10:30pm - dinner
11:30pm - cut hair
12:30am - back to work
Friday, May 15, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Day 230: The intern did it with the knife in the phlebotomy room
Earlier this morning, I had irritation absolutely beaming out of my derierre. Due to the rather recent invention of the telegraph, I apparently missed the memo that I would have to open the main site at 8 am. Had I know, I just may not have gone to bed past 6 in the morning, but knowing me, it's painfully difficult to say. So I traipsed over to open the site with one of my probably more dour expressions plastered all over my face.
While at the site, I fulfilled the excruciatingly perplexing on call task of checking refrigerator temperatures with the aid of my helper monkey. I proceeded to the auxilliary site, the other lab, to check the fridge temperatures there. On my way out of the lab, I saw a large wooden handled steak knife on a table, sitting unwrapped in the middle of several pieces of cloth, OJ Simpson style. Drunk with delirium after less than two hours of sleep, I did a double take and examined the knife for any evidence of, well, unintended use. Fortunately I didn't find any, but suspicions are still high...
While at the site, I fulfilled the excruciatingly perplexing on call task of checking refrigerator temperatures with the aid of my helper monkey. I proceeded to the auxilliary site, the other lab, to check the fridge temperatures there. On my way out of the lab, I saw a large wooden handled steak knife on a table, sitting unwrapped in the middle of several pieces of cloth, OJ Simpson style. Drunk with delirium after less than two hours of sleep, I did a double take and examined the knife for any evidence of, well, unintended use. Fortunately I didn't find any, but suspicions are still high...
Monday, February 23, 2009
Day 223: Plane Crashes Due to Faulty Toilet
First off, I'm blogging on my iPod so please do excuse the use of excessive punctuation in this colloquial heyday.
So the story begins in London where I hopped on my Ethiopian Airlines flight, making the most circuitous way back to Lusaka. As soon as I lumbered over to my seat, I realized this Boeing was from the 80s...if I was lucky. They did put some effort into renovating the interior, but I wouldn't have been surprised had there been a bar and disco lights amidst a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. Anyway, I was good for the most part as I slumbered heavily in my sleeping bag in fetal position, hogging my share of the empty plane. Just before landing in Addis, I had to use the loo, number two of course. All the lavatories were occupied. I took out my new travel toothbrush kit and vigorously brushed my teeth as I anxiously eyed the red lit occupied signs above the toilets. We had a winner. A man emerged from the toilet on my right. As I stumbled over towards the aft of the plane, the faintness of a light whooshing sound hit a crescendo as I opened the lavatory door. I thought the toilet was still flushing from its prior use. I rinsed the toothpaste out of my mouth and placed my clean toothbrush on the counter. The toilet continued its cacophony. The plane was due to land in twenty minutes so I placed a toilet seat cover over the seat. SHWOOP! The toilet snorted it up into a deep abyss. (Two decades ago, I would have figured that it floated down 35,000 feet onto some unfortunate soul's windshield.) Desperate, I considered sitting directly on the toilet seat. With the amount of turbulence we had had, I figured nothing good could have happened in here. I thought maybe if I lined toilet paper narrowly on the rim, the suction of the ghastly beast wouldn't be able to reach. SCHLUUP! The tp disappeared before I could express my dissatisfaction. I thought about pushing the flight attendant button, but it didn't play out well in my head. The plane was descending and I was running out of time. Quick under pressure, I snatched another toilet seat cover and held it firmly to my bare thighs. I quickly sat on the toilet seat. Success! If you've ever had a leaf blower on reverse put up behind your derriere while going number two, you'll understand what happened next. I'll spare the details but as I spent the next minute being violently suctioned, I wondered if we would experience sudden cabin pressure loss moments before landing and enter the carbon cycle. You know those movies where something happens to a plane at altitude and suddenly there's massive negative pressure and the Asian or black guy sitting closest to the site is wrenched out - seat and all - and goes flying out the plane? That's what went through my mind, sitting on the toilet of the descending aircraft.
If Ethiopian Airlines is willing to generously recompense me for sustained trauma, I will gladly change all names to a competitor airline.
In their credit, the plane did not implode due to toilet malfunction, but anything is possible. But the second Ethiopian Airlines I transferred onto, that's another story.
I set out to find seat 14L just after escaping the butt suction flight and barely making it on the new connection. I apologized to myself and the karma gods for quipping about the age of the last plane. I wandered over to the general vicinity of the low teens. In their utter brilliance, the seat numbers were between rows as opposed to directly over them. So I pointed to a seat that looked like it could be mine and asked the lady guarding the row if it was row fourteen. She said yes and told me her family was sitting together and asked if I would mind trading seats. She showed me her ticket: 32C. In the case of an accident, the rear is safest. Regardless, I gladly agreed. I made my way to the end of the plane when again, I found all the seats occupied. Again, I took a guess and asked a man if he was in my seat. He showed me his ticket for row thirty six. My eyes wandered up to the overhead compartments and I counted with the row signs. Thirty two, thirty three, thirty four, galley. What the dooze?!? We were at the end of the plane!! The man saw the bewilderment in my eyes and shrugged. I quickly sought a solution and the passengers assisted me in the direction of the only available seat remaining in the whole plane. I smiled and sauntered over, wedging myself between two gentlemen. Before long, we were deep in conversation. The man on my right worked for Aravind Eye Hospitals eye and the man on my left was starting eye clinics utilizing the Aravind model - which I am a fan of - worldwide. Awed, I opened my Walker shortbread and before long, we had finished them. Lost in conversation, I hadn't realized that we had been sitting on the runway the whole time! I wouldn't have noticed either if the pilot hadn't apologized for the delay and announced that there were problems with the right engine. 'The mechanic will be here in 20 minutes.' Some things are best kept quiet. Exhibit A. Of course the crazy glue held and I made it back in one piece, but such anxiety is poorly compatible with IBS, in addition to the incidence on the last flight.
In conclusion, since this story has to go somewhere, my mum always says to spend a little more and take the nicer airline, the direct flight, the upgrade. All the butt suctioning, faulty toilet planes have to go somewhere, so I suppose she's right.
So the story begins in London where I hopped on my Ethiopian Airlines flight, making the most circuitous way back to Lusaka. As soon as I lumbered over to my seat, I realized this Boeing was from the 80s...if I was lucky. They did put some effort into renovating the interior, but I wouldn't have been surprised had there been a bar and disco lights amidst a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. Anyway, I was good for the most part as I slumbered heavily in my sleeping bag in fetal position, hogging my share of the empty plane. Just before landing in Addis, I had to use the loo, number two of course. All the lavatories were occupied. I took out my new travel toothbrush kit and vigorously brushed my teeth as I anxiously eyed the red lit occupied signs above the toilets. We had a winner. A man emerged from the toilet on my right. As I stumbled over towards the aft of the plane, the faintness of a light whooshing sound hit a crescendo as I opened the lavatory door. I thought the toilet was still flushing from its prior use. I rinsed the toothpaste out of my mouth and placed my clean toothbrush on the counter. The toilet continued its cacophony. The plane was due to land in twenty minutes so I placed a toilet seat cover over the seat. SHWOOP! The toilet snorted it up into a deep abyss. (Two decades ago, I would have figured that it floated down 35,000 feet onto some unfortunate soul's windshield.) Desperate, I considered sitting directly on the toilet seat. With the amount of turbulence we had had, I figured nothing good could have happened in here. I thought maybe if I lined toilet paper narrowly on the rim, the suction of the ghastly beast wouldn't be able to reach. SCHLUUP! The tp disappeared before I could express my dissatisfaction. I thought about pushing the flight attendant button, but it didn't play out well in my head. The plane was descending and I was running out of time. Quick under pressure, I snatched another toilet seat cover and held it firmly to my bare thighs. I quickly sat on the toilet seat. Success! If you've ever had a leaf blower on reverse put up behind your derriere while going number two, you'll understand what happened next. I'll spare the details but as I spent the next minute being violently suctioned, I wondered if we would experience sudden cabin pressure loss moments before landing and enter the carbon cycle. You know those movies where something happens to a plane at altitude and suddenly there's massive negative pressure and the Asian or black guy sitting closest to the site is wrenched out - seat and all - and goes flying out the plane? That's what went through my mind, sitting on the toilet of the descending aircraft.
If Ethiopian Airlines is willing to generously recompense me for sustained trauma, I will gladly change all names to a competitor airline.
In their credit, the plane did not implode due to toilet malfunction, but anything is possible. But the second Ethiopian Airlines I transferred onto, that's another story.
I set out to find seat 14L just after escaping the butt suction flight and barely making it on the new connection. I apologized to myself and the karma gods for quipping about the age of the last plane. I wandered over to the general vicinity of the low teens. In their utter brilliance, the seat numbers were between rows as opposed to directly over them. So I pointed to a seat that looked like it could be mine and asked the lady guarding the row if it was row fourteen. She said yes and told me her family was sitting together and asked if I would mind trading seats. She showed me her ticket: 32C. In the case of an accident, the rear is safest. Regardless, I gladly agreed. I made my way to the end of the plane when again, I found all the seats occupied. Again, I took a guess and asked a man if he was in my seat. He showed me his ticket for row thirty six. My eyes wandered up to the overhead compartments and I counted with the row signs. Thirty two, thirty three, thirty four, galley. What the dooze?!? We were at the end of the plane!! The man saw the bewilderment in my eyes and shrugged. I quickly sought a solution and the passengers assisted me in the direction of the only available seat remaining in the whole plane. I smiled and sauntered over, wedging myself between two gentlemen. Before long, we were deep in conversation. The man on my right worked for Aravind Eye Hospitals eye and the man on my left was starting eye clinics utilizing the Aravind model - which I am a fan of - worldwide. Awed, I opened my Walker shortbread and before long, we had finished them. Lost in conversation, I hadn't realized that we had been sitting on the runway the whole time! I wouldn't have noticed either if the pilot hadn't apologized for the delay and announced that there were problems with the right engine. 'The mechanic will be here in 20 minutes.' Some things are best kept quiet. Exhibit A. Of course the crazy glue held and I made it back in one piece, but such anxiety is poorly compatible with IBS, in addition to the incidence on the last flight.
In conclusion, since this story has to go somewhere, my mum always says to spend a little more and take the nicer airline, the direct flight, the upgrade. All the butt suctioning, faulty toilet planes have to go somewhere, so I suppose she's right.
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