Oh What Shall the New Day Bring

Remember how I said I'd never go back to being a nurse again? Unfortunately, it appears that financially I may have no choice in the matter. That is a very scary proposition. U.S. health care itself is very scary. I could tell you tales ...

In fact, I think I will. I knew what I was getting into years ago when I was still a student nurse. The University-based program that bestowed my bachelor's degree wisely had me rotate through many different fields in order to give me experience in multiple clinical areas. My most memorable field experience occurred in the operating room.

The O.R. staff had thoughtfully provided a stool for me to stand on to enable me to see everything that was going on during the course of one particular operation. The Chief Surgeon was observing while a Resident (i.e. student doctor) began to remove a patient's kidney. The Resident appeared to my untrained eyes to be experiencing some difficulty with the procedure. Sure enough, the patient began to bleed heavily. The Chief Surgeon elbowed the Resident out of the way and took over in order to save the patient's life. It seems that the Resident had accidentally nicked the patient's spleen while trying to remove the kidney. As he worked to resolve the problem, the Chief Surgeon asked the Resident, "I thought you'd done this before?"

The Resident, in a heavy Indian accent, replied, "No, but I read it in the book last night."

My mental "Augghhh!" still rings in my head today.

The Chief Surgeon made a little joke about the patient getting two organs removed for the price of one as he removed the patient's spleen in order to prevent the patient from bleeding to death. The Chief Surgeon proceded to successfully complete the original operation, which was the removal of the patient's kidney.

Needless to say, no one but the staff in the operating room was aware of the above conversation. No law suits resulted from the malpractice, and the patient and family were not told anything beyond, "The operation was more complicated than we expected, and we had to remove the spleen in addition to the kidney."

Ha!

Folks don't realize when they sign the consent form for surgery, it usually says something along the lines of "the surgeon OR WHOMEVER HE DELEGATES will perform the operation." Only once in my seventeen years of nursing did I actually see someone cross out that part of the consent form before signing it.

I'm in Love

The current object of my admittedly fickle affections is a recovering cocaine addict of Jewish descent by the name of Aaron Sorkin.

It all started three years ago when I read a comment written by a USA Today TV critic. He was talking about a show that was in reruns on Bravo TV called 'The West Wing.' The reviewer said something along the lines of, "If you want to know why everyone is so enthusiastic about this show, just watch tonight's episode called 'Noel.'"

Having nothing better to do, I watched, and immediately fell in love. In the Sorkin days of The West Wing, the actors were excellent across the board. And the words that they were given to speak . . . I don't have the words myself to explain my feelings. It was a pleasure to watch a show that assumed the viewer had a modicum of intelligence, and might possibly possess an education beyond that of the average fifth-grader. Unfortunately, by the time I discovered The West Wing, Sorkin was no longer writing for the show. I spent a fair amount of time watching and re-watching the first and second season episodes.

All good things come to an end and after a suitable period of mourning post-West Wing, I resumed sporadically watching the dross offered up courtesy of the average television program. This summer my brain finally objected. Two nights in a row I attempted to watch televised movies, and both times I turned off the television after deciding that I could not take any more of the crappy dialogue and/or stilted acting.

This is totally antithetical to the theater aficionado in me. My brother (the actor) instilled in me an appreciation of everything that goes into the craft of moviemaking. On the many occasions upon which we attended a movie together, we always sat in the theater and watched until the final credits rolled across the screen.

Desperate to find something watchable, I went to the local Borders Bookstore and bought an overpriced copy of the DVD collection, 'Sports Night: The Complete Series.'

A little background is perhaps appropriate at this point. In the normal course of events, I would not have voluntarily watched a show about two sports broadcasters. In point of fact, I had never seen so much as a single minute of 'Sports Night' prior to my purchase. The only reason I made the investment is because 'Sports Night' was written by Aaron Sorkin, ably assisted by Thomas Schlamme.

I will never regret the purchase. 'Sports Night' is absolutely wonderful! I am doing the happy dance of joy with the news that Sorkin and Schlamme are returning to television this fall with a new series, 'Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.'

(I must admit the fact that Brad Whitford is one of the stars of the show doesn't hurt.)
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Detroit

I spent the first twenty-three years of my life in Detroit. Therefore, I was witness to the 'white flight' that changed the city from a residential area of home ownership to renters, from middle class majority to the poor.

I was researching crime statistics today and discovered that the FBI's crime statistics for 2005 won't be available until October 2006. Therefore, my search for recent statistics was confined to the year 2004. Unfortunately, the numbers speak for themselves. The 2004 statistics showed that Detroit was the least safest city in the entire United States.

Therefore, when friends and family suggest that I accompany them on outings to Detroit, I politely decline, and privately wonder why they would want to take the risk.

I undertand how they can ignore the crime. When I lived in Detroit, I just accepted the chaos that existed around me as a part of life. It was not until I left the city that I realized that life did not have to be lived that way.

Although crime never touched me directly, it came close enough. I remember when my brother Chuck's rusting 'ghetto sled' of a car was stolen from its parked position next to the house. The police found the car abandoned a day or so later, in Hamtramck.

More than once, I heard gunshots echoing outside the house. I was taught never to investigate the source of the sound. Rather, I was told to stay away from the doors and windows, lest a stray bullet find me.

On one particular day, the police came to our door and asked if anyone had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. I and the members of my family informed the police that we had no information to share regarding the multiple homicides that had taken place in a house across the street from ours. I mentally shrugged, not as upset as perhaps I should have been. While the thought of murder was disturbing, I can't say that I minded the fact that there were a couple of less drug dealers in the neighborhood.

Later, one of my brothers confessed to me that he had heard gunshots and had seen a car drive away, and he might have even glimpsed the murderer. He chose not to share the information with the police, declining involvement in black-on-black, criminal vs. criminal activity.

I disagreed. If I had the information, I would have shared it. It sickens me, that the main cause of death among young black men in the city is *other* young black men. Where the hell did values go? Why is it that Black English and wretched grammar and syntax are something to be proud of? When did ignorance become something to be proud of?

The above is part of the reason that I am considering returning to school to get a Master's Degree in Education. If I can reach just one of those fucked up high school students, I will have accomplished something. All I need now is money. *sigh*

I think that I'd make a great high school science teacher. There's a bit of the frustrated actress in me, and in a classroom I could take center stage. I could make the subject matter interesting and entertaining enough to reach at least some of my audience of students.

For the time being, I'm taking a page from Professor Harold Hill. I'm applying the 'think' system to my desire to obtain additional education.
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Lying & Cheating

LYING

When I was a young Catholic schoolgirl, I was taught that it was a sin to tell a lie.
Although I am no longer Catholic nor a schoolgirl, truthfulness is still a part of my personal value system. Therefore, regarding the 'young' part of the previous statement: I decline to offer any comment other than the following Chinese proverb - 'The woman who tells her age is either too young to have anything to lose or too old to have anything to gain.'

Erm, what was the subject of this post? Ah, yes: lying. It seems that truthfulness does not hold as high a ranking in the value system of others as it does for me. Why does polite society encourage lying?

On more than one of the lists I've posted to over the years, posters have been castigated when they (rightly) criticize someone else's poorly written posts. There is always someone who stands up and says, "You can't say something like that! You'll discourage that poor writer from ever posting again."

Among my many collected quotes, there is one which states: "Anyone who *can* be discouraged from writing, *should* be." To that, I say, "Amen, Sister!"

When I reflect upon the few television programs I watch regularly, two main fictional characters stand out: Rodney McKay, from 'Stargate Atlantis;' and 'House.' Besides having a bit of rough-edged cuteness going for them, both characters as currently written feel free to speak plainly and truthfully, without shame or regret. Both characters are criticized by others for doing so.

[Beth holds her chin up haughtily and states: "But Dears, it's just not *done!*]

The inner Beth, who values the truth, wonders why lying is encouraged over the telling of truth?

A case in point: my current job which I've held for nearly seven years, is probably the best job I've ever had. The hours are good, the coworkers and working conditions are generally pleasant, and my boss is not a complete asshole. That being said, in order to perform my job to meet the expectations of The Powers That Be
(TPTB), I occasionally have to lie.

When I was first counseled early on in my employment regarding the necessity of lying, the reason for doing so was presented to me in such a way that I was convinced to go along with this contravention of my value system.

I deal with the general public on a daily basis. Needless to say, the unwashed masses can make my job difficult at times. My supervisors have advised me that in order to keep our customers satisfied, I should tell them what they want to hear, even if it's not true.

Over the years, I've managed to assuage my guilt by offering a bit of truth (when I can) along with the lies. Unfortunately, my acting talent is limited, and my lies are not always believed. ("There has been a recent change in policy;" "I don't understand the message on your account;" "I don't currently have what you've requested;" etc.)

In a bit of self-analysis, I recently came to realize that, even after seven years, my conscience bothers me every time I lie. I sometimes wish that I could lie with a clear conscience. Perhaps then my lies would be more believable.

On the other hand, if I were a successful liar, a career in politics would have been my obvious career path.

I suppose that my ethics will continue to keep my income hovering around the lower middle class level. Such is my life.

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CHEATERS NEVER WIN

The saying, 'Cheaters never win,' was proved false to me back in high school. One of the smartest girls I knew, Gloria S., was able to cheat on a test without getting caught. Not only was she able to maintain her 4.0 GPA, but she was able to accumulate enough credits to allow her to graduate early, without having to toil away for four full years in high school. I'm sure wherever she is today, she is wealthy and successful.

The only time I really remember being a successful cheat myself was when I was in college. I had performed an experiment during my allotted lab time and jotted down my notes, without taking the time to write up my report until right before it was due. To my dismay, when it came time to write up the report, I discovered that I had botched the experiment. There I was, stuck with useless data and a potential grade drop if I could not find a way to salvage something from the wreckage.

Fortunately, I am a very good researcher. I've said more than once when confronted with an unknown, "I may not know the answer, but I know how to find out."

I hied myself over to the Science Library and started searching. Way off in a dark corner, deep in the stacks, I found the resource I needed. Buried within the pristine pages of a seldom-used tome, I found the experiment written up in precise detail. I carefully cribbed the information, making sure to put enough error in the figures that I allegedly obtained from my experiment to make it appear as if I'd actually done it (correctly) myself.

I got my 'A,' and surprisingly felt little guilt about it. The lesson that I came away with from this situation was how disturbingly easy it is to fudge data. It makes me wonder how much well-funded research is based on fabricated data.
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I guess that the moral of the story is, if you lie and cheat well, some day you may find yourself elected President of the United States.
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One of the many reasons I love to read anything written by Dave Barry:

"I argue very well. Ask any of my remaining friends. I can win an argument on any topic, against any opponent. People know this, and steer clear of me at parties. Often, as a sign of their great respect, they don't even invite me."
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I thought that a blog might be a good place to put my profound thoughts into writing. Armed with limited computer knowledge, but with an ability to follow directions, I decided that I would set up this account.

So, this is it: the momentous occasion of my first post.

Egad! To my utter dismay, I find that I have *no* thoughts even remotely recondite.
*sigh*
I should have known better.

The only book of poetry I own is 'Selected Poetry of Ogden Nash.' I decided that he was my favorite poet many years ago, after discovering that he was the author of the world's shortest poem.

Fleas
by Ogden Nash

Adam had 'em.
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