RICE

My boss broke her pinky toe this weekend. Well, more to the point, her dog broke it for her, tripping her up with its leash.

You see why I'm a cat person?

So she was hobbling around yesterday, moving slowly; her toe was a little bit swollen and discolored, and she was thinking of going to the doctor. My cube neighbor and I, both proud graduates of our agency's first aid training class, were suggesting she should RICE it. You know what that stands for, right?

If you do, could you let me know?

We need some kind of mnemonic device to remind us what the letters in RICE stand for. The first thing that popped into my head was "Relax, Invigorate, Chill and Enjoy" and I don't think that's right. Or perhaps you're meant to Ridicule the afflicted part, Isolate it from other body parts so they won't be corrupted, Chastise it for being so Careless, and finally Eject it from your body altogether, just to teach it a lesson. More kindly, perhaps it's Rinse, Idolize, Caress and Educate. Or maybe you'd be better off just sticking a bag of rice on the injured part. Or administering CPR. I remember how to do that!

I don't think I'm getting a merit raise any time soon.

M'aider!

If you think giving blood is scary, try doing it right after finishing a six-hour first aid/CPR class, complete with full-color, magnificently photographed images of how bits of the insides of people's bodies look. Maybe even yours.

I'm sorry, but if God had meant you to see what your eyeball looks like with a screwdriver sticking out of it, He wouldn't have created humans in the first place, because obviously He must hate them.

Giving blood frightens me, even though I've done it on a regular basis for a few years now. I get all jittery walking over to the donation center. I hate the needle going into my arm. I hate the initial finger stick even more, even though I've had it done 80 kajillion times and it never hurts at all. I get all cotton-mouthed right beforehand, and tense up and cringe. I hate it.

I don't mind the actual donation, lying there on the bed with my lifeblood serenely draining away. It's kind of peaceful. Well, except that phlebotomists, like hair stylists, are apparently trained to relax their victims by making small talk at them. That's just so awkward.

Also awkward is the list of questions they read to you in a monotone, so quickly that you don't really have time to understand what they're asking. The correct answer is almost always "no." They occasionally throw in a "yes" question just to mess with you, though. The reason they do this is so that when they ask you, "Have you taken money or drugs for sex at any time since 1977?" you will have to pause briefly to think about it before answering, and then they can snicker at you.

There are about twenty more crack-whore-themed questions after that, one after another, that begin with "In the last 12 months, have you had sexual contact with..." and after four or five of those I kind of want to snap at them. Can we skip those? Please?! Because, if the question contains the phrases "in the last twelve months" and "sexual contact," all you're doing is making me depressed.

Not, mind you, that I particularly wanted to sell my body to a heroin-addicted bisexual Albanian drug smuggler with mad cow disease and hepatitis B. It's just the principle of the thing.

But once again I conquered my fears, and managed to do some miniscule bit of good in the world, and went back to my office proudly wearing the Hot Pink Bandage of Courage. And if you suffer from a heart attack or a stroke or get electrocuted or fall off a ladder, I'll be able to help you out there, too!

But if you've got a screwdriver sticking out of your eye, you can go find yourself another sucker. I don't even want to see that shit.