My best friend has up and joined the Police Academy. I was really just kidding when I bought her that “Pistol-Packin’ Mama” t-shirt at the Houston Rodeo last year. I’m so very happy for her (really) because while various life events have kept her from applying until recently, I know this has been a dream of hers for a long time.

The big bummer is the fact that homegirl will no longer be working with me at The Hospital. No more project buddy, no more lunch buddy, no more person to bug on Instant Messenger when she’s busy and I’m not. This is what I get for having only one friend.

Ah, such nostalgia – the unit secretary and resource assistant days we shared, the mutual upward move to Perioperative Services and subsequent cluelessness about our new environment. We sat through Lean Sigma Yellow Belt training and pulled off a major presentation in 2 1/2 days. We pick each other’s brains for ideas, work on project teams, and have developed a reputation as the Wonder Twin Powers. (Well, we call ourselves that. Everyone else just thinks we’re good to put on a project together, but we like to pretend we’re superheroes because we always pull it off with aplomb.)

These days are coming to an end. Of course, I still live just down the street from her, and I suspect that the corner of her couch where I always crash will develop a much more prominent dent in the shape of my butt over the months to come. Sure, we’ll still have pizza and beer nights when we do nothing but amuse ourselves with her baby’s ever-changing antics while her husband is plugged into World of Warcraft. She’ll still be my sounding board and I’ll still be hers, but it’s a sad, sad day when The Hospital loses a stellar employee and I lose my best homegirl at work.

I thought about titling this post “Apocalypse Now,” but I thought that might be a teesy bit overdramatic. After all, I contributed to this. I filled out the character reference for the Metropolitan Police Department and said all sorts of glowing and warm fuzzy things about her work ethic, determination, committment, mighty omnipotence, etc. I conveniently chose to leave out those instances of public drunkenness and expulsion from hoosier dive bars, because I know how important this is to her. (Plus, I only heard about that bounced-from-the-bar night secondhand, so I couldn’t honestly say that I KNOW that happened. Public drunkenness and a deep appreciation for PBR and Stag, this I can attest to.)

And so, in memory of a great working relationship and in honor of a continuing friendship, I have written a haiku. Mel – this is for you.

Trade blue scrubs for blue
polyester, new holster
on her Yellow Belt.

I don’t know what kind of person I’m becoming, but it appears to be the kind who sits in a coffee shop and blogs instead of going out and interacting with real people. Of course, some people who do that end up getting a TV show and a spot on Celebrity Rap Superstar. I’m not talking about Kendra Wilkinson.

I picked up a Bill Bryson book today.

Bill Bryson is my favorite writer. If you’ve not experienced any of his delightful books, drop everything and do so immediately. Here, take my car.

I am one of those oddball People Who Read For Fun. In fact, I am in that still odder subset, People Who Read For Fun and Intellectual Betterment. That’s PWRFFIB, which is approximately the sound most people make when puffing out their cheeks and scoffing at me. PWRFF in my demographic (SWF, 20s) tend to believe that Intellectual Betterment is not fun. Books that make you smarter are for school. Fun books are pink and have lively sketches of martini glasses, shopping bags, and/or high heels on the covers. (I confess to a meager stash of these pink books, but I hide them the way most married men hide their porn.) Many PWRFF tend to believe that Fun and Intellectual Betterment are mutually exclusive.

Bill Bryson’s books are fun. They will also make you smarter.

Bill Bryson is a native Iowan who moved to England on a whim at the age of twenty, married an English girl, and raised his family on that lovely island for twenty years before hauling them all across the pond to Hanover, New Hampshire in the mid-nineties. He is neither slick nor erudite, a rather charming amalgam of American small-town simplicity and British droll. The magic in his writing is that despite his many years as a journalist and best-selling author, despite his extensive travel around the globe and his cranium packed with more fact and lore than you or I could ever hope to absorb, Bill Bryson is perpetually wide-eyed, curious, and quite often puzzled. As he seeks to educate himself about his chosen topic, he will inadvertently educate you while you are laughing yourself stupid.

His twenty years in the land of the Queen’s English have given Bryson a few quirks, like an appreciation for scones and milky tea, and a peculiar pickiness about pubs. (Americans just like a place to drink, period. Bonus points if there are TVs and girls present.) And yet despite his insider status in that nation, Britain is just as much a puzzling place to him as the land of his birth. This is what makes Notes From a Small Island a great book. The fact that he had only ever learned to pay taxes, purchase a home, work with a lawyer, and perform other grown-up chores in England made life after his return to America similarly troublesome. This is what makes I’m a Stranger Here Myself a great book. The wilderness is another source of bewilderment. This is what makes A Walk In the Woods one of my favorite books ever. EVER.

Right now I am re-reading (for these are the sorts of books you should re-read) In a Sunburned Country, Bryson’s account of his travels in Australia. In following Bryson’s bumblings and bumping along the Boomerang Coast and the outback, I have been thoroughly entertained and sneakily educated. This is the wily man’s trick: He will lure you in with a humorous anecdote about confused old people on the side of the road and wind up telling you about the history of the Great Western Highway through the Blue Mountains and how the developers could have saved a lot of time and trouble if they’d followed the cows to find the mountain pass. This is how it begins… trivia, history, local lore, and of course, his personal opinions on hotels, urban planning, and the peculiarity of Australian names like Boomahnoomoonah and Tittybong. (These are real places.) Before you know it, you’re searching Expedia for tickets to Mullumbimby instead of Sydney.

Bryson’s observations and research encompass the culture of the places in which he travels, from politics to pastiche, as well as the travel experience itself. Take, for example, this passage from In a Sunburned Country, in which he hears a cricket match on the radio and contemplates the oddities of the game of cricket and its presence in Australia.

No, the mystery of cricket is not that Australians play it well, but that they play it at all. It has always seemed to me a game much too restrained for the rough-and-tumble Australian temperament. Australians much prefer games in which brawny men in scanty clothing bloody each other’s noses. I am quite certain that if the rest of the world vanished overnight and the development of cricket were left in Australian hands, within a generation the players would be wearing shorts and using the bats to hit each other. And the thing is, it would be a much better game for it.

You now have a much clearer picture of Australia than ever before. This is travel literature at its finest.

Read your first Bill Bryson book (now) and you will have inadvertently become one of the PWRFFIB. You’ll know more useful things about Australia (or England, or the Appalachian Trail, or Africa, or Western Europe*) than any Rough Guide or Lonely Planet book could impart. Don’t tell me you need to know the names of 47 hotels and 32 museums in Melbourne and what days they offer senior discounts. You need to know that representatives from Melbourne and Sydney practically came to blows in 1901 when the nascent Commonwealth of Australia needed to choose a capital city, each believing that his city should be given the honor, resulting in an impasse that led the Parliament to simply build a new city (Canberra) halfway between Melbourne and Sydney in order to keep the peace.

You have probably had some sort of fun while reading this. And you have probably just learned something new**. GOTCHA!

*In a Sunburned Country, Notes from a Small Island, A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson’s African Diary, and Neither Here Nor There, respectively.

**If you knew all this stuff already, pat yourself on the back and go away.

I’d like to trade my
cube for a ball so that I
could roll back and forth.

Courtesy of WorkHaiku.

I used to write haiku. I was a wild and crazy haiku fiend. Sometimes, for the amusement of my coworkers, I’d scribble out a 5-7-5 about one of the patients. It inevitably lightened the mood of the workday – which I’m sure is sacrilige to the ancient art of Japanese minimalistic wordsmithing, but you know all the best inventions happen on accident. You know the kind – you’re trying to create a super-permanent glue that never comes off and you end up as the gazillionaire who created the sticky goo on the backs of Post-Its. Serendipitous. Work haiku had to be like that. We’re all trying to make something beautiful, something purposeful to help us sort out a meaning from the chaos. And even though all we come up with is something a little funny, it ticks the time away and we’re seventeen syllables closer to happy hour.

Here’s the Red Stapler’s personal best, written in honor of a patient who had a nurse call light in one hand and a pain medication pump control in the other, and was constantly clicking them both and making angry facial expressions at us since, due to her recent laryngectomy, she could express her frustration no other way.

Playing castanets
with her call light, a Spanish
dancer without sound.