I'm addicted to [learning about] drugs.

And no, I'm not talking about street drugs. I am talking about my Pharmacology class. My first final is coming tomorrow, and I've become obsessed with learning about pharmacological drugs. So if I call you up in the middle of the night and ask you about every prescription medication you're taking and why, please bear with me. It's all for a good cause.

I know what you're thinking -- "How can you possibly have a final when you literally just started school in the middle of September?" I am thinking that as well. However, I can say with confidence that I have spent as much time studying for this 5-week pharmacology class as I ever did for any 16-week semester course. In fact, I may have spent MORE time studying for this course than any other I've taken in my entire life.

I've spent so much time making and reviewing pharmacology flash cards that I now repeat the generic and trade names, clinical indications, actions, adverse effects, and nursing implications of drugs while I am asleep. So if I call you up in the middle of the night and ask you about every prescription medication you're taking and why, please bear with me. It's all for a good cause.

I am considering taking a lesson from my Uncle Rich and putting the book under my pillow to see if that helps as well. I'll let you know how that goes. Cross your fingers for me, because I have to get an 80% in the class to pass. :-)

Don't judge a recliner by its cover.

When your momma told you not to judge a person based on their outward appearance (or not to judge a book by its cover), she was giving you some sage advice. I try to live by that rule, but NOT when it comes in inanimate objects. Here comes the big point of this blog post: I was wrong, and I'm admitting it.

When Scott brought home this gem, I swore I'd never let it into our house. In fact, it spent a good stint in the garage upon arriving at our place. Teal is not a color that's easily incorporated into the decor of our house, and I've never been a big fan of recliners. But it was free, and Scott really REALLY wanted a recliner. Since he's so nice to me and is letting me live at his house during nursing school, I figured I really should let him keep whatever furniture he wanted in the "Man Cave," even if it is the color of a bad 1980's Naugahyde diner booth.

Here's the part of the post where I eat crow and say I was wrong.

I spent approximately 11 consecutive hours in this chair this weekend, reviewing flashcards and studying notes for school. And I have to admit that it's the perfect chair for long-range sitting, studying, and maybe even a nap or two. Plus, Brady fits on the foot rest when the chair is reclined, so she can continue her supportive role as "study buddy" and foot warmer.

So Scott, I was wrong. Your chair is lovely, Hubbell.

Three days...

A lot can happen in just three days. For example, you can go to class for 20 hours, spend 8 hours studying in a group with classmates, and still somehow manage to fit in 7 hours of work and 2 trips to the Verizon store to replace your busted cell phone. And somewhere in there, you can even find a few hours to sleep and watch an hour of TV while scarfing down dinner and having an abbreviate conversation with your significant other.

I have a strong feeling the next 10 months of my life are going to be run on caffeine and adrenaline (but at least now I'll understand which autonomic nervous system receptors are being stimulated by the adrenaline coursing through my veins).

To sum it up, week 1 was:
- Frightening
- Enlightening

and, finally,

- Encouraging

I'm terrified that I won't be able to absorb all this content to the level that I should, but I'm interested in all the things I'm learning and fascinated by the amazing things that happen within the human body naturally and with the aid of modern medical technology. I'm afraid my personal relationships will suffer due to my lack of time and/or energy to devote to those I love. I'm curious about my next class and my first interactions with patients. And most of all, I'm hoping that I've made the right choice in following this dream.

Super-secret surprise date

 

Wednesday night, after my crazy fill-the-freezer cooking spree, Scott sprung some good news on me: he had planned a secret date for us this weekend. If you read my belated birthday-post, you know that Scott is really great about doing nice things for me, and he's especially good at surprise dates. I was tired, I was stressed, and when he said he'd planned a date I thought I had died and gone to Heaven. I think we both needed a break from work/school/football, and this was it.

So, Super-Secret Surprise date day arrived (Saturday) and Scott told me to pack a bag just in case we didn't make it home until Sunday. I gladly packed up, and we hopped in the car and headed North. I was only slightly concerned when Scott got off the freeway on Plank Road, but as it turns out we were headed farther north to St. Francisville.

For those that haven't been here, the word to describe St. Francisville is most likely "quaint." There are antique shops and crafty stores, small restaurants, friendly people, and a lot of B&B's. The photo above is the St. Francisville Inn, where Scott had booked us a room for the night so we could explore the town and its shops without having to rush back to Baton Rouge that night. 



The inn was built in the late 1800's, and it was long on charm, complete with rocking chairs and porch swings, and a "secret" cutout in the fence that gave a glimpse of the awesome pool and courtyard in the back of the house. And, as you might imagine in South Louisiana, lots of oak trees with Spanish moss hanging down in bundles. It was beautiful.

Although I didn't think to pack a swimsuit, I did manage to get in a little time pool-side with a glass of wine (or two) and my feet dangling in the water.

Since they didn't have an alarm system, the inn keepers invested in a state-of-the-art guard dog, who shall now be known as "Jaws." I don't really know what his name is, but he was a very cute little Chi-Weenie puppy mix, and he kept all the guests entertained with his clumsy puppy-walking and nearly laughable bark. He was a great little companion during the awesome breakfast Sunday morning. (During which, I might add, I think I accidentally ate shrimp in the form of a stuffed crepe. I'm not sure, because I didn't taste any shrimp-i-ness, but Scott seems to believe that I ate shrimp. Funny that he didn't tell me I was eating shrimp until after I'd already done it and gone on and on about how good the crepes were, but perhaps he was more engrossed in his breakfast and not paying attention to what I was eating. Or maybe he really just wanted me to eat shrimp and realize that I like it. Which I don't. Blech!)

A few other highlights of our trip included our journey to the Magnolia Cafe for dinner Saturday night, and also to watch a little bit of the Saints game on Sunday. After Scott was so nice, planned a wonderful date, and even went to a million antique stores with me without a single complaint, I felt like he had more than earned some time to watch the game. 

By the time we got in the car to  head back to Baton Rouge, I felt like I had been on vacation for days, and things didn't seem nearly as overwhelming. What a wonderful way to spend a weekend, and a great reminder of the fact that I'm incredibly lucky to have Scott in my life.

How did Shel Silverstein know what's inside my head?

As I approach my first day of nursing school, I'm becoming increasingly anxious about the transition and what lies ahead of me. For those that know me well, you know I worry about everything. From fleas on Brady to how a random comment I've made affected someone else, I am constantly worrying about something. If you're reading this blog, chances are I've worried about something on your behalf once or twice as well (even if you weren't worried about it yourself).

Over the past few months, this childhood poem has popped into my head many times as I lay in bed at night, unable to sleep because of the things rolling around in my mind. (Last night was a particularly offensive case of the whatifs.) So, in honor of my last free weekend before school begins, I'll share this poem with you.

Whatif by Shel Silverstein

Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!

Operation "Stock the Freezer" is Under Way

In order to prepare myself (and Scott) for the hard winter months, I've decided it's time to take a lesson from the squirrels and start stocking away some acorns. (For those who are wondering, yes, I realize that "winter" in Baton Rouge doesn't really signal the end of the growing season, or a challenge for finding food. BUT, I've begun to think of the next ten months of my life while I'm in nursing school as the hard winter months. There will be no fun in the sun, no time or energy for extra activities, and surely no patience to fight my way through the goat rodeo that is WalMart in order to stock our fridge and cook meals.)

Although I'm confident that Scott would gladly take over grocery shopping and cooking, I don't want to make his life harder than it has to be. Although this sounds like it's an unselfish act, it's really just me trying to compensate for the fact that he's going to have to listen to me whine about my intense school workload for ten months.

To that end, I've made a few dishes to pile away in the freezer. Today's cooking included:
2 lasagnas
Pot of chili
Pot of Grandma Marshall's spaghetti sauce

 

Tomorrow, we'll tackle the red beans and rice. But tonight, we'll let the beans soak because, let's face it, beans really are "the musical fruit."

RIDDLE: What has 8 fingers and can't type?

ANSWER: Me.

That's right, folks. I have become a hunt-and-peck typist due to a crockpot injury. Perhaps from this point forward I'll leave all my typos in this post and give a prize to the person that can translate my garbled writing. GO.

Here's thwe astory odf my finger snd the crockpot. I wsd washing diahes, snd the crockpot weas slippwery. I dropped it in the sink aqnd it broke, slcigin up my left ring finger and left pinky in the process. So now, I am relegated to typing with eight fingers and I am not great at it. (Although, interestingly enough, my eight-fingered typing is improving throughout this post. Odd... good food for thought in terms of how the human brain compensates. Maybe I can live as an octoped. Or whatever the word is for something that has only eight fingers.)

So for those of you wondering wht to get me for my next birgthdy, consider a small creockpot.