The Circus Came to Town!

And by circus, I obviously mean the 112th running of the Boston Marathon.  

Aah, Marathon Monday.  A day when 80 year olds run 26.2 miles and 12 year olds are drunk in the streets (and vice versa).  This was my 4th Patriot’s Day as a Bostonian but only the 2nd one I’ve actively participated in (active participation=drinking booze and cheering from the sidelines).  Just as the Red Sox won the World Series both my freshman and senior year, Marathon Monday is my college bookends.

For most of last week, the Marathon caused nothing but distress in my life.  In a week of more freakouts and life crises than I’ve had during the rest of my life combined, the Marathon was just one huge annoyance.  It meant an influx of an obnoxious number of obnoxious tourists, many whom did not speak English and many of whom made my life pure hell at work.  Adidas’s “Impossible is Nothing” campaign was suddenly everywhere, with pictures of exhilarated runners triumphantly crossing the finish line.  With a broken toe preventing me from running and my lack of life direction weighing heavily on my mind, I was a pretty unhappy camper.  Luckily I’m now back on my feet (or toe)  and back in my (more or less) right mind.  Just in time to enjoy the Marathon!

Boston was sunny and warm today.  It was also a madhouse.  Court and I secured a prime viewing spot at the usually uberclassy Eastern Standard (they got into the marathon spirit by turning the outdoor seating area into a place to knock back Harpoon IPA in plastic cups [we kept it classy with our favourite cocktail, the Pelican[).  Since I had to work this morning, I missed the elite runners, Lance Armstrong, and Rick and Dick Hoyt.  I did, however, see men dressed as nuns

and a guy juggling 

We stayed until the very end (when they reopened Beacon Street to traffic) and cheered for every person that passed us.  While walking back to Allston, I passed several people still making their way to the finish line.  I cheered for them too.  That Boston Marathon running spirit is infectious and I am SO excited about my upcoming running exploits.

I BROKE my TOE

As if to confirm my proclamation in my last post that I’m the clumsiest person alive, I had a pretty uncoordinated day yesterday.  There are no shreds of doubt remaining that I should not be a nurse after I poured the entire contents of a pill bottle on my floor, made a ruckus while trying to inconspicuously sneak out of chemistry after the test, spilled a crapload of sharp merchandise sensors at work, and broke my toe while walking around my bedroom.

Well, we’ll call it an unofficially broken toe.  My mom wisely convinced me not to go to the doctor, as that would be a $600 trip to hear “congratulations, you’re toe is broken! stay off it for a few days.” Although, the powerful pain meds would have been nice… Anyway, with the help of emedicine, my human biology book, and some common sense, we’ve come up with a diagnosis of a fractured distal metatarsal.  In other words, I broke my baby toe.

I’ve done this before (twice in one summer, in fact!) and I’d like to say it’s just a little painful and I’m truckin’ on but the reality is that I’m being kinda a baby.  In my defense, my poor toesie really hurts and doesn’t get much rest when I have to walk on it.  My stomach was desperate for sustenance but my toe did not appreciate the whole three freaking blocks I had to walk to get a Spike’s veggie dog.  It looks like running is out for the near future and my day off today will be spent confined to my apartment.

Don’t feel too bad for me, though.  I’ve devised an at-home remedy that includes buddy tape, laying in bed, eating, and forcing friends to come visit and drink in bed with me.  I need to take what time I can to milk my little injury because I don’t think that my job will buy that a toe is preventing my selling panties.  

Enjoy your sunday y’all and remember to pay a visit to your favourite bed-bound invalid.

Now I Shall Never be a Naughty Nurse

I had the distinct pleasure on Monday of spending $75 on my size XL black cap and blood red gown in preparation for BU’s commencement.  Regardless of the fact that I’ve been done with class for almost four months and my diploma has been in my possession since January, May 18th has been weighing heavily on my mind.  As of that day, the BU chapter of my life will (more or less) be officially closed.  Moving on to the next adventure has been something I’ve been looking forward to for ages.  So why have I been so stressed?

For the past year or so, my post-college plans were solely focused on making nursing school a reality.  I became certified as a nursing assistant (or, as my sister calls it, an enema tech), made spread sheets of different nursing programs, and have been spending my weekends dissecting pigs and playing with chemicals at community college.  I’ve allowed my intellectualism to take a break, while I’ve slaved at a miserable, lowly retail job ’cause it allowed me the flexibility to take classes and leave at the drop of a hat to start nursing school.  I’ve been such a good pre-nurse that I failed to recognize something kinda important:  I no longer want to be a nurse.

Nursing’s been my plan on-and-off since I was 14.  I even applied to transfer to nursing programs during my freshman year at BU.  Being wishywashy, I settled instead on staying at BU and pursuing a very practical and marketable degree in history.  Following a few unexpected run-ins with the medical field and my internship on the Mildred Creak Unit in London last spring, I re-devoted myself to nursing and searched for a fast-track to a job in psychiatric nursing.  That’s where I’ve been ever since.

People were generally supportive when they heard I wanted to pursue nursing.  Typical responses included “wow! that’s important work” and “you’ll make great money.”  Now I’m a little bit dreading telling everyone “oh just kidding!”

I recently realised what that strange feeling I’ve had for the last several months is: dread.  Life has been like one huge panic attack and I didn’t even know it until I admitted I didn’t want to be a nurse.  I’ve been dreading not really starting my career for another 2,3,4 years.  I’ve been panicking about moving home.  I wasn’t thrilled about entering a profession known for eating their young.  But most of all, I was dreading being a nurse.

I have a few things working against me.  Being the clumsiest person alive may come in handy when my lack of grace makes people laugh.  Dropping a patient or sticking myself with an AIDS-infected needle…not so funny.  Also, I’m kind of a hypochondriac.  Wait, remove the “kind of.”  I’m a huge hypochondriac.  As in, I have a paralysing, all-consuming fear of sickness.  And I am severely emetophobic. Ask my sister Emily about how good a nurse I was when she had the flu a few years back (She asked me to make her oatmeal and then almost got scalded by it cause I basically threw it at her, for fear that I’d catch her sickness if I got too close). Wait, why did nursing seem like a good fit for me?

I think in a perfect world, I’d love to be a nurse.  In reality, I think I’m setting myself (and my future patients) up for failure and it’s just not practical or wise.  With the help of some good friends and family members, I’ve discovered I can do what I’ve always wanted to do (be involved in the mental health field) without going to nursing school.  As Amelia wisely pointed out, it’s the helping people in need aspect that appealed to me, not the drawing blood and changing adult diapers.  

So that’s where I am: realising there are other options, exploring related fields (social work, perhaps?), taking some time, looking for a place to live, and generally reveling in life’s uncertainty.  The best part? Now that I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m way less stressed than when I thought I did!  

For the near future, I’ll be focusing on catching up on sleep, imbibing alcohol in the sunshine, and searching for the perfect graduation dress.  You know, the important stuff.

What’s in a Name?

There’s a lot of names for me.  I guess Allison is technically my legal name but outside of work I almost never hear it.  I’m more used to Allie (among friends and extended family), Al (Big Al works too), and Tibia, Shralpazin, Fountain of Knowledge, or a host of other embarrassing nicknames (to the select few).  So what’s with the sacreligious blog name?  I’m not the antichrist (I hope) nor am I blue or a television.  It’s just the name of a song by Arcade Fire off their incredible Neon Bible album (interestingly, the song is rumoured to be about Joe Simpson, the icky patriarch of the Ashlee and Jessica Simpsom family.  Lyrics are here . Decide for yourself).  The song somehow winds up on every iTunes playlist I make and always pops up on my iPod when I’m out for a run.  It just seemed appropriate.

While I’m still working out what exactly I’m going to use this blog for, I can assure you that it will not be a forum for me to post about cross-burnings or ritualistic animal sacrifices.  Hopefully I have allayed any fears and you’ll come back again. And to prove I’m not a black-hearted antichrist, here’s me enjoying the sunny rays of Santa Monica.

Welcome to the Soapbox

For the last few months, sunday nights have been known in my apartment as my time to soapbox.  We eat, we drink, I orate on topics ranging from the proper way to deliver an enema, to the state of electoral politics and my personal views on evangelical Christians getting abortions.  Because I’m a giver, I’ve decided to extend my Sunday Night Soapboxing beyond my usual 3-person audience and bring my witty commentary to the masses.  So here’s my blog.  Enjoy.