Terroni

Save your best

2011-11-17T00:00:00.000-05:00

Your needs and my needs ain't always in line...

One of those days

2011-11-16T22:31:00.001-05:00

If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't do it any better. I'd skip it entirely.

I felt like a salmon swimming upstream. A really bitchy salmon. A really bitchy salmon with a back ache from trying to keep up with that bendy little twit who rolled her beady little eyes at me during yoga last night. (Fuck you, bendy twit. Fuck you.)

A really bitchy salmon who sucks at competitive yoga. That's me.

And if you don't think yoga is competitive, I'm afraid you don't really understand salmon.

2011-10-30T23:53:00.000-04:00

The dog in her favorite spot.
Me in mine.

It's good to be home.

I spent the week in Denver meeting the Boy's family. (I'm going to have to come up with a blog name for him. Capitalizing Boy like that makes it look like he's some sort of weird deity.) It went well. As well as could be expected given my near disdain for staying with people...and meeting new people...and talking to people.

And did I mention that I stayed with people?

They were altogether gracious and hospitable. If you're ever looking for people to stay with, I can't recommend these folks enough. I'm just not a staying with people kind of person.

More on all that later.

Right now, my bed is calling.
My bed.

Like I said, it's good to be home.

A foxhole

2011-10-06T22:26:00.002-04:00

At one point, I just looked at him and said, "You know, I have no idea what to do here. No idea. If you could just keep me from fucking it up any worse. Please."

In case you've ever wondered, what does it sound like when my doctor prays?

Except, maybe it doesn't sound like that at all. Maybe your doctor has his spiritual shit together and his prayers are all, "Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy medical knowledge..." Or maybe your doctor is a brilliant atheist (I've yet to meet a stupid atheist) who never finds himself standing at your bedside at 3 am with no idea what to do next.

Maybe this is just what it sounds like when I pray.

I don't do it often at work. It's not because I don't need the help. (God knows I need all the help I can get.) I don't ask for help because I'm not sure that God cares about the same things that I do.

I am all about making you better in this moment--relieving your suffering, curing your disease, keeping you safe. And, I'm just not sure that he's all about those things.

That said, when I had absolutely no idea what to do next, I looked at him and said, "Please."

An accident

2011-10-04T22:40:00.003-04:00

We have a young teenager in the unit this week. This is to say, we have a child in the unit this week. He was hit by a car. There was no room in the pediatric ICU, so he is with us. I much prefer to take care of kids. (Even when they're really sick? Isn't that sad and depressing? Yes, even when they're really sick. For reasons I can't explain, this kind of sad does not depress me.) As such, I may be the only one in the unit who doesn't wish we could transfer him.

Yesterday afternoon, the family descended on the unit, a flock of red eyed, puffy faced birds, thrown out of their v-shaped flight into a pile of broken winged mess. They were exhausted, but restless. When people brushed past them in the hall, they drew back, as if every unexpected touch was a static shock. They looked and behaved as people often do right after an accident--a lot like desperate addicts, pacing for relief they can neither conjure nor find.

They came in waves to his bed. Surrounding him on three sides, they stared at his body and looked for the boy they knew. And then they tried to will him to wake up. One of his many aunts reached across the bed, over his chest, and grabbed his mom's hand. "He's going to be fine," she said, wild eyed. "I can feel it. I just know it." The rest of them joined in chorus. He was a strong boy. He was going to get through this. He would wake up, his hair would grow to hide that 8 inch scar on his head, and he would walk right out of here, back to video games and after school sports and girls.

I had to hold myself back. I wanted to grab his aunt's hand with the same force as she had grab his mom's and say, "Stop saying that. You don't know that he's going to be fine. And it doesn't help." It doesn't help because his mom knows that he may not be fine. As she looks down at those staples in his head, his purple eye swollen shut, she knows. And as the chorus sings out in denial of all that lies in front of them, she is left alone to face it.

Hours later, after they've all been persuaded to go home, she and I sit with him. She is at the head of the bed, stroking his forehead, whispering half prayers. I am at the foot, sipping tea, staring at the monitor over his head, trying to decide what I'm going to do next if that intracranial pressure keeps going up. She has just finished doing reiki and the room smells of white angelica, an oil of protection and security, strength and endurance. I find myself hoping he soaks up every drop of it. I'm running out of things to try, and I really want to tell her that he's going to be fine.

Gitz

2011-09-17T09:10:00.000-04:00

Sara,

When I wrote that August 22nd post, the one about being in love, I knew you'd be the first to comment. And I knew you'd be happier for me than anyone else. That is the very nature of you.

The boy and I were curled up on the couch last night talking. I told him that while catching up on your blog, I learned that our days of reading each other are coming to an end. I explained a little about AS, about how it has affected you. He said, "It's like everything's been stripped away...like she's been deconstructed."

I understand how it may sound that way. But to know you is to know what has been left. It is to know the seed--the very seed of love and peace and joy--that lives, completely unscathed, in you.

I am going to miss you like whoa, girl.

Love,
T

2011-09-11T00:00:00.000-04:00

All the memories fade
Send the ghosts on their way
Tell them they've had their day
It's someone else's tomorrow.

- Patty Griffin

On faith...or whatever this is

2011-09-09T23:23:00.000-04:00

The older I get, the less I know for sure...and the more this feels like a powerful, peaceful, liberating kind of knowing in itself.

I grew up with fundamentalist Christians. I knew a lot of things for fucking sure. I had a firm grasp on most of what was so clearly the black and white, good and righteous truth.

It only makes sense to me that this truth still exists. To say that it is relative or that I could just live my own version of it would be to betray an ignorance of the very word. But, it makes even more sense to me that something as righteous as this cannot ever be understood by something as human as me.

When I say that I know there is a God, I am not convinced of my rightness. I am, instead, sure of my experience. While those things may sound the same, they feel like the difference between Jerry Falwell and Anne Lamott.

The older I get, and the more I have some experience of God, the more I know that, mostly, I just don't know. Resting in that, in a God that understands that, feels like grace.

A Saturday

2011-09-06T16:12:00.004-04:00

As they walked on ahead of me, I thought, “If I could take a picture…it would be of this.” The Boy and the dog, walking next to each other on that horse trail, her leash clipped onto his backpack, his arms swinging, her tail wagging, trotting along, both kicking up a little dry dirt with each step. He sang the mostly wrong words to Free Falling…

It’s a long day livin’ in Raseda.
There’s a freeway runnin’ through the yard.
Something, something…cause I don’t really miss her.
And I don’t know the words to this song.

…and, for the fifth time that week, I fell in love with my life.

Out loud

2011-09-06T16:00:00.001-04:00

We were lying in bed. It was after midnight. You know that achy feeling you have when you first catch the flu--the feeling that even your hair might be sore? Yes, well, I felt that way on the inside. (Son of a bitch cardiac rotation.) I was completely drained, but wide fucking awake. I couldn’t lie still. I got up, got myself a glass of water, wandered into the living room, and curled up on the end of the couch, hugging my knees to my chest. That lasted all of three minutes before I commenced to pacing.

Traipsing through the apartment in the dark was doing little to help, and it wasn’t long before it woke the dozing boy.

I crawled back into bed, mostly because I didn’t have a good explanation for why I’d left in the first place. Then, because it was just about the only place in the apartment I hadn’t yet been, I slid on top of him and buried my face in his chest. He threw his tired, heavy arms over me and kissed my head. I’m certain this was as much a physical restraint intended to prevent further idiotic wandering as it was affection. (He is a warm and sweet smelling straight jacket. I am straight up crazy. We were made for each other.)

I was as close to sleep as I’d been all night when I whispered, “I love you.”

Shit, I thought, that wasn’t out loud, was it? I didn’t mean for that to be out loud.

But then, “I love you, too” was whispered into my hair.

Now, it's something he says all the time to that crazy girl he's dating. And she says it back. Out loud. And what they both mean but don't (usually) say is, "...even when you're pretty much insane."

2011-08-22T20:44:00.004-04:00

And when I have the time--when I'm don't have to be up at 3:30am, when I'm eating something besides Cheerios for dinner, when I'm done starting epi drips in my dreams...this is to say, when cardiac is over--I will tell this blog all about how I am in love.

Not just in like. But in love.

In love like whoa.

The wedding

2011-06-29T20:43:00.008-04:00

My little brother got married. And by little, of course, I mean younger and not actually smaller. I say little because I still think of him this that way--as small but mighty. Timmy was born with four holes in his heart. For the first four years of his life, no one knew. Most kids with this kind of heart defect turn blue on occasion. Timmy never did. I think it just never occurred to him to be anything but pink.

He had open heart surgery when he was 5. He was supposed to spend the rest of the summer taking it easy. Telling a 5 year old boy to take it easy—it’s like telling a bird to take a walk.

A few weeks after his surgery, we were at the pool. He had an extra stripe of white sunscreen on the 10 inch bright pink scar on his chest. His chest was a bit of funny shape, as if he’d been opened down the middle like a clam and then wired back together. (He had.) He was constantly being reminded to take it easy.

It was a nice easy walk to the top of the high dive. My mom spotted him up there, peering over the edge, his white greasy scar shining in the sun, just before he flung himself forward and landed with a splat, chest first in 12 feet of water. She got to him before the lifeguard next to the board even heard the splash. As she dove to the bottom of the deep end, she will tell you, “I was sure those sternotomy wires were broken.”

She pulled a stunned, but intact boy, from the pool; and for a few hours that day, he took it easy. He’s been back at it, though, plowing through life—sternotomy wires first—ever since. Maturity has pruned him to be more brave than reckless. His energy has been channeled into a fierce work ethic. And his scar has been a huge hit with the girls.

When I told my now sister-in-law that she was the best thing that’s happened to him since we fixed his heart, I really meant it. She’s sweet, and kind, and funny, and she lets him be himself.

Their wedding weekend was fantastic. I took the Boy home with me. Everyone loved him. And not like, “Oh, he’s nice. Where did you two meet?” But more like, “Oh my God, where did you find him? He is SO HOT!” (Granted, I didn’t really expect that from my uncle.) The Boy has a super cool superhero job. Word of it spread quickly through the groomsmen, and they spent most of the weekend asking if they could see his license to kill.

I never had to worry that he was bored, or didn’t have anyone to talk to, or wasn’t having a good time. I threw this great guy into a my favorite group of people, got myself a drink, and floated through an amazing weekend back home.

At one point, after several drinks, he accepted my mother's invitation to accompany the family on vacation next summer. When she mentioned this to me a week later, I said, “Mom, it was nice of you to invite him, but he and I aren’t really making plans quite that far in advance yet. We’ve only been dating a few months.”

“Well,” she said, “if things work out between the two of you, you can come, too.”

Overkill

2011-05-19T22:55:00.008-04:00

Tilex Soap Scum Remover now kills the flu virus. It says so right on the label. When I read that I thought, "Do I really need you to kill the flu? I mean, has anyone ever actually contracted this disease from her shower? Athelete's foot...maybe. But, the flu?"

Am I the only one who isn't even the slightest bit worried about catching a fever and chills from her grout?

Check

2011-05-09T21:44:00.011-04:00

I had the day off yesterday and so made myself a to do list. In between clean shower and sweep backyard, I wrote, get a grip. I wrote it as if it were a task to be accomplished, a chore to be done. Then, I looked over my list, realized I wasn't actually in the mood to do any of that cleaning shit, and headed to the bookstore instead.

I bought Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. I wasn't looking for a book about writing. I was looking for some Anne. Anne is the kind of woman who would understand why I wrote that list...and why I walked away from it. She wouldn't ask why I had to buy a book, a bag of chips, and some guacamole and spend the afternoon sitting on a bench, spilling avocado on my shirt, growing new freckles (or, as is more likely with my genes, basal cell carcinomas) in the afternoon sun.

As I did just that, I overhead two young 20-somethings discussing what their lives would be like when they were 30. These two had all sorts of grand plans. They were going to be established in their careers, well into their first marriages, having their oldest of three children...

Oddly enough, neither of them said, "When I am 30, I'm going to make elaborate to do lists. They will say things like, chill the fuck out, lighten up, and get over yourself. And then, I'm going to spend whole Saturdays sitting in the sun, spilling guacamole on a white tee shirt, and working towards going home to put a check mark next to get a grip."

Dive, I am still happy

2011-05-07T10:36:00.003-04:00

Very happy. When he walks into the room, I still squeal on the inside. Every single time.

But, I'm trying not to squeeze this too tightly, resisting the urge to act like an 8 year old boy who just caught a frog.

I am acutely aware of the fact that sometimes (oftentimes...hell, more times than not) even good things don't last forever. While I'd love for this relationship to have the spirit of a lightning bug with the longevity of a tortoise, I hope I will have the grace and maturity to recount this as a good chapter, no matter its length.

Unfortunately, in my experience, when you really like someone, grace and maturity are the first things to go...

Yellow

2011-05-06T22:06:00.010-04:00

So then I took my turn

Oh what a thing to have done

And it was all yellow

I'm seeing someone. I'm not sure where this is going. I approach every day with a healthy dose of cynicism and prayer. I realize that makes me sound bitter and desperate; but, in fact, it doesn't really feel that way.

It feels...all yellow.

In spite of all me...or maybe even because of it.

2011-05-06T22:00:00.001-04:00

It's been so long since I've been here, spammers are now leaving more comments than readers. It's like the thuggish ruggish have taken over this abandoned lot to sell drugs--Cialis, in particular.

30

2011-02-19T09:33:00.006-05:00

On the morning of my thirtieth birthday, I woke up next to a gorgeous man. Tonight, he's taking me out on the town. A black strapless dress with little white polka dots. (Perfect for twirling.) Black patent leather come fuck me heels. A red clutch. Pearls. And a teeny, tiny red lace thong.

Thirty doesn't stand a chance.

Don't Hassel the Hoff

2011-01-09T13:20:00.017-05:00

There was a moment this Christmas when it sort of hit me: The woman who used to call herself my mother is no longer with us. The conservative, opinionated, christian with a capital CHRISTIAN children's minister has died. Or evaporated. Or retired. Or gone to live on a farm where there's plenty of room for her to run around and play with others of her kind. The point is, she's left us.

And I, for one, am glad.

This is not to say that she was intolerable before...or that she's particularly tolerable now. No, this is just say that when she yelled, "Oh shit, I can't think of any lesbians!" I thought, Some things have gotten better since I moved out ten years ago. And you're one of em.

We were playing a game brought to us by my sister-in-law, Kim. Group games are not really something we do. Mostly, because we are a deeply lazy people. We do not chase after or in any way aggressively pursue fun. We get together, we drink, and we laugh...mostly at ourselves. Games bespeak organization, rule following, and creativity. We do not. But, as I said, at our core, we are deeply lazy; and the only thing more arduous than playing a fucking game would have been trying to convince Kim not to play a fucking game.

It goes like this... Everyone writes down the name of seven people, dead or alive, not so obscure as to be unknown.

My brother explains, "So, like don't write down the Attorney General or someone like that who half of us aren't going to be able to figure out." My uncle crumples up a piece of paper with Eric Holder scrawled on it.

Teams of three are formed. Everyone looks at his or her team and says some variation of, "Seriously? I have to play with you two? Well, we're screwed now." Everyone is pretty much right.

During the first round, your team has one minute to guess as many names as they can. You can give as many clues as you like.

I start with, "He was the first Black president."
My brother guesses, "Obama."
"No, the one before Obama. Blacker than Obama."
"Oh, Bill Clinton."
"Yep."

It behooves you to remember who all is guessed in this first round, because during the second round, all the same non-Eric Holder people are going back into the bowl, you have one minute to guess as many as you can, but the person giving clues can only say one word.

My sister yells, "Monica."
My dad snaps back, "Slick Willy!"

And all this nonsense is just a long, drunken excuse to get to the third round. Here, all the names are recycled yet again, but the person giving clues has to act them out.

My uncle moonwalks. (Sorta.)
His teams yells, "Michael Jackson."

My sister pretends to be fat and stuck in a bathtub.
Her team is largely silent. When she's done, they ask, "What the hell was that?"
"Harry Truman," she says.
"You moron," my brother barks, "you just acted out William Howard Taft."
"Ohhh, I wondered why no one was getting it."

And then, we come to the piece de resistance of drunken charades. My brother's fiance, Erin, picks David Hasselhoff out of the bowl. She begins running in slow motion, pretending to hold a flotation device. The crowd goes wild. We (almost) all figure it out immediately. Her teammate, my mother, however, is completely befuddled. In spite of the fact that David Hasselhoff was named in rounds one and two, and the fact that she's now watching a reenactment of the opening credits to the greatest lifeguard drama to ever grace the small screen, my mom has no fucking idea what's going on.

Erin decides to kick it up a notch. She throws my sister-in-law, Kim, to the ground and begins to drag her limp body across the carpet, as if she's saving her from drowning. My mom starts to name famous wrestlers. And then dead people. Erin starts doing chest compressions. It looks just like CPR...to everyone but my mother. To my mother, it looks like Erin is fondling Kim's breasts. When she starts mouth to mouth resuscitation, Mom is convinced this is girl on girl sex. "Oh shit," she yells, "I can't think of any lesbians!" And with that, her minute is up. You've never seen someone so disappointed to lose a point in a game she didn't want to play in the first place.

As it turns out, gay sex reenactments in the middle of the living room floor on Jesus' birthday only bother her when she can't figure out who's on top.

2010-11-14T09:59:00.003-05:00

"I worry that Jesus drinks himself to sleep when he hears me talk like this." - Anne Lamott

(Laugh. It's funny.)

2010-11-13T22:36:00.004-05:00

Many a good woman has had to learn that she can't always have what she wants. Such is life. And when you're too sad and tired to be happy for those who do, it's time to peace out, girl scout.

When the night has been too lonely

and the road has been too long

and you think that love is only

for the lucky and the strong...

Go home.

Cardboard boxes

2010-11-03T21:12:00.014-04:00

I know, I know. It's been awhile. In fact, this may be the longest I've ever been away. I'm not sure I can say why I've been gone so long, exactly.

I spent the last month in the pain management clinic. The hours were good, but those posts would have sounded like my old ones from medical school when I was on a rotation I really didn't enjoy and the writing was so caustic that anonymous commenters felt the need to tell me I probably shouldn't be a doctor. I always wondered if those same people asked the mommy bloggers who occasionally admit to a bad day, "Have you ever thought you should maybe just give away your kids?"

In my non-pain clinic hours, I've had a great six weeks. I'm a little overwhelmed with the prospect of summarizing it, though. Beyond a bulleted list of all that's happened, it's hard to catch up here.

My brother got engaged, and I went home to celebrate with the family. They were just drunk enough to let me pick up the tab. Only in Ohio can you buy four rounds of drinks for 20 people with a couple hundred bucks. Midwest pricing and a gay waiter who appreciated the fact that I (mostly) kept my drunk sister-in-law from flirting with him made for some very cheap liquor. Although, I'm pretty sure when she readjusted her bra, popped a potato skin in her mouth, and told him, "I still have some to go, but I've lost 50 pounds since I had a baby six weeks ago," he was thinking, "Until a second ago, I liked the fellas; but girl, you had me at I used to be fat."

There's another amusing story there about gift giving gone wrong and one of the weirdest things a middle aged man has ever yelled in a crowded bar. In order to truly appreciate it, though, I think you had to be there in the moment when the bride-to-be opened the world's tackiest engagement gift, and my dad, in all sincerity, yelled "Oh, I love it! I'm a sucker for a snow globe." Now we know what his Craigslist personal ad will say on the off chance he outlives my mother: I like long walks on the beach, single malt scotch, and sparkly, magical globes of snow.

A few weeks after the trip home, Blake, Evan, and I spent a weekend in New York. La Cage Aux Folles, drinks at the Algonquin, more drinks at Marie's Crisis, brunch (and a fair bit of time spent in the ladies room) at Lips... Hungover and staring down a plate of eggs Benedict, I almost threw up in a drag queen's hair. (In Evan's best South Georgia drawl: But girl, you know that weave so tragic, little vomit won't hurt it.)

We drove Evan's car this time. Comparing this to the Bolt Bus, the back seat passenger summed it up as follows: "You know what the best thing is about your car? No one has come back here to take a shit since we left." There really is something to be said for not riding around next to a bathroom. And I said it.

A week later, my dad celebrated a birthday. After a few hours on the phone and a few drinks each, we decided that from now on, for the purposes of filling out census forms and applying for scholarships, we would count ourselves among the last remaining Blajewskimos. That's right. From here on out, on all official paperwork and government documents, we are Black Jewish Eskimos. (Also official: Having written that, I can now never run for public office.)

It was during that same conversation, before the aforementioned ethnicity changing decision, that I said, "You know how you buy little kids expensive crap for Christmas, and all they ever want to play with is the damn box? Well, the older I get, the more I think that all of life is like that. I laughed the hardest last weekend while drinking and singing showtunes off key in a basement bar at 1am...and then again hungover, nauseated, and stuck in New Jersey traffic on the way home."

"Well kid," he said, "I think you're right. I think all of life is like that cardboard box." And he would know. For he is the wisest of all the Blajewskimos.

It's like riding a bike

2010-09-16T13:00:00.028-04:00

I was having a particularly tough day at work. I communicated this to my father like I always do...by sending him a text message that referred to work but in no way mentioned the shittiness of the day.

Your Iron Girl is doing two kidney transplants today.

I started my first case. My attending was exactly as I was warned he would be--old, and slow, and wheezy, and mad at me because he has gout. The longer it took me to get the central line in, the worse his gout got. That's the pathophysiology of gout. Inept anesthesia residents, maybe even intentionally, cause terrible foot and ankle pain with their inability to cannulate the internal jugular vein in less than 10 seconds. Incompetent cruel bastards, the lot of us.

I was glad for the warning, but in the moment, it didn't really do much to help. It never does, does it? Someone tells you something is going to be painful...and then it is. The heads up removed the element of surprise, reassured me that it wasn't just me, that everyone exacerbates his gout. But, starting the case was still like swimming through wet cement. Reminding myself, "He's like this with everyone," didn't make the central line go in any faster.

But go in it did. Eventually. And he left the room. Finally.

I texted Blake to say, "This morning, I was worried my attending may not survive the day. Now I'm worried he might."

A few hours later, Wheezy came back to give me a break. Everything was settled by then, the patient tucked in, the charting all caught up. The Goutmaster sat down at the head of the bed, propped up a swollen appendage, and opened his email. I gave the patient a dose of this and that and vacated the premises.

I didn't realize until I stepped out of the OR just how shitty the morning had been. I had been doing the one foot in front of the other thing to get through the laundry list of tasks that have to be completed at the start of a case. I hadn't had time to really think about miserable it was. As I walked away from the room, I thought, "Given the chance, right now, I would walk to my car, go home, and not come back until tomorrow."

I turned to cut through the PACU on my way to my coffee cup. As I walked under the hand painted white and black sign that says, GENERAL RECOVERY ROOM--a sign hung back in a time when they actually used to call the recovery room, The Recovery Room--I found a text message from my dad.

They got the right gal on the job. Just be glad you're not your sister... She's working in the 'beyond' dept of Bed Bath & Beyond today...and who the hell knows what's beyond?

Seriously, if that were me lying there, I'd want you in the room!

Nothing anyone else would have said could have made me feel better than I did in that moment. I walked to my coffee cup feeling a thousand pounds lighter. The shit eating grin was stuck on my face for another two hours.

Later in the day, I texted my dad to say that Blake was returning to work after two weeks in London. He had received some rather unjust criticism prior to his departure and was not looking forward to coming back. My dad, the Union President, sent a little something for my friend.

It started with, This is great...he is facing down the beast early in his career...always best to meet that bastard (unjust criticism) while you're young and strong...

I forwarded it to Blake. He wrote back, Where do I pay my union dues?

The next day, I emailed Dad. To understand this email, you need to know two things:

First, it took me for-fucking-ever to learn how to ride a bike. My father used to run marathons. He didn't even have to train for the first one. After all the miles he spent jogging back and forth down the driveway holding me up on my two wheeler, he was a power bar and some Gatorade away from his first race. His eldest child was the biggest little chickenshit on legs. You've never met someone so afraid of falling.

Second, this is in sharp contrast to the way that he learned to ride a bike. When he was a little guy, the Weber boys put him on a two wheeler and pushed him towards Bailey Road during rush hour traffic. They yelled, Pedal! and Turn! In that moment, he realized that if failed to follow their instructions, he'd die. So, he pedaled and turned. And that's how he learned to ride a bike.

Dad,

Everything you said yesterday, both to me and to Blake, was freakin' perfect. The older I get, the more I wonder if shepherding us through adulthood might be even harder and more important than all of that stuff you do when kids are still in the house. And yes, I say that as one who took a full 17.5 years to learn to ride a bike. Every single day, I feel like one of the Weber boys is throwing me on a two wheeler and pushing me into traffic...with a patient strapped to my back. I'm still not sure how I'd pedal myself upright without you.

Love,

It's true. Every day does feel like that. But, there is this feeling when the lines go in like buttah, the intubation looks like I throw yard darts in my sleep, the patient and I soar through a big operation...when I Pedal! and Turn! and we avoid being crushed by that bus barreling down Bailey Road...and the job is even more fun than this girl thought it could be.

Why aren't you writing about your job?

2010-08-24T10:13:00.011-04:00

Because no one really wants to know what happens while they're asleep.

That's why they asked me to put them to sleep. There are many surgeries for which they could probably be wide awake and numb from the (insert surgical site here) down. But, they'd really rather not be. As it turns out, ignorance is, in fact, bliss.

I'd really rather they be asleep, too. I still like to talk to people...before and after. But during, I prefer them in peaceful slumber. Trust me when I say, I'm awake enough for the both of us.

The friends

2010-08-22T09:00:00.034-04:00

It occurred to me the other day that if you don't have any good friends, it may be my fault. I may have them all. I was talking to Graci at the time, telling her that I think of her every time the pathology resident comes to the OR to tell the surgeons that the tumor is not a tumor. Then, the surgeons tells her she's an idiot and to send in her attending. She rolls her eyes and walks away.

A few minutes later, a little, old Asian man comes in and says, "Is not a tuma. Is a chicken egg. Your patient chicken?"

And the surgeon says, "How the hell should I know? I didn't examine him. But I KNOW this a tumor."

And the pathologist says, "Listen, we put zee tuma stain on dis and we poke it wit a stick and it say, I am not a tuma. We put zee chicken egg stain on dis and we poke it wit a stick and it say, I AM A CHICKEN EGG!"

The surgeon retorts, "But radiology said it was a tumor."

"Padology better dan radiology. I say dis all zee time." Then, the little old man crosses his hands behind his back and walks away.

Replace the words chicken egg with cystic adenoma and that's a true story. If you're ever telling Graci a true story, you should replace the words cystic adenoma with chicken egg. She has no interest in the true pathology of a pathology tale but will laugh her fool ass off if you sprinkle in a little poultry.

This brings me back to my original point, which is that I have the very best of the friends. By best, in this case, I mean most easily entertained. It is never a struggle to make that girl laugh...and I love her for it.

Blake and Evan are in London right now. Rhee (their pup) and I are holding down the fort in their absence. We miss them terribly and, if we weren't such Iron Girls, would certainly sulk these two weeks away. But, we are, in fact, Iron Girls. And as such, we are making the best of it. We have found that cheese and napping help us keep up our strength in these trying times.

Last weekend, before the boys left, we all watched Fried Green Tomatoes. I start crying some time during the opening credits of this movie and stop some time two days later. Graci, Evan, and Blake are the only three people on the planet who can resist the urge to mock me for this. Although, to be honest, two of them don't really have any room to mock. Graci was the most impressive crier I'd ever known...until I met Evan.

As I learned earlier this same day as we watched Rick Steves' tour London, Evan is particularly moved by the Rosetta Stone. "I don't know what it is about this," he said, his voice cracking, his bottom lip all a quiver, "but it gets me every time." I looked over to find him taking off his glasses to wipe his eyes. I looked back at the screen to see if maybe I was missing something. Perhaps an innocent animal had been crushed under the stone, or a small child had just lost his mother in the mass of tourists?

But no, it was just the rock with those translated hieroglyphics. I started to ask him what it is about this that gets him, but, as he'd just said, he doesn't know. Crying at the Rosetta Stone is sort of like having a crush on Hillary Clinton. You can see how anyone might appreciate the brilliance...but you can't logically explain that depth of feeling. It just is what it is. (That said, if Evan ever confesses that he has the hots for Hillary, I'm going to have some follow up questions.)

All of that is to say, Blake resisted the urge to mock my crying all the way through Fried Green Tomatoes. The other two can't mock. Crying fools, the both of em.

When the movie ended, I wiped my eyes (for the 57th time) and slipped on my shoes to go. I don’t often leave late on a Saturday night. (The boys call the guest bedroom T's room for a reason.) But, we hadn’t had much at all to drink, and I had a few things to get done the next morning at home.

Fried Green Tomatoes made me miss Graci. It made the boys miss the South. As I stood to go, they began to reminisce. Evan started telling a story. "My older cousin used to try to scare me and my younger cousin. One time, he told us the woods behind the house were full of Indians who would scalp us..."

I sat back down to hear the rest of this. Evan tells a tale beautifully. He whispers the quiet parts and sprinkles in pitch perfect dialogue. His boyhood stories are like Stand By Me...with just a touch of flair. And no one can end a story quite like he can.

In this one, he and his younger cousin ventured into the scalping jungle and crept around a small shack. "Are there Indians in there?" Evan's cousin asked. (Blake and I were on the edge of our seats.)

"I don't know," Evan said, wide eyed and dead serious..."but if there are, they drive a Monte Carlo."

We laughed like idiots.

Blake's childhood stories are more like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. As he tells them, part of me wants to snort laugh. The other part wants to hold him and stroke his hair and assure him that in spite of all that, just in case he forgot, he grew into a (mostly) normal and very good man who moved far away from the nut jobs and only has to see them on holidays.

Speaking of which, we then somehow got onto the subject of our most recent Thanksgiving. Blake's mom and brother came to visit. I spent the whole weekend asking Evan, "Who are these people, and where did your boyfriend come from?"

"This year was nothing," Blake said. "You should have been there when my grandma tried to shoot my mom." He then launched into a story about the year his mother and his paranoid delusional Alzheimer's afflicted grandmother wrestled over a loaded handgun on Thanksgiving morning. (So much for watching the parade.)

"My mom yelled at me to go for help," Blake said. "I still remember hurting my bare feet as I ran across my grandma's gravel driveway to get to the neighbors'."

This is where he got me. I used to spend summer months playing outside barefoot. I remember the stinging in my feet as I ran across gravel drives in summer's early warm days, before my heels had a chance to grow calloused and tough. I swallowed hard as I pictured the boy from Blake's childhood photos running barefoot and scared.

As with all of his childhood stories, though, this didn't end with the tragic and scary. It ended with the utterly ridiculous.

The police came, disarmed Grandma, and tied her ass to a chair. And then they left. As if that's what you do with crazy old people. Tie 'em to the furniture. Problem solved.

Blake's mom found a psych unit to take his grandma for a few days. But then, they had to get her there. They carried her out of the house, chair and all, turned it and her on its side - it was the only way it would fit - and loaded her into the back seat of the car. She road to the psych ward that way.

Picturing this, I laughed so hard I pulled an abdominal muscle. Exhausted from all that laughing, I kicked off my shoes and headed down the hall to my room.

The best of the best friends. An embarrassment of riches, to be sure. I assure you I am sufficiently humiliated...but I'm not letting them go anytime soon.

And I'm not beyond tying them to the furniture to keep them.

God bless the edentulous

2010-08-02T20:57:00.007-04:00

This job really makes you appreciate people without teeth. In fact, when my patient has a mouth full of 'em, I can't help but think, "Well shit, now I have to work around these damn things."

Saturday morning

2010-07-31T09:53:00.006-04:00

It's finally cooled down enough to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows. I'm sure this will only last a few hours, but still...a breeze wafting through these walls is just what this house needed. (Well, a breeze and a dust rag perhaps.)

My second cup of coffee and I are sitting in a rocking chair next to my front window, listening to the birds, watching the old men take their morning walks. Seems like sort of an old lady way to start the day, eh? Yes well, when the time comes, after years of practice, I'm going to rock at being elderly.

Text message to my mom, the former children's pastor

2010-07-30T19:00:00.001-04:00

I have all the patience of Job.
Not the good, vacation bible school Job, but the bitchy, whiny, "what the fuck happened to my goats?" Job.

The one that's too long

2010-07-22T20:29:00.019-04:00

Text from Blake: "Btw, I'm tired of waiting on you to post an orientation blog, so I'm just gonna come out and say... Blog."

Then, he started bitching about how long the post was going to be. This post. A post that had yet to be written.

I get home from a long day at work. All I want to do is relax and put my feet up. Instead, I have to listen to him complain about the ways he anticipates I may annoy him in the future. Coupled with the fact that neither of us has any desire to see the other naked, this friendship is a lot like a thing called marriage. (Not your marriage, of course. No, your love is special. I'm talking about other people - the ones you don't like.)

Orientation started with a few days of... Well shit, I don't even remember what we did those first few days. There were hospital tours, and lectures, and piles of human resources paperwork. We signed five copies of a form which said, in effect, "I will not take naked pictures of my patients and post them on Facebook. And if I do, I'll scratch out their medical record numbers with a sharpie first." The program director handed out anesthesia books and then, just to get it out of the way, yelled at us for not reading them enough this year. Just to get it out of the way, we went ahead and felt a little ashamed of all that reading we, apparently, won't be doing.

After a few days of this, the department took us out to a local restaurant and we all drank free booze until the tab ran out. Then, too drunk to care how much we were spending on liquor, we all opened our own tabs and, just to get it out of the way, drank our first paycheck.

It was somewhere in between their tab and ours that Blake and I told the program director the impound story. The more colorful version of this tale involves eight uses of the word fuck and at a single uttering of the phrase, ass virginity. (As in, Blake said, "There we were driving through the ghetto with four hundred dollars, my pretty truck, and your ass virginity, and I thought for sure we were going to lose it all.") I managed to retell it with only four uses of the word fuck and no mention of ass or virginity. And to think, Blake says I have no filter.

The next day, I drove to Connecticut to see Graci. It was 105 degrees. My car has no air. I sat in parked traffic in New York for two hours. At one point, I stopped sweating and had to concentrate really hard on not throwing up. I think this is called heat stroke. I don't know for sure because, as my program director predicted, I have not read that chapter.

The whole drive took almost eight hours. I nearly died. And it was completely worth it.

Graci's apartment looks almost exactly like the one we shared in medical school. Books, pinned bugs, wood carving craft projects from her camp counselor days - everything about it is just so...Graci. And it feels just like home. I packed anesthesia books and notes but didn't read a word all weekend. Instead, I just talked about how nervous I was to start in the OR without knowing anything from those books and notes.

My very first case on my very first day was a craniotomy. Fucking brain surgery. That is, in fact, what I said when I heard it. "FUCKING BRAIN SURGERY? Are you fucking kidding me?" I called Blake and said it. I called my mom and said it. I said it to Graci every four and half minutes all weekend long. She reminded me over and over again that they weren't going to let me kill anyone. (At least, not on my first day.)

Blake's first case was some simple little kidney procedure. It was complicated only by the fact that his patient was mostly dead. In fact, his anesthetic plan looked a lot like this.

Three weeks later, Blake and I are almost sort of kind of maybe in some small way getting used to this job. Partnered with another first year resident and an attending, we're rarely left alone in the OR. This all changes after next week when our month long orientation officially ends and we start doing our own cases. Once again, we will be scared shitless. (In my case, I mean this literally as stress gives me terrible diarrhea.)

At the end of every day this month, we have an hour long lecture on one of the basic topics in anesthesiology. Last Friday, Blake collapsed in the chair beside me in the lecture room and sighed. He looked like he'd been hit with a bus. He always looks 17 times better than I do, so I can't even imagine how I must have looked - like I'd been hit by 17 buses, I suppose. As we waited for the lecturer, we talked about how exhausting it was to spend all day trying not to kill the mostly dead.

And then, suddenly, as if the room was on fire, Blake grabbed his bag, stood bolt upright, and yelled, "Fifteen minute rule. I'm out." And with that, he was out.

I looked over the room of stunned, silent faces. They'd never seen such a dramatic exit from a non-event. I shrugged a little, reached for my bag, and said, "I'm uhh...I'm with him."

"I wish you could have seen the looks on their faces," I told him. We laughed about it all the way to our cars.

Blake, I could get through this residency without you. But friend, moments like these make me so glad I don't have to.

Could someone direct me to the OR?

2010-06-28T23:12:00.010-04:00

I start my anesthesiology residency tomorrow. My medicine internship is finished. I ended with two weeks of nights. I thought about writing when it was all over, but frankly, I was too fucking tired. I stuck a note on the call room door for the incoming interns...

Sicker patients than this have survived dumber doctors than you.

And with that, I was done.

I stopped by the new hospital the other day to drop off the last bit of my anesthesia paperwork. I managed to park a full seven blocks from the office where I needed to be. When I finally found the elevators, I couldn't figure out which floor the anesthesia department was on. A housekeeping employee explained to me that since I was looking for room 1408, I was probably headed to the 14th floor. She asked if I was new. When I said yes, she asked, "Which department?" I could almost hear her under her breath, Please don't say housekeeping, please don't say housekeeping...

On the 14th floor, I stumbled into the Chairman's suite. His secretary directed me to the clearly marked education office that I had walked right past to bother her.

On my back out of the hospital, when the high pitched beeping started and security appeared, I looked up from my phone to read, Emergency Exit: Alarm will Sound.

Tonight, Blake suggested that we ride together tomorrow. I readily agreed. Mostly because I think it's only a matter of time before housekeeping and security have a drink and get to talking...and then I won't be allowed to go to work unaccompanied by a sighted companion or specially trained dog.

Houston, we have a problem

2010-06-20T19:51:00.016-04:00

People always ask me if I'm like Blanche. Well, Blanche was an oversexed, self-involved, man-crazy, vain Southern belle from Atlanta—and I'm not from Atlanta. - Rue McClanahan

The dinner conversation started, as I imagine all in depth discussions of the difficulties unique to space copulation do, with a rather banal question. I asked Blanche, “Do you enjoy your job in medicine?”

“No,” she said, “I hate it.”

“What would you rather be doing?”

“Well,” she said, “I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut.”

I choked a little to keep from blowing onion soup out my nose. Like the Great Wall of China, the pile of toiletries Blanche brought with her for the weekend could actually be seen from space. The thought of her willingly donning a flame retardant jumpsuit accessorized with hose attachments made me aspirate a little.

“An astronaut, eh?” I squeaked, still struggling for air.

Rose, the voice reason chimed in with, “You can’t be an astronaut. Space is really bad for aging.”

“Wrinkles?” I said. “That’s why she can’t go to space…because she might get wrinkles?”

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I heard you age like five years for every week you’re up there. It’s a real problem."

Blanche looked at Rose like this was the single most idiotic thing she had ever heard. Aging. As if that was something that could ever happen to her. It was utterly ridiculous, as though Rose had just warned against the possibility of growing a third boob with a single trip to the moon.

Blanche had other concerns. Principally, how exactly would one clean up after space sex.

“You’re going to be having sex in space?” I said.

“Well, yeah,” she said, looking at me like that was the dumbest question anyone had ever asked an astronaut.

You know, you think you’d never be part of discussion about the potential difficulties of sex clean up in a zero gravity environment. But then, you have a little more wine, and suddenly, you’re saying things like, “What about a butterfly net?” As if that would even work.

In preparation

2010-06-07T20:31:00.011-04:00

When I asked Evan what he wanted for his birthday, he said, “I want to make lobster for us. I am happiest when we are all together having French food.”

“That's when I’m happiest, too,” I said.

And so it was settled. For Evan's birthday, we would make lobster.

Blake had two friends from medical school, Blanche and Rose, coming into town for the weekend. Rose’s one-eyed on again off again boyfriend, Willie, was supposed to join us as well; but there was trouble in lover’s paradise. I, for one, was quite disappointed to hear of their falling out. Lobster Thermidor, beautiful china, fine wine…and a guy who lost his eye to a pair of brass knuckles outside a bar in Texas. Hell, that post practically writes itself.

Willie’s place was taken by Evan’s friend and coworker, Woman Who Looks Just Like Reese Witherspoon Except Chinese. (Reese, for short.) Reese is a fabulous dinner party guest because she is forever raising interesting philosophical questions like, “What is the meaning of the phrase, What’s up chicken butt?” Suddenly, you find yourself wondering, what is the meaning of that phrase? And then, it’s not long before you’re thinking the hokey pokey may actually be what’s it’s all about.

Evan proposed a five course meal for the six of us: French onion soup, salad, Lobster Thermidor, chocolate cake (which has a proper name I can never seem to remember), and finally, just to ensure that none of us would be able to get up from the table in our own strength, a selection of cheeses.

Evan made the soup and the cake the day before. The cheese was crafted by a couple of French farmers with a gift for mold preparation. That left the salad and the lobster. The salad is nothing. I mean, it didn’t taste like nothing. It was delicious. But, when it comes to preparation, the salad is nothing. Evan wiggles his nose like Samantha from Bewitched and a salad appears. So, in short, that left the lobster.

Julia Child’s Lobster Thermidor is no joke. If you had something else you thought you might like to do in the five and a half hours before dinner, if you balk at the thought of brutally murdering helpless animals in your kitchen, or if you weren’t already planning to repaint the walls after the mess this makes, just close the cookbook and walk away.

I can't claim that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I told Evan I’d make lobster with him. He and I have done this once before. Granted, my memory of that experience is a little hazy, what with the five and a half hours of wine consumption that went along with the cooking. But, I do recall that the whole process took for-freakin'-ever. I had to grab the dog and go cringe in the other room while he did the killing. And four days later, I was still picking lobster out of my hair. I also remember that Evan and I had a fabulous time...like Lucy and Ethel making French food.

This time, we would be doing it for twice as many people. Oh yeah, and I would be post call. This is to say, I would be doing all of this on about two hours of bad sleep.

I worked Friday night and ignored just enough pages to get that two hours of bad sleep. Saturday, after a short morning nap, I poured myself the first of about seventeen cups of coffee and headed out to pick up some flowers. Evan wanted tulips. Though it’s not really tulip season, I just sort of assumed, since it was his birthday, there would be tulips.

I stopped by the small flower shop near my house, walked in, and proclaimed, “I’ll take a dozen tulips.”

The woman behind the counter, a true retail professional, immediately apologized for something that couldn’t possibly be her fault. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but tulip season is over. ”

“I know, but it’s for a dinner party and it’s his birthday,” I said, as if that would make the requested flowers shoot out of her ass.

She smiled and, as if trying to distract a toddler on the verge of a tantrum, suggested, “Perhaps we could find something else?”

I sighed pathetically. “I guess I’ll take the orchids." She offered to pick them out, mostly because she imagined me destroying two dozen stems to get to the five I wanted. As she pulled out the bucket of flowers, Evan called me in a panic. He had been to three grocery stores and there were no lobsters. He was driving an hour away in a last ditch effort to find some. Dinner would be late. If they didn’t have lobsters the last place he knew to look, our lives would be over.

I hung up with him and started calling a few of the places I thought might carry them. Suddenly, I was distracted from my conversation with a local market by the crappy flower selection happening on the counter in front of me. Covering the phone, I reminded the florist, "These are for a dinner party."

"Yes," she said with a patronizing smile.

I clarified, “A dinner party with gay men.”

“Oh,” she sighed, as she laid down the tragic stems she had selected. “I guess I’ll start over.”

I smiled an equally patronizing smile and then resumed my conversation with the fish monger. I found an alternative to suicide just in case Evan's road trip didn't pan out and, a few minutes later, left the flower shop with orchids fit for a queer eye.

Evan’s pilgrimage was a success. In the end, cooking only got started about an hour behind schedule. I won’t bore you with all the details of lobster preparation…mostly because scant sleep beforehand and a bit of wine during left me with little memory of much of the day. I will however, offer the highlights: the murder, and the table setting.

First, the murder: Killing lobsters brings out something in sensitive, sweet, tender-hearted Evan. All the hostility, antagonism, bitterness, resentment, and general acrimony that the rest of us slowly leak out onto florists, meter maids, and loved ones, Evan quietly stores up and unleashes on sea life. The fact that those lobsters didn’t happily swan dive from the grocery bag into the pot of boiling water really pissed him off. As he abandoned the tongs and, with his bare hands, reached into the bag to wrestle them into a watery grave, he yelled, “Do NOT fuck with me. I have had a hard year.”

He has had a hard year. It’s not easy to be in love with a resident. Unfortunately, the call schedule doesn't taste right boiled, so the crustaceans had to bear the brunt of a year's worth of frustration.

Second, the table setting: A dinner party is not only an excuse to unleash wrath onto undeserving shellfish, but also to dress Evan and Blake’s beautiful new table with style. I admit I had to Google images of a proper place setting and watch the How to Fold a Napkin YouTube video seven times for six napkins. But, the lovely result was well worth this uncultured nitwit's exhaustive research.

“Oh T, it’s so beautiful,” Evan said.

“It is,” I agreed. I stood at edge of the table and smiled at him. It has been a hard year. There were parts of it you couldn’t pay me to do again. But, as I looked at that lovely table and my dear friend, snippets of every meal he and I have poured ourselves (and bottles of wine) into wafted over to me. I swallowed hard to keep from leaking a few tears.

After the table was set, Evan and I went to work on dressing ourselves in style (or, at least, in less shellfish). I, for one, spent not a few minutes picking lobster out of my underwear and spackling concealer over the dark circles under my sleep deprived eyes. While we were getting ready, Blake came home with Blanche and Rose. The three of them had been to the mall and to Sex and the City 2. When I stepped out of the bathroom, the Golden Girls introduced themselves. Then, they grabbed a leash and Blanche's dog and headed for the door.

“Um...I walked both dogs an hour ago,” I said.

“There’s a hot guy in the parking lot,” Blanche explained, as she adjusted her bra and made haste.

I would have joined them, but everyone who lives in Blake and Evan’s building has already seen me in all my sexiness. Rainbow pajama pants, a hugely oversized hoodie, pair of men's flip flops, and a baseball cap? Yep, that was me, dog-sitting and seducing the neighbors.

While the girls headed out to hunt the locals, I chatted with Blake about their day. He bitched a bit about how long they were at the mall and about how Rose embarrassed him by bartering for a deal on a bedazzled phone cover. I said something agreeable like, "Oh yeah, that would be embarrassing," all the while thinking, "Who are you kidding?" If those two are Blanche and Rose, Blake is their Dorothy. Dorothy was never so happy as when she was annoyed with those girls.

I just got through chatting with Rose on Facebook. I told her they must come back more often. I say this for purely selfish reasons. Hanging out with them, Blake looks like I feel when I’m with Graci. It is nothing but fun to see.

I’ll say more about the rest of the evening later. Right now, I have to go admit a patient.

In the meantime, to summarize dinner: Completely worth it. Worth the time. Worth the toasty seat in hell we reserved for ourselves with the brutal murder of helpless animals. Worth the lobster in my underwear.

Vacation, week one

2010-05-23T17:19:00.009-04:00

I went home to see the family for a few days. My parents (and sisters, and Logyn) recently moved out of the 720 square foot home where we grew up into a 3,200 square foot condo. Their friends are all downsizing. Convinced that my sisters aren't going anywhere any time soon, they've done just the opposite. "We couldn't do it anymore," my mom said. "I mean, I know in many countries, several families live in a space smaller than that...but those are better people than we are. We were all ready to kill each other."

It was rather close quarters. The girls and the baby shared a small room. When I visited, I slept on the couch in a semi-finished room in the basement that also served as my dad's home office. There was only one bathroom.

The condo is huge by comparison. It has three bathrooms. Three. The girls have their own bedrooms. ("Now, we'll really never get them out of here," my mom says.) There's still no real privacy. Logyn is two, after all...

Logyn: "You go potty, TT?"

Me: "Yes, I'm going potty."

Logyn: "Can I come?"

My sister: "You can say no."

Me: "I was planning on it."

But, even with the occasional unsolicited assistance in the bathroom, it is a much easier place to stay.

Logyn loves her new house. That's what she calls it. Her new house. When my sister told her I was coming a few weeks ago, she ran around unlocking doors..."So TT can come to my new house."

The morning I left, she wrapped her little arms around my neck, and with tears in her eyes, said, "TT, you come back to my new house pretty soon?"

"Yes," I said, "I'll come back to your new house pretty soon." And then, I was the first person ever to cry her way through a flight from Ohio to the beach.

Lucy goosey

2010-05-03T18:25:00.002-04:00

A point d'appui

2010-05-03T16:45:00.015-04:00

Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance, that alluvion which covers the globe....through Church and State, through poetry and philosophy and religion till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality, and say, This is, and no mistake.

An English literature professor named Bob Davis introduced me to Thoreau and to this, his favorite passage from Walden.

Bob's class was at 3 o'clock in a third story room in the corner of the humanities building. Even in the air conditioning, it got too warm in there in the afternoons. Dr. Davis sat on a stool in front of a bunch of overheated, lethargic college students. They gazed out the windows at kids drinking beer from Nalgene bottles and playing frisbee golf, counting down the seconds until they could join them.

In this group of Gap kids, I stood out like a sore thumb in the scrubs I wore to class because, right after, I had to go to be a nurse's aide until midnight. I dug at the wedding ring that cut into my swollen finger on hot days like this. I added a few things to a grocery list I had started in the corner of my planner...paper towels, ground beef, Tide.

Then, he read Thoreau. And suddenly, I was swallowing hard to keep from crying all over my scrub top.

Thoreau was like a gift. I felt like I must have been incredibly hard to buy for. Nothing else I had--the job, the ring, the grocery list--really fit. But then, Bob Davis read from Walden, and it was exactly right.

At the end of the passage, he laughed a little and said, "In a couple months, I'm going to give all of you a final exam. You're going to write for me for a few hours. At the end of that, I've always sort of hoped someone would throw it at me and say, 'This is, and no mistake.'"

A few months later, he gave us a final exam. I wrote for him for three hours. At the end of it, satisfied with every last word, I laid it on the desk in front of him, looked him in the eyes, sat my finger on the page, and said, "This is, and no mistake."

Then, I straightened my scrubs and went to work until midnight.

It took me a few years to find the hard bottom and rocks in place. I still lose it from time to time. But then, there is the gift--the voice of Thoreau reminding me to settle myself, and work and wedge my feet...

In spite of it

2010-05-02T18:42:00.008-04:00

It has been a beautiful day. Ninety degrees. Sunny. I was on call last night but got several hours of sleep so I've been up to enjoy it. And enjoy it I have. Mostly.

I've been alone.
And lonely.

I'm not new to this alone thing. I am actually one of those people who requires a good bit of it. But, as it turns out, I also have a good bit more of it than I require. This is (mostly) my own fault. Today, in particular, it was my fault. I can see how I orchestrated this. It feels sort of like the time I shut my tiny finger in the bathroom door. I was six and was playing tag with my brother. I would have liked to have blamed it on him, but it was me. Knowing that somehow made it hurt even worse.

Like I said, though, it's been a beautiful day. I spent much of it in D.C., lying on the edge of this , my feet floating in the water.

A group of kids splashed next to me. At one point, the sky darkened briefly above me and I opened my eyes to see a lithe six year old boy soaring over my head. His mother yelled at him, "Hey, go around next time."

Ducks paddled past. One stopped on the ledge next to me to shake a little water from his fanny. He was standing so close, he got me wet. What he and the boy gazelle lacked in social graces they more than made up for in comic relief.

I read Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies for maybe the third time. I listened to Astral Weeks. I got a little sunburn. Alone, I enjoyed the beautiful day.

It was on the drive home that I realized I had distracted myself from this lonely, not cured myself of it. It's still here. With me. A shit ass companion, if ever there was one.

But, I'm okay. There's something to be said for calling a thing the shit ass it is...and now, maybe enjoying the evening in spite of it.

Blake's Proust questionnaire

2010-04-19T15:49:00.006-04:00

When I read this, I said, "I'm going to ask if I can post it...but part of me just wants to keep it for myself." It almost felt like a little present.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Those times when I sit down, can take a big deep breath, the air feels light, the weather is nice, and there’s not a thing to do.

What is your greatest fear?
Snakes. On a plane or otherwise.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Napoleon Bonaparte. I can at least understand the desire to be in charge of everything.

Which living person do you most admire?
It comes and goes, but I most admire my friends. I feel like I have an amazing group of them and I admire a little something different in each one of them.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
The need to blend in.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
When people lack insight.

What is your greatest extravagance?
If I had to pick one, definitely electronics.

What is your favorite journey?
Sitting on a hillside in Parc Guell.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Impartiality. It seems to me that this virtue is at odds with another, loyalty. I much value loyalty over impartiality.

On what occasion do you lie?
When I don’t want a response to the truth, or when you don’t really want the truth either.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
My height and skin.

Which living person do you most despise?
It’s a lot of effort to continue to despise somebody. I’d rather just ignore your existence.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
The vocal interrupter “like”.
The response “maybe”.

What is your greatest regret?
It depends on the time of day. Usually, I regret leaving everything I need at home.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Hard to answer that question, because I think it is difficult to say until right before you die. But, at present, my boyfriend.

When and where were you happiest?
I’m happiest when I feel that I’ve just had a very genuine moment with somebody and we both get our feelings and thoughts out there, in the open. There’s that twinge of relief and also of knowing that you’ve shared this moment that you can hold on to.

Which talent would you most like to have?
I would like to be one of those people that can just fix ANYTHING, you know those people? You take them a broken music box made of rare jade from 682 B.C. (I don’t actually know when the earliest music box was made) and they can make it seem like it was made yesterday (and also make it play Dancing Queen).

What is your current state of mind?
I’m tired of this survery, it’s making my ADD flare up.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I would seek less extrinsic approval and find it from somewhere more personal.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
They would accept that I’m gay, join PFLAG, and donate to the HRC instead of the Southern Baptist Association and the NRA.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Matching into residency.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
Yoda I would be. Powerful the force is. Live for a millennium I would, many things I would see.

If you could choose what to come back as, what would it be?
A lazy brown dachshund.

What is your most treasured possession?
Pictures. From old family photos to new journeys with friends.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Saturday night internal medicine call in the hospital admitting somebody you have admitted 10 times before for another missed dialysis appointment.

Where would you like to live?
Washington DC or SF Bay Area.

What is your favorite occupation?
Firefighters. They’re hot.
I’m sure this was supposed to be a question about the favorite occupation for me, but I already know what I have to do.

What is your most marked characteristic?
Some people might say the fact that my personality is chameleon-like. I say my most marked characteristic is my moodiness, let’s call it my mini-bipolar.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
The ability to read my mind.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
The ability to put it all together. Looks, book smarts, wit, and street smarts. It’s hard to wear all of those together, but that’s the perfect woman. She can pull it all off (in heels). Oh yah, and good teeth.

What do you most value in your friends?
Honesty, disclosure, and support.

Who are your favorite writers?
Asking me this question is a bit like asking a vegan what meat they like.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
James Bond.

Who are your heroes in real life?
I look up to many of my friends. I like to have tangible heroes.

What are your favorite names?
Ashleigh, Austin, Jack, Jacqueline, Kyoto, Amberlie.

What is it you most dislike?
People who are unprepared.

How would you like to die?
Old and quick.

What is your motto?
If you’re gonna do something, better do it right (or at least appear that you have).

Old text messages

2010-04-17T16:47:00.001-04:00

April 15, 2010~
Terroni: You know why I just come to your house?

Blake: ?

Terroni: Because it's better.
Better than everyone else's.

Old text messages

2010-04-17T16:34:00.004-04:00

March 19, 2010~
Terroni: It's nice out, and I'm bored. Let me know when you're done with your shit. We should go outside.

Blake: If rounds end...

T: You want me to page you out of them?

B: The suffering will be over soon.

T: Sounds like you're going to hurl yourself from a 14th floor window.
If so, I'll see you on the ground. I've been looking for an excuse to go outside.

Old text messages

2010-04-17T16:00:00.002-04:00

April 14, 2010~
Blake: I don't care if you're an arborist, pussy willow can't be said on tv.

Old text messages

2010-04-15T21:42:00.007-04:00

January 1, 2010 ~
Terroni: Are you guys eating sauerkraut today?

Blake: Collards and black eye peas on New Years.

T: Oh, that's right, you're Southern.
You know, I don't think I've ever had a collard green.
What do they taste like?

B: Cabbage or turnip greens.
Except more chewy.

T: What do cabbage or turnip greens taste like?

B: Oh god.

T: It's not easy to be my friend, is it?

B: It has its difficulties.

Sunday morning

2010-04-11T08:26:00.011-04:00

I'm sitting in an oversized chair in Blake and Evan's living room, drinking my coffee, listening to Patty Griffin, quietly, so as not to rouse the boys. When, as an old lady, I think back on this time in my life, I will think of these Sunday mornings.

I get up and collect the glasses from the night before. Pitching the vodka soaked olives from Evan's martini, rinsing the sticky lemonade from Blake's Arnold Palmer. I'm not sure what it is about this that I enjoy so much. There's probably something stereotypically female there for a woman's studies professor or a freshman psychology major to chew on. Have at it. I'm getting too old to care about any of that.

When I think back on my time here, I will think of Sunday mornings when I washed cocktail glasses, started some coffee, and read The New York Times until two of my favorites woke up.

Happy Birthday

2010-03-27T15:54:00.011-04:00

Dear Owen,

Happy Birthday! This is sure to be the first in a long line of late birthday cards you’ll be receiving from me. This time, I blame it on your mother. It took her several days to get me a decent picture of you. Also, there was that brief period—2 or 3 days in the beginning there—when I didn’t actually know your full name. (The out-of-towners are always the last to hear the details.) As it turns out, you’re named after almost all of your male relatives. In fact, if I posted your middle names here, this would no longer be an anonymous blog. Here, we will just call you Owen.

I do love that you carry your grandpas' names, though. I very much look forward to watching the amazing men in your life—your grandpas, your dad, your uncle—teach you to be a scholar and a gentleman. You will learn to be compassionate, insightful, funny, and kind. You will hold open doors for people. You’ll carry groceries for old ladies. You'll be a very hard worker, an extremely loyal friend. You will have a great sense of humor, especially about yourself.

You’ll also get into a fair bit of trouble. But, when your dad calls your grandpa to say, “You will not believe what this kid did…” your grandpa will remind your father of the time he accidentally laundered pot it in his jeans. Even the scholar and gentleman sometimes gets caught with stems and seeds in the dryer vent.

Your sister Lucy could not be more excited about your arrival. She alternates between kissing you and sticking her finger in your eyes. You are covered in spit and have corneal abrasions, but you are well loved. Lucy and Logyn have great plans for you. Mostly, they plan to boss you around and take your stuff. Don’t look to your cousin, Eli, for any help here. He weighs more than the two of them combined, and yet they’ve somehow managed to purloin everything the kid once owned. Turkey sized and most dangerous when they work in tandem, those two are the toddler equivalent of Velociraptors (from the Latin for swift seizer).

Speaking of spit and eye injury, I can’t wait to see you in May. When I tell you, “Owen, I’m going to give you a thousand kisses,” I mean it. I’m also going to blind you with my camera. I apologize in advance. I can’t help myself. Take a hint from Logyn who now closes her eyes when she sees me coming.

It appears as though you may have that part down pat…

Love,
Aunt TT

All in the first day's work

2010-03-15T22:16:00.006-04:00

I talked to Graci tonight. She just started a forensic pathology rotation in The Bronx. She's been there one day and already she says things like, "Yeah, we had a decomp today. Big old green, bloated thing. Been dead about two weeks. We're not sure what got him. Coulda been anything really."

Then, she takes a puff off her cigar, blows smoke from the corner of her mouth, sips her scotch, and buys the pretty lady at the end of the bar a drink.

Spring forward

2010-03-14T23:26:00.015-04:00

Blake was on call last night. Evan and I had a Blake's on call date. On these nights, we make French food. More specifically, Evan makes French food. I follow very simple instructions. "Cut this into pieces just like these," he will say, holding up an example. When things get complicated, I grab my wine glass and the dog and head to the living room to flip through Vogue. Their apartment's open floor plan allows us to chat away while he cooks and I, well...drink. When dinner's ready, we eat and then take some to the hospital for Blake. Yesterday was a wet, chilly day. It made for a great French onion soup night.

French onion soup and red wine and vodka tonics and dirty martinis... I suppose it's no surprise that on call nights, Evan and I tell each other things we, perhaps, otherwise wouldn't.

After dinner, we went to the piano. It's been months since we've done Broadway. I'm sure the neighbors missed it almost as much as we did.

Blake got home around 9 this morning. 9 this morning was actually 8 this morning, which almost completely explains the fact that we all slept until 11 this morning (which was really only 10), had some leftover chocolate cake and some breakfast quiche, watched Blake accidentally solve a Rubik's cube, and went back to bed until 4 (which, again, was really only 3). The point is, saving daylight is exhausting.

When I rolled back out of bed this afternoon, Evan asked, "You ready to go home?"

"Yeah," I said. I wasn't so sure that wasn't a little bit of a lie. There are times I really need to get home, back to my quiet apartment to curl up on my couch with my favorite mug and my softest throw. I require a certain not so small amount of time alone. But, there are also times when I could quite easily overstay my welcome at the boys' place. It is very easy--a bit too easy--to feel right at home there. Resisting the urge to feed the clingy monster that occasionally lives in me, I try to leave before they are really sure they're ready for me to go. In that spirit, I said, "Yeah," when I probably really meant, "Nah."

There's a big old harbor in the middle of this town. When traffic clogs a few main roads, it can be a total pain in the ass to get from my place to the boys' without swimming. Evan picked me up yesterday because he was teaching at a math convention in my neck of the woods. As such, he had to take me home today. We made it as far as the harbor where we ran into a veritable parking lot. A St. Patrick's Day parade, Alice in Wonderland in 3D at the IMAX, a dental convention of some sort--it was the perfect storm of traffic, a real fuckery of ground transportation.

If I had been alone, I would have crept my way home. Because I was with Evan, though, and I really didn't want him to have to spend the next two hours in the car, I suggested we just turn around. "Listen," I said, "it's not like I was going home to split the atom. Let's just go back to your place and we can try this again in a few hours."

I felt bad. I didn't want to go home, but I didn't want to stay, either. Blake and Evan hadn't seen much of each other this weekend. When Blake got up from his post call nap, I thought it might be nice if he had his boyfriend to himself.

I have to say, though, that traffic was just one in a series of great things to happen to my weekend...right behind onion soup, vodka tonics, and breakfast quiche.

Blake got up shortly after we got back home. (You see how I call it that? Oy vey.) If he was disappointed to see me, he hid it well. (He's a good friend. He would hide it well.) Evan suggested a movie. Blake put in Licence to Kill.

I'm a Bond fan. Blake is a Bond connoisseur. He owns and knows them all. Watching them with him is great fun. Licence to Kill was no exception.

After the movie, I made the only thing I ever make for the boys--fettuccine Alfredo. Impossible to ruin, it's my kind of dish. Dinner was excellent for two reasons: First, it's two main ingredients were cheese and heavy cream. Second, cooking something made me feel a little less guilty about the day I'd spent squatting on their couch. In short, cheese and heavy cream make me feel better about myself in more ways than one.

French food, vodka tonics, shared secrets, off key show tunes, and friends like these two make me feel better about the rest.

Prepare to be underwhelmed

2010-03-14T22:24:00.008-04:00

I used to leave little notes to myself here about my day. I thought of this as a place to jot down a few lines about the things I didn't want to forget. I've realized that lately the very best things are being left out...and forgotten.

I apologize in advance for what I hope will be a deluge of uninteresting posts. It's not that I hope they'll be uninteresting, it's just that I hope to get back to writing about the best parts of my day, even when I don't have anything clever to say.

A woman wrote a book called, No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog. I'm sure her blog is endlessly clever. I highly recommend it (if endlessly clever is the kind of thing that interests you). If, however, you're intrigued by the hopelessly mundane, stick around. I'm your girl. I had French onion soup for lunch.

Today I met the boys I'm going to marry

2010-03-07T22:04:00.015-05:00

Setting the scene...

Dinner in a crowded restaurant. On one side of a booth, it was Blake, Evan, and Terroni. The three of us easily fit as we are all about as big around as the average pepper mill. On the other side, it was Dawson and Joey. (Yes, as in that Dawson and Joey.)

Joey said to Blake, "Hey, remember that deal we had where you guys will get married when Dawson and I have a baby?"

"Uhh...yes," he said, more like a question than a statement. He raised his eyebrows, turns his head to the right a bit, parted his lips and sucked in his stomach. I realize that sounds like he was posing for a photo op, but the effect is actually a bit different. When he does this, he looks like a man who is about to witness a head on collision--something he is powerless to stop and will not particularly enjoy but somehow cannot tear himself away from.

"Well," said Joey, "Dawson and I are thinking about having a baby sometime in the next year."

Then, it was as if Blake was part of a head on collision with a heart attack. Eyes wide in abject terror, he clutched his left chest, made a little choking sound, quit breathing, turned blue, saw his dead grandmother who called to him to walk towards the light, and for a moment...he actually died.

Resuscitation commenced.

For awhile there, it wasn't looking so good. I delivered chest compressions while Dawson gave rescue breaths. There were no signs of life. Things turned around quickly, though, when I took over the rescue breathing. The moment I put my lips on his and exhaled hot, garlicky breath into his mouth, Blake sat bolt upright, tousled his bangs a bit (the effortless hair look is never truly effortless), and yelled, "Alright, alright. I'll do it. I'll get married."

I'd like to think it was the very essence of life flowing from within me during that single breath that revived him. I suspect, however, that in that moment, something else might have shaken him from the grip of death.

The next day, during brunch, I listened to Blake and Evan discuss wedding plans with Dawson and Joey. I had only one request: that I not really be involved. "I'll sit and watch with Dawson and Joey's baby in my lap. You know how much I love babies, and sitting, and sitting with babies. I'm looking forward to it." It was then that the rest of the table decided I would be geting ordained online and officiating the ceremony. "It's like sitting and watching," they said, "except not really at all."

I was initially reluctant to play this new role but have since warmed to the idea. I think we'll be kicking things off with a story of the near death and subsequent brilliant resuscitation that started it all. It's a rather charming little how we got to where we are today, don't you think?

The best part is it's all true.
Every word of it.

It was all very Olympical and Lenten (and it turns out, they're the same thing really)

2010-02-26T09:55:00.024-05:00

Regarding Lent
Graci: I missed the first day, so I'm just going to do an extra day at the end.
Terroni: (laughing) Uh...I don't think that's how Lent works.
Graci: Why not? It's really just about seeing if you can do it.
Terroni: (hysterical laughing) Yes. That is what Lent's about.

A few minutes later, while watching skiing
Terroni: Come on now girls. In the spirit of Lent, let's git er done.
Graci: That's right! That's what Lent's about.

During curling
Graci: You would be good at this one because you're a clean freak.

Graci: The tension is mounting...
Terroni: Can the tension really mount in curling? I mean really?

(By the way, two google searches and a wikipedia article later, we still don't understand curling.)

During the skeleton
Graci: How do they steer?
Terroni: They use their chins.

Terroni: It's like they said, "Here's your piece of metal and your helmet. Now, go." But some people looked at it and said, "I'd actually like to crawl inside my helmet for this." And they said, "We have a sport for you. It's called the bobsled."

More Terroni: And, you know, no one from the bobsled should get a medal. Their medals should go to anyone who doesn't die doing the skeleton. In the skeleton, if you survive, you get a medal.

Terroni: Hey, what's she doing out there? Didn't they just say that has a baby? People with babies shouldn't be allowed to do this.
Graci: Who should do it?
Terroni: Criminals.

During bobsledding
Terroni: I would want to be the one hiding in the back.
Graci: You'd have to be pretty trusting to be back there with someone else doing all the steering.
Terroni: You'd have to be a hell of a lot more trusting to be back there if I was doing all the steering.
Graci: True.

During Apolo Anton Ohno's race
Terroni: What's on his chin?
Graci: Pubes.

During some other country's national anthem
Terroni: They should put up the words so we can learn the songs.
Graci: Uh, no one wants to hear you sing their country's national anthem.
Terroni: HEY.
Graci: You know it's true.

Proust questionnaire

2010-02-23T08:54:00.006-05:00

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Making you laugh, especially if you didn’t see it coming.

What is your greatest fear?
Being a bad doctor.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Virginia Woolf. Except...I’m not a very good writer or particularly depressed and am far too good a swimmer to ever kill myself by drowning.
But, we both have prominent noses, and neither of us is an especially good dresser…so there’s definitely something akin to kinship there.

Which living person do you most admire?
Mary R. Smith.

Which living person do you most despise?
I’m not really in a despising mood today.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
I am, by my nature, unkind. This is to say, kindness does not ever come naturally to me. It is always a choice.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Bad tipping.

What is your greatest extravagance?
I eat amazing French food at least two nights a week. And, because the chef’s boyfriend considers me incapable of properly loading a dishwasher, I don’t have to clean up after dinner.

What is your favorite journey?
The walk along a South Florida beach early in the morning…and then again at dusk.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Chastity.

On what occasion do you lie?
When it spares your feelings.
When it spares mine.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
The amount of time I spend worrying about it.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Like you do.
It’s a relative scale.
Note to file.

What is your greatest regret?
I regret about 35-95% of the shit that comes out of my mouth, depending on the day and whether or not I’ve left the house yet.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
I’m going to be optimistic (which, like kindness, goes against my very nature) and say that I’ve yet to have the greatest love of my life.

When and where were you happiest?
This weekend, I was happiest curled up on Graci’s couch, watching the Olympics, mocking the suicidal sport that is skeleton. It felt just like it did when we lived together and I got to make her laugh every single day.

Last week, I was happiest sitting across from Blake in the back of a small pizzeria, drinking beer in the middle of the day, toasting the dawn of my 29th year.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Having no one who calls on you to love them when they are sad.

What is your current state of mind?
Is hungry a state of mind?

Which talent would you most like to have?
I would like to be able to sit down at the piano and play Jungleland again. There was a day, 15 years ago, when I could do this. In the time since I have forgotten how to read music and find middle C.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I would be a more insightful friend…and also friendlier.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
They would have all been born on the first day of the month. As it is now, with them scattered over the calendar all willy-nilly like, I can’t ever remember the birthdays.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Today? Well, I started the dishwasher this morning. That’s something.

What is your most treasured possession?
1055 pictures…mostly of the nieces.

What is it you most dislike?
Dirty public restrooms.
The Pennsylvania turnpike.
Taking out the trash.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
I’d be a snapping turtle at a petting zoo.

If you could choose what to come back as, what would it be?
A niece’s favorite stuffed animal.

Where would you like to live?
I’m pretty happy right here.

What is your favorite occupation?
Some days, doctoring. Some days, anything but doctoring. I’m still trying to figure out how to get paid for all that corn I’m not growing.

What is your most marked characteristic?
I think they call it an acerbic wit. I’m funny if you’re laughing and bitchy if you’re not.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
He must be a scholar and a gentleman. The former implies curiosity, work ethic, and at least an 8th grade reading level. The latter implies class, kindness, and guts.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
She makes fixing it look easy. Curiously enough, this is also how I define maternal instinct.

What do you most value in your friends?
Laughter, loyalty, liquor. (Not necessarily in that order.)

Who are your favorite writers?
David Sedaris, Jane Austen, Harper Lee, Anne Lamott.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Atticus Finch.

Who are your heroes in real life?
People who know how to cut hair.

What are your favorite names?
Logyn calls me TT.

How would you like to die?
With my hair washed, my toenails painted, and my legs shaved. As such, there is a certain amount of grooming that must take place before I can drive on the highway, get on a airplane, or go skydiving.

What is your motto?
“I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell my daughter…when you get to a certain age, there’s no such thing as natural beauty. It all takes work. Now, go put on some lipstick.”
–Elaine, secretary and life couch

Consider it a thank you note

2010-02-18T08:23:00.000-05:00

Lap 29, off to a good start

2010-02-16T23:59:00.005-05:00

Blake: "Good morning! You want a beer?"

Terroni: "You know, if you weren't taken, I'd swear we were made for each other."

Oh the weather outside

2010-02-07T17:59:00.026-05:00

As I stared at the pile, shovel in hand, a guy walking past asked, "Are you really going to try to get that car out?"

"You remember that story about the guy who got stuck in a crevice while mountain climbing and then cut off his own arm to free himself?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"Well, my car isn't that guy." And with that, I started digging. About an hour into it, the men in my neighborhood all came out to tell me there was no way I was going to get the car moved.

I said a thing or two about how chivalry was, apparently, dead and then suggested that guys who weren't willing to help should get their asses back inside.

As they walked away, one of them said, "Man, that bitch ain't trifling." Truer words were never spoken.

Two hours later, I sent my dad a picture of my handy work with a text that said, "Iron girl digs out vehicle." Iron girls--it's what he calls his daughters when we do something especially tough. He called me back to tell me he was impressed.

After all I did to get the car out, I wasn't going to leave it on a city street to get plowed in again. I threw my shovel in the trunk, dumped some clothes in my back seat, and headed for the hospital parking garage. The pile I left in the middle of the road behind me rendered it impassable--a friendly, little suck it, bitches for the neighbor men.

On my way, I ran into one other person digging out. A woman my age, no less. As I slid past her, I rolled down my passenger window and yelled, "Keep at it, iron girl. You got this."

She pumped a fist in the air and yelled back, "I GOT this."

Blake and Evan, my knights in shining four wheel drive, rescued me from the hospital. This was especially impressive considering they started the day without a shovel. When I told my dad that, he laughed. "Let me guess, they went out yesterday to buy one."

"Well, yeah...but you can't really blame them. They're Georgia peaches for God's sake."

Blake, ever the resourceful knight, "borrowed" a shovel from one of his neighbors, dug out his truck, and came to get me. Chivalry, as it turns out, is not dead. It's just gay. I sent my dad a text with the borrowed shovel update. "Wow," he said. "The peach becomes a pirate. Strong work."

When we got back to the boys' place, the three of us cut onions until our tear ducts bled. Then, Evan, tapping into his inner Julia, made soup. Afuckingmazing French onion soup. Soup and bread and cheese and wine and soup and wine and wine and wine...

Let it snow.

Abdomen: soft, nontender, nondistended

2010-02-07T16:31:00.011-05:00

"How long have you had this abdominal pain?"

"Since October 2008."

"You've had pain just like this since 2008?"

"Yes."

"Does it keep you from eating?"

"No, not really."

"Ok, when was the last time you ate and what did you have?"

"Well, we had pot roast for dinner with mashed potatoes and carrots."

"You have anything to drink with that?"

"Uh...a couple glasses of wine."

"How many is a couple?"

"Four...ish."

"How many nights a week do you drink fourish glasses of wine?"

Meanwhile, I'm pushing on her belly with the force usually reserved for chest compressions. Distracted by the arithmetic involved in quantifying her alcoholism, she forgets to wince.

She finally settles on, "Well, you know...most."

"So, what made you decide to come here to the ER at 3 o'clock this morning with the abdominal pain you've had since 2008?"

"Well, I called my GI doctor at 2 and told him I've had about enough of this pain. He said, 'Go get yourself admitted, and I'll see you in the morning.' He's here at the hospital anyway doing scopes today, so he said it would just be easier this way. Are you going to call him?"

"Am I going to call him right now, at 3:30 in the morning?"

"Yeah."

"No. No, I am not. Mostly because I'm not sure I'd be able to resist the nearly overwhelming urge to explain to him what the E in ER stands for."

Winter storm warning

2010-02-05T10:11:00.003-05:00

It's the people stocking up on water I really don't understand.

We're going to get two feet of snow.
Worst comes to worst, you can bring that shit inside and let it melt.

A well loved woman

2010-02-01T21:56:00.002-05:00

Text from Blake: Hungry?

Me: Yes.

Blake: See you soon.

Then, Evan made the best fried chicken ever in the history of fried and chicken.

By land, by sea, by dirigible

2010-01-31T18:53:00.019-05:00

The summer after I left the Ex, I slept like a crazy person. Literally. Like a crazy person. In medical school, when I had to do admit psych patients to the state hospital, I always asked how they were sleeping. I clearly remember the way they would sometimes look at me with wild, bloodshot eyes and say, “Not so good…not so good.” I was once scolded by my attending for not asking them to tell me more about that. I didn’t ask, because I didn’t need to. When they said, Not good, I would nod knowingly, thinking, Been there, done that.

During one of the hotter summers on record, in a third story apartment without air, in a building that smelled like smoke and fish sticks, I spent months of fitful nights. And by that, I mean, my nights were full of fit. I had bad dreams so vivid I still have to remind myself some of those things didn’t actually happen to me. Every footstep in the hallway, whistling pipe, and wind whipped branch left me sitting straight up in bed, wide eyed and shaky, fully expecting to find him standing over me.

Somehow though, through all those nights of terror, an amazing dream occasionally crept in. It’s an early Summer or maybe a Fall morning in New York. A Sunday. It’s not hot, just warm enough. I’m walking from an apartment in the Village to a neighborhood coffee shop. Walking beside me is a little girl, 5 or 6 years old. She is talking a mile a minute, looking up at me every few seconds, prodding me a bit to hold up my end of the conversation. I am smiling, occasionally throwing out a, “Is that so?” As I look down at her, I am struck by two things: First, I can’t understand how anything so incredible as she is could be my life. Second, I can’t believe she’s a morning person.

We walk on. She chatters. I nod at her observations, laughing at moments when she is funny without meaning to be. Suddenly, I look up and see him walking in our direction.

He walks hand in hand with a little boy who looks just like him. On his other side is a woman, his wife. She pushes baby a stroller. They look just like normal Midwestern tourists in New York. He looks amazing. It is as if a normal, content man has somehow grown inside of his skin. And here I am, walking towards him, completely unafraid because he is so clearly just…fine. He is happy and healthy and fine. The terrifying psychotic nut job I was married to in what feels like a hundred years ago simply is not here. He has been replaced by a content, middle-aged man with the wife and kids he always wanted. In that dream, in that moment, I got a taste of what it is to feel ok. It felt like everything was just suddenly ok.

A while back, my friend John posted a story about seeing someone he was once married to years later. He said that he felt beyond. He told the story, in part, for me…as a reminder, or a hope, or a wish that I would one day feel beyond.

Recently, I found myself thinking about that story, thinking that I might never get there. I didn’t realize until I moved away just how much I still lived like I was afraid of the Ex. “Preoccupied,” Blake said. “Not that I blame you, but you’ve clearly been preoccupied with it.”

Blake was right. I didn’t realize until I physically moved away from the imminent danger just how much of it I had internalized and carried with me all the time, everywhere. It didn’t consume me or keep me up at night. It didn’t rob me of joy or even of contentment. But it was there, like a sore muscle about which I constantly, quietly told myself, “Keep moving…it’ll loosen up.”

Last week, I reconnected with an old friend on Facebook. She said, “You know, I’ve searched for you a few times on here but couldn’t find you. You must have some wicked privacy settings.” I got to thinking maybe I could lighten up those settings a skoch. I decided to search for the Ex on Facebook first. If I didn’t find him, I figured maybe that meant he was one of the four people on the planet who hasn’t yet succumb to the lameness of social networking. If so, maybe I would feel a little better about being a bit more Facebook public.

And that is how I learned that the ex just got remarried. He got married, and in the photo he posted online, he looks ok.

I cannot describe how I felt in that moment, except to say that it is probably something akin to the way you feel when someone asks you how you are and you honestly answer, “Fine.”

I was overwhelmed with fine.

I danced (don’t picture this part, it’s not pretty) around my apartment to The Decemberists’ Sons and Daughters which happened to be playing on my iPod at the time. Days later, during unseasonably warm weather, in a torrential downpour, I had an amazing run through my neighborhood fueled by the same song.

I’m putting some space between myself and preoccupied...and for the first time, I can see beyond in the distance.

27 years ago today...

2010-01-15T21:33:00.009-05:00

Graci showed up.
And the party was suddenly so much better.

Happy birthday, friend.

Love, T

Since the last time I said that... one year ago today...

You became Graci, MD. (Granted, you have chosen a specialty that will never really provide you with cause to write that on a prescription pad, but still...it looks sorta sexy when you scrawl it on the bar receipt, doesn't it?)

You matched into your first choice residency program. An ivy league program, no less. (Which almost makes up for the fact that your local airport is a freaking Twilight Zone shit hole that flies people into town but then can somehow never figure out how to fly them back out.)

Since starting said residency program, you've only lost one testicle. (And to be fair, it's not like he was still using the thing.)

You became an aunt. (There is absolutely nothing humorous to say here. That baby is so cute, it's not even funny.)

You spent a Sunday morning strolling through Central Park with a friend. (Your friend felt like the luckiest woman in all of New York that day.)

Speaking of starting that residency program, in order to do so, you moved far away from home. (So far, your mother has survived that move.)

You have not just survived the move. You have thrived. I know this has not been an easy year, but you have handled it all with such incredible grace. When I called tonight, you sounded amazing. You were having real beer instead of one of those stupid girlie drinks! You were laughing with new friends. You were totally sucking at Fussball...but yelling, "Shut up, it's my birthday!" seemed to be earning you the points your abysmal eye-beer-hand coordination could not.

Happy birthday, Graci.
I couldn't be more proud to be your bif.

Love, T

What I meant when I said

2010-01-12T23:09:00.024-05:00

First of all, I just want to say that Anonymous' comment on that last post cracked me up (entirely without meaning to, I suspect). I can't help but agree with you—my blogging has much improved, with that particular post showcasing the height of raw my talent in both the creative and original categories. In all seriousness, thank you for the compliment. (And if you were just being facetious, I appreciate that as well and thank you for the laugh.)

When the rest of the world eventually realizes what Anonymous already has (he or she is a truly ahead of his or her time) and I win that Nobel prize for blogging, may I suggest that you shop for my gifts in Anthropologie's kitchen section? You really can't go wrong with these. Or anything with a bird on it. Trust me. I spent two hours there today talking myself out of buying everything with a bird on it.

Anyway, what did I come here for again? Oh yes, that's right. I was supposed to talk about just how hot "really hot" really is. First of all, I wasn't actually trying to be elusive when I posted that as the totality of my date update. Honestly, the guy is cute and...the end.

He's really just cute. And that's really just enough. I don't have the time or emotional energy to invest in dating someone who's much more. In this case, I throw on a little eyeliner, and I've pretty much done all I need to rise to the occasion.

And again, you ask, "How cute?"

Well, when he came to pick me up last week, I thought, "You look sort of like that guy who's married to Buffy the vampire slayer. What's his name? Something sort of absurd...oh yes, Freddie Prince, Jr. You look like Freddie Prince, Jr. Except, you have better hair."

I suppose the next obvious question is, "When are you and Freddie going out again?" Well, that was supposed to be tonight. We were actually on the phone deciding on a movie just before 6 when his pager went off. Damn those traumas. He just called to say he was finally done for the night. He said he was disappointed about missing our movie but that he had a hell of a lot of fun in that big, bloody case. I don't blame him. I would have enjoyed it, too.

We now have tentative plans to get together on Friday. He was hoping for Saturday, but I already have a date with a cute boy on Saturday. Isn't that right, Evan? (He's the taller one on the left.)

Blake is on call on Saturday night, and well...the other half of that piano bench isn't going to fill itself now, is it? Evan's going to make French food and cocktails. Then, we're going to sit on that bench while he does Virginia Woolf doing I Dreamed a Dream. That's probably really only funny if you have known Evan, read Virginia Woolf, seen The Hours, and loved Les Misérables. But in that case, it's really, really funny.

Although I very much appreciate all the delightful trouble you can get into with a Freddie, I'm saving my Saturday night for all the hysterical laughing you can get into with an Evan.

Finally, I think Maria may have been on to something when she said...

Mostly, everything depends on three questions:

1) Do I look forward to our talks more than the kissing?
2) If something really good or really bad happens to me, is he the one who I want to tell about it?
3) Am I comfortable dancing with him?

If you can answer yes to all three, you have yourself a possibility.

In this case, not a possibility...just a whole lot of hot.

A date update

2010-01-07T22:49:00.001-05:00

The guy was really hot.

A date

2010-01-05T17:38:00.004-05:00

I have a date tonight.

I just spent half a minute staring at that line up there.

This is not my first date ever. It's not even my first date since redeeming my singleness. But, for some reason, staring at that line up there makes me want to crawl into bed with a bottle of wine and a book and ignore my cell phone for a week.

In fact, if I didn't think that Blake would show up at my apartment, break down the door, and bitch slap me for canceling on a guy about whom he has so eloquently said, "God, I would hit that," I might just go ahead and skip it.

I'm going on the date for two reasons: First, clearly I'm afraid of Blake. Second (and I swear to God, if you tell him I said this, I'll bitch slap you into next week), he's right. The guy is hot.

New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T22:35:00.005-05:00

I’m dog sitting for Blake and Evan.

It’s 10:30, and I’m in bed—their bed—with their puppy, Rhee. I could make all sorts of snide remarks about spending New Year's snuggled up with an aging, slightly overweight, bald in patches, nearly toothless Dachshund in a bed that belongs to a couple of gay guys. But, to be honest, I’m lizard on a heat rock happy right now.

As I was walking Rhee tonight, I got a few curious looks from some girls who were running out to catch a cab. They were in short, tight dresses, 3 inch eye makeup, and 4 inch heels. I was in flannel pants, a hoodie, old clogs, and one of the boys’ baseball caps. We sized each other up. They sighed in pity. I laughed a little under my breath. You couldn’t pay either of us to trade shoes.

Been there, done that. Sometimes, I even love that. But, not tonight.

Tonight, it’s quiet. The sheets are warm. The dog is cuddly.
And this is happy new year.

Happy Birthday, Jesus

2009-12-26T14:27:00.014-05:00

Mrs. Claus stopped by my parents’ house on Christmas Eve…

And, like every other girl who’s ever gone to a party dressed as Santa’s helper, she promptly took off all her clothes…

My sister-in-law, Trish, yelled, “No, Lucy, you can’t do that here. She loves to run around naked, but if you don’t watch her, she’ll pee on the floor.”

Then, we all watched her pee on the floor.

Trish immediately commenced to apologizing profusely. My dad cut her off mid-sentence, “Honey, if I had a nickel for every time a naked baby peed on this floor…”

“But this is your new carpet,” she said.

“This carpet was specially chosen to hide all manner of naked baby stains. Don't worry about it.”

My brother, hunched over the puddle on his hands and knees, Febreze in hand, was decidedly less apologetic about the whole thing. In the middle of his scrubbing, he looked up at me and muttered, “You know what I say...better his carpet than mine.”

“This is nothing,” my sister said. “Last week Logyn was standing naked over the nativity set and she peed all over the baby Jesus.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “That nativity set? The one on top of the cedar chest?” The small glass figurines sit on top of a three foot high antique cabinet in front of my parents’ living room window.

“Yes, that nativity set. It’s the only one we have.”

“How the hell did she get up there?" I asked. "Did she climb the tree?”

“No," said my sister, rolling her eyes as if a naked baby perched atop the furniture was perfectly normal, but a naked baby climbing the Christmas tree was somehow beyond absurd. "I put her up there.”

“You took off all her clothes and then put her in the front window?”

"She had a diaper rash, so I was letting her run around naked to air out a bit. She likes to wave goodbye to Mom when she leaves for work. So, when Mom left, I stood her on the cedar chest to wave. Then she peed. Right there. All over the baby Jesus.”

“You know,” I said, “this kind of thing might go a long way towards explaining why the neighbors didn’t send a card this year.”

Together

2009-12-13T23:00:00.016-05:00

I was supposed to make dinner for Blake and Evan on Friday. At the last minute, I canceled. On my way home from work, I suddenly realized how exhausted I was from days and days of case management bullshit and no real medicine. I was completely drained. I spent the drive home thinking, Pull yourself together, T. Pick up a bottle of wine, change out of these scrubs, and start cooking. It's just a meal. Certainly, you can get through a meal.

I drove to the store, parked out front, and then and there, I lost my tenuous grip on together. I wasn't really crying so much as I was leaking from my tear ducts. I sat in that parking spot, and as the mascara dripped down my face, sent Blake a text message. I lied a little, telling him I had just gotten out of work. I didn't feel like explaining that I had actually gotten out twenty minutes earlier and had spent the time since unsuccessfully trying to pull myself together.

I apologized about dinner. He said not to worry about it, that he'd call me later.

He called me later. I didn't pick up. I was afraid that the moment I heard his voice I'd lose it again. Do you know that feeling? That feeling of being held together by such a threadbare strand that any kind word, any tenderness, any hint that this may be a safe place to fall will completely unravel you?

It was that feeling.

I took that feeling to bed. And, although I didn't exactly awake to a new day restored, refreshed, and ready to take on the world, I did feel a hell of a lot better after 15 hours of sleep.

Last night, there was bread dipped in cheese, fried meat, and chocolate--a much happier subject for a forthcoming much better post. Today, there was work. It was still a fair bit of case management bullshit--entirely too much time spent arranging home oxygen for a person who's probably never going to wear it (except maybe while she's smoking). But, there was also a bit of real medicine (nothing like a little respiratory distress to make a girl feel needed).

All's well that ends well, I suppose.

On that note, I'm headed back to bed. The threadbare strand seems to be heavily reinforced by hours of sleep. And well, as they say...physician, heal thyself.

A weekend in New York: The fourth (and final) chapter

2009-11-28T22:10:00.004-05:00

After Seasons of Love, Graci and I headed back to the hotel. It was late, and our feet had been in heels long enough.

The next morning, she and I got up early to take a walk in much more sensible shoes. We got off the train at Union Square, stopped in a coffee shop to treat our caffeine withdrawal headaches. Cups in hand, we strolled up Fifth Avenue.

We walked and talked, and before we knew it, we were at Rockefeller Center. We stopped to watch the ice skaters. Graci had the same reaction I did the first time I saw the rink, “I didn’t realize it was so small.”

I pointed out the least graceful thing on the ice—a ruddy faced girl with her legs splayed a bit too wide, knees wobbling, arms braced for a fall, feet scooting more than gliding her along. “That would be me,” I said.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” she said...and then, to clarify, “I was thinking that would be me, not that that would be you. Although, now that you’ve said it, I can sort of see that that would be you, too.”

She pointed to the most skillful skater on the rink, a young boy who deftly weaved around the ruddy faced girl. “He’s really very good,” I agreed.

“Yes,” she said, “but I think there’s something wrong with him. He has a funny shaped head.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“This is why you should have gone into Peds.”

“So we could diagnose congenital defects at Rockefeller Center?”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes a bit. We walked on. Ten blocks later, we were at the foot of Central Park. “Well,” I said, “do you want to head back, or should we walk through the park?” As if I even had to ask.

When Graci came to visit me during the month I stayed in New York, walking in the park was our favorite thing to do. In the park, it is both easy to forget that your in the middle of a city and impossible to imagine that you’re anywhere but New York. On a cool but sunny early Sunday morning, it was full of locals—young couples with strollers, older people with their grand kids, and lots and lots of dogs.

We meandered through the zoo, pausing to watch the sea lions swim a few laps. My coffee was empty and we had both walked up a bit of an appetite, so we stopped to share a bagel and refill my cup. We ate our bagel at a small, wobbly table near the coffee cart in the middle of a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds. The entertainment was provided by a woman who fed bits of muffin to her three tiny dogs who sat in a stroller across from her chair. As they opened their mouths for food, they looked like baby birds, their stroller like a nest on wheels. When actual birds hopped across the woman’s table, hoping for a snack, she hissed and batted them away. Graci and I laughed.

“The irony of this is, apparently, lost on her,” I said.

“Apparently,” said Graci. “But, you know, that’s what my mother would be if she lived here.” It’s true. She already has a Chihuahua and a miniature Jack Russell terrier. She’s really just a toy poodle and a dog stroller away from Central Park crazy.

After our bagel, we headed back to the hotel. It was that time. A weekend that has taken me entirely too long to write about was, in reality, entirely too short. I’m not going to write much about what it was like to say goodbye to Graci, except to say that it was sad. You know what sad looks like, right? If not, I’m sure a woman named Ingrid has posted a picture of it online somewhere. Google it.

I’m also not going to write much about what it was like to actually catch our bus back to Baltimore, except to say that I am not sorry for yelling at that customer service representative on the phone. That’s what you get for working for a company that sends people the wrong confirmation numbers. You get yelled at. There are better people—people who understand that it’s probably not really your fault that the numbers are wrong, who understand that yelling at you does no real good. There are these better people, but they take the train.

The ride back to Baltimore was long. And boring. And once again, we didn’t really sit with each other. Blake was in the row behind me. I spent half the trip twisted around in my seat, talking to him. I told him one or two things about myself I probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been so tired. He said all the right things in return. When I turned back around after our conversation, I had to swallow hard to keep from tearing up.

I never see friendship coming. It always sneaks up on me. It somehow both knocks the wind out of me out, and then catches me...just as I’m sure I’m going to fall off my skates.

A weekend in New York: Chapter three

2009-11-28T20:35:00.013-05:00

As we settled into our seats, just before they lowered the lights, I texted my friend Josie…

At Wicked with some friends who were dying to see it. My first Broadway show without you…it won’t be the same.

Josie took me to my first show, Hairspray, six years ago. We drove to New York from Ohio, arriving just a few hours before the show started. We didn’t have tickets. Josie never has tickets ahead of time. She doesn't need them. We walked up to the box office. She said, “I need your two best seats.” The man behind the glass mentioned something about row Y. She said, “No, no…you misunderstood. I need your best seats.”

In the end, we sat in the sixth row in the center. I’ve seen several musicals with her since—Aida, Rent, Wicked. We’ve never had tickets ahead of time. When you’re with Josie, you don’t need them.

The first time I saw Wicked, it was from the very first row. These seats are not actually considered the best in the house, but, until just recently, they were my favorites. Wicked was sold out, but the seats in the first row were raffled off a few hours before the show. When we stood in line for the raffle, Josie said, rather matter-of-factly, "I'm going to win two tickets for tonight, and then we'll go shopping and get a bite to eat before the show starts." At this point, I had known her long enough that I would have been surprised if we had walked away without the tickets. She is luck and magic, and while she can't seem to find a decent man (or her keys), she can, in moments like this, bend the very laws of the universe to her will.

Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth were on stage that night. Stephen Oremus was conducting. By the end of the show, I had a huge crush on Stephen. (Some well-meaning reader is headed to the comments section now to tell me that I’m probably not really his type. Thank you, well-meaning reader.) I loved those front row seats because I loved being so close to the orchestra. There was something about seeing them play. I remember staring at the sheet music on the piano below, part of me wishing I could sit right there, on that bench.

This time, I sat in between Evan and Graci. It is a new favorite seat. Watching these two watch a musical is a joy in and of itself. At the end Defying Gravity, the lights came up for the intermission and revealed Evan, crying. Because, as he said, "It was just so beautiful." That is, in fact, how I would describe Evan: Here is a man who cries when it is just so beautiful. Graci was choking back tears of her own.

Blake looked at Evan, laughed, and said, “I knew it! I knew you were crying! I thought, when the lights come up, he’s going to be crying.” I could say something like…and that is, in fact, how I would describe Blake: Here is a man who laughs at other men when they cry. But, to be fair, he doesn't laugh at all crying men, just the one he's in love with. He’s not completely insensitive, just mostly.

At the end of For Good, Mr. Mostly Insensitive was the only one of the four of us with dry eyes. It was then that we diagnosed his condition—congenital absence of tear ducts. He didn’t choose this dry lifestyle. He was born like this. He can’t help it.

After the show, we made our way to the West Village. In the planning of this weekend, Evan found Marie’s Crisis, a bar where everyone stands around a piano in a space the size of your bathroom and sings show tunes all night. This is, perhaps, where the case for planning can be made. Sometimes, through some online research done ahead of time, you find something great. You make plans to go there. Then you go, and it’s great, and you can say, “Hey, that was great. I’m glad we planned it.”

I imagine that’s what Blake and Evan say about all 800 of those pictures from Europe. I’d ask, but then I’d be subjecting myself to 800 stories in which I play not even a supporting role. Who has the patience for that? I'm kidding, of course. I'm very interested in what their lives were like before they knew me. (Just not 800 stories interested.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Marie’s Crisis. It looked exactly like this…

Exactly. We stood in that very spot and sang along as that very person, a guy named Dexter, played that very piano. (Thank you, woman named Ingrid, for posting the above photo online.)

Dexter was playing a lot of fabulous stuff—Chicago when we first got there, Mary Poppins (which sounds lame but is really sort of surprisingly fun to sing in a large, drunk group), Hair, Little Shop of Horrors—but no Rent.

At some point, Blake leaned over to me and said, “You should yell Rent in your lesbian voice.” I don’t really have the space here to fully explain that lesbian bit, except to say that I’m not actually a lesbian. I just look butch compared to all those Georgia peaches Blake is used to. I mean, I do listen to a little Indigo Girls, recycle, donate to the HRC, and get annoyed at people who don’t know the difference between a Flathead and a Phillips screwdriver. But still, I’m a cultural lesbian, at best.

There was a lull in the music. A boy chirped, “Guys and Dolls.” I bellowed, “RENT.” Someone behind me said, “Well...the bulldyke has spoken.” And Dexter started Seasons of Love. Exactly what I was hoping for when, in my butchest voice, I politely made the request. Evan was sitting right next to the piano. This song is one of his best. He taps into his inner Black woman and does Joanne’s solo, complete with high note. It is magnificent.

And it was magnificent.

A weekend in New York: Chapter two

2009-11-22T23:22:00.050-05:00

When we got into the city, the first thing we did was get lost...just to get that out of the way. We climbed out of the subway, from which you could nearly spit on our hotel, and, at my instruction, walked in the opposite direction for two blocks. It would be nice to say that I then realized we were going the wrong way, turned us around, and steered us back to the hotel; but I think that might have actually been someone else. (When you’re trying to choose a partner for the Amazing Race, and you find you’ve narrowed it down to Terroni and Blake, alphabetize your list and pick the one on top.)

Graci was waiting for us in the hotel lobby. When I saw her, I resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to squeal like a girl. She gave me a hug, resisting her nearly overwhelming urge to squeeze me like a frog. We checked into our rooms—boys in one, girls in the other—like church camp. When we got into our room, Graci did, in fact, squeeze me like a frog. I would have squealed like a girl, but I couldn’t move air past my vocal cords.

After dropping our bags, we all headed out to find a snack. Blake pulled out his iPhone to look for somewhere to eat. Five minutes later, we were standing in front of a Chipotle.

“Did you tell them I wanted to come here?” Graci asked.

“No,” I said. "This was fate."

We ate and then meandered to Ground Zero where we saw a construction site, some cranes, and a large group of Amish tourists who looked sort of like they’d rather be back in Amish Country. Interesting, because the last time I toured Amish Country, I looked sort of like I'd rather be at a construction site.

We went back to the hotel, got dressed for the evening, and headed out for drinks, dinner, and the show. We started with beers at a pub in Greenwich Village. I don’t remember where we were, what everyone drank, or what the hell we talked about. I just remember that we laughed. A lot. When I am an old woman and can't remember anything we actually do together, I will simply think of these three as the people who make me laugh until my stomach hurts.

After drinks, we walked a few blocks to Lupa for dinner. Now, when Evan and Graci tell you this story, they’ll say that, as he told us about the specials, Blake and I, our mouths watering, looked as though we might just eat the waiter.

Evan and Graci are lying bitches.

Interestingly enough, the waiter didn’t feel the same way about me and Blake as we (allegedly) felt about him. He felt that way about (and all over) Evan instead.

During dinner, Evan's metro card fell out of his pocket. The waiter spotted it on the floor and returned it to his lap. He was an amateur cartographer. Evan's lap was uncharted territory. Since he was there anyway, returning the card, he meandered a bit to survey the landscape.

When he dropped off the check later, he apologized, “I’m sorry about that earlier. I didn’t know if you just dropped your card, or if you were maybe…”

Evan cut him off there, “That’s okay. Thanks for picking up the card.”

“What was that about?” I asked.

“He felt me up earlier.”

“He what?” I said.

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve dropped shit out of my pockets, my purse, my bag, my backpack, I’d be able to pay off my med school debt. You could trace my very steps with the trail of personal belongings I am constantly leaving behind. And still, not once has someone taken this as an invitation to grope me. Hell, I had a boob fall out of my bra once and no one tried to cop a feel.

There’s something about Evan, though. He’s five feet, eight inches, one hundred and fifteen pounds of pure gorgeous, and people just can’t keep their hands off him. Even I have grabbed his ass and, maybe once, rubbed his chest a little bit. Me, the epitome of self restraint, unwittingly drawn in by his animal magnetism. It's hard to believe, I know. But, like I said...there's just something about him.

We left the restaurant around 7:30 pm and caught a train uptown. We weren’t in any great hurry because we knew the musical started at 8:30. By we, I mean everyone but Graci. She kept whispering, “Are you sure it’s 8:30? Because I really think it starts at 8:00. I think that if we don’t run, we’re going to miss this show.” Evan had the tickets in his pocket. In order to placate her, I finally asked him to check the time on them again.

It was then that we began the running.

Evan was on my left. Blake was out ahead of us, looking for all the world like an Olympic speed walker. I turned to my right to say something to Graci, something like, "I always wondered what he might look like if his ass were on fire. Now I know.” When she wasn’t there, I spun around, fully expecting to find her a few steps back, cursing her short legs.

There was a sea of people behind me. But no Graci.

“Oh my God,” I said to Evan. “Where the fuck is she?”

She doesn’t walk as fast as I do, and I assumed she just couldn’t keep up. “Go on ahead,” I told him. “I’m going to find her and we’ll see you there.” He ran to catch up with Blake. I stood on the curb and watched the crowd walk by, scanning the faces for her. Still, no Graci. I started to walk back towards the subway stop. With each step, I got a bit more panicked. Suddenly, missing the show was the least of my concerns.

Just as I'd convinced myself that she had been stolen and sold for parts, my phone ran. It was her. “Where the fuck are you?” I yelled. Because nothing says, I'm glad you're okay, quite like screaming obscenities.

“I’m up here with Blake,” she said, nonchalantly. “Where are you?”

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll see you at the theater.”

I’d like to take a moment here to apologize to what I’m sure was a very nice man from Kansas who I may have, shall we say, jostled out of my way at the corner of 43rd and 7th. The thing is, running through Times Square at 7:53 on a rainy Saturday night in high heels is a take no prisoners kind of sport, and that was just not the best place for you to stop and pull out your map.

A few blocks later, I called Evan to ask where they were and figure out how far I had to go to catch up. As it turned out, they were on the other side of the street. Two blocks behind me. “How the hell did you end up in front of us?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “you guys ran around people. I ran over them.”

In the end, we all made it to the theater on time. Three of us looked like theater goers. One of us looked like she’d just sprinted ten blocks in the rain and side tackled a grown man to the ground.

A weekend in New York: Chapter one

2009-11-19T20:33:00.006-05:00

When Blake and Evan started talking about going to see Wicked, I sort of thought it was just one of those things—one of those things you talk about doing but never actually get around to. I did hope to be back in New York this year. It’s centrally located between here and New Haven. I figured that Graci and I would meet there when we could find a weekend off and a reasonable deal on a hotel. She and I would stay a few days, walk around the city, drink coffee, chat, drink beer, chat some more, hang out...like we do. I thought that would be the extent of it.

When Blake and Evan mentioned Wicked, I was all over it. “We should do that!” I said. “I love that show, and Graci has always wanted to see it, too. She’ll have to come down for the weekend.” Then, before I knew what was happening, we were really doing it.

I’m going to have to make a note of this bizarre actually doing the things you say you’re going to do phenomenon on the off chance that they someday suggest, say, robbing a bank. Or worse, camping. I tend to reflexively agree with nebulous plans, confident that I’ll never actually have to break any federal laws or sleep on the ground. Not with these two, though. These two really do the stuff they talk about doing. Like I said…it’s completely bizarre.

Not only do they do these things. They plan them. Evan texted me last week, days (days, I tell you) before we would actually be consuming the meal, to ask where we were going to eat on Saturday night. “Do we need reservations?” he wanted to know.

I called Graci. “Well, shit,” I said. “They want to plan the weekend. The whole weekend. Planned. Evan asked me today where we were going to eat. I was thinking, uh, I don't know. Somewhere that serves food close to wherever we happen to be when we’re hungry.

You know, when they went to Europe, they did stuff. They did Europe. They planned it, and then they did it. I’ve seen the pictures. They’re doing things in all 800 of them. Do you know what we would do if we went to Europe?”

“We’d walk around Europe,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Yes. We’d walk around Europe. We’d show up, drop our bags at the hotel, and then we’d go walk around Europe. I mean, when we go to Florida, we basically do nothing for three weeks straight. We go nowhere. We see no one. We do nothing.”

“We walk around the beach,” she offered.

“That’s all we do. We walk around Florida.”

“Yeah,” she said, wistfully. “I love that. But back to dinner…can we go to Chipotle?”

“Um, I’m pretty sure that when Evan asked if I’d made reservations yet, he didn’t mean, ‘Do you think we can get a table at Chipotle?’”

“But I love Chipotle. And we still don’t have one in New Haven. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a burrito bowl?” she asked, with more than a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Listen, you and I can go to Chipotle on Sunday before we leave. Saturday night, though, I think we’re going to have to eat at a real restaurant. Somewhere they take reservations, perhaps.”

She sighed. “Alright…as long as at some point during this weekend we can get a burrito bowl.”

“Deal,” I said.

I got off the phone, shook my head, and laughed. They wanted me to find a place with a nice wine list. She wanted to eat at a Mexican fast food chain. I probably should have been a little worried, but something about that amused me.

On Saturday morning, I met the boys at their apartment and we headed for the train station. At the train station, we caught a bus to New York. (And you thought we’d be taking a train, didn’t you? Yes, well, in hindsight, they may have been a better plan.)

The Bolt Bus runs in between Baltimore and New York. The word Bolt and the accompanying streak of lightning painted on the side seemed to imply that this trip would be happening with some speed. The implication is there because, well, have you ever seen slow lightning?

I have, actually. It is painted on the side of a bus that runs in between Baltimore and New York. This particular bolt of not-so-greased lightning arrived a half hour late and then sat on the side of the road for another twenty minutes while the driver mounted his soapbox and delivered an impassioned speech on the annoyance of cell phones—a speech I missed, for the most part, as I was busy, checking my voicemail.

Blake, Evan, and I were some of the last to board the bus. We looked for three seats reasonably close to each other and found them in the back. Blake and I ended up in aisle seats across from one another. Evan was behind us on the end of row of three, the last row on the bus. He had a couple of young marrieds on his left—a guy with longer legs than any single bus seat could contain and some lovable little idiot he called his wife. On Evan’s right was the door to the bathroom. Whenever someone opened it, he had to crawl into the leggy guy’s lap to avoid being smacked in the forehead with the door.

Blake had a somewhat similar experience in that the girl next to him spent three hours trying to crawl into his lap, just because she thought that might be a nice place to sit.

Thus began a series of frantic texts messages that went like this…
She’s touching me.
She’s touching me A LOT.
She won’t stop.

I tried to comfort him by saying things like…
What can I say, man?
You’re a handsome fella.
She wants you.
She wants you bad.

He threw up in his mouth a little.
I resolved to quit bitching about how much I pay for my texting plan as this made it worth every penny.

I was sitting next to a perfectly lovely, well-groomed woman in her 30s. She stayed in her own space and was not at all fidgety. Unfortunately, she clearly wanted to chat a bit. This necessitated a change in seat assignments.

She was grading papers. Evan is a teacher. They had something in common. Plus, he’s sweet and charming. He wouldn’t mind making small talk. It was a match made in bus trip heaven. She looked a me a little funny when I turned around and motioned for him to trade me seats. I wanted to say, “Trust me, lady, I’m doing this for you. You’re going to love this guy. I love this guy, and I don’t even really like most people.”

In truth, of course, I was doing it for me. The nagging guilt from blatantly ignoring her obvious need to chit chat was gnawing at me and keeping me from fully enjoying my book. And, given the choice between making small talk with a stranger and being smacked in the forehead repeatedly with a bathroom door, I will choose the bathroom door. Every time.

Evan and I switched seats. Some guy who had consumed more Gatorade during the first half of the bus trip than my dad did during his last marathon headed my way. As he reached for the bathroom door, I scrambled into the lap of the leggy dude next to me. A baby started to fuss nearby. The leggy dude’s wife turned, gazed up at him with her big doe eyes, blinked a few times, and asked, “Why do babies cry?” He looked at me in desperation. It was look that said not, How do I explain this? but rather, Why did I marry this? I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my book.

A couple hours later, we were in New York. I had been in and out of a guy’s lap more than an industrious stripper. Evan had made a new friend. Blake had unwittingly gone to second base with the girl sitting next to him.

On that note, I think I’ll stop here for now. Blake’s not much of a reader. Before he started my blog, it was pretty much just cereal boxes and his own Facebook page. Remember when you first started reading? You didn’t dive right into Anna Karenina. No, you began with tiny chapter books. They slowly eased you, the young reader, into novels. Similarly, I think it’s best that I don’t make these posts too long, so as not to overwhelm my friend. I would hate to discourage the guy before he gains the confidence to tackle, say, a whole People magazine.

Your people will think you're dead

2009-11-13T21:28:00.007-05:00

Graci called me last night and said, "You remember when you first wrote about me in your blog? It was that one time when I told you that you had to write something or your people were going to think you were dead. Well, now they do. Have you seen those comments? They think you are dead."

And then, with her special brand of supportive encouragement, she said, quite simply, "BLOG, BITCH."

So here I am, a blogging bitch. After so much time you'd think I'd have a lot to talk about. But, as it always the case when I stay away for too long, somehow the more that happens, the less I have to say about it all.

Speaking of Graci, I'm getting ready for a little weekend trip during which I get to see her. The very thought of it makes me unbelievably excited--dance around your kitchen squealing like a girl excited--and a little bit scared. I say scared because I know how Graci hugs a person she hasn't seen in awhile. It's like handing a frog to a toddler. She'll squeeze me until my eyes bug out and I pee on myself a little. I'm looking forward to every incontinent minute of it.

In between getting ready shit (laundry, dishes, a haircut, and the like), I'm going to try to post a snippet or two--little pieces of things that have happened over the past few weeks.

And he's pretty much been ignoring me ever since

A funny thing happened on the way to Blake reading my blog...namely, a month of him not ever actually reading my blog.

On the morning of October 26th, just after I had written my I know you all think I'm one bad ass motherfucker but I'm secretly an intermittently lonely and incredibly vulnerable chick only cleverly disguised as a bad ass motherfucker post, I walked into work to get report from Blake who was working nights. He said, "I've been searching for your blog for the last hour."

I said, "What do you mean you've been searching for it...I sent you that text telling you where it was a month ago."

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"No. You didn't."

"Yes. I did."

"No. You didn't."... and on that went.

Awestruck witnesses could not help but draw comparisons between the brilliance of this riveting tete-a-tete and the famed Lincoln-Douglas debates. The former was made even more impressive by its accompanied feverish search through our cell phone text message records for proof that I had, in fact, told Blake about the blog.

"October 5th. There it is. You said, 'Evan said that I should be the sham wow guy and you should be the hooker that beat me up for Halloween.'

And then I said, 'Evan is a genius. That would actually make for a great blog post. Speaking of which...google Terroni and look for the one that's not an Italian eatery.'"

"Oh that? I didn't know what the hell you were talking about, so I just ignored that."

"Well, that will teach you to ignore me."

Stupid fucking pheromones

So, there's this guy. And something about him makes me stupid. I actually have to avoid thinking about him in detail now so that I can tell this story with a real subject followed by a verb sentence or two.

He works on Friday nights, supervising admissions in the ER. The rest of the week, he manages a primary care practice in the suburbs. He and I met for the first time months ago. It was a simple, straightforward case. Diverticulitis. The physical exam revealed left lower quadrant abdominal pain in a post-menopausal slightly overweight woman who probably hasn't eaten any real fiber since 1984. The patient said, "My primary care doctor said that I probably have diverticulitis." The CT scan reading said, Hey Terroni, your patient has diverticulitis.

Simple. Straightforward. A high school kid with access to Google and a Grey's Anatomy rerun could have treated this patient.

I walked out of the room and headed for a computer to enter my admission orders.

Then, he walked in.

I don't know what it is about him. He's cute, but not empirically beautiful. It's not like when he walks into a room 90% of the women and 10% of the men swoon. But, there's something there...a pheromone thing, perhaps?

He said, "Do you want to go over this admission?"

"Uh, sure," I said. So far, so good. Notice how I don't yet sound like someone who's recently suffered a closed head injury.

"So, what do you think is going on here?"

And this is where it all falls apart. "Uh...I don't know."

"Ok. Did you see the patient?"

"Yeah..."

"And, did you see the CT results?"

"Uh huh, I saw those."

"Ok...so do you have any ideas about what might be going on here?"

I was thinking, I know what I wish was going on here, and holy shit, lips that beautiful should not be allowed to be worn out in public. I stared at him. Studied him like he was a fucking piece of art.

He finally gave up on getting anything even semi-intelligent out of me and, a little deflated by his failed attempt at teaching, said, "Have you considered the possibility that she might have diverticulitis?"

"Uh...yeah," I said. "Sounds good."

We then painstakingly went through the patient's plan. A plan I had already written down but now could not articulate (or flip over my H&P form and simply read aloud) for the life of me.

Stupid fucking pheromones.

Fast forward several months to two weeks ago...

I was on call on Friday night and a had another simple, straightforward admission. I walked into the room, and there he was with the patient. I excused myself, pretending I had to answer a page. When he was done talking to the patient, I went in the room to do my history and physical.

A few minutes later, I headed back out with a simple, straightforward plan...and ran right into him. He was standing outside, waiting for me. We walked over to a tall counter next to some computers. He leaned on the counter and, as he did, bumped his head on a small overhead light. He laughed a little, looked at me, and said, "So...what do you want to do?"

I want to climb up you and lick your lips, I thought. That's what I want to do.

But a voice in my head screamed, "For the first time in your life, T, for the love of God, try not to say what you're thinking."

I stood there.
Silent.

He smiled and repeated himself, saying, "Tell me what you want to do."

At this point, I actually got a little annoyed.
Seriously, I thought, would it kill you to rephrase that question? How can anyone focus on a patient when you're walking around the ER with those lips saying things like that? Good lord, give it a rest already.

We eventually got through the admission. When he walked away, one of the other interns looked at me and said, "What the hell was that?" She had been sitting at a nearby computer, watching the whole thing.

"Shut up," I said, "it's not my fault. Stupid fucking pheromones."

She laughed.
She's been laughing at me for two weeks since.

7:11 am

2009-10-26T05:16:00.001-04:00

Are you dead?
What's wrong?
I'm gonna call you in a minute...

That's the text message you get from Blake when you've overslept.

Then, as promised, he calls you in a minute. When you answer, he blurts out, "Ok. So you're not dead. What's wrong? Why aren't you at work?"

The first part is my favorite.

Ok. So you're not dead.

I like this for two reasons. First, it's good to establish that fact--the fact of you being not dead--early in the day. Second, it's nice to be reminded there are people who'd be a little panicked if you were.

I'm simply saying, if it weren't for that terribly jarring hour and a half late to work bit, this wouldn't be a bad way to start every day.

The best friend

2009-10-25T20:51:00.011-04:00

Well, shit.
I really didn't intend to be away for so long.
It's always the same lame excuse here...I've been at work.
So there's that.

I've also been lonely lately. There's nothing that feels more pathetic than writing about loneliness, and loneliness feels pathetic enough all on its own. So there's also that.

It hit me last weekend like it does occasionally--completely out of the blue. Like being punched in the stomach, it literally knocked the wind out of me.

I was on call overnight. It was 4 am, and for the first time in eight hours, none of the four pagers were going off. I was lying on the bottom bunk in the call room. Patty Griffin was playing on my laptop. The room was dark.

All of the sudden, there it was.

I have been alone for awhile now, but I don't usually feel it like that. It's always there. But in that moment, it was the only thing there. It suddenly felt like I was drowning in it.

I sent Graci a text message. I miss you. As I sent it, I thought, she won't even see this for hours. But then, I wasn't at all surprised when my phone rang a minute later. As utterly lame as this sounds, I know no other way to describe it except to say, my head thought she wouldn't call and my heart knew she would.

"You're sad and lonely, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, "how'd you know?"

"Well, you're texting me at four in the morning. It was a pretty safe bet."

I laughed at my own transparency.

We talked about my night on call. I told her a story that made her laugh. (I'd share it here, but it's entirely too twisted to make you laugh. If you only knew the things my friend and I find funny...) Making her laugh somehow made it all okay. Alone was still there, but it wasn't the only thing there. It hasn't been back with such a vengeance since.

I just got off the phone with her again. She became an aunt for the first time this week. She's driving home from the airport tonight, tired after a quick trip home to love on a very lucky baby.

She'll be back there in no time, rocking that lucky little boy to sleep, reading Seuss...

The news just came in
From the County of Keck
That a very small bug
By the name of Van Vleck
Is yawning so wide
You can look down his neck.

This may not seem
Very important, I know.
But it is.
So I'm bothering
Telling you so.

Saturday morning

2009-10-10T08:12:00.009-04:00

Working nights has completely fucked up my sleep schedule. I realize that language may seem a bit strong, but I assure you it is the only accurate description for what has happened to my circadian rhythms.

I fell asleep at about eleven o'clock last night in a chair in Blake and Evan's living room. I awoke an hour later to find Evan asleep on the couch a few feet away. He had a snoring old Dachshund curled up next to him, her nose tucked in his armpit. I got up, kissed them both on the head, and padded down the hall to the spare room.

I am not generally a physically affectionate person...unless you're asleep. (That sounds creepy, doesn't it?) Growing up, I shared a room with my younger sisters; and every night, before I went to bed, I would kiss their sleeping foreheads. (It was occasionally a bit creepy, but only because my youngest sister tended to sleep with one eye open and I had to close that freaky thing before I could kiss her.)

Last night, without thinking a thing of it, I reflexively kissed Evan and the dog the same way I used to kiss my sisters. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized what I had just done and laughed at myself a bit. I have noticed that the older I get, the more I treat my friends as though they're family. When I am too tired to think about it, I become, by default I suppose, everyone's older sister.

I woke up this morning at 4 am and have been up ever since. (See what I mean? Completely fucked up.) Around six, I heard Blake's footsteps in the bathroom above me and figured I might as well get out of bed and make some coffee. It seemed the least I could do for the poor guy who has to work this weekend.

Blake and Evan's apartment has huge, high, east facing windows. As I was waiting for the coffee to finish percolating, I noticed the morning light sneaking through the mini blinds. They were begging to be opened. I acquiesced and found a reason to stop bemoaning my broken circadian rhythms.

Through sheets of purple clouds, the sun was casting a hazy, yellow light over the city. Old industrial plants, train tracks, the still quiet, mostly empty overpass - held in this light, it all suddenly looked...amazing.

Ahh... I thought, so this is what you miss when you're sleeping in.

Some assembly required

2009-10-08T03:01:00.009-04:00

I came home from vacation, stepped through my front door, and was struck by two, well...striking realizations. It's time to get a boyfriend. And move the couch. Not necessarily in that order. Although, in hindsight, perhaps I should have paid a bit more attention to the order. Then, the boyfriend could have moved the couch.

I rearranged the furniture and then went to Ikea to buy a rocking chair and a lamp. That's the danger in moving a couch—you may discover a huge empty spot in your living room that now cries out for a rocking chair and a lamp. While I was out, I considered picking up a boyfriend as well, but then thought better of it. Everything from Ikea has to be assembled, and the assembly is always a disaster. It all comes with these instructions drawn out in cartoons of a doughy bald man building furniture. You look at them and think, piece of cake. You don't even have to be literate to do this. In fact, literacy would unnecessarily complicate such a straightforward task. Surely that's why Ikea has chosen, in its infinite Swedish wisdom, to leave these directions unencumbered by the written word.

Twenty minutes later, you find yourself staring in disbelief at that doughy bald cartoon man, telling yourself, "This simply cannot be this hard. I mean look at that neckless moron in the picture. He got the chair put together, and he doesn't even have thumbs." And then you swear at that smug thumbless son of a bitch.

This rocker was actually a bit more difficult than my previous Swedish masterpieces because one of the sides didn't have the appropriate screw holes. This necessitated a return trip to Ikea for a replacement part. It was there, in line at the return and exchange department that I met the angriest people on the planet. These are people who have spent hours, sometimes days, yelling things like, "Who the fuck are you smiling at, asshole?" at the neckless cartoon man standing next to the kitchen cabinetry he just assembled in four steps. Without thumbs. With their own hands cramped into claws from the hours spent trying to rebuild Rome with an Allen wrench, they stood cultivating their growing rage at the Swedish furniture purveyor.

Next to the line there was a large sign--a drawing of several clocks with hours colored in green, yellow, and red explaining the best times to visit each day to avoid crowds. Basically, it's a sign next to the line explaining that if you had planned your trip better, you wouldn't be stuck in this damn line reading that sign. For example, if you took time off work to, say, visit Ikea at 10 am on a Tuesday, there would hardly be a line at all. The man behind me studied the sign, looked at the line, and then said, under his breath, "Fuck this place."

I finally got the piece I needed and, since I was there anyway, decided I'd pick up a few tea lights. I left with a few hundred. The other night, when I lit them all on my mantel, it looked like I was shooting a fucking music video in my living room—like at any moment, Celine might waltz through the front door to belt out Power of Love.

I will say, though, that the living room has been completely transformed by moving the couch, buying a rocker, and starting a few hundred tiny fires. In fact, I feel so much better having rearranged the furniture, I'm not even sure I'm going to need that boyfriend. It's just as well, because, like I said, I left Ikea without one. I didn't even look to see if they stock those. Although, I assume they do. You can buy everything from throw pillows to meatballs there. It only follows that you can probably pick up a flat packed, easy to assemble Swedish dude for like, two hundred bucks. Tops.

Like I said, I considered it, but then remembered that I'd have to actually put him together. With an Allen wrench. Frankly, two hours spent fighting with new boyfriend parts while swearing at a neckless cartoon moron only to end up with some poor Swedish guy with one leg just a little shorter than the other and the gnawing feeling that he might have been a bit better in bed if I had just splurged and gotten him from Pottery Barn... Well, that just didn't seem like the best way to start a relationship.

Because I said so

2009-10-05T17:00:00.007-04:00

Blake wants to read the blog. I mentioned that I wrote about the impound incident. When I said that, I didn't really expect him to want to read what I'd written. I suppose it's only natural, though, to be a bit curious about how chunks of your own life might be playing out on the internet. But, it's been so long since someone asked to read this thing, I was completely caught of guard.

My mother asked to read it once, about a year ago. I said no. She asked why not. "Because I said so," I told her, smiling as I watched one of her favorite parenting lines come back to bite her in the ass. I reassured her that I write about her with obvious affection and suggested that she continue to be nice to me, so that I might continue to do so.

It's true. I've never written anything here about my family that they shouldn't read. I've never really written anything about myself they shouldn't see, either. I keep the sordid details of my hot, hot sex life, my psychotic tendencies, my bizarre neuroses, and my weird crush on Jackson Browne off the internet. For the most part.

And, if you've read this mindless dribble for any length of time, you know I really don't have much to say. But, once in a while, I have one of those days. It is on those days that I most love this little pile of mindless dribble.

There is something about writing to strangers, people who you don't have to see at work later that day, people who can't just call to check in—something about that just works for me.

There is nothing like the friends and family I have out here, in real life—people who see and hear and touch me, who read my body language and the tone in my voice, who (sometimes) know when my I'm fine is complete and utter bullshit.

But, there's also something about this, about all of you, way out there, in the distance, that (sometimes) lets me say, I'm not so fine. I am, at my core, a complete and utter chicken shit. Even on the best days, when I'm just telling a funny story, writing is inherently a bit vulnerable. You put it out there and then it's just, well...out there. It's easier to do that when no one knows it's you doing that.

Therein lies the problem with real life people reading this. Or maybe not. After all, Graci reads it, and that's actually sort of been a great thing. She seems to understand what this is for me. She knows that if I say something here that I haven't told her already, it's something I don't mind her knowing, but probably don't want to discuss.

Speaking of Graci, have I mentioned just how stinking much I miss that girl? So stinking much. And do you know what I really miss? There's just no way to say this without it sounding like the cheesiest, sappiest shit ever, so I'm just going to blurt it out...I miss the hugs. That's right. I miss the fucking hugs.

Graci used to give me a hug every day. She's a hugger. Me, not so much. If you lived with her, though, she'd hug you every day, too. Even if you had morning breath, or a communicable disease, or just finished ironing your shirt, she'd hug you. She doesn't care. She also doesn't ask, "Do you want a hug?" First, she knows that I would always say, "Nah, I'm good." And second, that's not really the point.

Graci doesn't hug you because you want a hug, or need a hug, or even because you might secretly like hugs. Graci hugs you because she loves you. It's part of the deal. Because she loves without reservation—every day, even when you have morning breath, or a communicable disease, or are entirely too invested in stupid shit like your shirt, she hugs you that way.

And I miss it.

I'm also missing my train of thought. Where was I? Oh yes...the blog. Graci doesn't read this and then ask, "What's wrong? Are you okay? Are you sure you're okay? Really? Because you didn't sound okay." (Thank God, as that would be a reason to quit writing...and start strangling). She gets me. She knows I'm claustrophobic, that I sometimes need a safe distance. She respected that even when we lived in the same small apartment. I wrote a post on one end of the couch. She read it on the other.

When I told my mother, "No...because I said so," what I meant was, "You will not be able to respect that. You'll try, but you won't be able to help yourself. You'll be reading between the lines and calling to ask, Are you okay? Are you sure you're okay... and then I'll have to start strangling. You. I'll have to strangle you. "

Graci also never reads this and then says, "Uh...you know, that wasn't that great. Not so funny." Pointing out the (not so) occasional typo is where her editing starts and stops. Again, she gets me. She knows that this is all just stuff in the rough and that I generally don't have it in me to graciously accept constructive criticism here. Besides, brutal honesty isn't really her style. Instead, she just tells me to keep writing. Even when the writing sucks.

Now we have Blake, who I write about with obvious affection but have, so far, told, "No...because I said so." By that I meant, "Dude, we haven't known each other that long and, occasionally, there's something here that I wouldn't just tell someone I haven't known for that long. I save that shit for people I don't know at all." And also, "We pick on each other, sometimes mercilessly, and I can't be mercilessly picked on for what I write here. I just don't have it in me."

This morning, however, he showed up with coffee. I worked all night, and he brought me coffee. Something about that (something he laced the coffee with, no doubt) made me think maybe he could read the blog.

Hopefully, he won't read it as some sort of request to start hugging me. It's really just an attempt to get more coffee.

Three plots

2009-09-28T14:07:00.011-04:00

The conversation started when my sister opened my grandma’s freezer.

“Holy shhi…uh, crap, Grandma, that’s a lot of ham. Who died?”

“No one yet. But we have one who’s going to be going pretty soon. The ACME just happened to have ham on sale last week, so I’m stocking up.”

Grandma, The Head Deaconess, is in charge of her church’s funeral dinners. It’s the perfect job for her as it makes use of all of her talents: buying food on sale, overcooking it, bossing around everyone who’s not The Head Deaconess, and standing around the church kitchen to talk about which brazen hussy mourner’s skirt is entirely too short for a funeral.

“How do you know when someone’s on their way out?” my sister asked.

“Honey, that’s what the prayer chain’s for. Well, that and prayer, of course. Speaking of ham, that reminds me of your Uncle Tom.”

Everything reminds her of our Uncle Tom. There’s something about a 45 year old man who has never married, who still has the used furniture he bought in college, who replaces his toothbrush annually when his mom puts a new one in his stocking, who makes a couple million a year but has his parents drive an hour to pick him up from the airport at Christmas because he doesn’t want to spend money on a rental car…there’s something about him that makes Grandma think, “You know what would make this really nice? If Tommy were here.” (Actual words uttered on a warm, sunny day as she sat in a lounge chair on a deck overlooking the ocean during a vacation purchased for her by my mother.)

She went on to explain to my mom why the funeral ham reminded her of her golden child…

“You know how your father and I have those two plots out at Rosemont cemetery.”

“Yes, I remember when you bought them from those guys who had little silver shovels on their tie clips.”

I couldn’t help but interrupt, “You bought burial plots from men wearing shovels?”

“I always thought that was a pretty tacky,” said my mom.

Grandma ignored our little side conversation and continued, “Well, you know how your dad has never really like Rosemont.”

“I did not know that,” my mom said, cocking her head to the side and nodding a bit, as if this was a fascinating thing to learn about her own father.

“Well, he’s never liked it out there. And since I do the funeral dinners, he’s been asking around…you know, to see where people are being buried these days.”

“That has to be one of the best parts of attending so many funerals,” my mom said, “the opportunity to research these things.”

“It is!” said Grandma, a little excited that someone else could appreciate that. “And we’ve decided we’re going to sell those plots and go somewhere else. We were thinking of Oakwood, but they’re full. Well, except for that one spot on the corner, but that’s where all those kids walk past after school and throw their trash. If you’re going to go there, you might as well just be buried in the middle of 4th street.”

I took a break from the veggie dip to ask, “Are there spots in the middle of 4th street? Because if so, I bet you could get a deal on those.”

“Plus,” my sister added, “it probably wouldn’t be very crowded. I doubt a lot of people buy plots in the median.”

Grandma looked at us a bit quizzically, briefly considered answering that, and then decided against it.

“The same people who own Oakwood have just opened a new place out in Stow. Your dad and I have been out there and we both really like it. I think we’re going to buy three plots out there.”

Three plots.

Suddenly, we saw how this story, like all long and winding roads, would eventually lead us back to Tom.

“I was just thinking, if Tommy never gets married, I don’t want him to have to be all alone. So, we’ll just buy three plots and then he’ll have one if he wants it.”

My sister then asked the obvious question, “So Grandma, where exactly would you like us to put him? Next to Grandpa? Next to you? Or…” she asked, her eyes widening with an ingenious idea, “in between you two, maybe?”

“Oh honey,” Grandma said, “it doesn’t matter to me. Wherever is fine.”

“In that case,” my sister said, “I think we should put him in between you guys. Like a metaphor,” she added, under her breath.

Mom snorted and tried to cover it up by pretending to clear her throat. I choked on a small piece of green pepper.

“And like I said,” Grandma continued, “he doesn’t even have to use it. I mean, if he wants to be buried somewhere in Florida with his Mexican girlfriend, that’s fine too.”

But you know she didn’t really mean that.

And, assuming my mother’s children outlive Grandma's Tommy, we will someday pay a couple men with shovels on their tie clips to carve out a cozy little spot for him right in between his parents. Like a metaphor.

Because, we would hate to have her lying there for all eternity thinking, “You know what would make this really nice…”

Next time, they can keep the car

2009-09-24T23:52:00.015-04:00

The boys’ flight landed at 8:30 that night and they got home around 9. “Ok,” Blake said, “so where do we have to go to get your car?”

“Well, that’s the thing…it’s the last neighborhood in Baltimore you want to drive into at this hour with three hundred bucks in cash in your pocket.”

“Where is it?”

“West.”

“West like on The Wire west?” asked Evan.

"Um...yes.”

“Great,” said Blake, “because I was just thinking the other day that we don’t spend enough time hanging out over there after dark with pockets full of cash.”

“Plus, we’ve lived in Baltimore for months now and neither of us has been mugged,” I added. “It seems like as good a time as any to get that out of the way.”

“I do feel like a good mugging may be what’s been missing in my life,” Blake said. “Let's go. Evan, we’ll be back soon.”

“Uh…ok,” Evan said, looking genuinely concerned. Evan understands certain things to be true. For example, he knows that sarcasm doesn’t actually provide any protection against violent robbery. He looked at Blake and I not as you would at brave adventurers, with admiration and a hint of jealousy, but more like you would at helpless idiots, with pity and fear for their lives. Evan also knows that there’s no point in arguing with us, as he is a man of Logic, and that is a country Blake and I have no interest in touring. So, with his look of genuine concern, he sent us on our way.

Blake and I climbed into his truck and pulled out of the parking lot. He pulled a stack of twenties from his wallet and said, “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s the dog’s half."

"You don’t need to do this."

"Take it," he said, shaking it in my face. "Seriously. None of us has any extra money. You can’t afford this any more than we can, so just take the money.” I stuck it in my pocket, glad for the help, embarrassed to accept it.

We drove west. The thing about Baltimore is that you’re never more than a few minutes drive (or stroll) from a neighborhood you probably shouldn’t be driving (or strolling) through. In that spirit, it didn’t take long for the trip to get interesting.

The street lights were all out, and, on either side of the road, there was project housing, the flavor of which I hadn’t seen since that time I got lost in Detroit on my way to a pediatric clinic. Laundry hung from lines in between the buildings. “Clothes lines,” I pointed, “I haven’t seen those since the last time I went to Amish country. Any chance you think these people might be Amish?”

“I'm not so sure,” Blake said. “I think the drug deal we’re watching over here and that guy picking up the hooker over there actually argue against this being one of Amish country’s satellite branches. Now, if that hooker was wearing a bonnet, maybe…but with her hair all out like that, I'm unconvinced.”

“Well, on closer inspection, I’m beginning to think you may be right, mostly because that guy appears to have a hand gun sticking out of the top of his boxers and, as everyone knows, the Amish wear briefs.”

As I said this, I glanced over at Blake and suddenly noticed something I hadn’t before—he’s really, really good looking. Like J. Crew model pretty. Like J. Crew model pretty…except much smaller. As I sized up his 5’8” buck thirty frame with his perfectly plucked eyebrows, long lashes, and pouty lips in his lavender polo, plaid shorts, and boat shoes, it suddenly occurred to me that I may have actually chosen the last man on the planet a girl should take with her to the impound lot. This is not the kind of guy you hide behind in an emergency, I thought. This is the kind you try to outrun in the vain hope predators will descend upon the slower, more attractive one.

“You know,” I said, half joking, “I think maybe we should turn around now and I’ll just buy a new car. I never really liked that one anyway.”

“Well, now that we’re all the way out here, we might as well just get this done. We’ve gone so far west I really think it’s going to get better soon, that we’re going to come out the other side of all this. Plus, I wasn’t planning to drive back through here. I think we should figure out how to drive around all this to get home.”

“Oh, that’s cute, the way you still believe we might make it home.”

We drove a few more blocks and somehow, it actually got darker. I repeated my suggestion that we might just abandon this mission. “I think that even if we do make it to this impound lot, we shouldn’t actually stop and get out. Like I said, I’ll just buy a new car. Or not. You know, I’ve been meaning to put some air in those bike tires and get a little more exercise.”

“Look over there,” he said pointing ahead. “A Burger King. And a gas station. With lights. See, I told you it would get better.”

“This is better. Now let’s go hole up in that Burger King until morning,” I said. I include this detail here to point out that it was not my idea to continue driving.

But continue we did.

The Burger King, the gas station, the lights—that was the eye in the ghetto storm. Suddenly, all that we had just driven through looked like the Sandals Baltimore compared to what we were in the middle of.

It was then that we began to panic. I looked over at the J. Crew model and thought, We are not going to make it out of here alive. I am about to get the only person in Baltimore who truly appreciates my sense of humor killed for a fucking used Toyota. I thought of the look on Evan’s face when we left the house—the look of pity and fear—and thought, ...and he is going to be so ticked at me when his boyfriend and I are dead.

Just when it looked it really could not get any worse, we pulled up to the impound lot. It was a large cement block wall with a huge overhead door in the center. To the right of the huge door was a smaller windowless gray metal door. Next to that hung tiny rusted placard that said RING BUZZER TO ENTER.

"Shit, Blake. We can’t get out here. Fuck my car. Just keep driving.”

“We’ve come all this way, let’s just try it.”

He parked in front of the buzzer. As he unbuckled his seat belt and reached for his door handle, I craned my neck around to survey the surroundings. There were a couple people standing in an empty lot across the street. One of them started to walk in our direction. “Blake, don’t move," I said. "Look at that guy behind us. I think he’s coming this way.” Blake stuck the keys back in the ignition and paused. The man crossed to our side of the street, slowed for a minute, looked at the truck, and then turned and walked the other way.

Blake saw this as our chance to get in the building. In one acrobatic move, with a flash of lavender polo, he jumped out of the truck and onto the buzzer. Less convinced that getting out of the vehicle was the way to go here, I tentatively opened my door and stepped onto the gravel outside. Hearing footsteps behind me, I whipped around to find a man standing near the rear bumper of the truck. “Evenin,” he said. My eyes shot to the hand he had resting on a bulge in his front pocket.

Meanwhile, Blake’s left hand was on the gray door knob as his right was on the buzzer. In the millisecond during which it was unlocked, he yanked hard and yelled to me, “Get in here. NOW.” I ran for the door, and he slammed it shut behind us.

We were standing inside a cage of fencing. There was a metal awning over our heads, cars parked outside the fence under the awning to our left, a small plexiglass encased office to our right. Inside sat a woman in her twenties. She looked bored and tired…until she sized us up, at which point she looked bored and tired and a little befuddled, as though she didn’t typically have visitors in boyfriend jeans and boat shoes at this time of night.

“Can I, uh…help you two?”

“We’re here to pick up a car,” I said.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” she said.

“It’s a 2002 Toyota.”

She turned around and pulled a handwritten invoice off of a cork board. “It’ll be two hundred ninety eight. And some ID.”

I slid a three hundred dollars in twenties and my drivers license through the thin opening in the bottom of the plexiglass.

“I can’t make change,” she said.

“That’s ok,” Blake stammered. “Keep it.”

“Alright,” she said. "Here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to open that gate behind you. Walk straight back, into the open lot behind the building. Find your vehicle. Drive it back under the awning up to the big door. I’ll open the door just long enough for you to get your car out. Once the door closes, I won’t open it again. No matter what.”

Blake and I exchanged a look that said, quite simply, Fuck.

We opened the gate. We stepped out into the open lot and began frantically looking for my car. When I say frantically, I mean to imply that there may have been some actual scampering about and perhaps even a little squealing—some of it from me. We found my car, jumped inside, and drove under the awning towards the huge overhead door. “I really don’t want to go back out there,” I said.

“I really don’t want to get out of your car and into mine,” said Blake.

The door opened much too quickly, and I begrudgingly crept forward. Then, as quickly as it opened, it started to close. It was as if we were being kicked back out into the street. I sped up to avoid getting crushed and stopped near Blake’s truck. His keys in hand, he leapt from the passenger seat, darted in front of my car, and, in the time it would have taken most to unlock it, got inside, started the truck, whipped it into reverse, and blew through the first red light.

Trailing a mere seven inches behind his rear bumper, I followed that J. Crew model out of West Baltimore, back to the apartment from whence we came.

There were four open visitor spots. (When it rains, it pours.) Moments later, there was an open bottle of red and a story that began, “Oh. My. God. Evan, you would not believe where we just were…”

On vacation

2009-09-23T20:14:00.005-04:00

I’m sitting on my parents’ deck, underneath an oak tree. (Or is it a maple? And how pathetic is it that I don’t know the difference? I grew up in Ohio for fuck’s sake. I should know my basic deciduous trees.) Anyway, I’m sitting under a basic deciduous tree, listening to the Avett Brothers’ new album on NPR, watching finches eat some sort of finch delicacy from my mother’s bird feeders.

When she was fired from her church job (a story far too gross for the internet) my mother spent a week obsessed with tiny birds. She hung three feeders from a basic deciduous tree branch in front of the kitchen window and spent hours bird watching. My sister called me one day and, in a bit of a panic, whispered, “Ever since she got fired by God, she just stands by the sink, staring out the window, bird book in hand, trying to identify those damn finches. We have got to find this woman a job.”

Now that Mom has recovered—something we attribute to the resumption of gainful employment, vodka, and her new found love affair with the word fuck—the finches are still fed, but no longer studied; and I sort of wonder if they miss the attention.

I know what that’s like. In New York, I used to walk past this crazy homeless guy every day on my way to work. As I walked by, he’d yell obscenities at me. Every single day. Then, one day, as I walked past, he didn’t say anything. It was as if he just couldn’t be bothered. You’d think I would be relieved, but I was secretly thinking, “What? All the sudden I don’t warrant offensive screaming? Suddenly you have better things to do than call me a cunt?”

So, you know, I wonder if those same finches who used to pretend to be all annoyed by the crazy woman at the window studying their every move are now surprised to find themselves feeling just a bit neglected since she’s gone back to work.

And what does it say about me that I’m spending my vacation sitting on my parents’ deck, under a basic deciduous tree I can’t name, wondering about the secret thought lives of tiny birds?

Don’t answer that.

Two ninedy eight

2009-09-22T20:56:00.015-04:00

My car was stuck in an impound lot. And I blame this on the dog.

Not on my dog. I don’t have a dog.
I blame this on Blake’s dog.

Blake is a fellow intern. He is my favorite fellow intern. He reminds me of me. Except, prettier. And bitchier. And better at parallel parking. Plagiarizing hotdogsladies brilliant twitter, we only wish all the other idiots were as tolerant, self-aware, and intellectually nuanced as we are.

Blake and I sort of met before the intern year started. I emailed the intern class asking (begging) for a place to stay for two weeks while I waited for my apartment to be ready. Blake was the only one who responded. He said that he and his boyfriend, Evan, had a spare room and wouldn’t mind a temporary boarder. This was the third time a gay person offered me a place to stay when I was in a bind. When my sister heard about it, she said, “I’m beginning to think that being a homosexual has less to do with orientation and more to do with a person’s willingness to lodge your perennially homeless ass.”

“Could be worse,” I said. “I could still be living with my parents.” Then, she flipped me off—a sure sign that I’d won that round.

In the end, I didn’t end up staying with Blake. My apartment was available earlier than expected. In spite of having my own place, though, I have spent quite a few nights in Blake’s guest room. And I blame this on the boyfriend.

Not on my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.
I blame this on Blake’s boyfriend.

The dude makes killer martinis. Literally. These drinks suppress your drive to breath. A couple of sips, and suddenly, you can imagine what it might feel like to have those floating olives for brains. A couple more, and you’re convinced that you do.

In all of the time I’ve spent at Blake’s, trying not to let his boyfriend drown me in vodka, I’ve bonded with his dog. She’s an old, overweight, grumpy, long-haired (except for those few patches without hair) dachshund. She has terrible breath, and she bites. Sitting next to her on the couch, suddenly I seem both attractive and sweet. She's the best kind of friend—the kind that makes you look good by comparison

Blake and Evan left town this weekend for a friend’s birthday party. They didn’t go for the friend. They went for the party. They needed someone to watch the dog, and I happily volunteered. I’ve missed having a dog, and, like I said, she and I enjoy each other’s company.

The boys left Saturday morning. I spent most of the day at the mall—an unusual Saturday for me, to be sure, as there are few places on the planet I hate more than the mall. Gas station bathrooms. McDonald's that serve powered cream with their coffee. Crowded elevators. Airplanes that sit at the gate with the air conditioning turned off. The Pennsylvania turnpike… That’s it. The five places on the planet I hate more than the mall.

But, I decided that a tee shirt and jeans girl like myself could really use more than two pairs of jeans. Online shopping is difficult when you’re never at home to accept packages. I sucked it up and went to the damn mall.

I ended up with Levis 501s. Button fly boyfriend jeans—so named because you’re only supposed to wear these if you already have a boyfriend. If you’re a single girl, you’re supposed to shoehorn your ass into skinny jeans and then walk around pretending like you enjoy that painted on denim feeling, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to wrap your car around a pole just so paramedics will show up with trauma shears and cut you out of your pants.

I briefly considered buying said jeans, but I was concerned that they would turn me into a slut. They’d make good on their sexy promise—I’d attract the aforementioned boyfriend. And then, I’d put out on the first date simply because I could not wait ONE MORE SECOND to get out of those damn pants.

So, because I’d like to maintain some standards—like not putting out until the third date—and because I don’t have the kind of car or health insurance you can comfortably wrap around a pole, I bought the boyfriend jeans. I know I’m unlikely to attract a boyfriend with them, but that’s where the scrubs come in. Nothing says sexy quite like those drawstring floods washed in the same hospital load as shit-soaked bed linens. (Something to think about next time you’re watching the cast of Grey’s Anatomy peel them off of each other in some hot and steamy soiled utility closet.)

When I got back from the mall, there were no open visitor spaces outside Blake and Evan’s apartment. There were, however, a couple hundred open resident spots. I parked in the one Evan’s car normally occupies. I made dinner. I took the dog out to pee. I looked for a visitor spot for my car. There was not one. I watched a movie. I had a glass of Malbec. I took the dog out to poop. I looked for a visitor spot for my car. There was not one. I set my alarm for 7 am. I went to bed. I woke up to move my car. There was not one.

I made a phone call. A woman answered, and it was clear from her voice that I had just woken her up. “Uh…hold on,” she said before, I can only assume from the amount of time I spent holding on, she rolled over, finished her good night’s sleep, woke at her usual hour, made herself a cup of coffee, put on her face, and then returned with, “Yeah, we towed yo car. Is goin be two ninedy eight. Cash. Ezact change only. We open tweny fo sevin.”

And then I commenced to pacing. If pacing paid, I would have earned that two ninedy eight in about eight minutes. I paced and muttered to myself… It’s only money. This is not worth getting upset about. It’s only money. This is not that big a deal. It’s only money. I just won’t buy those shoes I wanted. Or that armchair. It’s only money…

And then, because that made me feel not one ounce better, I paced and muttered to the dog… “You know, I blame this on you. You and that sappy look you shot me last night when I suggested that maybe I should just leave and come back this morning to let you out. Damn that sappy look. Go get your leash. We’re walking to the ATM. Half of this two ninedy eight is coming out of your account.”

We walked the several blocks to the nearest ATM. A few blocks in, the dog gave me a sappy look that begged me to carry her the rest of the way. “Nice try,” I said, “but I’ve got two nindey eight reasons to ignore that face. Keep walking.”

Every third or fourth person we passed stooped to pet her. “She bites,” I warned. There’s always one, though...some douchebag who fancies himself a real dog person, the white Cesar Millan. He shook his head a little and reached his hand towards her head, smiling and cooing. This dog has no patience for smiling and cooing. She bit him.

“She bites!” he yelled, as he whipped his slightly mangled hand out of her jaw.

“Who knew?” I deadpanned. And we walked on.

Two ninedy eight later, I had my car back.

Except, it was actually three hundred. And a near death experience at a West Baltimore impound lot at 9:45 at night.

That’s another story for another day. I’m on vacation, so that day may come sooner rather than later.

On the phone with Graci

2009-09-03T20:31:00.004-04:00

G: "Tomorrow, I'm doing an autopsy on a schizophrenic."

T: "Can you see schizophrenia on an autopsy?"

G: "Yeah duh...there are people in their heads."

T: hysterical laughing

On the phone with Blake's boyfriend

2009-09-03T20:27:00.007-04:00

The boyfriend: "I'm having a pomegranate martini. You need to come have one. They're good for your prostate."

Terroni: "I know I'm manlier than you are, but I don't actually have a prostate. And besides, I'm on call right now."

The boyfriend: "So tomorrow then?"

Terroni: "Yes. Tomorrow, we'll drink to my prostate."

Time of death

2009-09-03T20:14:00.006-04:00

The nurse said, "We need you to come give us a time of death."

"Well, what time did he die?" I asked.

"I don't know. We can't call him dead until you pronounce him."

That is what it means to pronounce someone dead. But at the time, it struck me as utterly ridiculous.

He died when he died.
That's when he died.
But the time of death...that's when I say he died.

When you been awake for thirty hours, the absurdity of all of this sort of smacks you in the face.

And then there was one

2009-08-21T21:37:00.010-04:00

Graci just called. When I told her I was blogging, she said, "About the testicle? Are you blogging about the testicle? When are you going to tell them about the testicle?"

"I'll tell them about the testicle," I said.

So, here's the deal...Graci lost a testicle at work.
When I first read that status update on her Facebook page (yes, she put that on her Facebook page, and it immediately became the best reason to have Facebook), I thought maybe it was a metaphor for something--a way of saying she had a particularly bad day. An odd way of saying it, to be sure; but nonetheless, that's what I thought she meant.

It turns out, she was being literal. She really lost a testicle. She was doing an autopsy on a guy (I suppose that last detail was probably assumed by readers with even the most rudimentary knowledge of human anatomy) when she suddenly lost a nut.

"There were two of them, sitting right there next to the sink, and then I looked...and there was only one! I looked all over for the other one, but I couldn't find the damn thing anywhere. It must have gone down the drain."

"So, let me get this straight...you're at an ivy league pathology program, and you people are accidentally rinsing body parts down the drain?"

"Yeah. Pretty much. Worst part is, this guy had one of those weird religious beliefs about how you have to be buried whole. I just picture him wandering in circles for all eternity, looking for his lost ball. One nut shy of heaven. "

"And to think, this is one of the best pathology programs in the world. Imagine the stuff they must lose at second rate programs."

"Seriously."

"Are they making fun of you at work now?"

"All day. Every day."

"As is only appropriate, you know."

"I know."

The Decemberists

2009-08-10T21:43:00.013-04:00

Take up your arms

Sons and daughters

We will arise from the bunkers

By land, by sea, by dirigible

We'll leave our tracks untraceable now...

Hear all the bombs fade away

Hear all the bombs fade away...

She sings, off key, while dancing around her apartment, sans rhythm.

The week in review

2009-08-08T15:58:00.010-04:00

Unremarkable Monday

I don't remember what happened on Monday, but when you say you're going to do a week in review post, you're sort of obligated to start at the beginning of the week.

Speaking of starts, we're off to a rather riveting one, eh?
Yes, well, what can I say?
I like to grab the audience's attention right from the beginning.
(Or, set the bar low right off the bat, such that they'll be pleasantly surprised if anything even remotely entertaining is said in the next few paragraphs.)

It's like Tuesdays with Morrie (if, you know, Morrie flushed his psych meds, bought a handgun, drank a six pack, and then called your mother)

My mom called to warn me that the Ex is poking around for me. The fact that he tried to employ her for some assistance in that regard is further evidence that he is bat shit crazy. That woman wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire, let alone give him her daughter's address.

That's it.
That's the story.

(Do me a favor. Don't write Be careful in the comments. It's a perfectly reasonable thing to say--probably the very thing I'd say if I were reading this. But for some reason, it is the last fucking thing I want to hear right now. Thanks.)

It's Business Time... and Slick Willy woke up this morning, put on his business socks, and proved he's still got it.

In case you missed it, a recap:

Former President Bill Clinton went to North Korea.

He took this picture...

And from this picture, we learn a little more about South Korea's pesky little Stalinist hat.

First, their fearless leader is actually an evil garden gnome. Let this be a lesson to you lovers of the lawn ornament: If you let those things run around unchecked, it's only a matter of time before they get all full of themselves, MacGyver your bird bath into a nuclear launch pad, and make things a wee bit tense between you and the neighbors.

Second, North Korea and Atlantic City shop at the same carpet store.

Third, in spite of the festive floor coverings, North Korea does not appear to be a barrel of laughs. Or the best place to get your white blazer tailored.

But, I digress. The real point of this story is that Bill's still got it. He can charm the pants and the prisoners off the best of 'em. And frankly, he makes me proud to be an American.

I know that not everyone agrees. In fact, I hear that Fox "News" has been talking about how this whole freed prisoners thing is really very bad because it somehow gives North Korea good publicity. (As if people who see that picture are going to say, "Hey honey, I know we were planning to retire in Boca, but what do you say we move Pyongyang instead?") Rather than sending someone to ask for the safe return of Laura Ling and Euna Lee, we should have just left well enough alone, sending the message that The Greatest Nation on Earth is entirely too great to give a shit about a couple women being worked to death by a totalitarian regime. In fact, the patriotic response to this kind of thing is, "Go ahead. Take them. See if we care."

There was also a suggestion that perhaps Clinton secretly gave away something to secure the women's release, as if we might expect a bunch of Koreans to come take over Kansas later this week. When we're all like, "What the fuck? Get out of Kansas, you bitches!", with great hubris, they'll say, "Oh, you haven't heard? We hypnotized Bill with our psychedelic casino carpeting, and he accidentally traded the heartland for a couple of journalists."

Barring the loss of the Midwest, I actually believe this whole story is pretty fucking great. Maybe it's the liberal in me, but I think that any time hostages are released sans gunfire, explosion, and the sale of arms to Iran, it's a good day.

Wednesday was a good day.

Thoracentesis Thursday

I did a thoracentesis on Thursday. Sticking a large needle in someone's back and draining off a liter of yellowish green fluid may not sound like fun to you.

That's the difference between you and me.

Not as good as last Friday

This Friday was about as exciting as Monday.
Take the week by storm and go out with a bang, I always say.

Last Friday, however, was just about the best thing ever.

Remember Alex? (Sure you do. I blog so infrequently now, she's practically the only thing I've written about all month.)

She got really depressed mid way through last week. (It might have been that whole in the hospital on a clear liquid diet waiting to have your colon removed on your birthday thing.) In an attempt to cheer her up a bit, I suggested that she and I have a movie night. I said, "I work until 10 pm on Friday night. I'll come get you when I'm done and we'll go to the attending lounge and watch a movie. There's a huge flat screen TV in there and few, if any, attendings on a Friday at ten."

"Are you allowed to take patients in there?" she asked.

"No. Absolutely not. We'll have to put you in some scrubs and cover your PICC line with, uh...do you have zip up hoodie?"

"Yes. I was actually wearing it when I was admitted."

"Perfect. If you're in scrubs, tennis shoes, and a hoodie, you'll look like a med student on call with her resident. They won't even know you're a patient. I'm not even really supposed to hang out in the attending lounge, but you'll get to see what it's like to hang out with the rebel resident--you'll see what it's like for my med students."

She was grinning from ear to ear at this point, and I was trying to silence that little voice in my frontal lobe that was screaming, T, YOU'RE GOING TO GET FIRED.

I told her to pick a movie and that I'd watch anything she liked.

On Friday night, I wrote the following order:
Hold IV fluids, TPN, & intralipids at 2200 for 2 hours.
Pt may be off the floor accompanied by physician.

At ten o'clock, I handed off my patients to another resident and grabbed Alex's nurse, who smirked a little when she saw the order. "I'm not even going to ask," she said.

"Probably best if you don't," I said. "Plausible deniability can only work in your favor here."

As she unhooked Alex's IV, she looked us both over from head to toe, smiled, and shook her head a little as she realized we were dressed just alike.

Alex picked up a DVD from her bedside table. "Breakfast at Tiffany's. I've never seen it, and my mom said she thought you'd like it."

"A great choice," I said. "It's a classic and one of my favorites."

We left her room, walked past a nurse's station full of rather puzzled looks, and hopped in the elevator. As I pushed the L for lobby, I turned to her and asked, "So, how does it feel to be getting off the floor?"

"This is amazing," she said. "Right now, I don't even feel like a patient." I smiled, swallowed hard, and wondered when exactly I had turned into such a sap.

There was no one in the lounge when we walked in, which was nice, because I hadn't really rehearsed my "hey boys, we're here to take over the television" line. A few attendings did trickle in during the next two hours. They stayed just long enough to refill their coffee mugs, and there were just enough of them to reinforce the idea that we were not really supposed to be there. It made the whole thing that much more fun.

I walked Alex back to her room after the movie and thanked her for spending her Friday with me. "Thank you," she said. "This actually felt like a real Friday night."

Actually, I thought, this felt like one of the best Fridays ever. And I've been humming Moon River ever since.

Alex

2009-07-29T11:14:00.012-04:00

Today is your birthday. 23. And you are stuck in the hospital. On a clear liquid diet. Waiting to have your colon taken out because this fucking ulcerative colitis just won't stop ulcerating. Food leaves you doubled over in pain, bleeding.

You are supposed to be out, celebrating with friends. And in five days, you are supposed to move up the coast to start medical school. The best laid plans of mice and men...

At midnight, I crept into your room to leave balloons and a card from me and Blake, the other intern, on your bedside table. I snuck back out quickly. If I had lingered a second longer, I'm afraid I would have cried.

I truly believe all those things that I've told you. The moment you step foot onto that med school's campus, it will not matter how long it took you to get there. You will come through this terrible experience a stronger woman and a better doctor than can ever be made in the classroom.

When I wrote you that prescription for Walt Whitman--From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines--I meant for you to fill it.

But still, I imagine how incredibly disheartening this must be. To be five days away from moving to medical school. Five days. And to have to postpone it all for a year.

I know how scared you are, too. No matter how I reassure you that you'll still be a gorgeous woman who will live a normal life, you're the one who has to face going into that OR whole and coming out with a bag on her stomach. Nothing Walt Whitman or I say can really make that okay.

It's times like this, people like you, that make me understand the pull of primary care medicine--the doctor who knows you through the years, who will get to see what I'm confident will be this story's happy ending.

When Blake and I give you our contact info and tell you to keep in touch, to let us know how it all goes, we are both really hoping you do just that. This time next year, call one of us to bitch about how you can't get that nasty cadaver smell out of your nose after anatomy lab.

We'll ask how you spent your 24th birthday. Tell us you went out with your friends, that you had one too many drinks...and that you ate cake.

Jungleland

2009-07-26T17:02:00.003-04:00

It makes cleaning the apartment so much more enjoyable.

On call

2009-07-24T12:26:00.003-04:00

"Transport came and picked up the guy in 12. He's officially discharged."
"Is that the one who called me a fucking whore when I said he couldn't leave the floor to smoke?"
"Yep, that's him."
"I'm going to miss him."

"Uh...I think the guy in 14 might be having a little heart attack."
"Well, as long as it's just a little one..."

"I need you to specify a calorie count for this patient's diet. The admitting doctor forgot to do that."
"It's 3:30 in the morning...are they bringing the patient a meal tray right now?"
"No, but you know, breakfast will be here before you know it."

Saturday morning

2009-07-18T09:56:00.008-04:00

I woke up at 8 feeling like I'd gotten to sleep until noon. Are all these 5 am mornings turning me into a morning person? I never would have thought that possible, but I think that's possible.

A short walk to the neighborhood cafe and on the way, a chat with Lee, the Italian woman who lives on the corner. One of these days, I'll take a picture of her backyard for you. It is just the cutest old lady decorating with flowers and sea shells project you ever did see. I say project because the whole yard looks as though it belongs in a shoe box, on display, as a diorama of itself. This morning she was standing in the middle of her work of art, right next to the bird bath that is the centerpiece of it all, screaming and clapping at the pigeons perched on the wire overhead.

"Good morning, Lee."

"Good morning," she said, sounding unconvinced.

"Are you trying to scare the birds away?"

"Yes. They poop. They poop everywhere. On de flowers. On de shells. On de chairs." (Strong emphasis here, as few things are more offensive than defecating on a sweet old woman's lawn furniture.)

"They want to come and take a bath, that's fine. But they are not allowed to sit up on dat wire and poop in my yard. Take a bath here and poop somewhere else!" she yells, waving her hand at somewhere else.

"Is it working, the scaring them away bit?"

"Naw...look at them. They couldn't care less."

Indeed, they looked exactly as though they could not care less, as though they had no intention of holding their bowels until they got to the suggested somewhere else.

Pooping on a perfectly lovely diorama.
Some gall, those pigeons have.
Some gall.

A good gig

2009-07-14T22:55:00.006-04:00

Long time, no post.

Sorry about that. I've been a little busy with work. Like 100 hours a week busy. (In truth, that actually sounds a lot worse than it feels. As the people in the Phoenix say, "It's a dry heat.")

This won't really be much of a post. I should have been in bed an hour ago because I'm on call tomorrow night. I'm off this weekend, though, so hopefully a lengthier diatribe is soon to follow.

For now, in brief...

There have been some incredibly amazing gratifying moments--times when I think, damn, this is good gig.

And, there have been some incredibly exhausting frustrating moments--times when I have to remind myself not to chuck a chart at the wall.

I have had some really good doctor moments.
I have had some really crappy doctor moments.

(This is starting to sound like the beginning of A Tale of Two Cities... It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.)

At some point last week, as I was hiking up the stairs between floors, it suddenly hit me...this place is beginning to feel like home. That may sound a bit depressing, considering the aforementioned "this place" is a hospital, but in fact, it was a rather comforting realization.

I still don't really know what I'm doing most of the time. I can find the call rooms and the cafeteria but never made it to that code yesterday because hell if I know how to get to cath lab.

But, the nurses seem to be on my side. The case managers help me blow through my discharges. The attendings don't care that I'm the only resident who doesn't wear her white coat. And every day, I meet someone new that I genuinely like.

Much more often than not, I must say, it's a really good gig.

Week one

2009-06-29T20:36:00.004-04:00

So far, so good.

I'm sure my radio silence made more than one of you wonder if maybe, just maybe, my patients and I hadn't actually made it through my first week as a doctor. But, so far, so good.

As I was leaving the parking garage tonight, I was actually thinking about just how much I've learned in the last week. Five days ago, I called a resident to ask if I could give a patient Tylenol. Yesterday, I got an abnormal lab result, adjusted a patient's anticoagulation, and casually mentioned it to the attending a couple hours later.

I was on call this weekend. While I wouldn't describe that as the best 30 hours of my life, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it might be. There was a moment at the end there when I thought my head might blow right off my shoulders if I had to answer one more page. But then, two of the three pagers I was carrying went off, and my head somehow managed to stay attached. I think it was just too damn tired to catapult itself from my neck.

I was sort of hoping I'd have some interesting patient stories to tell...
They called a code on one of my fellow interns on Saturday morning. (I suppose that's interesting, eh?) It was a hell of a way to start call. The poor guy had a seizure and then stopped breathing. The surgery team that responded to the code looked at him, lying on the floor in the medicine team room, still a little blue, and said, "Wow. And we thought our rounds were tough."

The intern is fine now. He was up walking the halls on Saturday night in scrub pants and a gown, letting himself into the supply room with his badge so he could steal more toiletries. Today, he was back at work, covering patients in between having an MRI and an EEG. Apparently, there's no rest for the shaky.

And so it begins

2009-06-23T22:07:00.002-04:00

An intern medicine year (required for anesthesiology) starts tomorrow at 5 am.

You can do anything for a year.
One foot in front of the other.

You can do anything for a year.
One foot in front of the other.

You can do anything for a year.
One foot in front of the other...

Just keep telling me that.

The rest of the story

2009-06-20T11:37:00.013-04:00

After my last post, Maria and Madame asked me to tell the rest of that story. I have hesitated, as I don't want to say too much about less than wonderful dates. It seems sort of unfair. Sometimes, when two people aren't well matched and it's apparent from the start, it just doesn't bring out the best in them. That may well have been the case here, so I'll try not to be too brutal.

The movie - Lemon Tree - was good. The sushi was fine. And frankly, the company wasn't awful. In a town where I don't know anyone else, it was nice to have someone sit on my couch and talk. Nothing he said was patently offensive or terribly gross.

But...

My dad once told me, "If you want some insight into another person's character, ask him questions about himself. His answers are important, but even more important is how long it takes him to ask a question about you."

In this case, it was clear...my date was very interested in my date and not all that interested in his. Hours later, he hadn't asked a single question. He didn't know any more about me than he did at the start of the evening. And honestly, I don't think he cared to.

He did pay me a few nice compliments - "beautiful eyes, great smile" - but that kind of thing has never really done it for me. I'm more interested in someone who will still like me if my eyeballs pop out and my lips fall off. Yes, physical attraction is great. "Nice eyes, cute smile," these are lovely things to say. But...not nearly as lovely as if you told me that you, say, find me witty.

So at the end of the evening, there was no kiss. I don't typically kiss on a first date anyway, but in this case, I didn't have to remind myself of that policy.

In the meantime, I've had a little email correspondence with a person who seems to know exactly how to compliment me. (I don't think anything is going to come of it, but the correspondence has been nice.) He's a psychiatry resident with whom I used to work. One day, I consulted him for a patient with conversion disorder. When we were done discussing the patient, we talked about how work was going for each of us. He was frustrated with his program director. I bitched a bit about the shit I was getting from a couple of medicine residents who thought I was "too opinionated." I told him the corresponding story--what happened that led them to say that.

He said, "Well, in this case, you're not opinionated, you're just right. But, you know...the strong, independent woman I know you to be wouldn't care what these guys thought of her." And then, he smiled at me and walked away.

Now that...that is a lovely thing to say.

2009-06-17T13:25:00.002-04:00

Give a guy some wine and let him talk about himself for two hours, and he'll give you a reason not to kiss him.

Picture, one of 800

2009-06-15T12:06:00.011-04:00

It's been so long, I don't really know where to start.

The apartment is starting to feel like home. The bleach helped. When I moved in, the landlord said, "The previous tenant was really pretty clean for a single guy." Apparently, that's a bit like saying, "It was really pretty quiet for an explosion."

The next step will be to hang some pictures. I have hesitated to jump into this project because I see its potential to quickly get out of control. I have 800 pictures of Logyn and Lucy. I picked out only those I really thought I'd want to frame and put them in a folder on my desktop. The folder has 93 pictures in it. I could wallpaper my apartment with those babies. Except, you know, that would be weird.

Speaking of pictures (speaking of a lame transition)...

I never post photos of the adults in the family, what with this being a super secret anonymous blog and all, but I thought I'd make an exception today. If, after looking at this, you have suddenly figured out who I am, kindly keep it to yourself.

This is my grandpa with Logyn. The picture was taken over Memorial Day weekend. My grandparents came over, and we all sat around my parents' backyard talking about how great it would be to have a cookout. No one wanted a cookout enough to get up and cook out, though, so it was really just a topic of conversation rather than a meal.

But anyway, back to the picture...this is the same man who thought he was dying this time last year. They wanted to take out a lung and start chemo. He decided he just wanted some steroids to boost his appetite. They thought he was nuts. He thought he was entirely too old to care what they thought.

And here he is.
Tanning his cancer.

He gets tired more easily than he used to. He's occasionally a bit confused. But, he'd tell you that most of the time, he feels pretty good.

He'd also tell you that my grandma has finally (mostly) quit bothering him about his clothes. If it were up to him, he'd wear Adidas from head to toe, as they are the official sponsor of his old age. If it were up to her, he'd wear business casual, as you never know when you might run into someone from church. They compromise. Business casual on the top, Adidas on the bottom. He knows it looks ridiculous. He doesn't care.

I trust that he also wouldn't care that I've posted his picture here. I'd ask him, but that would require me to explain the internet to a man who doesn't understand the answering machine.

The move

2009-06-06T11:27:00.005-04:00

I writing to you from my new couch in my new living room in my new apartment. I would post pictures, but that would require me to take some, and God only knows where my camera is packed. (Truth be told, he may not even know. I asked him earlier and didn't get a response. I thought he was just ignoring me, but it's possible that he was avoiding the question because it was just too hard.) I'll describe the place, though, and you can use your imagination...

Picture your lovely, put together home.
Now picture it after a tornado.
That's exactly what my apartment looks like.
But, when I get done cleaning up after the unnatural disaster that was my move, it's going to be great.

Speaking of the move, I was awake for forty hours straight. It poured down rain most of the day. By the time it was all over, I looked like this...

And that's all I'm going to say about that. Except, my parents were so incredibly helpful during this whole process that now I think I'm going to have to care for them when they get old. I was planning on paying my sister-in-law to do it, but after this move, changing their adult diapers is probably the least I can do.

Under the pier, a storm brewing overhead

2009-05-29T09:40:00.005-04:00

Three weeks ago tonight

2009-05-27T22:53:00.011-04:00

I got back from Florida on Sunday afternoon. I should say, we got back from Florida... Graci joined me during the second week of my three week stay.

I was going to write some long, rambling post about vacation, and moving plans (the living room looks like we're trying to construct a topographical map of Colorado with cardboard boxes), and my Memorial Day.

I spent seven hours in student loan consolidation and repayment hell today, though. So...no long, rambling post. Short and sweet instead.

It was about 6:30 in the evening. I was sitting in the backyard, drinking a Blue Moon. I'd just spent a few hours walking on the beach. I planned to spend the next few reading Midnight's Children and admiring my budding tan.

The backyards in the neighborhood are surrounded by vine covered walls. On the other side of the wall, the neighbor man was grilling and singing along with Frank Sinatra. The neighbor man, George, is an old Italian New Yorker, and he can carry a tune. He has always been one of my favorite things about vacation in Florida.

I laid my head back on the chaise, watched the palm fronds rustle over my head, licked the sea salt left on my lips by the breeze, and listened to George sing...

I've got you under my skin
I've got you deep in the heart of me
So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me
I've got you under my skin

To whom it may concern

2009-05-13T11:03:00.003-04:00

So far, the sun has not singed me to the point that I've been driven indoors. So...no blogging.

I thought the rain may send me inside today. But, the screened in porch is a lovely place to read a book during a storm. So still...no blogging.

I just thought I should stop by to say that I haven't run off with a cabana boy or been washed out to sea.

Prepositions

2009-05-05T18:16:00.003-04:00

I thought that maybe I should pop in to say that I am out. In Florida. On the beach. Under the sun. With a good book. And a cold beer.

At some point, I'll get a little too well done in the all that sun. Crispy around the edges, I'll come back in to bitch about my sunburn to you--an unsympathetic audience, I'm sure.

In the meantime, though, I'm out...

And that was that

2009-04-30T07:28:00.006-04:00

Dr. G,

Attached please find my final paper.

Thank you,
T

With that email, I just finished medical school.

Kite

2009-04-26T12:52:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, I flew a kite. And, as you can see here, spent a good bit of time staring directly into the sun. (These retinas aren't just going to burn themselves.)

This was actually one of the better moments, preceded by 20 minutes of running around an open lawn yelling, "Fly, damn you!"