Blood

Alright. Let me preface by saying that I thoroughly pissed. I should also mention: If talk of blood makes you squeamish, please keep a toilet handy. Or, you know, don't read.

So, the people running the HerpVac study at the Health Center are clueless morons who do not know how to draw blood. I have seen it fucked up on me so many times that I think I could probably do it myself by now.

When I had blood drawn a few years back, I was told that my left arm is my good arm (for finding veins). Left arm good arm. End of story.

When I donated blood in high school, it was like this.
"Do you know which arm is your good arm?"
"My left arm."
"Let me see it."
[I present aformentioned limb]
[examination with the squeezy things and tourniquet commences]
"You sure?"
[Yes, I'm sure. It's my goddamn arm.]
"Well, that's I was told last time I had blood taken."
"Let me see your right arm."
[Extend right arm]
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Let me see your left arm again?"

And the fun didn't end there! Oh, no. First they had to stick me repeatedly without results (until they pulled the needle out, then the blood was everywhere). Then...YES! We have a winner. I took note of the location of this vein for future reference.
---
Here is how it went with the HerpVac people.

Visit 1:
Can't find a vein; they take me downstairs to the lab-ish area and find a doctor who does it in five seconds. Left arm; same spot.
-
Visit 2:
Can't find a vein; they take me downstairs to the lab-ish area and find a doctor who does it in five seconds. Left arm; same spot.
-
Visit 3:
"You guys usually have to take me downstairs..."
"Let's see if I can find a vein first."
"..."
"If that's okay with you."
[Well, I can't offend her. She has a needle.]
"Sure, that's fine. My left arm is my good arm."
"Okay, let's start with that one."
[ten billion years later]
"I'm not seeing anything pop, here. Let's have a look at your right arm."
[Let's. Like we're going to do this together, or something.]
[another ten billion years pass]
"Let me check your left arm again."
[five billion years]
"They usually find my vein right about here."
"Alright, I think I've got something."
[You've got something? Really? You're, like, two inches away from where they ALWAYS stick me.]
"I dont' know why, but I'm just feeling it here."
[Oh, god. Ohgodohgodohgod. She's feeling it. Does she actually feel a vein, or does she just think she has psychic powers? Help me, Jesus!]
"Alright, let's try it here."
[sticks me]
"Come on, come on, flash."
[I assume that means 'bleed, goddamnit!' in medical talk. If that's the case, it ain't flashing.]
[Jiggles needle. No flash.]
[Yanks needle partially out and then drives it in deeper. No flash.]
"Alright, this just isn't going to cooperate for me today."
[Yeah, right, like you're usually good at this.]
[Pulls it out completely; blood flies. Woman freaks and drops needle and tourniquet. There is now blood on the counter, running down the side of the counter, and on the floor. Bio hazard, much?]
[Downstairs]
"My left arm is my good arm."
"Alright, let me take a look."
"They usually find it right about there, if that helps."
"Oh! Got it! Why didn't you tell her [HerVac woman] that?"
"I did."
"Why didn't she listen?"
"..."
[Because she's a dumbass.]
"When patients tell you these things, they are usually right."
[Glee!]

And, a nanosecond later, we're done.
-
Visit 4:
"You guys usually have to take me downstairs, so we can just skip to that if you want."
"Well, let me have a look. If I can't find anything, we'll go downstairs."
[Without prompting]
"My left arm's my good arm."
[An age passes as the hunt for a vein unfolds.]
"Hmm. Are you right-handed or left-handed?"
"I am right-handed."
"Let me see your right arm."
[...]
"Let me see your left arm again."
[Trying not to be one of those annoying people, but also not wanting to die]
"They usually stick me right about there."
"Okay."
[completely ignores golden spot]
"If I can't find a vein, we'll have to take you downstairs."
[Really?]
"Alright, here we go."
[No, we don't. I don't see any blood coming out of the hole.]
[pulls needle out, resticks me, repeats]
"Let's take you downstairs."
[Clever, this one.]

Even though he stuck me, the doctor couldn't find a vein, either, because that woman stabbed me so many times and now I have so many holes in my arm that if it rains, I'm screwed. (Sorry for the run-on, there.) They sent me home, told me to drink some water and do some stuff, and then come back at two. So now I am biding my time, cursing my veins.

I Knew This Wouldn't Stay

So, fuck the schedule. I've been on break and now I'm back, not that anybody cares.

Today I'm going to tell you some secrets.

Secretly...

Mike Gravel is Lyndon LaRouche. Barely disguised.

Hillary Clinton is conservative. ...Oops.

Fred Thompson is Judge Hathorne. That makes Pat Robertson Reverend Parris.

John McCain is very, very confused.

Bill Richardson is a rap video choreographer.

Dick Cheney is the monster in your closet. (He shares that space with Larry Craig.)

John Edwards is Gilderoy Lockhart.

Dennis Kucinich freaking cracks me up. Tell me the one about the UFO again? Oh, right, that wasn't a joke...

Mike Huckabee might just be an actual "Compassionate Conservative." Tooooo bad.

Mitt Romney is a sex scandal waiting to happen.

Joe Biden reminds me of that Senator Kelly guy from X-Men. I think it's the creepy hair.

And Condi wants George. Real, real bad.

Percolate, Goddamnit!

Sound-off Saturday...

You know what makes me mad? Land that doesn't perc. I went a-tree planting with the CBF today, and this is how it went.

1. Remove tree from pot.

2. Stick tree in pre-drilled hole.

3. Pack dirt down around it, add any necessary tree protection, and move on to the next hole.

At my third tree, this is how it went:

1. Arrive at hole.

2. Take note of disturbingly saturated ground.

3. Stick tree in hole.

4. Attempt to pack in tree with globs of mud.

5. Step around around tree to pack in mud.

6. Plunge leg a foot into the ground.

7. Get stuck there.

Alright. I'm glad for the trees. I really am. But can't they just dig a trench to the stream that was, like, FIVE FEET away from the area in which I got stuck? College Park is like this, too. Every time it rains the grassy area outside Centreville enclosed in stone is like Niagara-freaking-Falls. Rain boots will not save you.

Alright, so this was utterly pointless and a bit whiny, but I just needed to express my irritation at oceans that exist above sea level.

Thanks!

Eliot Spitzer

Fuck You Friday...

Good afternoon, all. ...As though there are enough people reading this to call them "all."

I'd like to send out a special fuck you today to former New York governor Mr. Eliot Spitzer. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what's up with him; the media has done enough. What irritates me the most is not that he was involved in a prostitution ring; it is that he is a Democrat. Let me be clear; I hold no silly notions that only Republicans can have scandals, or that Democrats are better than others. It is merely that it almost always is the Republicans (except, you know, Bill Clinton). They have well-publicized scandals; the Democrats...well, maybe they're just better at hiding their skeletons, because I'm certainly not about to put any politician on a pedestal. But Eliot Spitzer just went and shot that straight to hell. It also annoys me that he was so bent on cleaning up crime and busting prostitution rings. Come on, buddy. Try for some credibility. Mr. Spitzer does not just represent himself or even his family or state. He represents the Democratic party, which now has a lovely little spot on its recent record.

Another thing that concerns me (though, admittedly, to a much lesser extent) is Spitzer's image before this story broke. He was largely viewed as someone who staunchly upheld his principles with true integrity and as a congenial person. Thanks to him, nice guys everywhere have taken a hit. People who trusted in given politicians before may now be more closely scrutinized (unkindly). People who may have absolutely nothing to hide are going to have to deal with voters trying to find something suspicious in their pasts. Barack Obama comes to mind. Now, I don't believe for a second that someone is about to discover something utterly horrible about the man, but people might start questioning his motives and his integrity. I know this seems a bit out there, but the media will seize on anything if it garners an audience. I can only hope that David Paterson will be able to arrest prostitutes without sleeping with them.

Failed Security

Freelance Thursday...

Here is a - well, thing - about the fantastic time I had when Senator Barack Obama came to speak at the University of Maryland. It actually took place on February the eleventh, but I'm slow.

I was at the Comcast Center at five-twenty in the morning chekcing in press, pushing a garage door button, and telling people "No, you can't go this way." Fun stuff. Some things I would like to share with you:

1. The Secret Service really are smug bastards with weird ear pieces, shiny shoes, and long, black jackets, just like in the movies.
2. They do not care about what is convenient for you.
3. Reporters actually have feelings. They get sad pretty easily, I found.
4. It is very, very difficult to get people to take an young-ish looking girl on the short side seriously.
5. However, if you have an official campaign card and look harassed, you can make it work.
6. It is remarkably easy to snag an event press pass, add your name to the list, and sneak up onto the main press risers to take pictures.
7. I did exactly that.
8. There needs to be a law prohibiting deejays from playing "Umbrella." "Ella...ella..." is still ringing in my head.
9. Cops will take directions from you if they think you're someone important. (Ha! Fooled 'em!)
10. Most campaign staffers are hateful, hateful people. They do not trust you to have good judgEment when speaking about the Senator and therefore forbid you from answering questions from the press. We had to turn down interviews. After the event, though...
11. Doug Gansler is a fantastic person.
12. Barack Obama is even more awesome.
13. Seriously.
14. It is damn cold outside at five o'clock in the morning.