Welcome to the hormone train that I call my life. I have been really sick this past week and I'm about to start surfing the crimson tide next week, so basically I'm emotionally and physically out of control.
Not that I am typically a nice person, but you should really try to stay out of my way. I'm sleep deprived and very stressed. These two states of being have also contributed to the fact that I can't go to the gym, and thus I have no emotional outlet and led to further weight gain. Katie Cullen has taken over the position as my therapist as well as personal trainer, so I should be doing better soon.
I spent Hallow's Eve at the State Hospital in a Forensic Unit. It wasn't as fun as it sounds, but I did get a lot of homework done. I actually found out the hospital still has prison jumpsuits and I really wanted to wear one for Halloween, but I was informed that I would be fired if administration found out that I had been wearing one, and I am really poor, so I need my job (even though I will act like I don't). Can you imagine me in a prison jumpsuit with "USH Forensic Unit 2" on the back? I know, it would be the best thing you've ever seen.
Work and school are basically my life.
This brings me to another update. I am no longer single. Details will follow, if, and only if, I ever get a ring put on my finger. Being the superstitious person that I am, I will not put into writing this relationship, because then it is doomed.
Life is crazy, full of headaches and emotional breakdowns. But I'm just going to keep on keeping on.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Facsimile of a Sham
Well, I know you all are waiting in anticipation for news on my life.
Here's the gist: I'm 21 years old, I'm graduating from BYU with a BA in psychology in April (clinical and social) and a minor in MFHD, I have no idea what I'm going to do with my degree, and I'm single.
Things I still love: chocolate, Romania, mail, cruises, sitting and staring at walls, and laughing.
Things I still don't like: Talking about the current state of my life, dieting, running, my panic/anxiety attacks, and not fitting into my favorite pair of jeans.
Here's the gist: I'm 21 years old, I'm graduating from BYU with a BA in psychology in April (clinical and social) and a minor in MFHD, I have no idea what I'm going to do with my degree, and I'm single.
Things I still love: chocolate, Romania, mail, cruises, sitting and staring at walls, and laughing.
Things I still don't like: Talking about the current state of my life, dieting, running, my panic/anxiety attacks, and not fitting into my favorite pair of jeans.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Grease Fires and Finals
Today I almost burnt down my house for the second time. The first time was when I was making popcorn (no matter how enticing it may seem to mirror the picture on the package, do not. Three minutes is too long to cook popcorn, or so I've learned), but this time it was a grease fire. Yes that's right, I will make a horrible wife.
What happened: I was cooking a hamburger in the oven, and the grease caught fire, well there's more to it then that but that's the gist. I was hearing the normal sizzling sounds, when I went into the kitchen to check how much time was left. There was black smoke billowing out of the oven. Then I realized that my precious chunk of beef was aflame. So I did what any normal person would do and started laughing hysterically. I opened the oven and gave the flames a good blow, only to have the flames increase and literally reach for my face. Then through my continual repeating of "Are you serious?", "I'm going to make a horrible wife.", and more laughing, I collected myself, and closed the oven and turned it off. By that point, our nice, clean and white oven was now black. After about five minutes the fire went out, and I was able to enjoy my patty amidst the smell of barbecue and grease.
The update on my life is that I am on a one month sabbatical from work. I have finals this week meaning Wednesday (and no Jessie Cordell I am not going to actually study). And I will be going home for some well needed R&R on Friday.
What happened: I was cooking a hamburger in the oven, and the grease caught fire, well there's more to it then that but that's the gist. I was hearing the normal sizzling sounds, when I went into the kitchen to check how much time was left. There was black smoke billowing out of the oven. Then I realized that my precious chunk of beef was aflame. So I did what any normal person would do and started laughing hysterically. I opened the oven and gave the flames a good blow, only to have the flames increase and literally reach for my face. Then through my continual repeating of "Are you serious?", "I'm going to make a horrible wife.", and more laughing, I collected myself, and closed the oven and turned it off. By that point, our nice, clean and white oven was now black. After about five minutes the fire went out, and I was able to enjoy my patty amidst the smell of barbecue and grease.
The update on my life is that I am on a one month sabbatical from work. I have finals this week meaning Wednesday (and no Jessie Cordell I am not going to actually study). And I will be going home for some well needed R&R on Friday.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
True Life: I am Georgia Nicolson
So, I have found out that if I was to be a fictional character, I would be Georgia Nicolson. If you haven't read any books from her series, you should. It is basically the diary of a 14-year-old British bird, and basically it is the story of my life (had I grown up in England). And basically we have merged personalities, so I now use about 100% of her vocabulary.
Update on my life. I still work at the State Hospital. I still love it, kind of. That's about it.
Update on my life. I still work at the State Hospital. I still love it, kind of. That's about it.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Why I Have to Get Married
For the past week or so I've had these random bug bites on my arms and legs. I jokingly told people that there was a spider in my bed. Then two nights ago, at 3:00am, I was reading in my bed, and out from under the comforter came a 50-cent-piece-sized spider, which was making a B-line straight for me. It wasn't a Wolfe spider with long legs, no, it was a fatty spider who was probably pregnant will millions of little spiders babies inside of it. Anyways, I have never moved that fast in my life. I jumped out of my bed and under my breath stated "Are you serious?!" because it was 3:00 in the morning and I was being attacked by a spider. So I frantically searched for a flip flop. Once I found one (I was a little disoriented), I had to search through my blankets for this mammoth of a spider. I couldn't get it near the wall to smash it, so I had to go get toilet paper to smash it. It made a huge crunch sound and I debated whether to throw the smashed spider in the trash or in the toilet, I mean what if I didn't smash it all the way and it crawled back into my room? "Whitney, your crazy" is what I told myself and put it in the trash.
As I returned to my bed, I did the cockroach shake to everything on my bed (for those of you who do not know what the cockroach shake is, it is the shaking out of all your bedding every night before you go to bed. I learned how to do it in Romania from Candice Cheney Carter). Anyways, so I was fuming about having to smash this spider. Basically my plan to live with Katie Cullen for the rest of my life went down the drain because Katie is the type to catch and release the spiders. That won't do. They need to die. I realized then that I have to get married so I don't have to deal with spiders anymore. You see, for the past few months I have been considering the single life. I guess this is God's way of saying I need to date.
Lessons Learned:
I can't be single for the rest of my life.
One of my dating credentials is that you must be ok with or act like you're ok with killing spiders.
As I returned to my bed, I did the cockroach shake to everything on my bed (for those of you who do not know what the cockroach shake is, it is the shaking out of all your bedding every night before you go to bed. I learned how to do it in Romania from Candice Cheney Carter). Anyways, so I was fuming about having to smash this spider. Basically my plan to live with Katie Cullen for the rest of my life went down the drain because Katie is the type to catch and release the spiders. That won't do. They need to die. I realized then that I have to get married so I don't have to deal with spiders anymore. You see, for the past few months I have been considering the single life. I guess this is God's way of saying I need to date.
Lessons Learned:
I can't be single for the rest of my life.
One of my dating credentials is that you must be ok with or act like you're ok with killing spiders.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Cysts, Moles, and Making Doctors Uncomfortable
Today for the first time in my entire life, I received external stitches. Let's go back to January, when a mysterious blue bump appeared on my face. I tried popping it with a needle, but it just made it a huge red bump. After talking with Katie Cullen, we decided that it was a cyst. I talked to the nurses at my work and also the nurses at the ER (when I was there with a patient) and they all told me to just put hot compress on it. Well, I did and nothing happened. I still had a blue dot on my face. So I decided to go to the dermatologist because my Utah State insurance will end in August.
So today I went to the office and let me just say it was something start out of Trout Creek, Montana. It had dark patchwork-pieced-together-carpet, dark woodwork, white plastic walls, and random pictures of nature. They had me go sit in a room and wait for the doctor. The doctor came in and asked "I'm Dr. Stone, this is my PA assistant. How can we help you?". I stated "Get this thing off my face" pointing to the cyst on my face. I told him "It's a cyst and it hurts when you touch it". He said "You said the exactly the right thing 'It's a cyst and it hurts when you touch it'. We'll take it off". I stated "I also have moles for you to look at". Before I even finished making this statement his assistant was inspecting the mole on my arm. Now I have been to numerous doctors who have looked at the mole on my arm and stated "Just keep watching it". I also showed the doctor the mole on my left breast. Without hesitation the doctor, to no one in particular, stated "Ok take out the cyst and the moles are gone". I began to lift up my shirt so that the doctor can remove the mole. The doctor stated "No, no. Just pull it down this way so that you're more comfortable". What he really meant to say was "You having your shirt up is making me and my assistant uncomfortable". I said "Whatever works for you", because since I regularly sit have naked while people rip the hair from my 'crotch' I have grown very comfortable exposing myself in rooms full of people.
I continued to ask a million medical questions as usual. The doctor administered the shot into my breast and I looked the other way. Then he states "You won't feel anything, just a little pressure". I look down at a swollen, bloody mole and a scalpel and said "Cool". "What are you studying?" The doctor asks. "Psychology" I nonchalantly state. "Have you ever considered medicine?" he asks me. "Yes, but I'm very, very bad at chemistry" I reply. The doctor states "Well in high school I was bad a chemistry, but in college it was different". I told the doctor "Yeah, my high school chemistry teacher told me 'You might as well give up now because you'll end up in retail'". The doctor, his assistant, and the nurse spent the next mole removal trying to tell me how wrong my teacher was and all that jazz.
I asked for a mirror to watch the removal of the cyst. They used a mole punch to cut straight to the core of the cyst. My face was bloody and the doctor was pulling chunks out of my face. It was awesome. Then it came time to stitch up my face. I begged the doctor to let me do one of the stitches. He said that because it was in such an awkward spot he couldn't. He told me that if I get a mole off my stomach, then he will allow me to. He also told me to go home and "look in places where the sun doesn't shine for moles and I will gladly take them off for you". Good thing I got a brazilian wax so I can examine places the sun doesn't shine.
When it was all over, I asked the doctor how soon I will be able to go swimming. He asked, "Well, try to stay out of public pools for a while." I asked "What about the lazy river at Seven Peaks?". He said "That will be fine as long as you use waterproof bandaids and put vaseline on them every half hour. And try to keep your head above the water". Little did the doctor know that I rarely put my head under the water.
Moral of the story: don't try to lift your shirt in a dermatologist's office, wear sunscreen, check places where the sun doesn't shine for cancerous moles, and if there's a blue bump on your face for numerous months, it's probably a cyst.
So today I went to the office and let me just say it was something start out of Trout Creek, Montana. It had dark patchwork-pieced-together-carpet, dark woodwork, white plastic walls, and random pictures of nature. They had me go sit in a room and wait for the doctor. The doctor came in and asked "I'm Dr. Stone, this is my PA assistant. How can we help you?". I stated "Get this thing off my face" pointing to the cyst on my face. I told him "It's a cyst and it hurts when you touch it". He said "You said the exactly the right thing 'It's a cyst and it hurts when you touch it'. We'll take it off". I stated "I also have moles for you to look at". Before I even finished making this statement his assistant was inspecting the mole on my arm. Now I have been to numerous doctors who have looked at the mole on my arm and stated "Just keep watching it". I also showed the doctor the mole on my left breast. Without hesitation the doctor, to no one in particular, stated "Ok take out the cyst and the moles are gone". I began to lift up my shirt so that the doctor can remove the mole. The doctor stated "No, no. Just pull it down this way so that you're more comfortable". What he really meant to say was "You having your shirt up is making me and my assistant uncomfortable". I said "Whatever works for you", because since I regularly sit have naked while people rip the hair from my 'crotch' I have grown very comfortable exposing myself in rooms full of people.
I continued to ask a million medical questions as usual. The doctor administered the shot into my breast and I looked the other way. Then he states "You won't feel anything, just a little pressure". I look down at a swollen, bloody mole and a scalpel and said "Cool". "What are you studying?" The doctor asks. "Psychology" I nonchalantly state. "Have you ever considered medicine?" he asks me. "Yes, but I'm very, very bad at chemistry" I reply. The doctor states "Well in high school I was bad a chemistry, but in college it was different". I told the doctor "Yeah, my high school chemistry teacher told me 'You might as well give up now because you'll end up in retail'". The doctor, his assistant, and the nurse spent the next mole removal trying to tell me how wrong my teacher was and all that jazz.
I asked for a mirror to watch the removal of the cyst. They used a mole punch to cut straight to the core of the cyst. My face was bloody and the doctor was pulling chunks out of my face. It was awesome. Then it came time to stitch up my face. I begged the doctor to let me do one of the stitches. He said that because it was in such an awkward spot he couldn't. He told me that if I get a mole off my stomach, then he will allow me to. He also told me to go home and "look in places where the sun doesn't shine for moles and I will gladly take them off for you". Good thing I got a brazilian wax so I can examine places the sun doesn't shine.
When it was all over, I asked the doctor how soon I will be able to go swimming. He asked, "Well, try to stay out of public pools for a while." I asked "What about the lazy river at Seven Peaks?". He said "That will be fine as long as you use waterproof bandaids and put vaseline on them every half hour. And try to keep your head above the water". Little did the doctor know that I rarely put my head under the water.
Moral of the story: don't try to lift your shirt in a dermatologist's office, wear sunscreen, check places where the sun doesn't shine for cancerous moles, and if there's a blue bump on your face for numerous months, it's probably a cyst.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Fire Crotch
Today at work I got kicked in the crotch by one of my patients. No, it wasn't the one who normally targets me (our most aggressive patient), nor was it the black man who thinks he's white who throws things. It was our brandnew patient who has an IQ of 56 (for all of you who aren't psychology nerds, the average IQ, well depending on what test is administered, is 100 with a standard deviation of 15). Anyways, this patient did not want to come in from the courtyard, so he sat down in the middle of the hallway. My co-worker went over and picked him up while I held the door. The patient started kicking at the wall so my co-worker shifted his weight and the patient kicked me. It was like a slow motion movie. He turned and face me. Looked directly at my crotch and then delivered a very hard swift kick. Among the panic that insued, I remained calm. I was even making jokes. He had actually kicked me in the best place possible, because it didn't hurt when he kicked me, probably from the fat that is contributing to my small veins. So after he was escorted by other co-workers of mine, I returned to the courtyard to bask in the sun, laughing to myself that I had just been kicked in the woman parts.
When I returned to the unit the nurse asked me how my shin was doing. I told her my shin was fine, but that wasn't where the patient kicked me. I had to explain it was my crotch. Now I am a very open person, but I like to use anatomically correct terms. But apparently there aren't anatomical terms for the front of the crotch. I had to fill out paperwork and type up reports on the incident, and with every 'crotch' that was written I became more and more uncomfortable. Why? Because I couldn't use words that I'm used to using like uterus, vagina, or cervix. No, I was stuck repeatidly writing 'Crotch' and like a 7-year-old-schoolboy I was embarrassed. I didn't even know how to spell crotch, I had to ask the nurse.
Then the doctor came in to assess the situation. The nurse so kindly told him "Whitney here got kicked in the crotch".There was that word again. Crotch. Crotch, crotch, crotch. By this point I had embraced the fact that I had been kicked in the crotch. The doctor asked "Are you ok?". I turned to him and stated "I don't think I'll be able to have children, but other than that I'm fine.". Everyone laughed but then when I was filing an incident report the paper stated 'are you injured?' and you had to check yes or no. Well, I didn't know. Can you break your crotch? I had to make a new box that said 'unknown'. The nurses told me that I wouldn't know until I used the bathroom. So naturally I was terrified that when I went the bathroom I would be in extreme pain. So an hour later, when I got the nerve to use the bathroom I was suprised to find my crotch was not broken.
Don't worry, since I filed an incident report, if anything happens Utah State Hospital (ie. Tax payers of Utah) have to pay for it.
When I returned to the unit the nurse asked me how my shin was doing. I told her my shin was fine, but that wasn't where the patient kicked me. I had to explain it was my crotch. Now I am a very open person, but I like to use anatomically correct terms. But apparently there aren't anatomical terms for the front of the crotch. I had to fill out paperwork and type up reports on the incident, and with every 'crotch' that was written I became more and more uncomfortable. Why? Because I couldn't use words that I'm used to using like uterus, vagina, or cervix. No, I was stuck repeatidly writing 'Crotch' and like a 7-year-old-schoolboy I was embarrassed. I didn't even know how to spell crotch, I had to ask the nurse.
Then the doctor came in to assess the situation. The nurse so kindly told him "Whitney here got kicked in the crotch".There was that word again. Crotch. Crotch, crotch, crotch. By this point I had embraced the fact that I had been kicked in the crotch. The doctor asked "Are you ok?". I turned to him and stated "I don't think I'll be able to have children, but other than that I'm fine.". Everyone laughed but then when I was filing an incident report the paper stated 'are you injured?' and you had to check yes or no. Well, I didn't know. Can you break your crotch? I had to make a new box that said 'unknown'. The nurses told me that I wouldn't know until I used the bathroom. So naturally I was terrified that when I went the bathroom I would be in extreme pain. So an hour later, when I got the nerve to use the bathroom I was suprised to find my crotch was not broken.
Don't worry, since I filed an incident report, if anything happens Utah State Hospital (ie. Tax payers of Utah) have to pay for it.