the post in which i tell you what i’m thankful for

On the first day of every month I wake up inspired and think to myself, “Wake up, wake up, wake up it’s the first of da month.” Then I think, “This is going to be it. This will be the month I blog every. single. day.”

November was not that month. Neither was October. Or September. You get the picture.

Going out of town for Thanksgiving didn’t help matters this month. But, I might as well be a good blogger and end the month on a high note by telling you why I’m giving thanks:

Fall in our front yard – it lasted all of 48 hours:

Someone who enjoys taking road trips and listening to dystopian young adult novels with me (that would be Y):

Family (even when they bring an airhorn to Thanksgiving!) and the fact that some of them live in pretty, pretty Birmingham:

the view from our hotel

One of my favorite drinks at Starbucks:

Scarf weather:

where has YOUR husband’s finger been?

Things have changed since Y was a wee first year, when the first few notes of “How to Save a Life” were supposed to elicit excited goosebumps and he didn’t know just how bad a day spent cutting open a dead man could smell. The good old days when he used to laugh at those unfortunate third years who had to *gigglesnort* perform rectal exams.

Here’s what’s changed: we are at that oh-so-pivotal point when Y can say “so then I put my finger in his rectum” without flinching and I, most certainly, cannot.

Scholarly Ike says: So immature. Rectal exams save lives.

Another example: medical school textbooks used to make us laugh. They still make me laugh; they seem so familiar and juvenile and make med school seem like third period or something. They remind me of the textbooks we used in high school, with bright colored boxes that separate the page into sections, including insets on the margin that explain key points and bolded vocabulary words. It’s the pictures of diseased genitals thrown in there that catch me off guard.

This one’s my favorite. No diseased genitals here, but check out those germs… your doctor is probably looking at your lab results trying to remember whether the disease you’ve got is the Giant Billy Ray Cyrus affliction or Slimy Raspberry Blob-itis or Suspenders McGee.

The pictures used to throw Y off too. At first he’d turn to the wrong page and jump backward a little, not expecting the full color, graphic images.

But now, Y and his classmates probably see so many diseased genitals that they’re wondering why they’re not in every book. “The Girl Who Played With Fire was great,” they say to each other, “but what it was really missing was a picture of a rashy testicle.”

It’s weird that Y and I have gotten to a point where our days consist of such drastically different things (his, rectal exams and surgery; mine, editing, stapling, and filing) — yet it’s interesting at the same time. Well, I find it interesting at least. The recap of my day that Y gets must bore him to tears — “…so then, my printer ran out of ink. I had to go down the hall to get some more. On my way down the hall I happened to be right behind the SlowWalker. When I moved to the left, so did he. So I cut to the right. And he did at the same time! Can you believe that? And then, the elevator went up when it was supposed to go down.”

I think at the beginning, I was worried that seeing the sobering things a medical professional sees would turn Y into a serious shell of the person he once was.

Above: the person Y once was.

And sure, maybe he doesn’t laugh as loudly at bodily functions as he used to. But listening to him and 10 other med students scream South Park quotes across a crowded Hibachi restaurant has renewed my faith in his sense of humor. Do not fear, newly minted med school spouses. Unless you hate South Park. They never grow out of it.


I have been called pretty funny before. Once, by Y. And followed by “-looking”. But this post isn’t about me, it’s about some of the pretty/funny things I’ve come across lately:

the pretty:

This is old, but I keep coming across it. This is the only kind of camping I would ever be into. (flickr: somethingshidinginhere)

Moon photos shot by an astrophotographer. Where do I sign up to be an astrophotographer, can you think of a cooler job?

I had no desire to re-read any of these kids’ classics until Penguin re-issued them with these new covers and started selling them at Anthropologie.

the funny:

I follow @english50cent, a comedian who translates all of 50 Cent’s tweets into Queen’s English. He recently translated the entire In da Club video. I think I finally get this song.

I woke up the other morning to the sound of Y crying. He was reading the latest Hyperbole and a Half.

The day is finally here, 30 Rock Fans… there is a full version of Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.

WBThirty Day 19: A talent of mine (inspiration in unexpected places)

I like to think I’m a pretty good speller. I blame it on having more books than friends when I was growing up, so I can tell when words look funny. That being said, I cannot spell the word “sandwich” to save my life. I always spell it “sandwhich”.

Speaking of sandwiches, I came across a new favorite quote that absolutely had to be illustrated. It appeals to my love of food and my multiple, self-diagnosed cases of ADD (food ADD, music ADD, life’s work ADD, this blog post’s ADD):

This quote is by a former Swedish porn star who is currently a celebrity real estate agent and a future reality TV star, by the way.

*Edited to add: Y has informed me that I inadvertently made a gay porn joke. I took it down. It wasn’t on purpose, and now I feel like I’m my mom or something… missing an obvious gay porn joke is such a mom thing to do.

Just Dandi: Part 2

My dad — like all dads– has a special talent for embarrassing me. And it doesn’t stop at his tendency to wear t-shirts with my face on them.

He has a mental bank of one-liners, automatic responses he spits out when people say certain things to him. “So, Henry, what’s your job, what do do you do for work?” someone might ask him.

“As little as possible,” he will always reply. To this day, I don’t have the slightest clue what my dad did at work all those years.

“Be right back, I have to go to the bathroom,” someone will tell him.

“Mention my name, you’ll get a good seat!” he responds without even thinking.

People laugh, but having heard these little jokes my entire life, I usually give them a good old fashioned angsty teenaged eye roll.

It was yesterday, Saturday, that I realized I have become my father.

While Y was on call and Dandy once again became Dandi, I took Ike to a cute little jazz festival at a park near our house.

While fun and cute, this little festival was not without its local idiosyncracies…

As expected, Ike was a hit (people cannot get enough of this dog, it’s bizarre). Person after person complimented him, and I was never sure what to say. Thank you? It’s not like I created him.

…like a beignet/prayer request booth with a side of Bibles for sale…

So I went with a joke from the mental bad joke bank.

…or a group of elementary aged cheerleaders cheering “Come and get (clap, clap) yo turkey leg! (clap clap)”

“What a beautiful dog,” a passerby would say. “He prefers handsome,” I would reply with an exaggerated wink.

My audience laughed. My hypothetical future teenage daughter rolled her eyes.

After five or so times I added a telling nudge. After 10 times I added an apologetic pat on Ike’s head. I was on a roll. I started to understand why my dad keeps his arsenal of jokes. The only problem is once you’ve been reciting them for 30 or so years, you lose track of who’s heard them.

The second act of my comedy routine in the park came anytime Ike walked reasonably close to a little boy. “Ike!” I would scold dramatically, sometimes adding a light smack for dramatic effect, “You had child for lunch yesterday!”

(Or pork banh mi. Same difference.)

Okay, maybe I just got the courage to say the child thing in my head. It was a good one, though, don’t you think?

D & cupcakes: a history

In case you didn’t notice the oversaturation yourself, or read it here first, let me just reiterate/confirm: the cupcake is no longer cool.

Know how I know this?

The trend has trickled down from Magnolia and Sprinkles, through regional large-ish cities, and made its way through the pipeline to little old Small-ish Town, Louisiana. We now have four little cupcake boutiques; this one is by far the cutest:

I have something cupcake related that I need to get off my chest (that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say):

I do not like cupcakes any more than the average person.

Somehow, I became everyone I know’s poster child for the cupcake. I receive gifts with pictures of a cupcake on them, or even just the word “cupcake”. People tag me in photos of random cupcake stores. I get sent clipping after clipping of news stories about cupcakes. And while I love that people are thinking about me, I’m always curious if my friends and family just picture my head as a giant cupcake.

I mean, I like cupcakes, sure. But — who doesn’t like cupcakes?

I think I know what started this: In 2007, I was an intern at an ad agency with a lot of downtime. A lot of Perez Hilton was consumed, thus, so were a lot of pictures of celebrities eating the cool new thing: cupcakes. That spring, Y and I went to Portland, Oregon. My sister introduced us to a cute little place called Saint Cupcake.

I must have come home talking about the genius concept of cupcake boutiques. And since the trend hadn’t trickled down to us mere Louisiana-folk yet(other than Carrie and Miranda eating cupcakes outside of Magnolia Bakery on HBO on Sundays), I must have sounded like a crazy person. I even made my best recreation of fancy cupcake boutique cupcakes. I think they turned out less “fancy cupcake boutique” and more “third grade bake sale”.

In 2008, I was finally able to get my first taste of this “Sprinkles” place that all of the celebrities worthy of their own category on Perez Hilton were visiting. I even went so far as to use a picture of myself biting into a pumpkin cupcake as my profile picture. Mistake #1.

Because Y and I have such great memories of our first big vacation together, to Portland, we thought about ordering cupcakes from Saint Cupcake as our wedding cake. Yeah. That was expensive. But we still decided to use cupcakes instead of a cake. Mistake #2 (but not really. They were delicious).

I do still make cupcakes occasionally (and I have to say they look a lot less “third grade bake sale” than they used to).

But you know why? Well first of all, I like to bake, and they’re easy. It isn’t because I have some weird obsession with cupcakes. It’s also because when you show up somewhere carrying a dozen cupcakes, it makes people happy. And who doesn’t like making people happy? The same people who don’t like cupcakes: Communists.

As a side note, I also make hummus and bring it places often. I’m glad no one has picked up on this and started sending me hummus-related merchandise, because I imagine it’s not nearly as cute as the cupcake stuff.