Festive Fall Flouncey Cowl

Finished the fall cowl today.

It's... meh. I bound it off using a stretchy method thinking that'd be good for ease in going over the head, but it turned out like the all American high school girl desperate for popularity. A litle too loose.

Speaking of, did you see the Glee GQ photos? They make me uncomfortable. Dianna is so beautiful I don't know why the photos make her look waxy. And Lea? Oh Lea. You seem like you have yourself together, but these photos make it look like you let your principles be traded for the promise of exposure and a Tootsie pop.

I'll plead Halloween for them. That makes it acceptable ("Halloween is the one night a year where girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.")("The hardcore ones just go for lingerie with some sort of animal ears.").

Anyway. A far less revealing photo, though there is some see through lace work! SCANDAL!



It's off to my future mother-in-law.

Over the past few months of residency when I was two screaming children away from ripping my hair out and walking back to the East Coast a care package from her would arrive. Little things like fun pajamas or Halloween earrings (see bats in above photo); just something to perk my spirits up and remind me that there are people rooting for me.

Hopefully this cowl will do the same for her.

Evidently A Bug's Life came out in 1998

I get ma’am-ed a lot these days. I mean, I kind of get it. I’m a resident, I work eighty hours a week, I’m past the quarter century mark. I don’t look, how shall we say… fresh! pert! remotely well-rested! Which I guess are terms that in many ways translate to youth.

I’ve also sprouted some curves that in reality, I don’t altogether hate, it’s just frustrating when I try to wear an outfit that used to be a go-to and now makes my midsection resemble a penis caught in a zipper, all flesh akimbo and painful to the eye.

I guess this maturation of my body is a give away.

I don’t feel that different than when I was seventeen, back when I’d resent being called, “Miss.”

I guess it’s true that you always want what you don’t have. Back then I’d have gotten a kick out of being a Ma’am; now I practically tip any person who addresses me as Miss.

I suppose that since the bulk of my week is spent responding to “Dr.” it does mean I’m pass the Miss stage… but that’s just so weird. In my mind I’m still a kid. Though there has been sufficient evidence to the contrary of late…

A few weeks ago when I was on the general pediatric wards I had a patient who was suspected to have Stevens-Johnson syndrome. When the dermatologist came to evaluate him and give recommendations she was skeptical. It didn’t look altogether consistent with SJS… She was like, “You know… his eyes don’t look that red… I mean, they’re no worse than yours right now, and you’re post a what, 30 hour call?”



I wasn’t.

I was on hour three of the day.

Then when I went to the Dance Place last week (which, incidentally, I didn’t tell you about because the class I went to was cancelled and my schedule didn’t jive with the remainder of theirs, so… to be continued) to ask how to sign up for classes the guy whipped out a schedule and without even asking pointed me to the Beginner Adult classes.

Just like that! I mean, he assumed correctly, but… still! Oh whine whine whine.

I was also wearing my “Bugs Kick Grass” t-shirt featuring Hopper from Pixar’s A Bug’s Life which caused a cashier earlier in the day to ask, “Holy cow. How old is that shirt!? I haven’t thought about that movie in forever.”



She then proceeded to not card me for the wine I was buying because if I owned a shirt that old I was surely old enough to buy alcohol.

(For the record I was post-work out. I don’t typically wear character t-shirts in a vain attempt to appear younger.)(Yet.)

So, life goes on. I have a medical degree, I’m getting married, I pay rent and own cats... I have blood shot eyes more often than clear, I can pass for over 21 without an ID and I’m physically not a tween anymore.

My valedictory address in high school revolved around Britney Spears’ “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman,” single (because the theme of the speeches that day was "Songs.")(Okay, I guess that still doesn’t excuse it)(I stand by it though, for the record.) wherein I mused about being somewhere in between and how I couldn’t wait to get to the next stage of life and become a full fledged capital double you Woman.

I guess I’m there.

Let's get physical.

People say that exercising makes you happy (“And happy people just don’t shoot their husbands,” - Elle Woods). I on the other hand experience what I’ve come to call endorphin rage. When I exercise you know, those four to five times a year, I get angry. Really angry. I turn mean(er).

It becomes most pronounced while running. I absolutely don’t understand why people view this as a desirable activity nor how on God’s green Earth some people drag themselves through marathons. Pain? Humiliation? Yes, please?

Claiming one’s self a runner is a big ole masochistic flag to me.

Despite this at least once a year I try to become one of those people. (Let’s remember, I went through med school. If that’s not an occult endorsement for a masochist facet of me I don’t know what is.)

My fiance, The Irreverent Reverend, was a jock in high school (I know, what’s he doing with me. He was the jock who would rather talk about the emotional turmoil and social injustice of demonizing his opponents. Aaaand there we go. Back to nerd-dom.). And since I believe our (the collective Our of American twenty-somethings) personalities and way of interacting with the world are solidified in the high school years, he naturally continues to be fairly jock-ish. (Not to be confused with jock itch.)(In case you were reading aloud.)

He runs. I love him, so I try to run too. Five minutes in that love comes into question.

Any passer by catching an earful would swear I just found out he accidentally got my high school nemesis pregnant the way I rail at him, roll my eyes and generally become the worst version of myself. It only gets worse the more distance we log. After we did five miles (… a few months ago) I was fairly sure a preemptive divorce was in the works.

Anyway. My point!

In order to make this new Spark endeavor work I need to find some kind of exercise that doesn’t make me want to die. So, again reaching back to what I enjoyed in high school, I decided to try dancing.

Sure I haven’t touched a ballet barre in a good 12 years, but hey, I can still stand on tiptoe! How else would I reach the sea salt chocolate bars I hide from myself on the top shelf?

I guess I did do a few Broadway Dance Center drop-ins while I was in NYC… but those classes included one armed push-ups and frankly, I don’t think that’s dancing. That’s torture.

At any rate, I’m going to hit up some beginner jazz for teens and adults tonight at the local center. Spirit fingers crossed I don’t use what limited breath I’ll have to curse out the 14 year olds for being “fit” and “healthy.” Jerks.

I need a motivator.

So, I was sitting at my desk this morning minding my own business when I felt a breeze on my thigh. I was (still am actually) wearing pants. Breezes are infrequent.

I looked down and lo, the inner hem down my left leg of these Ann Taylor slacks was splitting in two.

Ann Taylor? Fsshaw, More like ain't tailored.

The first two months of residency I was in scrubs all day every day. It was not only delightful, but mollifying. It convinced me that hey, even though I'm working thirty hour shifts and eating whatever the hell I want because I've convinced myself I deserve it, or have just watched a child die, or have fucked up some sort of something yet again, it wasn't having any effect! Wonderful! I deduced I reached stress levels so high that it didn't matter that I was eating my feelings because raw anxiety was just dicing the calories away.

Imagine my surprise when I had to switch to wearing real clothes again and oh oh, oh oh, I looked like a sausage cased skank in my too tight pants/skirts/tops/you name it. I will say that my socks have remained decent. I haven't let myself entirely go.

I have chosen to ignore this reality (since accommodating my heft with a new wardrobe takes time and money and fashion sense... things I suffer a deficiency of) until today when my pants tried to emancipate itself from my leg (Free at last, free at last!).

Thinking quickly I grabbed a stapler and zipped to the bathroom where I stapled the hem back together, aware that the people peeing in the neighboring stalls would wonder what in the HELL I was doing, and resolved to do something about my life.

I'm getting married in June (oh, right. Surprise! Haven't blogged since April!). I don't want to look at pictures of a swollen face and chin flirting with doubles for the rest of my life. I want to look the best I can for that day because hello, this is supposed to be my prime, and further, I am nothing if not vain. I mean, clearly. I have a blog.

I suppose there's an element of health/wellness/energy that factors into this too, but frankly, I don't want to look like a heifer trapped in beaded saran wrap on my wedding day.

Also, it'd be cool if my pants didn't spontaneously split.

I joined Spark People (snaps to Charlotte for mentioning it previously). I need something to hold me accountable and at least remind me that creamsicles and a box of mac & cheese does not a dinner make.

I hope this move really will ignite something.

Like my metabolism.

How We Decide Part 1

Over spring break I read this:



I intended to read it back in January hoping to gain some insight and perhaps figure out how I could make a decision already and pick a cussing residency. I didn't come up in the library queue until a few weeks ago just before I left for the Midwest and the book's content turned out to be uncannily apropos:

"Even though pundits are trained professionals, presumably able to evaluate the evidence and base their opinions on the cold, hard facts -- that's why we listen to them -- they are still vulnerable to cognitive mistakes. Like partisan voters, they selectively interpret the data so that it proves them right. They'll distort their thought process until it leads to the desired conclusion." - p. 207

"In other words, ignore those commentators that seem too confident or self-assured. The people on television who are most certain are almost certainly going to be wrong." - p. 209

"When you see a painting, you usually know instantly and automatically whether you like it. If someone asks you to explain your judgement you confabulate... Moral arguments are much the same. Two people feel strongly about an issue, their feelings come first, and their reasons are invented on the fly, to throw at each other." -- quoting UVA psychologist Jonathan Haidt p. 172

Beyond truly being a gifted writer (I mean, how many people can make neuroscience not only accessible to the lay public, but ENJOYABLE?) Mr. Lehrer posits some interesting assertions regarding the operations of the human brain.

It gave me interesting food for thought as I sat in restaurants with people who herald Glenn Beck and believe the President of the United States is a socialist robot who hates money and wants to punish it.

"What are your suggestions for note color coding systems? I hate neon and am more at peace with earth tones."

In a fit of biannual med school spirit I volunteered to give tours to the potential incoming first years at their revisit weekend.

In return I was permitted to attend their first night feast of catered free-ness. They even let me bring Irreverand Boyfriend for the complimentary beer, wine and limitless chicken drowned in sketchy sauce.

We showed up a few minutes late and were unable to find an open table with bright eyed incomers so we settled for a table with a slew of current first years.

I actually didn't realize they were ALL first years. As a fourth year I'm pretty distant from the pre-clinical (first and second year) students. They don't know me, I don't know them.

It was precisely this fact that Irreverand Boyfriend capitalized upon in an effort to distract me from my horrid realization that OH MY GOD. I REMEMBER WHEN I WAS THEM. NOW I'M GOING TO BE A DOCTOR. Angst, angst, angst.

He leaned over to the first year sitting next to him and asked, "So, how do you like it here?"

She was taken aback and said, "Oh! Are you a prospective? I'm sorry, I thought you were an upper classman... well, I like it here a lot!"

Irreverand Boyfriend went on through this charade through three separate groups of first years.

He told people he knew me through a childhood friend of mine who he met at Hypochondriacs Anonymous. He truthfully said he graduated from college in 2007, but stated not so truthfully that he spent the years since soul searching in Nepal. He found this a necessary escape after he was the victim of a brutal attack in Grand Central Station wherein a homeless man held him in a head lock for three minutes and beat him over the head with a bottle, forcing him to reevaluate his perspectives on humanity.

In Nepal he was exposed to local remedies for colorectal ailments including burning a certain herb native to the region in order to waft the smoke into the ailing areas.

When I asked if that meant he had to lean over the fire and spread his bare cheeks, he didn't miss a beat. "Well, yes, if you want to be crass about it, but I prefer to maintain a degree of respect for the practice, Pants."

In an effort to try and break him I asked about his modern dance habit I had been told of and he promptly replied that though he spent two summers at an Alvin Ailey dance camp he just wasn't committed to the field.

I thought we'd reached the final straw when he asked how many students exotic danced in the city to stave off the burden of loans, but no. Grey's Anatomy has desensitized this generation of future doctors from the incredulousness of taking off one's clothes as a means to fund professional school.

No, the final straw came when he asked about the options for urban hunting.

"Urban Hunting?" A particularly gullible first year asked.

"Yeah, you know, like picking off squirrels and vermin in Central Park. That doesn't happen? Stealth Street Pigeon Stakeouts? No?"

"I don't know. I mean, my interests are diametrically opposed. I saved turtles for a summer in undergrad."

"Oh, like, the meat?"

"What?"

"You mean you saved the meat? You know, for later?"

"No, I saved them. Like, tagged them and rehab-ed them for the wild."

The funny thing is until that moment not a soul doubted his stories, questions and seeming social ineptitude. So for those of you who wonder what it's like to go to med school, that is it, right there.

Thank you, sweet loveface, for distracting me from the fact that I've been there, done that, and am on my way to the next step.

This is literally all I have to show for my day.

I can't even tell you how I got to this point, but I decided it'd be a good idea to google various hairstyles and see if I could find some idiot proof instructions. I guess I was half thinking I could learn how to do something fancy for my graduation or at least develop some back pocket proficiency so in case I was called to a State Dinner at the last minute I could look instantly fabulous.

At any rate, I ended up watching people do their hair on youtube for way too long.

I decided it would be crucial to learn about Victory Rolls. You know, in case I wanted to go as a Forties Housewife for Halloween:




Orrrrr a small woodland animal with perky ears.

I learned how to do Bettie Page bangs:



AKA world's most perplexing, as in Why on EARTH is that alluring, pin-up do.

And, perhaps more practically, I went for an Audrey-esque French twist:



I think I'll stick with a rumpled morning after a shower ponytail.

But in case you don't want to:

Victory Rolls
Victory Rolls AND Bettie Page Bangs
French Twist
Brigitte Bardot Updo which I didn't attempt for fear of creating a luxury option for nesting robins

Four Stars

I am a grade A procrastinator. I think most people in graduate education have to be to some degree. You know, for sanity.

It's vital to take a break from quantum physics or Thoreau's existential machinations or rectal exams, whatever your poison, to remind yourself that those things aren't ACTUALLY our whole lives, it just feels like it. I mean, God help us if you had to curl up and live in a rectum.

One of my favorite escapades is Fantasy Online Shopping.

Far too often this becomes Actual Online Shopping, but I certainly start out intending to browse.

I usually keep it within a degree of reality (which perhaps is why I end up actually buying) by only perusing the websites of stores I could actually shop i.e. Target, Old Navy, or if I'm feelin' really saucy, Ann Taylor.

I usually just look for patterns or colors I like, styles and cuts that have worked for me in the past and basically go nuts over accessories. Sunglasses, jewelry, handbags... I hate to say the gaudier the better, but... if the shoe fits?

Anyway, I was genuinely looking for something the other day, a pair of red flats (clearly a necessity) and encountered one of my greatest downfalls: the online review.

Now, I'm not an idiot. I'm not. In two months I'll have a medical degree to mostly prove it. But I am a sucker. And oh, how I am a sucker for a well reviewed product. It's taken me a good long while and more than a few disappointing online shopping endeavors to realize that oh, it's probably an employee of that company writing the review. Because really, who types: THESE SHOES CHANGED MY LIFE! OMG! SQUEE! BUY THEM NOW! THEY BEAT WITH A HEART OF AWESOME UNPARALLELED IN FASHION!

There also must be secret competitors on there, the ones that go more along the lines of: These shoes arrived and I put them on. Immediately they pinched my toes which caused me so much pain my toes went numb. Because of this I fell down the stairs. And landed on my dog. Killing him. He wouldn't have died if I never ordered these shoes. DON'T LET IT HAPPEN TO YOU.

I think I may be projecting my recent experiences going through apartment reviews online trying to find a new place Out West. These people are either on way too much Prozac or are the most vindictive, hateful creatures West of the Mississippi because sweet goodness, how important is it really to have granite countertops!?

I digress.

So, the hunt for red flats. I wanted something to spice up the very many heather gray clothes I have these days (residual from Depression Online Shopping). So I went through the usual suspects: Zappos, Piperlime, Overstock and finally settled on Target. Largely, I admit it, because of the reviews of this one shoe:



Beyond being positive, the reviews seemed sensible. They talked about accommodating bunions. I have bunions! They talked about how comfortable they are. I like comfort! And also they kept emphasizing how cute yet functional they were and hey, for $16.99 it was worth a shot.

Anyway, this is probably the epitome of the online review because basically my point is OMG. I love these shoes.

(It took this long to get here because I needed to prove my thesis. I am a grade A procrastinator.)

I do a ton of walking in NYC and they don't kill my feet. Sometimes flats are a little too free form to support a trek to the subway, but these with their sturdy (faux?) leather have held up. They don't rub my twisted bunioned feet in any which way and have such a pleasant hint of elfin charm I want to wear them with everything.

Now, if I could just find an apartment meeting that criteria we'd be all set. Mama needs a lot of square footage to house these bunions.

Auntie Pants

My brother's daughter is beyond adorable. She'll be four years old in June and she's brilliant.

She was able to dress and undress herself by the age of 2.5 which I think is a testament to her brainy fashionista potential rather than portending a future of stripperdom. We sang an "I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream," duet from Sleeping Beauty as soon as she was 3. Since she was born she loves anything that glitters. CLEARLY there will never be any doubt of our genetic linkage.

My brother's wife has a sister. I have mentally been in competition with her to become favorite aunt since my nephew was born seven years ago. But now? The stakes are higher. There's an adorable, malleable sweetheart in our midst and I am determined to be my niece's favorite aunt.

My dream is to one day take her on a weekend excursion to New York City where we can gorge ourselves on Buttercup Cupcakes and then have a shopping spree at the American Girl Doll store. In this dream I am also independently wealthy. Should this dream take place after she's 21 years of age we may also throw in a Sex and the City Bus Tour with a solid afternoon spent at Sweet Revenge - a place that does pairings of cupcakes and wine.

CUPCAKES AND WINE, PEOPLE.

It's true that all the geniuses flock to New York.

One of my biggest deficits in this race for favorite aunt is my proximity. Or rather, lack thereof. Within my niece's realm of conscious recollection I have visited her twice. Her mother's sister lives in the same city. Yikes.

Upping the ante MORE is the fact that her mother's brother is getting married therefore bringing in another contender for favorite aunt.

This is unacceptable. As such, welcome to my A-game. For Easter I (yes, hand)made and sent her this:



It's the best I can do when I know there are other women in her life close enough to give her an Easter basket replete with candy and bunnies. I'm hoping instead of a fleeting sugar high I can provide a spark for a lifetime of nostalgic wonderment similar, but even more pervasive than the insane addiction cultivated when I introduced her to the Fancy Nancy series and provided her her first tutu.

I mailed it yesterday. We'll wait with bated breath to see her response.

In the meantime I will begin plotting for her birthday. It is on, other aunts. It is on.

One Little Activist

One of the nice things about visiting the home I grew up in is the sense of security and comfort that's just innate. I walk in the door and feel comfortable running around in an oversized t-shirt and watching 14 hours of television. No one will judge me.

Another perk is the little somethings I find left on my dresser.

My parents are in a continual state of trying to clean the house and weed out all the absurd amounts of rickrack we've accumulated over the years. Often I find old photos of friends, old pairs of heinously large glasses I wore or pictures I drew of my former imaginary dinosaur waiting for me next to all the junk mail I receive. (Former imaginary dinosaur as in the dinosaur I no longer imagine, not that he used to be pretend and now is real.)

What awaited me today was a small suggestion of how I turned out the way I did (i.e. a sarcastic liberal minded pseudo bleeding heart raised in the bleached belt of Bible beating conservatism).

It was a letter I wrote to a local columnist nearly 15 years ago. I actually typed it up, but it's on the kind of printer paper that has to have the dotted edges ripped off (reproduced verbatim):

October 23, 1995

Dear Ms. Columnist,

I have a question about one of your articles in the issue of tonight's paper, in your article "Scalping Chief Wahoo Won't Solve Native Americans Woes" . In my opinion you should not be mocking the native americans, they have feelings too. For instance, not every single native american in this country is protesting the " Cheif Wahoo". I think it is very wrong of you to sarcastically say:oops, you were protesting to loud to hear what I said, or something of that nature.If the Cleveland Indians were in HONOR of that indian chief why did they make his face red? You don't see a native american walking down the street with a red face, do you? And even if they do have a tint of reddish color in thier face it's not cherry red.I happen to know a native american and thier face isn't bright red!I'm sorry to take up your time. Thank you for hearing me out.

Pants Tailored McSlacks

Oh, silly eleven year old me.

Anyone can see now that Chief Wahoo is red-faced because he's embarrassed to be associated with such a pitiable ball club. Sorry, Cleveland Indians. You're terrible. Thank you for hearing me out.

P.S. I love kitties

I took my last required exam for medical school on Friday. It was the gateway to my last spring break ever. Rather than dwell on that designation and try to make this a "Spring Break Woohoo" spring break, you know, one worthy of the "last ever" moniker, I spent Saturday watching movie after movie. On a couch.

I can't express to you how much the lack of personal couch over the past eight years has affected my quality of life. I LOVE couches. Leather, canvas, patterened, un-patterned, they're right up there with pizza: doesn't matter the variety, I am more likely than not to love it with my whole heart.

At any rate, I came across P.S. I Love You On Demand. I had heard that it was a sappy romantic comedy-esque feature and as such knew that I should probably go ahead and watch it on my own instead of using up a credit with Irreverand Boyfriend (I think I'm actually at a deficit having dragged him to Valentine's Day.)(But he doesn't need to be reminded.)(Kisses!).

Thus, I watched.

And holy shit man it is sad.

I rarely cry at movies, Deep Impact notwithstanding (I was loathe to think that Elijah Wood would marry anyone but me, even fictitiously. I bawled my way through the ending and even let it carry over into public over frozen yogurt. Ah, twelve year old me...), but goodNESS this one smacked my tear ducts every fifteen minutes.

Just when you think it's safe to accept the plot line and begin to make your peace, BAM, something else happens that ignites the blubbering.

Afterward I was so distraught I interrupted Irreverand Boyfriend's paper writing in the other room and demanded to sit on his lap just so I knew his lap was still there and not taken away from me by a brain tumor.

In an effort to bring me back to the world of even keeled emotions he let me search for videos of Baby Kitties on youtube. Nothing warms my heart more than the delicate, unbelievably high pitched mewl of baby kitties (Whatever. Quit judging.). We went through about five different videos which likely corresponded to five new echelons of crazy Irrev Boy had to realize he signed up for..

Then we came across this:



It pushed me back into happiness like nothing else could.

P.S. I think you should've put more paper down.

While studying for the Primary Care shelf

"What are the four classic presentations of tinea capitis?
1. Blah
2. Blah
3. Blah
4. Favus (oval patches of alopecia with a golden crust)"

Doesn't it sound like they're describing a fancy dessert? Perhaps one of those ones that arrives with a tableside flame thrower?

Or they're describing treasure. Treasure obtained after an epic adventure.

THE ALOPECIA WITH A GOLDEN CRUST!

You'd get all excited if you read that bit about what you had -- so fancy! But no no. No no. In real life? Just fungus hanging out on your scalp.

Awakened to the Night of the Living

I've spent one day a week for the past six weeks at a nursing home facility in the city. It's been... interesting. It's certainly raised a lot of issues for my own life in terms of what I'd like my end of life care to be like and the fact that I need to sit my parents down and talk to them realistically about what they'd like done.

Somehow I don't think my mother's "If you're thinking of putting me in a nursing home just tie me to a tree instead," is going to work as well as she thinks.

How do you even broach a conversation like that though?

Mom, Dad, hey, let's talk about what you'd like while you're dying.

I'm so in denial about that even being a possibility. I mean, they're my parents. My PARENTS. They're such a constant. A constant source of bickering, passive aggression, angst and grudges? Sure, but... they're my parents.

Today I was speaking to a patient who has had an incredible life. He was a former show business guy and has met some of the most prominent figures throughout the industry from Billie Holiday to Michael Jackson. But now he's in a nursing home. And he's not leaving until he dies.

How does one even begin to reconcile that kind of life change? I mean, I even wrote "has had an incredible life." Like it's already over.

He told me he's just a zombie. "You know, a zombie. The living dead. I just haven't stopped breathing yet."

Scarier than the prospect of such a ghoulish image was the fact that I couldn't disagree. Scarier still?

He's somebody's parent.

Introducing...

I feel utterly privileged and not at all threatened to introduce you to the latest, greatest blog that needs to be on your reading list:

At Your Cervix



Written by the illustrious, marvelous and VULVACIOUS (my favorite suggestion for the blog title, but whatever, not bitter)(and still not threatened)(PLEASE DON'T FORGET ME) Mean Bean Greene, my apartment mate of 3 years.

As you may surmise, she is also a future doctor! Further surmising reveals she's going to be an obstetrician/gynecologist! She'll likely specialize in non-bitchiness, which I have on good authority is quite a nuanced aspect of OB/GYN.

I'm basically in denial about the fact that she's a more kick ass writer than the other half of this apartment we're not going to be living together in a few short months, but am thrilled at the prospect of keeping up on her life in this new forum. Be it published from the room next door or across the country, I'm stoked.

We make quite the roommate pair. Neither of us have those cumbersome needs like a clean shower curtain or immediate washing of dishes. We equally prioritize stocking the refrigerator with pickles, olives and popsicles. Hell, half of her room is our living room. We're symbiotic.

I suppose I can translate that to the blogosphere.

No, I know I can.

Welcome to the wonderful world of self-publishing Mean Bean!

Thinning Out My Closet

Everyone is familiar with the concept of Fat Jeans... or, well, everyone that I can associate with because those girls who just lose 15lbs without trying tend to get lifted up up and clean away by the gale forces my eye rolling creates.

But Fat Jeans, yes? The reserve pair you keep in the drawer for the morning after you have six bowls of free bar cheese curls and an equally questionable number of beers? Exactly.

They're the pair you need the week before your period or the weeks so far after your period you think you might need to accommodate a burgeoning uterus. Fat Jeans. Everyone's got 'em.

But what about skinny jeans?

Not the emo cum Audrey Hepburn style Gap foisted upon us a few years ago that is flattering on no one save goth teenagers staging a hunger strike until somebody understands them. No, skinny jeans as in the opposite of fat jeans. The jeans on reserve in case the stars align and you have an explosive case of diarrhea, a heinous break-up, and a craving for celery and only celery, all at the same time.

Are skinny jeans ever in rotation? Are they just depressing reminders of what will no longer be? I mean... let's face it. We never actually lose fat cells, the existing ones just get smaller.

I lost a lot of weight last year in the throes of a vicious break-up and a determination to find a beach worthy bod. So much so my clothes didn't fit well. Thus, I went shopping. And lo, I bought items to fit my thinner self.

Well now I'm a lot happier and healthier and apparently I carry some of that good will around my midsection. This makes all the new things from last spring and summer laughably impossible.

But. Do I keep a pair of pants from that era? Just in case? I mean... again, the stars could align. I might still yet require skinny pants.

Blah. I think I just need to get over the fact that I will never again have my 16 year old metabolism. Okay. Skinny pants will go.

Let the purging for the impending move begin!

Edited to add: Wherein purging is not a Freudian-ly placed metaphor... I really need to throw stuff out. As in, not food from my body. But rather all the crap that accrues after eight years of moving the same effing stuff. Don't fret my pets.

Gesundheit, America

There are few things that chap my ass as much as the notion that health care is a privilege, not a right.

I stayed up last night watching the obscenely long votes via "electronic device," made by the House of Representatives on the bills aiming to start what can only be a long, long road for health care reform. I just couldn't believe the drivel being thrown around in the discussions.

I mean, fine. I understand that everyone has different opinions about abortion. I have my own. I may spout them off vehemently since this is my little space of the Internet. But now is not that time.

What it apparently IS time for is to remind people, specifically those Republicans and select Democrats unwilling to understand the notion of doing something, ANYTHING, right now instead of proceeding with a letter perfect bill, is that there IS assurance of the sanctity of life in this bill.

Now all people in the United States have a better shot of caring for their health and therefore saving their lives.

I just can't stand these garbage assertions of no respect for life, baby killer and what not. HI. HOW ABOUT THE LIVES OF THE ALREADY EXISTING UNINSURED.

Or, if the lives of the living breathing people of the United States isn't enough, what about the fetus that isn't aborted who is born into a family WITHOUT HEALTH INSURANCE? Sure it's alive and apparently sanctified, but maybe it'll be born with intestines outside it's abdomen. Maybe it'll be hospitalized with pneumonia. Maybe it will just need a check-up and some freakin' vaccinations. Without health insurance that baby would've been better camping out in its host uterus forever.

I was developing a tick last night and as I sat with Irreverand Boyfriend and his family (who are, as he pointed out, a family who yells at CSPAN the way Midwesterners yell at Monday Night Football) just DYING for someone to point out that this bill IS all about the right to life.

HELLO. HEALTH IS LIFE.

I'm not saying that anyone who is ill isn't living or is subhuman or something. But I think it's a universal agreement that in order to function at full potential and embrace the best version of one's self, it's easier to do so when you're not debilitated than when you are.

I didn't have to go to med school to learn that one.

Of all people I never thought I'd find Representative Stupak (a pro-life Democrat from Michigan) voicing my concerns from the couch on the floor of the House, but he shocked me and did. And thank God. Yes he's anti-abortion, be he also recognizes that this bill is about so so much more than a campaign bolstering buzzword. It IS about life.

It's about American life and I can't wait to see how this historic event enables us to progress forward so that we can ALL live it to its fullest.

Matchmaker, matchmaker... made me a match

Today really is the first day of the rest of my life. I've finally decided what I want to be when I grow-up: happy.

Four years of college, four years of medical school and an innumerable, INNUMERABLE, number of nervous breakdowns... and it's finally paying off. Well, sort of. I still have to you know, actually graduate and move and yadda yadda big girl stuff like find a bank, organize loan payments, get a car? Yikes. Okay. Too much reality.

All across the country fourth year medical students found out where they're going to be for the next 3-7ish years of their life.

This morning my roommate's girlfriend woke up, declared "HAPPY MATCH DAY!" and made steak and eggs. Clearly, it's a day to celebrate.

Irreverand Boyfriend wore matching clothes for the occasion and woke me up with Fanfare For The Common Man followed by the title theme to Star Wars.

Irreverand Boyfriend, my roommate Mean Bean Greene, her girlfriend Chefy and I clicked our heels and skipped to a big fancy room in the medical school where a large table held individual envelopes for every match candidate. Inside the envelope was where we each were going for residency. End of story. Binding contract. We are going there.

I was blessed to get my first choice.

I'm moving Out West.

And I'm going to be a pediatrician. So we begin.