Scrubs

Besides being the name of a fantastic television show, something Beyonce don't want none of, and what a maid does to the floor, "scrubs" are also an essential wardrobe ensemble for the medical profession. You could even consider scrubs the great equalizer; nurses, doctors, techs, physician's assistants, medical assistants, and virtually every other title in the medical profession dons this apparel in one setting or another. Of course, this begs the question: Why are scrubs the one apparel item that don't appear to have been updated since the 1960's?

I mean, if someone to show up in a suit from before 1980, it would be recognizable because the tie would likely be thinner than my pinky, but if someone rolled in with old scrubs I don't think I'd ever notice. The fact is, I've never seen pre-1980 scrubs, but they just seem like a relic. I know that they are extremely functional, not uncomfortable, and at least for nurses, seem a bit more professional than the classic white pleated tennis skirt thing.

However, there are a few unwritten rules for scrubs that I don't understand. They are listed
below in order of decreasing confoundment (that is, the things I understand least are at the top).

Scrub Rule Number One:

"If you are going to have any sort of icon or image on your scrubs, it must a) appear only on the upper 'shirt' portion of the outfit and b) be repeated at least 14,298 times"

My analysis: Why, oh why, do cartoon characters need to be tiled across this garment hundreds of times? I mean, if you are trying to cheer up children, I swear one whinny the pooh will do as many wonders as the eight hundred currently unflatteringly occupying your front, backside, sleeve, and armpit. I am yet to see a single image larger than a quarter on any scrub outfit. Instead cartoons, butterflies, polka-dots, and any other random (yes random) image. Which brings us to . . . .

Scrub Rule Number Two:

"Your scrubs shall not bear any image or representation of anything medical (i.e. a stethoscope, a red cross) barring the exception of a pink heart repeated hundreds of times because they are cute. Furthermore, anything else normally seen such as stripes, different colored sleeves, a small pocket sized logo, and everything that does not fall into the category of 1980 cartoons, fourth-grade female versions of a heart, geometric shapes, or other cutesy things that would be doodled on the pages of a pre-pubescent love struck girl."

Analysis: Pretty self explanatory. I have seen NFL scrubs with a classy single logo on the chest, but those clearly do not conform to these standards. Furthermore, I've seen a couple guys wearing what I call "european" scrubs bucking the next rule with a sort of rounded not-V but not-crew neck and the little slits at the bottom to make them look sort of like they have flares. And while maybe allowable, these scrubs are clearly questionable on a guy. Not that there is anything wrong with that question being answered in the affirmative, it just raises the question.

Scrub Rule Number Three:

"We don't do crew necks"

Anaylsis: Maybe my experience in the scrub world is limited (it undoubtedly is) but seriously, I know the V-neck white T-shirt is strangely trendy right now, but every once and a while it would be nice if I could refrain from "oozing muchismo" in the form of chest hair from the vertex of my V-ed scrubs. It seems more sanitary also.

Scrub Rule Number Four:

"The drawstring to the pants must be exchangable with a shoelace from clown shoes"

Analysis: Maybe this was just my summer experience, but seriously, every time I grabbed a pair of hospital provided scrubs, I had to tie this mammoth knot because the drawstring was as thick as those shoe laces kids practice with on fake cardboard shoes.

Scrub Rule Number Five:

"Under no circumstances are you to be wearing scrubs without some of the accompanying footwear: Crocs, Nike Shox, Dansko Clogs, or maybe Easy Spirts"

Analysis: Seriously, are Nike shox that much more comfortable. Your telling me some Asics wouldn't do the trick? And guys, seriously, I know the Dansko shoes say male on the box, but the size of the sole (and the fact that its a CLOG) says otherwise. Crocs may be the least safe shoe option short of Tevas. I do like Easy Spirits though. I just thought I should throw the over fifty nurses a bone, eh?

Scrub Rule Number Six:

"The following colors are the only acceptable colors: fuscia, vomit green, hot pink (in pants), electric blue, electric green, and anything else that can be found at either a) the glow sticks of a rave party, b) holding a girls hair in a pony tail in the 1980s, or c) gracing the pages of a textbook demonstrating a students added assessment of importance (aka a highlighter)"

Analysis: Ok, I know there are some exceptions; I have seen grey black, navy blue, but the vast majority of scrub colors either shout "HEY I AM IN NEED OF ATTENTION BECAUSE OF MY BRIGHTLY COLORED AND UNFLATTERING CLOTHING" or "I LOOK LIKE VOMIT." Why is that green the customary green color. What happened to white being the image of sterility. I mean, I know the drawbacks are transparent, but seriously. And of course the Whinny the Pooh scrub tops are invariably paired with hot pink scrub pants. I don't get it.

Whew, maybe I waxed a little too philisophically for everyone's good there. I mean, I really don't care what people wear, it just seems like they could make improvements on something so ubiquitous. I guess, however, making something so universally ill-fitting levels the playing field. Scrubs may be the great eqaulizer. What an ideal. Hmm, I guess they may be ahead of their time after all. Besides, I guess anything I can wear at work and then change into at home to sleep in for comfort, shouldn't warrant my complaining.

The Black Box

My parents purchased me an incredible Flat Panel LCD television as a gift last year. Apparently, there was an irresistible deal at Target for a 19" LCD TV with a DVD player built in. Despite some shortcomings (including the fact that the DVD player features a blue bubble thing that persistently sticks out of the side of the television), the TV features some miraculous abilities.
Most notably, the television can not only receive HD signals, but it can seemingly extract them from unauthorized sources. That is, I have never purchased the HD package my cable company offers, but consistently receive all of the local stations in HD (in case I ever want to see the Ft. Wayne anchor's facial creases), as well as some other random HD stations. And I do actually mean random.
I initially set up my television at my parents house in Detroit's outlying suburbia. Much to my surprise I could watch the Tigers in HD on Fox Sports Net Detroit HD. I also could tune in to some miscellaneous movies on the higher channels. The television downstairs had no such access to these channels; I reasoned it was because it lacked the HD tuner.
At my downtown Detroit residence, I likewise installed the television, along with my roommates TV (a 42" flat panel his brother loaned him while he was out of the country, yeah, I know ridiculous, right?). Now I was able to get ESPN HD but my Fox Sports Net HD did not have sound, and seemed to be on different channels every night. My roommates much more expensive TV still could not receive any of these channels despite its HD capability.
Finally, I was lounging at my desk one day watching a movie on one of the random channels I had and it started rewinding on me. The movie then went in fast motion before pausing, restarting, and finally disappearing. Weird, I know. The mystery was confounded over the next few weeks when I had similar experiences with various movies (all recently released on DVD) that would be seemingly controlled from another venue.
And I believe they were. My hypothesis that I was watching whatever my neighbor's were watching "on demand" seemed to be confirmed by the commercial-less sit-com episodes I occasionally could tune into and the random . . . ahem . . . "inappropriate" videos that would grace my screen when I was looking for a good flick to watch.
Granted, this phenomena is very cool. Here in Indiana, I have seen Semi-Pro, Knocked Up, Be Kind Rewind, and a host of other movies which I never learned the titles to (not those movies). I have dialed through (okay, and maybe watched a little of) My Super Sweet 16, Rock of Love 2, Entourage, and various other cable series that I am embarrassed to have watched.
However, the ability to watch what other people are watching is like some weird invasion of privacy. For example, when I cross my neighbor's path in the morning, I have to wonder, is that the dude who watched My Super Sweet 16 last night? Or was he the guy rewinding the explosion in Starship Troopers like fifty times? Does someone in my complex have kids? Or do they just really enjoy the shows Noggin has to offer? Is it the same guy watching Knocked Up every night? Or is that movie really just super popular? And of course . . . who is the lonely guy ordering up the "interesting" movies?
Alas, I am not going to complain and I have no idea how my TV gets these channels or when it will stop. All I know is that in every location I have had this TV, I get random movies and stations that other TV's don't. Just hope I don't move into your neighborhood if you have a thing for "A Shot of Love with Tila Tequilla" or something.

The Daily Office

I have an unhealthy relationship with television. The magazines at the checkout line of the grocery stores always evoked wonder inside of me. Not the stories about the alien boy with thirteen toes or the women’s world with a new diet that was the result of 2000 years of diet innovation since the last supper. The magazines that had more in-depth stories about soap opera’s stupefied me. How could anyone seriously want to read more about the only entity in the world which makes my television set worthless between the hours of 12 pm and 3 pm every day?

That is until this summer I recently discovered the immense pleasure I can draw from one television show. I no longer feel unconnected to stay-at-home moms or jobless, mindless television consumers because when feeling down, I too now have an outlet. That is, when I want a mindless outlet, I can pop in a DVD, grab a cool beech wood aged beverage and all will be right with the world. Because when Pam, Jim, Dwight, Michael, Angela, Kevin, Oscar, Toby, Stanley, Andy, Phyllis, Crede, Kelly, Ryan, and the rest of the hilarious crew beam through my television, I beam back.

The simple do-de-do, do-de-do, dun-dun-do-do of the theme song leaves me mentally salivating for perfectly crafted humor the way a bell causes the pavlovian dog to do the same (not for humor, but for steak . . .which, I too can understand). I cannot explain the affinity I have for the show, because unlike America’s Funniest Home Videos (maybe my other favorite show on television), I rarely laugh out loud.

The Office is essentially the antithesis of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Where AFV makes a spectacle of outlandish moments that actually happen, The Office tries to turn the spectacle of outlandish characters into people I see everyday. And both work wonderfully. So, at the end of a long hard day of work, once the baseball games have ended, I can pour myself another fine American classic and know that if Jim and Pam are together, all is right with the world. And as sad and pathetic as that may sound, in no way do I find it depressing.

Gone Running

I have a problem: I am yet to establish any semblance of foresight when it comes to decision making. That is not to say that I don't think about the consequences of my actions, because I do. Rather, it is to say that I don't realize which consequences apply to which actions. Today, for example, I decided to go for a longer run than usual. I knew that I would have to return the way I came, but after running a few extra miles beyond my usual turnaround spot, I was enjoying the scenery so much that I decided to continue walking away from my apartment.

I'm sure you see where this is headed, and so did I. Yet, instead of submissively turning around, I decided to punish the future version of myself. So I continued to walk down the trail, and it was quite enjoyable. I even decided that I should begin walking back instead of trying to run all the way home. So I turned around, greeted the farmers picking berries along the trail, and began the long trek home.

A few miles back towards my house, I realized I still had a long way to go. I also began to believe that my knees were lacking cartilage and became acutely aware that my feet were rebelling against me in the form of nasty blisters. So I stopped running. It did not do me any good. My feet still hurt, my knees still were lacking menisci, and my current self was cursing the shortsightedness of my former self.

It would be one thing if this were the first time I had gotten myself into this scenario. However, I have repeatedly been enjoying the trip out so much, I sacrificed the version of myself that would have to do the return trip. I'm simply amazed that I can be such a jerk to myself time and time again. However, I'm sure the amazement will turn to anger for a few moments the next time I do the same thing.

In Defense of Cafeteria's (or as I like to call them: Sammy's playplace)

For those of you who know me well enough to have shared a meal with me, you may have noticed that I have a strong affinity for essentially anything with even marginal nutritional value. Most people say their college years were the best years of their life. I concur, and while I enjoyed living in close proximity to great friends (well, and the occasional drug dealer for my senior year), one of the most pleasurable experiences was waking up every morning knowing full well that a dazzling array of french toast, sausage, scrambled eggs, juices, and a cereal bar lay waiting for me. Many college students considered breakfast an unnecessary peripheral; I was beside myself most mornings if I didn't get there in time for the hot breakfast bar to still be fresh.
Presently, I am working at a hospital in the fine city of Muncie, Indiana. The gig is alright: the work can be somewhat boring, the pay is mediocre, they provide sufficient housing. However, the kicker is that when I started they gave me a magical ID badge. I can step into this cafeteria and load up on whatever I like, knowing full well that it will be charged to my employer. Somehow, I traded a paucity of medical knowledge and my physical presence following doctors, for a little bit of cash and a golden ticket into "Sammy's Play-place" (Sammy should be another post altogether, but for now, understand he's the named imaginary tapeworm my close friends claim I have).
Every day, I can wake up, saunter into the hospital cafeteria, and craft a sausage-laden, egg, cheese, and bacon biscuit. I can sample the prepackaged bowls of cinnamon french toast, golden grahams. Heck, if I'm feeling wild, I can even pound a couple sugar cookies and leftover egg salad sandwiches. Further enhancing the experience is access to a cafeteria world formerly unknown to me. That is, the prepackaged genre of foodstuffs. In my collegiate days, cafeterias were somewhat prepared for gentlemen with voracious appetites. The hospital, however, totally unprepared. After I fill my requisite styrofoam containers with the salad bar, taco bar, wrap bar, and/or pasta bar (all of which are charged by the ounce, by the way), I can then pick up virtually any candy bar, bottled beverage, or delightfully trans-fat-laden hostess treat.
I remember growing up hearing stories of a friend whose grandfather owned a grocery store. Whenever this girl visited Minnesota, her grandpappy let her sample anything from the store she desired. Even as a young pudgester, I realized the glorious implications of this. I pictured myself prancing (that is, prancing in a very heterosexual way), down the isles, taking bites out of hunks of extra sharp cheddar cheese and snapping beef sticks in my chompers. I could dive headlong into the bins of peachy-O and imitation sweedish fish. Shoot, I would even probably be able to snag some of those delightful looking rotisserie chickens that are always calling to me, "come, enjoy my delightful basted thighs." Whew, sorry, I got a little off-track there. Point being, when you suddenly have access to a seemingly infinite pool of formerly pricey items, the excitement is almost too much. So now, I can indulge my curiosity if paydays are as poor a candy bar as I remember (they are), if now and laters are still as ridiculously hard as they were (they are harder), and if kashi's go lean bars cause the same gastrointestinal problems as their cereals (they do).
And yet, cafeterias still have a bad wrap. All I know, is that any place I can be charged by the ounce for a foodstuff, thats where I want to be. Especially when its someone else who's covering my charges.

Things I don't get #6: Hormel meat and their believers (Spam, etc.)

The King of Nigeria, Canadian Pharmacies, and altruistic individuals have been bombarding me with offers for millions of dollars from my next-of-African-kin, cheap Viagra, and help increasing my "size/performance" lately. While I appreciate the attention doted on me by these ever persistent spammers, part of my wonders who out there is clicking these links and perpetuating this phenomenon. Save Michael Scott, I don't know a soul who has been taken in by these scams, but the truth is, I know someone out there is making setting up these spam-bots worthwhile. I want to find them and hunt them down (at least, that is, until Yahoo's spam guard can start picking up these messages).


My immediate guesses as to the perpetrators identity is male, insecure, and flat out desperate. That said, I know I've never responded to any of these spams, so I don't know who else it could be (kidding of course, I am quite secure in my desperation). Yet, I cannot imagine the poor chap who orders the special "blue pill" and suddenly finds himself wrangling in a world of identity theft at counterfeit "male enhancement" drugs. Best case scenario, the guy somehow frees his credit of its besmirched reputation and actually receives some sort of non-poisonous pill in the mail which has some sort of placebo effect. If the guy is stupid enough to order those pills, then he must somehow be stupid enough to believe they will help him in the sack, and if he ever gets there, maybe that unfounded belief will. One can only hope.

On the other end of the spectrum, are those who have no idea what I am talking about and somehow have hidden their e-mail address or gotten a superior spam blocker. For that I commend you (all twelve of you). Yet even the locked down ".edu" verified school e-mail address I had for my undergraduate career fell prey to these e-mails. Of course, so did everyone else's at my school and since the system was compromised, we all received e-mails making it look like my dorm mate was trying to sell me free viagra, vicadin, codine, etc.

Yet some people never quite caught on that this was a scam. One poor young girl actually sent an e-mail, which had my name in the "to" line but had somehow been delivered to her, politely informing me that she accidentally received my mail (which happened to be an offer for performance enhancement). At first I thought it a joke until I realized that I didn't know this young lady, and that she seriously thought I may be seeking out male enhancement.

I of course profusely thanked her and asked if she had happened to hear from Kenya's foreign treasurer about the wire for $4 million I was soon supposed to receive.

Things I don't get #5: Loud Speakers (not the electronic kind)

Since Jerry Sienfeld has already composed the penultimate treatise on close talkers, I am left to delineate the common annoyances of an overactive alternate modality. The range of these poor souls extend from the "voice modulation syndrome" guy who speaks just a notch too loud in all circumstances, to the perpetual mumbler who gets frustrated with people asking "what?" and decides to suddenly enunciate as well as talk loud enough for every senior in the room to dial down their miracle ear. Finally, there is the poor soul who tells the "how do you sell chicken to a deaf person" joke (the answer, of course, is the ironic, but certainly not unnannoying outburst of a loud "you want some chicken).

Nothing can cause an instantaneous aversion to whatever is coming out of your vocal chords than an excessive amount of gusto with which it is said. The problem seems to effect males and females indiscriminately, but it is all the more shocking when a loud, high pitched voice comes out of a small, petite woman. However, the worst perpetrators are the aforementioned mumblers. As if in aggression to no one being able to decipher their incoherence, they shout whatever trivial fact that they were bumbling about directly into the tympanic membrance and make every listener sorry they justified the comment with a "what?" "hmmm?" or huh?" Dude, don't punish me because you suddenly acquired the ability to separate your words. Still ever worse is the close-talking, loud-talking individual who seems to have missed the day when they taught social norms in grade school (his sweat pants were probably dirty and he couldn't find his velcro shoes . . .oh wait, that was me).

Still, there is another camp of those who seem to think that they need electrical assistance whenever they are speaking to a group (or individual) of greater number than their monologue (and who can be sure they don't use a mic when talking to themselves). My eighth grade gym teacher used a microphone to give out instructions before class every day. Nearly every day I wanted to remind him that there were literally only twelve of us sitting there and we already knew the rules to basketball. Certainly the feedback from a cheap portable microphone made it harder to hear than his minuscule voice. The voice was not even that small, rather his voice had a nasty habit of constantly cracking, which was only amplified by the microphone. Maybe the poor chap just enjoyed electronics, but my theory (as is every eighth graders) that the funny cigarette he was smoking in between classes effected his cognitive decision making.

All that said, I'd take the over eager beaver over "the whisperer" any day.

Things I don't get #4: Multi-tasking (as in how-to)

Call me old-school, call me one-dimensional, call me inept, but I cannot do more than one thing effectively at a time. The trouble is, in practice, I fail to recognize this unequivocal truth on a daily basis. My roommate will be attempting to have a conversation with me and ask a pointed question. In response, my wandering eyes fixed on the baseball game, I will respond "you sonnuva gun," and my roommate will have to survey the situation for a good thirty seconds before realizing I tuned out as soon as the bases became loaded and the count ran full. I'll attempt to seamlessly resume the conversation only to find we've moved beyond the topic of the wheather a good five minutes prior (which reflects poorly on my multi-tasking, positively on my ability to insert appropriate hmms and uh-huhs and poorly on my roommates conversational ability).

I have a friend who for years believed that I was simply an awful phone conversationalists until we had a chance conversation during which I was not near a television set and things went smashingly. I have still more friends, who despite concerted efforts, I find the phone calls more and more sparing based upon the fact that my body can somehow involuntarily move to the couch, turn on the tv, and transfer my attention to a football game unconsciously.

Yet, its not only others that I harm when I attempt to use this tactic. I mean, yes, I hurt myself by losing friends, but in a more tangible way, my academics suffer. My 3/31/08 post chronicled my ability to distract myself from lectures, but I still convince myself that I will be able to exhibit self control and study in front of a computer today. No, I cannot do it. I told myself I was sitting down to study for my exam on Thursday before I began typing this blasted post (which by the way is an amazing feat given the fact that I am currently doing laundry simultaneously. Yeah, be impressed).

Still, I attempt even more ridiculous pairings of attention-necessary events all the time. I can't count the number of times I have burned pancakes (look, so I have an affinity for a good hotcake from time to time, lay off) because I have attempted to get dressed in the other room while they cook. Who can't button a polo shirt while making sure they don't char Bisquick? I can't (luckily, I do quickly become focused and am able to wave something in front of the smoke detector while still in my drawers).

Point being, I am a singularly focused man. I do not have the female gift of doing more than one thing at once. I consider studying to music a major breakthrough. However, I also have the appropriate male gift of stubbornness. So if you ever find yourself in a phone conversation with me (god bless your soul), and I start to respond a little too excessively with the verbal equivalent of head nods, kindly ask me to turn away from the ever-interesting baseball game and listen to your plight.

Things I don't get #3: Nightclubs (Particularly, beds in night clubs)

Note: I really wanted to title this series "rantings of an ignoramus," but I feel like the terms rants, ramblings, meanderings, etc have sufficiently worn-out their worth and are cast-off into the cliche Sahara with my personal favorite "random" post from (see October 23).

I confess. I am not a wild, raging, push it to the excess, pulsating music, party animal. I know this may come as a great shock to many of you who expect to see me frequent the late-night hot-spot circuit, but besides my penchant for sleep (and thus early bedtimes) and fondness for my eardrums, I have probably never really enjoyed myself at any destination where my vocal chords cannot produce a sound half as loud as the music pushing through the speakers.

That's not to say I haven't tried. Occasionally, I have ventured out into the surreal world that is the "nightlife." Don't get me wrong, I am all for staying out late with friends, enjoying each others company, and having a good time. I just prefer to do so in a location where I can actually hear my friends, and don't have to have a conversation (with only eyes of course) while wondering what the giant golden-framed bed next to me purpose is.

I can understand some plush seating, or even a couch that encourages a good "make-out" spot or something. But a bed in the middle of the room, with thinly draped curtains. Exactly what is the intent? I mean personally, once the clock strikes one a.m., I have to remind myself that laying down to take a nap is not appropriate etiquette, but what would be proper etiquette? The last night club I went to offered bed and bottle service. As attractive as that sounded, I think it would have been more attractive were I six months old and pining for some formula.

I have known people, who also don't particularly care for the late night scene to venture out to the nightclubs to "meet people." I am simply impressed that meeting anyone is possible at said venues. I still don't know how to do introductions in sign language so I guess I'm out of the loop. That said, who am I going to meet at a night club. I mean, I think I am already maxed out on male friends with excessively tight black shimmering short-sleeved button-up shirts. Likewise, I suppose I'm maxed out on female friends who are going out late at night to meet guys in excessively tight black shimmering short-sleeved button-up shirts.

Given the circumstances, I suppose I can't blame the establishments for the dark lit rooms and pulsating music that should be confined to thirteen year-old teeny-boppers bedrooms. How else do they get people to forget that they just paid thirteen dollars for that drink with fluorescent glow.

Things I don't get #2: Feminine Hygiene Commercials

Note: This post could have simply been entitled “women,” but why throw away a cache of material in one fell swoop (see April 5 entry). Similarly, this post could have simply covered the female cycle, yet that too should intrinsically be singularly mystifying. I feel advertising should, in some way, be slightly accessible to me despite my obvious ignorant state.

The problem I have with the commercials is not with the things that I don’t understand (which are many) but with the things that I do understand (which are few). For one, when showing absorbency quality, why is the liquid so ridiculously blue? Is there some biological phenomenon I will not learn about until my last years of medical school? And if so, how did Windex (and my hair gel for that matter) get the rights to said quasi-fluorescent material?

Secondly, judging by facial expressions, all of the women on the commercials are ridiculously happy to be bleeding. I for one, have never been that happy to be bleeding no matter how sweet the band-aid is (at least since I was eleven and flintstones band-aids and vitamins were no longer cool), and I certainly can’t imagine being that happy about something that could be predicted by an egg-timer (okay, if they made ones that lasted about a month, I just wanted to go with the whole egg irony thing here).

Thirdly, I suppose it is understandable, but why are they always showing women’s faces staring at the screen and talking to me. I realize that they cannot actually show the product in action, but still, how many other commercials is just a talking face at the screen. Maybe this appeals to women, but I like a little bit more subtlety in my advertising (like Bud Light commercials, where humor/hot women are the net result of beer).

Finally, there is the whole idea of comfort marketing. Look, I am sure that convincing people that these things lessen the pain/annoyance/whatever else I don't comprehend, is important, but do we have to really try and make it seem as if you are sitting on a cloud with these products? I mean shoot, sometimes I forget why these advertisements are on in the first place and wish I could be in such a dreamland. Alas, in retrospect, I suppose I am not surprised that the commercials stupify me and rather am quite glad that they do. I should be more unsettled had I suddenly started to prefer one brand over the other.