Dr. Brokeback's Second Opinions

Perfect!

2009-03-20T00:41:00.003-04:00

It will surely all end tomorrow, but today, my bracket is perfect. I'm sixteen for sixteen after day one!

I actually have two brackets. One of them is exactly President Obama's. And another is my own, a combination of probability and cat-strategy. My cat/probability bracket is 16/16. The President's? 11/16. Mr. Obama, it is official: I am better than you today.

Has the World Gone Mad?

2009-03-18T19:13:00.011-04:00

I know I haven't posted in awhile. I have missed you all so much! Fortunately, you, my loyal readers, knew that although I have been caught up with work and life, I had every intention of returning!

There are a few out there, however, who have strayed. Some of my best friends have called me to say that they never check my blog anymore but instead have become rabid fans of GinSoaked Olive. One of these friends bragged about her new favorite blog (GSO) on my Facebook page. Another went so far as to send a baby gift to the GinSoaked girls. (The crime here is that the friend who gave the gift is the Indecisive Visionary herself. I saved her life and where's my thank you gift? It's over at GinSoaked Olive. Not that I wanted my own personal Pack-n-Play. Jake's outfit with the cargo pants, though? I would totally wear that. Yes, Katy and Tracy, I'm proud to dress like your eighteen-month-old son.)

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that you ('you' being the IV or Michelle or other deserters) shouldn't read about (or send presents to) my peeps over there. Please do. They are good people. They have taken in this wayward traveler on more than one occasion (for example, last Saturday night). I'm just saying I never thought you, my friends, would be so impatient or fickle. Fortunately, I have my loyal readers. And what more could I want, really?

So what have I been up to, you might ask? Well, I had my fourth original scientific paper published in January. Also in January, I was interviewed by my company's paper in a get-to-know-our-new-doctor segment. A snippet from this goofy interview:

"Reporter: What was the biggest surprise of your life?

me, (thinking): Uh...the real answer is that I was shocked (although no one else was, notably. I'm always the last one to know.) to discover my lesbionic tendencies. I can't say that in an interview, though. This article is going to be seen by the CEO of this hospital. The first time I met him, I made an inappropriate joke about a disembodied penis. That was not my fault! I didn't know he was the CEO! But still, this answer has got to be something that isn't going to remind him of that debacle.

Me (talking): Uh....Well, the end of that movie The Sixth Sense really blew me away."

That's totally how it went down. Swear. It's in print with a picture of me next to it. I'll send you the link.

In other news, I got nailed with thirty pounds of beads (beads that were thrown at my head, in rapid succession, while still in packages or, in one case, attached to a wooden spear) at Mardi Gras in New Orleans in February. I should have blogged about it, but you'd need pictures to capture the scope of my booty. Let me clarify that statement: You'd need pictures to capture the scope of my Mardi Gras winnings.

And March? March is all about the madness.

I printed up my brackets today and as I was trying to spin gold, decided that I would investigate and post some of the lesser-known strategies for winning your pool.

Strategy #1. Making the Most of a Bad Situation

I have won a pool exactly once. This was when I was young, early in medical school, and had never paid to be in a bracket pool before. My girlfriend at the time had a lot of basketball knowledge but two fatal flaws: 1. To this day, she loves UNC. Every single year, she makes them the winner of her bracket. Every year, she gets wiped. 2. She's the bracket-unluckiest smart person I know. She knows what games might be upsets and picks a few and is always, always wrong. So my strategy? Take her first round upsets and middle rank picks and go the other way. Keep her later round picks with the exception of UNC. Even though the relationship was happily settled long ago, I still got her picks this year and am seriously considering this strategy even as I type. (God, I hope she isn't reading this, because up until this point, she and I have remained good friends. Now that I've revealed my leechy strategy AND bad-mouthed UNC, I'm sunk.)

Strategy #2. Follow the Leader

Barack Obama published his picks today. Apparently, he is as knowledgeable as some of the best sports commentators in America. I would go so far as to say that he is actually in a class above all other bracket-masters because in addition to his amazing basketball expertise, he (to the best of my knowledge) has refrained from saying "Sweet Sassy Molassy!" or "Boo-ya!" in public. I guess I'm saying that if we're willing to believe he knows what he's doing about the economy, then adopting his bracket isn't such a bad idea. There is one very significant problem with strategy #2: It is in direct conflict with Strategy #1. Yes, readers, President Obama picked UNC to win it all.

Strategy #3: The Cat's (or Dog's) Where It's at

Feline owners (of which I am not one. Allergies.) can take comfort in the fact that they can always do a "cat-bracket." In other words, pick only teams that have feline mascots. Obviously, this isn't going to work for your whole bracket, but if you tried this strategy, you might just have the Memphis Tigers beating the Pitt Panthers in the final. You could do the same thing with dogs and might see the Connecticut Huskies beating the Duke Blue Devils (I'm not sure about this one, actually, but I think the Blue Devil's mascot is actually the Duke Dog. I mean, what the hell is a Blue Devil, anyway? Am I missing something?).

Strategy #4: Cheater's Paradise

There are websites that do your bracket for you. Bracket Brains will make your bracket professional-perfect for the low low price of $100. My pool is ten dollars to enter...so 110 dollars? Seems fair. I think I'll take this option. I'm getting out my credit card now.

Well, back to my bracket. I've got to put my picks in fast, because it's late and I am at high risk for getting all these different strategies confused and accidentally sending my 100 bracket-creation dollars to my ex's presidential-acting cat. (Which would be a total waste because he'll just blow the money on Fancy Feast.)

Golden Ticket? Comments, please.

2009-01-07T14:12:00.007-05:00

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I think I was totally fascinated with the idea that Charlie could be one of five people in the whole world to find a golden ticket and get a tour of the chocolate factory. The theme was one of hope, and I took the book at its word. I was just waiting for the day when my golden ticket showed up.

Of course, I found out that life isn't really like that. Five golden tickets in the whole world means that nobody I know is going to find one. And although I'm in many ways a very lucky person, my luck does not apply when it comes to games of chance. I do not win lotteries or slot machines or even small-town-church raffles featuring baked goods as prizes. Hell, I can't successfully manipulate those "claws" where you try to pick up a stuffed animal.

Then, today, I opened up my email to find that the Obama campaign had sent me something. This is not new: I get something from them everyday. I feel badgered, honestly. But this was different: the email was linked to Ticketmaster and provided me with a reservation number for my ticket to the inauguration. My golden ticket is here.

It is unclear how this came about. I was on their health-care mailing list, but unless systematically deleting their emails counts for something, I was not what one might call a contributing member. As some of you may remember, I did get into a car accident and, instead of fixing the car, sent the deductible to the Obama campaign along with a nice letter. I never heard back, so I assumed that the letter was totally ignored (even if the check was not). But maybe it wasn't ignored after all.

Regardless, I now have a ticket to the inauguration. My heart tells me that I should be running down the street to get home and beg Grampa Joe to get out of bed, but as it turns out the whole thing isn't going to be very convenient for me. I am starting on the wards that Tuesday so I'd have to find to someone cover my service. I have a place to stay, but it's going to cost me 800 dollars to fly there. (And that's pretty cheap, considering).

My practical side always kind of wondered this about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I mean, probably most of the people who eat candy bars are trying to supplement calories because they missed their lunch or something. Aren't the chances pretty good that some uninformed or uninterested person would have just tossed the ticket? Or sold it? Or just been too busy to make it that day? Does having a golden ticket mean that one is just supposed to drop everything?

And we leave out the most important part of the inauguration issue: historic or not, would you want to be trapped on the mall, surrounded by literally 4 million people, without food, water, or other basic amenities? I just don't think it's worth it.

I might just be the world's biggest fuddy-duddy. But what you would do? I'd like to know.

I know what you crave. Hint: It's not the veggie plate.

2008-12-13T21:32:00.006-05:00

Let me preface this story by saying that I apologize. I am not generally this rude, and the views expressed in this essay have nothing to do with my feelings about vegans as a group. Some of my best friends are vegan. Uh. Were vegan. Oops. Well, anyway, this blog post is clearly the last stop between my house and my doomed afterlife in the depths of tempeh hell. And I deserve every minute of it, I know:

She had short blond hair, multiple tattoos, was wearing a vintage Star Wars T-shirt with low-slung jeans, and was the cellist/bassist/frontwoman of the band. Still, picking up a musician in a bar is always a risky choice, and Jay was rightfully wary. I wouldn’t have encouraged him, either, but she was just so cute. And she clearly liked him, as evidenced by the fact that she came into the back room and appeared to play pinball next to our pool table. This ploy was all the more amusing because the pinball machine had been broken for at least three years.

After two hours of ridiculous glances across the bar, she finally came up to him and launched a totally lame line. He smiled. That was the beginning of years of suffering.

The moment the word “vegan” came out of her mouth, I froze. Actually, I would have walked out right then, blond hair and tattoos or not, but Jay’s tolerance was much higher than mine, and he failed to see the red flag. (The year before he lived in a stinky vegetarian co-op, where he was constantly surrounded by piles of dishes in the sink, year-old dust balls in the living room, and the benefit of a free ride to school in a VW bus, courtesy of his grungy roommates.) Immediately after meeting Punk Girl, he started finding “Why Vegan?” flyers scattered around his house. They featured a bloated, unhappy cow on the cover. Jay lasted only a month.

Our morning coffee quickly dissipated into soy lattes and cream cheese-less bagels. I even felt a little guilty about my constant carnivorous desires as I watched him lose fifteen pounds (and the guy is 6’4’’ and started at 180 lbs).

Punk Girl soon broke up with him, grew out her hair, quit the band, and moved to the suburbs of Kansas City. Despite this, Jay continued taking me to Buddhist restaurants and popping handfuls of daily vitamin supplements. For days after our vegan dinners, I suffered stomach cramps and night sweats. I just don’t think I was born to ingest highly processed wheat gluten.

When I moved to Philadelphia, I had already been trying to break him for five years. I frequently called him to describe delicious cheese and egg dishes and sometimes even tried to lure him in with stories of his favorite meaty items. Before his first visit to my new place, I found a restaurant in my neighborhood with a rotating menu that frequently featured bacon.

The chef was a very grumpy, very large woman whose kitchen opened directly into the dining room, meaning that the delicious smells of her cooking always filled the place. Best of all, the brunch was amazing. I sold him on promises of a delicious tofu scramble and spicy hash browns, knowing that the smell of bacon always filled the restaurant’s air. The report that jalapeño bacon was the special made my heard leap. I asked for two orders.

When it arrived, Jay eyed it suspiciously and then glanced back every few minutes. I sung its praises in a clearly over-the-top manner, and, after just a few minutes of this, turned to him and said, “You do know that this bacon is vegan, right?” He gave me a death look and went back to shuffling his tofu around. I shoved a plate across the table and left for the bathroom.

By the time I returned to the table, he had clearly undergone an identity crises and what he considered to be a moral lapse. All the bacon on the table, his and mine, was gone. I said nothing and paid the bill. We didn’t speak of it the entire day. A week after he returned home, he called me, furious.

“This is your fault, DrBB. I can’t stop. I’ve eaten bacon every day for a week. I had the urge to eat fish yesterday. I might consider a pork chop.”

I sighed, “Well, pork is the other white meat.”

“Ha.” He growled. “I hate you.”

I continued, “Listen, you’ve been pale and sickly-looking for five years. You can’t go to normal restaurants. You can’t eat my cooking. You won’t speak to people on the Atkins diet, despite the fact that your mother misses you terribly and wants to show you how much weight she’s lost! She won’t stop calling me. Please, return to the metaphorical land of the living! And when you call your mother, tell her that I love her but she should never call me again.”

Last month, Jay sent me pictures of the most recent party he attended. It was a bacon party. For Christmas last year, I gave him a bacon calendar, bacon-flavored gum, and a bacon clock. His Facebook page features a picture of him wearing a pig snout. He’s also got a new girlfriend. Her mother is a famous chocolatier who has been featured on both television and radio. Her specialty? Chocolate covered bacon. Could there be anything better?

(FYI: I also found a bacon blog)

Facebook Traitor.

2008-12-02T00:07:00.003-05:00

Last night, as I spent two hours posting photos on Facebook and making ridiculous comments on my friends' pages (none of the comments, noticeably, are ever responded to), I had a concerning thought: Is my blog suffering as a result of Facebook?

My heart longs for me to say no. My brain is denying the possibility, my defense mechanisms are kicking in hard-core. Why, long before Facebook I occasionally went for many weeks (months?) without posting! And I'm also busy. I do, in fact, have some semblance of a life outside of the internet. Well...I used to have a roommate. Then my mom moved to Florida. Still, that's something.

No matter how much I protest, I know must eventually admit the truth: deep down, I know that a lot of my (brilliant) thoughts are getting said on Facebook instead of being pondered here.

So, my blog fans, I will try not to let this betrayal go on! After all, you are my first loves, and a commitment is to be honored.

Back to Nothing! And we're not talking about Pele.

2008-11-14T01:15:00.000-05:00

So. Amazing. November 4th was a landmark day for the United States of America for so many reasons. It's possibly the beginning of the end of these years of darkness and, more importantly, we got to enjoy an election night that didn't end with tears, teeth gnashing, or conversations that weighed the evils of George W. Bush against the horror of a life of Canadian cuisine (I mean, Canadian food is the perfect storm of bland and bizarre. They eat french fries with gravy there. Seriously.).

Perfect! Now what? I have spent several months hanging on every last word of television talking heads and fake-news news anchors. I have neglected work, ignored my personal life, bitten my nails to the quick, and lost countless hours of sleep. Now I'm like an alcoholic emerging from a bender, reflecting on my downfall and wondering how to structure my new life. The upside of my situation? No more late-night binges and hopefully no more painful post-news hangovers. The downside? I secretly am going to miss the temporary euphoria of a long night of watching liberal punditry.

And really, what to write about? My brain is suddenly a clean slate. And then, today, I realized: I finally get to go back to writing, expounding, ruminating, elaborating...about Nothing. Yes, I can finally admit it. I'm the blog version of Seinfeld. And then, while getting my eyebrows waxed (cleaned up, not shaped, mind you), I was told by my aesthetician that I should consider getting a Brazilian wax job. And there you have it. I had a Nothing to write about.

I had a Nothing to write about because it turns out that she was not talking about a person from South America detailing my car. No, she was talking about a different land down under. And I was horrified.

Let me emphasize that I'm not afraid of body parts or anatomy. I'm all for owning what you've got, and I'm also not absolute about preserving every bit of my hair. I shave my legs. (Well, sometimes not in the winter, unless I have a Compelling Reason.) and I wax those eyebrows (cleaned up, not shaped).

I am also proud of the fact that I'm an internist who is comfortable doing pap smears. I'm pretty nonchalant about the whole thing and I do a good job putting my patients at ease, reminding them how briefly unpleasant but totally routine the whole thing is. I never thought once about judging a patient. As I look back cumulatively on all those pap smears, though, I realize that almost every woman I ever took care of was hairless. And I don't really get it. How could the whole word have gone (painfully) bald? Isn't ripping hair out by the root one of the ways they interrogate enemy combatants and terrorize men on "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?"

I could go on analyzing this, but I am going to steer clear of the 'hot potato' question about who the procedure actually benefits. One thing is for sure: much to the chagrin of my likely hairless aesthetician, I won't be making an appointment for a Brazilian anytime soon. Unless she's cute and teaching a dance class.

The tell-tale stapler.

2008-10-08T22:20:00.007-04:00

There's an administrator in my office who is just plain nasty to me. She isn't rude, exactly. She is just icy. She's not horrible to everyone. She is very deferential and friendly to the older men in the office who wear suits. (I don't know their names or their jobs, but they look legit). They make a joke with her and she laughs. I make a joke and she stares angrily.

Unfortunately, I need her help on some office-y things. Things like using the copier, ordering me a stapler, and obtaining a trash can. She hates me for all of it.

I have really tried to get her to warm up to me. I smile. I talk to her. I have asked her about her family. Today, I asked her about the debate. "Did you hear the last question?" I asked. '"What do you not know and how would you learn it?' Hilarious!" I was smiling and did not endorse either candidate. I was merely trying to make conversation and the debate was the topic most commonly discussed in the office today.

She pursed her lips and tried to pierce my soul with her slit-like eyes. "I did not watch the debate because I hate Barack Obama. If I hear his voice, I want to be sick." It's pretty rare to hear this sort of thing around here. This is liberalville, USA. I was shocked (I almost asked "because he's black?" but stopped myself because I feared I would end up doing time in diversity training). And in that moment, I knew why she hates me so much.

I am a liberal, feminist, Indian, lesbian doctor who wants her to order me a stapler. And she has to do it. And that makes her more sick than Barack Obama's voice.

Election-related stress disorder. (ERSD)

2008-10-06T20:33:00.008-04:00

I've become a news junkie. It's bad. I guess I was always kind of a low-level chronic abuser, but it's gotten to the point where I listen to NPR coming to and going home from work, then I watch Rachel Maddow at 9, Keith Olbermann at 10, The Daily Show at 11 and Colbert at 11:30. As a result, I'm getting very little work done and I'm tired all the time. My "little problem" has limited my social life. If I spend even a few hours away from the TV, I start jonesing for a fix. Well, it's not quite as bad as it sounds. I have DVR, thank God.

Perhaps this has begun because tomato season is officially over and I've become a dry drunk in need of a new addiction. But I think it's because I am so stressed out about the election that if I don't watch the news constantly I sit up in bed all night, biting my lips raw and mumbling incoherently while rocking back and forth. I am seriously considering going to therapy twice instead of once a week.

Like any other addiction, though, the thing I am so desperately seeking is only making my situation worse. Every minute I watch gives me temporary relief, but then my old ghosts "rear their ugly heads" (not unlike Putin across the bay from Alaska). I start to panic-what if Obama doesn't win? What will become of us? How can there be a single person in this country who could vote for McCain/Palin? Then I think "I should watch more news. It will make me feel better." I am wondering when I'll hit rock bottom, my greasy face pressed to the television, my home in squalor.

My current thoughts:

1. Am I the only person that has noticed that McCain and Palin are complete and total lunatics? And I use lunatic in the most politically incorrect way possible. Maybe I should say 'maniacs,' ready to destroy the environment, decimate civil rights, launch a nuclear weapon...whatever. Bush is evil and stupid. These two? Nero fiddling while Rome burned. Not to mention that Rome is already burning.

2. He is going to die! Any day! She will be president! She doesn't even know what periodicals she reads!

3. Watching Rachel Maddow does have the additional benefit of getting to see her guests. She badgers Pat Buchanan and adores Paul Krugman (like me). Most entertaining is the fact that all the rest of her guests appear to be lesbians with debilitating crushes on her. They giggle, flip their hair, flutter their eyelids and sometimes (yes) wink.

4. 29 days! Less than a month!!!! Augh!

5. I don't care about the polls. They provide no solace. Who trusts the American people at all anymore?

Please, help me. I need an intervention. Now.

Budget Deficit.

2008-09-17T23:28:00.007-04:00

If you know me, you know that I'm something of a spender. Money has never been much of an object, even when I didn't have any.

My frugal accountant friend has been a traumatized witness to my financial disaster; in addition to her weekly trauma-reduction therapy, she has been hassling me (for years) to live on a budget. To make matters worse, I recently caught a bit of Dave Ramsey's show (oh, he's just Mr. Financial Peace. Whatever. Look him up.) during one of my anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. I am generally not one to fall for such drivel. But of course, I was experiencing a feeling of impending doom, a sharp contrast to the many happy callers bragging about their debt-free status. I was understandably intrigued. Debt-wise, I only have the $250,000 that I spent to go to med school, etc! According to his calculations, I could be out of debt in....whatever, I can't figure it out.

So I decided that would try this budgeting thing for two weeks. For the last 14 days, I have purchased only what I need to survive. This involved only one trip to Banana Republic. The rest was gas and food. My totals: Since September 4th, I have spent 434 dollars on groceries (I only went out to eat once. That was an additional 30 bucks.) and 200 dollars on gas (I have a 20 mile drive to work and, oh, yeah, I've been driving 50 miles one way to play soccer now and again.) (Then there was 85 dollars at The Republic; it's tricky for a lesbian to rock the business casual look, let me tell you. You take what you can get.)

So, for half the month, I've spent 634 dollars on essentials. Granted, I buy my produce at Whole Foods. And I have people over for dinner sometimes. But we're really just talking a few beautiful tomatoes (as you know, I eat mostly tomatoes, olive oil, diet Dr. Pepper, and ice cream.) and one dinner for four (I made hamburgers and salad and tomatoes). After adding rent and utilities (oil heat, don't get me started), car payments and my 2000 dollar-a-month payment to the student loan people (their slogan: "medical education for the low, low price of your eternal soul"), my monthly expenses are a minimum of 5000 dollars. That's for a life without restaurants or clothes or Pottery Barn or a weekend trip to the west coast. And remember, I now have a real job, but I'm a general internist.

That's crazy! How do people do this? I really don't get it. And that was a rhetorical question, so don't you dare tell me to call Dave Ramsey. I'd rather just shelve the budget and go to New York this weekend. I'll try again next week. Maybe.

Tribute to the VA

2008-07-23T12:37:00.006-04:00

In honor of my last day at the VA, I bring you a reprise of my 2007 post "Cool Like That." (One comment: The Obama 'fist bump' has made fist bumps cool again. I was just ahead of the curve):

Patients who believe that their doctor understands and respects them are more likely to listen to medical advice and adhere to prescribed therapies. That's why, when I work at the VA, I become the most patriotic person in the whole world. I'm not the type to go putting American flags on my clothing or anything. That's too obvious. No, I become the kind of patriot who wants to hear the entire life story of any vet who steps foot into the building.

I really do like some of the stories. I think WWII was a very good move. I thought "Saving Private Ryan" was really entertaining. (Although "Pearl Harbor" was ridiculous, and I missed the two Clint Eastwood movies.) But a lot of the stories are the same. And although I'm interested, I don't generally spend all of my free time reading books by Tom Brokaw.

Once I realized the value of feigned super-patriotism in the medical setting, though, relating to the vets became easy. I ask to hear their stories about Pearl Harbor, Normandy, Korea. And I marvel at them. I punctuate the ends of all my sentences with "Wow!" or "You don't say!" or "You are a member of a generation of heroes. The greatest generation." I don't say anything when they call me "nurse" repeatedly during the conversation. And, like magic, they soon realize that I'm the best thing that has happened to them all year. They live in a world that has completely changed, and this new place is terrifying: not all doctors are men, a huge portion of the world is non-white, and almost no one gives a sh*t about some vet's life story. Yes, I'm a woman doctor who doesn't wear a white coat, but for five minutes I help them feel like a real person again.

Because of my success at the VA, I decided I would carry this technique to my new moonlighting job at the student health center on campus. There's no doubt that it's much trickier to relate to the "kids" these days than it is to older gentleman who served in the military. But I think I'm doing a pretty good job of it.

For one thing, I totally use their lingo. When they walk into the room, I don't say, "How can I help you today?" No, I say, "Yo, what's up? You sick or something?" They generally are so dumbfounded by this degree of cool, they are completely taken aback. But they adjust. When there's a lull in the conversation, I ask them what's playing on their IPOD or talk about the girl who cut off all her hair on You Tube. Sometimes I ask them if they like "the Hip-Hop music." And before they leave, I stick out my fist and say, "All right, feel better, punch it in."

I think it's because I'm at a smarty pants northeastern university that I don't get the degree of respect for my cool that I would expect somewhere else. Sometimes, my patients don't even answer but instead stare at me with a confused expression. One kid even said to me, "Punch it in? Isn't that a line from the movie "Heathers?"

Now, technically, he was right, but I had completely forgotten this. I was using the phrase in a fresh, 2007 way. Other than those few exceptions, though, I think that my style totally gets me in with the youngsters. Their smiles and laughs and quizzical looks indicate that they see that I understand them. And that makes me a better, and certainly cooler, doctor.

Indy: A tale of two races

2008-06-08T22:33:00.002-04:00

I was in Indianapolis over Memorial Day weekend. My sister and I were both there; I even convinced her to take the same flight as me, which was supposed to be fun. Of course, now she won't forgive me for talking her into it, because it meant that she had a connection and then there was turbulence and she got airsick. And I wanted to read, which also irritated her. "Why fly together if you won't talk to me?"

During deplaning, the flight attendant says "If this is not your final destination-Hey, who are we kidding! You're all here for the race!"I turned to my sister and said, "Wait, there's a race?"

Of course, after a moment we remembered that she was talking about the Indy 500. I'm not sure how I forgot it, because the race definitely influenced my early life. One of my great childhood accomplishments was my first book, an epic recap of Gordon Johncock's 1982 win.

This is all the more astounding because of a little-known fact: The Indy 500 is not televised in Indianapolis. To make sure people go the race, the television coverage of the race is blacked out. So although I spent my childhood following the race, I never actually saw it. Instead, Sunday of Memorial Day weekend was spent lying in the living room and listening to the radio. It never crossed my mind that this was weird.

This year, Danica Patrick was the big news. Even if you don’t think you know her, you do; she’s the driver who poses nearly naked for magazines. Well, she also recently became the first woman to win a race in the Indy racing league. The result is that she has a fan base that is something like women’s soccer in 1999: lots of girls and women are inspired, and a lot of men (and a few women but not me), both skeevy and otherwise, are hoping she’ll win and then take off her shirt and run around the track. This was not Danica's year to disrobe, because she went out of the race with 29 laps to go when Ryan Briscoe hit her car as he pulled out of the pits. She spun out and was out of the race. I know, because I heard it all on the radio.

Since then, she's been criticized by the media for overreacting to the incident. She ran down the track in a fury, intending to yell at (and maybe punch?) Briscoe. She had to be held back by security, her teammates and crew. Although I understand the criticism, I can't point fingers. This exact thing once happened to me, and I reacted exactly the same way.

The year was 1979. Like many schools in Indiana, my fundamentalist Christian preschool held a mock-Indy 500 (Have you seen "Breaking Away?" Same deal.). Big Wheels were the vehicle of choice for this contest, making the race "The Big Wheel 500.” When originally writing this post, I thought that Big Wheels were universally recognizable. Apparently, however, they are a mystery to anyone born after 1980. My Big Wheel looked just like this one:

(My sister, on the other hand, chose a model called "The Powder Puff." It was pink and white and perfect for perfect little girls. I had zero interest.)

Back to the 1979 Big Wheel 500. I was a seriously competitive four-year-old, so with about a hundred yards to go, I was leading by a big wheel. Just then, some boy from my school, I think his name was "Jim-Ed," came up next to me and bumped my Big Wheel right off the track. He went on to win.

I was furious. According to my parents, it was one of my least delicate moments (and, if you know me, this is a huge statement). From the side of the track, the site of the wreck, I shook my fist and screamed, "You...poop-head!" Um, yeah. Highly embarrassing. I'm still cringing. Sorry, Jim-Ed, wherever you are. Even though you ran me off the road, you didn't deserve that. Danica, now you see why I feel your pain.

The next year, 1980, was a big year for racing, in no small part because I triumphantly returned to the site of my disaster and won the race. As the vindicated Big Wheel 500 champion, I drank the milk and accepted my trophy. My parents watched from the bleacher, beaming with pride. Throughout middle and high school, I was awarded several speech team trophies, a leadership paperweight, a big plaque when I was appointed to the all-state soccer team, a medal for being "South Africa" in the Model UN, and a bunch of other, dorkier prizes as well (The "Government Class" award, anyone?). Somehow, all of those idols have been lost or put away in a box somewhere. Only "The Big Wheel 500" trophy is still prominently displayed in my parents' house.

Obama!

2008-06-03T21:49:00.004-04:00

Yes. I believe we can.
(Although all the way through Hillary's speech, I was reminded what an amazing woman she is.)

Look below for answers

2008-05-30T10:26:00.004-04:00

What I mean to say is: Check the comments on my previous post. My friend, the man we have been discussing, replied to the post with a comment that has made my day.

My new car is damaged, but I see an opportunity.

2008-05-28T21:14:00.008-04:00

Today, somebody rear-ended me while I was driving to work. The new car is no longer perfect.

The damage is pretty minimal, but there are 4 square scratched out areas on the bumper.

The guy who hit me is a lawyer. He was extremely kind; he took responsibility for the accident and offered to pay to have the car fixed. If the cost of the repairs exceeds 250 dollars, then he wants to go through insurance. Otherwise, he's going to pay me cash.

When I got home, I took another look at it. I have a black car, which makes it hard to see the scratches. Still, there's no doubt that the cost to fix it is going to be close to the 250 dollar price tag. This sort of thing always is.

But then I started thinking: Because fixing this bumper is a total waste of money (it will just get damaged again, after all), why spend the money to fix it?

Therefore, I think I should still take him up on his offer for the 250 dollars. Rather than spending it on the car, I want to ask him to donate the money to the Obama campaign. It's 100 times more important to me that the Democratic party wins the presidency in November. I don't care about the bumper much at all.

I can't compel him to do this. Writing it out, it sounds totally crazy. So I come to you: What do you think I should do? Is this crazy?

Reply via comments.

More bored than busy.

2008-05-19T18:13:00.007-04:00

Yes, many bloggers who fail to post for a couple of weeks apologize for being busy.

I guess I've been kind of busy, traveling and writing a paper and whatnot. But I also have had very little to say. I've been a bit bored. Well, I could have told you about my love of medical conferences. There's nothing like seeing the people you respect the most get drunk and say things they will later regret (but what more is there to say about that, really?). I could have elaborated on my ongoing root canal problems (boring). I could have complained that I recently spent 400 dollars/night for a hotel that was only OK (but that just sounds like complaining). I should have mentioned that my Italian friends taught me to make a very delicious pasta sauce:

1 large can diced tomatoes
1 onion
2 garlic cloves
olive oil
red wine
salt

Saute onion and garlic in olive oil until soft
add about 1 cup of wine
cook until you no longer smell alcohol
add tomatoes
simmer about 5-10 minutes
salt to taste

I should have told you that earlier, I guess, but it took until today, finally, when I feel I have something worth telling:

Because I now have a job, I have to get licensed in a new state. This sounds easy (in my current state, send a check and ask no questions about how they didn't really verify whether or not the applicant is actually an MD), but the new state's 59 page application with multiple forms (that have to be filled out by someone else and then returned and then re-sent to the board) is overwhelming and tiresome.

Today, I needed to go to the VA to request my claims history (like a malpractice-type claim thing). I knew that the VA doesn't have real insurance, so I wasn't sure how to go about it.

Here's what happened:

1. Go to main information desk on first floor. Ask "Hello, Ma'am. Does this VA have a risk management department?"
Info person says, "You know what you need? You need the 7th floor."

2. I take the elevator to the 7th floor only to find out that the entire floor is the inpatient psychiatry unit. Ah ha.

3. I ask a nurse on the unit. She says, "You need the patient advocate."
"No," I said, "I'm a doctor. I need the malpractice-type department."
"Malpractice?" She says, looking at me suspiciously, "Why? Well, try the human resources department on the first floor."

4. I go to human resources, back on the first floor. "I have," I start, "What seems to be a difficult question."
Admin person says, "Sorry, no difficult questions on Monday. You'll have to wait until Tuesday for an answer to a difficult question. Or, try the chief of staff's office."

5. I enter the chief of staff's office. The Admin person says, "Well, I don't know what you're talking about, but you can try the Quality Management department on this floor."

6. At least I don't have to take the elevator again. Yet.

7. Enter the Quality Management department. Administrator says, "I'm sorry, but the risk manager is out today. But I don't think we can help you, anyway. If you have a form with a check-box we can do it, but if you need a letter, that's the medical staff office on 6."

8. To make sure there's someone in the office, she calls upstairs and gets the green light. "OK, take the elevator to 6. Turn left, walk to the end of the hall."

9. Arriving on 6, I follow her instructions and end up in the middle of a medical floor. Right. I ask a nurse.

10. "Oh, you should have turned right out of the elevator."

11. I arrive at the medical staff office. It has been 4 minutes since Quality Woman called up. There is no one in the office. I wait a few minutes and finally someone walks in.

12. "Oh, we can do it, but all of the staff are out today. Can you send it or fax the request to us?"

Gotta love the government. I'm all for a single payer health system, but the VA model (which provides great patient care, don't get me wrong) seems to indicate a single payer would not lead to administrative streamlining, as single-payer proponents would like you to you think.

Spring cleaning

2008-04-27T21:44:00.006-04:00

I am not a pack rat. I do not have a house full of used food containers or stacks of three year old newspapers.

Well, with one exception.

A few years ago, my father told me that I should always read The New York Times Book Review because it is the best periodical in America. The problem is that in addition to the sunday Times, I get The New Yorker, The New England Journal, The Annals of Internal Medicine, and The Journal of General Internal Medicine. It's too much to read as it is. Still, I understand my father's point-The Book Review is worth reading. It just comes with the rest of the paper, and reading the rest of the paper takes me practically the whole week. And so I always set it aside, swearing I will read it later.

I've now been saying this for three years. Yes, I have a giant stack of NYT book reviews, three years worth of "the best periodical in America." It's been bugging me, no doubt, so this weekend, during my spring cleaning, I put the entire stack in bags for recycling. (If you want it, let me know before Wednesday morning when the trash goes out.) Getting rid of The Stack is a momentous moment because I acknowledge that I'm not going to get to it before I move. It is the first step in paring down for my new place.

I just have to sign that contract. I hope to close the deal in the next couple of days.

Then I face my next challenge: Where do I live? Should I buy a house?

P.S.: I realize I will now never convince you that my house is not a dank place stuffed with rotting food and folded cardboard boxes. I guess you'll have to come over some time so I can prove to you that my house is, in fact, quite clean and not more stuffed with crap than the majority of houses in America.

A True Story.

2008-04-20T20:06:00.008-04:00

What I am about to tell you all really happened. Today.

Yesterday, I worked 12 hours in the ER and when I got home, I was too exhausted to sleep. After watching multiple bad movies (including "Mask" starring Eric Stoltz as Rocky Dennis, the courageous boy with a horribly disfigured face), I finally fell asleep at 2 AM.

That made me late for soccer this morning, so I got off to a slow start. The good news was that I finally got into the swing late in the game, and actually ended up playing quite well. We just couldn't compete with them, though-we ended up losing 3-0. They were so fast and so fit. Finally, I asked their sweeper, "How old are you all, anyway?"

"Oh, 22," She answered.

"Oh, so that it explains it!" I said, "I'm eleven years older than you are! I used to be much faster and fitter."

"Well," she said. "I personally think it's really great that you can still play at your age."

Hmm. At my age.

Maybe that was why I spent the rest of the game killing myself, running down the line like a madwoman. I didn't even notice that I was pounding my right foot into oblivion. It was only when I took off my shoes that I realized I couldn't walk. It wasn't exactly like a blister. It was like I had a huge bruise on the bottom of my foot.

As I limped into work this afternoon, I decided I would have to create some sort of cushion for my foot if I was going to make it through the day. From gauze and tape , I fashioned a mini-pillow. It was missing something, though. I realized it needed a hole so that the bruised area wouldn't touch my shoe or the bandage.

I first tried to cut it with a scissors, but it was too thick, so I asked the nurse to bring me a scalpel. I knew as I took it out of the case that the idea was trouble. I knew it! But did I listen to myself? No, of course not! I did fine cutting the hole. It was my attempt at recapping the damn thing (I know! I know! Lay off!) that resulted in the two lacerations you see in the picture below.

Blood immediately started dripping all over the floor. I grabbed some gauze to hold pressure, but it was still ugly. Finally, the nurse ran in and dermabonded me (the picture is post-dermabond) and the bleeding stopped. After this was done, I looked up to see all of the nurses staring me looking at me with (and this was so horrifying) pity. Even better, the patients sit in an open area-they could see all of this happening.

"I thought I was bad off because I hear voices all the time," The guy in bed 1 said to me.

The good news is that the hand feels pretty good post-dermabond. And the pillow for the foot? It worked perfectly.

Oh, and also, I finally think I have a job. Nothing signed yet, but we're just days away.

Return to Chester Street

2008-04-13T00:19:00.009-04:00

The town where I went to college did not have a gay bar. Well, it sort of did. The local bar was called "The Sportsman's Club." The dance floor doubled as a hallway. I wasn't actually 21 until after I graduated from college, but thanks to the expired driver's license of an obese, big-haired woman named "Staicie R. Tater," I saw that hallway/dance floor with my own eyes very shortly after I realized that I'd like to see the inside of a gay bar. Unfortunately, seeing The Sportsman once was all I needed. I had no desire to return.

It should be noted that when I showed the fake ID to my mother, she fell down laughing. "Who is that supposed to be?" She asked. Not surprisingly, Staicie's face didn't get me in anywhere besides The Sportman, so despite my desire to see other gay bars, I was very limited in my options. Then I found out that in Illinois (2 1/2 short hours away!), one only had to be 19 to get into the clubs. To drink, a person of age needed a wrist band. To dance, all I needed was my own driver's license with my hideous 1992 high school photo and its 1974 date of birth. And so it was fate that led me to Chester Street, a dance club in the gay mecca known as Champaign-Urbana.

http://www.chesterstreetbar.com

(It still exists!)

I suspect that if I returned to Chester Street today, I would find it hideous. Bad music. Youngsters. Champaign-Urbana. At the time, however, it was the epitome of glamour, full of fashionable men and attractive women. About once a month, my seven best friends and I and piled into my station wagon and drove 2 1/2 hours so that we could dance for 2 hours (the bar closed at 1), eat at Steak n' Shake (mmmm. why didn't I savor it when I had it?), and then return home by 5 AM or so. By the end of my college years, I loved it so much I could be found there nearly every weekend. Most nights, my friends and I danced together on the speakers. We were so happy that this place existed. And we knew that we were cute.

To this day, my vision of Chester Street is the standard against which I measure all other bars. Back when The Clit Club was the thing in New York, I was quoted as saying, "Well, it's OK. But it's no Chester Street." (I could only say that, of course, after I could get into The Clit Club. During my first brief stint in NYC, I still wasn't 21 and the only bar Staicie R. Tater could get me into was "Crazy Nanny's" on 7th Avenue in the West Village. It had many similarities to The Sportsman, but a better dance floor).

Then, last night (was it last night? It seems like a week ago), I was in Pittsburgh. I was a bit demoralized because I was at a conference and had just finished my talk on "How to Get a Job." I signed up for the talk last fall, foolishly thinking I would have a job and would like to talk about how I got it. It was a fine talk, actually, but unfortunately the conference seemed to be entirely populated by people who I had interviewed with but who had not offered me a job. Yes, I was preaching on "how to get a job" to people who know full well that I don't have one. Because they didn't give me one.

Understandably, after the talk, I wanted to go out for a drink and maybe some dancing. As it turns out, the Pittsburgh from "Queer as Folk" is not entirely realistic. Despite the presence of my friends from New Orleans (The way I understand it, their whole lives are just one big party. Well, except for that hurricane thing.), we still had to go to three different bars before we hit pay dirt. The first was under a bridge, in an old department store. We initially drove by it because it had no sign and no windows. On this first pass, we pointed and laughed at the people standing outside the door. (I'm not sure why. Nerves, maybe? Confusion?) Then we walked into the bar and found out that the people we had laughed at were the only other customers. Oops.

We left and went to a bar that was not all that interesting. Fine, really, but not that fun. Finally, we entered the dungeon known as "Pegasus." And I realized I had returned to Chester Street.

It was not that this "Pegasus" was a great bar. Actually, it was pretty horrible. It was probably 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and the dance floor was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence which was intended to keep people with drinks out of the area. It was packed with people who were drunk, underage, and really, really bad dancers. The patrons kept running their sweaty bodies into me and doing things I found horrifying, like taking off their shirts and revealing types of bras that should, as a rule, stay under shirts. If presented with this situation at any other moment, I would have screamed and run away. Instead, I first was amused and shortly thereafter realized that Chester Street was in the room. All around us were people standing on the speakers and the podiums and other areas above the dance floor. I've been plenty of places where that was true, but this was different. It truly seemed like many people in the room were projecting unselfconscious joy. No matter how ridiculous they looked, how bad their clothes, how drunk they appeared, how silly their dancing, they loved that they were there.

At the end of the night, my New Orleanian friend (we'll call him Nola) was dancing on a speaker and became trapped against a wall by a person who appeared to be approximately 15 years of age. The genuine panic on Nola's face (the words "statutory rape" were flashing before his eyes) led all of us to jump on the speaker to protect him from the predatory adolescent. So there I was, dancing on a speaker once again.

For that tiny moment, I was in beautiful Champaign-Urbana, the home of that world-renowned club called Chester Street.

Brace Face.

2008-04-06T15:10:00.024-04:00

Well, I am enjoying my new Nissan Rogue. I picked it up yesterday and have been zipping all over town, feeling like I'm in my own personal commercial. (It was only recently that I realized that not everyone goes through life imagining that they are on camera.)

I also am in the middle of trying to figure out where I should work. I have job offers, all very different. Should I go for a high-powered job that might make me a star? Or should I finally give in and live my life? More than anything, I just want to be done with all this indecision. (There's a special place in hell for the indecisive and I really, really don't want to be there. How annoying. I've got hope it won't happen, since I've already got reservations in the sections of hell called "Radical Homosexuals" and "Northeastern Liberal Elite.")

The worst thing of all in this situation is that I have to get a root canal next week. A root canal. I keep hearing from everyone that it's just not that bad, but I don't believe it. When they told me I needed it, I went through the Kubler-Ross stages of death and dying. Well, the difference was that instead of "Acceptance," I experienced defeat:

1. Denial: “This is totally not happening. I swore I would never get dental surgery again. Comparatively, my colonoscopy was better. I’m so not doing this. I’m too busy. I don’t have the money, I don’t have anyone to drive me home.”

2. Anger: “Why me? It’s not fair. It’s their fault. When they filled that tooth, they cracked it.”

3. Bargaining: “I can live with it the way it is. I’ll just be careful and I won’t eat anything that hurts my tooth.”

4. Depression: “At some point in this process, I will be wishing for death.”

5. Acceptance/Defeat: “I will suffer through this and it will be terrible, but on the other hand, the last time I had dental surgery, I lost 20 pounds. I”ll listen to my Ipod during the procedure. I’ll let myself eat a pint of ice cream for dinner.”

My phobia of all things dental started when I was in sixth grade, the first time I got braces. (Yes, I said the first time.) The orthodontist's office was in my hometown in Indiana, in a pseudo-Asian pavilion. The orthodontist was a middle aged man, not terribly unattractive but a middle-aged Midwestern man nonetheless. There were chairs, all in a row, facing the windows of the pavilion, looking out on the parking lot. Every month, I would go there, I would sit in the chairs, and I would have things tightened and moved around in my mouth. And the whole time I would listen to the young all-female assistants fawn shamelessly over the married orthodontist. (I would experience this again during medical school when everyone in the OR defers to male attendings. Not so much to the women, interestingly.) Their admiration and flattery irritated me as much as the pain

Once I got those braces off, I was brace-free for six months and then got another set and went through two more years of this. (Later, I got my wisdom teeth out and couldn't eat for weeks. I woke up during the surgery. I couldn't take narcotics. Etc.) Looking back, I probably shouldn't have taken it so hard. Most kids go through it. It wasn't like I was getting chemotherapy or something. I wasn't abused. It was for my own good. But God, it sucked. For so many reasons.

Name That Car!

2008-03-24T00:39:00.008-04:00

Well, as you can see, I didn't buy the RAV-4. Or the CR-V. Or the Outback. In fact, if you can guess which car I ended up buying (hint: picture above), you'll win a prize.

Let me first say that this is not an SUV. Not really, anyway. It's quite small and is really a station wagon with big tires. It's on a car platform, and it gets 27 MPG highway. I think it meets all of my criteria: It's not too expensive, is attractive enough, drives well, is safe, holds stuff, has all-wheel drive. The most important thing, though, is that I think I've convinced eco-conscious girlfriend not to break up with me over the non-SUV purchase.

I need to thank Black Skywalker for getting me the car for hundreds of dollars below invoice. It was even more amazing than I thought it would be. The dealer was so intimidated by him that they didn't even try. They just folded. Mr. Skywalker said it was the easiest car negotiation he's ever experienced.

Now that I've got the car purchase complete, I'm off again, for what I hope is my last set of interviews. The good thing is that I'm finally interviewing for jobs I actually want. It also adds some stress.

Oh, I happened to catch the last episode of the L Word tonight. It would appear that the show has reached another all-time low: The four minute Bette-Tina music video "make out session in the middle of work function." I actually ran from the room screaming and retching.

Car Wars.

2008-03-15T14:54:00.004-04:00

I very much appreciate your car comments. My responses:

1. Although I love some of the cars recommended, I cannot afford a car that costs more than 20-something thousand dollars.
2. I got an email from a devoted reader who recommended the following short-list: Subaru Outback (she just bought one), Honda CRV, Toyota RAV-4, Audi A3. My personal negotiator (a.k.a. "Black Skywalker") also strongly recommends a Mazda-3.
3. I like this short list. I'm also in the unusual position of renting and borrowing several different cars this next two weeks (including a Toyota Prius and a Subaru Impreza), and I'm wondering if these extended test drives might further influence my decision. Because of this, I've decided to hold off on purchasing a car until I return from my next set of travels.
4. I'm leaning heavily towards the RAV-4. I still haven't test-driven it, but I am comfortable in Toyotas and I've heard and read some very enthusiastic reviews.

In addition to your comments, some of the other feedback I've been getting:

From Black Skywalker: "Princess Gay-a, if you want to pass up a driver's car like the Audi or Mazda for a soulless, functional car like the RAV-4, go ahead. Just make sure you test-drive them all first."

From eco-conscious girlfriend: "Can't you buy a car that's not an SUV? Just get the Outback." (I'm actually concerned about the strain an SUV purchase might place on our young relationship. Never mind that the RAV-4 gets the same or even better gas mileage than the Subaru, both around 19-26 MPG. Neither is any good compared to my Corolla's 30-40 MPG. Of course, the Corolla couldn't go any faster than 70 MPH).

From insurance company: "You know that we didn't call your car a total loss, right? It's 2900 dollars damage on a 3000 dollar car." (Yeah, that's worth it.)

From my mother: "I told you to get the RAV-4 last week. Why do you never listen to me?" (Um. Because you're my mother?)

So, over the next two weeks, I'll continue to consider my options. When I'm ready to buy, I'm going into the deal empowered because I'll have "The Negotiator" (a.k.a. Black Skywalker. BTW: he invented that name himself.) by my side. As our boss said last week, "Great, a black yuppie and a lesbian walk into a car dealership. If you two weren't buying a car, I'd think you were running for president."

Goodbye, car. Hello, Maui. And a contest.

2008-03-13T16:12:00.009-04:00

Before you get too excited, the above is not a picture of me. It's a picture of my sister and was taken in the year 1997. It's also a picture of my now-dead car (1997 is the year I bought the car. In 11 years and 160,000 miles, it never broke down once). I had been planning to keep my car just one more year, until I had my feet on the ground enough that a car payment would not be a burden. Instead, I was in an accident last week and the car is now totaled.

The interesting thing about the accident is that the guy who hit me was initially a total homophobic jerk (calling me "he" and then "it," referring to the fact that he couldn't tell if I was a man or a woman). However, the insurance company reported that after the fact he was polite and apologetic and didn't make a pain and suffering claim (which would have totally annoyed me). It's probably in part because the insurance company is calling the accident my fault. I still think it's debatable, but since I was the one changing lanes, they're saying it's all on me. I'm complaining, I know, and neglecting to say that it could have been much worse. I wasn't hurt, which is nothing short of a miracle.

Of course, the lack of car has created significant upheaval in my life. There was anxiety and dealing with rentals cars and enough calls from insurance companies to fill up my voice mailbox. To make things more complicated, I had a manuscript due last Thursday. Fortunately for me, I left for vacation in Maui last Friday, the 7th. By Sunday, I was zipping through West Maui and took this picture with my cell phone:

After a few days of beach and sun and really amazing restaurants, I'm feeling a lot better. When I get back I have a whirlwind of activities and clinical time, followed by another round of travel and three interviews in a week and two days' time. And I have to buy a car. So it's going to be busy. I'm also faced with a dilemma: what car to buy?

Many of my friends own Subarus. It's weird, in fact. It's not just Martina in the commercials. I think the lesbian and Subaru-loving genes are linked. I joke, but I have that gene, too. I love Subarus in a major way. The practicalness. The rugged cuteness. The storage space. And yet, I'm struggling. Are Subarus too gay? Will I be too much like my friends?

So, I think that we should have a write-in: what kind of car should I buy? My criteria:

1. Dependable: should last another ten years.
2. Can carry a lot of stuff.
3. Although I don't have kids, I want one or two. So kid-friendly.
4. More power than my old Corolla.
5. Attractive enough. In lesbian terms.
6. Consistent with my sparkling personality.

I'm looking this week, so move on this, people. Write in with your ideas.

I still can't resist a baby face.

2008-02-26T12:21:00.003-05:00

Well, I just got back to my office after finishing my morning of basic life support training. This means that I just spent 4 hours stifling laughter as I watched a video featuring "Scott" collapsing in his doctor's office (the minute he walked in there, jovial and attractive, I could tell he was a goner), "Ann" suffering from choking (don't forget what I just learned: when in that situation, kick the choking person from behind. Or something like that. I forget), and "an unnamed man" who was lucky enough to have his vfib arrest directly outside the ER to a hospital and in front of 2 EMS personnel. In addition, my BLS recertification means that it has been two years since I became a blogger. Granted, I had a different blog for my first blogging year, but it's been two years nonetheless.

At the time of my previous BLS training, I commented on the fact that everyone in the class thought I was a freak, in no small part because I kept taking pictures of the "manikins" with my phone. This time everyone thought I was a freak, too, but experience was entirely different.

I think it's because I've now been around the VA for a while, so I knew a couple of people in the class and I saw a few more people I knew in the hall. People definitely looked twice at my behavior (particularly the part where I borrowed the "infant" face to photograph), but because they know me, they thought that was as funny as it was strange. As a result, I also got to explain myself to others ("I'm taking this picture to post on the internet."), and although not everyone got the joke (my instructor said, "Hmm mmm. Just remember that what you do is between you and Jesus."), I didn't feel like such a freak.

The other thing that I noticed is that I'm a little more mature than I was then. Maybe it's just because so many of my friends now have kids, but the disembodied baby faces weren't quite as hilarious as they were before. I sort of wondered whether if Katy and Tracy (see "Gin-Soaked Olive") would find infant CPR funny at all.

And the last thing that I realized is that the next time I take this damn class, I'll be in some new city and probably won't know anyone once again. I'll have to start the whole thing over. It's so frustrating to be a transient. Of course, I still don't have a job. So, maybe, in two years, I'll still be here. (That's comforting. God. What a no-win.)

Unify.

2008-02-07T15:05:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting here in the airport, on my way to yet another interview. I've been on the road for a month but, sadly, I still don't have a job. On the upside, after this trip I will be halfway to making airline premier status for the calendar year 2008. No lie. And, on this flight, I got bumped to first class. Nice.

Moving on. I was reminded this week, in part by Barack Obama (may he win the nomination so that we can have a youthful, inspiring, and, most of all, electable candidate to run against John McCain), that unity has fallen on hard times. Very few things unify Americans (and I'm sticking to Americans here because 1. I can't speak for the rest of the world because I don't know most of it; 2. I'm pretty sure most things on this list don't apply to many people in other countries). Many things divide us (political parties, religion, love of Skyline Chili and/or black licorice. Don't know about Skyline? Look it up. Order a can. It will change your life. Maybe in a good but possibly in a bad way. You just can't tell. Which is my whole point.)

Therefore, I have created a short list of things that do unify Americans. Of course, you can't please all of the people all of the time, and for this reason I have created a "unity score" for each item (out of 100). These items are only snippets of all of the possibilities, so if you have other suggestions of items that unify, please feel free to reply via comments.

OK, here we go:

1. Score: 60
Item: Soundtrack to "A Charlie Brown Christmas"
You like it, admit it. It reminds you of your childhood.

2. Score: 70
Item: Pizza
The beauty of pizza is that it comes in so many styles and sizes that everyone can find some pizza he/she likes. My mother hates traditional pizza, but the gorgonzola walnut no sauce pie at her local pizza joint is one of her favorite foods.

3. Score: 85
Item: The Superbowl
Many people don't like sports. But most of those people watch the superbowl because of either 1. The commercials. 2 Because he/she is in the middle of a party where everyone else is watching.

4. Score: 85
Item: Drag Queens
This one was also inspired by last weekend. On Saturday night, I spent the evening with my friend, SFDG (sort-of famous drag queen). Hitting the town with her was like being in the entourage of a celebrity (Granted, it was me and three of the dancers from her videos, so it's possible their beautiful bodies also attracted some of the attention. But she was certainly the main event. I got to flirt with the boys and temporarily feel famous. For these and many reasons, I was in heaven.) In gay bars, it's not that surprising the people would respond so positively. What got me was that walking down the street, normal people would smile, give an encouraging word, make a comment about her beauty and/or sexiness (not always appropriate, but whatever). Even homophobic straight men (hmmm. I wonder what their issue is?) like drag queens. Drag queens offer the opportunity to like a man without thinking about the fact that she's a man.

The night ended with a car full of clearly straight women (women who would never respond this way to, say, me), pulling up next to us. Mary J. Blige was pounding out of their car stereo, the windows down. I was expecting harassment, but instead they hooted for SFDG to dance, and all us of had an impromptu, one-song-dance party right there in the middle of a busy street. I haven't seen that much of a spontaneous gesture of unity since 9/11. (BTW: The picture of SFDG below is one I took, with my phone, last Saturday night.)

5. Score: 95
Item: Krispy Kreme Doughnuts
You may not eat them. They're terrible for you. But I know that you like them.

Swami update, part II

2008-01-28T19:24:00.000-05:00

As you may recall, the Swami had these words of wisdom at his talk:

1. "If you want peace of mind, don't see the faults of others"
2. Your actions are returned to you
3. "We say we are too busy to have a spiritual life, but in fact we make our lives busy to avoid thinking about spirituality."
4. We seek out and obtain material goods and personal accomplishments because we believe that these things will make us happy. They will not.

OK, so keeping that in mind, listen to this:

I've been on the road pretty much nonstop with this interviewing thing (and it's about to kill me, I swear.), and I often turn on the random hotel TV as I squeeze into my suit at 7 AM before I go to meet the world.

The other morning, though, my wake-up call was harsher than usual. Since I was a medical student, I've been fascinated by this southern televangelist, Joyce Meyer. It's crazy-whenever I run across her as I flip through channels, I can't help but watch. Her program is called "Enjoying Everyday Life." I encourage you to catch a bit of it just to experience its mesmerizing effects. Don't get sucked in to sending her money, though!! Don't buy her DVDs (No, I did not make this mistake. Don't worry)! Anyway, so I stopped (as usual) on her show and guess what her messages were?

1. "If you want peace of mind, don't see the faults of others"
2. Your actions are returned to you
3. "We say we are too busy to have a spiritual life, but in fact we make our lives busy to avoid thinking about spirituality."
4. We seek out and obtain material goods and personal accomplishments because we believe that these things will make us happy. They will not.

Seriously. Almost exactly.

Just now I did some reading and found out that she's being indicted (or at least investigated) by the Senate Finance committee for shady business dealings; essentially, she has accumulated a huge amount of money and some it seems to have obtained illegally. (What? A corrupt televangelist? No!)

The whole thing has left me a little depressed. I mean, it doesn't make the advice wrong. It just seems so much more...generic now that I realize that corrupt Joyce Meyers is saying the same thing. As I said in a previous post, is nothing original anymore?