On Being Hacked, Being Yoko, and Being Tired

Okay, first things first.

Sometimes, when a bitch has a multitude of items on her to-do list, a bitch gets tired. Really tired. John has started classes, which means my work schedule is different. Off Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. Which means that from about 6PM on Thursday to about 7:30AM on Monday morning, I’m working. And last night I really did. I clocked in, made out the assignments for the other therapists, and sat down to get report. And the ridiculous bong-bong noise (that my hospital uses to get our attention before announcing a code blue or rapid response) sounds. Okay. Nothing like that kind of start to your day. And so I start booking it across the hospital, only to hear another. And another. And another. And another. 2 Rapid Responses and 3 Codes within about 20 minutes. As soon as I fricken ge there. Fuck. Problem is that the first one was on one of my units, and so I was there when the others were called. And I was in charge. (BIC= Bitch In Charge according to one young coworker of mine.) And we had assistants in our midst, which means they are still students and practice under limited licensure and cannot be in a code without a licensed and credentialed therapist. And it all happened so fast that I couldn’t remember who I put where. And as coworkers checked on me, I would shout over the roar of 20 people in a code room to that coworker at the door that I was fine, but to check on the others for me. As in, “Go! Save Yourselves! Armageddon is COMING and everyone in the joint is trying to friggin’ die on us!” But there is no truer testament to the strength of the team with which I work than this: only one death in all of that, and it was an old woman who was a DNR before she actually tried to die, and her husband couldn’t handle it and changed his mind to resuscitate at the last minute. They weren’t able to. And everyone worked together. Those who didn’t have coding patients went from code to code, rapid respnse to rapid response, helping everyone out. And when it was all over and the dust settled, everyone managed to get their work done, to see all of their patients and hand out breathing treatments and inhalers to all. Not a single patient was missed. But when you start your night out like that, no matter what follows, you feel exhausted. Mentally and physically drained. I could’ve sat on my butt in the office for the remaining 11 hours of my shift and still felt like I was hit by a truck. Gotta love healthcare.

And so I come home. I opened the door at the house and totally forget until right then that I am now Yoko Fucking Ono.

John’s dad said he had this bed that he is getting rid of in his remodeling and streamlining project at his house. Evan has a twin and could use a big bed, so I said why the hell not? We’ll take it. And so yesterday, while I was asleep, he made the long trip up here to bring it to us. But it’s old as hell and I am loving the antique-y-ness of it and want it in our room. But we currently share our room with Zach, and so our room is littered with baby junk. So, while I snored, the guys set it up. In my fucking living room. Yep. Right there in the middle. As a matter of fact, I am laying on the damned thing right now. Because between papers and reading and lectures with no John here to help with the toddler, I have to figure out how in the hell I am going to make this thing fit in our room. (PS-He also brought a treadmill that he bought 2 years ago when he had open-heart surgery–CABGx4 for people of my vocation–and never used. So now I have visions in my head of studying while running, cooking dinner while running, writing papers and blogging while running. And I will soon be a skinny bitch. Yeah.)

Yeah, there I am. Except I'm not asian. Or a hippie. Or married to John Lennon. Though I did marry a John....Hmmm.

And finally, I got friggin’ HACKED. Yeah. Fuckers. I got this direct message on Twitter, and I was all what-the-hell-is-this? And I opened it. And it asked me to login to my Twitter account. And it looks all extra legit. So I log in. And nothing. So being the moron that I am, I try again. And again, all the while wondering what is wrong with my Twitter account. Until the next day, when I get some messages from some kind folks who let me know that they are getting spam from me. I was all embarrassed. In today’s technology, being hacked is the equivalent of having leprosy or some shit. I’m waiting for someone to show up and take me to a colony where I will be stripped of my laptop and smartphone and forced to live without so I can do no harm. Immediately, I started losing followers on Twitter. And I have no idea what to do. I changed my password, thinking that might thwart the evil-doers’ plans. I honestly have no clue.

So there you have it. Back to corporate finance.

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3 thoughts on “On Being Hacked, Being Yoko, and Being Tired

  1. OK so I totally thought you were gonna post a picture of you in your bed underneath the Yoko Ono pic. Sadly, you did not. I guess I will just have to IMAGINE this gorgeous bed in your living room.

    • Nope, B. But we ARE meeting the awesome photog who did the boys’ pics this past spring for family photos this week. John and I have never had photos taken of us together. NEVER! Remember that we eloped, so we don’t even have wedding photos. I hate having my photo taken!

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