Growing up Country

I grew up on a 10-acre corn farm that was single-handedly transformed by my father into a dense forest of pine trees. He planted so many trees because he was bored having moved from the hustle bustle of the Oshawa suburbs to the sprawling Whitby countryside.

We lived sandwiched between a strawberry farm to the south and cow corn grow-op to the north. Behind our house lay a forest to be explored and behind that, a field of tomatoes, hot peppers, and enormous eggplants to be picked and offered up to our parents. We were stumped when they accused us of eating our neighbor’s strawberries. Looking shamefully down at our berry stained shirts and pink fingertips we had no idea how they had guessed—it was as if they had been spying on us.

This was all really cool until puberty. I rode a yellow school bus until I was 19! My parents weren’t the type of people that understood living in the country meant your children needed a vehicle to get around. My friends were therefore chosen based on proximity. One lived 2km north of my house and I was forced to jog to her place for visits. I’d get to her home, red faced and panting, begging her for a drink. Her family always had at least 10 dogs at a time and no one ever trained them not to poop inside. Walking from her front door to the kitchen to get water was equivalent to tiptoeing around a field of land mines. I would almost always leave with feces on my shoes cursing the fact that I didn’t have a car and therefore couldn’t choose my friends.

Another friend of mine, Meghan had a pool. Her house was too far to run to so my mom would let me borrow her bike and helmet and I would set out on my adventure, bathing suit in knapsack on my back. She and I got along very well. The one major obstacle to our friendship was her older brother who hated us for being “rockers.” He would sit in the dark living room all weekend long watching rap videos with his large gold dollar sign chain hanging from his skinny neck. When I finally got breasts he spent commercial breaks coming out to the pool to stare, unashamedly at them. Part of me was proud of my new assets and part of me hated him. He was obviously just my type and became one of my first crushes.

An email I received last week, Re: Dickametized

Good Morning,

You can buy oxytocin in a nasal spray as it's broken down in the digestive tract. Half-life in blood plasma is about 3 minutes. Has been associated with feelings of trust and loss of fear.

The chemists take- “ Sounds like a great short term rufee esque product and might also help reduce the anxiety of coming down, and you can snort it.”

Regards,

EN

Boux's Picks

Some great music to listen to on the beach!

1) The Drums (Summertime!)

2) The National (High Violet)

3) Timber Timbre (Timber Timbre)

4) Black Keys (Brothers)

5) Broken Bells (Broken Bells)

6) Broken Social Scene (Forgiveness Rock Record)

The fine art of cooking for a man

Of course I was nervous to cook him a meal. I can’t really cook that well (fish excluded). I’ve always been healthy about what I eat, choosing low fat over taste. So I decided to stick with something I knew—fish.

My mom called me at 8am that morning to a) secretly see if I was being lazy and sleeping in; and b) inquire about my week. I told her about my menu for the dinner date, fish, quinoa, and salad, and she nearly lost her mind. “NO!! You cannot cook fish for a man, or anything healthy for that matter. Men eat meat! Make him succulent ribs so that you can make eye contact as you suck the meat off the bones. God! Fish! Really? What were you thinking? Grab a pen and some paper and write this down…”

I spent 40 minutes on the phone with my mom as I nursed my coffee in bed and jotted down notes. When we got of the phone I was overwhelmed. How am I going to make ribs? I haven’t eaten, let alone cooked red meat in a decade.

Just then, my phone rang and it was my aunt Erin, calling to see if I had her sandals she had left at our cottage. I didn’t. I started talking with her about how funny my mom was (her older sister) when she abruptly cut me off. “I’ll come get you now. Get dressed. Let’s go and pick up all the ingredients you’ll need to make a meal. I know just the places.”

We drove together to Bayview and Eglington and she introduced me to shop owners while we picked up cheese, baguette, red wine, ripe field tomatoes, basil, sea salt and ribs.

She had convinced me that I didn’t have the know-how to make ribs and to be honest I was relieved to have my fears confirmed. She suggested I go with her to Highway 61—Toronto’s best rib restaurant--to pick out ribs to serve as my own creation. The men at the restaurant called me cheeky when I told them of my plans and they wrote me out instruction on how to caramelize the ribs in BBQ sauce—I was amused.

After all the ingredients were collected Erin drove me home.

The ribs were good and he seemed to enjoy himself in my company. I was secretly proud despite the fact that it had nearly taken an entire village to prepare this simple meal.

Although I had promised my aunt, my roommate and the boys at Highway 61 that I would lie about the ribs when asked how I’d made them—I couldn’t. I had a nervous blurt and told him the entire story. God I’m a nerd.

New Years 2011 resolution: Get better at having secrets and lying.

Pen Pals

After enjoying what might have been one of the most entertaining pre-drinks at Ross’s house (from the That’s What Friends are For entry), we piled into cabs and went to The Rhino for jukebox and bar service.

It was they type of evening that seemed blessed, even magical. The bar was filled with people I wanted to talk with and we had arrived with the perfect mix of friends. I was talking with one of my best friends and roommate when, we were approached by two extremely handsome men. So handsome in fact, that I was put off by their appearance. The thoughts that went through my head were:

They’re too good looking to be interesting

Cant’ believe we’re being interrupted by gorgeous jocks

They are probably cops or construction workers

The taller one with shoulder length dark hair and blue eyes started talking to me. My next move was to get this creep to leave me alone by asking questions I assumed he’d fail at.

“So, what do you do for a living?” I asked

“I build things,” he answered with a grin.

--Ha, I knew it! Too handsome to be smart, he’s definitely a construction worker. Which is always sexy but not always mentally stimulating. I decided to ask one more question:

“Did you go to school for that?”

“I went to Dalhousie, I studied Physics.”

--Oh shit! He’s hot. Not what I was expecting from him. I kind of wanted him to fit my stereotype, and I kind of wanted to keep talking with my perfect friends that I came with. The last thing I wanted was to meet another handsome stranger. I was already dating a few men and fostering crushes on others, the last thing I needed was another crush!

I didn’t really think men like him existed outside of movies or Sophie Kinsella novels. As we continued to chat, I lost track of my surroundings, time, and my friends. The best part was his accent (which I confused with South African, as I have a tendency to believe that people with accents are either from Quebec or Cape Town). He has the faintest Newfoundland accent and it’s glorious!

We exchanged numbers and full names, and as such he has become my handsome pen pal/facebook friend. Over the next four months we texted back and forth and poked each other on FB, until one fateful day I asked him to come up north to my neighborhood for dinner, and he agreed…

How listening to Audio-taped romances by Sophie Kinsella changed my life:

Not only do I enjoy trashy romance novels but I also overindulge in hedonism by having them read out loud to me as I perform other activities such as driving and lounging around my apartment. Each one of her novels (read in a thick British accent) has been inspirational for me. Most memorable, was The Undomesticated Goddess.

The story introduces you to a high-powered lawyer living in the London downtown core, who gets fired, moves to a remote rural village, becomes a housekeeper, and learns to love cooking and cleaning. And, of course, falls madly in love.

Each of her novels teaches you important lessons such as:

1) I can relate to the protagonist—I’m busy, underappreciated, and destined for more.

2) There is someone perfect out there for me (like the gardener from The Undomesticated Goddess)

3) Fate will decide my future

4) Things aren’t always what they seem

5) Be true to yourself

6) Hard work pays off

These books are basically geared at people exactly like me (and much younger). People who are: uncertain about their career choice, looking for love, egocentric, and believe they are destined for something remarkable.

While listening to the Undomesticated Goddess I was inspired to clean my apartment from top to bottom, make my friends a gourmet lunch and attempt to make ribs for a man. Although I cheated with the ribs, I think both parties appreciated the effort that Sophie inspired in me.

The difference between a boy and a man:

A man knows how to build a house (or at least fix parts of it).

A man knows how to get his car keys out of his locked truck with a hanger.

A man asks you if you’re going to finish the meat on your plate before helping himself to it.

A man can lift you up.

A man looks down at you when you make eye contact.

A man isn’t afraid to wear his favorite Speedo around.

A man can play at least one musical instrument.

A man studied something like math or physics.

A man prefers to drink beer.

A man has traveled the world.

A man explains why he doesn't know about baking with, "Because I'm a man"

And when a man leaves your home your roommate says, "Wow! He's a man!"

The Sheraton rooftop pool

After doing much research on the best place to spend a swelteringly hot weekday, I came up with The Sheraton.

Here are some of the facts:

1) I work 3-4 days a week and need somewhere cool to hang out on my days off.

2) I got sick of the reference library

3) The Four Seasons Hotel and the Radisson Hotel are the other venues that offer public assess to their outdoor rooftop pools.

4) The Four Seasons is $65.oo/day to enjoy and the Radisson doesn't open until June 15th (but will be $25.00/day)

5) The Sheraton is $28.00/day but also offers the public a summer pass ($400.00 for access from May-September 15th) which includes the use of the pool and 24 hour access to the gym.

6) The pool is roughly 1/3 indoor and 2/3 outdoors and is the perfect temperature.

7) There is a lane for swimming laps (I bought a swim cap, goggles, and racing suit)

8) There is a roof top bar that serves drinks

9) You can order room service if you forget to pack a lunch

10) For the men: I think a lot of strippers come here during the day to get tanned.

11) I've already made friends with pool regulars.

Dickametized

I thought I'd provide the definition of Dickametized as I often refer to it in my writing.

Dickametized: To have a sense that you are out of control of your behavior and to experience irrational thinking patterns based on the fact that you are having incredible sex. Physiologically this happens because when men and women, but most often women, have organs they release oxytocin--a bonding hormone. This is the same hormone that mothers release while breastfeeding their babies and it promotes mother-infant bonding. Men release oxytocin after sex but to a lesser degree. This makes them more "honest" post orgasm.

Sex for women is a double edged sword as having an orgasm is obviously extremely enjoyable, however, it makes you a victim to irrational thoughts and behaviors such as imagining your wedding with a man you just met, or deciding that texting him three times a day is a good idea even if he never replies in between.

The Russian

Somehow, over a wide glass of merlot, and a plateful of garlic-buttered shrimp, I agreed to a blind date. This wouldn’t be so surprising if I hadn’t been sharing the gourmet snack with my best friend’s parents. As they listened to me rambling on about my collection of failed relationships, sadness fell over them. They did what any helpful couple would do—they put their heads together and with much effort produced one name they could both agree on. “He will be perfect for you! Don’t you think honey? Wouldn’t she just love him?”

I was in shock. Somehow I had gotten his description backwards. I was imagining a 6’5” blond, built stranger with a Scottish accent. In the wake of my imaginary hero was a 5’7,” fair skinned, light haired, blue-eyed Russian, who was grinning from ear to ear. I took a moment to reframe the situation. I introduced myself pleasantly, all the while thinking: Don’t judge, he’s probably very interesting. Besides, I love meeting new people even if I’m not attracted to them physically.

He had a brisk walking pace so that I was always about half a sidewalk square behind him, allowing me hints into our “surprise date.” He was wearing linen shorts just above the knee and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled. On his back was an oversized knapsack-- it’s contents spilling out of it’s unzipped top. I could see a baguette, a bottle of rose, a brown blanket, and what looked to me like finely sliced meats.

After half a bottle of Provence rose, and a few sips of rum he convinced me to continue drinking at a small little martini bar conveniently located half a block from his house. Two blueberry martinis and half a chocolate mousse later he led me to his home so that we could call a cab from his place. At the time this seemed legit, but in sober hindsight, I could have called a cab from anywhere.

He had won me over through his ability to tell phenomenal stories, coupled with the fact that he had done some master’s research developing hat-like contraptions that could read brain waves and translate them into words, enabling communication for patients suffering from the end stages of ALS (a fatal neurodegenerative disease). What can I say? I like nerds. However, when we stepped into his bedroom (he was giving me the tour) his TV screen was featuring the image of a wood-burning fireplace that even had crackling sound effects. It was hilarious. Furthermore, there was romantic music playing. Unless he had hidden a remote control in his pocket, he had planned that the evening would end in his room—to a fake fire and sensual sounds. Exit stage left, running all the way!

Premature textjaculation

Premature textjaculation is when someone either a) responds to a text too rapidly; b) writes a text message, gets no reply, so texts again; or c) both of the above. Premature textjaculation happens most frequently between midnight and 3am. Premature texjaculators usually send an extra text in the hopes of bating the other person into replying, i.e., throwing something into the mix that they hope their crush can’t resist. For example,

Hey sexy (no response)

I’m lying naked in my bed (no response)

…Thinking about you… (no response)

The premature texjaculator should be aware that there are usually a number of good reasons why the other person is not returning his/her messages, which include but are not limited to the following:

- He/she lost their phone (wishful)

- He/she is having sex with someone else

- Generally disinterested or tired of being dickamatized (in my case)

When you don't get a response and continue to pepper the receiver with texts you are premature textjaculating. A perfect example is what happened to me this weekend. The messages started out as relatively innocuous, giving me regular updates on his activities throughout the day--similar to a news ticker on TV that runs across the bottom of the screen:

Went to the gym (no response)

Eating a "man"which (no response)

Now drinking alone to celebrate my completed home reno project...(no response).

Unfortunately his texts progressed to writing me intimate and tender messages that he would never say in person, for example:

You're hot, smart and remarkably successful for a young gal, don't ever forget that. Seriously. (no response).

What am I supposed to do? I thought that not responding would be a sure sign that I was uninterested in him as a friend or lover, however it only made things worse. I’m worried if I respond I will be giving him the wrong idea—that I want him to continue harassing me with his written word.

The email break-up

Please ladies, never email/text a man a break-up message especially if it’s your attempt at gaining back some control or the upper hand in a dwindling relationship. Men see right through the veiled attempt. Below is a message my friend sent me that he received from a girl he went on two dates with and never called again.

We need to chat…. Ok well I need to chat… Here is the crappy part…I think that we should just be friends and I feel like a complete a$$hole. BUT I think it is better that I address this now rather than later….when things could potentially be all complicated…not that they are not already. You like me too much…..and I will end up hurting you and that is not what I want to have happen. I have had a ton of fun hanging out with you…but I promise you it is better this way. If you still wanna be my buddy that is cool. If you need to some time away from me that is totally understandable…and I get it. But I hope that we can still hang out some times, and avoid all the weirdness and crap. I can’t date you. I am sorry. I feel like a complete douche sending this to you in an email, but I hate confrontation. If you wanna chat let me know, I will be home tonight.

p.s. My favorite part is the “$” instead of the “s”—Amazing. Perhaps she’s trying to dampen the blow of the insult by using symbols instead of letters?

That's what friends are for

I walk in the front door of the party and I am greeted by my long-time friend of ten years, Ross. He’s one of those people that you always want to kiss. He’s the type of guy who looks too long and touches your arm so that you feel an intense sexual chemistry, regardless of who you are. Anyway, he had saved me a pumpkin to carve so I got to work, diligently thinning out the front wall of the legume so that I could more accurately depict a detailed maple leaf (veins included). I was determined to win the pumpkin carve off.

As the night went on, and the pumpkin took shape, I was starting to plan my retreat. I had scheduled a meet up with a guy I’ve been seeing from out of town. Suddenly, I get a text from him that says, Hey sexy, at the Hotel, you coming to meet me? Just then it dawns on me, I didn’t even shave my legs. Shit. And I’m not the type of girl who can go a day or two without shaving. I rack my brain for ideas. Just then I see Ross. “Hey Ross, can I borrow a razor from you?” He ask why I need it and I tell him. He laughs a bit and replies, “Ya you can use my razor if I can shave your legs for you.” For me it was a no brainer—“Of course.”

So we sneak into the bathroom, I take my jeans off, wet my legs in the shower and produce a substantial lather for Ross. He starts with my right, astutely drawing attention to the fact that I have surprisingly hairy lower legs. As he moves to the left the sexual tension is palpable. There really is nothing quite like someone shaving your legs for you. It was my first time and it was glorious. With each upward stroke of the razor we would lock eyes for a few moments. It took every bit of will power for me not to kiss him. After carefully going over every inch of my legs, twice in some areas, they were done—so smooth.

Unfortunately by the time I was ready to meet up with Mr. out of town, he had fallen asleep in his hotel room and was unreachable via text or call. Shit! With legs this smooth I needed to put them to use. After carefully weighing the risks and benefits of my plan B, I decided to go for it. I made my way up to Ross and whispered in his ear, “Mr. fell asleep, and I just want to cuddle, can I stay over in your bed tonight? But I just want to spoon, no making out.”

I had rationalized that Ross probably deserved to test out his handy-work. He agreed even though we could both sense many sets of female eyes on him from across the room. Women were loitering around, hoping to be the last female standing and to be chosen by Ross for a night of passion. As he lay spooning me, most likely sexually frustrated, I drifted to sleep, legs curled up between his. Girls love Ross and as such me staying over ultimately resulted in a cock-block/blue balls combo--but isn’t that what friends are for? Thank you Ross!

Am I a bad kisser?

So it’s the end of the first date when both people are wondering if there is kiss potential. Both wondering, did we like each other? I was thinking that it had been an amazing date with a really nice guy. We had so much in common. Just as I’m thinking this he goes in for a hug but with his mouth open and tongue slightly extended past his lips. OMG! His eyes are already closed and he’s a foot away from my face. This is not what I was expecting. What should I do??

What I usually like in a first kiss is lips slightly parted with an eventual tongue touch. What I got was an open mouthed, hungry, tongue kiss. I didn’t even know where to put my mouth. His was so open that a normal kiss would have been impossible. So all I could do was kiss his lower lip, which resulted in his upper lip being pressed up against the side of my face.

It was probably the worst kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life (including elementary school) and has led me to question my ability to lock lips. I know it seems obvious that it was his fault but would an expert kisser have been better able to turn the situation—to transform a terrible kiss into a passionate symbiotic experience? After the kiss I got into my car and drove away. I made a left turn and pulled the car over. I immediately called my roommates and when no answer, I texted them. I needed confirmation that it wasn’t me. With no one to comfort me and ease my nerves I resorted to performing a series of air and hand kisses to review what I normally do. After a few minutes of passionately kissing the air and my left thumb and index finger I still wasn’t certain who was to blame. I always thought I was a good kisser, a self-proclaimed expert of sorts. This experience has really shaken me to the core.

The problem with sports bras

My least favorite thing about sports bras is their inability to hide workout nip-ons. Nip-ons are embarrassing 90% of the time, unless of course you are trying to have them in the hopes of appearing sexy (my mother uses this technique by hardly ever wearing a bra, hence her nick name is Tootsi Rolls). "Vanessa, men love nice big nipples-- make fun of me all you want but at least I don't look like a 10 year old boy when I'm not wearing a bra."--Thanks mom.

When you throw a sports bra on it's usually tight and your breasts get all mangled and pushed in opposite directions. Of course I never notice this till I'm doing shoulder presses in front of the mirror at the crowded gym and all of a sudden, unexpectedly there is a draft, or my arm brushes across my chest and there they are. If they were pointing forward and staring sexily back at me in the mirror it would be fine, unfortunately more often then not, they are going in completely opposite directions. One nipple is positioned in my sternum facing upwards whereas the other is pointing away from the mirror facing the guy to my right. It's quite humiliating.

In addition to making anyone's breasts appear horribly asymmetrical, sports bras also highlight every detail of your nipple. The tightness of the bra does not make up for the fact that it's a mere 3-4 layers thick. No one expects to be cold at the gym but when it does happen the consequences can be devastating.

Did you know that you can buy silicone circles that fit over your nipples and block them from poking out of your bra, shirt, etc. My friends and I have used these in the past when going bra-less to a party. Maybe I'll have to start wearing them to the gym?!

Best New Hobby: Getting in the local news papers

So far we've made it into two news papers: The Globe and Mail for Prom at the ROM and Snap for the AGO Massive Party

It all started when Mark said he wanted to take me to The Prom at The ROM. I was hesitant as I had to work the next day and like Cinderella, would have to leave the ball before midnight. He was fine with it. I showed up at his house in my nursing scrubs, hair a mess, and winding down from a hectic day on the cardiology unit. I had with me my floor length black gown shoved at the bottom of my gym bag. I was less than enthusiastic about a night out on the town but when I saw what he had bought me I was ecstatic!

Mark had bought me a tiara, lace gloves (without the finger tips), and a chunky pearl necklace--because it was a prom party. We could hardly get a drink without being snapped at. The photographers loved my costume and although we were only at the party for 1.5 hours, I think Mark and I were photographed +20 times.

Since Prom at The ROM Mark and I have developed a new hobby-- So far we've made it into two magazines but look forward to dressing up for more.

Allen Gardens--Really beautiful

I went to Allen Gardens for the first time last weekend and it was beautiful! Check out the orchids (and the secret garden shed just behind them--good make out spot).

Favorite Sunday activity: beers and tea with my little Russian friend at The Quail

To be completed each shift--Thank you

When patients need constant care (i.e. someone to watch them at every minute of the day) someone is hired to come in and sit at the patient's bedside and literally watch them and help them if they need it.

At the end of the shift, the constant is required to fill out a report on the patient. The below document is what I found when I started my shift this morning.

Patient: Bruce Wayne
Constant: Johnny Lee
Room:
Date: 07/20/2029

Number of attempts to get out of bed without assistance:
All night dammit! Patient was like "I'm Batman BITCH--I run shit!"

Reasons why:
No idea what his problem was...He was so angry and he kept telling me he'd pee in a cup and throw it at me.

Number of attempts to get out of chair unassisted:
Patient is crazy! He's so tempered and he threw a bag at my head. He claimed I was a villain and he felt I had to be punished.

Did the patient show signs of agitation?
uh...fuck yes!!! He masturbated and while doing so he was yelling and swearing

What did they include?
He said, "Fuck yeah! Donkey punch me now bitch--I'm Russell Oliver..OH YEAH."

Was the patient easy to redirect/calm?
Not really... I said to "keep it down" and he was like "do you have crack now?"

What interventions worked with the patient?
Nothing... Patient is absolutely nuts...He would show me his penis and say I was gay for looking. The only thing I can think of is when he'd eat. He was calm then.

Additional comments:
Patient is crazy. He would always swear and threaten me.

This was obviously a venting fictitious report; however, I did find it amusing. No one ever knew who wrote up the report but we all got a good laugh at it. Although this patient never existed we have definitely had patients very similar the above report.

There is a photocopy up in the nursing station with big writing at the top: How not to fill out a constant care form.

An email from my friend titled: The Silver Lining of Diarrhea

Some thoughts on this subject:

Some people may consider irritable bowel or other such lower G.I problems to be a burden, however, I have the unique ability to see the positive in all situations. Even when I am sweating and keeping a steady walk/run pace as I race to the closest bathroom, I still feel an underlying pang of glee as my last meal (OMG soup from the Vietnamese place nearby) is quickly cycling through my system like a tornado peels through Oklahoma state. It adds a certain "je ne sais quoi" to the daily grind. Sort of like gambling, but the worst you could be down would be a good pair of knickers:) I revel at the element of surprise and take advantage of those next few hours, as I lie helplessly on my heated bathroom floor, to truly reflect on the silver lining of diarrhea. Knowing full well that it was a risk to wear leggings and white long shirt to my last meal. And that it would be a total waste of a good skirt to wear my new cute white tennis skirt to my tennis lesson that evening. The biggest upside being that I will lose my appetite for likely the next 24 hours and limit my intake to air and water and that I will awaken the next day feeling cleansed and maybe even 5 lbs lighter. This my friends, is the silver lining of diarrhea. Eat your heart out spicy Vietnamese soup, truffle oil, half and half cream - you are no threat to me:)

check this out--breakthrough diet

http://www.weeklyhealthnewscanada.com/latest/articles/breakthroughdiet/vc/ca/

I love texting

10 Things Remember When Texting

1) Do NOT send a picture of your naked body (any part of it).

2) DO match the time set by the second texter--They ultimately set the pace.

3) Remember to use “…” when trying to convey a suggestive tone in your message.

4) DON’T get your emoticons mixed up.

5) When sending sexual textuals remember not to turn it into phone sex. Things just get awkward after the false sense of intimacy that texting provides (Just saying)

6) Do NOT give information that wasn’t asked (do not send your entire schedule for the week hoping they’ll bite).

7) ONLY drunk text your sure bet a.k.a. option Z.

8) DO be efficient by using things like: WTF, OMG, LOL, LMAO, TTYL, GTG etc.

9) An exclamation mark used inappropriately can look aggressive.

10) Double and triple check that you are sending your sexy message to the right person.

Dad doesn’t want to get a message meant for Dan. Seriously trust me on this one.

The fine art of diaper changing

When people have babies they complain, "my husband never changes her diaper, it's always me and it sucks." Now imagine a baby that weighs up to 300 pounds and you'll know why nurses complain about their job so much. You can't just lift up a patient's legs, crack open a package of baby wipes, gently clean their butt from front to back, throw on a mini diaper and do up a onesie--no way, changing a full grown adult's diaper is very complex.

Let me provide you with some context:

Patients lie on a fitted bed sheet that has a "soaker pad" on top of it. A soaker pad is a rectangular thick pad that is waterproof on the bottom and therefore acts as extra protection if a patient has an accident. It's approximately the size of two pillowcases placed side by side. The goal of using a soaker pad is that if it gets wet, it's easier to change than a fitter sheet under a 300 pound patient who can't move themselves. It's like the underwear of bed linens--you'd rather change your underwear everyday than mess up your pants after one wear. right?!

Anyway, the soaker pad also works as a tool for changing patients and moving them around in their beds. Person A stands on one side while Person B stands on the other side of the patient's bed. Nurse A uses all her strength to hold the soaker pad and push the patient onto his side while person B grabs the soaker pad and pulls the patient onto his side. The unlucky nurse A is facing the patient's backside and is therefore responsible for most of the dirty work as person B holds the patient in place on his side.

A undoes the large blue diaper, pulls it down to expose the mess, and uses a few moistened face cloths or larger towels to clean the patient while they are on their side. The job is far from over at this point. Next, A applies a variety of ointments to the peri-anal area to avoid skin break down and bed-sores. A glove change is in order and A rushes to change her gloves as B continues to hold the patient in place.

The patient is then rolled on the other side. Person B cleans anything that was missed and removes the rest of the diaper. At this point a clean diaper is positioned so that the sticky tabs are on the diaper side closest to the patient's head halfway down the patient's back. The patient is rolled yet again onto their back, the front of the diaper is threaded through the patient's legs, they're rolled again onto their side to grab the other half of the diaper which is then fastened to the front with a sticky tab. The patient is then rolled again onto his back, both sides of the soaker pad are grabbed by A and B, and the patient is pulled up in bed so that his head is almost touching the bed board.

By the end of the job both people are exhausted, holding their lower backs and the patient is disgruntled and upset by all the rolling he has had to do. Just when you think it can't get any worse your patient looks up at you and says, "sorry nurse, I think I went again," and at the same time you get an overhead page sending you to another room to give a sponge bath.

The Long-distance relationship

Nursing makes you appreciate your mortality and value the time you have. Wasting one moment of your life seems silly when you see so many people suffering from a variety of illnesses. Two years into my program I was inspired to end a relationship that was making me unhappy.

For approximately 1 year, or half way through my longest long distance relationship ever, I wanted out. Everyone wants what they can’t have right? Well perhaps it doesn’t take the majority a total of 12 months to say something as simple as, ITS OVER. It all ended with a fateful conversation where many f bombs were dropped culminating in a cheesy line like: “I just don’t think we bring out the best in each other anymore.” As I pressed the little red phone icon on my blackberry I breathed a sigh of relief. A huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders… Or had it?

The breakup between my panprovincial, long-term boyfriend and I was probably the highlight of my early twenties. The following day--which most respectable young women would spend mourning the loss of their torrid love affair—I ventured to a friend’s birthday party. Not just any friend, but an acquaintance friend. And we all know what that means— the potential to meet new people, more importantly, new men. That night I met what would be the first in a series of exhilarating and very short-term relationships…

For someone who was finally breaking free from an addiction to serial monogamy I had a lot to learn. The first “relationship” after a breakup, better known as the rebound, can take many forms. For me it took the shape of a charming environmentalist with a Quebecois accent serenading me with an acoustic version of Tom Wait’s Ice Cream Man. There I was at my acquaintance’s birthday party, standing in the kitchen, drinking punch from a measuring cup (classy) and giggled, so unaware of what lay ahead for me.

Introduction

I always thought I would go into advertising, own my own business, or invent something that would make me millions. This is why I was equally as surprised as my family was when I announced that I was enrolling at McGill University, Montreal Canada, for an applied master of science in NURSING.

I'm the type of person who hates it when people fart around me. I get salty cheeks and leave the room angry. Whenever I start dating someone new I make it clear on the first date that I don't consider passing gas around another person to be pleasurable, funny or a bonding experience indicative of intimacy in a relationship.

Furthermore, I hate the sight of blood. I passed out twice in high school while watching a video on red blood cells traveling through capillaries and larger blood vessels. So, when I told my boyfriend at the time that I was moving back to Montreal to study nursing he practically spit his diet coke out and all over me--not the reaction I was expecting.

Becoming a nurse had never crossed my mind. When I enrolled I told myself that I would get past the clinical placements by avoiding diapers and blood and when I finished I would work as a nurse researcher or open up my own retirement home. You'd sooner catch me dead than put in a foley catheter (a tube into the urethra) or do a wound dressing change-- all things I hadn't fully walked myself through when I signed up for the program.

My father is a dentist and he had always hoped I'd take over his practice. However, the one summer I worked with him during high school, I almost fainted and had to leave the room during a wisdom tooth removal. That was the end of mine and my fathers dream of me becoming a dentist.

The irony is, I now make a fraction of what a dentist makes and I've been unfortunate enough to clean up massive blood spills from IVs being torn out, and patient's with stomach bleeds vomiting up "coffee ground emesis" -- digested blood. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret my decision for one moment. What I'm saying is that I've changed. I now enjoy all the aspects of nursing I thought I'd hate and I work as a nurse in Cardiology at a large teaching hospital downtown Toronto.

The following blog will take you through some of my adventures as a nurse, as a twenties something girl, and as a newbie to Toronto--Enjoy!