random moments

I always take my camera on walks. I’m convinced we’re going to see something amazing one day — the closest we’ve come to amazing is 7 cats in front of one house, but hey, I can dream.

I also always get tired of holding the camera and Y reluctantly offers to hold it for me. The other day, he started snapping photos of Ike and told me he was going to do an expose on him. I cocked my head. “Really?” I asked, “What do you hope to uncover?” There was a pause. “Oh,” he said, “I meant exhibit.”

I prefer expose. But I want Ike doing the investigatory journalism.

Poor Urban Infrastructure and Extreme Cuteness: Is There a Link?

Tonight at 10: Illegal Midget Colonies

As punishment for Y’s word mixup, he was puppy-boarded. That’s just how we roll in this house. You should have seen what happened after the whole gental/genital fiasco.

Speaking of how we roll in this house, this is standard “I might have a cavity” protocol:

These short and sweet random moments were brought to you by writer’s block, exhaustion due to a 6 am yoga class, and a tornado warning.

ER or something like it

Well, it finally happened: Y picked a specialty. Actually, he’s picked about 6 specialties, so let me clarify: he finally picked one that stuck. And it happens to be the most confusing type of doctor ever:

ER doctor.

Oh excuse me – that slight shift you just felt was every physician ever rolling their eyes at the same time. What I meant to say was “emergency medicine physician”. Apparently only the uninitiated say ER doctor.

Also, in case you were planning on embarrassing yourself, it’s not the emergency room, it’s the emergency department and you must call it the ED — not the ER — or ELSE. And no erectile dysfunction jokes allowed. SO MANY RULES. On this blog, I’m calling it ER because a) I feel pompous typing “emergency physician” over and over, and b) that’s what a young George Clooney would have called it.

According to pretty much everyone, ER is the last specialty they would have expected Y to choose. Based on this “physician specialty stereotype” comic (which is obviously the official description) I would have to disagree:

Find the link to the rest of the comic here. And while you’re there, tell me where you find primary care physicians that are hippies – certainly not here!

Minus the celtic tattoo, I see Y in this guy. Y has an inner McGyver that he is always trying to unleash before I roll my eyes at him. Also like this guy, Y thinks on his feet. When he has an idea of how to fix/build something, he wants it done “stat”, no time for silly things like plans. Y also, like the guy above, has only seventeen hairs.

So congrats on realizing your destiny, Y. And thank you for choosing a specialty that I can easily learn more about by watching Uncle Jesse and Danny Ocean pretend to treat patients. Who thinks I can watch all 15 seasons of ER in the next year?

tiny dancer

Last week I spent an evening poring over old photographs from when my family lived in Europe, and I discovered one of my new favorite things about getting older: your childhood photos get so. much. cooler.

Remember the video that was circulating a few weeks ago of the poor aspiring ballerina who just could not contort her legs into first position?

I kind of feel her pain.

(I’m on the far right…the one always doing something completely different than everyone else.)


Well, it’s here: summer. We pretty much skipped spring, and this weekend it was close to 90 degrees and humid. Do you mind if I whine for a minute the next five months?

I get it — most of you wait the entire year for warm weather. But see it from my perspective for a second. To you, warm weather means spending time outside. To me, spending time outside means FRIZZ! so epic it requires capital letters and its own exclamation mark.

Innocent little D did not yet realize the implications of that hair…

To you, summer might mean a fruity drink with an umbrella. To me, it means having to drink an entire river every day to avoid getting dizzy.

dramatic reenactment; paid actor

You’re tan after 2 days in the sun… I’ll be rocking my un-tannable, freckly ghost legs until October.

You can’t wait to go to the beach… I sweat excessively at any mention of sun. And this is what I do when I get hot, apparently:

There you have it. The next time you see me when it’s above 70 degrees, and I’m grumpy- that’s why. Feel free to avoid me. Especially if I look like I do in that last picture.

Tell me: Is it just me? Does anyone else care to share their sweating issues?
Or a miracle frizz product that costs less than my $20 bottle of oil?

tales from a small town

{Featuring semi-unrelated pictures from our fair city}

I could make my point by telling you a story about how my professor’s daughter moved in next door. And how she found the house because she also happens to be great friends with my landlord.

{this was our previous next door neighbor’s vehicle of choice, so let’s just say we were happy to get a new neighbor}

Or I could tell you that the reason I know she is friends with our landlord is because I ran into our landlord at the grocery store and he told me.

We could discuss the fact that my favorite pasttime, yelling at annoying drivers, is dangerous when there’s an 80% chance said annoying driver is a respected elder in your synagogue (trust me — it’s happened to Y).

I could tell you how I ran into my mother in law at Starbucks, have seen my father in law’s car on multiple occasions, or watched another one of my professors be incredibly creepy at a bar.

But today’s tale from a small town involves Craigslist, where Y decided to sell his bike. He communicated anonymously with the first prospective buyer for a day or so until he realized he knew the guy. Not just kind of knew him… the guy is in Y’s class. And in this class of 120, they don’t just kind of know each other… they’re in the same social circle. As in, prospective buyer won our Snuggie in the Christmas white elephant party. Bet that doesn’t happen on San Francisco’s Craigslist.

As I began writing this post, I realized that I had written a pretty similar one almost exactly a year ago. I guess every year I get the April Small Town Blues (it’s in the DSMIV. Look it up.)

more thoughts on OB-GYN

{do you have any idea how difficult it is to find pictures to illustrate posts about OB-GYN?}

Near the end of Y’s OB-GYN rotation, someone told me a gross story that involved something disgusting about lady parts that I can’t even remember anymore — probably because I blocked it out of my memory. It was probably that bad/gross/weird.

When I told Y about the story, he shrugged, obviously uninterested. “Yeah, that happens often.”

And with that, it was official: my husband was vajaded.