Wrong place, right time (again, it’s with a rhyme)

Since the mentally challenged little poet in me is gnawing her way out to play, for the second time, I’m going to treat- ok, punish you with lovely, malfunctioning poetry about my way to school today.

 

You’re bored with the fact that I was late,

But once and again, that was the state.

Pedalling like crazy to be in time,

With a bike so old it should be a crime.

 

I parked this old thing and gasped for air

But when I arrived no-one was there.

I thought for a while what could be wrong

To figure it did not take me long.

 

There’s downsides to moving at this pace,

Like not making sure that was the place.

Indeed, my location was not right,

Again, I was feeling not that bright.

 

I should be in class, now miles away,

We’re only allowed to a small delay.

So quickly, I hopped back on my bike

With lungs that were ready for a strike.

 

Miraculously, I found the steam

To get to the place without a scream.

So, now you may ask what I have learned –

A penny saved is a penny earned.

 

No.. What? Let’s try this again:

 

So, now you may ask what I have learned –

Being oblivious might get some calories burned.

 

Nnoo..

 

So, now you may ask what I have learned –

Well, don’t leave a stone unturned.

 

I need some sleep.

 

So, now you may ask what I have learned –

Being on that class was truly earned.

 

Doesn’t quite make sense but I’ll leave it like that. I might have done something ingenious there but I just don’t know it yet.

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Proof that I live in a cartoon

Maybe I should pay more attention when I’m riding a bike. At least, I should probably keep my both hands on the handlebar. Ok, if that seems too hard, at least I shouldn’t have a cell phone in my hand. And for the love of everything, I should have the sense not to write a text message while pedalling on an uneven road.

Yeah. For the first time in my life as an adult, today, I fell off my bicycle.

I was pedalling back from interviewing a patient, happy about how well things had gone despite having a very long day and too little sleep. My pocket started buzzing and I dug out my phone still riding the bike because I wanted to get home as soon as possible.

My friend had texted me about a project we’re working on, and of course, I was compelled to answer right away. So, with one hand on the handlebar about 60 % of the time and 40 % with no hands, I wrote a message pretty much forgetting that I was on a moving vehicle, let alone in control of it.

I sent my message without any problems, everything went smoothly. I was backing out to the main menu on my phone when it came to me that what I was doing was just asking for trouble. I sneered a bit at myself and took a final look at my phone.

And then: clunk! The front wheel of my bike fell into a longitudinal groove in the road and it was impossible to conduct it out of there. I tried to go along the groove as I braked at a rather high speed on a downhill, but quickly, I hit the edge and the bike fell on its left side.

I was almost able to stay on my feet but my left foot got stuck under the bike, so all I could do was try and minimize the damages. Oh yes, my better shoes were wet so I was wearing my terrifying pair of demon-possessed footwear. A mistake. I’m positive that’s why I fell, at least that’s the reason my foot got stuck. Still waiting for the exorcist to call me back.

And here I am with a scratched, bruised wrist and a sore knee that just had healed from my previous fall.

The lesson I learned? Life’s a cartoon. Whether you were carelessly riding a bike or running on thin air, everything goes well until you realize what you are doing. It’s not the height that gets you, it’s the looking down. And evil shoes.

Recipe for a disaster – luckily, I don’t follow recipes

This time, I’m going to disobey my self-established rules. I’m not going to write about a blunder – instead, I’ll tell you about the rare instance everything seemed to go wrong but in the end, I walked away with one of the proudest experiences of my life.

Last fall, when we started the third year of medical school, we got to work with real patients by ourselves for the first time. Don’t worry, we weren’t responsible for any medical decisions; we just practiced the basic examination routines and interview with volunteer patients at the hospital.

We had to examine the patients in one hour tops from head to toe after interviewing them about – well, everything. So there was a lot to remember for a student that has just learnt about those things in theory.

And my turn came without a warning when a fellow student called me and asked if we could switch patients, she was supposed to be next but she was ill and couldn’t go. I hadn’t prepared for it at all, but because I’m unable to say “no” to people, I took the next examination turn.

I had never been more nervous in my life. I had to face a real patient, alone, and be able to conduct a professional examination without having the time to plan anything.

Feeling like a convicted criminal waiting for execution, I put on my white coat hoping it would give me the confidence and strength to get through this ordeal so that I could cry about it later.

The patient was a woman in her 50’s that had a history of multiple illnesses and surgeries of which some were due to a doctor’s negligence. She had been in hospital numerous times, and almost every time, she had volunteered for a student’s practice examination. So, she knew the routine better than me!

Luckily, she was an extremely kind-hearted person and wasn’t bothered by my nervous, indecisive “What should I do next” appearance. And the understanding from her somehow gave me the courage for a better performance.

And as the session continued, I became more relaxed as I realized the situation wasn’t as bad as I thought. In fact, I enjoyed it. I got a strong sensation that I was in the right place, nevermind the little stumbles I could make in the process of learning.

We did the required examinations in a little over the scheduled hour, but we spent another hour just talking since neither of us was in a hurry. She talked openly about her experiences as a patient, about the malpractice she had faced. The subjects changed as we discussed about medicine and my studies – she was surprized to hear she was my first patient. Ultimately, we ended up reflecting on attitudes towards life in general.

As we were finally finished, the woman thanked me for everything, said that I should always stay as empathic and open to different thoughts and experiences as I seem to be now. With tears in her eyes, she said: “You’re going to be a wonderful doctor” and warmly hugged me.

Yes. This is what I want to do with my life.

It started out as ordinary coffee

Because of my disastrous habit of forgetting things, I’ve made a wise choice and purchased a coffeemaker with a thermos pot so that the machine shuts off by itself instead of constantly heating the pan. This probably has prevented numerous calls to the fire department, but I keep forgetting – not everyone has such a coffeemaker.

My sister and I slept over at our brother’s apartment and pretty early in the morning, left to spend the day at an amusement park. A fun day, we had a lot of laughs; especially when we got back late in the evening and smelled scorched coffee all the way to the hallway. (All the way to the hallway – that’s kind of fun to say. ..And that rhymed! Wow, I’m a genious. And why, yes, I am extremely tired.)

Apparently, we were so excited about all the fun we were going to have that no-one remembered to turn off the coffeemaker. It was just the way we left it; only the contents had changed a bit. (And again – a rhyme! I have a brilliant poet in my subconscious. …Get it out of there! I need antibiotics or something.)

In the bottom of the coffee pot, there was this eerie-looking, sticky, black goo that looked like it was planning its way out to feed on people’s souls. We tried to dare our brother to drink.. umm.. eat? To ingest some of it but for some reason, he refused. Maybe he wanted to wait until we found a way to kill it.

And this is my brother who has cracked a walnut with his bare forehead, drank a glass of soapy water, and walked on the railing of a very high bridge, all on a dare. So, that goo was rather nasty and I’m sincerely glad our brother didn’t try it and turn into a rabid, blood-thirsty, mindless zombie-mutant, which I am fairly confident would have happened if he had touched the substance.

So, we called an exorcist and with his help, managed to confine that sinister creature to a small pillbox that we then dunked in rock salt and gasoline. With certain rituals, we burned it with a picture of Hitler and Hannibal Lecter kissing – poor Hitler lost his tongue. That should send it deep, deep in the lowest, darkest corner of the underworld where it came from.

Ok, maybe I exaggerated a little – Hitler didn’t lose all of his tongue.

Oh, it’s so good to be weird once in a while! (In case you are worried: no, I’m not in psychosis. At least I don’t think so. It’s not my fault that the government has planted a bug in my brain that makes me write these silly things… Ok, ok, I’ll stop now. But this is SO much fun, try it!)

Maybe it’s time for me to go to sleep, what do you think?

Mornings on Autopilot

When I wake up in the morning, I don’t actually wake up. I’m on autopilot that’s programmed to get me through my morning routines in time while my brain is still asleep. Sometimes, things get a little difficult.

Yesterday was one of those mornings. The alarm went off and my autopilot pulled me out of the warm, cozy bed into the kitchen to make some coffee. As the coffeemaker started to purl, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

I brushed my hair; luckily, not with a toothbrush. Then I put on some clothes and remembered that I hadn’t brushed my teeth. So I went to the bathroom and brushed my hair again.

By that time, the coffee was almost ready, so while waiting, I poured some cereals and milk in a bowl. My autopilot tried to be clever and poured some milk into my coffee mug as well so that the coffee would be ready to drink sooner.

The cold floor reminded me that I hadn’t put my socks on, so I went to the closet, opened the door, looked around, and went to the bathroom to brush my hair. (Seriously, Autopilot – what’s with the hair?) And back into the kitchen.

As I started to pour the coffee, I found out that I had filled the whole mug with milk. I use a lot of milk in my coffee, but this was a bit of an overdo even for me.

No harm done; I drank the extra milk and had my breakfast. Clearly gained a lot of strength from this, I finally managed to put my socks on. It was getting late, so I quickly gathered my things and thought there was something that still needed to be done.

So, I didn’t leave the house until I had brushed my …hair.

(In case you are wondering; despite this, there is nothing wrong with my dental hygiene. You see, in some mornings, the autopilot brushes my teeth twice.)

So… I’m NOT an international rockstar?

I’m very uncomfortable singing when there’s someone to hear it, because I don’t think I’m that good of a singer. But in an opportunely resounding space, I sound awesome. Well, that’s my opinion.

Today, I was doing my laundry in the bottom floor of our building. The walls are made of stone (or concrete or something very hard and cold, I’m not an architect) and shortly, I noticed a delicious, rich echo in the laundry room. Which naturally gave me a compulsive need to sing.

And I sounded divine. With the washing machine rumbling, I found the courage to sing louder and louder, accompanied by that sweet, ego-boosting echo. I sang all sorts of songs that popped into my mind, making the most imaginative interpretations of them.

I was just singing the beautiful lullaby “Sininen uni” (“Blue Dream”) from the bottom of my heart, when I heard a quiet chuckle behind me. My mouth closed faster than a four-year-old’s after the sight of broccoli and I turned around.

At the door, there was an elderly couple smiling compassionately. I felt blood flushing on my face giving it a nice, elegant resemblance of a tomato. The lady noted contemplatively that it would be rather difficult to put a baby to sleep singing like that.

I could take that as a compliment; the baby is too excited to sleep when I sing! But somehow, I don’t think that’s what the lady meant.

From some remarkably strange place, I came up with an answer: “I was singing to my laundry so I had to be loud in order that they would hear it in the washer.”

I used my most playfully ironic tone of voice, but the facial expressions of the old couple gave away their confusion of not getting that I was trying to rescue myself from a somewhat embarrassing situation with a bad joke.

So, great. Now my neighbors think I’m insane. Not that it’s that far from the truth.

Poetic but dangerous morning

Since I suddenly have a compelling urge to be weird, I decided to write a poem about the morning I had today. Enjoy. Ok, more likely you’ll suffer; which is the same thing if you’re a masochist. (Sadly, I’m not.)

 

It was a difficult morning that came without warning,

It should have arrived with horning.

When I woke up at eight, I thought I was late,

This day was starting out great.

 

I quickly got dressed, got more and more stressed

I really was not at my best.

Just a second before I was out of the door,

I looked at my schedule once more.

 

That practice of mine didn’t start until nine,

So great – now I had time to dine.

I was done with the making of breakfast, still waking

I still smelled something that’s baking.

 

I started to wonder and it hit me like thunder –

I had made a quite a big blunder.

My meal was completed, my hunger defeated

But still – the stove remained heated.

 

I thought what desires this stumble requires –

Does a part of me like to start fires? [Don’t worry, the answer is no.]

The whole morning sucked but a disaster was ducked

Otherwise, I’d have been.. Well, very much in trouble.

 

(This will be my last post this week. If you miss me, you can make suggestions for my next post in the comment section – trust me, there are quite a lot of things that can be linked to my mishaps.)

Somewhere in the memory-section of my brain, there’s a hole

After doing the same mistake a few (dozen) times, you must learn something from it, right? Well, that’s not my style. Where’s the fun in that? This is another story of me making myself homeless for a while. You may guess the reason.

I had a summer job in a city rather far away from my home town. I lived in my grandmother’s apartment as she and her husband went to their countryside house for the summer.

That summer was a cold one and I usually had to wear a jacket when I left the house early in the morning. But one time, I was thrilled to notice it was warm enough for only a t-shirt. Therefore, I just put on my shoes, grabbed my handbag, and walked out of the door, delightedly leaving my jacket behind.

As the lock quietly clicked behind me, the delight was suddenly pushed away by an unpleasant realization: I wouldn’t be needing the coat but the KEYS in its pocket would have been kind of handy to have with me.

The door hadn’t closed all the way, so I tried to get it open with the desperate help of my fingertips and nails accompanied by pitiful sobbing-noises coming from my throat. But the door stayed that way and I was in a hurry as always, so I had no choice but to lock the door completely and go to work.

On a break, I called my aunt if she happened to have a spare key. It turned out she had two: I was using the other one and the other was in the apartment I was using. Of course it was. Next, I called my grandmother; yes, they had a key but at the time, they were half-way across the country.

The only option was to call the property maintenance to open the door for me after work. They were happy to do it but since I wasn’t an official resident of the place, they needed a confirmation that I was allowed there. So I had to call my grandmother again and ask if she could tell the property maintenance it was ok to let me in.

Here’s the thing: since they would open the door out of the office hours, it would cost me double the regular fee of 35 euros. I’m a low-funded student; I don’t have 70 euros lying around to spend on stupid things like getting to the place I sleep at night. Ergo, to save money, I told them to come the next day when I got off from work earlier.

By that time, my phone was getting pretty tired of the constant calling and complained its battery needed a recharge. Unfortunately, I still had to call my aunt that I was coming over to spend the night, which she had said I could do if things didn’t work out.

So, there I was, in the middle of the city with an almost dead phone. I could ask if someone would be kind enough to let me make a call, but what if my aunt or the property management tries to contact me? No, I needed to get my phone recharged.

Now, what would be the best place to find a charger? An electronics store, of course! So I obediently waited in line, roughly explained my situation and asked if I could get my phone alive again. The staff was incredibly kind and understanding and they let me use their charger for as long as I needed.

After about 20 minutes, I expressed my deep gratitude and left to notify my aunt that I was coming. I also bought a toothbrush and a box of chocolate as a thankful but apologetic gesture towards my aunt. She was particularly happy about the toothbrush. (That joke was so cheap I just had to write it; it would be foolish not to take advantage of those kinds of offerings. As I said, I’m a low-funded student.)

So, I spent the night at my aunt’s, she even found some fitting clothes so that I didn’t have to wear the same thing to work the next day.

In the later afternoon, I was finally at the door of my temporary home. A man came to open it for me and asked if he could see an ID to make sure I wasn’t some clever but remarkably lazy burglar who just decides to call someone to open the doors for her.

I reached into my bag, I reached deeper, but I couldn’t find my wallet. Then I remembered exactly where it was – it was neatly organized between the hand disinfectant and my work phone. In my work bag. At work. To which it took over an hour to get using public transportation.

Well, I managed to convince the guy I was me by describing the apartment and the bright, orange coat just my size hanging with the keys in its pocket. So, I got in with a 35 euro bill in my hand. I was planning to go to the grocery store but with my wallet out of reach, it didn’t seem like such a good idea.

Unknowingly, I had traveled without my travel card that was safely in my wallet. If the inspectors had come, it would have cost me 80 euros in fine. I still wonder how Murphy missed me on that one. I guess he was too exhausted.

I blame my shoes

You’d think that when you reach the ripe age of 24, you would have mastered the secrets of walking upright on an even, paved street. Not when you walk in my shoes. And not just metaphorically, the shoes I have want you to trip; they’re made of cotton, some sort of plastic, and pure evil.

The problem is, I have freakishly tiny feet even though I’m a bit taller that average. So, it is hard to find shoes that fit – the adult sizes are usually too big, and the kid’s sizes too small.

But I needed new running shoes, so after looking through every shop in town, I decided to buy a pair that was slightly too big but so affordable it didn’t really matter if they remained unused. Anyway, they were better than the old ones that had holes in their bottom.

So, I was happily walking home from work in those shoes. Well, sort of happily; the shoes always felt as if some small piece of gravel had found its way inside. As I swiftly skipped on the sidewalk after crossing a street, the fractionally-too-long tip of my left shoe hit the curb and I was unable to hold my balance.

I almost fell nose first on the street but luckily, I remembered the valuable teachings of B-grade action movies. So I started turning myself and as I hit the ground, I rolled over to ease the impact. Sadly, there weren’t any action movie headhunters around to see my raw talent.

After this dramatic event on a perfectly even pavement without any distractions, I lied on my back for a second laughing out of pure disbelief about what just happened. Certain that my shoes were trying to kill me, I hauled myself up and started walking again.

While walking, I checked myself for injuries. A little sore on the right wrist that needed cleaning. No worries; I always carry a bottle of wound disinfectant in my back pack. You may understand this has proved to be rather useful in my life.

Still walking, I poured a little disinfectant on a piece on a clean tissue and sanitized the scrape. Next, I checked my alarmingly stinging knees. For this operation, I had to stall.

The left knee of my trousers had had a hole in it. Oh, this can’t be good. As I lifted the pant leg up, I saw a mean-looking road burn that had peeled the skin off from an area of about 2 cm in diameter.

Now the wound started to really hurt as my brain finally realized the injury. Nevertheless, I cleaned the wound and slapped a large bandaid on it. Yes, I always carry those around, too. And also three different kinds of lotions and a roll of duct tape, but that’s another story.

Thanks to my heroic rolling turn at the landing, my right knee had been saved from most of the damage. No more than a little scrape. Being a medical student and all, I still decided to clean and cover it, just in case.

The wounded knee took a couple of weeks to heal; at first, it was painful to flex it or even feel a trouser leg against it. Despite this, I decided to ride a bicycle instead of walking until I got rid of the demon-possessed shoes.

Now, I have found a better-fitting pair of shoes that hasn’t got an evil spirit living inside. This got me a little discount at the store. I’m happy for not feeling like a toddler learning to walk anymore. I’m all grown up now.

Still a bit afraid of the demonic pair of footwear in my closet, though. But an adult. It’s a good thing I can keep the closet door closed at night.

Dirty mind – not sure if it’s good or bad

This is a weird little story of how I earned my place in the social life of the university. It involves some mature subjects handled in an extremely immature way, so if you’re not into those kind of things, I’d recommend keeping your eyes closed. No, you’re not allowed to read another blog or maybe do something useful; you’re just going to have to sit there with your eyes closed for the time you estimate it would take you to read this thing.

So, in the beginning of our first year, there was a playful, leisure time competition held for all the new students designed to introduce them to the surroundings and different people.

Across the town, there were check points run by 2nd year students from different majors. In each, we had to do a team challenge and our performance was scored by our success in the task but also by the overall appearance of the team. In other words, the scoring was pretty random.

There were all sorts of challenges just made to disarray our little heads from assembling a computer to moving water from point A to point B with your mouths and placing actual pig organs on a silhouette man while blindfolded.

One task was to make a dildo and put it in a hole using the materials there were on the spot. I had a quite disturbing idea: let’s take one of those cardboard boxes to represent the hole and use one of our team members as the dildo!

A guy from our group volunteered for this honourable job saying he was such a dick anyway. So, we wrapped him in some tin foil – because what would a sex toy be without a good layer of tin foil – and decorated the box with some leafy sticks to make it a bushy appearance. It’s hard being a cardboard box, there isn’t always time to shave.

We picked our “dildo” up and – naturally head first – shoved him in the box that had its bottom flapped open. The box proved to be a little too tight when we tried to get our friend’s boobs in. Oh yeah, the girls in our team were dressed as guys and the guys as girls.

Don’t worry, no balloon boobs were harmed in the process. Our “judges” assured that was quite enough when they couldn’t breathe anymore because all of the laughter. They gave us top scores and we continued our adventure after getting our dildo safely out of the box.

Ultimately, out of the dozens of teams, we came in third in the competition. We could have won if a couple of our members hadn’t gotten so drunk they couldn’t go on anymore. I’m still a bit bitter about that.

Almost two years after that, I ran into one of the guys that had judged that task. We started talking, and suddenly a delighted smile spreads on his face as he remembers: “Hey, you were that girl who came up with the idea of using a team member as a dildo! Good for you!”

And there it is. Some people are remembered for their industrious work for the benefit of others; some for their phenomenal social skills and talent for always finding the right words to say. And me? I will come down in history as the person who invented a human dildo. My parents will be so proud.