stampydurst

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT...

2006-12-06T17:48:00.000-08:00

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.

XYZ

2006-11-27T23:40:00.000-08:00

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?

Today's Lesson

2006-11-25T17:36:00.000-08:00

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

Live and learn.

Ah, But We Were Young and Earnest

2006-11-22T21:36:00.000-08:00

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.)

We've Moved

2006-11-14T21:09:00.000-08:00

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...

Thanks, y'all!

2006-11-08T20:42:00.000-08:00

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!

Letting the days go by...

2006-11-06T23:10:00.000-08:00

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...

CSI Update

2006-11-05T21:45:00.000-08:00

Um, yeah. So that smell that was driving me crazy? The smell that had me blaming the dog? The smell that had me crawling around my living room and kitchen with a black light? Turns out it was the fancy hand soap in the kitchen. Apparently, I don't like the smell of lemon-verbena. Who knew?

The offending soap and matching moisturizer have been discarded, the dog has received apologies and biscuits, and olfactory happiness once again reigns at Chez Stampy.

I Call "Bullshit"!

2006-11-04T20:36:00.000-08:00

O.K. Just saw a ridiculous commercial on TV. It was for tea. Yes, tea - as in leaves in a bag added to hot water. A woman at a cafe is enjoying her cup of leaves, when she glances over at a hot guy also savoring his tea. They have a "MOMENT". Let's be real. While "love at first sight" is hard enough to believe over coffee, I can't imagine looking at a guy with a pyramid-shaped tea bag and thinking, "Wow! I gotta have me some of that!" The only thing less likely is being overcome with lust for the guy ordering his mocha frappuccino with skim milk and no whip.

CSI: SAN DIEGO

2006-11-04T19:39:00.000-08:00

She entered the house in a stylish outfit (low-cut blouse, tight black pants, and high-heeled boots) with perfect hair and flawless make-up. After all, it is apparently impossible to solve crimes if you are chunky and slovenly. The smell immediately smacked her in the face. Once you’ve smelled this smell, you never forget it. It reeked of dog piss. She looked across the room and found a possible suspect…

He looked awkward and guilty. After all, it’s always the dog. She tried questioning him but he just continued to look cute and wag his tail. When it became apparent she wasn’t going to fall for his act, he stopped begging for biscuits and went to sleep. ON. THE. COUCH. (Little unrepentant bastard.)

She put down her kit (which looked suspicially like a bag from PetSmart) and took out a black light (marketed for just such an emergency).∗ She turned off the lights and began to search for evidence. She discovered two things. First, the dog's leash has a glow in the dark pattern on it. Who knew? More importantly, she found out that the dog is afraid of blacklights. He stood behind her legs and barked around them frantically. Perhaps a sign of guilt?

Several minutes of crawling around the floor later, she was forced to admit defeat. There was no evidence of piss to be found. Perhaps she was smelling things. Perhaps the dog needed a bath. Perhaps it was time to take out the garbage. But all was not lost…it was time to chase the dog around with the blacklight. After all, she didn’t want to waste this ensemble for nothing.

∗BIG EWWW! Please note that the side of the box also suggests alternative uses for the pissfinder including taking it to hotel rooms to assess their cleanliness. It also has a chart on the side which shows what different stains look like - including semen. I think this is something probably better left unknown. Or I may never travel again.

In Honor Of KerriAnne

2006-11-02T20:46:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, Miss KerriAnneposted about her furnace conking out. In San Diego, this wouldn't mean much. Unfortunately, in the Pacific Northwest, this translasted to COLD. She and her most adorable fiancee Late Show had to wear their winter coats inside, and posted adorable photos. They then challenged the rest of us to post photos of us in our winter best. I love Miss KerriKerriQuiteContrary, and thus submit the following for your viewing pleasure...

Here's Hooch giving props to West Coast Choppers...

And here are Hooch and I pretending to be Brittany and K-fed...

Happy Thursday Miss KerriAnne.

REASONS I WILL NOT “OFFICIALLY” BE PARTICIPATING IN NaBloPoMo

2006-11-01T21:46:00.000-08:00

1. The phrase ends in “PoMo”. To me, the graduate of a small liberal arts school in Massachusetts, “pomo” is short for "post-modernism”. This brings back nightmares of Birkenstock-wearing, patchouli-smelling, get-the-spiders-off-me dancing undergrads arguing about Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault.

2. I don’t want to let anybody down. Let’s be honest. The chances of me following through on any commitment is 50/50 at best. Thus, I will embark on my own HALEODOMo (pronounced Hah-lay-oh-doh-moh) – Hopefully At Least Every Other Day Of (the) Month. (Catchy, don’t you think?) I don’t want to set my goals too high. What was the line from “Hey, Jealousy”? I think it went, “if you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down”.

3. Finally, and perhaps most truthfully, I can’t download buttons/banners onto my blog. It is a well established fact that I am an internet retard. Enough said.

Welcome to HALEODOMo. See you tomorrow. Or maybe Friday or something. Call me.

I Really Like Nuts

2006-10-31T21:47:00.000-08:00

I periodically go through…let’s just call them “phases”. During these phases, I resolve to become thinner and healthier.

1. I buy all new vitamins. Most of my new vitamins are both foul smelling and the size of horse tranquilizers. At the same time, they are usually expensive as they are “organic” and “food-based” and “targeted at stupid people on health-kicks”. These vitamins will make me nauseated for 3 to 4 weeks. At that point, I will stash them in a cabinet until they expire or it is time to buy new ones…whichever comes first.

2. I will do what I like to refer to as “cross-training”. I will go to the gym every day for about 4 days. At the gym, I will do 45 minutes to an hour of cardio followed by weights and abs. Then, I will stretch…oh, how I will stretch. I will feel virtuous and go to bed early. On or about the fourth day, I will get cranky and/or have a really bad day. I will remind myself that “no one is paying me to be thin” and “damn it I want a glass of red wine”. I will go directly home (Do not pass the gym. Do not burn 200 calories.) and open a bottle of wine. One bottle of wine, half a pack of cigarettes, some dark chocolate and a frozen pizza later, I will feel guilty and crawl off to bed. The next morning, I will resolve to never, ever be so gluttonous again and vow to go to the gym. At least for 4 days…

3. Just to spice things up, I will decide to try a new diet or institute some major dietary restrictions. If I can fulfill both criteria – hey, that’s just a bonus. Most recently, I embarked on a “Raw Food” diet. This involves lots of produce and sprouts, raw seeds and nuts, and stuff that is put in a dehydrator. Obviously, I am not doing this diet/lifestyle justice. Then again, that’s not my job. What’s important is that I get to say things like “I eat a lot of nut cheese” in a car full of my colleagues. Oh yeah, good times. Even better is when they calm down enough to ask how one makes nut cheese, and I tell them about the “nut milk bag”. Needless to say, I had steak for dinner that night.

So, this is just to warn you that I’m in a “phase” right now. I went to the gym today, I’m in bed before 11pm, and I’d take the vitamins if I wasn’t so full of benadryl (yes, the fucking hives are still lurking). But no nut cheese this time. I mean, a girl has to have some self-respect.

My Latest Big Idea

2006-10-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

When I was in grad school at Berkeley, I had the great fortune of participating in the annual Bay-to-Breakers Race. But don't let the "race" part fool you. It was the most fun I've ever had while running. It's a 12K race from the Bay Bridge to Ocean Beach in SF. At that time, I wasn't a real runner. It sounded fun...a local band at every mile marker, a costume contest, a concert by Eddie Money at the finish line (o.k. beer and bbq at the finish line)...I figured I'd run a mile or two and then walk. On my BART ride over from Berekley, I was on the train with serious runners (you can spot their 0% body fat from a distance), people in costumes (the guy in the giant Barney suit in running shoes displayed total commitment), and many amature runners and musicians (death to the man with the sax who kept playing "I love you, you love me..."). Things were starting out well.

When I got to the starting line, there were 10's of 1000's of runners lined up. There were flour tortillas flying like frisbees. There were a number of guys (there's a group costume contest) running as a land shark (they ran in a straight with fins on their head...I can't describe the visual joy), and beer flowing freely. I couldn't find the actual number of registrants, but more than 100,000 people ran the course. It took me 45 minutes to actually cross the starting line (otherwise I clearly could have won that BMW instead of that skinny Kenyan guy). I ran the first mile, and there was a band. So I kept running. Then I ran the second mile... During the race, there is a really steep hill. I thought of quitting. But there was a guy in ski pants, a parka, and cross-country skis who WALKED up the hill. I kept running. People sprayed us with hoses, handed us beers, and let us use their bathrooms. So I kept running.

I ran past Jerry's Kids (a group of guys in tie-dyed t-shirts pushing a keg in a wheelbarrow - Jerry GARCIA's kids), a group of people pushing a tiki bar on wheels with actual working blenders, and a number of guys running nude except for running shoes (and everyone they passed kept saying "Ow, that must hurt"). So I kept running. And I talked to a totally random but totally interesting people. At the end, I crawled out of the park (remember, I wasn't a runner at the time so bits and pieces hurt) and ate a sweaty but thoroughly enjoyable brunch.

So, to make a long story longer, I have a plan. I think we should have a blogger meet-up of sorts this May. At the 2007 Bay to Breakers. And I think we should have a costume theme. Maybe we could win a trip to Vegas. Hey, a girl can dream.

Let me know if you're in for the run. And send costume ideas. And nothing that chafes, please.

Your Dreams Miss You...

2006-10-16T21:54:00.000-07:00

(EDITED FOR LESS RED-WINE FUELED HYPERBOLE!)

I don't know if you've seen the commercial for that new sleep aid where Abe Lincoln and the GroundHog are waiting for the sleepless pudgy guy, but it got me thinking...I've left my dreams waiting for quite some time. I could talk about the heartfelt desires that have been crushed. I could talk about the dreams of making the world a better place that have been laughed down. Or, I could be true to myself and make it fun and completely devoid of meaning. After all, I dream about famous people and talking animals, too.

...this is the old beater I picked out (and Ah-sweep-ay bought) and was subsequently sold. I will one day own a true desert beater.

...this is an awesome bar in Big Bear, CA where I hope to spend many drunk evenings...

...and one day someone in Cancun will throw me a Cuban cigar...

...finally, I hope to one day work the phrase "trick-fucking" into a conversation. Ruby will be so proud.

IsThere A Pro Shuffleboard Tour?

2006-09-29T00:09:00.000-07:00

Tonight, as I was driving home across the bridge, I noticed the moon. It was just larger than a quarter moon. The kind and size of moon that should have an illustrated face. The kind of moon with a cow sitting on it while cutlery got up to some no-good shenanigans in some twisted version of “Hey-diddle-diddle”. The moon was stunningly beautiful, and it was all the more noticeable due to its recent absence. (It’s been REALLY dark here at night – just work with me on this one.)

The real reason I was able to appreciate the moon, however, was because I was ensconced in the quiet, climate-controlled luxury of a Toyota Avalon. Yes, that’s right. I own a 4-door sedan. It is my very first "adult" car. Unless you count my first car (a 2-door 1982 Toyota Corolla with well over 100,000 miles on it when I took possession) as a mature choice. And o.k., o.k. There was that one regrettable period with a Volvo station wagon during which all my friends would clamor, “Hey, mom! Mom! Can we get ice cream after soccer practice?” whenever I was the designated driver. But other than that, all my cars have had off-road potential and some level of "indie cred". I NEVER THOUGHT I’D OWN A SEDAN!

Of all the cars I’ve loved before, the last one – a Jeep Wrangler – fit me best. The top was rarely up on it (and yes, I got rained on countless times). I’d drive it into work with a fleece jacket and a ski cap on, stereo blaring GnR. I’d drive home in a t-shirt with my hair flying everywhere, Godsmack blaring. It went 4wheeling in 29 Palms, the Mojave desert, and a few other places it probably wasn;t invited, with Lynnard Skynnard blaring. I was Little Miss HotShit with my hair on fire. Then, I spent 3 winter months in Seattle and drove back and forth up the I-5 in said Jeep – a vehicle not well suited to long distance travel and/or rainy climates. Shortly after I arrived back in San Diego, I was at the Toyota dealership demanding a car with a trunk in which I could leave my golf clubs. Enter the Avalon.

I still miss the Jeep. But it was new. It lacked character that can only be earned with some serious mileage. I realized I don’t need a Jeep that costs a shit-ton of money and has less miles on it than I do. What I need is an old $2000 Jeep and a cute guy who can fix it with some antifreeze and a roll of duct tape.

Happy Birthday, Amanda B.!

2006-09-18T21:13:00.000-07:00

CLARIFICATION: These are all honest to goodness quotes I received via e-mail in honor of Amanda B. O.K. O.K. The goat quote I made up. So sue me.

Quotes in honor of your birthday...

“Well, I hope you don't smoke pork fat cause I think that increases the health hazard by a factor of at least 2...”

“I have a feeling that Amanda would LOVE to see someone grease themselves up and ride an electric bull. But there isn't one in my area, so I'm leaving this idea open to others. Bucky?”

“Hold your left leg and right arm up in the air, put your right foot on the red dot and your left hand on the goat…”

...Happy quotes for Miss Amanda B. on her very most happiest of birthdays. Somewhere, there is a youtube video of a talking chicken that can play tic-tac-toe squawking “Fascists suck!”. I just can’t seem to get it posted.

MUST, MUST, MUST!

2006-09-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

You absolutely MUST go check out Natalie Dee today. The link is at the left. I would tell you this is not "airport safe", but everyone in the bar just turned around when I laughed loudly while spewing bloody mary everywhere. I'm a giver.

ADDENDUM: For those of you who are reading via bloglines, etc...For those of you, like me, who can't figure out the links on the left...for those of you just to f'in lazy to go there...Here's the link. AWESOME NATALIE DEE

On the Road Again

2006-09-16T08:27:00.000-07:00

I once again find myself in an airport. This time, in an effort to avoid panic attacks and awkward moments (see below), I am beginning this trip in the airport bar with a Bloody Mary. In fact, make mine a double. I didn't even have to ask. I must have had that - "Look, I have just finished a week long marathon of non-stop family who commented on every sip of alcohol I consumed and every moment I spent on the internet and I need some motherf'in booze this instant" - look on my face because when I ordered, the waitress immediately half-asked/half-stated, "double for two dollars more". To which I emphatically replied,"YES! Can I start a tab?" And the rushed, run-on, pressured feeling of this last paragraph is exactly how my thoughts are racing so be glad you're not actually sitting next to me making the mistake of saying, "Nice day, isn't it?"

We used to say that my mother liked to arrive at the airport before the terrorists. This, understandably, is no longer so funny. So let's just say that I'm here at RDU more than 2 hours before my flight leaves. A short connector to Atlanta leaves me with a 4 hour layover there. Clearly, I did not book this flight. At any rate, if you have my number and feel like giving me a call, I have lots of spare time. You can even put your dog/kid/imaginary friend on the phone and have me say, "Hi!". Then you can tell me how fuckin' funny it is when they look at the phone all confused but don't make any noise. Glad to make you happy while I waste some wireless minutes.

On second thought, maybe you better let me get this first drink down first. I sound like one cranky bitch.

Awkward Moments in Air Travel

2006-09-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

Following a tortuous overnight flight to the East Coast, a curly-headed blonde consumes a giant black coffee in an effort to re-energize. Four clues into Friday’s NYTimes crossword puzzle, she falls asleep with her computer open in her lap. Awakening an unknown amount of time later (during which time she is sure she has been mouth breathing), she finds herself and a strange, staring man the only non-employees left at the gate. “They’re making the last call for boarding. I was going to wake you.” “Um, yeah. Thanks.”

Dude, Where's My G-mail?

2006-09-12T21:55:00.000-07:00

What just happened? I go out of town for a week and my internet-connectedness falls apart (surprisingly, with no overt help from me this time). I returned from a leisurely yet smoke-filled game of Bingo at the local Moose Lodge only to find my g-mail inbox totally empty. I don't mean there were no NEW e-mails (which-if there weren't-shame on all of you...Stampy's need love, too). I mean the entire box was GONE. The sent mail box is untouched. The trash is filled with messages that I ACTUALLY deleted. The rest? GONE! GONE, I tell you. So if you wrote to me today, please resend it. And if you didn't? Pretend that you did and send me some mail. I'll be none the wiser.

p.s. Having a grand old time in North Carolina. Have turned trip into a kind of white-trash adventure vacation. Think "The SPA at Dollywood" only with much less cleavage.

Fire Marshal Stampy

2006-09-07T23:44:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow night, I leave on a red-eye flight to the East Coast to visit the famdam. And now is as good a time as any to introduce a new feature here at StampyDurst - my weekly safety briefing. We live in dangerous times, people. And I'd like to do my part to make your day a little less anxiety-ridden. To that end, neither I nor Brittany Spears will be flying with Cheez-Wiz this weekend.

So if you have a business trip or family comittment to attend to, this is your weekend. I can't promise anything for the return trip. I've got a box of Ritz crackers just begging for some company.

Achewood ROCKS!

2006-09-05T23:26:00.000-07:00

If you are not already a fan of the most awesome online... Oh hell, I'm so uncool I don't know what to call it - "'zine"? "comic strip"? "graphic novel"? Fuck it! If you're not a fan of Achewood, you should be. (Please see link to left. I'm too tired to figure out the computer-ese to link it.) You must check out the strip from today - September 5 - on the saddest thing ever. If Chris Onstaad was not already married with a child, I would definitely make one of my weirder friends stalk him.

p.s. If you like today's strip, go back a few to the "insult-o-rama" strip. Still crying inside over that one.
p.p.s. If I ever really get some stones and start posting what I really think, I might have to ask if I can use "no limits, no knuckles" as my new site address.

The Good, The Bad, and The Funny-Looking

2006-08-29T21:41:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I spent some time with Tammi Faye and Fun Bobby. See, Fun Bobby is getting ready to deploy yet again – this time, right in the middle of badness. So I took the opportunity to have some fun with some wonderful people and some wonderful dogs.

The day started out with a trip to the park for the puppies. Tammi Faye had found a manmade lake in an unoccupied office park where dogs could swim. Don’t worry – the water has been tested and is very safe. I got some great video. Unfortunately, negative ion girl isn’t sure how to load it onto her computer OR post it. I’ll figure it out eventually. In the meantime, enjoy the stills.

Tammi Faye and the Hounds

Sheba. Hungarian Circus dog hunted to near extinction by gypsies. She knows many tricks but chooses not to do them as this would blow her cover in the witness puptection program.

Buddy. The most awesome puppy ever.

Hooch and Gunnar swimming. Please note that while Gunnar has assumed a hydrodynamic pose, Hooch appears to be trying to run up out of the lake. He still kept up though.

The boys (Fun Bobby and friends) had, meanwhile, gone to a baseball game up north. Drunkney had volunteered to be the designated driver. Let’s just say this was poor planning on everyone’s part. We received a drunken call in the early afternoon to come pick them up in Newport Beach. We road up with a friend and her 7 month old (yeah, good times). Tammi Faye fixed two road sodas (grey goose and Gatorade) which were a bit strong, which brings us to the white-trash moment of our day. We stopped to get gas. I proceeded to remix cocktails in Gatorade bottles – in a gas station parking lot – with a baby in a car seat right next to me. Nothing but class. I know.

We arrived up there and met the boys. I had the pleasure of meeting SweetRob and Miss Frankie. FYI - That is Drunkney's drunken finger in the first photo.

If I could have kidnapped Frankie, I would have. We then proceeded to hit a couple bars in Newport Beach (Mutt Lynch’s, the Beach Ball). Maybe I’ll write about that later.

Suffice it to say, I had a shitty day at work. Remembering that it was still possible to have fun amidst the shit made Saturday well worth it.

In which we decide...

2006-08-22T21:34:00.000-07:00

...that Hooch is just too cute.

...that pink lipstick is definitely not for me.

...that one can never have too many pairs of cute orange shoes.

...that cowboy hats with flames on them make me irrationally happy.

And, finally, we decide that I should probably go to sleep if I am going to get up at 5am. Good night!

Potential Band Names

2006-08-21T18:34:00.000-07:00

1. Something Wrong With George
2. 6foot4
3. Paul Revere’s Granddaughter
4. Stone Cold Fuck Nuts
5. Gradient Coil
6. Purely Experimental
7. Vitriol of Mars
8. Cheese Is Good

Julie T. Would Say "Asshole", I Call Irony a Cold-hearted Bitch

2006-08-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

So, ever since January, I've been excited about my future. Sure, the everyday shit still gets me down. But, I had my next job lined up. I was going to North Carolina...far from Southern California, close to my family. Then I decided to extend my training for a few months. I was assured this would have no effect on my next posting. North Carolina was still locked in. Today, I talked to the man who controls my future. He is the gentleman that controls my next job - ah, soooo much power. And he e-mailed me "Good News!" Guess what, I get to stay in Southern California. Yes, that's right. So many people are fighting for this particular job at this particular hospital. It is just north of San Diego. And I am the only individual who doesn't want to go there.

Why? Oh yes, did I forget to mention that Ah-sweep-ay will be one of my new partners?

That's right...Irony, she is a cold-hearted BITCH.

The Nightmare Before Thursday

2006-08-09T23:17:00.000-07:00

While living in sunny, Southern California, it is sometimes entertaining to turn the perfect summer night into something much more ominous...

Then again, how ominous can it be when you have a puppy who loves to pose with fruit...

So Happy Halloweeny Thursday in August!

Happy Trails...

2006-08-07T23:28:00.000-07:00

I haven't really come to terms with it yet. Ruby, the Bobo, and Squirrelnuts leave for Japan on Thursday. Everyone else is crying and saying goodbye. I am in denial. One of our best friends, SuzyQ, had a going away party for them on Saturday. I'll talk about it later, but I just wanted to post a few photos in the interim...

RUBY AND SQUIRRELNUTS

THE BOBO

THE GIRLS

As far as this last photo goes, all I can think about is an old Friends rerun...the one where Monica says, "The camera adds 5 pounds." And someone else replies, "How many cameras were on you?" Just let me say that the dress I am wearing swirled, and we were all in action.

Happy trails, Bobos. Safe journey and rapid returns!

It Must Be Kismet...

2006-08-06T02:14:00.000-07:00

Addendum: Foiled again, Batman! After watching the whole sketch, Larry Miller doesn't even mention the "Seven Stages" in this sketch. That being said, watch it if you can. His description of your first time skiing had me crying.

For months now, I've been trying to track down one of my favorite comedy sketches...Larry Miller on "The Seven Stages of Drunken-ness". I've been doing my painful, lame-ass recollections...Ha Ha Ha. Yeah, it lacks something in translation. I've searched for a copy on Amazon. No luck. I've looked for the out-take on YouTube. Again, no luck. I'd just about given up.

Tonight, after Ruby's going away party (she leaves for Japan on Thursday and I'm still in denial) and while trying to establish I-chat with Kerri and her articulate fiancee Chris (negative ion girl fails again), I happened to be perusing HBO on Demand. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? No, not any reindeer. The Larry Miller comedy special from 1992. Bless my random luck. If you have HBO on Demand, I highly recommend you watch it. And if you know how to convert it to DVD, could you PLEASE send me copy.

And please, Don't go skiing.

Been there, done that...

2006-08-03T22:14:00.000-07:00

addendum: (not five minutes later) I will link to all the wonderful women below soon. I am too lazy, and there is too much syrah in me right now to navigate computerland.

Yes, I went to BlogHer 2006. There was drama, there was drunken-ness. Most importantly, there were a buttload of really cool ladies that I met that I now will stalk endlessly. I met some famous bloggers: Dooce, Heather Champ, Maggie Mason and Amalah (and I now know why my Nana always called me Samalah). They were not only larger than life, but sweeter than honey. I met some people I've been reading for a while: Amanda B. and Kerri Anne. They were as sweet as I expected them to be, and as fiery as red hot chili peppers. I met some people I should have met a long time ago: Chantel, Sue Bob, and countless others. They should have been childhood friends, but thank the universe I've been drunk with them now. And Sherri...I'd met her briefly in NYC, but had the pleasure of hosting her in San Diego and driving her sunburnt self to San Jose.

When I first got to San Jose, I thought, "What a mistake. I don't belong here." I didn't like the drama. I was embarassed to say I was on Blogger. People asked me what I blogged about and I thought, "Fuck, I don't know". I responded, "Well, I guess...um...I don't know." Then, I realized, it really doesn't matter. I was there for ME. I was there to meet people that I thought were interesting, and, hopefully, people who thought I was interesting as well.

If I made even a few new friends out of this, it was worth every mile, every dollar, and every Jane-barbie in a bad denim combo. Ladies, next year the first round of margaritas is on me.

Can't Suspend Disbelief...

2006-07-31T22:19:00.000-07:00

Is anyone else watching "Blade:The Series" on Spike TV. I'm just catching up on the episodes I dvr'd and I'm on "Bloodlines". Blade gets hit by an armored car and taken hostage. His "familiar" is desperately searching for him. O.K. So I'll watch a series on vampires and a special vampire/vampire killer who happens to ride a motorcycle. That I can accept. He has kickass sunglasses that have video feed (In and Out), weapons that simulate sunlight, and garlic bombs. This I can also accept. But if they have all that, why didn't they LoJack the fucker? I mean, my dog (my real, non-immortal dog, with no weapons except deadly farts) is LoJacked. So why isn't Blade?

Two Different Views of the Same Reality

2006-07-31T00:16:00.000-07:00

These two pictures are both taken at the same time on the same day. Just by looking at them with different light and coloring, I feel two completely different sensations. The first (color) picture reminds me of a warm but windy day at the beach where anything is possible. The second scene (while equally, if not more beautiful) makes me feel chilled - like I'd rather be wrapped up in a warm blanket while viewing it from the inside of a window.

No hidden message here. Just too tired to write about the fabulous drive up, the drama (good and bad) that was BlogHer, the mother f'in hives (which have returned), and Stampy's Not-so-Excellent Adventure (aka "the drive home"). That being said, I'm going to drag my ass upstairs to my stuffy and unairconditioned bedroom and place myself in the hands of modern medicines. Good night, all!

Happy Birthday To Me...

2006-07-16T23:34:00.000-07:00

In a few short minutes, it will be July 17th - my birthday. And as is my tradition every year for the last several years (since I first turned 29), I will get a bit maudlin. Here is the pattern... In the weeks leading up to my birthday, I will get very excited. I will think of parties I want to have and gifts I want to get. But about a week before my birthday, I will begin to sink into a funk. When friends ask me what I want to do, I'll say, "Nothing really." When my mom asks me what I want, I'll say, "I don't know. I don't really need anything." It's not an attempt to be coy. There is just no longer any desire. Just a vague feeling of failure. I have already been thinking of everything I haven't done and everything I won't have time to do.

Today (in the midst of a week of Saturday/Monday/Wednesday call), I had a wonderful birthday brunch with Ruby, Five, Mr. Lavender, Smelly Elly (who at her parents' request shall henceforth be referred to as Elly Belly), Waltzing Matilda, my dad, and Uncle Data Man. While a little sleepy post-call, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. But all I could think of was the tagline from a birthday card I'd bought for Ruby (which I will now have to replace)...

REMEMBER THE GOOD OLD DAYS...WHEN WE WEREN'T OLD, AND WE WEREN'T GOOD?

I still don't feel so good. But boy, I do feel old.

Sonoma on Many, Many Dollars a Day

2006-07-12T20:15:00.000-07:00

Flight on Southwest = relatively cheap.
Night at the Pelican Inn = pretty expensive
Night at the Hotel Duchamp = really fucking expensive
Lincoln Towncar and Driver = less than the cost of a DUI
2+ cases of wine I bought = uh oh, how am I getting this home
_____________________________________________________________________

One last girls weekend with Ruby* = Priceless

*Including martinis at the airport, some poor stranger hearing a story about a high colonic, hiking Muir Woods and Mt Tamalpais, Wine Tasting in Sonoma, playing Bocce Ball with a bottle of Sangiovese, meeting Ronald McDonald, skinny dipping in a hotel pool, mud baths, and more.

*Photos and more details to follow.

My Heart Aches...

2006-06-25T23:58:00.000-07:00

If you're not already turned onto Nilbo's site, you must go check out the story of how his parents met. I'm not usually a sappy fool, but this story has me waiting for each new installment. Despite the fact that I know they must have ended up together (see:Nilbo), I still find a tension in the end of each new post. Nilbo, post more now, dammit.

So F'in Disturbing I Can't Stand It

2006-06-24T02:01:00.000-07:00

So here I am downloading some new tunes off I-tunes. I'm a little disappointed because I've finally remembered that band I love when I was much, much younger - the Housemartins - and they're not available on I-tunes and take forever to be delivered from Amazon (this whole internet thing makes me want it NOW, NOW, NOW!).

This would be ok...if I hadn't noticed something on the far right. Number 6. That is the number that Paris Hilton's single ranked on I-tunes. Egads!!!

All Signs Point To Yes

2006-06-24T00:14:00.000-07:00

Some pictures I forgot to post from the April trip to Mammoth...

From The Mouths of Babes

2006-06-19T22:37:00.000-07:00

I present the two best quotes of my weekend...completely out of context.

1. Yes, but Donna Reed would have been wearing panties.

2. I'd love to come to your recital, honey, but I'm gonna be in Vegas with your mama.

Wish List Wednesday

2006-06-14T22:17:00.000-07:00

1. A badge that made it legal for me to stand at freeway on/off ramps (you know, the ones where people drive all the way past a long line of traffic and then cut everyone in line off) and shoot the tires out of cars that don’t respect the common decency laws of merging. See, I figure shooting the tires is not only more dramatic than a mere ticket, but will also slow the bastards down and cost them some money.

2. A really good blender that crushes ice and makes frozen margaritas like a dream.

3. To have finished residency on time and with the rest of my class. While I recognize the benefit of the extra training, it has been more than a little bittersweet to attend all the celebrations and dinners while knowing that I’m going to be here for 6 more months.

4. A sudden return of my memory of all the Spanish and French that I’ve learned over the years. Also, the ability to communicate well in both languages (beyond just “one more beer please, cabana boy”).

5. Oooh! A cabana boy! Those always come in handy.

6. More shoes like these...

...which I wore to one of the aforementioned celebrations. These and a cute date make you feel almost bulletproof. (That is, unless you trip over a stump on the walk to your front door and go flying ass-over-teakettle onto the sidewalk.)

Happy Wednesday.

A Good Walk Spoiled

2006-06-12T21:34:00.000-07:00

Because life wasn’t challenging enough, I have decided to take up the fine sport of golf. Don’t get me wrong, I have been around golf all my life. In fact, my dad was on the golf course broadcasting a tournament when I was born. (You better believe I get a lot of guilt mileage out of that one.) But I’ve never really taken up the game.

Growing up, I already had my three favorite things on the golf course: driving the cart, putting a few balls in on each hole, and getting Shirley Temples from the Men’s Grill (to go, of course). I was told I had a great swing. Unfortunately, I also had the attention span of a toddler. My eyes were already looking down the fairway before I finished my backswing. This almost always meant I missed the ball. That’s okay, though. 10 golfballs could keep me occupied for an hour.

When I was an intern, I took a few lessons – 3 to be exact. I probably went to the range about 5 or 6 times, and never played a round. Then I started dating Ah-sweep-ay. I would go to the range with him from time to time. I showed some promise (I guess), so he encouraged me. At first, this was awesome. I learned a little, I got a set of golf clubs for Christmas, and we now had a reason to take warmweather vacations (it was either that or snowboard Peru in July).

Unfortunately, it turned out I still had the attention span of a toddler. Combine this with the fact that Ah-sweep-ay took the game WAY TOO SERIOUSLY, and golf was suddenly not so much fun anymore. Everytime we went to the range, my unfulfilled potential would taunt and taunt him until he just couldn’t control himself. He had to provide “constructive criticism” on every swing I made. When I hit a good shot, he’d say, “That’s how they should all be.” I began to have fantasies of chasing him across the range with my club high over head screaming, “You wanna see a backswing? I got your fucking backswing!” I settled for a piercing look that would shut him up for about 5 strokes. Then, with the next unsolicited “tip”, I’d storm off to the bar.

This un-fun-ness culminated in a golf trip to Mexico. We drove over the border to a resort just South of Rosarita. The first day showed some promise as we ate lobster in a small village and drank lethal cocktails out of coconuts. Unfortunately, the Coco-Locos left me a little sluggish the next morning. This meant that we did not get to the driving range A FULL HOUR AHEAD OF TIME to warm up. What? This is golf, not the fucking Olympic marathon. At this point I was about to perform an unnatural act on another human being with a 9-iron. But the heat was deflected by the nice young Mexican man at the pro shop who couldn’t find our start time. After setting Mexican-American relations back a few decades, Ah-sweep-ay proceeded to have an appalling round of golf made worse by my constant refrain of “Where’s the bar cart? Isn’t there a beer girl in a golf cart?” Serves the fucker right.

So I stopped playing for awhile. But now I’m back. And I think I'll get really good this time, just for spite. See, I find spite to be one of the worlds best motivators. Now, where is that bar cart?

Wish List Wednesday - Sophomore Effort

2006-06-07T22:08:00.000-07:00

Until last night at about 9pm, this list would have consisted of various wishes that my chronic urticaria (fancy doctor words for in-fucking-tolerable hives) would go away. Fortunately, I have connections (and I am shameless). I paged the on-call dermatologist after my left eye swelled almost shut and I had bruises from scratching in my sleep and finally got industrial doses of long-acting antihistamines and a steroid taper. Don't try this at home, kids. I finally got a few hours sleep and the "small pox" look that I was sporting is fading fast. Like i always say..."Better living through pharmaceuticals." Now, on with the wish list...

1. Better seats than Jack Nicholson for a title fight (preferably nowhere near Paris Hilton).

2. A large stoli martini up, with olives (shaken for long enough that the outside of the shaker ices up - if the olives are stuffed with blue cheese...all the better)

3. To have dinner with Sharon and Ozzy Osbourne, preferably at a restaurant so their little rat dogs aren't shitting on the floor. (I heard War Pigs on the ride home tonight.)

4. 20 acres in the desert with an air-conditioned airstream and an old beat up jeep

5. A Jim Beam dispenser that looks like Elvis (Yabba Dabba Doo)

6. Never to have hives again. (Oh, and a poem about evil hives please).

Happy Wednesday!

Wish List Wednesday - Inaugural List

2006-05-31T22:23:00.000-07:00

So I have this habit of making lists of things I'd like to have or do. Sometimes they are attainable. Sometimes not so much. But it makes me happy...

WISH LIST FOR 31 MAY 06
1. A fez

2. An actual "Dogs Playing Poker" oil painting

3. To find a way to introduce the word "antimacassar" into my daily conversation. Also, to know under what circumstances I might need words that rhyme with antimacassar. Or, better yet, for someone to send me a poem with the word antimacassar in it. (Can you tell I like saying/typing this word?).

4. To own a roller derby team.

5. Delicate ankles.

6. A law requiring all cafes/coffee shops/coffee carts to have a line for REGULAR COFFEE. Nothing is more demoralizing at 6am than to realize that you are standing behind at least 6 different non-fat, extra hot, with whip specialty drink orders.

ADDENDUM 1: Just realized that I spelled it "antimaccasar" all three times. That rocks. Embarrassing problem now fixed.

ADDENDUM 2: Make sure you scroll down to the "Dancing Man" translation of antimacassar. I feel a dance coming on...An suggestions for songs?

Reason #72 That I’m Still Single

2006-05-29T23:23:00.000-07:00

It is Memorial Day. After a whole weekend of operating, eating food out of vending machines, and avoiding social events as much as possible, I have taken a moment to look around. I’m sitting on the couch in black yoga pants and a white long sleeved t-shirt. The pooch is once again in 60pound lapdog mode so the black pants are covered (and I mean COVERED) with bourbon hued fur. I was too tire to cook dinner, so the white t-shirt has at least 4 pizza sauce stains on it (no recollection of how that happened). My curls are pulled up in a really attractive ponytail almost on top of my head. Oh yeah – remember the hives? Well, they’re back with a vengeance. They never completely went away, but they were almost gone. Now I look like I have the pox again. Add some anti-histamines and some sleepless nights...Voila! Bags under eyes.

Admit it. You wish you were me.

I Am So Very Sad...

2006-05-26T00:58:00.000-07:00

The reasons why I am sad are too numerous to count. But tonight, I intend to write about one reason. My Ruby, the Bobo, and SquirrelNuts are moving to Japan. Not Little Tokyo in San Franscisco. NO. Not the International District in Seattle. NO. They are moving to that small but financially and industrially influential island so far away I can’t even fathom flying to it until I can afford business class. How can I let go of this…

Alright, alright. So this picture was pre-squirrel – back when the livin’ was drunk and easy – but it kind of sums things up. That’s the Bobo’s Bronco aka “The Frog”. We are at the Pinnacles on the outskirts of Death Valley (just outside of Trona where the Marky Mark version of “Planet of the Apes” was filmed). We’re drinking beer from a local brewery that we’d drained from a keg into Tupperware pitchers to take with us. There was an awesome sunset and we were so happy and free.

So why think of this now. Well, this week I went to a work related dinner at the Hotel Del Coronado. Very swanky? Yes. But I always remember one particular weekend almost 4 years ago…

See, the Bobo was in the desert and Ah-sweep-ay was out of town. So Ruby and I decided to splurge and spend a night at the Del. We checked in and went straight to the bar. Several martinis later we went to dinner. A bottle of wine later we went back to the piano bar. Several more martinis later (and yes, my math is correct – remember, these livers had been in training) we finally went upstairs to crash. I sat on the floor to watch TV and fell asleep/passed out.

Ruby, as those of you who know her can attest, is OCD and was taking her usual pre-bed shower. When she came out, I was out cold and unwakeable. Despite this, I woke up comfortably on the furniture the next morning. “How did I get here? I don’t remember waking up,” I said. “You didn’t,” replied Ruby. See, OCD girl couldn’t stand to see her friend snoring on hotel carpeting. She called the front desk, amd asked them to send someone up to “help her move something”. When the bellman showed up, she pointed at me and asked him to put me on my bed – WHICH HE DID!!!. He kindly offered to call a doctor if necessary , but she pointed out that I was snoring comfortably. OH MY GOD!

When I was MORE THAN APPALLED the next AM, Ruby simply said, “Well, I couldn’t just let you sleep on the floor.” Oh, yeah. O.K.

But to this day, I can’t have a drink at the Del without wondering if any of the bellmen recognize me.

Dude, Where's My Post?

2006-05-23T10:19:00.000-07:00

Um, okay. My post from yesterday is missing. The title is still there, but it appears the mediocre prose just up and disappeared. It must have been there earlier, because Sherri left a comment (and if it wasn't there she is psychic which would be just another superpower she possesses). Either that, or "I am half Irish" was enough to let the internet know about my blistering sunburn. What is happening?

I Am Half Irish, But Full-blooded Moron

2006-05-20T11:40:00.000-07:00

What Cheeses Me Off

2006-05-17T22:36:00.000-07:00

So today, I stopped at Starbucks on my way to see Ruby. I hate to contribute money to the Caffeine Deathstar (I prefer to support independent cafes), but I was desparate. Anyway, three guys were waiting for their drinks and one guy went to the restroom. When he came back, he was looking for his drink. Let me break in at this point and add that said guy was wearing a giant cross on a leather strap prominently displayed around his neck. As I picked up my drink (iced coffee, unsweetened, no room), I kindly told him that his friends had already picked up his drink. Without so much as a thank you, he stalked off out the door in front of me and let said door slam in my face.

Hey buddy, it seems Jesus forgot to teach you any common courtesy. Fuck you very much.

p.s. Apparently I have some anger issues.

Crossing Jordan?

2006-05-17T00:41:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else watch Crossing Jordan? Okay, I'm a few weeks behind as I'm just catching up on my recorded episodes...But I really hate that Lu bitch. Anyone else?

Crush Sherri's Head Wednesday

2006-05-10T22:23:00.000-07:00

The rest of the NYC trip update is coming. In the meantime, Kranki asked if there was any crushing? Not exactly, but (in keeping with the whole bird attack theme) Sherri was attacked by this fierce eagle statue during dinner.

It's not safe anywhere anymore. (Especially if you give me red wine and a camera!)

The Boys

2006-05-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

Frazier and Niles are Ruby's two cats best described as domestic long hair (Frazee) and domestic short hair. We just call them the (orange) "boys". Frazier purrs like a motorboat and can keep this up for hours. Cute when you're petting him, not so cute when he's sleeping on your head at 3am. Am I right, Brand Eye?

2006-05-08T19:56:00.000-07:00

IRL

2006-05-07T21:42:00.000-07:00

O.k. I've said before that I am a complete computer/internet moron, so it was only recently that I figured out that IRL meant "in real life". I think the only reason I got that far was because I spend so much time in Southern Califonia traffic trying to figure out vanity plates. Hey, everyone needs a hobby.

This weekend, I had my first IRL blogger meeting - Sherri of the fire-red hair was kind enough to spend her Saturday sightseeing, eating, and drinking her way around Manhattan with me. It was awesome. We had a phenomenal time which I will post more on later. For now, I'll leave you with a picture from our ferry ride out to the Statue of Liberty.

Kind of makes you wonder how anyone else fit up on deck with us with all the wild hair we had between us. Apparently we had something working for us, because we were invited into the cockpit to meet the ferry captain and presented with passes to get inside the Statue (quite fortunate as we didn't know we needed reservations). A good time was had by all (not the ferry captain, you perverts - he was a gentleman). More details to follow. In the meantime, go cheer Sherri and her bruised ribs up with something nice.

My Heart Aches...

2006-05-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

I checkthis site out every so often...I keep toying with the idea of a pal for Hooch. You know, to keep him company when I'm at work. In no way is this for me AT ALL. But when I check the "special needs" puppies out, I am constantly amazed at the cruelty of my fellow man. Who could beat up a dog? Who would abandon a dog to move into a condo that doesn't take pets. In fact, there was once a dog on another site who didn't match the new color scheme. It makes me sick - really, physically, sick. And it's not just boxers, I know. I've always wanted a mastiff but haven't had the space. When I see a deaf white boxer, a blind mastiff, a dog that has been through the ringer and can still wag its tail, it makes me wish I'd been a vet.

Stampy’s Big Adventure – Part I/Day 2

2006-05-02T21:11:00.000-07:00

After a late start (Gram’s ghost not only turned off our alarm clock, but must have drank some of the wine because no way did we go through 3 bottles) with brunch at Crossroads, we hiked out to Lost Horse Mine.

We saw these Mojave Yuccas on the way out…

They look like they’re crowned with cauliflower when they bloom…

I almost face planted in this Mojave Mound Cactus getting this shot…

The mine and shafts are fenced off to prevent to the inquisitive moron from falling in…

On our way back, we decided to check out Cap Rock. Not only is this a popular climbing spot, but, according to a Rolling Stone article in the Gram scrapbook, is where Gram and Keith Richards used to scramble up and look for flying saucers. Also, Gram Parson’s body was stolen by his road manager and another guy and burned at the base of Cap Rock. Cool stuff, huh?

Then, to finish off the nature portion of our day, we went to the spot where the Mojave and Colorado deserts meet. It’s called the Ocotillo Cactus Garden, but it is actually full of Cholla cacti.

I had to take a picture of the creosote bush just because every time we came upon one I’d say, “One more wafer thin mint, Monsieur Creosote Bush?” and giggle.

After a quick change of clothing (the temp changes quickly in the high desert this time of year), we headed off to Pioneertown and Pappy and Harriet's Bar. During the day, this is one of my favorite places to hang out. The outdoor bar sees people hiking up or pulling up on horses, atv’s , and Harley’s.

Inside, the Thrift Store All-stars were playing. They were awesome. If you are ever in the area, check them out.

Finally, we ended up at the 29 Palms Inn for dinner. They have a very good restaurant near the pool. There was a trio playing there. Both Pappy and Harriet’s and 29 Palms Inn highlight what I love so much about the desert. One minute you’re driving down a dirt road, the next minute your listening to awesome live music and drinking bloody mary’s with tattooed bikers and hippies dancing like they’re at a Dead show. Love it!

In case you were wondering about the Tanya Tucker dream, we had watched Tuckerville on cable the night before. In it, Tanya bought her cleaning lady tickets to a Tim McGraw show for her birthday and took her backstage to meet Tim. While we were hiking out to the mine, I was thinking about what would happen if I ever met Keanu Reeves and we hit it off. Then I imagined us going to an opening or a premier. The press would be wondering, “Who is this plain Jane?” I would meet towering model-actresses who would look down at me imperiously. Then I thought, wait. Tanya Tucker has put on some weight and some years, and yet she still commands attention. Why? Her cleaning lady was just as cute. So maybe it’s all about attitude and confidence. Then, reality hit. I’m hiking through the desert thinking about Keanu and Tanya. So I shared this with Matilda who simply chuckled. Now that’s a good friend.

I Was Once a Little Old Italian Woman

2006-05-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

Well, Kranki, I looked and looked for the other shot where the blue afghan and its fringed edges are draped gypsy like around my face. Unfortunately, this is the only one I could find. Here, I am dressed in my grandmother's wig and am wearing the afghan as a not-so-stylish skirt. At any rate, it should make Yoshicita feel better to know that even little humans get humiliated by the people in charge of taking care of them.

The beatific smile on my face, no doubt, means I have been bribed with meatballs and bad daytime television (I used to watch soaps with Nana). Is that how you get Yoshi to pose?

Stampy’s Excellent Adventure – Part I/Day 1

2006-05-01T22:47:00.000-07:00

First, and completely off topic, just let me say that hives suck. Hives – those red, raised, itchy welts that appear out of nowhere and blanket your body in the most attractive way. Believe it or not, this is my first experience with them. Sure, I’ve had wicked poison ivy, head-to-toe poison oak, and (I’m sure) a brush with poison sumac – all of these sucked in there own horrific way. But at least I knew the cause. I’m a very “cause and effect” kind of gal. Now, I just keep saying - Why? Why? Why? – like a particularly annoying toddler. And all I can do about these hives is wear long pants/long sleeves to hide as much as possible, take benadryl, and try not to itch. O.K. …enough bitching (I know, no such thing as “enough” bitching)…back to the adventures.

Last Saturday, I picked Waltzing Matilda up and we drove to Joshua Tree, California. Upon arrival, we headed immediately to the far end of the park, and began with the Forty-nine Palms oasis hike – an easy 4 mile warm-up.

The hike on the way in…

The Oasis…

Some funky, bamboo type plant that we liked…

Colorful cacti that always remind me of Tribbles…

Realizing we hadn’t eaten anything but coffee and Australian red licorice, we headed ot my favorite café in the area – Crossroads Café – for a wonderful late lunch. Finally, it was time to check into our motel – The Joshua Tree Inn. This inn was the former crashpad of Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris, and others. I’d booked Room 8 – the room Gram Parsons drank himself to death on tequila and heroin cocktails.

While we were fresh out of both tequila and heroin, we did have a rather large supply of red wine, chocolate, and more red licorice. The wind was howling, so we decided to hang out and read the journal in which people write notes to Gram, about Gram, and about Gram’s ghost. Our favorite entry on artistic merit was this one…

But the most entertaining was the one where some chick kept spelling “desert” as “dessert”. I have since decided that my travelogue will be titled “Lost In the Dessert (sic)”.

And for being bitchy, Gram's ghost paid us back by repeatedly disconnecting the chain that flushed the toilet, and by making me dream about Tanya Tucker (don't ask). The adventure continues...

Reason #39 Why I'm Still Single

2006-04-29T21:46:00.000-07:00

I met the two hottest guys in Mammoth this week but ended up getting drunk off my ass with fat fishermen and doing a karaoke version of "American Pie" as a tribute to some 20-something lift operator's dead brother.

Nothing but class.

2006-04-24T13:35:00.000-07:00

Less Than I Dreamed I'd Be, But More Than I'd Ever Imagined...

2006-04-17T23:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight I had a wonderful surprise. In order to tell you about it fully, howver, I have to go back and fill in a little history. I’ve said before that I grew up in Alabama. To be more specific, I spent my formative years in Birmingham. We moved there from Anniston, AL after I finished 5th grade. I was thrown into 6th grade at Homewood Middle School. Although 3 different elementary schools from the area combined that year, many kids had known each other from elementary school, church, youth sports, and such. That made me one of the outcasts. I quickly made some wonderful friends, and we all stumbled through the teen years awkwardly together. We graduated to Homewood High School (not without some social scars) and carried on. I promise to fill in those blanks later including admitting to the fact that I used to dance at high school football games in knee-high white boots and a red sequined bodysuit. (Pull your minds out of the gutter and stick with me for the rest of this post).

About one year ago, my cell phone rang in San Diego. I was still living in Little Italy in my oh-so-modern loft with my I-don’t-need-anyone lifestyle. “Hello.” “Stampy Durst? Dr. Stampy Durst?” “Yes?” “This is LH. I’m not sure if you remember me from high school…” “SHUT UP! (said in that “bring it on” sarcastic tone) Of course I remember you! What the hell?” It seems my high school classmates had realized at our 10th reunion that they’d lost track of a lot of people and made it their mission to track us all down. Not only that, but the coolest computer geek ever (yes, you Burke) had set up a website for all of us to catch up. For a brief time,, I e-mailed people I had thought of often but hadn’t spoken to for a decade or more. Then residency life caught up, and I lost touch again.

Since moving, I’ve been updating my magazines and bank accounts. I thought, “Oh, hell! I’ve lost touch with everyone again.” So I posted an update with my new address and number on the site. Today, I had two gifts. An e-mail from my old friend “The Ham” and an actual phone call from Jenny.

Jenny and I were friends since 6th grade. We had good times and great times, bad times and horrible times – the kind of times you can only have when you’ve known someone at their best and worst from a young age. She called me tonight, and it was phenomenal to talk to her – not awkward at all – as if we’d briefly lost touch and were just catching up.

The conversation was great, but she told me she’d e-mailed me prior to calling me. As much as the phone call meant, the e-mail made me cry. She had read this blog, and was concerned about my stories of depression. She said, if the meds weren’t working, maybe she could help.

Holy Shit! Jenny has had some hard times. She was a single mom for awhile. She put herself through school and is now a teacher (no more honorable profession). Now she’s happily married with two beautiful girls, a loving husband, and several rescued pets. But what struck me was when she said, “I always thought I’d do something more.”

MORE? I can barely take care of myself let alone my dog. The smallest setback sends me into an emotional tailspin. My work doesn’t suffer. Why? Because I have no other responsibilities except to work. I could not leave the hospital for days (hey, they have toothpaste and waterless shampoo and slippers) and, as long as Hooch was getting walked, I don’t know that anyone would even notice. Here was a woman who had gone through so much, achieved so much, and yet still doubted her path.

The ironic thing is that less than a week ago, I called my mom to talk about the lack of my accomplishments. I had been checking out several alumini newsletters, and was awed by what my friends had accomplished. Her reply? “Honey, you’re a surgeon. You cut people open and you make them better. You’ve busted your ass for years. Why would you question yourself?” Because this wasn’t exactly what I’d dreamed I’d be doing in high school. Well, life happens and circumstances change. Unfortunately, dreams don’t always go along for the ride. More on this later…

Some Things That Make Me Smile

2006-04-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

1. Easter Brunch with friends (the only thing better being two Easter brunches with friends of which I cooked neither).

2. A good Bloody Mary made from scratch with chunky horseradish, tabasco, worcesteshire, crushed black pepper, and sea salt. I also think a stalk of celery is key (pickled green beans, asparagus, or olives just don't cut the proverbial mustard).

3. The song "Kung Fu Fighting". I love this song - it makes we want to dance like a spaz and sing along off key.

4. The story Small Blue Thingby Madison Smartt Bell. I first read it the Harpers 2000 Anniversary edition. Since then, I've said "Nevermore, I never said it," whenever I get the chance.

5. The following poem, "Eletelephony" by Laura E. Richards. It was the first poem I ever memorized and years of education hasn't led me to anything I appreciate more. It comes from a Romper Room poetry book in which I awkwardly wrote my name in black sharpie because my Nana once told me to write my name on all my belongings in waterproof marker. I think she meant toys, but she probably should have been a little clearer on that point. My parents and several pieces of furniture will attest to that. Anyway, enjoy the poem...

2006-04-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

On The Near Impossibility of Meditating With a Boxer In the House

2006-04-15T23:52:00.000-07:00

"There is no meditative concentration for one who lacks wisdom, and no wisdom for one who lacks meditative concentration. One in whom are found both meditative concentration and wisdom is indeed close to Nirvana."

This quote comes from my 365 Buddha book - a book of daily quotes to think ponder, dissect, and meditate on. Unless, of course, your resident Boxer puppy is completely unclear on the whole concept of meditation. It was approaching 11pm on the West Coast and the puppy was sleeping soundly (on the bed, no less - spoiled brat). I am on call, and always have trouble sleeping when i'm on call. Add to this the fact that I have felt completely uncentered and self-destructive, I've had no time to make it to yoga, and my mind was racing a mile a minute. Aha! I would try to meditate.

I prepared a comfortable spot on the floor including a small bump to better align my spine. I assumed half-lotus (my knees were not quite ready for full lotus) and centered my posture. I placed my hands palms up on my knees, and began to breathe deeply. This, for some reason, provoked the dog to begin chewing on his paws and licking his gonads (or lack thereof). "Focus, Stampy, focus. Stay centered." Breath in, breath out. "Dear god, is he trying to eat his own crotch? And what is that god awful snuffling noise? Focus." Breath in, breath out. " Oh, my god!" At this point I opened my eyes calmly, and sharply said, "Hooch, knock it off." Then went back to my meditating.

"OH, cool!" Thought Hooch. "Whatever is she doing. I must go check it out." Suddenly, I felt hot dog breath on my chin. I opened my eyes and he was sitting mere inches away but leaning into my face. As I open my eyes, he bestows a big sloppy wet boxer kiss right on my nose. "Whatcha doin? Huh, Huh? Can I play?" He scooches closer and closer until he is against my legs. "Perhaps if I ignore him, he'll go back to sleep." I close my eyes again and begin to breathe deeply. It as this point that Hooch decides those upturned palms must be hiding treats and proceeds to dig his snout into each of them in turn.

I give up, for tonight at least. i might not get any closer to Nirvana tonight, but i can curl up with a very sweet puppy and hope to absorb some of the wisdom of his innocence.

Good night.

Guilty Pleasures

2006-04-13T20:59:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I should get my meds adjusted. First, let me say that, as much as I wanted to hate it, I love Pepper Dennis. Rebecca Romijn may be one of the few supermodels to make the successful transition to acting. Then, let me admit that I teared up at the end of Tueday's episode (which, thanks to the wonder of DVR, I just watched now) when her latest attempt at a relationship failed. Dear god, I am becoming that emotional wench I usually make fun of.

Same me from myself. And watch Pepper Dennis.

Cast of Characters

2006-04-13T19:48:00.000-07:00

As I am about to finally start posting some of those old stories I always promised to post, I thought this might be a good time to present a cast list. I'll link to it on the left, so when anyone gets confused, enlightenment is only a click away.

STAMPY - C'est moi! The frequently depressed, sometimes manic, always entertaining (at least to myself) authoress.

HOOCH - Boxer of stampy. Best canine pal. Champion farter. 65 pound lap dog who steals baguettes.

RUBY - Best martini drinking friend. Born in Texas. Raised in Georgia. Drinks Grey Goose, even in dive bars. Wife to "The Bobo" and mama of "Squirrel Nuts"

THE BOBO - Ruby's husband. Friend of mine since med school. Born and raised in Punxsatawney, PA. Yeah, that's right. The Groundhog was at their wedding. Known to drink too much whiskey and play acoustic guitar until the wee hours. Able to make the most annoying sounds known to man.

SQUIRREL NUTS - 2+ year-old daughter of Ruby and The Bobo. Too cute for words. Gives big sloppy wet kisses. Learned to say "I fahted" at too young an age.

THE BOYS - Two ginger long-haired domestic cats belonging to Ruby. Niles is getting fat (yes, Ruby, he is), and Frazier purrs like a motorboat.

AH-SWEEP-AY - Asshole ex-boyfriend now married to much younger girl who wants to have babies and move back to New Jersey. Fellow orthopedic surgeon.

FIVE - Bestest bitchin' buddy. Fellow surgeon (ENT). Named as such because 5 was the highest on the scale and she understood that.

MR. LAVENDER - Five's husband. I was friends with him independently and was sooo happy when they got together. The name is a partial homage to Reservoir Dogs and a partial piss-take on his love for the scent of lavender. Only truly funny when you realize he is a big, tough marine.

SMELLYELLY - Five and Lavender's fetus due in the next 6 weeks or so. Hey, a kid born with an embarassing nickname is a kid truly loved.

THE BITCHES - Five and Lavender's cats. Poopers is a Siamese with all the attendant attitude. Has hissed at me and hates Hooch. Crackers is a tiger tabby with a crooked tail which we like to say is her "mark of the devil".

WALTZING MATILDA - Friend from Tasmania. Barracks for (supports) the same Aussie Rules football team I do -
Collingwood. Funny as shit. Always the last person (with me) up drinking at an all-nighter. We have seen the paper delivered several times at Five's house.

THE SILVERBACK - Matilda's husband. Former roommate of Mr Lavender. Fellow Marine. Built like a fireplug. Rugby player who takes no prisoners and appears to have no pain receptors.

WALLY - The third roommate in the Lavender/Silverback/Wally house of beer. Likes dogs more than people. Currently far enough away that I may post his "18 Hours on a Plane With Diarrhea" story just for nostalgia.

AUNTIE M - My mom's sister who lives here in San Diego. She is my coolest relative. Doesn't recall the early 70's.

DATAMAN - My uncle, husband of Auntie M. Heinously methodical. Reads Consumer Reports cover to cover. Techno-geek.

TAMMI FAYE - Wonderful friend of Stampy and other stray animals everywhere. Committed vegetarian. Mom to four-legged pals Buddy, Gunnar, and Sheba (Hungarian Circus Dog). Engineer extraordinaire. Used to party at Studio 54.

BOBBY - Tammi Faye's husband. Fighter pilot. Unrepentant cusser who is still offended when women cuss gratuitously. Avid mountainbiker. My Buddha.

More updates as posts warrant.

Ruby, ain't you proud?

2006-04-10T23:23:00.000-07:00

I figger'd it out, honey. Game on.

It's Alive!!!

2006-04-10T23:19:00.000-07:00

Yes, a monster has been created. While Ruby thinks I write well, let's be honest. A good oral story (pull your minds out of the gutter - I merely mean a story told out loud) always wins. The best part of this is now Ruby can post. She always talks about starting her own blog, but is limited by her dyslexia (I love playing scrabble with Ruby - I always win). Stay tuned and stay open minded.
Stampy

2006-04-10T23:12:00.000-07:00

2006-04-10T23:09:00.000-07:00

Snowboarding, anyone?

2006-04-10T22:11:00.000-07:00

Hey, you can't deny Mother Nature, Check out Mammoth Mountain. I'm planning on heading up there in two weeks. The mountain is supposed to be open until July 4th, but I want some bluebird days before the season ends. Right now, I have a two bedroom condo and one partner in crime. If anyone can make it out, we can pick you up in San Diego or LA. Don't miss this chance to see me break my ribs yet again.

Grand Theft Curry: San Marcos

2006-04-09T21:35:00.000-07:00

I've had a draft of "Fear and (Self) Loathing in San Diego" which I keep meaning to post. But then I spent the drive home this evening thinking how lucky I am to have such great friends. In the last two weeks, I have seen my local friends, spoken on the phone with those not local, and recontacted some long lost friends via e-mail. It should come as no shock to most of you that this last year or so has been one depressing pity party hosted by yours truly. Well, it's time that party ended. Don't worry, the next party will be a great big booze up with a band.

Anyway, yesterday started off painfully as I sat through several hours of lectures on orthopedic spine surgery. I was all set to spend the next several hours breathing in cadaver fumes and practicing surgical procedures when fortune struck in the guise of scut work - I was asked to drive one of the visiting professors to the airport. After he was safely dropped off, I grabbed Hooch and headed to North County to partake in the best form of birth control there is - spending the afternoon with friends with small children. I hung out with my friend Brooke, her two boys, and her boxer Lucy. Several hours later, we had decided that Hooch and Lucy were cute together, I was lucky not to have children, and that I needed a boob job. You see, I have the tiniest of chests. This would be fine if I was a waif who also had the tiniest of thighs. But god has a cruel sense of humor. I said I wanted something subtle, just a solid B, but Brooke said someone my height should go with a C or why even bother. So I left with the name of a plastic surgeon and an offer for free anesthesia (Brooke's husband is an anesthesiologist).

I then drove to San Marcos to see Waltzing Matilda's new house. I arrived with three bottles of pinot noir and Hooch in tow. She made a lovely chicken curry and we decided the Four Graces pinot was our favorite. Now, there is a pool in her backyard that has a waterfall/slide which she thinks is an eyesore so wasn't turned on. Hooch was being his usual nosy self and checking every corner of the yard and kept cutting across the top of the waterfall. She warned me it was very slippery, and I assured her it was only a matter of time before the dog was going in the pool. After dinner and another bottle of wine, it happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hooch lose his footing, go down the slide backward, and SPLASH! I spit pinot noir out my nose and Matilda was kind enough to help him out of the pool. He sulked for quite a while.

In order to keep him company while we dried, we decided to sit in the hottub. Now, if any of you are looking to do a short comedic film, two drunk blondes trying to fire up a hot tub with the assistance of a flashlight might be a good topic. Matilda can now turn the lights to the pool on, scald me, freeze me...just about everything but actually get the jets going. You see, after we realized it wasn't quite working right, I volunteered to sit in the hottub and holler when something changed. Not one of my brighter ideas. We never did get the jets working but we soaked for several hours and chatted. The final decision of the evening - no boob job. Bigger boobs means I would have to start wearing a bra on a regular basis.

I ultimately passed out on the couch, and Hooch (little traitor) slept in bed with Mathilda. When they came down this morning, she asked if I'd done the dishes. Uh, no. Why? Oh, because all the left-over chicken curry was missing, the pan was licked clean, and there was one guilty looking boxer skulking out the door. We were puzzled. It was a pretty heavy pan, and neither of us heard it hit the floor. There was not a scrap of evidence, and I'm pretty sure Hooch doesn't eat green beans. The only other possibility was that i was binge eating and then housecleaning in my sleep. But no, I didn't take Ambien last night. Well, let me lay any questions about the case to rest. Upon returning to Coronado, Hooch and I went for a walk. Let me enlighten you (in case you were losing sleep). Dogs don't digest green beans.

Stupid People Tricks

2006-04-02T19:34:00.000-07:00

So today, I met some friends at a local park to play some kickball and drink some beer. O.K. Their kids played kickball, but I was there for the beer. Anyway, across the park was a very elaborate set-up for a party. Fuzzy pink folding chairs, purple balloons, and loads of presents...Aha! A girl's birthday party. At the time, however, the only attendee was the Dad who was holding down the fort (and also drinking beer).

The next time I look over, the dad is holding a pinata up - BY HAND - while 14 little girls lined up to take a swing at it with a HUGE stick. After the first swing narrowly missed the dad's nuts, you could tell he was realizing this was not the brightest idea ever. But he kept holding it up and angry little girls with big sticks kept coming at him. Our group was completely hypnotized and without a cameraphone between us. (Un)Fortunately, he was not injured. But after a couple of close calls, he pulled a fast one and broke the pinata himself. Then he stood back and watched the little sugar junkies scramble on the ground. The next time I looked over, they were using the big stick as a limbo bar and the dad was in line. Some people never learn.

In Vitriol Veritas

2006-03-31T20:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, what you think you read or hear is more entertaining (and perhaps more appropriate) than what is actually written or spoken. On my computer desktop was an icon for a pdf file that I glanced at and saw "In vitriol". I thought, "Wow, that sounds interesting, but I don't remember downloading that". So I opened it up for some bitchy enjoyment. It was actually "In Vitro Investigation of the Effect of Medial Patellofemoral Ligament Reconstruction and Medial Tibial Tuberosity Transfer on Lateral Patellar Stability." Oh, yeah. Now I remember. I had to get up at 530am Wednesday so I could pick up a cup of coffee and sit around with colleagues and discuss the merits of this article. That's right. I'm living the dream.

To make up for this, I decided to look up "vitriol/vitriolic" on the internet.

I found a band called My Vitriol. According to their website, their last album in 2002 was a big hit and they seem to have a huge dedicated fanbase. The old album in available on imusic. They are currently working on a new album. Who cares? Apparently I do - probably because they were initially formed by a guy from Sri Lanka. I have had a fascination with Sri Lanka ever since third grade when I made a model of the country out of paste and did a presentation for my class. That was during my "I'm going to be an archaeologist" phase and I loved that Sri Lanka was thought to be one of the sites of earliest civilization. Also, being from Alabama, that was the most exotic word to date that I'd learned to spell. Shortly after that, I got into Sri Chimnoy and yoga (I was a very weird kid) and became a social outcast with no hope of being a debutante. Oh well.

Segue...So I decided to google "Sri Lanka and found this, which I found disturbing on soooo many levels. First of all, what is a "top secret" organization doing with a website? And who died and made the CIA editor of "The World Factbook"? O.K. Back to vitriol...

So then I was going to look up the true definition of "vitriol" on the OED online (because, yes, someone did die and make the OED the final arbiter of all definitions) but I no longer have a subscription. So I checked out Wikipedia instead. Found the following definitions...

"Vitriol is the name that alchemists gave to sulfuric acid. The name was also used for various sulfate salts: copper(II) sulfate (blue vitriol, or rarely Roman vitriol) zinc sulfate (white vitriol), iron(II) sulfate, or ferrous sulfate (green vitriol) iron(III) sulfate, or ferric sulfate (vitriol of Mars) cobalt(II) sulfate (red vitriol).

Oil of vitriol is concentrated sulfuric acid so named due to its oily appearance.

Vitriol is also a quality of abusive or malicious forms of speech or feelings."

Isn't etymology fun? If you don't agree, don't spew your vitriol at me. That stuff burns.

Fortune Cookies

2006-03-29T22:04:00.000-08:00

FORTUNE COOKIE ETIQUETTE
1. In order for a fortune to come true, you must actually eat the cookie.
2. A fortune cookie that does not contain a fortune is bad luck (like you are marked for death or something)
3. Real fortune cookies should have actual "fortunes" - no character assessments or happy thoughts.
4. If there are a pile of fortune cookies, either pick first or let everyone else take one and take what's left. This gives FATE the best chance of getting you "YOUR" correct fortune.

MY FORTUNE FROM RANDOM CHINESE FOOD TONIGHT
"Hilltop and seaside resorts are where you'll live for life."
Now that is what I call a fortune.

FAVORITE FORTUNE COOKIE RELATED STORY
In my old apartment, I was washing dishes one night when Hooch walked up to me and sat down. I looked down at him and realized he had a piece of paper stuck in his jowls. I pulled it out and it was a fortune reading "You will be deeply loved." When I looked back down at him, his top lip was stuck and I swear it looked like he was smiling. After a big smile and a hearty chuckle, I called him "FortunePuppy" for a week (o.k. - sometimes I called him Hong Kong Phooey, too)

WHAT THE HELL PROMPTED THIS?
Work today was busy (Community Sports Journal Club this AM, grand rounds, 2 operative cases, meetings) and I didn't get enough sleep last night. Also a bit emotionally drained. My mom is in town visiting. I picked her up at my Aunt's after work and said, "We are going out to dinner. I don't want to cook. I don't want to do dishes. I don't want to watch or listen to you do either. I want to go somewhere and sit in a booth. I want someone to take my order and bring me my food. I don't want to order at the counter. I don't want my number or my name called. And I want to go somewhere with parking." Wow, "I" am a pushy, demanding bitch. But I got what I wanted - red vinyl booth, old fashioned americanized chinese food including deep fried egg rolls, an off-street parking lot, and inspiration.

My So Called "New" Life - The Photo Version

2006-03-28T21:57:00.000-08:00

So, I finally found the camera cable...Here goes...

Hooch on the front porch (his new roost to watch all that happens in his domain)

The new kitchen with lots of counter space and, most importantly, a gas stove

The new (tiny) dining area...complete with wine fridge (currently almost empty)

The downstairs built-in bookshelf and the water rower (I know it's rather incongruous, but it doesn't fit anywhere else)...

The also small seating area. There are some photos which still need to be hung over the couch. It won't look this barren once I unpack the hammer and picture hangers.

And, finally, a very blurry picture of the stained glass front door. I tried to get a photo at night with it backlit. Apparently, if you don't want the flash to go off, you need to stand really still. Note to self: No espresso after 6pm if you're going to be taking pictures at night

Thus finishes the StampyDurst CRIBS tour of the downstairs. Stay tuned for upstairs pictures, outside pictures, and an explanation of why I'm spending another year in San Diego instead of moving to North Carolina like I was planning.

In other news...I just have to say that I am very happy that a dear friend (who happens to be the husband of a very dear friend) arrived home safely Sunday evening from 7 months in Iraq. Just after he left, she found out she was preggers. He returned to find her happy and healthy. And he is happy and healthy. We had a dinner party for them tonight. Although there are many things I am sad about, this is something that makes me smile. Yea for them!

My So Called "New" Life - The Text Version

2006-03-26T20:44:00.000-08:00

Pictures you asked for, and pictures you will get. Just as soon as I figure out where I packed the camera cord that allows me to download pictures. In the meantime, you'll have to stop over and look at them on the little tiny screen on the back of the camera. Then again, if you were here you could skip the pictures and just look at the real thing.

In the meantime, here is a brief description. The house I moved into is a Victorian which was built in 1897 - rumor has it that it functioned as overflow housing for the Hotel Del Coronado. I have the smaller left side of the house which used to access the main house via a bookcase that swung open (children's wing? servants quarters? secret hideout for Al Capone?). Due to the house's age, there are wonderful little details like a hand carved front door with a large inset of stained glass, high beamed ceilings upstairs, and a claw footed bathtub.

There is a little side porch with a small fenced in area all for Hooch and me. The downstairs is small but the kitchen has lots of cabinets, plenty of counter space, and a gas stove. I love to cook, but, due to an electric stove and NO counter space at the loft, only cooked for big parties for the last year. I am so excited. Everyone has a standing invitation to dinner - you just have to let me know of any dietary restrictions. If they're not life threatening, I'll mock you appropriately. Especially if you've tried to serve me salmon steaks despite knowing me for more than 6 months. Payback's a bitch. The other awesome feature is built in bookshelves...those of you who know me personally know this is HUGE.

More on the structural house later, let's talk location. I am a little over 2 blocks from the beach (just near the main lifeguard station which is currently under construction). It is a very easy walk to dog beach (yea for Hooch!). It is also about 3 blocks to downtown Coronado (aka Orange Avenue) and striking distance of Danny's Palm Bar (Home of "The SLAMBURGER") and McP's (yea for Stampy!) In order to navigate the island without spending too much time sweet-talking the local PD, I purchased a brand spankin' new beach cruiser. it is an Electra Beach Cruiser. It's the red "Betty" model with flames, a leopard print seat and handlebars, and black leather tassles from the grips. Coaster brakes, of course. I'm hell on pedal-driven wheels. Rebel without a clue.

O.K. Now I'm just rambling. It's just that I feel very happy (and relatively calm for me) in the new place. Tomorrow, I'll do my best to find the camera cord and post some pictures before I try to describe Hooch's cuteness with his new toy "Suspicious Chicken". Sleep well.

There's No Place Like Home

2006-03-22T21:44:00.000-08:00

Picture me in my sparkly red shoes clicking my heels over and over. I've never really been sure where to find "home". Some say it's where the heart is...then home is often a very dark place. For years, I thought it was Sweet Home Alabama. That is, after all, where I grew up. But it's now been more than a decade since I've been home, and I've only been in touch with old friends via the occasional phone call or e-mail. My parents moved to North Carolina. While they often ask me to come home and visit, again, I'm visiting them - not home. For a very brief time, I thought home was in North County San Diego. During one of our snowboarding trips, I said "I can't wait to get HOME." And I realized I meant it. At that point in my life, that was home. That home disappeared with Discount Movers and a low-rent breakup.

I tried to find home where I used to - downtown. I moved into a hip urban loft with awesome views of the harbor. The wine fridge was stocked with awesome reds and rare ports. The furniture was carefully selected during walks through the local galleries. And all the regulars at the bar downstairs knew Hooch by name. But, as they say, you can't go home again. It just wasn't the same as the REAL warehouse space I had - the unfinished 2000sqft next to the Ben Franklin Bridge in Philadelphia. I tried to drink my way home, yoga my way home, smoke my way home, run my way home, sleep (as in Zzzzz) my way home...It just felt too hard to get anywhere.

Hooch and I moved today. We moved out to what locals refer to as "The Island". Coronado isn't really an island - at least not "unto itself". Keep driving south and you'll hit Imperial Beach. But in another way, it is. I lived here when I was an intern (many island moons ago). At the time, I found it creepy. It was so green and friendly and swell - it was the Truman Show. At that time, I'd just moved from the East Coast. Kids riding their beach cruisers to soccer practice, moms with baby joggers smiling as they ran by, retired gentleman watering their rose bushes...they all waved and said "Howdy, neighbor." Okay, not really. But at that time, It represented everything I feared.

After two years of living downtown...hearing trains, trolleys, planes, garbage trucks...hearing drunks and the local nuts screaming...being threatened, chased, and generally creeped out...having 2 beach cruisers and two mountain bikes stolen from my "security building"...chiseling soot off every surface of my house despite regular dusting...Well, you get the picture. I hereby say, "Howdy, neighbor."

When You Wish Upon A Star

2006-03-18T21:13:00.000-08:00

Apropos of nothing, I find myself thinking of luck. I tend to not be a very superstitious sort. I bet the number 13, I open umbrellas indoors (if it furthers the visual joke), and I am not scared of black cats that cross my path (although one day my path was crossed by four black cats over a short span of time and I was pretty sure it was some twisted conspiracy of evil). When I was younger, it was different. I studiously stepped over cracks, held my breath past graveyards, and lifted my feet while going over railroad tracks. The reasons escape me now. But I have outgrown all that.

But that is a partial lie. I still pick up lucky pennies, ask the magic 8 ball for advice (over and over until I get the answer I want), and wish on the first star I see every night. Not only do I wish, but I carefully select my wish (i.e. “I wish I was thinner” is qualified with “in a healthy way, of course, and not due to some horrible disease"). And no, my wishes aren’t always selfish and vain. Sometimes when I wish for a pony I wish all the poor little girls and boys could have a pony, too.

I guess I am a fair-weather believer. Four leaf clover? Bring it on. Broken mirror? Oh well. Perhaps this is because I figure evil and badness doesn’t need any help. If it wants to find me, it’ll find me. But good luck and happiness might just need a little reminder.

That being said, here is a little story about a time I was certain wishing made it so…

When we first started dating, Ah-sweep-ay bought us tickets to a circus. It was one of those low-rent “big tops” that sets up in a parking lot on the edge of town. Nonetheless, in these sorts of things, I am like a three-year-old all gakked out on cotton candy and shaking with excitement. It was all he could do to get me to our seats without having to buy me a headband with glow-in-the-dark bouncy antennae. About half way through, Ah-sweep-ay expressed some displeasure about the lameness of the circus. I said, “Well, It’s not Barnum and Bailey…What do you expect? A giant metal ball with some guy riding his motorcycle upside down in it?” The lights suddenly lowered…”LADIES AND GENTLEMAN”…a giant metal ball was brought to center ring…”PREPARE TO BE AMAZED”…not one but two guys on motorcycles rode into it…”PREPARE TO BE AWED”…and a girl in a horrible sequined leotard stepped into the ball…”THE FABULOUS BLAH-BLAH-BLAH BROTHERS”. We went crazy. After discussing which one of the brother’s the leotard was most likely sleeping with, I spent the rest of the circus going, “What did you expect? Midgets on unicycles playing basketball?”

Alas, lightening only strikes once. Unless, of course, it’s zapping my ass.

My Dog Pees Like a Girl

2006-03-15T00:34:00.000-08:00

Well, some of you might remember that during The Great Boxer Asian Pear Heist, I threatened Hooch that if he misbehaved, I'd tell the internet he peed like a girl. Here's the deal. While I was in Seattle, he ate the arm off my very expensive deco couch. I was willing to let him off on that one for separation anxiety. Since I have been home, he has had several borderline personality-type episodes. But last night, he went over the edge. I was on call (during which I never sleep well) and went to bed early. At around 1am, I woke up to the sounds of paper rustling. So tired, rolled over and went back to sleep. At 1:30 am, I woke up and he was drinking heartily out of the toilet (something he never does). When I woke up very early this AM, i found out why I had slept so poorly. The wrapper from a very stale half baguette was on the floor and a large amount of crumbs were on the no-longer-suitable for company couch. Both water bowls were empty (remember, the baguette was VERY stale). That was the final straw.

So here is Hooch's dirty little secret. Since the day I adopted him, he has squatted to pee. Several friends with more puppy experience than me assured me that he would grow out of it. Well, he hasn't. I walk this 65 pound ball of muscle that makes people step aside. Then, he walks up to a tree, sniffs it, walks past it to a nice patch of green grass, and squats. Just after I returned from Seattle, he actually lifted his leg for the very first time. I cheered! I told him what a very good boy he was. He looked at me understandingly, smiled his crooked little smile, and squatted to finish. Since then, he has half-heartedly half-hiked a leg, squatted with his pelvis pushed to the side, or simply gone back to his old ways. And I've come to realize that it is sheer laziness.

The dog will launch himself off the back of the couch 8 million times in a row, run laps on the deck which get going so fast he banks of the wall, and take my legs out form under me on the steps to beat me downstairs, but he is too lazy to lift a leg.

Must be nice to be a very spoiled dog.

Reasons I'm Glad I'm Not Famous

2006-03-10T22:26:00.000-08:00

1. Will never have to watch myself in an ex-boyfriend’s video (especially doing front walkovers and crawling on the hood of a car Tawny Kitaen)

2. Did not go through the awkward teenage years on national television (with braces and unfashionable haircuts Chelsea Clinton)

3. Hooch will never be kidnapped for money or publicity (Paris Hilton’s toy rat with a necklace)

4. Can gain weight and lose it without it being chronicled in People, In-Style, The National Enquirer (Too many starlets to mention – but let’s be honest and say there would be more speculation over whether I was pregnant than whether I was anorexic)

5. Will never appear on The Surreal Life, Dancing/Skating With the Stars, VH1’s What Ever Happened To…, or an infomercial for exercise equipment or acne treatment (I wonder which really let’s you know you “jumped the shark”)

6. If I ever decide to knock over a convenience store, pick up a transvestite hooker, or marry a Brady, it will only make the local news

7. When my ex-boyfriends meet someone new, get engaged, or are in a video with Christian rockers getting blowjobs, I’ll hear about it from my friends…not Entertainment Tonight.

8. That video I made with the swing chair, Tommy Lee, and the German Shepard will never be sold on the internet. (Totally kidding.)

9. Will never inflict my fashion sense (or utter lack thereof) on the world (especially at k-mart, walmart, sears, or the Grammys)

10. My frequent affairs with Greek heirs and hoteliers will be my secret alone. But you can bet your ass that when Keanu finally realizes that I’m the woman he’s been waiting for, I’ll rub your noses in it. (Eat your hearts out, ladies.)

I reserve the right to get bad hair extensions, apply bad fake-tans, and date a dancer who tours with me. But I promise you I won't let him rap in public. Oh yeah, and set your DVR or Tivo recorder for “America’s Next Miserable Surgical Resident” and “Farting with the Boxers”. Maybe I’ll enjoy being famous after all.

The Sweet Smell of Puppy

2006-03-08T00:52:00.000-08:00

While we were getting ready to either go to bed or pour another glass of Chateau Neuf du Pape, I caught a whiff of Hooch. This time, fortunately for me, it wasn't a boxer fart. It was the sweet, warm smell of puppy. And here are some pictures of his odoriderous self...

I'm not a big fan of perfumes and colognes. There was one cologne that I can no longer remember the name of which, during a brief post-adolescent phase, I would hornily spot miles away. But if anyone ever bottles the smell of sweet, warm puppydog - well, I'll be the first to invest.

Stampy Cracker

2006-03-07T22:59:00.000-08:00

So, since I'm on this lyric kick, I have to post some lyrics from one of my favorite Uncle Cracker songs.

...I might stagger and I might sway
I might stutter just a bit but that's ok
I'm not walkin' too good that's true
I got a broke ass limp that'll pull me though
I might appear to be a pile of rags
But I'm a stack of hundreds in a paper bag
I've been around this world and back
I made a million bucks and put it all on black

So if you see me stumble you don't have to look away
It's not the first time, not the last
You can leave me where I lay, because...

(chorus)
I'm no stranger to shame
I've got little to blame
You sent for me and so I came
I'll come runnin' when you call my name
Cuz I'm no stranger, I'm no stranger to shame

I've been known to wake up in some dirty places
The sun only shines on deserving faces
The mind erases, forgets the stars
See each and every city has corner bar
That's where I am in a world so grim
The lights are as bright as the day is dim
See I'm priceless in a class of my own
I used to stay out late but now I don't go home

So if you see me stumble you don't have to look away
It's not the first time, not the last
You can leave me where I lay, because...

(chorus)

How do you feel when the birds are chirpin'
When your in bed and everybody is workin'
Are you down with the non believers
Make the slackers look like over achievers
The dogs scratchin' on the door again
The cat's out but he don't wanna come in
You got a bed and you got a floor
But the couch is closer to your front door

So if you see me stumble you don't have to look away
It's not the first time, not the last
You can leave me where I lay, because...

[REPEAT CHORUS]

I have come to look at this as an anthem of sorts. See, I've done some dumb ass things in my life. I've also done some very embarassing things. Frequently (but not always) they overlap. In the past, I would fester over my past mistakes - less to learn from them and more to beat myself up senselessly. Well - no more. Hell, if I can write about some of my more embarrassing moments on the internet, it's time to laugh it up and let it go.

Same for you. Laugh about it. Hell, post it in the comments or leave a link to your site. I'll start posting some embarrassing memories this week and I encourage you to do the same. By laughing about it, I figure we take away its power over us. If not, at least we can all laugh together.

And I promise I'm laughing near you...not at you.

Weddings, Parties, Anything

2006-03-05T21:10:00.000-08:00

WEDDINGS PARTIES ANYTHING is one of my favorite bands of all times. They are an Australian band that I first encountered via a very poorly made cassette that the brother of an Australian boyfriend sent to us (sorry for the ridiculous run-on sentence). I haven't listened to them in quite a while. Tonight, I was hanging out with an Australian friend of mine who we henceforth will refer to as Waltzing Matilda (Is that okay, honey?). Anyway, we reminisced about younger, wilder days, and I played my favorite melancholy song of all times. This is the song I want sung at my funeral (no, I'm not planning on it being anytime soon). I imagine people swilling guiness and jamesons with a tear in their eye as they listen to it. I went on line to look for the lyrics and found this...

Sometimes you can say more, in a drunken hour or so
Than some people get across, in a life of lying low.
And sometimes you can feel more, for someone you've barely kissed,
but you don't see it at the time, and the moment that you've missed.

(chorus)
For a short time, she was standing there,
and you saw her, she saw you and you recall the colour of her hair.
For a long time, you never thought of her,
Then you heard she was gone for good,
You might have cried then if you could,
Would have looked foolish if you did, somewhere
The tears are falling in your mind,
For a short time.

There's a photo of your gang, on the night she hung about,
and you're looking like a wag, you've got your fat tongue poking out.
But she's no-where to be seen, you won't spot her anywhere.
It was her who took the picture, you were looking straight at her.

(chorus)

Tell me how long is a short time, is it longer than two hours,
Or a bit less than a weekend. Is it shorter than a year?
Is it the time it takes to not complete your business with a person,
With a friend you make in transit,
to a daughter held so dear.

That was the total of the lyrics on the internet. However, there is one final verse on their final live cd "...they were better live..."

Faces come and faces go, in the ragged life you lead
And you just file them all away, and recall them as you need
But when a face just disappears, you report it as a crime
Against yourself, against teh world
For a short time.

It draws a tear to my eye. And I'm drinking a Moretti.

Parents Say The Darndest Things

2006-03-01T22:17:00.000-08:00

So, last year my mom called me hysterically laughing to report a conversation she and my father had while watching primetime television one night. There was a commercial break, and the network showed a commercial for Cialis (an erectile dysfunction drug).

Commercial: "Effects last for up to 36 hours."

Dad: "Wow, that must be really uncomfortable."

Mom: "WHAT?"

Dad: "They said you'd be aroused for 36 hours. Ouch!"

The (Gay) Black Pirate

2006-02-26T01:59:00.000-08:00

Friday night, I took a break from powerpoint and went to the symphony. They were showing the very first full-lenght technicolor film "The Black Pirate" starring Douglas Fairbanks. It was a silent film, and the symphony played the original score along with it. I love these kinds of things. I once saw "The Battleship Potemkin" while the Philadelphia Orchestra played in the background. Of course, that was in the summer at an amphitheater and was complemented by a gourmet picnic and booze. Totally different vibe.

At any rate, the movie was hilarious. Due to the lack of dialogue, all the actors overemoted and made ridiculous facial expressions to get the idea across. The extras looked like real people so there were many shirtless pirates who never saw a gym and never missed a meal. I couldn't help but think that, if made today, the pirates all would look like Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp and, somehow, be less entertaining. Of course, if it had been made today, perhaps Douglas Fairbanks would have been wearing PANTS. He spent almost the entire movie in a black short unitard with black mid-calf boots (Stevie Nicks must be so jealous). I thought this was just a byproduct of his character being shipwrecked (and a chance to show off Doug's stylin' biceps). Unfortunately, when his daring crew showed up later to rescue the maiden in distress, they were an entire boatful of unitards. If I had been a pirate, I'd have been nervous. And if I'd been the maiden, I'd be thinking, "Wouldn't you know it. All the cute ones are gay."
__________________________________________
Potential Band Names:

Bullyboy
Lady I Regret
I Thought I'd Die

I Am "Le Tired"

2006-02-20T22:44:00.000-08:00

An old high school friend sent me this link I Am Le Tired. It is awesome. Thanks Amanda W.

p.s. I was reminded of this link by Dima's post "Le Weekend". Thanks, Dima.

The Bitch is Back

2006-02-20T17:44:00.000-08:00

I'm back in San Diego (view from my deck)...

...back with Hooch (he always starts out on the floor)...

and back to the grind. I have a huge community-wide presentation on "External Fixation In Acute Pelvic Ring Injuries" coming up on March 1st. Oh yeah, it's as exciting as it sounds. I'm hiring extra security for the stage divers. But after that, I promise to tell all the stories I've been teasing about...

1. The rest of the depression saga
2. The holiday party Ruby went to where there was a birthday cake for Jesus
3. The drunken debauchery of 3 drunks (alcoholics go to meetings) in Seattle
4. My new car and my new apartment...WHAT?

That's right. I'm cycling faster than Lance Armstrong, and in an effort to soothe my soul, I've decided to move closer to the beach and buy a car with a real roof.

Anyway, I'm keeping up with everyone via their sites. Please don't think I've stopped reading or writing. I just have to focus, focus...uh, what was I talking about? Oh yeah! Focus until March 1.

Sleepless In Santa Nella

2006-02-10T23:59:00.000-08:00

Day Two of Stampygate continues with no end in sight. How did the defense proceed today? Well, the case started out strong with a bagel and coffee for breakfast and a salad for lunch. Of course, the smoking gun was the smoking Stampy. That's right, I smoked my way down I-5 and right through Northern California. Not a great start for my campaign to become aerobic and fit Stampy again. I tried to go to sleep to just get through this swing (sometimes that works, you know) but the committee was in full force. That's what Ruby calls them - The Committee. Those voices (no I am not hearing real voices) that kick in when you're exhausted and think you're about to go to sleep...

Wow, I'm tired. I should get some sleep.
I don't feel that sleepy.
Did I pay the cable bill?
Did I lock the door?
I'm so forgetful. Maybe I have a brain tumor.
Why didn't I hold the door for that little old lady?
I'm a horrible person.
That's why no one calls.
Did I pay the phone bill?
I'm fat. Am I out of nutella?
Nutella, am I crazy?
Ohmigod, if i'm crazy my parents will be devastated.
Did I forget my father's birthday?
I AM a horrible person. Maybe I should kill myself.
That would devastate my parents and leave them with my student loan bills.
Did I pay my student loan bill? I'll never get a mortgage with my credit.
Fat and bad credit. Maybe I should disappear.
That would devastate my parents. Besides, where would I disappear to?
I'd like to go someplace warm, but I'm too fat to wear a bathing suit.
Oh god, why can't I just go to sleep?
Did I lock the door?...

Shower, rinse, repeat. And repeat, repeat, repeat. Even Ambien can't seem to win this debate.

Please note: Do not panic - no Stampy's were hurt in the making of this committee demonstration. But boy, does it hurt.

Losing It In Canyonville, Oregon

2006-02-10T23:49:00.000-08:00

NOTE: This post is from yesterday, 9 Feb 2006 but I fell asleep before posting it. Was just going to erase it, but I'm back in the same mental place and can't sleep so WTF.

When left to my own devices for too long, especially too long without alcohol, I begin to look at my life, my thighs, my diet with a high power microscope. I am sitting here in a Best Western in rural Oregon just a short shuttle ride to an Indian casino waiting for Ben Affleck to come banging on the door asking for protection from Charlize Theron (or was I the only one who saw that piece of shit?). Barring young Hollywood knocking down my door, I’ve decided to have a small nervous breakdown of the “Stampy Sucks” variety. Trust me, these get started and they take on a life of their own.

The first thing I am ashamed of is that I’m about to complain about my weight and my body self-image at a time when so many other strong women on the net are saying they are o.k. with themselves and have pushed unrealistic ideals to the side. Let me make it clear – I AM NOT O.K. WITH MYSELF RIGHT NOW. This 30#s I’ve gained in the last 3 years makes me feel off balance, clothes don’t fit, I’m self-conscious in yoga. At the same time, it is all I can do to feed the dog and pick up take-out most days. There is a mantra in trauma surgical training - eat when you can, sleep when you can. Well, i haven't been getting much sleep, but I seem to keep finding the food. While I worked out some in Seattle, all it took was a bad week of call and a couple beers to make me feel like a big, unhealthy lump again.

This has all served to make me generally uncomfortable in my skin. When I wear jeans, I am now that person that people always want to tell that they are 5 years and 15 pounds past belonging in those low riders. No matter what I’m wearing, I fuss with it. I’ve begun to worry about hair, make-up, and jewelry (all so not my thing – a silver bangle and some mascara is a fancy night out) to draw attention away from everything else. Not that any guys have been begging to take me out, but I cry when I think of someone seeing me naked. Not real romantic, eh. While I used to have trouble keeping my clothes on (wait - that didn't come out right - but you get the idea) now I roam the locker room in the gym draped in towels. I towel off inside the shower, I shimmy my jeans on under the towel, I always have a sweatshirt tied around my waist.…aw screw it…i’m taking an Ambien and going to sleep.

NO, REALLY...

2006-02-09T22:06:00.000-08:00

Ruby thought I scanned that picture in. No. I took it. I don't know whether to be offended she thought I didn't take it, or flattered she thought I was high tech enough to travel with a scanner. Here are some other shots from the same day...

There were gorgeous black and white photos in my room, but there were none for sale in the fancy, schmancy gift shop. Apparently they were commissioned and numbered.

ADDENDUM: While observing the power of the falls (even semi-harnessed to a hydroelectric plant), I was in awe of the force, almost a violence, which with the water went over. I tried to capture that but didn't quite get it. A video clip might have had better effect but I'm still rockin' the pre-video clip canon elph. At any rate, the more I just sat and looked at the falls - the more of an understanding I had for people who feel the need to harness that power or ride that power. The dammers, the goin' over in a barrellers, all the wingnuts. And I was reminded of one of my favorite short essays by MFK Fisher entitled "For Those Who Must Jump." I tried to find a link on line, but failed miserably. I'll just have to get someone to scan it in for me when I get home. If you've read it - if you know the piece - you'll have some idea of how I felt standing at the top of the observation deck getting bathed in the mist.

Incommunicado

2006-02-08T16:51:00.000-08:00

So after almost 3 months of grey, rainy weather and methamphetamine driven car accidents full of open fractures, my time in Seattle is drawing to a close. As a final snub to me from the Emerald City, the sun has finally come out and has shone for 4 days straight. Ha, ha, ha! I was on call from Saturday AM until Sunday AM, went home and slept, and then went back to operate Sunday night. By the end of the weekend, I was broken. I was supposed to leave Monday AM for snowboarding in Mammoth but my hands hurt so much from operating I couldn't slip my clogs on let alone tie snowboard boots. So I did what any strong, educated woman would do...I ran away from home.

And straight to a spa. I am currently sipping a glass of red wine before 5 pm while sitting in a window. Said window is near a fireplace. Said window looks down on a roaring waterfall. A delicious bowl of smoked salmon chowder is in my future. Life is once again good.

And here's the view from good...

O.K. I'm lying. That's the view from down the walkway. I'm in that building up to the left. Cuz that's where the booze is. Hope everyone is well.

p.s. I leave tomorrow for the long drive back to San Diego - will probably take two days to do it. If anyone is sitting around bored, feel free to call and keep me lively. I promise to tell you some really bad jokes.

Blood, Sweat, and Beers

2006-02-02T22:43:00.000-08:00

First, let me start by saying I am a firm believer in the comma before the "and" in a series of things. I know it's up for grabs in the punctuation manuals, but I'm coming down on my side of the debate.

So I'm not sure whether I'm more embarrassed to admit that I missed the beginning of "The Outdoorsmen - Blood, Sweat, and Beers" on Spike TV tonight...or to admit that I watched it at all. Ah-sweep-ay used to say that I was the most stalwart female supporter of Spike TV. After all, they have two hours of CSI every weeknight AND MXC: Most Extreme Challenge. But The Outdoorsmen - I feel like Diane Fosse observing the gorillas. Ladies, I highly recommend it.

Tonight, there was a "Blind Man's Beer" competition. They put two guys in a rope circle with 4 beers randomly scattered around. They then put blackout goggles on the two teammates, spun them around until they were dizzy, and then set them loose to find the beers. Grown men (overgrown in some cases) rolled around in the dirt until they located 4 beers per team. Once the fourth beer was located, they had to chug all four beers. Rules? No puking in the circle. It was a timed competition.

I ask you ladies, why haven't we taken over the world yet?

Into Every Rain, A Little Rain Must Fall

2006-02-02T20:56:00.000-08:00

O.K. One bad thing and two good things (WARNING - DREADFULLY LONG POST TO FOLLOW)…

Let’s start with the bad. I tend not to talk about politics, religion, or addictions too much in this blog. Not because I don’t have an opinion. For fucks sake, I was a poli sci grad student at Berkeley. I have an opinion on everything. It’s just that I have a hard time putting this stuff into print. I can argue my ass off in person – I just feel I don’t do it justice in the written word. I always feel the need to couch it in humor. But today, I had on of the worst professional interactions ever. And here is my question? Why do women in positions of power have to behave like such bitches sometime? And why do other women have to treat women in positions of power as if they are social pariahs?

It’s hard enough to be a woman in most professional fields. When I thought I wanted to be a lawyer, I got a job as an intern at a big L.A. (Los Angeles, not Lower Alabama) law firm. The junior female attorneys would get along just great with the legal secretaries. Everyone would go out and party together, gossip on Monday mornings, and talk general smack in the office. Once the attorneys were on the partner track, the attorneys stopped chatting so comfortably with the other women, and the legal secretaries would snipe about how the lawyers were acting as if they were so far above everyone else. Once I was a medical student, female nurses would take sexually explicit jokes and bullshit requests from my male colleagues, but when I would ask for help, I’d get, “I’m busy. You can do it yourself.”

Now before the hate mail starts, this is not a lawyer/secretary, nurse/doctor thing. My favorite aunt was a nurse for years. She went through several years of grueling training to become an ER nurse practitioner. When she was finished, she began working in an ER where she had worked for years as a nurse. She asked for some help with a patient one day, and a former colleague said to her, “What, you think you’re to good to do the work yourself anymore?”

Blah, blah, blah. So today, we did two pretty complicated operative cases. During the first case, one of our anesthesia providers (who never identified herself as the attending anesthesiologist and spent less than 10 minutes in the room) began questioning my junior resident’s orders. The accusations were pretty serious and got the trauma attending pretty spun up. At the end of the case, I checked his orders and found them to be both medically safe and appropriate. I discussed it with the trauma attending and we agreed everything was o.k. I spoke with the anesthesia resident, explained the misunderstanding, and she even apologized to be for the other provider’s behavior. At the beginning of the next case, said senior provider was bitching loudly and defaming our resident. I simply stated (and not in a bitchy manner, trust me internet – I admit it when I’m being bitchy) that I was the chief resident on the service, the junior resident had worked 30 hours straight and was home sleeping, and that I had reviewed his orders with the attending and we were satisfied. She snottily responed, “And your name is?”

My response was “Dr. G*******”. This was not meant to be condescending. I always introduce myself as Dr. G and then say, “But call me Stampy”. Her response? “I hope you’re a doctor. After all you’re operating. What’s your first name?” So I told her. Then we went about putting the patient to sleep and positioning him. When we were getting ready to scrub, she dragged the trauma attending out into the hallway and screams, “You’re resident is being LIPPY and you need to get her under control!” We both replied, “What?” She said, “I am an attending anesthesiologist and I deserve the appropriate respect!” I pointed out that I didn’t know she was the attending MD. She had never introduced herself. “What the hell else could I be?” “A CRNA (certified resident nurse anesthetist)”. We work with CRNA’s all the time. Regardless, I introduced myself as Doctor because we hadn’t met and I wanted to make it clear that I would take care of the situation. I stated that I regretted any misunderstanding – I did not intend to be LIPPY. Without even waiting to discuss, she looked at my trauma attending, said, “get her under control or else”, and stormed off.

We spent the rest of the case in stunned silence. The resident told me she was a real bitch, the room nurse told me she demanded that everyone refer to her as “Doctor” to show the appropriate respect, and the other OR staff told me this was not the first snit she’d thrown. Oh, there’s so much else to this story…too long already. My attending tried to calm her down and asked if I might consider apologizing (even though she and everyone else agreed I’d done nothing wrong). How ‘bout an emphatic “NO!” This was supported by everyone. Later, the attending told me said “Doctor” said I’d been LIPPY with another staff anesthesiologist that weekend. Hey, I was drunk with Ruby and Tammi Faye all weekend – unless I tried to pick said staff up at a wine tasting, it wasn’t me. The bitch said, “Well, he assures me he had a problem with a female chief ortho resident.” There are four of us women chiefs at this hospital alone – all blonde. Fuck them. Can't we all just get along?

So, good stuff?

One: I bought new snowboard boots and bindings yesterday and I’m going to Mammoth on my way home. Shreddy Betty…

Second: I found this awesome magnet this weekend…

More bitching to follow.

The Liver is Evil and It Must Be Punished

2006-01-29T20:00:00.000-08:00

The title is a quote stolen from a t-shirt seen at Pike's Market this weekend. The other relevant t-shirt read "Seattle Rain Festival - January 1 through December 31." It has been un-fucking-believable how much it is raining. Even by Seattle terms. I would be suffering from a raging case of Seasonal Affective Disorder except I had some most excellent visitors this weekend. Friday night, Ruby and another awesome friend who shall be henceforth known as "Tammi Faye" (please imagine a heart dotting the "i") flew into Seattle for a raging weekend.

I'll tell the whole story - in all it's tacky, white-trash details - over the course of this week. We made many new friends and sacrificed many unnecessary brain cells. We said words that shouldn't come out of the mouths of cultured young women. We drank small vintage wines from Tuscany. We tried to pick up one of the fish-throwers at the market (he was smokin') for me, of course (Ruby and Tammi Faye are happily married) but, unfortunately were pulled away by a wine tasting. We had more fun than anyone should have with a label maker....

So that should stimulate your curiousity. For now, I just want to post a picture of my Xmas gift for Squirrel Nuts (Ruby Jr.).

I couldn't post it earlier because Ruby reads daily. I suppose I could've actually mailed it to Squirrel Nuts on time. But that's just not my style. I'm Aunt Stampy, and she's my little rocker.

Hope all is well with everyone. And thanks for everyone's support for the depression posts. The story isn't over. Oh no, far from it. I'm just taking a break from it while I'm feeling blissfully happy and warmed by friendship. Ruby and Tammi Faye (heart over the "I"), thanks again for the visit. It meant the world...

Not In My Backyard...

2006-01-23T20:12:00.000-08:00

So, a side story to all of this depression talk is how it affects those around you…and how each individual responds to it. As previously stated, broaching the topic with my parents didn’t go so well. Only just after all time low points – those times when you are actually exhausted enough to rationally talk about how you are feeling – would I talk to my parents. And usually, I’d just say I’d had a hard time, but I was doing much better. Thanks for asking. As they were thousands of miles away, this wasn’t too hard to pull off.

But what about my friends and “family” closer to home? Ruby was (and is) awesome. I could (and can) call at any time – day or night. But Ah-sweep-ay? He was a different story. The very first time I got really sad, he was awesome. He found me crying in his room (can’t remember the trigger), but he just curled up behind me and held me until I calmed down. It was just what I needed. And it was the last best thing he ever did. After that, he told me that depression was just a sign of “mental weakness”. Yeah. He told me I reminded him of his mother (Yeah, again!) and she was weak. So I began to hide from him and avoid him when the blues struck. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the loneliest place to be is crying yourself to sleep while someone is sleeping soundly beside you. Or sobbing silently in the shower when someone in the next room has no idea. If you’ve been there, you know. If you don’t, TRUST ME. It’s less lonely being alone.

During this time, we had talked of moving in together. We’d been dating for over a year, and we spent every night together. I found a really cool apartment and called him about it. He stalled and stalled and the apartment got rented to another couple. At dinner one night, I broached the topic calmly. I asked if we were ever going to find a place we agreed on. He very calmly stated, “I’m not sure if we can live together if you’re NUTS. I mean, I can’t come home and find you crying in the bathroom all the time.” Thank god for the support of loved ones.

So, back to the drugs. I started Effexor. And it worked well. Ah-sweep-ay and I had our ups and downs. W e broke up, got back together, and I was on my way back to orthopedic training. Things were going well.

Unfortunately, the side effects I’d mentioned before with effexor were there once again. If I missed a dose, even by a few hours, I got light-headed and nauseated (that feeling you get if you take a multivitamin on an empty stomach). If I missed the dose for more than a few hours, I had these feelings like shocks were shooting behind my eyes, in my brain, and in my hands. I couldn’t risk having these kind of side effects if I was going to be on call for 30+ hours at a time. So I decided to taper myself off of the Effexor.

I had jettisoned the cardigan-wearing, passive aggressive, bad facial hair, comfortable lace-up shoe wearing therapist, so I went to the PDR and got the tapering recommendations for effexor. I had been on the max dose – 300 mg daily. I cut myself down to 225mg for a week – OK. Then I tapered myself down to 150 mg daily. Still OK. At about this time, Ruby got married on the East Coast. Good times, and more on that later. I went down to 75 mg daily and started to feel punky. But I was in the wedding and we had a ball. I just couldn’t party like everyone else did, and I fatigued really easily. Ah-sweep-ay complained and went out with everyone else until the wee hours of the morning.

When we got back to San Diego, I decided I was ready for the final taper. I stopped all together. About 24 hours later, all hell broke loose. I was shaking. The electrical shocks were back. I was vomiting and had diarrhea. It was like a hyperdynamic all body response. I was scared to go to sleep. Ah-sweep-ay went out of town. Ruby stayed on the phone with me until all hours. It was a sensation I can only compare (theoretically) to not eating for days, drinking espresso after espresso, and running myself into walls. All the while feeling like I was going crazy. Why didn’t this happen last time? Maybe because I went almost directly onto another antidepressant. Suffice it to say, it sucked ass.

So as not to leave you hanging, I’ll let you know that everything worked out o.k. And I started residency. And, surprisingly, I was happy….

A Plea To Cashiers

2006-01-23T19:04:00.000-08:00

So, tonight I ran some errands after work and stopped at several commercial establishments. At one, I bought several bottles of my favorite Australian wine (I'd tell you which one, but you might start buying it, thus driving up the price, thus making it necessary for me to hurt you - no offense) and at the second I bought a pack of cigarettes. Yes, I'm a doctor. So sue me. At both stores, I got carded.

While I appreciate the fact that both cashiers thought I had a youthful visage, this was not an altogether happy experience. At the first place, the cashier said (loudly), "Wow, 30-something. You don't look 30-something." Needless to say, he didn't say "something". At the second store, the cashier said "19blah-de-blah? 19blah-de-blah?" O.K. Shut up already. While I'm flattered on some level, it is SO not necessary to point out that I am at least 10 years legal to buy booze and more than that to buy cigarettes. Isn't there some law about announcing how old a Young woman is? Now wonder I can't get a date.

I'm thinking about getting a fake ID to make me younger. How pathetic is that? I would just lie (I'm ok with lying in this case), but if a waitress screams out my real age, there goes my game. And trust me...I need all the game I can get.

Next Step: Fooling the Fool

2006-01-19T20:58:00.000-08:00

So, where was I? Oh yeah,, losing my mind. So I had full medical coverage through my job. Why would I go to a psychiatrist for which I had to pay out of pocket? Because the way our system works, we have a single medical record for everything. And they are accessible to everyone from the file clerk to my non-medical boss. So, I chose privacy. Go figure. The psych guy I worked with recommended a big name at the local university. I made an appointment, ,and he offered me a professional discount. Only $125/hour. Thank god for professional courtesy.

We met for the first time. And I took an immediate dislike to him. Couldn’t explain it. There was just something condescending about him. And the office was tacky.

We sat down in some uncomfortable chairs, he crossed his legs at the knee (men, so unattractive), and picked up a pad and paper. All he needed was a large Sherlock Holmes-esque pipe. He asked me to explain my current situation. “Well, I’m training to be a surgeon. I was on track and highly motivated. Now, I’m giving vaccinations, doing psych evals on young men who threaten to hurt each other (SHOCKING), and doing more testicular exams than I care to remember (trust me on this one).” “Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” he stated. “You are a doctor and you’re getting paid.” My response? “Imagine, you’re a licensed psychiatrist. Someone takes away your position and makes you work at an STD clinic for 8 hours a day. Or you can explain to people that there is still no cure for the common cold. Time after time. Or people can come in just to get free Tylenol because they’re too cheap to pay for it.” Smug look. “We’re not talking about me, are we? Do you drink?” Aw, for fucks sake.

So over the next several weeks, I explained how I’d always felt like I was fooling everyone. I’d been in the “gifted” class when I was in school. I went to college two years early. I got into grad school and then med school. Yet I always felt like I didn’t deserve it. I knew I had potential, but I had trouble focusing and doing the work that I needed to do. I’d called my mom from med school one day and told here I had decided to go into publishing. “Honey, you can do anything you set your mind to. You’ll make an excellent doctor. Why publishing?” As I wiped snot onto my sleeve, I sobbed into the payphone at the med school library, “Because I can’t kill anyone in publishing.”

This translated, in this annoying, cardigan-wearing psych guy’s mind into undiagnosed ADD. We stopped the Wellbutrin and started Ritalin. I was awake. I was alert. I didn’t care quite so much about food. I got a lot done. Still, horribly depressed. Still wanted to drive my car into a ditch (only faster). Why was I driving a damnably safe Volvo? So we changed doses, added benzos, sampled some low dose anti-depressants. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Ah-sweep-ay was totally unsupportive. He pointed out (correctly, as hard as it is to say) how unscientific this all was. In any experiment, you should only change one variable at a time. That’s the only true way to know what effect one variable has. I tried to tell him about our sessions and how frustrating they were. How I would explain how I hated myself when I smoked because I wanted to start running again. While I was pointing out how I indulged in self-destructive behavior, he heard, “I have an addictive personality.” When I explained how I sometimes did my best work exhausted or hungover (I was tired enough to focus), he heard “I’m an alcoholic.” I started telling him what I knew he wanted to hear. Why? Who did it benefit? Not me. Ah-sweep-ay pointed out – “It sucks to be smarter than your therapist, doesn’t it?”

I tracked down the very first doctor I’d seen in med school and explained everything that happened. He expressed his embarrassment for the rest of his field, sent me a recommendation for Effexor dosing, and wished me all the best.

Next installment…coming off effexor sucks ass…

Tis the Season

2006-01-17T19:04:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it's the holidays, the weather, or the fact that someone as moronic as GW is still in power has set reality off its axis, but it seems like many in blogland are in the depths of depression these days. All my best to everyone working their way through it. If you want to commisserate, feel free to call. In the meantime, I'll just pick up my grim fairytale where I left off...

Let's see, I was in my internship and doing o.k. so I took myself off Wellbutrin. And I STOPPED smoking - go figure. (p.s. Do not buy stock in Zyban). I successfully completed a general surgery internship which is the starting point for all budding orthopods. While I like to think that my career didn't define me, it sure as hell fit my personality at the time. I was driven, motivated, and could survive on sleep deprivation provided appropriate doses of caffeine and chocolate were ingested. And no matter how hard you try, it invades every area of your life. While I had started dating Ahsweepay by the end of that year, he was also a surgeon so my schedule and lack of free time wasn't a problem, it merely mirrored his life. I was on a roll.

Then, the powers that be threw in a curveball. At my institution, it was standard practice that, after internship, every young surgeon was sent out (for anywhere from one to three years) to work as a doctor with a military unit. And I had been assigned to be a "general practitioner" for a few good men - about 1400 to be precise. Suddenly, things slowed down. As the head medical officer, my life was filled with clinic, lectures, training, and such. I went to work at 0700 and was usually out by 4pm. Sounds good, right? Not so much. Depression came crashing back in - subtly at first, and then with a vengeance usually reserved for the hounds of hell. To put it simply, I had too much time. Too much time to think, too much time to fill, too much time to do all the things I couldn't seem to get started doing. I was paralyzed. I got another doctor to refill my Wellbutrin (physician, heal thyself) but it didn't work. I cried the whole way into work. I cried the whole way home. While at work, I was the picture of efficiency and the token darling of the command. One night, I was so sad that I drank myself into a stupor. I had the next day off and was so hungover that I got stuck watching an E! special on the guy that played the dumb brother on Blossom. Just couldn't work up the energy to change the channel. I laid on the couch until a friend of mine brought me an In-n-Out burger, a six pack, and a pack of camel lights.

During this time, my Dad came to visit. We were driving to the installation where I worked to go to the gym. I lost it and told him about how low I was and how I thought about driving my car into a ditch just so I didn't have to go to work. Now, at this time, we were driving through Carlsbad, California where they have these far reaching flower fields. At certain times of the year, they're all in bloom and are quite stunning. You just have to pretend that you don't see all the exploited migrant workers hunched over picking weeds and such with no protective gear. My dad looked over, saw them, and said, "Hey, at least you're not out there." I choked on my own tears and laughed so hard I blew snot onto the steering wheel. "That's the best you can come up with? At least I'm not a migrant worker? I made it through high school, college and grad school without dropping out, getting arrested, or getting pregnant. I fought my way into and through med school and slaved through a surgical internship. I am a legal citizen of the US. And I should be glad that I'm not picking flowers for slave wages?" And he laughed.

Don't get me wrong. I made many, many poor choices growing up - hell, I'm still making poor choices. And I'm not saying I'm any better or more deserving than any worker in that field, any junkie in rehab, any prostitute who is doing her best to help her family out. But I was DEPRESSED. This is not a justification or an effort not to get hate mail. What I'm trying to get across is that depression happens to you - you don't go out courting it. Realizing that there were children starving in Africa didn't make that meatloaf taste any better when I was 6 years old, and knowing that there were people worse off than me didn't make depression any tastier either. In fact, I think it made it harder. What was wrong with me? I had a lot of advantages, loving friends and family, a roof over my head and a job that paid the bills and then some. If I couldn't be happy with that, didn't that make me a horrible greedy person? Perhaps I would never be happy.

Depression brings with it a lot of guilt - but just like the guilt of the victim that has been talked about on Amanda B's site recently, I think this guilt is also something those suffering need to let go. I haven't figued out how yet. When I do, I'll let know. In the meantime, I went to see the psychiatrist who worked near me and asked for a recommendation of someone "outside the system". Stay tuned for "It Sucks to Be Smarter Than Your Therapist".

Funny Ha Ha

2006-01-13T20:22:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite cartoons ever...

The best part is my mom sent this to me and then got upset when I couldn't stop laughing for days.

An American Fairytale

2006-01-13T20:10:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: If anyone should take offense to the following story, please remember that it is pure fiction. And I will avow that as long as necessary…

Once upon a time, there was a curly-headed blonde girl who ventured into the land of men. Not only did she choose a male-dominated career (medicine), and a particularly male-dominated specialty (orthopedics), but she chose to purse it in a milieu where her boss might be referred to as POTUS (insofar as her boss might function as “el commandante en jefe”). To not get too specific, let’s just say that at some point in time, she decided to “accelerate her life”.

This may have been a bad decision on several levels. First of all, Curly had a problem with authority. She also, had a problem with laws and regulations that seemed to make no sense. And, most importantly perhaps, she loathed polyester. But she charged on blindly with high hopes (as she so often did). She went through a civilian medical school with some adventures previously mentioned. She went through an internship where, when she was not wearing scrubs, she wore a uniform which automatically added 10 pounds to your ass and, during the summer, included white pumps. Egads! And then she was sent out to run around in camouflage and go on cool camping trips in the desert. More on that to follow... And finally, she returned to the same government institution to study orthopedics.

At first, she was a bit apprehensive about entering the wolf’s home turf. But she was assured, on a regular basis, that the wolf’s teeth were not only dull, but not interested in her. And everyone lived happily ever after for two years. What Mother Goose didn’t know was that Little Blonde Riding Hood (LBRH) was going to break up with one of the Big Bad Wolves and subsequently develop a deep depression. Although most of the Little Pigs (i.e. junior wolves) had experienced some personal emergency (family deaths, childbirth, divorce, sick pets) which LBRH had helped cover, she was hung out to dry. She was confronted publicly and told “you can’t let your personal life interfere with your professional performance”. When she overslept one day, she received a public flogging by no less than 5 people and also received a letter in her file. When she tried to explain that there might be psychiatric extenuating circumstances, she was told “that’s not our problem…that’s your problem. Take care of it on your own time.” So she did. And then, she was told by one of the “good guys” - “I’d like the name of your psychiatrist and your permission for him to open your files to me.” Oh yeah, I’m not kidding.

There is a lot more to this story, and a lot more depression. This little fairy tale is just to set the scene…