to get people to actually read the stories? Of course, that wasn't my motivation here. I did the page like this because Kate Beckinsale is FRICKIN' HOT!

Best of a bad situation

This doubletruck is actually part of a before-and-after shot. If you could see the "before" you'd be more impressed. The page was originally put together by the graphics guy; so you shouldn't be surprised if I told you that the page first had all of the graphics as the biggest art elements by far. I spend about half of my 10-hour shift at the hippie-hater's desk, cursing his name every other second because I had to combine the two graphics with all the pie charts and resize everthing in a program I'm not that good at using.

The next week I blew up at the ME about putting the graphic illustrator with no layout training in charge of designing special projects.

Best modeling job

I still say I'm the reason KU beat Nebraska last year.

Best I could come up with

This is like the OKC bombing column, only I had to put together an entire special section on the one-year anniversary of 9/11. I racked my brain trying to figure out how to design the cover, until I finally gave up and just stuck a PDF of the page from when it happened. Heck, I was going for a sense of perspective, anyway.

Oh, and as this went to press, the official toll went down, so the headline became inaccurate pretty quickly.

Regrets (Final Home Edition)

Today was supposed to be my last day as a journalist.

I was going to write a post before this one bashing my soon-to-be-former boss, but I decided against it. Sure, he was an idiot and a jerk, but I can't let one person ruin my experience in Tulsa, especially since I worked with so many others here who have been great, and made working here a good experience: Sharon and Mary have always been good to me. Colleen, the night editor, has always looked out for me. And John Young, our venerable slot editor who somehow is both kind and gentle yet commands so much respect, made one of the high points of my career by telling me how highly he thought of me. Yes, the copy desk has been good to me.

They had a send-off earlier this week for their copy desk intern, and I was included in it because my desk wasn't going to do anything like that. And amid the well wishes and goodbyes I started feeling really weird; I came here knowing it would be temporary, and really didn't form much of an attachment during my nine months here. I had trouble sorting out my emotions until I finally figured it out:

This is not the day my career as a journalist will end.

I mean, a little less than two weeks ago I gave my notice -- as this day approached I really started getting emotional about my decision to leave. And I realized that no matter what successes I have in my new profession, part of me will always regret leaving.

But not Tulsa.

What was weird was that nine months after the fact I was really regretting leaving Lawrence.

That's why I say that today is not the day my career came to a close; that began Nov. 19, 2005, with my last paper to be put to bed tonight.




The beginning of this week, as we had a pot-luck dinner in honor of the two of us leaving, I kept thinking of the send-off from the people at the Journal-World. Above is the cover and inside of the card they gave me. (Remember the OU scrubs they also got me?) They made it very difficult to leave, and I was regretting my decision then. But that wasn't the first time I felt that way -- the first time was the moment I told Kim the Tulsa World had offered me the job.

But I still left. I came very close to going back last April. Sorry, folks at the World, but the J-W is my newspaper; it's where I fit. If I were to still practice journalism, it would be nowhere else. But when I tried to go back I was only offered a spot part time because I still planned to go to nursing school. I was hoping to get on full time, and push back my start date to January, at which point I would have then dropped down to part time. The managing editor didn't go for that.

But it's for the best it didn't come to pass -- things didn't go as planned in Tulsa, but because of the environment on my desk it was easy to keep focused on the goal of going to nursing school. If things had gone to shit while still in Lawrence, it would have been too easy to stay in journalism, as much as I resent the profession. It would have been a bad choice.

Looking back, I've made a lot of bad decisions in my career after graduating, but I don't regret making any of them:

I shouldn't have looked for a first job so far from home. But no regrets there -- I met Kelly and Dawn in Tallahassee, two wonderfully talented and fun people whom I wish I could have worked with longer.

And I shouldn't have bolted for Torrance. But I had been California dreamin' for years. I needed to get it out of my system. And it wasn't really a good decision to leave the Daily Breeze -- more like it was the only decision.

Of course if things had not ended the way they did, I would not have gotten interested in nursing. Nor would I have ended up in Lawrence, where I met Christy, Erin and Ben, and Karrey, Susan, Susie, Mark, Michelle and Eryn. And of course Kim, who is now one of my best friends -- among the ones I'd do anything for.

That's why it's been such a weird last week. I still know I finally made a good choice: It was the right decision to leave the Lawrence Journal-World. But that doesn't keep it from being the one decision I now regret.

Taking its toll

I'm driving up the Turner Turnpike, which is the part of Interstate 44 between Oklahoma City and Tulsa, to go to work. As I pulled up to the toll plaza, I saw I was getting the booth with the blonde with curly hair. I hadn't seen her in a while.

"Hey, I haven't seen you in a while." she says to me.

Wow.

I am at the point that the tollbooth operators recognize me.

Let me just say that if I hadn't already given my two-weeks notice the day before at my job, I would have done it as soon as I had gotten there today.

My CR-V is about to hit 145,000 miles. It was at about 118,000 when I started this job -- close to 30,000 miles in a little over eight months.

But thankfully, it has shown no signs of slowing down. I mean, a little while back kc and I were going to Hy-Vee in Lawrence and she asked me if something was wrong with my engine because of the way it was groaning.

"No," I replied. "We're just going uphill."

So that's why it's amazing that this little four-cylinder engine has made six trips through the Rockies and seven trips through the Sierra Nevadas. It's cruised on portions of famous highways such as U.S. 1, Route 66 and the Pacific Coast Highway. And I mentioned the Turner Turnpike; my car has traveled the full lengths of the Kansas, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Massachusetts and Florida turnpikes.

No wonder I feel like I don't have a home -- all my time is spent in my car.

Oklahoma's sex drive

You've all seen them: Those signs by the side of the highway as you enter cross the border to welcome you as you enter another state.

The Texas Department of Transportation has that sign above by Interstate 35 about 0.15 miles south of the Red River to give a big "Howdy" to motorists venturing into the Lone Star State.

But there's one problem with the logistics of that sign: It comes about 0.1 miles too late.



This is the sign that actually greets travelers when they cross the Red River as they're leaving Oklahoma to go into Texas.

Any adult who has lived in Oklahoma knows why: You can't get porn in Oklahoma. At least not the hardcore stuff. That's why I was so shocked to find it playing in motels here.

But I guess the law is that it's only illegal to sell it. Hence the store right across the border: DW's Adult Video, which I find very interesting. DW has rekindled my interest in film lately. And now this -- coincidence??? If it is him, I guess it's what puts the wood in "Driftwood."



You can see here just how close to Oklahoma this store really is, calling, beckoning us to make the trek down south on a porn run. It's the state's dirty little secret. And yes, I have made this trip on more than one occassion. Why am I not embarrassed to say it. Why? First, after the motel porn adventure, can I really find anything more embarrassing? And second, I know I'm not alone. For many Oklahomans, this store is a tradition, a rite of passage. I learned this when the subject came up several times working at the OU paper, pretty much everyone had done it. They even had a column about it last month, (jokingly) arguing that legalizing porn in Oklahoma would reduce greenhouse gases. Indeed, in the parking lot Monday, there was a nice black Mercedes that pulled in just as I got there, a Cadillac, a Toyota and a pickup truck -- all with Oklahoma plates.

And let me say now, please don't think I'm some sort of porn addict. The number of porn runs I've made you can count on one hand (give or take a finger or two). Plus, I actually haven't bought any in a while, since it doesn't matter if I'm 14 and it's under the mattress, or I'm 30 and living at my own place in Florida -- if my mom sees it, it's going in the trash.

The reason I'm sharing this? Well, I guess I'm not going to be an Okie for all that much longer, so I don't feel the need to keep our dirty little secret.

Live On, University

Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner,
Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner,
Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner,
Boomer Sooner, OK-U!

Oklahoma, Oklahoma,
Oklahoma, Oklahoma,
Oklahoma, Oklahoma,
Oklahoma, OK-U!

I'm a Sooner born,
And a Sooner bred,
And when I die
I'll be Sooner dead!

Rah, Oklahoma! Rah, Oklahoma!
Rah, Oklahoma! OK-U!


OK-U!
This, up until a few months ago, was my favorite OU shirt. It commemorates OU’s national title run in 2000. That fall was one of my most memorable semesters during my college career. I got to follow the Sooners all the way to the Orange Bowl.

My mom and my sister hate this shirt, because no matter how big the holes in it get, I still wear it. My mom says it makes me look like a homeless person.

But I guess I’m just hanging on to that shirt for the nostalgia. Fall 2000 wasn’t just about football. That was when I added journalism as a second major, having found that I could be really good at it, and it was the semester I earned a copy editing internship to The Boston Globe before I even took an editing class.

As you can see, the shirt seen a lot of wear, and has gone through extensive repairs. I should have thrown this shirt away years ago.


OK, you!
The shirt was knocked off the top spot by my OU scrubs, given to me by the gang at the Journal-World. That’s it over on the right, next to my jersey. It was so cool that they did that for me. They know how much I love OU and how much thought I had given to going to nursing school. It was perfect.

Or so I thought. The main reason I wanted to study nursing at OU was the intensive one-year program. But that fell apart pretty quickly. And now, really my entire plan has come undone. I don’t want to go to nursing school at OU any more.

Really, it’s hard to think of OU without conjuring painful memories. And thinking of only good stuff just reminds me of good times, that try as I might, I can’t get back again. Going back to OU is like hanging on to that shirt. No matter how much I sew it up (OK, OK – no matter how much I get my mother to sew it up) it’ll never be the same, and it won’t fit quite right anymore.

Oh, KU!
So I figure this brand new career will start someplace else. So I’ll get a new shirt from my future school, and I have a pretty good idea which it'll be -- the one that matches my new hat.



We can credit kc for getting me out of the KU closet. She was the one who first saw it, when about a year ago at work I mentioned a KU story, and she called me out when I referred to the Jayhawks as "We" instead of "They."

I'm a Sooner born and a Sooner bred, so I wondered whether becoming a Jayhawk would make me a traitor, but even though I'm just going from crimson and cream to crimson and blue. But I've gotten a seat for kc on the Sooner Schooner, so it kind of evens out.

Boomer Sooner, and Rock Chalk, Jayhawk.

Momma's boy

OK, I figure if I do this, it has to be in vignettes. Giving a full dose of my mom is like going into the reactor room or looking at the sun too long; prolonged exposure can have harmful effects.

- You've probably seen how my mom had me dressed when I was very young. Add to that how she refers to my shirts as blouses and my underwear, whether they be boxers or briefs, as panties -- well, it's a good case for homosexuality being genetic, not environmental.

- My father was named George. She named me after him. That's not an uncommon thing. My mom named her youngest daughter Kim -- Kim Novak Z., actually, after her favorite actress. A bit unique, but not weird. Then my mom received her citizenship, and got to choose her own name. She chose Kim. Yes, she named herself after her own daughter.

This also caused plenty of confusion when someone would call and ask for Kim or George, and we'd respond "Which Kim?" or "Which George?" My mom often adds "Big Kim or Little Kim?" with her being Big Kim and my sister being Little Kim -- this just adds to the confustion; my mom is 5'0" and 100 pounds. My sister is considerably bigger.

- Speaking of names, she can't even pronounce mine. Imagine how much I was teased growing up, as we all know how cruel kids can be, when she came along and called me "Zhock-ZHEE."

I actually have a Vietnamese name as well, but I think I'll keep that to myself.

- I mentioned she's 5' and 100 pounds -- she's had two lipsuctions and three facelifts.

- My friends in high school learned it was futile to call. Before she'd let me talk to anyone, she'd have to know not just who they were, but she'd ask whether they were going to college, what they planned to major in, and what their grades were. They'd complain to me later that all they wanted to do was talk to me, not play 20 questions with my mom.

- There was the time she yelled at me because I had gotten my car all dirty and wasn't trying to immediately wash it. I told her it was salt and sand from the road, and I couldn't wash my car because it was like zero degrees outside. She told me she didn't care and left to wash her car. She was back 10 minutes later, freaking out and now yelling at me to help her get the inch-thick layer of soapy ice encasing her car -- like I said: it was zero degrees outside.

- She tends to perpetuate certain Asian stereotypes: She's been in four car accidents in the past four years. And a while back, she decided she wanted to buy a convenience store. I was the only one against the idea, everyone else told her to do it. So when she did buy it, she didn't tell me. For three months she left every day to run her store, and I had no clue (this was my freshman year at OU). It wasn't until one of my sisters accidentally told me. I don't know why she felt the need to hide it from me. I supported her as much as I could, working when I wasn't busy skipping classes.

She lost the store a little over a year later.

- Just a few weeks ago, she told me I should stick with journalism over nursing. She said I was an editor, and that's like being a doctor of the newsroom. She's never understood my explanation of just where copy editors are in the newsroom heirarchy, though I have a suspicion she sometimes has selective fluency in English. Actually, I know this is true.

- She took 12 years to get her degree. Not a slam against her, because it took me 12 years to graduate college, too. And while I got two degrees, she took over a decade because she was also working a lot of the time, and raising two kids. And while I spout off on how much weirder she made things for me growing up, and still makes things weird today, I know that she's always looking out for me.

Filmwurst

It was the culmination of my education in Film and Video Studies: my senior capstone project, a 45 minute featurette written by me, directed by Wes and shot by Dusty about a criminology student who, for his senior capstone project, decides to plan a crime spree.

And it’s gone.

I had decided I might YouTube the film, or at least the portion of the film I wrote, and blog about it. But the thing is, my only copy of the film wasn’t where I had left it. I have moved 12 times since spring ’99, it’s a wonder I didn’t lose it earlier. But I know I had it in OKC while I was living in Lawrence. Who knows where it is now.

The name of this film? Well, for those of you who know me it won’t be a surpise: “Cap a Stone in Yo’ Ass.”

I had already lost all my papers and scripts from my film school days in a computer crash in 2002, as the backup CD, I found out later, didn’t burn properly. But that didn’t bother me that much. But losing the film does. Three years in the Film and Video Studies program, and that was what I had to show for it. (Well, that and my degree, which has been proudly placed in the backseat of my car.)

I didn’t hang on to the film because I thought it was good – there are good things in it, such as some great performances from some of our actors, who we got from the drama school – but I actually consider “Cap a Stone” one of my biggest failures.

I mean, I got an A on it, and I would consider it watchable. But making that film was one of the most painful experiences I ever went through. Wes and Dusty worked hard on the film, but I don’t thing they ever really understood just how much I put into that film. Originally, Wes was to buy the digital camera, which he did, spending about $2,000; I was to buy the editing hardware for my computer, spending about $1,000. But while my computer met the minimum requirement for the editing board, for it to actually perform properly I needed to buy a new video card ($200), more memory ($250) and a high speed SCSI hard drive ($400).

But it wasn’t just the money I poured into it. I was committed to this film. While Wes and Dusty were going to classes during the day, I was skipping classes to scout locations, buy clothes and find props – which included two realistic-looking pistols, a Dieon Sanders T-shirt and a wooden duck, which, given that this is Oklahoma, was much harder to find than you’d think. I spent weeks combing sporting goods stores, but since it wasn’t duck season, I had no luck. It wasn’t until I stopped at an antique store in Moore that I struck gold. Jesus, I just realized that I skipped all those classes just to find a fucking duck for a three-second sight gag.

So for all this work, I got an A in my senior film class. I also got a B in my Lit class, and an F in my other English class, Critical Reading and Writing. (After that semester, I changed my second major from English to Zoology, with the idea that I would make nature documentaries.)

Really, for an undergraduate student film that was 45 minutes long and edited on hardware that even after I spent all that money was woefully inadequate, it wasn’t too bad. My real regret was not telling Wes, after coming to me to tell me that he doubled the size of the script because we needed a scene to “explain” everything they were about to see, that if what I had already written needed explaining, then I should be kicked off the damn project. He even agrees now that the exposition scene in the apartment before the robbery was a bad idea, and he wanted to re-edit the film without it.

But that’s the other thing: Wes had the master copy on digital cassette – and he lost it last year. But he still has his other scripts and film projects. “Cap a Stone in Yo’ Ass” was the last bit of what I had.

There are copies out there; we gave some to the performers, and our capstone instructor was given a copy. But after writing this, that copy of the film isn’t what I miss most. You see, even though it got battered during shooting, I kept the duck when we were done. I had it for a few years, until my mom tossed it – it was broken, she said.

So I have my film degree, but really, I didn’t work all that hard as a film major to get it – I worked a lot harder just to get that stupid duck, and I’d rather have that wooden mallard to show for my troubles.

My mom's front porch

As I can't think of anything else to blog about, I'm going to do what I always do in this situation: steal from someone else.

You might have read before kc's excellent post about her front porch. You can call it an allegory for everyday life in east Lawrence.

Now, I have to settle for my mom's porch.



As you can see, it's quite large (That's me helping paint the columns). There's plenty of space, and could fit all sorts of outdoor furniture for plenty of people. It was also one of my favorite playspaces growing up. The walkway that ran adjacent to it was my highway for my toy cars, and when it reached the door the path turned left down an incline toward the street; at that point gravity would sent the cars to the street without my help.

Now that I'm back on Sherwood Drive, I've taken to the porch once again. But it's not the same. Really, it's kc's fault. When I visit her in Lawrence we pass the time with a beer or brandy discussing parliamentary procedures. For one, as you can tell the view of the neighbor's back fence doesn't exactly add any charm to the street, and since it's late at night, I'm all alone on the porch. And no cackling girl stuffing her face with sweetrolls, asking whether we have cigarettes or how much the place next door rents for and she's going to drop off some old bread to the homeless shelter down the street, and say it all in one sentence. No eccentric Ed, nor Eddie the dog, faithfully waiting on his porch for his owner to return.



But I do always get one visitor, almost without fail: a gray cat. The kitty never comes over, just sits and watches me, almost accusingly. I think it wonders what the hell I'm doing back in the neighborhood -- I don't belong here anymore.

No, this hasn't been my neighborhood for a while now; the house no longer feels like home. Life as an Okie suburban cowboy isn't for me anymore, no matter how much I thought it was.

But still, it's good to visit the place. And as boring as the neighborhood is, I'd miss it if it were gone. Which it almost was after May 3, 1999, when tornados tore across Moore, and then again in 2003, after this happened:



So the neighborhood rebuilt its homes; I'm getting ready to rebuild my career. Maybe after that, I can work on finding my place to call home.

And you'll be invited to come sit with me on my porch anytime.

Inn cahoots

A night that shifted from surreal to scary.

As I got off work Friday night, I was greeted by one of the many homeless who wander the streets of downtown Tulsa. She asked me for change. I told her I didn't have any. Then she saw I was carrying a plastic cup filled with soda.

"Can I have some of that pop?" she asked.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a silver can.

"Ooooooo! A beer!" she exclaimed as I handed it to her.

She sang some little ditty as she skipped down the street with the Diet Coke I had just given her.

That night I stayed at another motel. Not the Interstate Inn, but the Royal Inn: it's in a different area from the other ones just off the turnpike, kind of an industrial area just off the I-44/U.S. 75 interchange. The time I stayed there before it wasn't bad; slighty bigger room that was slightly cleaner, wireless Internet and no porn channels -- just Showtime.

As I pulled up into the parking lot, I saw a woman, scantily clad, get out of a car in the lot, while her male counterpart stayed in the vehicle and watch. She knocked on one door, then moved to another. It seemed like she wasn't sure what room she was looking for.

As I headed for my room, a man walked across the courtyard, making a beeline for me. In a way, I really wasn't surprised at what happened next:

"I need a friend; would you be a friend?" he slurred. "I'll give you $10 if you can give me a ride."

I can't help but wonder whether offering $10 for a ride is some sort of street code for something unsavory. It was eerily like before.

I got to my room and locked the door, a bit disappointed that there wasn't a deadbolt. This was when I found this in the bathroom:



Then a knock at the door -- a very soft knock.

I slowly hooked the doorchain, which seemed woefully inadequate.

At this point, I don't know what's scariest: the homeless lady who's going to be mad at me for turning her beer into a soda, and a sugarless one at that; what might be pimps and hos canvassing the neighborhood; the ginormous syringe that is used for purposes in seedy motel that I dare not imagine; or just that fact that I keep staying at these places.



LF: $204.38