1) The router.
Well, the problem seemed to be not that I forgot to put the nameservers in, but that I added a new one the other day. Apparently, ns4.everydns.net doesn't want to share anything with anyone, and did a lot of bullying all the other nameservers around until they all bowed to its will. And then it zipped its lip. And InterNIC said "Fine. Fuck you too." And all of a sudden when I deleted that nameserver, everything worked. I'm so glad InterNIC is forgiving of people like me and their flaky nameservers.
He's interesting, today's lecturer. He is. Livers are pretty damn cool, if you ask me. But I was so bloody tired, I kept kind of passing out into those sleepy fantasies again. Definitely need to go to bed on time tonight. At least tomorrow is a Normal Friday: only three hours of class. Unfortunately, two of them are GI medicine.
Quotes gleaned from class today and the preceding days:
- "They used to give them [newborn babies with jaundice] phenobarbital, because that induces the breakdown enzymes. Then you have a sleepy yellow baby."
- "Ask them how much they drink. Everyone lies. I lie. Then ask them how -big- the drinks are. Nobody puts an ounce of booze in a drink except a bartender charging $2.50 a shot."
- "These [lesions of multiple myeloma] look like little rats have gone in and eaten your skull out. Or moths...if moths do that..."
- "Mushroom hunting" (he pauses) "What a strange term. Mushroom-seeking behaviour, in Indiana, is a cult."
- "It's the Mutual of Omaha wild-kingdom tranquilizer."
- "Now...if you have a full complement of chromosomes, you like things like nurturing and Anne Geddes pictures. If you're some kind of truncated genetic mutant - a male, in other words - you like to get drunk and pop people in the eye." (this from our [male] opthalmology lecturer, about abuse and stories that don't match clinical presentations)
EENT (Ear Eye Nose Throat) physical diagnosis. Dr. J., our normal preceptor (a preceptor is a doctor who teaches students in the office or the hospital), has a herniated disk. Bad things.
So Dr. L, our other preceptor (much nicer than Dr. J, in our opinion. Also more informative) took us up to see Mrs. L, who has aortic stenosis from rheumatic fever in 1939 when she was 12. The heart goes lub-dub. Hers (she's going to get it replaced next week, finally, because she's been passing out from the low pressure) goes lu-whooosh!-dub. Just like it did on the tapes that Dr. Heger had when he taught Cardiac Physical Diagnosis. That was cool. Almost as entertaining as going to see Mr. B, who has a prosthetic valve (argh, I can't remember the name now *goes to look it up*) - A Starr-Edwards valve, showing here (figure a). They put it in back about 20 years ago, because he had mitral valve prolapse. The really neat thing about it (besides the fact that I remembered the complications and indications for a ball valve replacement) is that you can hear the little ball in its little cage going up and down. Lub-click-click-dub. Sounds like a tiny basketball game inside Mr. B's chest.
Obviously, it's hard to find patients with ear eye nose or throat problems in the hospital. Not to mention that we'd already done 3 hours of ear nose and throat, and hours of opthalmology in class. So we turned off the lights and all blinded each other with the opthalmoscopes another time (practise makes perfect) and peered into ears and talked about what we should really be looking for, as opposed to the Hundred Pages of Graphic Pictures of all the disgusting things that could go wrong with your eyes. The simple answer: If you see something that doesn't look normal, and you're worried about it, write a referral to an opthalmologist. Because opthalmologists are paid to know everything about eyes. (There's a guy in FW who specialises in eyelids. Now that's scary.)
And we went home at 3 again. Dr. L. ran out of things to talk about - but next time we're going to have to start writing up histories and presenting patients. Why am I so scared of this? I'm terrified that I'm going to make a mistake and someone will die because of it. What if I'm not a good doctor?
Jake and Eric, the anarchists, were there. This time in sneakers, as requested. They seem like such sweet guys. Like they don't really know what they're promoting...they just know they don't like society like it is. Jake dyed his hair blue. It came out, some of it, in the mask.
Apparently the small elephants stole some of the foils, because we were six short. And I still can't find a pair of ashtrays (breast protectors!) that'll fit me. They all come out about four inches too high. Not to mention we're short those too, so today we had the usual stock of ashtrays, plus some cups from a sticky-ball-catching game, plus some mini pie tins (they were on sale!)...
More footwork drills, more distance drills. More practise. We reviewed lunge, advance and retreat. Then learned another attack (name escapes me) that involves bonking the other person's sword first, to get it out of the way. Had right of way explained. Repeatedly. What a complicated sport. Then we learned the basic parry move. I seem to remember from France the numbered positions that they mentioned, and being drilled on the eight different attacks, parries, and stances. But maybe I'm wrong. Then we played around with attack-parry-riposte for a while, which was when I discovered that even if my left hand is doing nothing but holding an imaginary lantern above my head and diving when I lunge, the bugger gets tired. So I'm all over sore again, especially since Tim thought it would be fun to teach us crossover footwork as a closer. My legs hurt.
On the other hand, I'm clean. And tomorrow's Friday. And I had the most marvellous conversation with Storm-who-really-knows-how-to-fence about my class: Storm> Heh. You should see me fencing sabre. The target area is supposed to be down to your waist. Because I'm left handed, though, I have to either wear a left-handed jacket or a back-zip, and the only non-right lame my club has is an XXXL or something crazy like that. It's hysterical, because I have target area to my knees. It's a good thing I don't fence sabre seriously, because I get thigh-cuts scored against me.
And that's it. I'm off to bed