Spring Break

Graci and I are on vacation at the beach. We are sleeping in until 10, drinking Blue Moon in the middle of the day, reading books that have not a damn thing to do with medicine, and we're swimming...in the ocean.

We are the only two women in this part of Florida who aren't wearing make-up and silicone breasts--we simply refused to pack them. We're also the only two women in the water. We're out there with a bunch of wannabe surfers, getting toppled in the surf. We have spent the last year of school trying not to get our feet knocked out from under us, and we have spent the last week of vacation laughing our asses off as the waves do just that. My poorly fitting bathing suit has also been a source of entertainment, as every few minutes I will look down to discover that a nipple has, once again, escaped. If Graci had a nickel for every time she has said, "Uh, your boob's out again," she'd be able to pay off her med school debt.

And speaking of my friend, I learn something new about her every day here. For example, the bitch is freaking obsessed with sea foam--those millions of little bubbles that float on top of the water after a wave crashes. She started by just pointing it out, "Look," she said, wide-eyed, "sea foam!" But, when I didn't seem to appreciate it, she persisted. Gingerly resting her hands on the delicate bubbles, she said, "Feel it." I did. It felt like bubbles. Whatever. She saw that whatever attitude in my eyes and noticed that several foamy waves had passed without my even feeling the bubbles. So, she finally resorted to just yelling at me, "Sea foam...DO IT." And by that she meant, gently touch the bubbles and appreciate their delicate beauty...NOW, dammit. And I tried. Really, I did. But, I was laughing too hard to DO IT properly.

She's going to make me stay on vacation until I get it right.

Right behind 'em in line at Walgreens

When old people come to the doctor's office and start to complain about how much their prescription meds cost, I nod sympathetically and say something like, "Wow. That must be really difficult on a fixed income." But, secretly... secretly I'm thinking, "Shoot me. Just fucking shoot me if it ever costs that much just to keep me upright."

And right now, I'm in the process of getting drunk. Really drunk. So that I won't be coherent enough to beg for mercy like a pathetic coward when you go get the gun.

As of today, I am paying ninety dollars a month for my prescription meds. Ninety fucking dollars for three pills. One to keep my vasospastic fingers from turning blue and falling off. One to keep my stomach acid where it belongs. One to deal with my brand new Eustachian tube dysfunction causing allergy.

Ninety dollars to save my fingers, keep my esophagus from disintegrating, and turn off the damn ringing in my ear.

I'll let you know when I'm good and drunk.
And then, you know what to do.

Clean fill dirt

When two people really don't want to study, and when they haven't slept in a while...well, this sort of thing is bound to happen.

Easter went something like this

My parents have a dog named Tess that went through a similar ear stage. She eventually learned how to make both of them stand up at the same time. We have faith that Logyn will one day master the skill, too.

Everything in its own time.

Planning for the future

I just visited weather.com trying to figure out how much snow is going to accumulate before I hit the road tomorrow. There, to the right of the forecast, I spotted a link that read, Check flea activity in your area.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered what the hell local fleas are up to these days. I clicked on the link. I couldn't help it. Turns out rising unemployment and the falling dollar have very little impact on blood-sucking insects. Think about that as you consider your retirement.

Enough already

Dudes, it's snowing.
It's March twenty freakin' first, and it's snowing.
You see that dollar store lawn chair? I'm beginning to think I'm never going to be able to sit there and drink my tea. Ever again.

Mother Nature isn't getting shit for Mother's Day this year. Not even a card. That is how very strongly I feel about that fact that it's snowing on March twenty freakin' first.

Rather uneventful

I know, I know...it's been a whole week since I posted last. I had to send my computer out for a quick repair (something I've been putting off for a quite awhile). So, Graci is donating her laptop to the blogging cause tonight. She said something like, "You need to blog! It's been a week! Your peeps will think you're dead!" (She has inherited her mother's sense of urgency about things most people fail to recognize as near-disaster.)

So, after a week, I should probably have something to say, or at least have had the time to make something up,eh? But, alas, not much happening here.

I have discovered something fabulous at Dr. Clampett's office. His nurse. When I first met Cheryl, I thought she was...uh...a little smiley. Very nice. Very welcoming. Very let me give you a little tour, kiddo. Just to be clear, I have nothing against nice, welcoming tours. I just don't usually connect with the nice, welcoming tour guides.

But, I have since realized that Cheryl was genuinely glad to meet me that day, relieved to see a little fresh blood in the joint. She wasn't faking it. She's professional and nice to the patients; but by the end of the day, she's looks like she feels--tired and a little sick of the sick. And when I first spotted that look, I shared it with her, and we became new best (doctor's office) friends.

Now, I make it a point to sneak little witty, self-deprecating comments into her ear throughout the day. Because she loves them. And because it's the only thing I really do successfully in this office.

Dr. Clampett continues to grill me on esoteric bullshit and ignores most of my treatment plans. My eval will probably be shit. Oh well. You can't win em all.

These particular pants zip up the back...

And that is when I fell passionately in love with this man.

The Feminine Mistake - David Sedaris

Time and temperature

It’s 6:00 in the evening.
It’s 50°F.

And, because 6:00 is the new 5:00, it’s still light out there. The time change was rough on me, but I am finding the adjustment well worth the extra daylight.

Did I mention that it’s 50°F? This is exciting, because I am broke. It cost me $161 to keep my little apartment a balmy 65°F last month. Someday soon, it will be a balmy 65°F outside. And on that day, I will begin stealing heat from outside, just like I now steal his light.

Because, at the core, I am a thief--a cold, broke thief.

Come and listen to my story

I'm writing this while listening to a podcast of Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me, so this post will probably sound best if Carl Kasell reads it to you on your home answering machine. (Yes, I download podcasts of an NPR news quiz show. I know, my coolness is astounding.)

I started working with a new family doctor this week.

Wait wait...maybe I should back up.

For the last three weeks, I have worked with seven different family doctors from the university. I loved working with two of them. I liked working with four of them. The last one moved at the speed of geologic time (thanks, Lolita, for that handy phrase) and working with him was a bit painful. But, all seven of them are good doctors; and, although I won't be going into family medicine, I enjoyed my time with them.

So, that's where I've been. And this week, I started with a new family doctor. Dr. Clampett is in solo practice in small town USA. His patients are poor, white country folks.

Dr. Clampett is a pretty smart guy. Some people think that you can say that of everyone who graduates from medical school. But, as my grandma used to say, not everyone graduates at the top of their class. Dr. Clampett did, though. He's got the honor society certificate on the wall to prove it. The year he finished, he finished on top.

I'm starting to think maybe that was a slow year.

Dr. Clampett knows a lot of facts. He still remembers that 1% of cholecystectomies end up with a biliary leak and that 1.5% of pancreatic cancers are in the head of the pancreas (esoteric general surgery facts he heard way back in med school). Impressive, eh?

But then, he talks about how he wants to treat a patient with a viral upper respiratory infection, and my head begins to spin in complete circles on the top of my shoulders.

The dude is a fan of nebulizer treatments. These are typically used for people with asthma or COPD. Or anyone who walks into his office with a cough.

You say you forgot to ask Santa for a nebulizer machine for Christmas? Don't worry. You can purchase one for (just slightly above) cost from the front office. He legally sells these and the drugs that go in them. His pharmacy license hangs right above his hunting license on his bulletin board. So, if the bronchodilator doesn't work, we'll just take you out back and shoot you.

And as long as we're on the subject of meat. Did you see that note hanging in the waiting room? Mrs. Clampett called this morning and said that Bob and Mary down the street have a hindquarter of beef they're not going to get to. So, if you're interested, let the office staff know and they'll get you the phone number.

And, not to linger too long on the subject of meat, but, while we're here, we might as well talk about the dried sausage.

The otoscope--the light the doctor uses to look in your ears, nose, and throat--has disposable black plastic covers for the end of it. The doctor pulls a little pointy plastic cover off the wall, screws it on the otoscope, looks in your orifices, and then throws away the cover.

Or, he puts it in his pocket.

Why his pocket? Maybe this doesn't gross him out. Maybe Mrs. Clampett likes to pick them out of her dryer filter after she launders his pants. Who knows.

What does this have to do with dried sausage? Well, the doctor snacks on a piece of dried sausage all day. An unwrapped piece of smoked meat. That he keeps in his pocket. The same pocket with the used otoscope covers.

Anyone else just throw up a little?
Come on up front. I've got something I'll sell ya for that nausea.

Flakes

We sat huddled on the floor in the dark, and we watched the snow fall on her porch.
We just sat.
And watched.
And talked about what it used to feel like when we were little. About how it still sometimes feels like quiet magic when we see the first good snow of the year. This was not that snow, not the first. But, as we sat there together, magic came...slowly.

She pointed to a flake, shining in the porch light and said, "See that one? That one is really pretty."

And, even though I probably wasn't looking at the very same tiny flake, I nodded and said, "Yeah. And look at that one. It has very delicate pointy parts. I wonder how it made it all the way down here in one piece..."

She said, "Sometimes, I wish I was six years old again."

I said, "Sometimes, when I'm with you, I feel like I am."

"Yeah," she smiled. "Me too."

On we sat. And watched the snow. And pointed at our favorite flakes. And talked about how life is long and things change. And you never know. But, we decided we are sure of something...we keep the friends we're meant to keep.

And we are meant to keep.

Being of not so sound mind

This migraine is slowly eating my brain. It started two days ago. A couple hours before the actual head pain set in, I was in a room with a woman and her two daughters. The older daughter had fallen playing broom ball. "People have died playing this game," the mother and daughter said. And then, because apparently I didn't have the appropriate look of shock and grab the crash cart horror, they yelled, "Died!" For emphasis.

It was a close call, but daughter did not, in fact, die. She had a knee strain, an injury that, even when acquired during full contact broom ball, is rarely fatal. As the two of them tried to convince me that despite a relatively unimpressive exam, she could, at any moment, leave this mortal coil, the younger daughter danced around me. Danced around me chirping. It was like a giant, blonde bird was in the room.

And in the middle of my migraine aura, I could have sworn to you that all of this--the woman, her half-dead daughter, the bird--were all talking directly into my brain.

I knew this kid with autism who would, on occasion, retreat to a corner to cradle the sides of his head in his hands and rock. I never really understood that. As I was sitting there in that exam room, I suddenly thought, huh...maybe this is what it sounds like in his head.


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The primaries in Ohio and Texas are over. Clinton made a comeback but still won't have a majority of pledged delegates come convention time. The super-delegates in the party of voter rights should not overturn the voters' choice. This strikes me as a...duh.

But, Clinton should be Obama's running mate. They both have talents we need. And, I think they could use each other to take down McCain in November. They could start by saying, "Mr. McCain thinks that Iraq is a winnable war. The old man is clearly delusional."

Plus, that works out well for me, because I like both of them. And, when Obama's done, I can vote for Clinton for president. See...if they run together, I could be happy with the commander-in-chief for the next 16 years.

My head feels better already.

It's time

Ohioans and Texans,
get your asses off my blog and go vote!

Go watch...

this. Please.

Studying tea leaves