CareNet Banquet, The Student Nurse, Pancakes, and Cleaning

I'm back. Back in a better mood that is. Sometimes I just get down in the dumps. But it's over now. Thank goodness. =)

So since I posted last, absolutely nothing interesting has happened. I've been to school. I've done homework. I've slept and ate. Oh, and I got really dressed up yesterday and went to a nice banquet that The Student Nurse invited me to.

The banquet was for CareNet PRCs. It was nice. Virginia's Attorney General, Ken Cuccinelli, was the keynote speaker. I was surprised that a man that was publicly voted into office was such a bad public speaker. I was disappointed actually. He seemed nervous and it just felt awkward at times.

The food was also kind of disappointing. There was UN-sweet tea. Which is weird. But I suppose since it was in Northern Virginia they don't do the Southern sweet tea thing (?). The salad was really yummy. The entree was grilled chicken and mashed potatoes and asparagus. I love asparagus. I was happy. Although the 'taters where hard. But then the cheesecake for dessert was pretty good.

The whole time we were eating during the banquet, there was wait staff picking up plates and refilling drinks and things like that. I couldn't help but think, "Gosh, I know exactly what that's like." I worked in a restaurant in a state park for three summers in a row. I did plenty of banquets in my time there. I tried to be as nice to the wait staff as I could because I know what it's like when a bunch of rich people are eating and talking and not wanting you to bother them, but you have to do your job. I know. I've been there.

I liked the director's (of CareNet) speech the best. She seemed very genuine and told good stories that exemplified the purpose of CareNet. I teared up a little I will admit.

But, the best bestest part was....putting on a nice dress and heels. I love getting all dressy and parading around like I'm something special. I felt great. My hair looked good (except it was static-y and was angering me) and my make-up was phenomenal, if I do say so myself. Although I could barely stand to walk in my heels by the end of the night (even though we were sitting most of the time), I was happy.

As we were driving home from the banquet last night, The Student Nurse and I had about an hour to sit in the car. We had a really good conversation about controversial issues and our different stands on them. I'm really happy that I have a friend that I can talk to about these issues, and she still respects me after hearing how I think. Not many people are like this. It's either their way or the highway. But The Student Nurse and I can agree to disagree. I like it.

But she can be crazy. Like the other day, I was trying to take a nap. The Student Nurse comes into my room and hops on my bed and starts panting. Panting for goodness sakes. Like a dog. The she says, "I'm a puppy, I'm a puppy! Play with me!" I wish I was making this up. She wouldn't let me nap either. It was like she needed attention or something...

Here is another example of being just plain weird. This morning, I was still asleep in my bed and The Student Nurse comes in and gets under the covers of my bed, pushing me to the other side. This isn't the weird part. The odd part is that she wanted me to get out of my bed, while she was still laying there. What. The. Heck.

But then I made pancakes with mint chocolate chips and the world was right again.

Until I started to have a clean-freak moment and swept and mopped the kitchen. I also did all the dishes, put the dirty kitchen rugs in the washer, cleaned my bathroom (including getting on my hands and knees and cleaning the floor), and picked up the living room a bit. I don't know where this comes from sometimes. Most of the time I am OK with the clutter and I always feel like the dishes can wait. I have better, more important things to do in life than worry about the dishes and such. But then I get in these moods and I run around cleaning everything.

Alrighty, enough randomness for one post I do believe.

Not Really A Happy Post...

I don't know how to get what I want. Or maybe it's that I don't even know what I really want. I mean, I think I know that I want. Most of the time. Or at least I know what I want in the moment. But it changes with whatever is going on in my life at the time. Does that make me fickle? Or just a regular woman with mood swings like usual?

I'm warning you know. This might be a rant. I will try to make this brief.

I try really hard not to wear my heart on my sleeve, but it just seem inevitable. One thing goes right for me and I put myself up on a pedestal. I feel like I'm on top of the world. I can do anything. So I let myself go. I feel invincible. I put myself out there and the world is beautiful.

But then crap happens. Murphy's Law. (I just had to Google that by the way.) If something bad can happen, it will happen. I think it's God's way of saying, "get your head out of the clouds girl!" So my heart gets broken, my stress level rises dramatically, and I start to have mini-freak-outs. I just want to sleep all the time and not have to worry about my life anymore.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it's over. I know this happens to me, but I can't seem to get out of the vicious cycle. I know I'm only hurting myself. Maybe writing it out like this will help. I've heard that you are supposed to tell someone when you are about to do something major. So here it is:

I am not going to get so worked up over the little things anymore. I am not going to stress over nothing. I am not going to put myself on the line unless I know I can live through the fall.

I know God has my back. I may not know exactly where He is trying to lead me at all times, and that can get stressful because I like to have control over everything that happens to me. But I need to let that control-freak part of me go.

But back to me getting what I want.... I can obviously achieve my goals, or I wouldn't be sitting on this nice couch my parents bought me in the nice apartment that my school loan is paying for in the town where I am attending an expensive private college for pharmacy. I can apply myself to get where I want to go. It is just hard for me once I get there. I think I am afraid of being a success. A successful failure that is.

I'm not sure where else I want to go with this, so before it gets way too ridiculous, I'm just going to stop. Hopefully my warning from earlier was sufficient enough. I hope you didn't get this far and are now yelling at me, "You are crazy! I can't believe I just read this crap!" So, I'm sorry. I will have fun stories to tell soon. :)

Movin' On Up!

I have been studying all day. Literally from the time I woke up, at about 10:30, until now. I will admit I took a short break to eat dinner. But that's about it. I have an exam tomorrow that is probably going to give me angina. And then I'm going to have a heart attack and die right there in class during the exam. I bet the professors will feel real bad about giving us so much material then. Or they might just think that one down isn't really a big deal.

On another, more positive note, a few minutes ago I was checking my stats for this blog. A few pageviews today. Nothing major. Until I saw that I had a page view from Canada, or Canadia, as the Guidos on Jersey Shore would say. Yes, I admit I watch that too. I guess I just have a very eclectic TV show preference.

A view from freakin' Canada! I have a worldwide audience now. I feel pretty good about that. Let's keep this up.

=)

Friday Night Woes

I am studying. Or trying to study. I don't think I actually know how to study. Highschool was a joke; undergrad was a teeny baby step up. Now, grad school is kicking my butt. It has really been a shock.

But the point is this: it is a Friday night and here I am , curled up on the couch with The Student Nurse, studying by candle light, inhaling vanilla scent. We don't even have the TV on. And I really want the chocolate cake in the fridge with a huge scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

My life has gone horribly wrong somewhere.

Can't Say I Didn't Warn You...

Everyone has a pet peeve right? Some people don't like liars, or people who only think about themselves. Some people don't like people who don't use their turn signal. Or people that don't use coasters on the nice furniture. Personally, I actually hate all of these things too. I want to ram into the back of people's cars when they slam on their brakes for seemingly no reason, and then turn. I yell and scream. I don't want water rings on the furniture that my parents gave me for my apartment. I want my stuff to look nice. And of course I don't like selfish people or liars.

But you know what really gets me? NAIL BITERS. I cannot stand to see someone with their fingers in their mouth gnawing on their nails. Where have their hands been prior to biting on their nails? And then, what are they going to touch with their disgusting spit hands that have just been in their mouth? I am probably going to get some kind of horrible disease because of nail biters. Mark my word.

And the worst part about me hating nail biters? The Student Nurse is a nail biter. A habitual nail biter. I want to scream sometimes. Actually, I want to scream every time she does it. Which is often. Just today, we were in the car coming back home from working out at school, and she was biting her nails. In MY car.

Me: I hate that.

The Student Nurse: I'm sorry.

Me: If you don't stop, I'm going to write about it in my blog.

The Student Nurse: NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Me: Yep. So stop.

The Student Nurse: Don't do it please!

Me: It's just so disgusting. I mean, where do the little bits go?

The Student Nurse: ...I don't know...

Me: *gag*

After that conversation, she stopped. For a while. Obviously not forever or I wouldn't be writing about it right?

So here we are, sitting at the kitchen table (the kitchen table, where we eat), and I hear this sucking and gnawing and teeth-hitting-teeth noise. I look up and sure enough, The Student Nurse has her thumb in her mouth, chewing on her nail.

Me: That's it. I warned you.

The Student Nurse: AHHHH!!! NOOOOO!!!

Me: I told you what would happen if you didn't stop biting your nails.

The Student Nurse: *freaking out*

Me: *hard glare*

The Student Nurse: Fine. I will just write about it first.

Me: Don't. You. Dare.

The Student Nurse: *shrugs*

Me: If you do it, I won't talk to you for two days.

The Student Nurse: That's ok. I like to be alone on Friday an Saturday.

Me. Tomorrow is Thursday.

The Student Nurse: *eyes widen* NOOOO!!!!!

She is over there now typing furiously. She better not be blogging about her nail biting before I can post this.

But she is still biting her nails. As I type this. Her fingers are in her mouth. Chewing her nails to the quick. Making me want to throw up.

Thank you The Student Nurse. My dinner will be just as good coming up as it was going down I'm sure.  :-/

I Should Have Been a Hand Model

I have long, skinny fingers. Like how you would imagine a skeleton's hands looking. Bony. Maybe a better comparison would be to E.T.'s fingers. Especially when he points to the sky and his pointer finger lights up and he says, "E.T. phone home." Remember how his fingers looked in that scene? Now you know what my hands look like. Except I'm a real white girl and not an alien with a big head. Although, I might have a slightly large head too. That's what my aunt says anyway. And my pointer fingers don't light up. It is kind of a bummer. It would have really helped in that haunted house.

My mother enrolled me in piano lessons (against my will) when I was about 6 years old. My sister and I went kicking and screaming to every lesson. The only exciting thing I remember about it was when my father took us to a grocery store after our very first lesson to buy each of us a notebook that our teacher would write our lessons and "homework" in every week. We got to pick out what color we wanted. It made me think that maybe piano lessons wouldn't be so horrible since I had an awesome colored notebook that I would tote in every week. I was wrong.

I learned the basics of how to play the piano. I learned how to read music and my basic chords. I even learned how to play "Chop Sticks" and the "Heart and Soul" duet with my sister. We stayed with our first teacher for about 4 years, and then we moved to a new town. My mother of course found us a new teacher immediately. Betty Reed. 

Mrs. Reed was a nice enough older lady. She could play the piano exceptionally well and taught several of our classmates from our new school. So we began with our new teacher. She was appalled that we knew so little after having four years of piano lessons already. She wanted to take us to bigger and better things. She told us about recitals we would perform in. Our pictures would even be in the newspapers! I will admit, I was kind of excited. I was going to be a prodigy!

That never panned out needless to say. I soon realized that I still hated to play the piano. Whenever Mrs. Reed would ask us to choose our own pieces for the recitals, I would always choose dark, moody pieces so I could let out my frustration on the keys. Mrs. Reed became to expect this from me, but she also tried to sneak in a few happier pieces, like Canon in D. No. My experience with Canon in D has ruined that song for me. It will NOT be played at my wedding. 

Getting us to practice was torture. When I knew I had to practice, it was like my hair was being pulled from my head strand by strand. A slow, painful torture. I really hated it. And Mrs. Reed always knew when I hadn't practiced enough for the lessons. She would look at me like she just knew. I would try to stammer out that I had practiced enough but the piece was just too hard for me, but she knew. She knew I was lazy. 

But it didn't seem to matter how lazy I was every week. No matter what, she would comment on my hands. "You have such long fingers, it is so easy for you to reach an octave!" "Your hands are beautiful piano player hands!" "If you would apply yourself, your long fingers will really help you to get better!" It was creepy. Here I am, a 12 year old girl, being told her hands are really going to get her places. Mrs. Reed would even comment about my hands in front of people I didn't know at recitals. Once, I got an award for Most Improved. But I really think it was just because she had some weird fetish with my hands. 

Eventually, my mother let us stop taking piano lessons. We hit high school and just got too busy for the lessons every week. My mother told us she was heartbroken over it, but I think she was secretly relieved not to have to hear my sister and I banging on the piano like a couple of woodpeckers would bang on a tree after she had to yell at us to practice in the first place. But still, my mother would sometimes comment on my hands, saying the same things Mrs. Reed would say. Except she eventually started to add in, "You should be a hand model!"

As I got older, I became aware of my scrawny hands. They were actually quite nice looking. At every family function, I would try and make sure that my hands were in the forefront and that people would comment on them. I would even grab my grandmother's hand just so she would say something out loud about how beautiful she thought my hands were. Which she would. Which would make me feel even better. 

I tried my hardest to figure out how to actually become a hand model. I eventually realized that I would have to get serious about my hand maintenance. I would also have to make a portfolio. A Portfolio. I was WAY to lazy to get serious about hand modeling. I mean, I was not going to be so vain as to take pictures of my hands holding things. or modeling jewelry. I will spend hours in front of the mirror every morning, however, to make sure my face looks the best it can. But my hands? Nope.

I went off to college majoring in pre-pharmacy. I am going to a private university, so it is quite expensive. My mother, the first two years, would often say that I should get into hand modeling "on the side" to help pay for school. I felt like my mother wanted me to get a pimp and use myself for money. Well, my hands at least. Sounds dirty, right? 

Obviously, that never panned out. 

So, in four years, I will hopefully be a pharmacist. That kind of uses my hands. My hands will probably end up getting wrinkles prematurely. I'm really going to hate that. 

The Clown Incident

Friday night, my roomie, The Student Nurse, and I were sitting on the couch, not really doing anything at all. Actually, we were probably watching Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, but I don't really like to admit that.

The Student Nurse gets a text from Miss Erratic. Miss Erratic had been at work all night but she called The Student Nurse telling her that as soon as she reached our house, we were to jump in the car with her. She was going to take us to a haunted house.

Immediately, I get butterflies in my stomach. I don't really like to be scared. I already have anxiety issues, and throwing a haunted house on top of me out of no where did nothing to help this fact. I like to be able to calm down and not shake uncontrollably or have that nervous pee feeling. Usually, this takes a long while to do and often includes me pacing around the house with my eyes closed and taking deep heaving breaths. But Miss Erratic had other ideas. She is spontaneous. She had to go to the haunted house. Now.

So The Student Nurse and I grabbed our sweaters and headed out the door. We got into Miss Erratic's car and hit the road. We actually made a few wrong turns, but we eventually found the place. In the middle of the country. Basically no where. In the dark. It was a huge farm with a horrible, rocky, creepy, tree-lined driveway. And no one knew where we were going. That is the first rule; tell someone where you are going so if you die, at least they will know where to look for your body.

We pulled up into a field and there were other cars there. That made me feel better. The fact that other people are going to be in there getting scared on purpose just like I was going to do, made it seem not so crazy to me. We got our tickets and then got in line. It was slightly chilly, but normal for an October night. But the chill in the air did not explain my shivering. No, that was the anticipation of things popping out in front of me building up in my chest, ready to be let out in continuous blood-curdling screams.

We reached the front of the line and finally it was our turn. Deep breath. I made Miss Erratic go first as there was no way I was going head first into the unknown. I also made The Student Nurse go last, so I wouldn't get snuck up on from behind. Legitimate fears you know.

It started off not so bad. We had a tour guide so we weren't going in completely unaware. I screamed a little. I was actually very proud of myself for not peeing. Yet.

Then we got to be birthed. Literally. The tour guide shoved us through these dense beanbag-like black things hanging from the ceiling. It was a tight fit and snug and claustrophobia-producing. But really, all I could think about while I was getting through it was, "My hair is going to look like a hot mess after this." Later, The Student Nurse told me all she could think about was how she was sad she never got to experience being birthed the normal way; she was a C-section baby. I hope this experience resolved any standing issues she might have had with that.

After that, we had to walk through a pitch black maze. No big deal. I was just following Miss Erratic. The only bad part about it was The Clown waiting for me at the end. He scared me. I screamed, probably a little too loudly. And then he started coming for me.

He knew I was the weak link. I had no choice but to back up, with The Student Nurse clinging to my sweater behind me. I backed up as far as I could go, straight into a corner. I knew I was squishing The Student Nurse, but The Clown was in my face. I could feel him breathing on me. I was scared. And then, The Clown stepped on my toes. He actually stepped on me. It hurt. He had clompy shoes on and I just had flip flops. I got angry.

Me: You stepped on me!

The Clown: *heavy breathing*

Me: You STEPPED on ME!

The Clown: *sigh* Sorry.

Me: .....

The Clown: RAHHHHAHAHH!!

Me: ....

He finally backed up and let me continue on my way through the haunted house. By the time The Student Nurse and I had gotten past The Clown, Miss Erratic was already way ahead. We never really did catch up to her until we got to the end.

After The Clown incident, I do not think I will ever be able to take haunted houses seriously again.

I might even be able to get over my extreme fear of chainsaw wielding crazy men. But not likely.