Dr. Vizzini was rounding today with his residents and said, apropos of a patient, "It's all about that bass/'Bout that bass/No treble."
And he was met with expressionless faces and nods of assent.
So why should I, when I weaved through that same group of residents two seconds later, while carrying a depleted breakfast tray, get the side-eye for
"I think it's pretty clear/That I ain't no size two/But I can shake it shake it/Like I'm supposed to do"
When it came with the applause of the attending?
I mean. Srsly, guize. If you're gonna accept the attending starting a thang, you gotta accept a nurse capping that thang off.
If Dr. Vizzini says it's okay, then it's okay.
'Cause I won't be no stick-figure silicone Barbie Doll. (she-doo-bee-doo-bee)
Guise? Guise? I need advice.
All drama, all joking, all silliness aside: I need srs advice.
Keith did two things in the past week that were so boneheaded, so arrogant, so overstepping-of-boundaries, so completely idiotic, that I feel like it's getting to be a quandary just working with him.
(And yes, before we go any further, he's been written up and counselled and so on, and has returned from those meetings with a halo of righteousness.) (It's nearly impossible to fire anybody at Sunnydale.)
I'm going to look up my legal responsibilities tomorrow, once I've metabolized the bottle of wine I just drank to get over this day, but I have a question about ethics, to wit:
What is my ethical responsibility to patients who are not my own, when I know that the nurse who is caring for those patients is at least minimally competent and at worst actively dangerous?
I have never had to ask this question before. I hope I never have to ask it again.
I'm baffled. If it were up to me, Keith would be gone before the start of the shift tomorrow. Not only has he done some incredibly dangerous shit, he's lied about it, and about other stuff, and even falsified his charts. Lesser things got somebody fired from a Planned Parenthood clinic I worked at.
And I do not know what to do.
Rated on a scale of one to ten, with one being stuck in a nice, comfortable elevator equipped with chaise longue and Benedict Cumberbatch and several bottles of good Scotch, and ten being told I have CANSUH, this is over and beyond and way past ten. At least with CANSUH, I had somebody who told me "you're not gonna die from this" and somebody else who said "you're not even gonna have to be trached."
I am, in short, worried that something that Keith does will make me lose my license because I didn't act on my own prior to his injuring-or-worse somebody. Legal stuff I can look up. What's the ethical take on this?
Anybody?
Bueller?
By request: White Girl Bibimbop
Here is my version, filtered through My Korean Kitchen and Kitty's Filipino father.
Music for cooking:
MmmBop (can be altered to "bimmmbop, baby, bimmmbop, baby")
Besame Mucho (you can sing along with my beloved Cenobio: "Ses-a-me, ses-a-me, ses-a-me mucho, ses-a-me!")
Any Decemebrists song in which people do not die or live lonely lives; Joni Mitchell (the strummy years); Bare Naked Ladies.
Ingredients and equipment you will need:
A sharp knife
A big frying pan, wok, or covered omelette pan
A cutting board
Something to stir stuff with
Sesame oil
Soy sauce
Garlic
Ginger (optional, but it makes your kitchen smell nice)
Brown sugar
Bean sprouts (if all you can get are canned, skip this part. Canned bean sprouts are gross.)
Spinach, bok choy, or napa cabbage
Carrots
Mushrooms: preferably oyster, shiitake, woodears, or anything other than those bland button things (I got two packages of "Gourmet Blend" from the local HEB.)
Beef. It can be ground, very thinly sliced sirloin or tenderloin, or mince if you're in Australia or Europe. (Mince is good enough for My Korean Kitchen, so it's good enough for us.)
Zucchini. Broccoli. Kale. Whatever. What have you got? It's all gonna get wilted later.
An egg or two.
Rice. Make more than you think you'll need.
Preparation:
For each quarter-pound/120 grams of beef, mix:
one tablespoon each of soy sauce and sesame oil
a teaspoon, roughly, of chopped garlic
a half-teaspoon of brown sugar
as much grated ginger as you feel is advisable (optional)
Mix it all up and either mix it into your beef mince or pour it over your very thinly sliced beef (or tofu, if you don't eat vegetarians).
(Protip: beef can be sliced more thinly than you imagine possible if you freeze it for an hour first, then use a very sharp knife.)
While this is marinating, chop up your bok choy or Napa cabbage, or slice your spinach up a bit.
Julienne (that is, cut into matchsticks) the carrot and/or zucchini.
Slice or rinse or otherwise parcel out the mushrooms you've gotten your paws on.
Chop up whatever else you've got in the way of vegetables.
Keep all these things separate. If you have actual bok choy, you'll want to cook the stems first. I got baby bok choy, so that wasn't necessary.
Take your big pan and heat up a smidge of sesame oil in it. Add some of that chopped garlic you've got hanging around.
Add the bok choy/cabbage/zucchini/spinach and cook it just until it's wilted. You don't want mush; you want things to retain their basic character.
Scoop that shit out of the pan and put it somewhere out of the way.
Put the carrot in there. Cook it for about three minutes, or until it's tender but still crunchy. Err on the side of crunchy.
If you have decent bean sprouts, dump out the carrots and put the bean sprouts in their place. Cook a minute or two, until they're just-barely tender. You should not need more oil or water; the bean sprouts have plenty of water on their own.
Now dump out the bean sprouts. You *are* keeping the veggies separate from one another, right? Good.
Add the barest squidgen of oil to the pan, turn the heat up, and add the mushrooms. You want to sear them rather than have them release all their liquid. Once they smell good, dump 'em out.
(Yes, we're using a lot of plates. It's worth it.)
Now cook your meat. What I do is pan-fry it, then drain it through a fine-mesh strainer, so all the fat goes away and all the garlic stays in the mix. You want the heat high, but not high enough to make the residual oil in the pan smoke all over the place. Eugh.
Dump out the meat. Turn the heat off under the pan.
Now here is where I diverge from real bibimbap and go to the true round-eye version. Normally, you'd be layering all this stuff atop cooked rice and topping it with chili sauce and--here is the key--a sunny-side-up egg.
I hate uncooked eggs. Plus, I have to take this shit to work and reheat it in the microwave. So I do what Kit's dad does, and scramble an egg per serving, and cook it like a flat, plain, browned omelette.
I beat that egg to death, then pour it into the pan (which is still warm from the meat) and let it set. Once it's brown, I flip it over all of a piece and let it brown on the other side. Then I take it out, chiffonade it (that is, cut it into delicate fine strips) and sprinkle it over the rest of my booty.
To serve, plate up some rice. Put portions of everything you've just cooked in beautifully-arranged order atop the rice. You can top it with chili sauce, or sprinkle sesame seeds over it, or just dig in with a side of kimchi.
I'm sure there's a formal recipe for the chili sauce, but I just use the stuff that comes in the little jars and mix it to taste with sesame oil and soy sauce. Sometimes I add some leftover garlic if I feel really bold.
And there you have it. You can make all this stuff ahead of time, cook the rice fresh, and nuke your pre-prepared ingredients, then put it all together. Or you can do what I do, which is attempt something like a Michelin chef would plate, then say "Fuck it" and mix it all together in a plastic container. Either way, it's tasty.
Music for cooking:
MmmBop (can be altered to "bimmmbop, baby, bimmmbop, baby")
Besame Mucho (you can sing along with my beloved Cenobio: "Ses-a-me, ses-a-me, ses-a-me mucho, ses-a-me!")
Any Decemebrists song in which people do not die or live lonely lives; Joni Mitchell (the strummy years); Bare Naked Ladies.
Ingredients and equipment you will need:
A sharp knife
A big frying pan, wok, or covered omelette pan
A cutting board
Something to stir stuff with
Sesame oil
Soy sauce
Garlic
Ginger (optional, but it makes your kitchen smell nice)
Brown sugar
Bean sprouts (if all you can get are canned, skip this part. Canned bean sprouts are gross.)
Spinach, bok choy, or napa cabbage
Carrots
Mushrooms: preferably oyster, shiitake, woodears, or anything other than those bland button things (I got two packages of "Gourmet Blend" from the local HEB.)
Beef. It can be ground, very thinly sliced sirloin or tenderloin, or mince if you're in Australia or Europe. (Mince is good enough for My Korean Kitchen, so it's good enough for us.)
Zucchini. Broccoli. Kale. Whatever. What have you got? It's all gonna get wilted later.
An egg or two.
Rice. Make more than you think you'll need.
Preparation:
For each quarter-pound/120 grams of beef, mix:
one tablespoon each of soy sauce and sesame oil
a teaspoon, roughly, of chopped garlic
a half-teaspoon of brown sugar
as much grated ginger as you feel is advisable (optional)
Mix it all up and either mix it into your beef mince or pour it over your very thinly sliced beef (or tofu, if you don't eat vegetarians).
(Protip: beef can be sliced more thinly than you imagine possible if you freeze it for an hour first, then use a very sharp knife.)
While this is marinating, chop up your bok choy or Napa cabbage, or slice your spinach up a bit.
Julienne (that is, cut into matchsticks) the carrot and/or zucchini.
Slice or rinse or otherwise parcel out the mushrooms you've gotten your paws on.
Chop up whatever else you've got in the way of vegetables.
Keep all these things separate. If you have actual bok choy, you'll want to cook the stems first. I got baby bok choy, so that wasn't necessary.
Take your big pan and heat up a smidge of sesame oil in it. Add some of that chopped garlic you've got hanging around.
Add the bok choy/cabbage/zucchini/spinach and cook it just until it's wilted. You don't want mush; you want things to retain their basic character.
Scoop that shit out of the pan and put it somewhere out of the way.
Put the carrot in there. Cook it for about three minutes, or until it's tender but still crunchy. Err on the side of crunchy.
If you have decent bean sprouts, dump out the carrots and put the bean sprouts in their place. Cook a minute or two, until they're just-barely tender. You should not need more oil or water; the bean sprouts have plenty of water on their own.
Now dump out the bean sprouts. You *are* keeping the veggies separate from one another, right? Good.
Add the barest squidgen of oil to the pan, turn the heat up, and add the mushrooms. You want to sear them rather than have them release all their liquid. Once they smell good, dump 'em out.
(Yes, we're using a lot of plates. It's worth it.)
Now cook your meat. What I do is pan-fry it, then drain it through a fine-mesh strainer, so all the fat goes away and all the garlic stays in the mix. You want the heat high, but not high enough to make the residual oil in the pan smoke all over the place. Eugh.
Dump out the meat. Turn the heat off under the pan.
Now here is where I diverge from real bibimbap and go to the true round-eye version. Normally, you'd be layering all this stuff atop cooked rice and topping it with chili sauce and--here is the key--a sunny-side-up egg.
I hate uncooked eggs. Plus, I have to take this shit to work and reheat it in the microwave. So I do what Kit's dad does, and scramble an egg per serving, and cook it like a flat, plain, browned omelette.
I beat that egg to death, then pour it into the pan (which is still warm from the meat) and let it set. Once it's brown, I flip it over all of a piece and let it brown on the other side. Then I take it out, chiffonade it (that is, cut it into delicate fine strips) and sprinkle it over the rest of my booty.
To serve, plate up some rice. Put portions of everything you've just cooked in beautifully-arranged order atop the rice. You can top it with chili sauce, or sprinkle sesame seeds over it, or just dig in with a side of kimchi.
I'm sure there's a formal recipe for the chili sauce, but I just use the stuff that comes in the little jars and mix it to taste with sesame oil and soy sauce. Sometimes I add some leftover garlic if I feel really bold.
And there you have it. You can make all this stuff ahead of time, cook the rice fresh, and nuke your pre-prepared ingredients, then put it all together. Or you can do what I do, which is attempt something like a Michelin chef would plate, then say "Fuck it" and mix it all together in a plastic container. Either way, it's tasty.
Finally, a post that is not about Keith.
Although I am working with him for two days, starting tomorrow, so I'll have tons of new material.
Which is the only thing that's keeping me sane right now.
Anyway. Working with Keith--although this post is definitely not about Keith--got me thinking about the other people I work with.
First on my list of People I Love are Marcie and Kitty. I love them for different reasons. Kitty I love because, although she's a child genius and graduated from college at, like, seventeen, we have lots in common. We read different-but-overlapping books (she introduced me to Miss Peregrine's; I'm introducing her to Gerald Durrell and Dorothy Sayers and Ellis Peters), we like the same music, mostly, and we both have a ladyboner for history. Her ladyboner is for Asian history, mine is for European, so we have lots to talk about. Plus, we both like to cook, so we have mini-potlucks every time we work together (good for my recipe book, rotten for my waistline).
Marcie, in addition to being sweet and funny and silly and gorgeous, is one of the finest nurses I have ever met. The only criticism I have about her is that she doesn't use the big brass balls I know she has often enough, and so gets steamrolled by the likes of Keith and some of the more clueless residents. However: if I have a thorny problem, or a tricky question, I head straight to her. You can see her mental Rolodex flip-flip-flipping as she comes up with the exact answer you need in a matter of seconds. Plus, she has the best assortment of facial expressions I've ever seen. And she loves her dogs.
Coming in a close second are Deborah and Jim.
Deb is six feet tall, clocks in at about two-fifty, and has amazing biceps. Oh, and purple hair. And an attitude. And is the person you want on your side, whether you're in a fight or a code. She's also a great drinking buddy.
Jim is as large as Deb, but has a manic energy that she keeps under control. He vibrates all over the floor--kind of scary in a person of that size--and has a huge, booming laugh. It's not often you hear laughter in the hospital, so it's nice to hear his. He likes football, and beer, and cute fuzzy bunnies. If ever I need a hug, it's Jim I want. Since I am not a huggy person, I can't think of better praise.
We have a whole assortment of other folks: Liss, who's as likely to fall over her own feet and run expensive equipment into the walls as she is to look at you; Debbie, who is nearly to retirement and has no qualms about telling you she just farted in the med room; and Marty, Marty, and Marty: all three guys have the same name and could not be more different. One's from Uganda, one's from East Texas, and the third is from San Francisco. In order, they like soccer, shooting, and sailing.
There's also Kamal, who, along with Minna, will be starting Ramadan fasting in a week. Things always begin well during these warm-season Ramadans, then begin to get kinda tetchy toward the end. Kamal looks ashy and exhausted, and Minna starts dropping things and wandering around in a daze. (Yes, you can eat before and after sunrise/sunset, but come on: the days are long, the nights are short, and you have to sleep sometime.) I'm looking forward to Ramadan backing up to a time that's not quite so wearing on the nurses and residents.
And there's Randy, who lives umpteen miles away from Sunnydale, out in the middle of freaking nowhere, and does dryland farming and ranching. He has two years' worth of food stored up, all-terrain bikes for his wife and kids (with mounts for rifles on each), believes strongly that the world is going to hell, and brings us fresh eggs. He's the one who greeted the two Israeli nurses who were here on a research trip with a snapshot of the cougar he'd shot on his land*. He has a moustache worthy of respect and exercises by running his forty acres and pitching hay bales over his head every time he comes across one.
Basically, I work with an assortment of cartoon characters. Given the antics of my dog--who leaned over the plumber's shoulder yesterday and wagged his tail gently as the plumber explained every step of replacing a gas valve to him--and the behavior of the cats, who continue to find new high places to hang out (on top of doors? REALLY??), I am beginning to think I live in the world's best alternate-reality novel. Kind of Pratchett, maybe with a few of Gaiman's flying square-rigger ships thrown in, and a bit of Heinlein when it comes to people like Deb. And Minna, who, when I had trouble finding a can opener before a potluck, took a huge knife in hand and said, "Give that can to me. I am from a third-world country; I can get in to it."
I am a lucky person.
Even adding Keith to the mix.
But this post is not about him.
*Yeah, I'm not crazy about his shooting a cougar either, especially given that it was a female. However, he has an eight-year-old son who raises goats for FFA, and who goes out to feed them at sunrise and sunset. Given that a cougar will happily attack anything the size of an eight-year-old, I can see his reasoning. Things are different out there.
Which is the only thing that's keeping me sane right now.
Anyway. Working with Keith--although this post is definitely not about Keith--got me thinking about the other people I work with.
First on my list of People I Love are Marcie and Kitty. I love them for different reasons. Kitty I love because, although she's a child genius and graduated from college at, like, seventeen, we have lots in common. We read different-but-overlapping books (she introduced me to Miss Peregrine's; I'm introducing her to Gerald Durrell and Dorothy Sayers and Ellis Peters), we like the same music, mostly, and we both have a ladyboner for history. Her ladyboner is for Asian history, mine is for European, so we have lots to talk about. Plus, we both like to cook, so we have mini-potlucks every time we work together (good for my recipe book, rotten for my waistline).
Marcie, in addition to being sweet and funny and silly and gorgeous, is one of the finest nurses I have ever met. The only criticism I have about her is that she doesn't use the big brass balls I know she has often enough, and so gets steamrolled by the likes of Keith and some of the more clueless residents. However: if I have a thorny problem, or a tricky question, I head straight to her. You can see her mental Rolodex flip-flip-flipping as she comes up with the exact answer you need in a matter of seconds. Plus, she has the best assortment of facial expressions I've ever seen. And she loves her dogs.
Coming in a close second are Deborah and Jim.
Deb is six feet tall, clocks in at about two-fifty, and has amazing biceps. Oh, and purple hair. And an attitude. And is the person you want on your side, whether you're in a fight or a code. She's also a great drinking buddy.
Jim is as large as Deb, but has a manic energy that she keeps under control. He vibrates all over the floor--kind of scary in a person of that size--and has a huge, booming laugh. It's not often you hear laughter in the hospital, so it's nice to hear his. He likes football, and beer, and cute fuzzy bunnies. If ever I need a hug, it's Jim I want. Since I am not a huggy person, I can't think of better praise.
We have a whole assortment of other folks: Liss, who's as likely to fall over her own feet and run expensive equipment into the walls as she is to look at you; Debbie, who is nearly to retirement and has no qualms about telling you she just farted in the med room; and Marty, Marty, and Marty: all three guys have the same name and could not be more different. One's from Uganda, one's from East Texas, and the third is from San Francisco. In order, they like soccer, shooting, and sailing.
There's also Kamal, who, along with Minna, will be starting Ramadan fasting in a week. Things always begin well during these warm-season Ramadans, then begin to get kinda tetchy toward the end. Kamal looks ashy and exhausted, and Minna starts dropping things and wandering around in a daze. (Yes, you can eat before and after sunrise/sunset, but come on: the days are long, the nights are short, and you have to sleep sometime.) I'm looking forward to Ramadan backing up to a time that's not quite so wearing on the nurses and residents.
And there's Randy, who lives umpteen miles away from Sunnydale, out in the middle of freaking nowhere, and does dryland farming and ranching. He has two years' worth of food stored up, all-terrain bikes for his wife and kids (with mounts for rifles on each), believes strongly that the world is going to hell, and brings us fresh eggs. He's the one who greeted the two Israeli nurses who were here on a research trip with a snapshot of the cougar he'd shot on his land*. He has a moustache worthy of respect and exercises by running his forty acres and pitching hay bales over his head every time he comes across one.
Basically, I work with an assortment of cartoon characters. Given the antics of my dog--who leaned over the plumber's shoulder yesterday and wagged his tail gently as the plumber explained every step of replacing a gas valve to him--and the behavior of the cats, who continue to find new high places to hang out (on top of doors? REALLY??), I am beginning to think I live in the world's best alternate-reality novel. Kind of Pratchett, maybe with a few of Gaiman's flying square-rigger ships thrown in, and a bit of Heinlein when it comes to people like Deb. And Minna, who, when I had trouble finding a can opener before a potluck, took a huge knife in hand and said, "Give that can to me. I am from a third-world country; I can get in to it."
I am a lucky person.
Even adding Keith to the mix.
But this post is not about him.
*Yeah, I'm not crazy about his shooting a cougar either, especially given that it was a female. However, he has an eight-year-old son who raises goats for FFA, and who goes out to feed them at sunrise and sunset. Given that a cougar will happily attack anything the size of an eight-year-old, I can see his reasoning. Things are different out there.
The Quotable Keith (also, weather update)
We are fine here in Littleton. Bigton has hellish flooding, as do Houston and Dallas, but we in the sticks are far enough uphill of everything that we're not getting washed away. Thanks to everybody for the good wishes; I have purchased a teeny canoe for the cats and have outfitted the dog in a diving suit with one of those round windows in the helmet.
And now, what you've all been waiting for. . . .
Keith, CNRN, PCCN, CSRN, CCRN: "Why would a patient with Hashimoto's encephalopathy be on a neurological unit, rather than on med-surg, seen by endocrinology?"
Keith, CNRN, PCCN, CSRN, CCRN: "I've never understood why myesthenia gravis patients and people with Guillain-Barre came to a pulmonary unit."
Keith, Expert On Weather: "What we need is about five more feet of rain. Then we won't be in a drought for, like, years."
Keith, Arbiter of All Things Religious: "Josh Duggar was just curious. It's not like touching his sisters was molesting them."
Keith, Man of Men and Understander of Wimminfolk: "What women need is a good home and family. It's why feminists are always so angry."
Thank you. Thank you all. Good night.
And now, what you've all been waiting for. . . .
Keith, CNRN, PCCN, CSRN, CCRN: "Why would a patient with Hashimoto's encephalopathy be on a neurological unit, rather than on med-surg, seen by endocrinology?"
Keith, CNRN, PCCN, CSRN, CCRN: "I've never understood why myesthenia gravis patients and people with Guillain-Barre came to a pulmonary unit."
Keith, Expert On Weather: "What we need is about five more feet of rain. Then we won't be in a drought for, like, years."
Keith, Arbiter of All Things Religious: "Josh Duggar was just curious. It's not like touching his sisters was molesting them."
Keith, Man of Men and Understander of Wimminfolk: "What women need is a good home and family. It's why feminists are always so angry."
Thank you. Thank you all. Good night.
Lists.
Things I need to do this week:
1. Buy floaties
2. Figure out some way of keeping my trash bins from being washed down the street
3. Review alternate routes to work in case Lake Littleton overflows the ancient two-lane bridge that spans it
4. Grow gills and webbed feet
The rain hasn't been as bad here as it has been in North Texas, but Jeez. Everything Deep In The Heart of Texas is soaked.
Things I need to do to deal with Keith:
1. Answer patiently when he asks me why a patient with Hashimoto's encephalopathy is on a neuro unit rather than under the endocrine service
2. Ignore his assertions that Josh Groban is Classical Music
3. Not correct him when he gets the timeline of inspiration backwards vis a vis Vivaldi and Bach
4. Figure out where to hide his body at work, and
5. How to dispose of it without getting DNA all over my car
Things I need to do around the house:
1. Weed the front beds, if it ever stops raining
2. Buy a dehumidifier
3. Re-up flood insurance
4. Prep three sets of scrubs for this coming week
5. Brush Mongo
6. Groceries
Things I need to cook:
1. Omelettes for the coming week (my preferred breakfast; usually involves mushrooms)
2. Chef salad, pasta, that fantastic quinoa salad my neighbor fed me, White Girl Bibimbop (aka MmmBop)
3. Something for dinner each night
4. That goes with cheap white wine
Phone calls I need to make:
1. Mammogram
2. Dentist
3. Vet
4. Mom
5. Lotion Slut Sister Pens
6. Dial-a-Prayer
1. Buy floaties
2. Figure out some way of keeping my trash bins from being washed down the street
3. Review alternate routes to work in case Lake Littleton overflows the ancient two-lane bridge that spans it
4. Grow gills and webbed feet
The rain hasn't been as bad here as it has been in North Texas, but Jeez. Everything Deep In The Heart of Texas is soaked.
Things I need to do to deal with Keith:
1. Answer patiently when he asks me why a patient with Hashimoto's encephalopathy is on a neuro unit rather than under the endocrine service
2. Ignore his assertions that Josh Groban is Classical Music
3. Not correct him when he gets the timeline of inspiration backwards vis a vis Vivaldi and Bach
4. Figure out where to hide his body at work, and
5. How to dispose of it without getting DNA all over my car
Things I need to do around the house:
1. Weed the front beds, if it ever stops raining
2. Buy a dehumidifier
3. Re-up flood insurance
4. Prep three sets of scrubs for this coming week
5. Brush Mongo
6. Groceries
Things I need to cook:
1. Omelettes for the coming week (my preferred breakfast; usually involves mushrooms)
2. Chef salad, pasta, that fantastic quinoa salad my neighbor fed me, White Girl Bibimbop (aka MmmBop)
3. Something for dinner each night
4. That goes with cheap white wine
Phone calls I need to make:
1. Mammogram
2. Dentist
3. Vet
4. Mom
5. Lotion Slut Sister Pens
6. Dial-a-Prayer
Adventures in Keithland, part I
We have one rule at Sunnydale that is unbreakable. It has to do with scheduling, and it goes like this: everybody, no matter how long they've been with the crew or what their lives are like, has to work weekends once in a while. The official rule is that every person works one Friday, one Saturday, and one Sunday, with an additional Friday or Saturday thrown in, every schedule. The schedules cover eight weeks, so this is not an onerous requirement. Most folks get it over with by working one F/S/S run and then picking up an extra weekend shift as they please.
Except for Keith, who has filled out every tentative schedule from now until Christmas and has not put himself down on any Sunday on any of them. We chatted about that the other day.
"Well," Keith said, after I had pointed out the problem, "I suppose I could try to work a Sunday, since y'all have been so accomodating of my school schedule."
I replied, more patiently than I felt, that he should not try, but do, because it is the one rule that we have. The One Fucking Rule, for God's sake.
Keith said that he likes to go to church on Sundays. Said it makes him feel all "rejuvenated."
Now, even in Bigton, the liberal enclave of Texas, folk like to get their religion on now and then. However, the One Rule applies to everybody. Doesn't matter if you're a Jew who needs Friday off prior to sundown. Doesn't matter if you're Muslim or Hindu or a devout Cafeterian: you work what you agreed to, or you drop back to part-time or leave.
Also, there are two other people on the staff who are devout churchgoers. Even if I and every other person on staff worked every Sunday from now until Judgement Day, we would probably not cover all our bases every week. Plus, that's unfair.
Plus, Keith, this is what you signed up for. Vadge up.
Because, honestly, if you really want to feel rejuvenated in a Christlike fashion, I could nail you to a cross.
So anyway, I sent out an email about it as soon as we'd finished our discussion, because ain't nobody got time for involving the manager in something like a schedule problem.
Keith then regaled me with tales of the first earthquake he'd ever felt, and don't ask me how he got started on that, and how it was a magnitude 7 in some place like Singapore or Central Iowa. I said, mildly, that I hadn't heard of Singapore being damaged by a magnitude 7 earthquake, nor Des Moines, and wondered aloud if he knew what a logarithmic scale actually meant.
I did not use the term "fucking idiot" at any point and for that I should get a medal.
Except for Keith, who has filled out every tentative schedule from now until Christmas and has not put himself down on any Sunday on any of them. We chatted about that the other day.
"Well," Keith said, after I had pointed out the problem, "I suppose I could try to work a Sunday, since y'all have been so accomodating of my school schedule."
I replied, more patiently than I felt, that he should not try, but do, because it is the one rule that we have. The One Fucking Rule, for God's sake.
Keith said that he likes to go to church on Sundays. Said it makes him feel all "rejuvenated."
Now, even in Bigton, the liberal enclave of Texas, folk like to get their religion on now and then. However, the One Rule applies to everybody. Doesn't matter if you're a Jew who needs Friday off prior to sundown. Doesn't matter if you're Muslim or Hindu or a devout Cafeterian: you work what you agreed to, or you drop back to part-time or leave.
Also, there are two other people on the staff who are devout churchgoers. Even if I and every other person on staff worked every Sunday from now until Judgement Day, we would probably not cover all our bases every week. Plus, that's unfair.
Plus, Keith, this is what you signed up for. Vadge up.
Because, honestly, if you really want to feel rejuvenated in a Christlike fashion, I could nail you to a cross.
So anyway, I sent out an email about it as soon as we'd finished our discussion, because ain't nobody got time for involving the manager in something like a schedule problem.
Keith then regaled me with tales of the first earthquake he'd ever felt, and don't ask me how he got started on that, and how it was a magnitude 7 in some place like Singapore or Central Iowa. I said, mildly, that I hadn't heard of Singapore being damaged by a magnitude 7 earthquake, nor Des Moines, and wondered aloud if he knew what a logarithmic scale actually meant.
I did not use the term "fucking idiot" at any point and for that I should get a medal.
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