Tufted Titmice

It truly isn't that I mind working hard. I don't. I kind of like it, mostly. But the thing about doing too much of it is that it sucks up all your precious time into its ravenous maw. And you don't get to finish reading The Kite Runner* and you don't get to write in your blog. You don't even remember to do all of your IV drip rate calculation homework. (Plus, might I add, your diet is just appalling.)

I've started my new temp assignment. And I have to say, except for that annoying work's-ravenous-maw part, it's really quite excellent. I think a lot of it is probably that it is a health care-related office, and therefore somewhere that I myself might actually truly work. There are a bunch of nurses around (in my particular area, mostly the kind with MBAs or MPAs and wearing pleasantly frumpy suits and sensible, low-heeled pumps), and everybody's all comfortably serious and altruistic and nice and down-to-earth. I really love it. I feel so at home. Temping at the software company was great because the people were welcoming and fun, and I got to spend many of my work hours doing on-line jigsaw puzzles (dreadfully addictive) and reading my e-mail and writing whatever I felt like. But at the new place, I actually belong.

My supervisor, Kerry, feels like a nurse to me, though I don't think she has any clinical background or credential at all. She's an administrative assistant. But she's worked in health care for most of her career (she's probably a couple years younger than I am), and feels absolutely like a peer. I'm afraid I felt so comfortable with her from the moment I met her that on my very first day, I spilled my whole story to her, including the bit about the circumstances under which I left my last job. She seemed to take the story entirely in the spirit it was intended (and, having worked at Famous Hospital, to my mild dismay, was able to identify Patty, the cardiologist with interpersonal difficulties, by my description, although I had been careful not to mention her name).

Basically, I think it was fine, and Kerry has continued to be extremely warm and collegial, but it just makes me think that here I go again, trusting people. It was trusting Allison (on the basis of a lot more contact than I've had with Kerry) that got me into hot water in the first place. Oh, I don't know. I don't want to get all guarded and cynical, either. It wouldn't be worth it. I'd actually rather get burned here and there than close myself off from people I like and intutitively trust. But still. Maybe I could have held off more than an hour with the Patty Surratt story. I mean, you would think.

The other nice thing about this temp placement is that I've been sitting at a desk with a big window overlooking a little marsh ringed by trees--blond dried reeds framed by the branches of some kind of fancy maple with little red leaves and tiny hanging seed helicopters. It's quite beautiful in any weather, almost as striking with heavy dark gray skies behind it as it is with brilliant blue. And there are birds. Lots and lots of birds. Nothing too exotic (I wouldn't be able to identify those, anyway), but a nice, steady stream of cardinals and blue jays and red-winged blackbirds and black-capped chickadees and mourning doves and something black with an irridescent head. Oh, plus big old hawks, circling above the swamp or perched in the big, bare tree on the far side. It is testament to a childhood spent as my father's daughter that when I saw a little gray bird, about the size of a nuthatch, with a crest and a cream-colored belly and a rusty patch under each wing, the words "tufted titmouse" popped into my head seemingly from nowhere. When I looked up a picture online later, sure enough. Those might be my favorites, actually, pretty but not flashy, and all plump and soft-looking. I have to admit I'm not wild about the name, but what are you going to do.

Meanwhile, my exertions as a nurse-refresher student continue. This week was all skills lab. Oh, plus some videos: body mechanics, giving injections, administering oral meds, the use of a thingy called a "Slipp" for moving patients in bed. The first day was super-basic, mostly just taking vitals, but I was so keyed up that it was actually a little bit challenging. I've taken a thousand blood pressures, but suddenly I was all thumbs--put the cuff on inside-out, had the stethoscope head turned the wrong way. And when my partner at one station took my blood pressure, the diastolic was a good 14 points above my usual. Jeez. I did kind of simmer down the second day, though I still forgot to aspirate before administering an IM injection. I'm tremendously grateful to be getting all this anxious craziness out of my system now, with the plastic patients, so that I can be a little more together when I'm finally back to the flesh-and-blood(-and-consciousness) kind.

I'm also glad for all the school-ish parts sprinkled in, so I have regular opportunities to get my confidence back. Calculations, infection control guidelines, the heartrate below which you don't give the digoxin. Phew. No problem. And my favorite classmate, Janet, and I are continuing to bond. She told me a bit more about her 8-year marriage to a controlling creep (he even wanted her to give up her nursing license), and we talked about how impressed we are with people who are really good med-surg nurses, how amazing it would be to be like them.

One of my responsibilities at my new temp job has been typing in comments from patient satisfaction surveys. It's kind of heartening and inspiring to read what some of these people are writing. "Nurse X was just wonderful. She got me through a very difficult time, physically and emotionally." "I can't praise Nurse Y enough. She is everything a nurse should be--knowlegeable, helpful, friendly, funny, skilled..." One couple said they liked their nurse so much they wished they could adopt him. Some are from patients who are nurses themselves saying how impressed they were. The most poignant ones for me are the ones that say "thank you." Like they're so grateful that people are doing their jobs. Anyway, besides making me feel good about the place I'm temping for, it gets me kind of revved up to go out there and GIVE GOOD CARE. If I can just get the head of my stethoscope turned the right way.


* Starts out interesting enough, if slightly good-for-you (in an expose-yourself-to-other-cultures kind of way) and also kind of writers workshoppish (in a hear-pulleys-and-gears-as-key-elements-of-plot-and-characterization-are-set-into-place kind of way), but gets really compelling soon after the Big Bad thing that has been foreshadowed ad nauseam finally happens.

Run Right Out and Pick Some Up

Unsolicited testimonials for three consumer products that you might need as much as I do and just not know it yet:

1) Frozen blueberries
I am not really a huge fan of blueberries my own self. I mean, they're fine except for their distinctive, um, blueberry flavor, which I find cloying and, when particularly concentrated (or artificial), frankly nauseating. However. Cassie loves them, but if I spend an arm and a leg to get a little container of fresh ones out of season, chances are good that she'll actually turn up her nose at them because they're too sour. Frozen blueberries, on the other hand, are much cheaper, come in a handy plastic bag you can pour them directly out of, and seem always to be sweet. And blueberries are all good for you and everything, with, you know, anti-oxidants and flavinoids or flavones (or one of those things that are even better than vitamins and fiber and other stuff that regular people actually know about already). When Cassie, who refuses to eat any vegetables at all ever, scarfs a whole big bowl of frozen blueberries, it makes me feel like significantly less of a bad mother.

2) Pre-brushing mouth-rinse stuff
My dentist and hygienist seem skeptical. My mom does, too. But I swear to you, this stuff is why when I ridiculously failed to go to the dentist for 10 years (no exaggeration), and then finally finally got my ass back in the big vinyl reclining chair, I had no cavities. I do floss daily(ish), and that's what everybody seems to want to credit. But seriously, when I travel (and don't bring the rinse stuff because it's sloshy and doesn't pack well), I really, really notice that my mouth gets all gross and mossy at a much faster rate. I just had another check-up, and the dentist remarked to the hygienist how great my gums looked. Trust me when I tell you that it's not my preternatural adeptness at hygiene technique. Daily use of the red icky-tasting swishing fluid. That's it. That's the secret.

3) Prozac
I was depressed. It felt a little as if life were a mucky garden, overgrown--choked--with these unwholesome purple and brown plants, and with ground so unreliable I could be up to my ankle in foul-smelling mud at the slightest misstep. The tiniest little thing would go wrong (oh, look, we're almost out of cat food...), and I could almost literally feel the squirt of some noxious combination of neurotransmitters, and in seconds I'd be awash in guilt and dread. SSRIs (first Lexapro, now Prozac) made the ground solid and sound, and the garden well lit and mowed. It made it possible for me to write; it made my career something I could actually work on; it is conceivable that it might have saved my marriage (at the very least, it made it vastly more pleasant).

I always used to be kind of an agnostic about anti-depressants. You know, you read the rants, the sneering depictions of Americans as greedy, shallow consumers of "lifestyle" medications. And, I don't know, it sounded kind of plausible. I wasn't paying that much attention, really. I'd read the diatribes and nod absentmindedly, critical faculties not fully engaged. But you know what? I have an opinion now. And my opinion is fuck that noise. I think anyone who wants and can safely take SSRIs should get them. That's it. And the neo-Calvinists who think pain is good for us and who value purity above all in their human nature can just go huddle together with others of their kind, but they'd best keep their grubby little mitts off of my brain chemistry, thank you very much.

(It Looks Like Up to Me)

It's come to this. I've been assigned to a new temp job, and I'm delighted. Maybe ecstatic would be too strong, but anyway I'm definitely very, very pleased.

Since early November, I'd had this very comfy full-time software company gig. Executive Assistant to the CEO (a bit of a boor, but in the office less than half the time), and otherwise general czarina of random menial projects. Everyone (with the exception of the aforementioned Mr. Entitledypants) was very nice and warm and even funny, and I had tons of time with no work to do at all (thus the blog--it all starts to fall into place, doesn't it?). But then they didn't want me any more when my classes started, and I could no longer be entirely full-time (Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons now being devoted to the worthy endeavor of making me less of a menace to future patients). Understandable, sort of, if you look at it from a certain angle and squint.

So we were going to be even further up that ever-familiar creek, financially-speaking, with me not even pulling in temp wages. But then the nice agency found me another position, where they're cool with the leave-at-one-on-Tuesdays-and-Wednesdays thing, and the pay rate is the same. So I'll be making 4/5 of what I was making on a weekly basis. Which means we are not so monumentally screwed we might never recover; we're just, you know, really broke. So that is very cool. And my favorite part is that the temp agency guy told me that the person he talked to at my new (incidentally vaguely health care-related) assignment was all suspicious at first after she saw my resume because she thought it was some kind of underhanded power-play, and I was trying to sneak in and take over, because why would somebody like me be temping? Isn't that sweet? It put me in a good mood for the whole rest of the day.

The only downside, of course, is that now I'm actually going to have to go do a bunch of dumb work. Pfeh. I hate that.

And I've squandered this one lovely week off that I had, because with this evil cold, all I did was lie around and sleep and cough and drink tea and feel sorry for myself. Well, and do a little laundry and read The Pursuit of Alice Thrift. (Entertaining, but more empty-calorie-ish than I'd kind of hoped.)

But now I'm feeling better, and it's spring, it's spring, it's spring. The cherry tree over the driveway is in bloom, and the nice suburban birds are in full warble, and the air smells good. So it really is not all seeming very dire, I have to admit.

Go You Huskies

Tuesdays and Wednesdays are now my nurse refresher class days. The classes last 4 hours each (with a 10-minute break that stretches to 15 minutes if the Dunkin Donuts in the next building is closed, and we have to walk all the way to the student center to get coffee), from mid-afternoon to early evening. I've had two now.

I like first days of classes. They're so unintimidating. You can't be behind yet. And there's all that time taken up with getting the revised syllabus handed out, and passing around a sheet to write your name and e-mail address on, and going over the list of required and suggested text books. It's all so nice and low-stress. And in this case, we also had to get a little campus tour (at least to see the library and the student center and the office where we could get parking passes) and get our student IDs made.

At this particular institution, they're called "Husky Cards." I'm sure that's some school-spirited reference to valiant sled dogs, but to me the word "husky" conjures only the fat-boy clothes in the Sears catalog. I'm not saying that definition of "husky" is not applicable to me in any way; I'm just saying maybe it would be more polite not to call attention to it on my student ID. When I had my picture taken, though, I was holding my head high to try to prevent double-chin shadows, and also I was trying to look pleasant but not smile so big that my face got all squinchy. The end result was that in my ID photo, I look like one mean mofo, with my chin jutting up and a kind of smug glower on my face. I definitely look like somebody who would take a swing at you, or maybe slash your tires, if you so much as whispered that she might be husky. So I guess it all works out.

There are only seven women in my class. (There was supposed to be an eighth, apparently, but she hasn't shown, so maybe she's thought better of this whole go-back-to-clinical-nursing craziness.) I think that, at 39, I'm probably the youngest by at least a couple years. I also, unsurprisingly, have the least clinical experience of the group. We meet in a classroom that is also the nursing skills lab, so as we sit and listen and take notes, orangey-tan plastic mannequins gape at us from six hospital beds, three on either side.

My favorite classmate so far is Janet. Janet is maybe in her early 40s, and has a way about her that suggests she's a strong person who's been through the wringer. She probably looked like a model not too many years ago, and still has girly long blonde hair. When we went around the room to introduce ourselves and explain a little bit about our background, she alluded to a very difficult divorce around the time she left nursing practice, and a kind of deep weariness passed over her face. During break time, I also heard her talk about her migraines (better now than they were) and an auto accident a while back in which she was injured kind of badly (they still plan to do an MRI of her head to make sure her left-sided headaches aren't trauma-related). But she also has a glow of optimism under the pain and fatigue, and she's friendly with just a little bit of wariness around the edges. I don't know. I like her. I trust her.

My other classmates:
Ellen -- in her early 50s, I'd guess; relaxed, sturdy, no-nonsense, professional, has worked for Head Start as a disability specialist for years
Lynne -- seems kind of sweet and fresh-scrubbed, very pretty face but incredibly dowdy hair and clothes--like an actress cast as a "real person" rural housewife in some slick X Files/West Wing/Veronica Mars TV drama
Lucille -- I'm trying to withhold judgment, but strikes me so far as a kind of negative, pessimistic, passive wet rag. She's in her 50s, I think, and this step has to take some courage, so she must have some spine and spunk in there somewhere. We'll see.
Nancy 1 -- again with the trying to withhold judgment. Strikes me as kind of cavalier and entitled and obnoxious. Doesn't really seem to take nursing seriously. Filipina. Worked as a public health nurse in Manila, but has only worked as a nurse's aide here in the States. May well be cloaking insecurity in brassiness.
Nancy 2 -- seems at first like a bland, shallow jock, but she hasn't said much, so it's really too early to say. She's slim and fit and outdoorsy, worked for years in sales for some medical equipment company that got bought recently and laid off a bunch of people.

Anyway, after all the first-day housekeeping kinds of stuff, we started with a lecture on how health care (and particularly hospital care) has changed in the past 10-20 years. Because of my background, little of it was news to me, but that was fine. Then yesterday we had a dynamic, entertaining lecture on pain control from an outside expert who played her plump-outgoing-Jewish-woman-of-a-certain-age role with effective, if a bit studied, panache. And we went over our homework (some dosage calculations, and some what-tests-are-needed-for-this-patient scenarios), and had a lecture on infection control. So far so good. Nothing to raise my pulse.

Next week, though, is going to be heavy on the scary scary part. Skills lab. Of course, this is mannequins and practice and no expectations, no pressure. I'm also beginning to realize that much like driving (you may recall that I just got my first license a year and a half ago), the skills part of nursing can be broken down into a series of tasks, any one of which can be made quite manageable, and even if you're in a hurry, you're really not doing more than one at once. So you just breathe and focus and think and do what you've been trained to do, and failing that, do what makes sense, and it doesn't actually have to be a big, hairy deal. I'm really starting to think I might not die from this.

Contrary to my expectations, though, I have hit a bit of a snag as far as obtaining scrubs. I happened to speak to Marina, my friend since 1st grade, maid of honor at my wedding, practically a sister, and incidentally nurse-midwife, just before I was going to place my scrubs order. Um, she said, I don't want to throw cold water on anything, but you should probably know that a lot of places are going back to dress codes for nurses. Some places that's one or two specified colors of scrubs (e.g., apricot or sea green), and some places even have nurses going back to whites. So now I have to check with my most likely places of employment to see whether I'll even be able to wear "oregano" or "Caribbean blue" or French Kitty on a pink bicycle before I go ahead and order. Very disappointing. But I suppose there is still hope.

First Day

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. (I used to love Spencer Gifts when I was a kid--that mall store that had a mixture of posters with uplifting slogans, gag gifts, and crass mugs and t-shirts. I read through them avidly, as if I was looking for clues. Clues to how life worked, I guess. "Today is the first day... " always kind of puzzled me; I just didn't get what it was supposed to mean. I was also befuddled by the button with a picture of a chick hatching out of a shell that read "I just got laid." I knew it must be vulgar, but I couldn't figure it out.) Which is to say, it's the first day of my nursing refresher class. As it's approached, I've come to dread it a lot less and look forward to it more. It's seeming more real, and as it seems more real, it seems more doable. It won't be some vaguely defined nightmare of floating unsupported in insecurity, ignorance, and overwhelm. It will have real people (some of them likely quite nice, actually) and real tasks, and I'll just learn whatever I can.

What sucks is that I'm sick. Some nasty cold. Snot, sore throat, fatigue, etc. And when I took my temperature this morning (I'm tracking it daily for fertility purposes), I maxed out my ovu-thermometer at 100, so who knows--it could be way higher than that! (Poor me!) Actually, it's probably not. I don't feel that bad. But I still feel plenty crappy, thanks, as well as ochen' sorry for myself. Here I am, the achy, feverish young mother (okay, shut up), valiantly getting her golden-haired child off to school (day care), then dragging her exhausted sickly body into the city in order to better herself. See the montage! Hear the soundtrack! Doesn't it just make you weep?

Well. Anyway. I'll tell you how it goes.

Chapter 14, in Which Booty is Shaken

Lucine and her husband Max came over last night. Lucine and Max are the kind of friends that are so close we often don't even clean before they come over (giving them the privilege of stepping over strewn toys and getting cozy with the dust bunnies under the couch, as emblem of our abiding love). They've provided emergency babysitting, and made emergency pots of vegetarian chili, and schlepped over on the bus in the snow when it would have been so much easier for them to stay snuggled at home, and just generally embodied "through thick and thin" in countless ways. Pete and I tell each other that when they have a baby some day, we're going to have to go move in with them for the first six months and cook all their meals and do all their laundry if we're ever going to have a hope of any kind of favor parity.

Somehow the subject of Creedence Clearwater Revival came up, and Pete was apologizing for not putting any on--"Rosie hates CCR," he said (with regret but no rancor, it should be noted).

"Um, no I don't."

"You don't?"

"No. I'm fine with CCR. They just remind me of high school. I hate XTC."

"You hate XTC??"

"Well, yeah."

"You hate XTC??"

"Um, strongly dislike?"

Anyway, he put on the record, and there was this gloriously sweet moment when all of us--Max, Lucine, Pete, Cassie, and I--were dancing around the living room and dining room to "Suzie Q," (like those corny movie scenes that proliferated after The Big Chill came out, I realize now, in the cold light of day). One of those moments that don't come very often, but when they do, make it all seem easy--make it seem as if the world is so full of love and pleasure that this joy is just what life is made of. A moment that makes happiness seem so readily accessible, you wonder why you ever thought it was hard.

Those moments for me always seem to happen with friends. It makes me wonder about the ideal balance of to-do list-wrangling and social contact. So much of life seems to require charging around, getting things done. I guess you just have to keep deciding, keep choosing, day by day and hour by hour. And maybe in the end do a little more inviting people over to hang out with the dust bunnies.

The Fan

Cassie seems to have something of a crush on Jon Stewart. When she hears the Daily Show theme music start to play at the opening of the 7:00 re-broadcast, if she hasn't yet finished her supper, she will insist that her high chair be moved into the living room so that she can watch. She gets a bit impatient when anyone else is on screen, though she is now grudgingly accepting, as Pete has explained to her that those other people are Jon Stewart's friends. (Admittedly a bit of a stretch, especially when Ari Fleischer or somebody is on, but it just seemed easier to put it that way.)

A while back, she noticed that not everybody uses his full name. "Mama?" she said. "Some people don't call him Jon Stewart. Some people just call him Jon!" She's mentioned it several times since then. I think it makes her feel kind of exhilarated and in-the-know.

This past Tuesday night, Pete and I were discussing something, somewhat ignoring the television, though Cassie remained transfixed. Then it was time for a commercial (Cassie does not approve of the Daily Show having commercials, incidentally), and the esteemed Mr. Stewart did the obligatory into-commercial sign-out. It's not boilerplate patter to Cassie, though, it's all fresh and new. "He will be right back!" she exulted. "He said he will be right back!" [commercial, commercial, commercial, commercial...] "He's right back!!"

It's a grand, grand world when you're three years old and in love.

The Littlest Docent

A visit to an art museum is a very different experience with a 3-year-old. The rhythm is entirely changed. Rather than the slow, even, reverent amble of a well-socialized adult, you get lots of stops and starts--a quick trot through three rooms, then 25 minutes in the next. The perspective on what is and is not of interest also gets altered quite a bit. Stairs, doors, and benches are at least as important as the putative art on display, particularly since they're interactive in a way that most of the art is not. And as you can imagine, more attention has to be spent on not running into, getting in the way of, or otherwise molesting other museum-goers.

My mom was visiting us this weekend, and so she and I and Cassie all went into the city together. My mom and I have a long history of going to art museums together, and Cassie and I have sort of become regulars at Local City Museum of Art, but this was our first time all together. I was a little disappointed with how it went, because Cassie was so revved up by the presence of Grandma Sal that she wasn't as interested in the art as she usually is. Even when it's just the two of us, there's plenty of stair-climbing and bench-lying and snack-eating and hallway-zooming, but we also get these great little moments of shared contemplation and discussion. Is that lady in the marble sculpture sleeping or dead? Which stained glass window is your favorite? Is the chimera in the ceiling mural flying or falling? Why is that little statue of the monk crying, and why can't we see his face? How did that man get those boo-boos on his hands? (Incidentally, Pete and I really do try to avoid baby-talk for most things, but somehow "boo-boo" snuck into our vocabulary, and is now pretty well entrenched.) There was less of that kind of thing this time, with Cassie so excited.

We still had a good time, though. Some highlights:

- Eating grapes out on in the sunny courtyard, on a stone bench decorated with carved grapes.

- Fifteen minutes hanging out while Cassie sprawled and read out the spelling of nearly every geographical feature on a stone floor map of the ancient Near East, upside-down. "M, E, D, I, T, E, R, R..." She then traced the course of the rivers with her finger, making a happy little rr-rrt rr-rrt sound, and then pretended to splash through all the bodies of water with Grandma Sal. (Fortunately, that particular room was fairly sparsely populated, so I think our whole-body map enjoyment was not too disruptive.)

- Sitting and looking at Rembrandts, as my mom observed that even the greatest artists seem always to get the hands wrong somehow, and Cassie sat quietly, wholly absorbed for the moment in her copy of "The Caboose Who Got Loose."

- Watching Cassie run up to a green, Mondrian-esque geometric abstraction as if it were an old friend. (She always has seemed more taken with abstract than figurative art, which is a little counterintuitive to me.)

- Holding Cassie's hand as we went into a dark room ("it's too spooky!") that housed a small collection of of Asian sculptures, each in its own little pool of light, and then holding her close as we looked at one particularly lovely and serene dark gray Buddha with what looked like a moonstone in his forehead.

- Noticing, as we sat in the museum cafe, that Cassie was suddenly having trouble with a piece of something, and getting my hand under her mouth in time to catch the entirety of a little glorp of vomit that then emerged. (It made me feel briefly like one of those unflappable veteran moms, as I discreetly deposited the smelly mess into a napkin, and then got the napkin into a plastic grocery bag (carried for the purpose of wrapping a dirty diaper), and tied it off, all without anyone besides my mom noticing that anything was amiss.)

- Watching Cassie pick out post cards in the museum shop--quick, avid, incredibly decisive, as if she already had a mental list of which ones she wanted. Yes, no, yes, yes, no, no, no, yes.

My mom said she might actually like the art museum experience better as led by a 3-year-old. You don't feel obligated to be interested in everything. It's also more kinetic--with all the trips up and down stairs and whatnot, definitely a better work-out.

Procrastination Sludge

(This is a second go at this post. I had it all written out yesterday, but then it was lost when I tried to publish it, and hitting "Back" just rewarded me with a blank screen. Maddening. Makes me feel slightly better (less defective) to know I'm not the only one.)

I have trouble understanding that procrastinatory behavior and depressed mood are distinct phenomena. I have a habit of seeing them as part of the same thing, at least in the context of my own little (unique yet unremarkable) psychic landscape (grass, trees, maybe a lake, but also, over there, a cruddy strip mall, with dumpsters, and a chain donut store and trash in the parking lot).

(I remember saying something somewhat similar, talking to my previous shrink, and then being struck by the thought, "oh, but I guess when it comes to psychopathology, you don't really want to be original and unusual, do you?" And she said, with some authority, "No... No, you really don't.")

So then I get all confused when depression and procrastination come separately. Not that it's never happened before. It just doesn't gibe with my established mental model of how things work, so I'm surprised every time. I'm bopping along in life, not depressed, maybe not Profoundly Happy, in some kind of choirs-and-major-chords way, but, you know, fine. And yet there I am, going through all kinds of contortions--mentally, logistically, psychologically--to avoid even seeing the thing that I am not doing. Some unavoidable reminder of the existence of the thing might occasionally force itself on my consciousness, and I will, with great energy and verve, push it the hell back away from me and think very quickly of something else. (I might also have the fleeting thought, "what is up with that?" but am soon swept away in thinking very hard and seriously with knitted brow about "is it too warm out to make chili?" or "should I have gotten the cheaper, less cute bathroom rug?")

I cannot tell you how much trouble I'm having making preparations for my nursing refresher course that starts the week after next. Every stupid little step takes so much energy. I have to keep swatting my hands (put down the crossword puzzle) and forcing myself (grinding sound, smell of motor overheating) to do what I need to do. I have now assembled/composed all the pieces of my application for a license in this state and sent them in. I have obtained the necessary form and assembled/composed my application to the nursing refresher program of my choice. But it took me FOREVER. Fortunately, I don't need an in-state license until clinical starts next month, and the program wasn't even close to full, so it was fine. But man oh man. Like pulling f**king teeth. AND it's not over, because I still have to figure out about malpractice insurance (I've never had to deal with this before, because usually you're either a student--in which case, you're practicing under your instructor's license--or you're covered by your employer). And about getting the required physical. And about when and where payment is required. (My mom very generously for Christmas gave me a blouse, and some socks, and a little card with an old fashioned nurse on the outside, and on the inside, an offer to pay for my nurse refresher course! Which is really, truly a great thing. So my squirreliness can't even be about the money, for a change.)

I suppose what it comes down to is that this whole trying to be a hospital nurse is scaring the shit out of me. I'm scared I'm going to suck. I'm scared I'm going to be so overwhelmed I'll cry in front of people. I'm scared I'm going to hurt somebody somehow--give them the wrong medication or run in an IV too fast or forget to tell the doctor something important or fumble in a transfer to a wheelchair. I'm scared I won't know how to do stuff I'm supposed to know how to do. I'm scared I'll be unsupported. I'm scared of that choking feeling where everybody wants something from you and you can't do it all and it's all your fault. I'm scared of being not enough.

So. Well. I suppose that does explain it all a bit, really. But still.

At least there's one part of the preparation that I think I won't procrastinate about at all. See, I have a closet full of office-y clothes, but I've got pretty much nothing to wear on the wards. So I have to shop for some scrubs. I even got a catalog unbidden in the mail recently. There are lots of colors and patterns. I'm thinking slate gray, ceil blue, and maybe "paprika." I'm toying with getting a garish print or two, too. The twee-ness of the "French Kitty" riding a hot pink old-fashioned bicycle in front of the Eiffel tower, all on a girly blue background, somehow calls out to me. I'll let you know what I pick out.

"Blue Graphite"?

So. I'm driving a new car. I, Rosie Bonner--longtime non-driver, reluctant consumer, hater of new car smell, broke-ass temp--am now tooling around the genteel, historical suburbs in a 2005 Volkswagen Jetta wagon, resplendent and classy in its coat of glam yet mysterious "Blue Graphite." It makes my stomach hurt to think how much we can't afford it, and I still can't help thinking that some unprepossessing little 1996 Civic or something would have been a more appropriate choice, given our financial situation. I'm angry at myself for being so passive during the process. I know nothing about buying cars (Constance, my dearly departed 1990 Camry, was a very generous gift from my mom, who bought it from the mother of someone she works with), and the whole thing makes me feel overwhelmed and stupid and like crawling into a closet and curling up on the shoes and closing the door. So I really didn't push my 1996 Civic vision, and now I'm thinking I should have. We really, really can't afford this car. We're already in debt up beyond our eyeballs, and this is a hella expensive area to live in, and yeah, I'll be working as a nurse, but not until late summer, at the earliest, and even then...

But. But I have to say, I'm really loving this car. They put in all these little aesthetic touches for people like me who don't know from cars, like a chrome plate around the gear thingy. The ignition key leaps cheerfully out of its rectangular black housing like a little squared-off switchblade when you push the silver button. The controls look all contemporary and technophilic, but quietly so, nothing garish or geeky. And the color. The color truly is lovely--its name being silly yet strangely accurate.

Beyond that, it's zippy (well, zippier than the sluggish and beleaguered Constance, at any rate) and steers nice and tight, and I'm going to have to pay attention not to speed. Driving Constance, I could tell how fast I was going, within 5 mph, without looking at the spedometer. I don't know what it is now, exactly--is this car quieter, or is it just that it labors less?--but I'll all of a sudden be going 50 mph in a 35 mph zone, and it's only by a glance at the dashboard that I can tell.

What's weird is that it's as if I'm now this different person--this driver. In a new car, I'm just another American in an automobile, somehow. I'm no longer a driver in a grudging, half-way, on-my-own-terms, hair-needs-washing, eccentric kind of way. Now I'm a busy professional with an on-the-go lifestyle. I'm today's discerning consumer who demands value and convenience. I'm a law-abiding taxpayer who just wants the best for my family. I'm a soccer mom. (Not that Cassie, at 3, has yet discovered the glory of wearing kelly green and white, stuffing padded plastic half-tubes down the fronts of her socks, and chasing around after a ball with a knot of other children who refuse to unclump no matter how much their coach yells directions. I do know that this is not unlikely to be in her future, though, so I suppose I'd better start trying now to summon, from the reserves of my soul, at least a scintilla of enthusiasm, come to think of it.)

Something else that this car represents, though, is an opportunity to start fresh. I can learn all about proper car maintenance and do all the right things at the right times and keep all the records all nice and neat. I don't have to feel guilty. I haven't done anything wrong yet; I haven't neglected anything yet. I'll keep the air pressure in the tires just where it should be, and I'll check the oil and track my gas mileage and get tune-ups and learn all about antifreeze and whatever else I'm supposed to do. I'll get one of those books about car maintenance for lame-ass sissy girl dummies. And then it won't be something that I'm not dealing with because I don't know quite how, and that I dread thinking about because it makes me feel crappy. It will just be what I do.

That will be nice.