Wednesday, December 06, 2006

 

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT...

You know those tacky t-shirts you always see from someone else’s vacation…”Grandma went to Mardi Gras and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”? Well, I’m ordering new ones. Mine shall read, “I graduated from residency, and all I got was this lousy deployment”. That’s right, dear friends. The US government has generously given me a 6-month, all expense paid trip to the Horn of Africa. I won’t tell you the exact country. Not because it’s top secret or anything. It’s not. It’s just that when I got the news, I googled it to find out all about it. Other lucky “travelers” going to the same location might also search for info, and the last thing I want is for them to find THIS site. Then I’d be stuck in the middle of BFE with people who know all about that time the masseur “finished me off”. Oh, I never wrote about that? Ha!

Anyway, I leave in early January. This doesn’t leave much time to get my affairs in order. I have learned, however, that it’s quite easy to make a will when you have no spouse, no children, and not much of actual value. On the off chance anything should happen to me, I’m leaving everything in trust for Hooch. He’s got an excellent head for numbers. If I take three biscuits out of the jar and only give him two, he’ll sit there expectantly until he gets the third.

Seriously though, there are many things to be done, plans to be changed, and stuff to buy. There is a store of sorts at the camp, but there are some things I simply can’t do in generic form. Thus, I’ll be busy collecting half a years worth of moisturizer, lip balm, and tampons. Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about what else to pack as the military will provide me with my daily wardrobe. Thank god for small favors. To that end, I will update as often as I can over the holidays, but don’t be upset if I don’t. Gathering all those tampons may take some time.

As time gets closer, I’ll e-mail everyone an address and official government-type e-mail (g-mail, hotmail, and the like are blocked on “official” computers) should you feel like keeping in touch or sending me stuff to read, eat, shoot, etc. Unfortunately, I’ve also learned blogs are impossible to access, so if you write something really funny (I know, it’s ALL really funny), I’d love it if you forward a copy of that as well.

Don’t worry. I’m not leaving just yet. And I’m working of photos of Santa Hooch to post. Now if I could just figure out how to keep his eyes from glowing demonically, it would seem so much cheerier.

Monday, November 27, 2006

 

XYZ

So, you’re all clamoring for the “commando” story. But I’ve got nothing in terms of photos or video. Just let me say that pants with more than one button and a zipper confound me. Let’s just leave it at that.

I will, however, offer you a similar story with less embarrassing implications for me…

Several years ago, I was sitting in a BART station with some friends. We were crawling home from a day of Chinese food and beer in the North Beach section of San Francisco. There we all sat, along with a group of locals and tourists waiting for the next train to arrive. Close to the tracks, these stood a beautiful young woman in a business casual pencil skirt and sensible heels. Next to her, there was a tall, gawky gentleman in a lab coat. He had his 10-speed in his right hand and was gesticulating with his left hand. One of his pants-legs was tucked into his socks. She was, surprisingly, interested in him.

That would have been the end of my, and anyone’s, interest in the labcoat guy. Then, the man turned to the left. The fly of his trousers was clearly down. He’d tucked his button-down into said pants. And the tail of his button-down was sticking out of his fly. Largely.

For a while, I was the only one who seemed to notice. Being the bitch that I am, I pointed it out to my friends. While we waited for the train, everyone else in the station slowly began to notice. There was an extended family from South America that was catching it all on their video camera. Shortly thereafter, the beautiful young woman looked down briefly. The utter horror showed in her face.

The train arrived, and we all got aboard. Everyone in the train was staring at the man’s crotch, but he only had eyes for the beautiful young lady. Eventually, they both deboarded, and everyone smiled awkwardly.

To this day, I feel horrible about the whole debacle. Should I have said something? I can only think it would have made things worse. How could he have recovered from the embarrassment? Would it have been any better than arriving home alone to realize he’d had a white rabbit peeking out from his crotch? Then again, the whole episode still makes me smile. Does that make me a horrible person. More importantly, do I care?

Saturday, November 25, 2006

 

Today's Lesson

If one insists on going commando, one should make a special effort to ensure one's pants are completely zipped.

Live and learn.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

 

Ah, But We Were Young and Earnest

Who’s Earnest? But seriously folks…

Tonight I found myself watching Madonna’s television special. I must admit that Madge/Esther puts on a damn fine stage show. But did anyone see the equestrian themed opening number with the not-a-bit-subtle sadomasochistic overtones? Because it brought back memories of college. And no, I don’t mean the ball-gag.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I went to college at a small liberal arts school in the mountains of Massachusetts. The school was filled with young artistic discontents looking for some spectacular way to express their frustrations. Unfortunately, this often culminated in the annual dance show. (Stop guessing – you can’t possibly imagine how bad it’s going to be.)

My sophomore year, a friend of mine decided to produce a mixed media/performance art/dance piece to comment on the destruction caused by modern industrial society. As this “friend” happened to be a cute guy I had a crush on, I agreed to be one of the dancers. (This was my scrawny, troubled artist phase which came in between my juvenile-delinquent-with- a-muscle-car phase and my looks-like-he-just-got-out-of-rehab phase. Yeah, I’ve always had such quality taste in men.) The piece was set to Bauhaus and some other unidentifiable Goth rock noise. There was a screen hanging over the stage on which photos of roadkill were projected. And the dancers? Why we were roadkill, too. In one portion of the dance, I was one leg of a squirrel. ONE LEG OF A DYING SQUIRREL. TWITCHING. IN ITS DEATH THROES. Oh, I almost forgot. There was a strobe light to make the whole thing that much more meaningful.

I think the highlight of it all was my complete breakdown during the performance. During dress rehearsals, the slide show had not been available and the strobe light wasn’t activated. Big mistake. At a crucially meaningful moment of the piece, this squirrel leg looked up and saw the actual black-and-white photos of roadkill flashing above. It was at that moment that I realized the utter absurdity of the whole fiasco. And I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop,

Thus ended my scrawny artist phase. (Although he did ask me to perform the piece again for an encore performance which just got me laughing all over again.)

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

 

We've Moved

So, I dropped of the grid for a few days. And I was doing sooo well with the frequent writing thingy (Haleodomo). Hooch and I have moved (yet again). For those of you who actually send me old-fashioned mail (with postage stamps and all), you are well aware that this is almost an annual tradition. This time, it was not the usual "ants-in-my-pants-been-here-too-long" or "the grass is always greener closer to the beach" move. No, this time the move was actually necessary and dictated by my new job. Thus, I spent the day knee deep in boxes and movers and dust and shit that I didn't even remember was in the closet. Here are a few of the highlights.

1. It never rains in Southern California? Bullshit. Apparently, it only rains on moving day.

2. When I went to get coffee for the movers and myself, I saw a man walking down the road in shorts and a t-shirt...in the rain...carrying a big red funnel. Huh. He had no gas can. The possibilities are endless.

3. Ruby likes to say that she was happy to get married and have kids so the manicurists could finally stop looking at her with pity. But alas, it's no longer only little Vietnamese ladies who want to know if I'm married and have kids and if not, "Why not?" Now it's the movers, too.

4. Upon arrival at the new house, I found a box the movers had labeled "HELMETS".

5. Here's my new kitchen. I'm very excited. It's big and has about 3 times as much cabinet space as my last kitchen. Unpacking today, I already found some votive candles and a cuisinart ice cream maker I'd completely forgotten about.



6. This is the beach. It's right across the street.



O.K. Maybe the grass is a little greener...

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

 

Thanks, y'all!

I'd like to thank everyone for attending Monday's pity-party. Your party favors are in the mail.

My favorite response came from Nilbo (too lazy to link - see link to the left):

"Now here ... (spits on a tissue, wipes a smudge off your cheek, then brushes your hair back out of your eyes) You have such a pretty face. It's a shame to hide it. Go. Play outside. Stop moping around. Get!"

And this brings up a funny "parental embarassment story" from my recent past...

I work as a surgical resident at a fairly good-sized hospital in Southern California. One of my aunts (who happens to be my most favorite of all relatives) works as a nurse practitioner in the ER of the same hospital. My mom (a true mom among moms) came to visit one time, and said aunt brought her to the ER where I was to meet them. I went ot the ER in my VERY OFFICIAL scrubs and my VERY DOCTOR-LIKE long white coat to pick up my mom. We are standing in the middle of the ER (surrounded by patients and emergency room physicians who I hope think of me as a mature, capable surgical consultant) when my Mom begins to look at me very intently. She goes, "Honey, you have something on your face." IMAGINE THE FOLLOWING IN HORRIFYING SLOW MOTION! She proceeds to lick her thumb, and wipe it off my face!! At that moment, I went from BIG IMPORTANT SURGEON to 8 year-old mortified little girl. I was all "MOM! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST DID THAT! OH MY GAWD!"

Fortunately, no one laughed. Because I would have had to cut them. And I know how!

But on the internet, it's okay. So thanks again Nils!

Monday, November 06, 2006

 

Letting the days go by...

Apropos of nothing...

Let's Talk About the Weather:
Today was so freakin' beautiful here in San Diego. Sometimes I can forget how phenomenal the weather can be (as I spend most of my day in climate controlled, flourescently lit hospital land). When I left work tonight, it was dark. But it was WARM. I went to WholeFoods, got some dinner, and then sat outside in a t-shirt and ate my asian tofu with noodles. Southern California Rocks! (O.K. So that was tacky and semi-literate. Cut me some slack.)

The monthly "Fuck You" Awards:
1. Hey lady! Yeah, you. You pushing your shopping cart with one hand and drinking your non-fat soy frappo-something with the other while doing your damn-dest not to make eye contact with me. I am flush up against the dairy case and cannot move any further. EAT SOME FUCKING PROTEIN AND STEER AROUND ME!
2. Hey lady! Yeah, you. You with the 5-year old who licked her fingers from the free sample and then proceeded to rearrange the entire sushi case with aforementioned spitty fingers. It is not o.k. to stand in the middle of the aisle of the salad bar and pick up individual items, show them to your child, name them, and then casually throw them back in the container when she sneers. SOME OF US ARE FUCKING HUNGRY! SLOW MOVING VEHICLES SHOULD PULL OVER AND ALLOW OTHERS TO PASS!
3. Hey ass! Yeah, you. You've been following me around, taunting me with your largeness and slightly less than totally-tonedness. It's been a rough year and all. When residency is officially over, I promise to eat less chocolate (fingers SO crossed behind my back) and run more stairs (O.K. That might really happen). In the meantime, could you PLEASE just fit in my cute jeans and quit being so unruly? Thank you very FUCKING much.

Finally, a tie in to the title:
Oh my god, how did I get here? (Thank you, David Byrne.) While I have neither a beautiful house or a beautiful wife, I find myself wondering about where I am. I never thought I'd be living in SoCal. I never thought I'd be a surgeon. I never thought the warmest thing I'd have to sleep with would be a boxer who snores and farts...(O.K. The whole boxer thing was always a possibility - I just thought he'd walk on two legs and have a few tattoos). As I draw near to the end of my residency, yet another move, and another lonely year, I can't help but feel as if I'm just letting the days go by. And letting them take me with them...

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