One of those mornings...

We finished packing the moving truck on Tuesday with the help of some strong and handsome friends.  I'm lucky to be surrounded by such nice and good-looking people, particularly ones with excellent spatial reasoning skills.  You guys know who you are.

Wednesday morning I packed up the Jeep with the essentials that I would be taking South.  A suitcase of clothes, my KitchenAid mixer of which I am overly protective, my jasmines and lavenders, Pup and her accoutrement, and my backpack stuffed with the laptops, my stats book, surgery reference books, and cell phone charger.  I was prepared.

Except  DH had forgotten to pack a few things.

Thus I added two coolers, a Rubbermaid container, a pair of antlers, a set of downhill skis, a broom, and a tree stand to the interior.  I strapped the kayak to the roof.   I tossed the cable box we had to return, the non-functioning laptop we had to recycle, and the library books we had to donate into the passenger seat. I was prepared.

Except Pup and I had nowhere to sit.

So I rearranged the plants, tucked her bed on top of the pile of electronics in the passenger seat, and put my lavender in my lap. She could barely fit, but we were just going 30 minutes away. I knew I would be able to move things into the Jetta for the trip to DH's parents.   We would be fine.

Except we got stuck in construction on the interstate.

I was hot, I was sore, and I was wearing the same grimy clothes I had been the day before because of a packing error on my part.  I had just scrubbed the entire apartment. I hadn't eaten yet. I was gross and cranky, y'all.  I just wanted to get to our friends' house, shower, and change.

One of the boxes kept shifting when we went around corners causing it to bang into the window switches.  This meant that at various times the windows would roll down, and I couldn't get my hand under the box to roll them back up immediately.  Annoying, but not that big of a deal.  I had one last glass of sweet tea that I had squished into the cup holder.    It was the only thing holding me together - the thought of how wonderful that cold sweet liquid was going to be when we got to K. and J.'s house.

Except someone had fed Pup pizza and ribs the night before.

She chose the moment when we were stuck in construction and the back window was rolling down on its own to stand up on her little bed, look at me, and throw up.

Everywhere.  In the cable box.  On my plants.  On her bed.  On the gear shift.  And in my last glass of tea.

Another paper for the wall

Today I finished my last assignment in my last class.

Someone get me a hammer and nail.  It's time to add another piece of paper to our wall.

I never was a poet...

I was going through and recycling papers today in an effort to minimize the piles of stuff that we will be moving with us to the South, and I came across a poem written, I think, by my old college roommate.  It immediately took me back to the campus lawn at dusk, sitting cross-legged in the grass listening to her practice her beat poetry.  I had no idea what beat poetry was, but the coffee house crowd was dark and mysterious and seemed oh-so-cool.  I never figured out how to snap in rhythm, and I never figured out exactly what the poems were talking about. Surrounded by that hipster crowd, sipping my hot chocolate and pretending it was coffee, I felt all artsy for a couple of hours.  Then I would go back to my straightforward pre-med courses.  I appreciated her for that.  I can't say I agree with everything she wrote, but this is the poem I found, edited slightly for space:

I seek and search.

Down red brick avenues,

dusty winding roads.

Like Ponce De Leon

in pursuit of that nirvanic utopian place.

See, I want to live in a perfect world. 

Is it too much to ask? 

A perfect world where the three stooges would be Chris Farley, John Candy,

and of course Curly. 

Because Larry was destined for punk rock

Not Moe

Because he was a mean little bastard anyway.

Where we all speak in French.

No fat grams or health clubs.

Where Keanu Reeves can act.

Like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz,

George Bush would get a brain.

Mike Tyson would get --- help.

In the perfect world you wouldn’t have to be bright or cool or on.

You could just be.

No stereotypes

Of being skinny or fat or pretty or ugly or old.

No Self magazine,

Vogue, or GQ.

Where all the angels

Are Downs Syndrome children

Because aren’t they the sweetest angels already?

The seraphim is Joni Mitchell

Singing songs from the Blue album.

On a cloud veranda, there’s Bob Dylan

Singing anything he wants.  He’s Bob Dylan.

And every song in a perfect world

Would be sung with the pain and the passion

Of how Ben Harper sings “Oppression”

Or how Richie Havens sang “Freedom” at Woodstock.

Where God would look like Frank Zappa

With legs like Giselle

And would play two guitars

One like Hendrix

And the other like BB King

And He’d belt out truth like Martin Luther King

In sweet lyrics like Carol King

Have hair like Don King

Because He is the King of Kings

His throne would be a metal chair

In a tree shaded yard

Surrounded by a perpetual drum circle

And He’d have time to talk and listen

We’d all have time to listen and talk.

Yeah, no hate or war or hunger –

Those are givens,

But what about loneliness

Or failure – NADA!

It would be what all dreamers dream

What the beat poets wrote about

What the songwriters of the 60’s sang

Where even Satan

Would find his mantra

Or get saved

Or at least commit to rehab

But this isn’t a perfect world

And when I think I’ve found it,

It pixilates and fragments into its fallen sometimes horrific reality

And I’m just a little weary.

But we have this,

You and I.

Maybe, if we can be real

And honest

Have a little understanding and love

We can capture a perfect moment.

And for now,

Perhaps that will have to be enough.

Mulch Bandit

Why is it that you run into people you haven't seen in ten years on the one day you forget to dress like a non-slob or put on makeup because you're gardening and just dashing into Lowe's to pick up two bags of mulch for your grandparent's roses?

So, hypothetically,  you're wearing yoga pants and a rugby shirt with your hair in a ponytail so high it would be more appropriate on a two year old (but who cares because it's keeping it out of your face).  You probably have dirt smeared across your forehead and cheeks.  It's a good likelihood that you have on flip flops that have seen better days - and those better days were two years ago.

There you are, a huge bag of cedar mulch propped on each shoulder, sweaty and dirty, waiting on the cashier who is possibly the slowest person to count money in the history of the world.  There he and she are.  A former football player and a former cheerleader.  Granted, they have both put on their fair share of weight. But they are clean, they are wearing clothes that Goodwill would not give back, and they have spotted you.

Of course, they spotted you.  You couldn't heft those bags of mulch any higher to cover your head.  They head your way, but since you haven't yet made eye contact you are using all of your Jedi mind powers to try to force the cashier to count the money faster.  Why didn't you just use your credit card?  Finally, she's done.  You clutch the three dollar bills in your hand and bolt for the doors.

They call your name with a hint of question in their voices.  They think it might be you, but they haven't seen you in ages, and they think you are supposed to be living in another state.

Don't pause.  If you give even the slightest indication that you are indeed who they think you are, you're stuck. Run, my friends!

Just make sure not to accidently set off the security alarm on your way out, or that really slow cashier will prove that she is just storing up energy waiting to catch would-be mulch thieves.   Which means the people you were avoiding will catch up with you too, and you will have to stand there, sweaty, dirty, and holding a leaking bag of mulch while they prattle on about their kids.

So you plot while they babble on.... 'next time, I'll wear sunglasses.  No one recognizes me in sunglasses.....' 

Mr. Banker Man

I appreciate the fact that lending practices have become much more strict since the huge housing/crazy mortgage crisis we went through the last couple of years.  I agree that people should be held to higher standards and should only buy houses that they can afford. That being said...

I am still frustrated as bear with his nose stuck in a beehive that it is apparently darn near impossible to get a traditional mortgage after graduating from medical school.  Now, I know very well that I have a huge amount of student loan debt.  It's part and parcel of going to medical school and then getting a master's degree after that.  Oddly enough, those things cost money.  Money that I will be paying back.  Over the next thirty years.  So Mr. Banker Man, yes, I do already have a monthly payment on my brain that is just slightly lower than my proposed mortgage payment.

Also, Mr. Banker Man, we decided to be very conservative in the size of house that we would buy.  So yes, we carefully budgeted and applied for the loan only on my tiny little resident salary. We figured if we could get by on my salary for monthly expenses, Mr. Banker Man, that we could use DH's salary to do other things.  Like pay off those rascally student loans. Or plan for retirement. Or get haircuts.

I understand that these may be foreign concepts to you Mr. Banker Man. I understand that no matter how many times I offer, you won't let me use my brain as collateral.   I understand that you see things in black and white now, not all those delightful shades of grey that allowed you to hand out sub-prime mortgages for the past few years like the money would revolt and perform a military coup if it stayed in your bank too long.  I know that if I had walked into your bank two years ago, you would have been throwing dollar bills at me and I wouldn't even have to take off my clothes.  It's not that era anymore.

It's a shame.

I think we could have been friends.

Reunions

I've taken pretty good care of myself since high school.  I eat right, except for those occasional lapses in judgement I have when faced with homemade ice cream or really dark chocolate.  I'm active; heck, I even gave in and joined DH's kickball league this spring.  I don't smoke, I avoid abusing my liver, and I am one of those people who never tried any drugs because I was pretty sure I would become instantly addicted and be forced to live in a gutter somewhere selling my blood to get money.

So when my ten year high school reunion rolled around, I was pretty pumped.  I have a bunch of fancy papers hanging on my wall, I feel like I look good, I'm thrilled with my life, and I have a charming husband.  This is a far cry from the oh-so-painfully nerdy chickadee I was in high school. I was going.

Of course, I was also looking forward to seeing everyone.  

The picnic they planned for lunchtime was rained out.  DH and I drove to the park in the downpour just to make sure that there weren't drenched children playing on the swing set with dry parents tucked under the pavilion.  There were not.

Reunion part two was a dinner at my least favorite restaurant in the whole town.  However, as I wasn't planning the reunion, I felt I had very little room to complain.  Around sixty people graduated from my class.  Not a huge class, but most of them live within a twenty minute drive of our hometown.  The majority of them live within a three hour drive of our hometown.  I live twelve hours away.   One would think that those who could walk to the restaurant without breaking a sweat might show up.

Counting myself, six people from our class showed up (plus spouses). Two of them are married to each other, so I think they should count as one person.

Six.

Now don't get me wrong - I was very happy to see those people again (plus spouses).  However, one of them hadn't even known there was a reunion happening until I called him two days before.  Which means the one organizing the reunion had a turn out of five counting herself and her husband (a fellow classmate).  So that brings her total down to three. I think I saw that many classmates when I was wandering through the Wal-Mart the day before.  It is a tiny, itsy bitsy possibility that this was poorly planned. 

None of that fazed me overly much, because of the most important part: I cleaned up pretty well. 

Wait up!

I had a lunch date with a dear friend of mine a week or so ago.  We had agreed to meet at Punch's Pizza, a Neapolitan pizza place that always convinces me I need to eat an entire pizza by myself and not share with anyone.  I have fork tines sharpened and poised to attack anyone who gets any ideas about sampling my Margherita without advanced notice.  All that gooey buffalo mozzarella and that heavenly basil and those juicy fresh tomatoes.....yum.  But I digress. 


I arrived shockingly early by an entire five minutes.  I was very proud of this.  The line was pretty long and getting longer, so I decided to go ahead and get in line while waiting for Linda.  Every few minutes I would let a couple of people go ahead of me so we wouldn't be throttled when she came in and slipped ahead of the growing crowd.  After about twenty minutes the door swung open to let in a new gaggle of co-eds, and through the downpour I saw Linda searching the crowd.  I waved and called her name.  Still she scanned the crowd. I waved again and hopped up and down a little bit.  She turned and headed up the sidewalk.  The heavy wooden door slammed behind her.  


Shoot.  I excused myself from the line and headed after her.  That woman walks fast.  She was about half a block ahead of me, and I was trotting after her in heels sans umbrella in the rain. 


"Linda!"  She must have thought I came and left when she was late.  Gosh the traffic is loud here.  Are there noise ordinances on these buses?  My eardrums hurt.  


"Linda!"   I'm gaining on her.  Just a few more steps.  Oh, come on!  Seriously Mr. Traffic Light?  You just had to change right before I got there?


"Linda!"  


I dashed across the intersection as soon as the little man turned white.  I grabbed her shoulder and stuck my head under her umbrella.  

"Linda!  Thank goodness!  I've been chasing you for three blocks!"




Her name was Stacey.  

Bubble wrap

I know that I may come across as more of a Rat than a Pig at times, but I like people in general.  It's people in specific that get to me sometimes.  Our first mortgage guy is an excellent example.

We'll call him Timmy.  It suits him.  We were referred to Timmy by a friend.  I have now vowed never to take mortgage advice from friends or family.

Timmy was aware that we were going to The South for two days to choose and make an offer on a house.  Because of the short time frame we had to choose the house, we needed to get pre-approval before we left.  He assured us this wouldn't be a problem since we had three weeks until we flew out.

He didn't call us for a week.

After we repeatedly called, he made an appointment for us to meet two weeks before we had to leave. He apologized briefly and explained he had been in training all week, but assured us we had plenty of time to get pre-approved.  He then explained that even though DH will be employed past the time I will start my job, he wanted to only use my salary for the pre-approval.  This seemed odd to me, but I'm not a mortgage broker. 

I handed over my five year contract and salary to Timmy the Wonder Broker. 

He read it.

Timmy reads really slow.

"So, you're sure you're going to be working there for five years."

Well, it is a contract that has dates equaling five years written on the front page, so yeah, Timmy, I'm pretty sure.  

"Yes, that is correct."

"This salary says that it's correct starting July 25, 2009.  What will you be getting paid?"

Since it's correct starting in 2009, and we are now in 2010, odds are that I'll be getting paid that amount Timmy. 

"That's the listed salary for my position."

"But what will you do for income after five years?"

Maybe he doesn't understand medicine.  I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. 

"I'll probably do a fellowship for three years.  I get paid for that too."

"But then what will you do for income?"

Nope, he's just a doofus.  

 "Then I'll be a surgeon.  I get paid for that too."

"But are you guaranteed a job then?"

You have to be joking. I have a five year contract, and he's worried about what I will be doing for work eight years from now.  Does everyone applying for a mortgage have to prove they will have work for the next ten years?  My job is more secure than his job right now.  I'm willing to bet you don't have a five year contract Timmy-boy.

"I'm not guaranteed a job, but the odds are very good that I will be working somewhere.

"You guys are great on everything else, but this is highly unusual.  I'll have to talk to my manager about this.  It shouldn't be a problem."

That's the last we heard from Tim-Tim-Cheree.  We called.  We emailed.  No response.

We found a house I loved.  The only problem was another couple loved it too. We had our bid in first, but we needed one more thing.

A pre-approval letter.

We called Timmy-poo.  He said he was working on it, but that it was unusual and no one he worked with had ever seen a salary like mine. I found this hard to believe as thousands of people graduate medical school every year,  a large portion of them get mortgages during their residency, and he worked for a large bank.  Niche market, maybe. Unusual, no.

So I gave his number to our real estate agent.  She is a Southern woman through and through.  Sweet as sugar with a backbone of steel.  She talked to him for about five minutes.  He told her he was trying but that it was a very unusual case, and that he would have the letter to her in 30 minutes.  Three hours later, we had the approval letter and Timmy had really ticked me off.

We were easy money. He hadn't been forced to expend any effort to find us.  We came to him.  We gave him all the documentation before he even met with us.  We had a 20% down payment.  We were both employed. We had rock star credit scores.  All he had to do to get his commission was put the paperwork into the system.    He just blew us off.  I guess I'm just used to people thinking doctors make too much money instead of worrying that they won't make any money.

When we made it back to The North we switched to another broker at the same bank. Let's call him Tommy.  He entered a new request and had everything ready to go in two days. Tommy also used part of DH's income because 'we assume you will be working somewhere when you move since you have had stable employment for the past five years.' Tommy is awesome.

Timmy....well Timmy makes me feel a bit more like Rat.

*Pearls Before Swine is copyrighted by Stephan Pastis and is my absolute favorite comic strip.

Bless his heart

DH and I were taking pup for training this weekend, and the conversation turned to aprons as it rarely does.

I had found some adorable aprons on sale, but resisted buying one.  DH has a thing for women in aprons. I think it's the whole "Susy Homemaker" thing.  Barefoot, not pregnant, and cooking.  That's me lately. Anyway, DH was all excited because he thought  I meant manly aprons - the kind with bottle openers and barbed wire built in.  I did not.  I meant frilly feminine aprons that made me feel all 50's housewife.

DH sighed.  "At least I still have the apron from my mom."

Oh dear lord.  Have I told you guys about this apron?

From the front, normal apron.  Nice pattern, big pockets.  Then you look at it a little closer.  Something seems.... amiss.  Something seems.... different.  Something seems... bulging.  So you look a little closer.  The apron flaps up in the brisk breeze from the kitchen fan.

And you see them.  Twigs and berries.  Mr. Goodwrench and the Michelin Brothers.  The family jewels.  This apron has a fake set of male genitalia made from pantyhose and pillow stuffing attached.

My husband and brother-in-law love this apron.  Which brings us to the next point:

"Matthew and I are going to be be fighting over that apron. It's the best apron in the world."

I peered at this adorable man I married over the top of my sunglasses.  "Matthew can have it.  If it makes it into our house, Mr. Apron will be singing soprano post surgical removal of his business."

DH glared at me.  "You wouldn't dare.  Q, that apron is a work of art.  Would you go hacking away at a Monet with a scalpel?  No.  It takes real genius to create something like that."

Wait.

Hold the phone.

Did my husband just equate Monet to a pantyhose penis apron?

I made the right decision on procreation.

Matched

"Congratulations, you have matched."

I had been waiting to read that sentence since my rank list was certified in February. I hadn't slept well for weeks. I had been nursing a darling little stomach ulcer. I had been superstitiously afraid to jinx the process in any way, and so had forbidden anyone to say "when you match" in my presence. I had resigned myself to moving to Antarctica and working with a group recovering lost whiskey for the next year.

But one Monday, I got The Email.

Congratulations, you have matched. 

I wish I could appropriately convey the relief and elation that slammed into me at reading that one sentence.

I can't.

I spent the rest of the week wandering in a complete daze wondering where I would be moving in May. I forgot to eat. I forgot to return my library books. I remembered to brush my teeth. Thursday morning DH and I sat in our living room trying to ignore the fact our future would be set (for the next five years) in just a few hours. DH was doing a great job; I was failing miserably.

About 9 a.m. I checked my email for the eighty-sixth time that morning, and noticed a new message :

Congratulations! We are so excited that you matched with us here at World Famous Medical Center. (WFMC from here out.) We look forward to working with you in June. Let us know if we can be of any assistance in your upcoming move to The South.

I read it five times.

"We're moving to The South......oh my goodness, we're moving to The South!!"

Medicine can taste a little bitter...

If you aren't a medical student, a physician,  a friend or relative of a doctor, or sleeping with someone who is, the whole becoming a doctor process can a little bewildering.   The conversation I have with an uninitiated usually goes a little something like this:

“So you’re in medical school.  What are you going to be, a nurse?”

“No.  I’m going to medical school.  To be a doctor.  Of medicine.”

“Oh, that’s great.  How long does that take?”

“Eight years, usually.  Four years of undergraduate, and then four years of medical school.”

“Then you start practicing?  Eight years isn’t too bad.”

"No, but almost.  After medical school we go to residency – it’s like an apprenticeship.”

“Oh.  How long is that?”

“Three years for some specialties, up to six years for others.”

“Oh.  Then you start practicing?”

“Some people do.  Some others go onto special training called fellowships.  That’s how you become a heart doctor, a lung doctor, a heart surgeon…”

"So you get to pick where you do this residency then?  Where are you going?"

"You don't get to pick a place.  You pick the specialty you want to go into.  Then you spend a whole lot of money applying to programs across the United States.  Then you wait for some of them to give you interviews."

"That's great!  They fly you all over the U.S. to interview ~ how fun!"

"Well, not exactly.  You have to pay to fly there.  And for your hotel.  And for your rental car or taxi. A lot of people have to take out more student loans to pay for it."

"Huh.  Do you get to pick where to go then?"

"No, then you make a list of all the programs you interviewed at in order of how much you liked them.  And all the programs make a list of the people they interviewed in order of how much they liked them.  Then the lists go into a magic computer, and they match you with a program."

"So you find out right away?"

"Not exactly.  The lists go into the computer in February, and we find out in March."

"But everyone goes somewhere, right?"

"No, some people don't get matched and don't go anywhere."

"So let me get this straight.  You go to eight years of school.  You pay a lot of money to apply to residency.  You have to take out loans to go to places to interview.  You make a list and then wait a month to find out IF you have a job, and you don't get to pick where you will be moving for the next three to six years. Sheesh.  At least you'll be making a lot of money during residency."

"Around 40,000 a year for 80 hour weeks and three weeks of vacation.  It averages out to a little more than $10 an hour before taxes.  Plus we have to start paying back our school loans."

"Remind me not to let my kids be doctors."

Japan and Thailand

After C. picked us up and another obligatory round of hugging and laughing was taken care of, we went to the Japanese garden.  It closed at 5.  We arrived around 4:50.  So we peeked over the wall instead.

It was pretty.








Very Japan-esque.


We went to  Pok Pok for dinner.  Dear Lord above, was that good Thai food!  Imagine the best pad thai you've ever had. Take everything you know about Thai food in the U.S. Now forget all of it.

We had sil krohng muu yang - ribs marinated in whiskey, ginger, and Thai spices. Kai yaang - a roasted game hen with dipping sauces.  (I liked the vinegary one.)  The curry (kaeng om neua) was light and spicy, not heavy and milky. It was so good that we started dipping the other meats in the curry so we didn't wasted any. The papaya pok pok was cool yet very spicy.  We actually ordered to cool our mouths from the other dishes.  Poor planning on our part.  It was definitely the hottest dish we had.


Full bellies, delighted to be back together, we fell asleep scattered across C's apartment - a lovely start to a lovely week.

Staying Behind

Moving away is difficult.  Remaining behind seems like it may be even worse at times.

Because of a little snafu with a branch of the military last year, I ended up staying in The North for an extra year getting my master's degree instead of starting residency.  Most days I have a pretty cheerful outlook on it.  It may have taken me a month or so to get the outlook, but it's there now.  There have been many challenging things about this situation.  A medium sized one is the huge chunk of my friends who moved up, up, and away to start their residencies.  

Two of my best friends, J. and C., are in Chicago and Portland, respectively.  J and I promised to make a valiant attempt to get away together once a year.  She is infinitely more valiant than I, and so gave up a week of her vacation to meet me in Portland.  I gave up a week of studying and classes.  It was quite a sacrifice, but it had to be done.

I think when you haven't seen someone in awhile, they freeze in your mind. You maintain a snapshot of the way they were the last time you saw them.  That's why high school friends stay 18 and your great-aunt squeezes your cheek and tells you how much you've grown.  It's also why I really dislike funerals, but I digress.

The last time I saw J was at her wedding last fall.  My mental J was glowing and happy and beautiful.  The J I saw in the airport was tired and happy and beautiful.  Plus her hair was about six inches longer.  We squealed and hugged and laughed as women are wont to do when they reunite.

It took me two days to place what it was that was different about her.

She's a doctor now.

She has developed that lovely confidence in her abilities and decisions that make patients believe that you know best.  She's brilliant, of course, and that hasn't changed, and patients have always liked her.  (It's rather difficult to dislike the girl.)  But this...this is new.  I love it and am horrifyingly proud of her.  I am at the same time sad that I am missing out on a year of growing and developing as a physician.  It's a strange place to be.

Billy beer

My brother in law came up to visit DH and I a couple of weekends ago.  I really like that guy.  He's such a solid man.  Hard working, loyal, funny, resistant to change.  Everything my potential sister-in-law will love if he ever gets around to finding her.

M. and I had wasted a good hour of our lives one day watching VH1's "Best of I love the 70's".  It was our first introduction to Jimmy Carter's brother Billy and thus to "Billy Beer".  The slogan was (I may be wrong here), "I think it's the best I've ever tasted.  And I've tasted a lot."

The three of us were on our way to a micro brew party later that day and started talking about favorite beers we've had.  I'm not really a beer fan since I think most of it tastes like water that didn't make it through a properly functioning Brita system, but in Czech M. and I discovered something in common.  We loved Velkopopovický Kozel Cerny.  (It helped immensely that it was half the price of properly filtered water.)  DH prefers lighter beers and thus does not share our infatuation with this heavenly creation. (DH just informed me that he does NOT prefer light beers.  He prefers lagers.  I don't drink enough beer to know why this distinction is important, but the record has been set straight.) 

Talk naturally turned to our trip to Czech and the absurd amounts of alcohol that the locals consumed.

Which brings us back to M. who proclaimed, "People in America think they can drink.  They are wrong. Even if you took Billy Carter over to Prague - he'd never be able to hang.  And that guy looked like he was a serious alcoholic."

Unknown future sister-in-law, I'm glad you appreciate this guy as much as we do.


*Kozel picture is the property of Kozel's brewing company.  I did not take that picture.  I do love that beer though.  Sadly, it is unavailable in the U.S. as far as I know. 

Get off the plane

I thought there was an established etiquette about how to disembark from an airplane. These are the rules I thought were understood:  

Rule 1: We unload from the front of the plane to the back. Each row empties before the next row starts.  

This is slightly unfair as the people in the very front also got to board first. However, as they paid an additional couple hundred dollars to sit in plane seats with slightly more leg room and get free cheap alcohol, I can overlook this class seperation. This rule can be bent for the following subsets:

a) People who are in actual danger of missing their connecting flight. Few things are worse than dashing to your gate to watch your plane taxi away in front of you. These people can get off first. Pretending to have a close connection just to get off sooner is evil. I have faith these people will be punished at some point by actually having a close connection and missing it.  

b) People with screaming children. For goodness sake, let them off the blipping plane. They aren't making it more pleasant for anyone by staying on the plane, and if you had a bladder that small you would scream to go potty too.  

c) Medical emergencies and women who have decided to go into labor on the plane. They win. Always. It cannot be bent because you are in the back of the plane, impatient, and want to scurry off the plane in a sad attempt to 'win' by starting your three hour layover ahead of everyone else. 

Rule 2: Help old people, small people, and people carrying small people with getting luggage down.  

Don't look blankly at the four foot eleven eighty year old woman who is struggling to open the overhead compartment. Help her. Or else you deserve to have items that may have shifted during takeoff and landing fall on your head. Karma, my friend. Enjoy the reverse Samsonite logo tattoo on your forehead.  

Rule 3: If you have luggage stored more than two or three (although three is pushing it) overhead bins behind your seat, you have to wait to get it. You cannot elbow your way back through the crowds. This is only acceptable if you may miss your connection. See Rule 1. I understand it may not be your fault it is so far back. Maybe some other doofuses filled up the bins around you with their winter coats so you had to use one farther away. I understand, but I don't care. Wait.  

Rule 4: When it is your turn, get off the plane.  

This one sounds easy. It is apparently not. Please look for your keys/makeup/cellphone/flask, fix your hair/makeup/nails, and text/email your spouse/lover/friend/archnemesis after your feet have hit the actual airport carpet. Not in the plane aisle and, for heavens sake, not in the jetway as soon as you get off the plane. This makes me (and most everyone behind you) think thoughts that involve bodily harm to your person. I have to then repent of those thoughts. Which makes me angrier at you.  

Those are the main ones. Four rules. Teach your children, your friends, your sister. I'm pleading with you.

Curses

My last interview of the season was this week. I am suspicious that this interview was cursed.  

Courtesy of another two inches of snow and a flight that left ages before snowplows ventured out again, I had to drive on rather slick roads. Courtesy of the woman in the red Suburu who felt the need to drive recklessly in both of our lanes at 4:30 this morning, I missed my exit. Courtesy of my abysmal sense of direction, I got hopelessly lost immediately after this. All of this added up to having to park in the airport at the exhorbiant rate of twenty American dollars a day. I like to say it like that... American dollars. As opposed to un-American dollars. They only accept patriotic cash at my airport.  

(On a side note, I just found a bay leaf in my pocket. No idea why it's there.)  

Back to my disasterous trip. I made it to the airport a little too close to the check in deadline and had a lovely discussion with the counter man about the advisability of printing my boarding pass in spite of that. I dashed to my favorite security checkpoint and slipped past the brimming Casual Traveler aisle down the empty Expert Traveler aisle. A middle age couple in Hawaiian shirts proceeded to berate me for cutting in line. I tried to explain to them that it wasn't cutting - there were two lines. Like at the grocery store - just because my line is moving faster doesn't mean I cut. It means you picked the wrong line. And that you probably have a huge carry-on, a laptop in a separate bag still zipped up, shoes that don't slip off, none of your liquids out in a bag yet, a winter coat and a fleece still on, a huge purse, and a backpack that you are planning on stuffing your purse into to qualify for the "one carry-on, one personal item" rule. You earned the slow line. I said it in a much nicer way though.


Boarded the plane on time (hooray!), and then sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes waiting on deicer. Deicer is an important part of the flying experience when one lives in The North. Except someone must have forgotten to place a refill order. They ran out of deicer. I would understand this if I were flying out of Hawaii; I imagine they have little to no need for deicer. Running out during a freak snow storm is acceptable.


However, I live in The North. We haven't seen grass in my neighborhood since November. There is a solid two feet of snow on my yard. My side road has been covered in snow and ice since December. I don't know if the pavement underneath even exists anymore. When we live in a place like this, there is no excuse for running out of deicer. We should have deicer stockpiled somewhere.


The only explanation: Cursed.

Ready for kids?

DH and I aren't yet blessed with munchkins.  I am still able to enjoy the bliss of sleeping in on weekends, the joy of spontaneous vacations, and the indulgence of indulging myself.

DH is gone on his annual President's Day weekend fishing trip, so it was just me and Pup last weekend.  She started my day bright and early 3 a.m. Friday morning by barking her pretty red head off to be let out of her kennel. I sleepily rolled over and opened the door.  She excitedly jumped on the bed.

And promptly threw up.

On my bed.

At 3 a.m.

I was displeased. She looked miserable, but I hardened my heart and put her back in her kennel.  It wasn't as difficult as one might think.  I changed the sheets and blankets, rinsed out the gross ones, and crawled back into my chilly but clean bed.  All was well until approximately 5:37 when she started barking again.

I wasn't taking any chances.  I let her out of her kennel and walked her around in the snow outside just in case she had to use the bathroom or, heaven forbid, throw up again.  She took this opportunity to make friends with the neighbors by barking at a rabbit under their window.  We're quite popular in the mornings, Pup and I.

Back inside where I snuggled up under the blankets, and she settled in at the foot of the bed for about five minutes.

Then she threw up.

On my bed.

Again.

I was out of clean sheets and patience, we were both miserable, and all I could think was "she's only a dog ... what on earth will I do with children ... I don't think I'm allowed to put them in a kennel."

Just looking for the pharmacy

I miss my patients today.

Taking this year off to get my masters degree has been fabulous ~ I've gotten to cook and play and hang out with my family.  I've finally caught up on my sleep. Although that will go straight back out the window come July, I appreciate every single day that I get to snuggle under my pierzyna, sip steaming hot tea, and watch snowflakes fall outside my bedroom window.

I miss my patients today though. They make me laugh and make me cry.  They infuriate me, and they break my heart.  I'm bored without them.

Once last spring I was rounding with my attending, and a healthy looking man approached us.  He had a prescription in his hand.

"I'm looking to get this filled doc."

My attending took it and gave it a quick once over.  He handed it to me to read then gave it back to the gentleman.  "The pharmacy is on the second floor."

The guy happily headed toward the elevators.

Through his laughter my attending told me, "The pharmacist will know exactly what to do with him.  On to the next patient."

The script had read:  "MOFEEN   1 lb."


*We warned the pharmacy. The script was confiscated and destroyed.  I do not know what became of the gentleman.

Oh la la!

There's a new love in my life.

He's strong, flashy, and cooks like a dream. He stands out from my usual crowd. He's making Valentine's dinner this year - the famous bouef bourguignon from Julia Child's cookbook.

He's my new Le Creuset French oven.

Isn't he a hottie?  DH surprised me with this hefty beauty for my birthday.  I have a feeling he and I will be very happy together.

Must be the butter

I love to cook.  Baking....baking, I'm not so good at.  It's all so very precise.  "Measure 14.2 grams of flour and 1.3 grams of salt."   Blech, I say.

I have plenty of preciseness in my chosen profession.  I am very precise when tying flies or when building furniture. I cook when I need to stop thinking. Cooking should not be about preciseness.  It should be about smells and tastes and textures and adventure and daring. Most of my favorite dishes I know by heart and have made my own.  A little more cayenne pepper here, a dash of turmeric there.  The recipe is merely a starting point from which you can throw yourself headfirst off the cliff.

Not that all my cooking adventures have ended well.  There is the infamous case of "The Purple Chicken".  Usually, however, it works out famously rather than infamously.

Baking is an entirely different matter.  Crusty French breads, rich challah and babka, flaky croissants - I adore them all.  I have been more than willing to pay a little more for the masters of flour and egg to make these heavenly creations for me so that I am not crushed by the failures coming out of my oven that I dare not call 'homemade bread'  This winter though, I have some time on my hands.  I have decided to learn to bake.

It is not going well. Today there were "The Croissants."

"The Croissants" actually had their start this weekend.  The detrempe has to sit in the refrigerator for 24-48 hours immediately after it is made. Apparently it needs a time out.  Detrempe is a fancy French term that I think means sticky water yeast butter flour goo.  One would normally cover the sticky ball of dough that one shoves in the back of the fridge.  However, the book I'm using does not mention this step.  I was committed to actually following the recipe this time.  I didn't cover it.

I should have covered it.

Two days after I made the detrempe and had almost forgotten it existed, I pulled it out.  There was a thin hard dough-exposed-to-cold-air crust on the top.  Yuck.  I took a sharp knife, had DH hold the bowl, and sliced off the grossness.  Underneath it was golden, yeasty, yummy-smelling dough.  It was ready for the butter. 

Step 15 in this process is to make a butter block.  Croissants take a lot of butter.  No, I mean a lot.  Three sticks.  Fourteen croissants.  You figure it out.  I used my lovely cherry rolling pin (thanks Grandma!) and a scalpel to roll out and square up my butter block.  I don't have a pastry knife people.  I have a scalpel.  This is how my kitchen works.  

Then you take the detrempe and plop the butter block on half, fold it, let it rest, roll it out, fold it, let it rest, roll it out, fold it...you get the point.  You do this until you have 81 layers of thin, buttery, doughy goodness.  At this point, I'm supposed to roll it out v..e...r...y...c..a..r..e..f..u..l..l..y so the layers don't tear, cut triangles, and magically shape them into croissants.  Mine weren't quite croissant shaped.  They were more straight line than C-shaped.  But they were done.

After all of this, you let the croissants "proof" for 2-3 hours.  This has something to do with proving that you haven't killed the yeast.  Not a problem in my kitchen.  The yeast in that little red jar know they better pull their weight or it's off to the compost pile for them.  I met DH for lunch while the little yeast soldiers did their work. The soldiers got a little overzealous. 

When I came back, the croissants had not doubled in size.  They had tripled.   The croissants were all scrunched together in one tiny little pan trying to elbow each other out for more real estate.  I did what any baker would do.  I stuck them in the oven. I had low hopes for these guys, but I refused to waste all that butter.  We were going to eat them.  DH ate that purple chicken.  He would choke these down too because he loves me. Forty minutes later, I had enormous golden croissants.  

They were amazing. 

Holy smokes, were they amazing.  It was like eating buttered air.  Warm, flaky, close-your-eyes-they-were-so-good buttered air. 

I can't wait to see what they taste like when I get them right.