Seeing is believing. Yet you shouldn't believe everything you see. Crazy people know that all too well. Yet - and here comes the super-awkward segway - I see things everywhere (see, that no make the sense, yes? Anywho). And now I've decided to share these fascinations with you, again.
I love the internet, I do. When at work, I have fun in the non-work parts (anytime the phone doesn't ring, which actually happens at times) and explore all the newness happening everyday (on what my buddy Mike would call 'the interwebs,' haha..) I kid. But all joking aside; check out TechCrunch once in a while. If you love gadgets and Twitter and general Google Magic, I think you'll love that site.
That was the recommendation of the day. Check.
A place I make tons of observations, is at the gym (what else is there to do there, right?). In the US I usually work out at the local Y, where all kinds of people frequent that StairMasters and treadmills. At the Y, the common midsection (pun, get it?) of the population works out, resulting in at least my own feeling of adequacy compared to most of the grandmas, men in their midlife crises, and generally the low-on-funds obese hipsters (no stereotypes, of course). I can show up in sweats and a t-shirt, drink my water from a recycled Diet Pepsi bottle with the label torn off, and put in the miles needed for self-respect and shallow goals. People are nice, with the exception of the weight room guys grunting away and refusing to move their towels from equipment they're not using, and of course a random personal trainer or whatnot being too full of themselves. The rooms are worn down and smell faintly of old basements, but you get your squats and curls done and go home. Good enough, in other words.
My new gym is the exact opposite, and the words 'premium' and 'high-end' are used everywhere (so is the price, by the way, and the $110 a month really cuts into more than the body fat). You enter the gym, and you're greeted by former or current blond model babes of the fitness world - the kind that look like they're posing for a glam shot on the cover of Women's Health when swiping your membership card. The showers aren't showers, they're raaaaain showers (*sigh*). The changing rooms are, though, equipped with 3 different kinds of unisex saunas (can you name more than two kinds?) and a cold spring for cooling down inbetween the included pampering. The gym itself is no worse, sporting at least 4 machines in 3 different brands (ranging from fully assisted to the bar bell/weight plate type machines). Parading around in the various rooms are so-called "Motivators," whose only job is to get you re-energized and pumped for a workout, and of course the Adonis-like personal trainers who are there just to make the guys feel worse about themselves than they already do. The many classes range from fancy Yoga Karaguladingdongwhatnot to cycling/bike classes, except the latter is spelled "Xycling" and obviously the coolest class to take.
I do appreciate my new female personal trainer, though, who really seems dedicated to my fitness and achievement of my goals (plus, obviously, she ain't an uggo). My new diet, derived mostly from the incredible wealth of knowledge found in Men's Health, includes mostly veggies and tuna, whole grain pasta and fruit, and of course the daily 5 cups of coffee to handle work without ADD meds (yay). I am shaping up, though, and the definition of my muscles and midsection (I think I might see a 2-pack or a 4-pack down there somewhere, lol) is growing more apparent every time I work out. I even take my vitamins and so on, as we all like faster recuperation after an intense run/lift/whatever combo.
My best bud Mike's making his way to Viking Land in 2 weeks (more like 13 days, I'm counting), and I couldn't be more excited. The schedule, though secret until the time at which it will be executed (sounds more like a military mission, doesn't it?), is rigorous at best, and includes so much fun stuff I really can't wait. Really - I can't wait.. I'm gonna petition the Powers of Time for a slight fast forwarding of the next 2 weeks to get to the good part of this summer.
In other news, my job at One Call (cell phone company - the customer service section) has me calling myself 'Customer Care Consultant' while answering people's random and incredibly retarded phone calls. My immediate supervisor's favorite website is, not surprisingly, NotAlwaysRight.com, where all the smart stuff this breed called customers tend to say is shown off. Really hilarious, true-to-life stuff. Oh, and for my specific job, telling people what's wrong with their phone even though they could've figured it out themselves, this Flash animation should have been sent to all of them (and can be used with any random question).
That actually concludes my shift at work this great Saturday (I get paid double for working 10-2 on Saturdays, yay! That means double my hourly $23, haha) - which goes to show how much I had to do today.
So, we all know I work in a hospital, and maybe even that I work in the Cardiac ICU (read: heart attack central, Capital of Angina, the Ground Zero of Cardiomyopathy, or the ER's little brother). It's a reasonably stressful place to work at times, when people are on vacation and I'm left with 4 paralyzed or hemiparetic patients to care for in most imaginable ways (that is, the basic bodily functions tend to be my area of responsibility; eating, drinking, washing, defecating, urinating, exercising, plus controlling all their vitals). Even though we see our fair share of pretty critical patients, action and drama like what's seen in TV's "ER" is rarely on the menu. Yesterday, though, my medical horizon was broadened thanks to the nature of my workplace. Yesterday I met my first dead body.
Patient X was alive and well in the morning, experiencing some blunt feeling pressure and pain in his chest and left shoulder. He was 92 years old, tall and fit. Yet, without knowing it, his number was up and he was only hours away from that final farewell. Patient X felt okay considering the circumstances when arriving in the ER, so after receiving some oxygen and nitroglycerin (yay for nitro, the quick-fix), and some other vital drugs, he was wheeled up to the 3rd floor and my department, the Cardiac ICU. He was suddenly feeling dizzy and tired, and was wheeled into one of the emergency rooms. Once inside the door, the big one struck: a clot loosened off of one of his arteries, got stuck in one of the heart's own arteries, and blocked half the heart's blood flow. Patient X had coded, and before anyone could do anything, he was gone.
Considering the patient's age (92), the previous story might not have been that surprising (we all have to die from something at one point). I did, though, see the possibility of a learning experience, and volunteered to help prep the old man for his next stop (zee eerie cooler). I never actually saw the man while he was alive, but now I felt there was something to be learned from his death. The first thing that met me when I entered the emergency room where he'd been (technically his body was still there, but of course religion will explain why I don't believe he was), was the lone bed in the middle of the room, with a male body covered to his chest by a blanket in it. He was pale, very pale, and his eyes were closed. Weird thing was, as I was standing there, alone, I kept thinking this was when he'd quickly open his eyes and start screaming or moving. But, of course, that never happened. The seriousness of his situation (the whole deadness thing) really hit me when I focused on his chest, which wasn't moving or expanding. There was no visible pulse on his neck, no blinking or trembling of the eyelids, and no sound whatsoever. No breathing, no coughing, sighing, or laughing. Nothing. Just a lifeless, cold, pale body in a bed. Maybe it was the fact that I'd never seen the man alive that made it so hard to connect the shape in the bed to an actual human being, because after a while it started reminding me of those plastic ResusciAnn manikins that we use for practicing CPR, and that made it increasingly hard for me to feel anything about the soul's former vessel in the bed.
Patient X was probably a remarkable human being, a remarkable man. We all are, in some way. Knowing what TV-shows he liked and what his hobbies were would probably have added the necessary emotion to the event of his passing for me, but I think my relationship to the dead body would have remained the same. The instant we draw our last breath on this planet, our inherent union separates through a process best described as the mother of all schizophrenic episodes, leaving the water and carbon based bag of bones behind. For the few days after a death the body might serve a function as the relatives' anchor point to the person on this earth, but after this it is ultimately (and cruelly, considering how many acts of love and kindness have been conveyed through this medium) returned to the soil to start a new cycle of living things. But there is no soul in the soil. This, the actual life of our liveliness, has long since parted ways and is now comfortably finding its place above the clouds. A body is therefore just a body; no person, no life, and no personality can be found within the body's confines after its contract has been terminated. And I know you agree with me on some level, no matter what religion you belong to.
It has, once again, been ages since I posted anything to this blog. My other blog, The Snowclone, has gotten a few more posts, probably because I just add whatever's not that interesting to that one. I do intend to blog a little more, though, so please keep me to it. I'll try.
The evening of February 29th was a dark and rainy one. I stepped out of the Dolly Dimple's garage complex, and stopped to look back at the building I had loathed for so long. I was done. It was over. I mused that the rain was the heavens crying, but that this time the tears were happy ones. I had just turned in my key card, my headset, and signed a couple of forms. As I left the premises, I didn't feel a single hint of the sadness I usually feel as something ends. My second, and not to mention very last, period at the pizza company's customer care center had come to a close, and I really couldn't care less. The second time around I hadn't really gotten to know that many at the office, and the really good friends from last time had all quit themselves, long before me. I had gotten Simen, a friend from high school, and Thomas, my at-times-deadbeat brother, a job there, but I reckon I'll see both of them frequently in the future as well.
What have I done since then? Well, enjoying the freedom, for one. And then I've gotten much more time to work out, especially since I got Simen to join, and now the two of us work out regularly at the local gym. Which feels good, and combined with eating properly (yes, I can do that too!) I've actually started to see some results, on the scale (and maybe otherwise? I don't know, it's still hard to tell). My practicals at the nursing home (for my R.N. thing, remember) ended the same day Dolly Dimple's did, so now I have sweeeet late lectures and almost no HW. Feels good. At the moment, Alicia and I are looking for a new apartment, which is proving less easy than initially thought. We'll get there, though, we just have to find the right one. And then hopefully I'll get a new job, hopefully at a hospital in Oslo, and then everything will fall into place.
As for jobs, Alicia just got one, too, with a little help from me. It was a breakfast server/room service attendant position at Norway's one and only 5-star first class hotel, starting at 6 am and catering to all the most needy of rich guests the capital has to offer. She loves it, though, and it's just so cute to see how amazed she is by making $25/hour. That's Norway for you, high wages by international standards, but not that high when spending them in the same country. I'm so happy for her, and she absolutely deserves it. I have one hard-working, talented girlfriend! :P
Now all that remains is to find a job for me, settle in the eventual new apartment, and wait for spring. Man, that'll be sweet. Oh, and by the way: Go Obama '08!
We're Dealing With Food, Not Missiles Here, Governor!
We ponder and talk about so many things during a week. The weather, food, travel, business, news, television, music, education, and even sex. But one sure favorite that hits home every time, because of its sheer proximity to who we are and how much time we spend on it every day, is work. We all have the perfect life carefully plotted out in our heads, or at least the qualities which to strive for, be it love or money, picket fences and dogs or visiting every one of the world's continents. And a commonality for most of us is that right now, right as we're sitting here browsing the web and reading blogs or cruisin' Facebook, is that we haven't really arrived at that 'ideal' point in our life yet. We're on our way, slowly progressing towards whatever we are sure will make us happy, whatever will complete us.
Personally I feel like I'm just getting started on that very journey towards what I want out of life. We all have to start somewhere, and that usually means getting a job which requires no real qualifications, skill, or previous experience. And if those jobs didn't exist, there wouldn't really be any place for people like me to gain that said experience most other careers have as a prerequisite. Last summer I started working for a pizza company here in Oslo, and the job turned out to be well paid too. Dolly Dimple's ("The taste that gets you hooked") Pizza is one of Norway's two big pizza distributors, and puts up a real fight in the competition for that coveted number one spot as far as quality and service goes. And service, well, that's where I come in. I work at the customer care center, and thus the phone, headset and computer are my primary tools in keeping the pizza hungry satisfied.
People are weird, weird creatures. Every, single day of our lives we stress that each and every one of us is special, equal, and that we should be treated the same way, without fault. If you are a teacher, stay at home mom, or a firefighter you're a hero, and if you happen to be a Wal-Mart clerk, a gardener, or a mechanic, you're a hard-working person just as deserving of the world's perks as anyone else. But this is where our society's bigotry and hypocrisy starts to shine through. If you ever find yourself to be working in the service industry, you might as well wear a hat saying "Lower Than Dirt" or "Kick Me in the Face, I Really Like It".
Dolly Dimple's has a lot of great customers, from all walks of life. But polite, cautious and considerate as Norwegians usually are known to be in person, they really can't handle ordering things over the phone. Like when you flip a switch, it would seem that most people think that when they dial the number to the pizza place, the person they're about to be connected to is the most lowly, abominable piece of undeserving trash they could ever find themselves having to talk to. They're sure people who work at customer care centers, people like myself, couldn't get any other job if they tried ever so hard, and that the dimwits and morons who take their pizza orders should count themselves lucky to be earning money (and not begging in the streets or selling magazines to passersby) at all.
On most days people at the very least find the decency to present themselves when connected to the customer care agent. But that's certainly not a given. Every day I get dozens of calls where all I get when saying my obligatory "Hello, you're talking to Christian" is "A huge pepperoni pizza, and I want it NOW! Get a move on!!" But that's a mild and reasonably well mannered person compared to other calls I have gotten. Consider this one, for example:
Me: Hello, you're talking to Christian. Man: Oh, yeah?! I don't give a flying f**k! I want my pizza!! Me: Okay, sir, then I'll need your phone number where you can be reached. Man: I don't wanna give you my f**king phone number! Write down my name instead! Me: That's not how it works, sir. We need a phone number in order to reach you, as well as register your order. Man: That is a F**KING LIE!! Get off your F**KING fat ass, you stupid f**k, and get your supervisor on the phone RIGHT NOW!! ME: One moment, sir.
Other examples, of course, include more extensive name calling, yelling, screaming, death threats, and even threats of violence and other charming human aggressional behaviors. But I could care less for the verbal abuse, it's actually the more subtle stuff that gets to me. People take their pizzas more seriously than anyting else, for some reason, and when considering it from the outside in it's actually immensely ridiculous. And it's the pedanticism and pettiness of it all that amazes me, and to some extent even fascinates me. Every day I (not a chef or even a deliverer) get yelled at by extremely angry people, who for some reason actually get worked up over something as trivial as not getting tomatoes or having to pick off the mushrooms themselves. Wake up and smell the coffee (or pizza) here, people!! It's JUST pizza. If I just denied you a liver transplant or amputated your legs for the kicks (no pun intended) of it, I would understand. But pizza?! Really? Could someone please realize that when people are starving to death every single second, wars are claiming lives every day, animals are going extinct, global warming will erase future generations' knowledge of snow, and women are being sexually assaulted every day, you have to be a simple-minded, egotistical, self-centered douchebag to ever throw a tantrum over not getting onions on your pizza? My goodness, have some decency. The people you're talking to are hard-working, great, clever people who try intensely to do their job and make sure you get what you ordered, and the pizza you ordered is not a new lung or anything but a simple meal. We're dealing with food, not missiles here, governor.
What stories make up a life? And are some stories more important than others? This fall I began a journey into the world of biology comfortably back in the US, after a year of nursing in Norway. In this blog I intend to share all the little intricacies of my life with you, and you have the option of reading it or not. But prepare to be captivated. Maybe even mesmerized.
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Seeing is believing. Yet you shouldn't believe everything you see. Crazy people know that all too well. Yet - and here comes the super-awkward segway - I see things everywhere (see, that no make the sense, yes? Anywho). And now I've decided to share these fascinations with you, again.
A place I make tons of observations, is at the gym (what else is there to do there, right?). In the US I usually work out at the local Y, where all kinds of people frequent that StairMasters and treadmills. At the Y, the common midsection (pun, get it?) of the population works out, resulting in at least my own feeling of adequacy compared to most of the grandmas, men in their midlife crises, and generally the low-on-funds obese hipsters (no stereotypes, of course). I can show up in sweats and a t-shirt, drink my water from a recycled Diet Pepsi bottle with the label torn off, and put in the miles needed for self-respect and shallow goals. People are nice, with the exception of the weight room guys grunting away and refusing to move their towels from equipment they're not using, and of course a random personal trainer or whatnot being too full of themselves. The rooms are worn down and smell faintly of old basements, but you get your squats and curls done and go home. Good enough, in other words.
My best bud Mike's making his way to Viking Land in 2 weeks (more like 13 days, I'm counting), and I couldn't be more excited. The schedule, though secret until the time at which it will be executed (sounds more like a military mission, doesn't it?), is rigorous at best, and includes so much fun stuff I really can't wait. Really - I can't wait.. I'm gonna petition the Powers of Time for a slight fast forwarding of the next 2 weeks to get to the good part of this summer. 
In other news, my job at One Call (cell phone company - the customer service section) has me calling myself 'Customer Care Consultant' while answering people's random and incredibly retarded phone calls. My immediate supervisor's favorite website is, not surprisingly, NotAlwaysRight.com, where all the smart stuff this breed called customers tend to say is shown off. Really hilarious, true-to-life stuff. Oh, and for my specific job, telling people what's wrong with their phone even though they could've figured it out themselves, this Flash animation should have been sent to all of them (and can be used with any random question).
