Clueless

I can't tell you how many times I watched the movie Clueless growing up.  I can tell you that if we had time to kill waiting in an amusement park line I could recite you the first twenty minutes without stopping to breathe.

So, naturally, when I needed some audio accompaniment to my knitting this weekend, I chose the best movie I could enjoy without watching on Instant Netflix: Clueless.

When I was younger and the TV used to do that thing where Pay-Per-View was just a channel and it played the same movie 24/7 until it switched to a different movie, I would just watch movies over and over and over. My Dad is a local sports announcer and we got all the zillion channels for free, so, why not? 

We would also tape (on VHS)(VHS! How weird is that!?) the movies we liked so that when the 24/7 week was over we could continue to watch them again and again and again. And by we I mean me.

I did dupe some friends and family members into joining my couch potato-ness. In fact, I remember sitting next to my mother watching Clueless and feeling only marginally uncomfortable when it was the cafeteria scene where Dee asks Tai if she's ever done it in water. I remember my pre-adolescent self wondering... do what? Do what? And concluding that I must've missed something in the earlier conversation. Them talking about doing their homework or clipping coupons, and how crazy it would be to do poolside. Or something.

Needless to say, this time around the jokes made a whole lot more sense.

The portion where Amber tells the gym teacher that her plastic surgeon doesn't want her engaging in any activities where balls fly at her nose and then Dee quips, "Well, there goes your social life," was not in fact a nod to Amber's intramural dodgeball league that I assumed she competed in on the weekends. 

Nor does an "herbal refreshment" refer to an all natural breath mint. 

Though, to be fair to pre-adolescent me, Dee and Cher didn't get the reference either. "Well, we don't have any tea, but we have Coke and stuff."

"No shit, you guys got coke here?!"

Again, I thought... oh, poor Tai! She really is clueless! She doesn't know what Coke is!? Joke's on you past me. Joke's on you.

Last Week's Haiku

Adulation of vacation.

Nine days with no work.

It was bitchin': beach, books, bff.

I will miss this bliss.

Emma

She needs no introduction.

Except to those of you who've never met her.

Emma is the world's sweetest dog and I say that as a dyed in the wool cat person. A mama cat, if you will.

She is some sort of genetic salad originally from Oregon, facts that no doubt set the stage for her beyond mellow demeanor.

She is owned by one of my husband's BFFs. Said BFF is a veterinarian and has a soft spot for animals. (Why yes, I have encouraged him to feature this prominently on his dating profile!) During their college years The Vet (ernarian. We have way too much fun playing off vet and making 'nam jokes. I think they're only funny to us.) was traveling through Oregon with his family. They were minding their own business putting birds on things and paging through Powells' books wearing vintage get-ups, you know, basic Oregon stuff, when a dog ran across the highway in front of them.

The Vet, being the aspiring vet he was at the time, had his family stop the car, pick up the emaciated young dog and take it to an animal shelter. The dog had no collar and I guess they were in the middle of nowhere so, given her condition, assuming no owner seemed a safe bet.

The shelter put animals down if no one claimed or adopted them in 3 days. The Vet flew back home to Long Island and called daily to check on the dog.

On the third day when no one had claimed it and she was mere hours away from the big sleep, he paid to have the dog shipped across the country so he could be its puppy daddy.

My husband accompanied The Vet to JFK where they met *triumphant fanfare*: Emma.

From that moment on it's as though she knew what The Vet did for her, what he saved her from, and she has been the sweetest, most obedient, loyal dog since. (Healthy now, too. She's been with the Vet a solid 7 years at least.)

The Vet decided to move to Denver a few months ago and moved in down the street (thereby bringing me one step closer to a life long dream of having a posse akin to Friends or How I Met Your Mother. He's kind of in a Barney/Ted phase right now. Ted circa season three.) so Emma is a regular presence.

We went camping a few weeks ago and Emma of course dutifully came along. We were in the mountains whose weather is a solid twenty degrees lower than Denver's usually, so at night The Vet put Emma's sweater on and my heart melted.

She's not a teeny dog, she's a solid medium size, probably on the larger end of medium, so her garb was just so cute and utilitarian rather than annoying and pretentious. The sweater was a thick, cabled, heathered yarn number that exuded outdoorsy-ness.

Clearly she needed something more feminine.

Thus, I made Emma a sweater. Something a bit more fetching, and a little lighter for the spring and summer nights.

Why wouldn't I wrap a gift for a dog?

Hottie at the Hydrant!

Robo-Emma. 

Love it.

I used the Hoodie Dog Coat pattern, but left the hoodie part off given the bad rap they get these days. The yarn is a wool blend that I let my husband pick out. The color way is "Whimsy."

Awkward Girl Problems

In conversation with my Nigerian co-resident:

Me: Did you make it to book club last night?

Her: Huh-uh, you?

Me: No, I got stuck at work. Blah blah needy sick children blah.

Her: I didn't read the book, so...

Me: Oh, yeah, it was okay. I'm kind of excited for next month's pick though.

Her: What is it?

Me: It's like a chick-lit-y looking book. It has legs AND high heels on the cover, so, you know, legit.

Her: What's it called?

Me: It's whhhhhy, huh... I... don't remember...?

Bloom

I've mentioned before that my husband is the sporty spice of our pairing.

His dream vacation would be akin to Bear Grylls's day job -- man versus wild. Given his druthers, the hubs would bliss out by running up a mountain until it turned snowy, strap on some snow shoes, ascend to the peak, do that scary skiing where your heels lift out to get back down, until he reached an ocean where he could surf and surf and surf, until the dolphins thought he was kin. He'd sleep in a yurt and create sustainable, no trace meals at a fire pit he dug out with bare hands.

There'd be a lot of plaid and facial hair involved.

My druthers, on the other hand, are dipped in glitter.

I think I would sit under a gauzy cabana beside an impossibly turquoise ocean scape and have Muppets bring me pina coladas. I'd lounge in a velveteen hammock with snuggly kittens and the latest NYTimes Bestseller that featured shoes or legs on the cover. I'd sleep in a suite and would sustain myself on pizza.

There'd be a lot of lethargy and sarcasm involved.

Given our disparate ideas of what constitutes a good time, we're pretty good at compromise. He will occasionally help me wind skeins of new yarn with While You Were Sleeping playing on loop in the background; I will occasionally leave the house. Fair's fair.

Today was one of those days.

I invested in a bike at the end of last summer when the gettin's were good. I have decided cycling is infinitely less degrading than running. Sure you wear indecently tight shorts, but they're so binding nothing can jiggle! No cadencing cellulite for all to view and mock!

The weather in Denver has been pretty schizo of late. Saturday was so hot I was sweating through my underwear from the exertion of exhaling. Tuesday I was scraping snow of my car.

Today was sunny, breezy, not too hot, not too cold, and was apparently extremely inviting if you happen to be a flowering tree.

We live near a 65-ish mile path that circumnavigates most of Denver and has numerous branching off points to shorter trails for those of us who aren't bat shit insane. The majority of the path runs parallel to an old canal lined with mature trees that were erupting with blossoms today. It was beautiful.

The thing that really made it worth dragging myself off the couch, besides the investment in my marriage, was the scent of it all. I spent a good five miles trying to piece together words that might adequately capture the smell. It's hard.

It's lame and trying too hard, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head that the scent of spring is akin to flatulence, in that each passing of gas is individual and nuanced, but yet somehow they're all really the same.

I pedaled past the trees and hoped to be down wind. There was something so sweet in the flowers. It almost made my stomach growl. There's probably literally some kind of sugar there that lures insects in, but still.

I finally landed on this:

Take one of those long, fat, pieces of grass, the kind that can whistle just right, and glaze it with equal parts cake baking and your grandmother's perfume.

Spring kinda smells like that. There's a bit of fresh, a bit of sweet, and a bit of nostalgia.

To be clear, I'm not thinking moth balls, I'm thinking more along the lines of the floral spiced scent that smacks you in the face when you open her old jewelry box.

Less smacky though. Not the hefty aroma that gives you a headache, but rather the remnants left in the air after she's gone out to the grocery store.

Anyway. That's what I landed on. Succinctness has never been my strong suit.

At any rate, 16 miles later, I have lived to tell the tale and deemed it official... join me in welcoming the season of whining and sweating; springtime is here.

Oh my God, I know.

I wouldn't make eye contact with me either. It's awkward, whatever, a seven month hiatus following a blahbity month hiatus before that... you might think that I should just take this God forsaken thing down, but alas, no.

So, it's July.

I am now a fourth year medical student.

I don't know if you're aware, but there are only four years to medical school. As in, this is my last year of medical school. As in, my holy God I'm going to be a doctor in less than a year.

I would've written that last bit in caps, but frankly caps just won't cut it. I don't know what would. Skywriting? A Mt. Rushmore-esque proclamation? Blood?

Lots of changes have been afoot as is usually the case when seven months goes by. I'd say the most jarring of which is that... brace yourselves...

I want to be a doctor.

All evidence to the contrary, turns out there's a sick diluted part of me that loves this stuff. A very specific realm of this stuff, but a slice of this stuff that counts as medicine just the same.

I don't feel I can just come straight out and tell you because what fun would that be. Plus, I feel as though this proclamation is a pretty huge anti-climax to the whole of my blogging career. So I'm going to doll it up with a countdown of sorts. I think I'll try to recall as best I can the foibles of each rotation this past year and see if you can guess what I've decided to pursue.

You know, all two of you who still bop by this ragtag site from time to time.

The same two who already know what I want to be, but WHATEVER. I NEED TO WRITE AGAIN.

7 Random Things About Me

Apparently I decided that after posting every single day in November I was absolved from writing for the whole of December.

As my holiday gift to you, I've returned early.

You're welcome.

Now, on to business. I've been tagged. Nevermind that the tag-age was nearly three weeks ago, I was still tagged. And if there's one thing I've learned from the blogosphere, it's that you don't eff around with OldMDGirl ;)

So, without further ado...

THE SEVEN MOST RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME I CAN THINK OF OFF THE CUFF EVEN THOUGH I'VE HYPOTHETICALLY HAD THREE WEEKS TO GENERATE A LIST

1. My ears have been pierced since I was three months old. Evidently three months was the cap on how long my mother could have a non-bedazzled infant. By three months it was high time I started earning my keep by being a more attractive accessory for her hip. And if my face wasn't going to do it, well, jewels in my ears would have to suffice.

2. I keep every piece of personal written correspondence I receive. Now... this might be better listed in a future edition of "7 Creepy Things About Me," but either way it's still true. I have six file boxes in my closet with assorted categories of folders labeled, "Aunts," "Birthday Cards," "Pen Pals 1996-1997," etc. They may or may not be color coded.

I'm not sure what this says about me (I mean, after our ears stop ringing from the PACKRAT PACKRAT PACKRAT alarm), but I just feel too guilty throwing away something someone has taken the time to write me. Admittedly, some cases are more justified than others. The letters I received when I was young from my grandmother? Invaluable. The personalized birthday newsletter from the Muffy VanDerBear fan club? You decide.

3. My high school valedictory address centered around the Britney Spears single "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman," thereby cementing in everyone's mind the disconnect between book smarts and... actual smarts.

4. In the seventh grade I crafted a Happy Meteorologist's Day (February 4th or 5th, I can't remember exactly) card out of yellow and orange construction paper (it may or may not have been a sun...) and mailed it to the channel five weather man who I was convinced was my soul mate. I believe the inscription read along the lines of, "Thank you for brightening the greater viewing region's mornings even when the forecast is partly cloudy. Your Biggest Fan, Pants."

After mailing it I was extremely smug and pleased with myself, wondering how long it would take for him to write me back and tell me that he had never before witnessed such construction paper wizardry, and clearly with skills like that I HAD to be his wife. Also, for some reason I remember congratulating myself for pulling off this scheme without my parents knowledge. Why they would've cared that I was stalking a minor local celebrity, I'm not sure, but their awareness seemed an imminent catastrophe back then.

Thus, imagine my horror when one February morning I hear my dad shout from the family room, "PANTS TAILORED MCSLACKS. Did you send Weather Man a Valentine?"

I was in the other room putting together some cereal and I remember pouring and pouring the Cheerios, unknowingly overflowing them onto the counter.

I went into the family room. "What?"

"You sent the weather man a Valentine?"

"NO. It was a card for National Meteorologist's Day. How did you... how did you know?"

"He just thanked you on the air for your thoughtful card. My daughter mailed a valentine to the weather man."

I remember thinking, MY GOD. Did my weather man SAY it was a Valentine!? It was just a meterologists' day card! HE MUST LOVE ME. (Yep. Over analysis and decryption of men's thoughts were rampant even way back when.)

And then he never wrote back.

He's now the nightly five o'clock weather man and the station's chief meteorologist. I like to think my early boost to his ego gave him the confidence to pursue the prestigious appointment.

5. I can wiggle both of my eyebrows independently. I regularly twitch them asynchronously in the rhythm of popular songs and try to make my friends guess the melody.

6. One time in the fifth grade I went over to my neighborhood friend's house to play after school. We knew our time was limited because I had to be at ballet practice by 5, so we dove right into her expansive Barbie collection and imagineered the day away. By 4:30 we realized our time was drawing to a close. Neither one of us wanted to stop playing so we decided I just needed to skip ballet.

The only way my mother would let me skip anything (school, ballet, piano, etc.) was if I either had a temperature or was throwing up.

We didn't know a fool proof way to get my temperature up, because as a nurse my mother didn't rely on the forehead touch, she always whipped out the thermometer, so our only option was to make me throw up.

I downed a jar's worth of dill pickle juice, while managing to consume an entire can of Redi-Whip between sips. We thought such a volatile combination would surely make me ralph by the time I had to leave for ballet.

Nope.

And I had to go to practice weighed down by what I would later recognize as the world's greatest pregnancy cocktail (Not because I've been pregnant myself, but because I became aware of the pickles and ice cream craving stereotype, but ho, wouldn't THAT have been a random thing about me.).

7. I was an avid member of my high school's speech and debate team. My category was a state category so the highest I could ever hope to place was #1 at the state level. I qualified to state all four years and made it to the semi-finals twice. My senior year I placed seventh in the state, missing the final round (wherein the top six competitors compete against one another, vying for their final placements) and my shot at #1 by 2 points. I have never gotten over it.

I wrote this early this morning. Nine hours at home and already I'm thinking of deleting the entire post.

My ovaries are bursting. I’m waiting for my plane in the terminal, the only area of the terminal chock full of people here two hours in advance and therefore MUST be headed to the Midwest, and there’s a man at the big windows telling his toddler son about runways (“That’s where they go REAL fast!”), planes (“No, not exactly like a bird, but they both fly.”) and that the traffic controllers won’t be smooshed (“That’s they’re job… it’s okay, they’re supposed to be there. They’re doing their job.).

This whole wanting to have children thing has been something that’s hit me only recently. I have NO idea why. NOOOO idea why.

I can recall an incident a in the not so distant past when I was leaving the grocery store with a bag in one hand and a 24 pack of Diet Coke on my hip. I used my heft to shift the Diet Coke a little higher and that small motion nearly brought me to tears as I thought, “OHMYGODIWANTABABY.”

Usually I am an ogre when it comes to small children. Not by design… and certainly not the kind that’s wildly popular and commercially marketable when animated. But there have been incidents where I just LOOK at a little dude in a stroller and it bursts into tears. Evidently my natural passive face is pretty frightening.

But recently… I don’t know. I don’t know what it is. Maybe my hormones are running amuck, maybe I hit some sort of developmental milestone that made my maternal DNA finally kick in, maybe I am just THAT desperate to not be a doctor… but something has clicked in me that makes me want to have a family.

I saw Dan in Real Life the other weekend. Though the bulk of the plot focuses on a few lovebirds, a big extended family serves as backdrop for the romantic comedy frivolity. I found myself distracted through the whole film, not following the banter or dramatic turns, instead thinking how I wanted to have a big family so we could have flag football games, massive hide and seek adventures and most notably, a big family variety show. Cause if it’s in a movie, it’s obviously not only true, but possible in reality.

Maybe this is just a way my repressed showmanship is trying yet again to rise to the fore (that variety show was really really cool), and sure, I could totally TOHHHTALLY see myself turning into an overzealous stage mom living vicariously through her child, but… I don’t know. I want to have a family.

Part of what has made this realization especially jarring is the whole I’m going to be intensively training for my career through the next oh, seven-ish years. That means I’ll be thirty-ish when I’m done and ready for the real world. I know people are still fertile when they’re thirty, I do, and as a fledgling member of the medical community I can even recognize that viable pregnancies can be crafted well into the forties… or, OR as a marginally civic minded person I DO realize I could always adopt… but that all seems so far away.

But I guess, plenty far. I know I don’t want one now. God, no. I can barely take care of myself let alone a little parasite/life-long, independently thinking pet (I know they're not pets.).

But I guess it’s just enough to know that I do someday. Enough to scare the bejesus out of myself.

Though who am I kidding. I’m waiting in this airport to head home and see my family. My WHOLE family. That includes my brother and his two little ones.

Fifty bucks says my post Sunday goes to the tune of, “OHMYGOD. BESTBIRTHCONTROLEVER, NEVER EVER EVER HAVING KIDS.”