New Website Recently Launched

Check out http://www.fitscoop.com/, a website that connects fitness-minded people in a blog-like community. Registered users can evaluate various fitness activities, give advice and promote their own businesses, too. The site looks like it will become a handy resource for both novice and veteran fitness enthusiasts and a great place where people can come in order to find new ways to start moving!

Morning Routines

I'm intrigued by them. I have my own, which my sister regards as "bordering on neurotic," but what can I say? I like it and it works. I'm just waiting to see what may happen if one aspect of it gets thrown off. For instance, what if I lift up my shades and turn off my air-conditioning AFTER I've already gone to the bathroom and brushed my teeth? Will I snap if I turn on my tea-pot BEFORE I turn off my alarm and turn on the lights? Speaking of my alarm, I LOVE IT! It MAKES ME want to get out of bed-- not to turn it off-- but to do a little jig. (If you have a blackberry, the sound I am referring to is the "Tune_Calypso," and yes it feels like you've just woken up to someone playing the steel drums in the Caribbean, a smooth breeze caressing your arms and cheek...)

By the way, I'm not downplaying that the above seems to reveal a severe OCD side, but no, I have never been diagnosed with OCD even though there are times that I feel like I have it (but who doesn't feel like they have OCD? Even that expression: "I feel like I have OCD," is used and abused). In retrospect, I think I actually do have some weird form of OCD based on what I used to do during a 7th/8th grade morning routine I had (umm.. yes morning routines date way back to those wee itty bitty days). After washing my face, I used to dry it with a towel (duh) and then blow my nose in a tissue. Okay, nothing too bizarre yet. But THEN -- I had to crumple up the tissue and, from a distance of about a few feet, get it into the trash can. If I did not get it in, I was really mad and I would try again until I succeeded. YES -- THAT MY FRIEND IS COMPLETELY OCD!!!!!!!!!!!!

Luckily, the superstitious basketball action of the routine is gone. But remnants of ritualistic morning needs do remain. I just really like doing what I do in the AM. For instance, I really think I would go bananas if I didn't immediately put on my slippers after I brushed my hair... haha. No that I don't do. Now I am just belaboring the point... But today I was thinking about how upset I was on the train because I didn't allow myself enough time to add one extra thing to my morning routine. I tend not to wear makeup. When I do, it's when I go out or feel like I need to look older than my typical 15-year-old wind-breaker look. But today, I woke up and don't ask me why but was in a makeuppy mood!



So I made myself up. Just put a little mascara and blush on my face, but who knew that THAT takes seven extra minutes! Well. By the time I got to the subway, I missed what seemed like four trains, and then had to wait on the platform for another five minutes! When I got off at my stop, I found myself running into the office, all sweated up. So much for getting prettied in the morning... That is, without taking THE MORNING ROUTINE into account first ;)

You shouldn't read this post

But then why are you reading it?!

Did I catch your attention?

Great. Now I can blabber all I want about Clostridium difficile. You may be wondering, what is Clostridium difficile? You may also be wondering, what does Clostridium difficile have to do with me?

The simple answer can be drawn from the following cartoon:



Indeed, we have morons in the world who enjoy putting their behinds in inappropriate places. If you're one of those sorts, you may actually get this wondrous bacteria one day. But even if you're not a species of Peter Griffin from Family Guy, you can still be exposed...

Clostridium difficile (also known as, C. difficile or "C. diff," as we like to say in the hospital) is found in the feces and so for this reason, people can become infected easily if they touch anything that's contaminated with their own (or someone else's!) poop, and then go and touch their mouth or any other mucous membrane, for that matter...

Luckily, if you're in good health, you most likely won't get C. diff since it affects those with poor immunity.

New Site

My personal blog here at Blogger is still going to remain intact; however, please visit my new website, http://marissabeck.wordpress.com, which will host more nutrition topics (because obviously you just can't get enough!) I will start to develop it soon . . .

Spinning with Rasta-Steve

If I thought spinning with Erin was a heart attack waiting to happen, spinning with Rasta-Steve made me want to throw up on the floor. LOL, sorry. Anyway, no worries that didn't happen but a fire-hose of blood flow through my aorta did.

Rasta-Steve pulled his pony-tail in the back of his head and mounted his bike, a Gloria Estefan gone reggae pumping in the background. His words trailed off into some Jamaican abyss: "Keep yo shoulders a bom... Add mo reseestonce, a bom bom."

My legs were movin, mind in some distant far-away Rasta-island. Were there Caribbean women click clackin seashells and maracas in the background, their coconut-covered breasts and wide-hips would swing sassy to the beat. Rihanna started her whine, and I was flying in the air like Jasmine on Aladdin's carpet.

Keep my dominance and control over the pedals, don't let it take you over. With each song better than the next, I wondered if I'd still have my kishkas by the end of it. Rata ta ta ta ta ta tata ta. A siren in the background, Ulysses can't resist. No amount of sports bras could contain my boobliness. Background dancers shaking rock-the-boat your hips. Help me save me I can't go anymore. 2 hops, 2 hops. 2hops 2hops 2hops.

UH.

Damn.

Are you kiddin, Rasta-Steve? What's. Your. Deal? What's your freaky freaky deal? Wow wow wow. WOW wow WOW wow WOW wow.

This hurts. This hurts. But I really like the beat.

Rasta Steve's staring at me. Me. ME. ME! I can't miss a beat no I cannot miss a beat, though my thighs did burn. He had to see me go. "Keep it goin keep it goin keep it goin keep it goin keep it, Left. Left. Left. Left."

5. More. Minutes. More.

Legs. Finished. Spent.

The You Wish You Were a Fly on My Shoulder Day: this one goes out to you, An ;)

Today equals Marissa's-a-Loser day. It all started when I left my Hospital ID at home, which is attached to my nutrition locker keys. It wouldn't have been a problem, had I not decided to keep my dress shoes, lab coat, binder and pocket-calc in my locker, too (yes, I am aware that dork doesn't fully epitomize the breadth of my dorKIness). The security guard wouldn't unclip my lock until someone could verify my identity. I'm sorry but why would a little bombastic amateur nutritionist with an oatmeal pancake in-hand want to rob someone's locker? (Although, I suppose I'd be the perfect suspect, if any). Luckily, the unclipper arrived and I was spared the disgrace of wearing Asics in slacks.

A normal day, until Mrs. K shat her pants as I was doing an assessment, leaving the scent of second-hand feces on my lab coat for the rest of the afternoon.

Glad to get out into the fresh air, I ambled to the subway for my relaxing 100+ block ride home where I muse over the day's events. A pleasant ride, until I was about to get off... My monster book-bag straps got stuck in the pole and I couldn't undo it! The doors slammed shut and there I was, still strapped into my seat. I stayed there like I had been hung on a coat-rack until someone was kind enough to unhook me.

Spinning with Erin

Erin, my spin instructor, has no idea that I am writing about her. But maybe one day she'll read my blog. Firstly, she is incredible. I pretty much want to be her best friend, but again, if she reads my blog... maybe... Secondly, Erin is so kickBUTT that even a lazy-drag-your-feet-Charlie-Brown would go absolutely insane in her class. So of course, one can only imagine the tachycardia that my body experiences when I am exposed to her. For one, her legs move so quickly that I almost have a heart attack just watching. Cut, defined arms and tight body, the woman knows how to work it. She sets the bar high, and if you miss a beat (literally miss a beat... think Rozalla: Everybody's Free) then you might as well pack up and go. For those who think spinning is a form of weaving on a loom: think again. Think cycling, think fast, and think sweat. It's everything your body wants and craves. Especially when Erin is at the helm!

Blog Woes

Hello to my devoted reader(s):

As you probably know, my website was down for a few days because I decided to pretend like I knew where I was going in the foreign country, HTMLand. Humbled, scared and cold, I left that magical world of widgets and canonibalism and came back to my quiet copy & edit abode. It isn't exactly a party here now, but it's better than playing piano on my computer keyboard and praying for a miracle to happen to the interface. Anyway, I'm home!

Regards,

Your Bloggerissa


(Me when I found out I lost my blog!)

or better...


(Me when I played in HTMLand)

Globus hystericus

I never thought I would take to the clinical world of nutrition. I'd shudder paroxysmally in blood's way. I despised needles, white coats, the smell of geriatric piss caked in hospital floor cracks. I looked at my six months at NY-Presbyterian as an initiation into my profession, my body and mind anointed (with monounsaturated oil, of course).

Today I walk in like a veteran, an intrepid practitioner ready to suture up skulls. Ready to yank off jowls and whet up my scalpel. No, I don't do this. I don't even want or dream it (but I like how it reads!) Unflinchingly, I saw a percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy (PEG) get placed the other day, the doctor threading his tube down his patient's throat and into the belly, puncturing the stomach and abdominal wall in order to get a feeding tube in there. My white coat gives me front-row seats to some great shows.

And then I get to determine the nutrition part, the feeding, the life!!! (OK cowgirl, calm down there...) I dance along the polished floors, buzz into my patients' rooms. Without showing my feverish side, I listen to them, observe... hear their stories, their thoughts, pain. Deduce the patients' needs. I may want to do this, I think to myself. More than six months. Work here, be here...

And then I go and almost aspirate a patient today. She was at risk for choking on her food and I didn't know that reclining her bed by more than 45 degrees could draw contents from her mouth right into the lungs. She wanted to sleep, I thought I was helping. (I shouldn't be allowed to push buttons). Our team is fast, our doctors, nurses on their toe-nails. Scrupulous in their care. Like a King-Kong in slo-mo, Nurse Hatchet swings her arms above her head and swims into my patient's room, her sensitive kong-ears hearing the robotic sound of the bed spit out its motor-laugh. With a fat thumb, she pushes the tiny bed-button and sneers at me from the corner of her eye. The bed responds with a gurgling motor and makes its way back up. And I snap out of my medical fantasy, stuttering and shuddering again.