Merry Christmas, friends.

#17 Consider moving to China

This happens every year.
Winter Break rolls in and with it comes my to do list.
The list of shit that I have been putting off for weeks, saying, "I'll get to that over break."
And now here I am.
Over break.
Or rather, under break, as I am being buried alive by this list of shit I've decided I need to get done.

When I was in high school, I had a physics teacher who used to say, "There are a billion people in China who don't give a damn what you get on this test." I think that what he meant by that was that we should all just chill the fuck out because, in the grand scheme of things, our grade wasn't that important. Or maybe he meant that the Chinese were a bunch of uncaring bastards.

Either way, there are a billion people in China who don't give a damn what I get done on this to do list.


10 pm update:
Went to the mall without killing anyone.
Crossed 5 things off of my list.
Had some beer.
Completed an extremely difficult Sudoku. (Triple points because I was inebriated.)
Performed my classic Dean Martin singing Silver Bells impersonation. As you might imagine, it was magical.

Torn

A phenomenal residency in a place I don't really want to live.
A good residency in a city I love.

My inner child rocking in the corner in the fetal position.

Off to get ready for my next interview.

(Note to self: Save up some money as, when this is all over, you will clearly need therapy and probably medication. Powerful medication. The anti-psychotics they normally reserve for wildebeests and elephants.)

A short story

The midget porn reference in the last post comes from my days as a nurse's aide on labor and delivery.

Once, we took care of a pregnant little person who had a 6.5 foot tall boyfriend. They were an interesting looking pair, and, as interesting pregnant pairs tend to do, they sparked a little "imagine how that must have looked" conversation.

A resident who was roughly the same size as the woman's partner said, "Man, I'm jealous of that guy. In fact, sometimes I wish my wife was 3 feet shorter..." And on it went.

When he graduated, the nurses bought him all the midget porn they could find. At the resident going away party, everybody got really drunk and, at about 1 am, started watching the videos. When the resident's wife walked in the room, she rolled her eyes and said to him, "See what you've created? This is why I'm always telling you to think before you speak. We are not taking this shit home, you know."

And then he was all, "But it was a GIFT."

And she was all, "GIVE IT BACK."

When it was all said and done, the funniest stories actually came from the nurse who went from porn shop to porn shop looking for the videos. She said, "I kept saying, 'It's a gag gift.' One clerk finally told me, 'Lady, that's what everyone buying this kind of shit says.'"

And I didn't kill any of them. Not even one.

Today, I saw seven patients in less time than it used to take me to see two. And, unlike last year at this time, when I got done with the patients, I actually knew what the hell was wrong with them. (For the most part.) When I walked out of the seventh patient's room, I caught myself humming Eye of the Tiger. I resisted the urge to do this, though. That would have looked ridiculous in the middle of the 5th floor hallway. (Trust me. I played the scene in my head. It looked ridiculous.)

I'm celebrating my victory by watching unbelievably terrible television. I'm classing it up a bit by drinking tea while I watch. You should try it. Next time you find yourself glued to American Idol, or midget porn, or a Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon, pour yourself a cup of Earl Grey. The Brits have been drowning their sorrows and shame this way for years.

Years, I tell you.

I should be packing

This post has been sitting around for weeks with little snippets, things I intended to write about when I had some time. It has said...

Don't get abducted at Kroger
Interviewing at the gas station
Pennsylvania serpentine
Sleeper hold
Robber baron chic

And right now is really not the time to finish this post. I should be steaming the wrinkles out of my suit and packing for my next interview. I have to be at work early tomorrow, and I leave from work to go to the airport. Tomorrow night, I'm back in New York for about 24 hours.

I shouldn't be blogging.
Or drinking this red wine.
But, fuck it.

Here goes...

Don't get abducted at Kroger

My mother forwarded me an email last week. Do you get these? Forwards from your mother? (If we were speaking in person right now, I'm sure someone would say, "No, no I don't. My mother died years ago, and ahh, what I wouldn't give for one last forward from her." And then, I would feel like a tremendous ass. If you are that someone, I apologize for the ass I'm about to make of myself.) My mother doesn't send forwards often, but what she loses in frequency she more than makes up for in asinine content.

This one was a list of tips for the fairer sex as they head out to brave the dangerous world. These are some of my favorites...

Men are most likely to attack in the early morning, between 5 am and 8:30 am.

The number one place women are attacked/abducted from is grocery store parking lots.

These men said that they would not pick on women who had umbrellas.

If someone is following behind you, turn, look him in the face and make small talk by saying, "I can't believe it's so cold out here. We're in for a bad winter."

Well, that settles it. I'm no longer going out to buy milk at 7 am on clear days in June. Mostly, because I'll have nothing to say when I turn around to make small talk with my kidnapper. And I'll look like an idiot carrying that umbrella.

If a predator has a gun, RUN. The predator will only hit you 4% of the time. So, RUN, preferably in a zig zag pattern.

Running in a zig zag pattern, you have a 4% chance of being shot and a 32% chance of falling down and giving yourself a concussion. Unless you're me, in which case, it's about a 57% chance of self-induced head injury.

Interviewing at the gas station

The reason I haven't been spending more time here is because I've been interviewing. A lot. I was in Chicago on November 20th and 21st and then in the south Nov 24th through the 26th.

Four years ago, on my way to a medical school interview, I stopped at a gas station. As I put my VISA into the card reader on the pump, I waited with baited breath.

Processing...
Processing...

Never before had I worried that my card would be declined. It was a debit card, and I always had more than enough money in the account. But, as I stood there, I held my breath while I waited for the little screen to say Approved. During that interview season, it felt as though I might be rejected by everything from med school programs to gas station pumps.

I had lost my fucking mind.

I wish I could say that four years and a shit-load of scary personal life trauma later, I have gained some perspective on things like this. And, I suppose that maybe I have. (A little.) I mean, I don't get excited every time I successfully pay at the pump now. But, I'm still mostly a fucknut when it comes to this stuff.

I'm trying not to be.
I'm having limited success.

Today, I spoke to the woman who is in charge of the residency match process at school. She said, "You know, this is an incredibly stressful time, even for people like you who seem to have a good program in the bag." And then, she offered me a carrot stick. I don't like carrots, but it made me feel better nonetheless.

Pennsylvania serpentine

The day before Thanksgiving, I had to schlep my ass through Pennsylvania to get from interviews to my family's house. As I drove through Breezewood, Elvis Costello sang, This is hell. This is hell. I am sorry to tell you...

And there you have it.

Speaking of running in a zig zag, I think the Pennsylvania turnpike was designed by someone who was being chased by an armed madman. It's like that scene from The In-Laws... SERPENTINE, SERPENTINE! I swear, if you could drive through that state in a straight line, the trip would only take ten minutes.

The bright spot: My dad called halfway through my drive and said, "You know what James Carville said about Pennsylvania? It's Philadelphia in the east, Pittsburgh in the west, and Alabama in the middle." And that's exactly how I would describe the place if I was giving a tour.

Sleeper hold

My grandma uninvited her brother and his wife to Thanksgiving this year. She said it was because she didn't have the room, what with the babies. But, in truth, the babies don't take up much space. (They're sort of like really small versions of regular people.) She just didn't want her brother and sister-in-law there. She compromised and said that they could come for dessert, but she wasn't having them for dinner.

Because there were fewer people at dinner, my grandma decided that we would all fit at the dining room table. All 18 of us. In fact, 16 chairs do fit around her dining room table. There is not a millimeter of space in between the chairs, but they fit. As my brother said, "Thank goodness we're not a fat family." And thank goodness we're nimble, because my mother literally had to hoist her leg over the back of her chair, step onto her seat and slide herself onto her butt. As much as she bitches about her post-menopausal body, I have to tell you, as I watched her Cirque du Soleil herself into her chair, I was thinking, "Damn, she's looking pretty fucking great for her age."

Once I got done checking out my mom's ass, I performed similar acrobatics to get myself up to the table. We started eating, and two bites in, my brother said, "Grandma, we need shorter forks. I just stabbed Grandpa with the end of mine."

"Oh, honey, he'll be okay."

Easy for her to say. She wasn't sandwiched in with the rest of us. She and my sister, Kelsy, were in the two seats that wouldn't fit around the table--the bleachers. They sat behind us, eating off of their laps, mocking us in our struggle to move food to our mouths without blinding our neighbors.

We all kind of got into a groove, coordinating bites with those next to us so as to avoid injury, and things were going pretty well. We'd had a few glasses of wine at this point and frankly, we got a little cocky. We decided to up the ante. We decided to pass the rolls.

My uncle was passing the basket to me when he somehow managed to put his young son in a modified sleeper hold. I looked over to see my poor cousin, his head wedged in his father's armpit, his little voice squeaking, "Uh, Dad...I can't really breathe here."

It was our first Thanksgiving related near death experience. I can't imagine how terrifying it might have been if I hadn't been mostly drunk when it happened. My poor cousin, though. He may never give thanks again.

Robber baron chic

The uninvited uncle and his wife did, in fact, show up for dessert. It's a bit hard to explain what it is about this man that makes him so difficult to be around.

He has a lot of money.
None of which came to him through his own ingenuity.
Yet he feels rather entitled.
And likes to give advice to the less fortunate.
And tell them stories.
Which are boring.

He used to come in a tie every year, but he's loosened up a bit there. The day after Thanksgiving, my dad and I were having coffee and this conversation...

I said, "Did you notice, Uncle Peter showed up in casual this year. His shirt wasn't even tucked in."

"Yeah, you know what we call that don't you?"

"What?"

"Robber baron chic."

Two shorts

Windy. Very windy.

Tomorrow, I'm interviewing with someone who asks questions like, If you were a color, what color would you be and why?

When I heard that, I thought, I'm the color of you've got to be kidding me. I should probably try to come up with an alternate answer before tomorrow, though, eh?

Otherwise, so far, Chicago is sort of like New York without much imagination. If you love it here, tell me why. I'm sure I'm just in need of a good tour guide.

Maria's question

I think I'm interviewing for my dream job in anesthesia. I just finished a month of pediatric ICU. The first time I did peds--my general pediatric rotation last year--can best be described as Ugh. Ugh with a side of Suck. After that, I didn't have very high expectations for PICU. I thought, well, maybe I'm just one of those people who hates all kids except her nieces. Turns out, though, I sort of like kids. I just like them best when they're intubated.

I'm kidding.
(Sort of.)

The point is, the month went well. I learned a lot. And, it reinforced what I already thought to be true. I like really sick patients. I enjoy the ICU. I don't mind answering the family members' 5746 questions (even when 5745 of them are really just variations of the same two or three questions). But, I don't want to do that full time.

I want to be in the OR, too. In the OR, I don't write orders for nurses, I do the work myself. I start with talking patients, give them a lethal dose of medication, keep them alive anyway, and then wake them up to tell them they did great. Ahh...such fun. Sure, things don't always go quite that smoothly. But, when it all works out in the end, the not-so-smoothly can be even more fun.

Between the OR and the ICU, what more could a girl want in her job?

Oh, and as long as you're still here, what color did that seem like to you?

I could bedazzle you an eye patch

Written on my way home the other night...

Three days of interviews. Everything went very well. (I think. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. They’re nice to everyone but they certainly don’t love us all equally. So, who knows. Every year, people get fooled into believing that a program that didn’t really want them really wanted them.) But, frankly, at this point, I’m too exhausted from interviewing to talk much about interviewing.

I'm sitting in LaGuardia, waiting to catch my flight home. I just caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window—business casual, dress coat, make up, handbag. I thought, when did I become such a grown up? It sort of snuck up on me, I suppose.

When you’re having phone conversations like this with your best friend at night, you hardly expect to wake to a grown up in the morning…

“I was walking through Times Square tonight when I saw an older woman and her husband headed to the theater. He was in a suit. She was wearing a black dress, black pumps. She had lovely hair. Oh, and an eye patch. A black eye patch. Like a pirate.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah. And then, I couldn’t help but wonder, do they make flesh colored eye patches? Because, if not, I think they should. I’ve only ever seen them in black, but I think that flesh colored might be less distracting. Less…piratey.”

“Maybe she liked the black one.”

“Well, I did consider that. It was kind of a silky eye patch, and I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she chose it to match her outfit.”

“Maybe it was her fancy patch.”

“Exactly, like her dress patch. I considered the fact that maybe she has them in black, brown, and navy.”

“Then, she’d have a patch to go with everything.”

“Exactly. But still, I think that given the option, flesh colored would be better.”

“I don’t think so. I think that flesh colored would just sort of look like they sewed your eye shut.”

“No, it wouldn’t. They sewed my grandma’s eye shut once and it didn’t look like a flesh colored eye patch.”

“They sewed her eye shut?”

“Yeah, it was sewn shut for six weeks after she had a basal cell removed from her eyelid. We called her Cyclops. But, that’s not really the point. The point is…”

“I know, it didn’t look like a flesh colored eye patch.”

“Exactly. You know, I should look for a souvenir eye patch for you while I’m here. One with the statue of liberty bedazzled on it in sequins or something.”

“Do they make those?”

“I don’t know, but if there’s one city in the world where you could find them, I’m sure it’s this one.”

“I could bedazzle you an eye patch. I’m crafty.”

“That’s true. Maybe we could sell them!”

“Yeah, and if that took off, we could branch out.”

“To bedazzled peg legs.”

“We could soup up all the prostheses.”

“And we’d call it Pimp my Prosthesis.”

“We would put hydraulics in them.”

“And subwoofers in the butt.”

“And neons in the…you know.”

“That would be fabulous.”


“You know, this may be the most ridiculous conversation we’ve ever had.”

“Definitely in the top five.”

Wish me luck

My residency interview season begins in a half hour. Today is sort of a soft opening. I'm back in New York, back in the apartment where I stayed last time I was here. I'm interviewing with a program that has already told me they want me to train with them. And, as soon as I get there, I get to change out of this suit and into scrubs.

I'm interviewing in pajamas with people who already want to give me the job.

And still, I'm nervous.

:::Update:::
The day went very well. I would say more, but I'm spent. If I can muster the energy, I'm going to head out and treat myself to a cocktail.

Tomorrow, another interview.

His name is Hippo

It was one of the last warm days we'll have this year. We were rounding on the patients in the PICU, standing over the bed of a little girl with asthma. After he got done listening to her breathe, the attending physician put down his stethescope and picked up the stuffed animal that was standing sentry on her lap. It was a yellow hippopotamus with hippo embroidered on its side.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"That's my hippo," she said.

"What's his name?"

"Hippo," she said. Duh.

"Have you seen the hippos at our zoo?"

"No," she said.

"Have you ever been to our zoo?" he asked.

"Nope," she said.

Turning to her mother, he said, "You need to take her to the zoo."

Her mother laughed a little.

"I mean it!" he said. Pointing his finger at the woman, he barked, "When she gets out of here, you take her to the zoo!" The woman was a bit taken aback. She didn't expect to be yelled at 7am for failing to show her daughter the town's wild animals in captivity. The lecture about the importance of refilling her kid's inhaler prescription, that one she might have been expecting. But this, this was new.

Then, turning to me, he asked, "Have you been to our zoo."

I briefly considered lying, but thought better of it. He would have seen the shifty look in my eyes and asked follow up questions, quizzing me on my last visit. I would have been exposed in no time. I could just picture him screaming about how the only thing that's worse than medical students who don't go to the zoo is medical students who pretend like they go to the zoo.

"No," I said, "I haven't."

"You've NEVER been to our zoo?"

Bracing myself, I repeated, "No, I've never been to the zoo."

"Well, GO TO THE ZOO." he bellowed. "We have a great zoo. When you go, go see the hippoquarium. It's one of the only places in the world where you can see hippos under water."

"Okay. I'll do that."

"No," he said. "TODAY. It's going to be seventy-five degrees! You'll go today." He touched the hippo to the little girl's nose and made a kiss noise. She smiled. Then, he resumed yelling at me. "You'll leave at noon and GO SEE THE HIPPOS."

"Um...okay," I said.



They call this one Hippo...

She would have loved this

At 5:50 this morning, I checked my email on my way out the door.
This was waiting for me...

I confess...I get a bit crazy every fours years at election time. Blame it on Grandma Betty. I can remember walking with her to go vote. She couldn't wait for your Grandpa to come home - to her, the important things couldn't wait. Such as it was with that generation - raised during the Depression and matured by a World War.

So go vote today - vote for the persons/issues of your choice - vote and enjoy every minute of it - vote and think of your Grandma...if she were here, she would have loved this campaign. I can just hear her say - "he seems like such a nice young man" "I don't where he finds the energy at 72" "wow, she's fiesty" "you know, I've always liked Joe Biden"

Love,
Dad

With tears in my eyes, I grabbed my keys and went to vote. And, as I stood in that line, I thought of her.

Go

Remember this...


That is what it looks like when people recognize what an incredible right this is.

Go.
Stand in line.
No matter how long it takes.
If you're in line before the polling place closes, they will let you vote.

This post brought to you by Sauvignon Blanc

Pediatric ICU is going just fine, thank you.

Is it sad?
Is it depressing?

Um...no, not really. I like taking care of really sick people, so I enjoy this much more than I enjoyed outpatient pediatrics. And, unlike the neonatal ICU, where I thought we were torturing a bunch of babies only to leave them to struggle through a life of disabilities, here I think we are actually giving kids a fighting chance. So, although I am certainly not a pediatrician at heart, I look forward to going to work each day in the PICU. Plus, I'm entirely too busy to worry about stupid things like finding a belt to wear with my suit.

By the way, today, I bought a belt to wear with my suit and a pair of four inch heels. I'm wearing the heels around the house. With my pajamas.

Let's all just take a moment here to picture that and chuckle.

Okay, enough with the chuckle. I'm wearing the shoes in an attempt to tell my feet, "Suck it, bitches. Like it or not, we're wearing these on the interviews. Best to get used to the devastatingly sexy instruments of torture now before you have to wear them sober."

In other news, I went to the mall today and left just before I thought I might have to kill someone. I hate the mall. I hate that you can't walk through the place without people at those little stands in the middle trying to get you to sniff this, touch that, lick this, listen to that. Today, some woman with a curling iron stepped in my path and asked if she could do my hair. The longest hairs on my head are all of 1.5 inches. Basically, she offered to sit a scalding piece of metal on my scalp.

Then, I passed a woman who was having her infant's ears pierced. The baby was crying so hard she could barely catch her breath.

Let me just say...
In this, the age of community acquired MRSA, it's probably best not to subject your infant to a needless surgical procedure performed by some 16 year old who may well have just given that horny teenage guy from the Verizon store a hand job in the employee bathroom. Also, poking holes in a baby's ears so you can hang fake rhinestones from the sides of her head makes you look like an asshole. And a bad mother. And this really is all about appearances, isn't it?

(Now you understand why it's best for all of us if I just shop online.)


Moving on... to a belated Happy Halloween and a NO on Prop 8 from Wanda and Ellen.

She calls it "The one where I was a bitch"

After weeks of receiving email for a different Graci, my friend sent the different Graci this message...

If I remember correctly, I emailed you several weeks ago about the fact that I have been receiving emails that are actually intended for you. While I continue to receive emails from several other people trying to reach you, I have also started receiving email from you which I believe you are trying to cc to yourself. I just wanted to make sure that you were aware of the fact that while we do have the same name, we do, indeed, have different email addresses.

Do you hear that tone? That little bit of bitchy flare? And this, from my bff, a woman known for her perpetual kindness?

Yeah, well...don't fuck with her email.

Mushroom risotto

I'm posting a recipe.

I know what you're thinking...Since when does she cook?

Well, in my pre-blog years--the wedded years--I cooked several times a week. Not because I loved cooking, but because if I didn't have something resembling dinner ready when he got home from work, there was sure to be a fight. I never really hated cooking either. I just hated that I was cooking to avoid some big fucking argument about why I wasn't cooking. So, when I became a single woman again, I quit cooking. Every meal I didn't cook was actually cause for a small celebration. Each night at 5:30, I thought, I'm not going to cook tonight, and no one gets to yell at me for that...yay divorce!

It turns out, it takes me awhile to heal. Here I am, almost two years later, and I'm just now returning to the kitchen. I'm going to tell this to the next person who asks me why I'm not dating anyone. Dating? Hell, I just started sauteing again.

Alright, enough with the blathering...on with the cooking. I've made this recipe twice now. It's turned out well both times.

It's an extremely simple mushroom risotto with my notes in italics. It goes like this...

5 to 6 cups chicken stock
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup finely chopped shallots Except, I use vidalia onions because I like them.
1 teaspoon minced garlic Or, maybe a tablespoon.
12 ounces assorted mushrooms, wiped clean and thinly sliced, stems removed I use shiitake and portobello mushrooms.
2 cups arborio rice
1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme Maria needs to start a mail-order service from her garden so that those of us who don't grow any can buy her extra. The thyme I bought at my local supermarket tonight was beyond pathetic.
1 cup dry white wine Or, whatever white wine you like to drink.
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 cup finely grated Parmesan
2 teaspoons chopped fresh parsley leaves I skip this.
1 to 2 teaspoons truffle oil, optional
No, not optional. Absolutely necessary. Spend the money on this flavored olive oil. It's worth it.

In a medium saucepan, bring the stock to a simmer over medium heat. Reduce the heat to very low to keep hot.

In a large heavy saucepan, heat the oil and melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the shallots (or onions) and garlic, and cook, stirring until fragrant and soft, about 3 minutes. Add the mushrooms and cook, stirring, until wilted and their liquid is evaporated, 4 to 5 minutes. Add the rice and cook, stirring constantly, until the grains are opaque, about 1 minute. Stir in the thyme. Open the wine. Throw away the cork--you won't be needing it. Add the wine and cook, stirring, until nearly all evaporated. Add 3/4 cup of the stock, the salt, and pepper. Cook, stirring constantly, until the stock is nearly all evaporated. Continue adding more stock 1/2 cup at a time as the previous addition is nearly absorbed, until the rice is tender and the risotto is creamy.

This is going to take awhile. But, it's the best part of the whole process if you do it right. First, see that overhead light you turned on when you walked in the kitchen? Turn that off. You have a little light over your stove or sink, yes? That's all you need. We're not doing brain surgery here. Next, as long as we're standing here, stirring, we might as well listen to a little jazz. A little Diana Krall or Andrea Mann perhaps.

See that bottle of wine next to your pan? You threw away the cork, so now you have to find a way to empty the bottle. A little in the risotto, a little for the chef. Swing your hips back and forth as Ms. Mann or Ms. Krall sings, sip some wine, stir the risotto...I trust you'll figure it out.

Stir in cream, 1/2 cup of the cheese, and the parsley (if you're into parsley) and mix well.

Remove from the heat and adjust the seasoning, to taste. If desired, stir in truffle oil to taste. It's desired. Trust me.

And now, we eat the risotto and drink whatever wine might be left.

Ahhh...here's to cooking for the fun of it.
Cheers, friends.