Also Ran

GOOD

2008-06-28T00:15:57Z

Good of you to stop by this final time. This one, singular, last time. I did promise a last entry, didn't I? I did. I wrote that I would post publicly once again, and so I shall. Mostly for a single person, really, but more about that later. I'm a bit late; about a year, to be exact, but here I am, posting, so who's to complain, eh? Who would complain. Both of the people who still check this blog, probably. So

Good evening! Or good night, good morning, good day, what have you. How the hell are you? What have you been up to (in 10 words or less)? I could read my friends list going back three hundred sixty five days, but only a few of you still post regularly, it would seem, and my RSS feed of dooced.com seems to dominate my friends page. Fortunately, I see a few of you still post with some frequency, and I've done my level best to review your entries on cooking, comics, and quackery. I'm big on the quackery thing, I am. I guess it's a

Good thing that I'm finally moving. Again. Out west this time, to a more populous area. Should be fun, my wife says. Should be fun, my daughter says. Having the two of them say the same thing can only mean trouble. But honestly. It really. Should be fun, I always say. And it will be. I'm done with schooling. I'm being let loose on the world at large, something altogether strange and not a little exciting. It can only mean trouble, right? I'm looking forward to the opportunity. I won't forget the

Good times we had around here. They were really fun, right? Now many of you have moved on; plagued by time-consuming pursuits that preclude LJ. For those of you who still make the ever increasing effort, thank you. To the ones who are helping me build my new life, thank you. But I have got to go. I'll be cyberpenning a blog as myself, of all things. Out in the open. But not about my life. Not at all. That was here, will always belong to this cozy part of the internet, even as it disappears. And thanks, dad, for reading but never forcing me to admit that I knew you knew about the blog. Let's keep this as our secret. I'll see you in a week. And to the rest of you, a very heartfelt

Goodbye.

Penultimate Entry

2007-06-07T16:09:56Z

So I have a date tonight to try and pack a few things. You know, like my life. Our lives. We're moving out of New Haven. If you even know where that is. I've spent ten years here, my wife nine, and our daughter all her life of nearly three years. A decade is a long time, regardless of one's age. I've known this town all my adult life, really.

I can't wait to leave.

Not that there's anything universally wrong with the Northeast. I just don't like the way people relate to one another here. It's normal to be rude. And obstreperous. That's the status quo. People are not around to serve you. There's no give, only take. Getting the cashier to stop talking to her friend and actually do her job is a chore. There's sighing involved. And a measured slowness designed to demonstrate just how much power she has over this minute portion of my life. Never mind that she gets paid to work; she's doing me a favor.

I've been all about the major cities around here, and it's a pervasive personality. It's "big-city" life, it's New England, it's the Tri-State area, it's the urban Northeast. Better to cut someone off on the highway to take an exit and force him to brake suddenly than to slow a bit and simply take the exit behind him. One has to get ahead, even if it's a single car length. Best to push ahead, to cut in line, to cheat the next man.

Some say it's the price of large cities, though it seems worst in the Northeast. Population density is high here. Such is life. But I'm tired of it. I don't want my daughter to grow up like that. I want her to know something about courtesy and chivalry. Anyone can learn to be mean. And human nature is inherently selfish.

Don't get me wrong, of course. There are fantastic people and places here. Unbelievable, unbeatable facets of life I'm glad I've experienced. But it's just not for the likes of me. So another year in another city - a better city, in a different state - and then we're headed west of the Rockies, wherever that might be.

I really can't wait. We're selling or leaving everything possible in preparation for our move. We'll start a new life. One which won't include this blog, something I've poured over for six years of my tenure out here. Such is the way of things. Maybe I'll write a cheery send off. Given enough time, I probably will. I'll end it with something of a surprise for at least one reader.

Then, with a few clicks of the mouse, I'll delete this blog.

I think I began writing this in February?

2007-04-06T13:13:19Z

I used to wonder about the insanely high pitched sounds girls make when their (predominantly male) celebrities of choice appear. I really did. But I've figured that one out now. I really have.

Work is rough. Usually, I come home just in time to help put my daughter to sleep, study until I pass out, and wake about seven minutes before my alarm sounds so I can beat the sun into work. By about two hours. Wicked.

A couple times in the past few weeks, though, there were lives actually saved. That's an adrenaline rush - the entire snatching life from the jaws of death thing. Small victories in a world of enduring defeat. Not enough to overcome the general malaise of constant stress and unattainable expectations of life in head and neck surgery, but something to smile grimly about before plunging back into yet another maelstrom.

But I've learned a lot. High pitched sounds, for example, are produced by raising subglottic pressure, increasing tension on the vocal cords by approximating them, then sliding one cartilage over another in a visor like motion to lengthen them within the human larynx. This, in turn, alters the vibration of the cords and the mucosal wave which transmits the fundamental frequency that is the voice. Yet this isn't the actual source of that high pitched screaming. It's just the mechanism by which such sounds are emitted. The source is something altogether different, and largely unexplained by anatomy or physiology or math or physics.

My favorite part of each day arrives on those rare occasions I get home in time to have dinner with my family. My daughter always squeals in delight when she hears me heading up the stairs, and is at the door to greet me every time. That's the fun part. One day, I arrived earlier than expected, and my wife chimed in with our daughter, producing a high-pitched welcome in harmony.

And that's the source, I think. Sheer happiness.

Rinse. Lather. REPEAT.

2006-11-16T02:40:37Z

My daughter is old enough now to have begun imitation in earnest. For the most part, I really enjoy this new habit, since it’s an incredibly effective way to learn useful things like new vocabulary and how to flick bad drivers off. It’s also endearing much of the time, since she’s half mastered words like zygoma, patella, Achilles, axilla, and masticate. Except all her “K” sounds are pronounced with the “teh” sound, so…well, you get the idea.

She also mimics what we do. For example, after I washed her hair the other night and used a washcloth to cover her eyes, she did the same for her toy duck, first covering its head with the same washcloth, then pouring water onto it and using her free hand to scrub it. Then she explained to me that I was a little too rough when washing her hair. She even wagged her finger at me and told me that I would have to sit in the corner next time.

Ahem. I wonder where she got that.

Afterwards, I mentioned to my wife that our daughter had scolded me for being a bit too forceful while lathering the shampoo. My wife told me she remembered that when she was little, her father was a bit too heavy-handed, too. Yah, I said. When I was little, my dad was rough washing my hair, too.

“When I was little,” my daughter said, “My dad was rough washing my hair, too.”

All Hallow's Eve

2006-11-02T03:42:33Z

Ten thoughts on last night:

1. My daughter is an awesome cheerleader.
2. I recommend the smart bomb version of trick or treating. Pick your targets, and minimize civilian casualties. Or pretend they don't exist, whichever seems easier.
3. If you can drive, STOP TRICK OR TREATING without small children in tow.
4. If you can drive, and insist on begging for candy, don't dress as a pedestrian, and say that you're dressed as a P-E-D-estrian.
5. If you can drive, why aren't you at a party? Getting drunk?
6. My daughter will never be able to drive.
7. Couple costumes rock (e.g., the recently married couple where the husband was a Catholic school girl and his wife was a nun)
8. My daughter likes to give candy away as much as she likes getting it.
9. Two decades later, I suddenly like trick or treating again.
10. Pumpkin picking followed by wine tasting? Perfect.

Jabber

2006-10-19T03:40:42Z

Doode, does anyone actually use the LJ Talk/Gizmo thing? Besides typefiend, who appears online right now. I'm just curious about this, because the Jabber system is totally cool (GTalk is based on it, and it's open source, and a buncha other things).

Oh and Vox.com goes public soon. It's like grown-up Xanga, or something.

Yah good night. Can't believe I stayed up an extra hour looking into these things.

The Foot Sees

2006-10-04T04:00:02Z

I saw a couple playing footsies at lunch today. Do the proverbial "they" even call it the proverbial "footsies" any more? Or am I dating myself, like the chief resident who told me he "booked" across the hospital when a patient coded? Unless people other than actors in police dramas still say "booked." But I digress. So back to footsies.

People don't just haphazardly play footsies. Unless, of course, they're particularly promiscuous, like that song by that Furtado chick, who really hit something with "I'm, like, (you know, so totally) a Bird" but then sank into the hot skanky hip hop pop whatever whatever but I digress. So...footsies. People, meaning "they," play footsies only as a means to an end. Because footsies is really rarely so much about foot play as it is brief bouts of meaningful eye contact spurred by a few awkward movements of a rather clumsy pair of limbs. Seriously. It's flirting in private while among others, and most of it is done with the face and not the feet. Basically, the idea of footsies is to share privately while in public. Kinda like writing, say, a public--um--"letter" to one's wife and having her read between the lines. Or something.

I wonder who'd actually do that. Play footsies, I mean.

Ok Go

2006-09-13T02:00:53Z

Once upon a time, there was this guy who discovered he actually liked to write. And then there were blogs. And then he wrote a lot. And then he didn't. And then he did again. And then he didn't. And so on, and on and on and etc. and on.

And then he decided to focus on family and career. And writing meant even less sleep. And less sleep made cutting heads and necks apart easy, but made putting them together again hard. And people like to have their heads and necks put together.

The end.

Hello. You May Remember Me. Or Not.

2006-07-26T03:06:19Z

There exist in this world (so I've been told) a great many conglomerates in which work is accomplished (or merely accrued) by a situation not at all unlike the feudal system (though not quite like it, either). Certain individuals with greater importance (lords and ladies, say) command so-called "lesser" individuals (serfs, perhaps) in the pursuit of productivity. Or health. Whichever.

One could, in fact, go so far as to argue that all civilizations revolve around such central tenets. One could, but I won't.

Even still, imagine (yah?) a corporate entity which exaggerates this system, allowing those more senior to wield a sort of absolute power in the apparent effort to, say, save lives and/or relieve a really nasty nosebleed and/or, you know, extirpate cancer or resolve acne or something. In order to aid these powerful (-mad? -hungry?) people in their work, a cadre of apprentices willing and intermittently quite able to manage every nuance in the business of healthy humanity toils with hearty helpings of vituperative instructions. Peons who live to work, and work to serve.

And finally, nine years after obtaining my undergraduate degrees, I'm on top. In a manner of speaking.

I'm chief peon now.

Stuck in a Moment

2006-06-21T02:17:13Z

My wife and I have been up late every night over the past couple of weeks or so for work-related reasons. Sleep has been in short supply, unfortunately. So we really haven't been able to stop and take stock of all the good in life. Apparently, there's a lot to be had. One just needs a moment to realize it.

My daughter woke around four this morning (the clock said three-something to my bleary myopic eyes) and decided she was not happy with her situation. Which is to say that she was stuck in a crib in her room while we were across the hall. She quickly made this known to us through a complicated, cryptic communication commonly called crying. Today was her turn, and sigh_ren was over moments later, though the communicaes continued unabated for the next ninety minutes, by which time I had finally gathered the necessary will to climb out of bed a bit earlier than usual.

Then her crying stopped.

I plodded through my usual toilet and began dressing for work. I walked to the hall closet next to the closed door of her room. After pulling out a dress shirt, I noticed a small hand making its way out from the crack between the door and the carpet below. It slowly extended towards my toe before taking hold. I knelt as I pulled on my shirt and held her hand. After a few minutes, she turned hers and clasped mine. Ten minutes passed, and I saw I was going to be late as I raced down the stairs. Not that I cared.

We all have our moments. I'd just had one of mine.

Compensating for a Lack of Taste

2006-06-05T02:23:54Z

So I'm, like, listening to iTunes and my playlist entitled "90's," and, like, totally digging Offspring. Except I have it on random. Transitioning from Dido to Offspring to Jewel to Los Del Rio to Alanis Morissette to Live to Garbage has not only jarred me out of the weekend, but suggests I should never share my full set of playlists with anyone.

But please: share yours with me.

De-Plane

2006-05-22T03:43:32Z

On a recent flight, I boarded with a Sikh gentleman who was more than a little embarrassed by his carry-on. Engulfed in a sea of dark and drab solid hues, his bag glowed like a beacon of color. Neon greens clashed with powder pinks to form a floral pattern not at all unpleasant to the blind eye - and for this, he received more than the occasional stare.

So there he stood, a tall, stately fellow with a perfectly staid blue turban and just hint of a paunch showing through his matching blue suit, fitting his gaudy luggage into the overhead compartment above our adjacent seats.

"It's not mine," he confided to me. To our neighbors. To anyone who would listen. "It's my wife's. The zipper on mine broke."

I nodded, hoping I appeared appropriately sympathetic. Because life is like that for all of us sometimes. We're usually in over our heads.

After our flight, I ended up following him out past the security checkpoint, where his wife was waiting for him. And by wife, I mean this incredibly striking woman who men openly gawked at as they passed by. She managed to make the pink and green confabulation she wore look good. A bit loud, perhaps, but easy on the eyes.

"Found you," he said. Then he laughed, "Wherever did you get such clothing?"

"Why, the same place I got the bag," she replied. Then she gave a half turn. "What do you think?" She looked at him, and then the rest of us; we in the audience suddenly realized we had places to go. I began walking again towards the baggage claim, but heard him say he loved her outfit.

"Of course!" she said. "And who but my husband would?" Later, I saw them walking out together, she reunited with her carry on, and he with an arm around her shoulders in genuine appreciation. I had to smile.

Because life is like that for all of us sometimes. We're usually in over our heads.

Old Time Revival

2006-05-15T23:11:21Z

Hey, LJ - oh, how I've missed ye. Well, no, not really; but let no one say that I didn't try to be polite, eh? It's just that life got in the way, what with the family and work and all. Nothing out and out fabulous, really, only a few minor miracles every day.

Did I mention my daughter talks now? She speaks bossy in two languages. She's mastered the noun-verb phrase, which is the most dangerous combination providing a complete sentence in the English language (e.g., "I do.") What this means is that my nights and weekends off are spent sitting HERE or nononono THERE or working out double noun sentences, such as "Papa, PUHHzz" (Dad, come right now, at this moment, even so, to put this 9-12 piece puzzle together again and again so that I can crumble it into its component parts and scatter them to the ends of the living room). I'm guessing she'll soon move on to three word sentences, but would posit she'd prefer adverbs (of which fast might be the favorite).

And that's about it. Well, not really, not at all; as I said, there were minor miracles along the way, and half my world is in flux these days, but such is life and Live Journal, yah? Only a little bit of RL ever bleeds into LJ, and vice versa. That said, I still love reading my friends page.

It's like a little of everything. Daily.

No News (is Good News)

2006-04-25T03:19:26Z

I had dinner with Famke Janssen last night at the Grand Sichuan in Manhattan. You know, Jean Grey in the X-men. That one Bond girl in Goldeneye. The frequent guest star on Nip/Tuck. You know. That one. The Bond Girl.

Well, not so much had dinner with as had dinner near, since she stopped in to dine with a fellow while trying to maintain as low a profile as her 5'11" frame would allow. So maybe she actually stooped in. But the idea is the same. We had dinner. I was inches away at one point.

Of course, I was only walking past her to get out the door with my daughter so that she could watch the birds outside fly by and eat soggy bread someone had tossed onto the sidewalk. But that counts. It does. And my daughter was EXTREMELY EXCITED about the birds and the fact that they might FLY BY at ANY SECOND! She would squeal and raise her hands in the air as if she had, you know -

...Seen a celebrity or something.

Like Father...

2006-04-03T01:17:16Z

When I was little (about four), my parents made me sit in a small, olive green booster seat in the kitchen corner next to the refrigerator when I was bad. I didn't usually mind, except on those occasions when only my mother was home, and she had me sit in the corner to WAIT FOR MY FATHER TO COME HOME. JUST WAIT, she'd tell me, UNTIL YOUR PAPA COMES HOME.

Sometimes, this would involve spanking. Every time, though, my father would come home, his glasses on, and glare at me as he listened to what I had done. His glare was frightening because he was (and is) far-sighted in one eye and near-sighted in the other, which meant his glasses magnified one eye while making the other look smaller. I could see the blood vessels in the big eye. The other one looked as though it was squinting. At four, looking five feet up from a sitting position, those eyes would squeeze my chest like a vise. I'd do anything to be good again and avoid sitting in the corner when my dad got home. Anything. I'd promise never to do it again. But then I would, and I'd be sitting in the corner, hoping time would stop just once so that my dad wouldn't come home.

I had to discipline my daughter for the first time in either of our lives today. She's learned to throw temper tantrums, a skill that will plague her the rest of her life, and I had to make her do what was right. Hearing my daughter scream and nearly lose her voice was like chewing my heart into a pulp while using a file to sand my eyes. But I did it. I never thought it would be so difficult. I want to be able to promise myself I'll never do it again. But I will, because I love her.

I bet my dad never wanted to get home on those days, either.

Her First Time

2006-03-16T22:34:41Z

"Whoa! Wait a minute," she said, and held up a hand. "You mean you're gonna stick it in? Now?"

I guess it was a fair question. We'd only met for the first time today, and that had been just five minutes before I had told her what we needed to do.

"But it's so long, and it looks really stiff!" she exclaimed. "Will it hurt?"

No, I told her, but it might be a bit uncomfortable going in. Plus I'd only be putting in the tip.

"How do you know it won't hurt? You haven't ever had one stuck into you, right?" No, I conceded, I hadn't. "And why is that front part, that little cap, gold?"

I didn't have a great answer for her, so I mumbled reassuringly. Something about gold being an inert metal and that people tolerated it in their bodies very well. She seemed to accept this answer. I won her over with a smile and a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

Then I promptly worried her with a question. "So which side do you want me to go in?"

"I definitely want the right side, of course!" she said. I could tell she wasn't kidding. I'd have preferred otherwise, since the other side looked more open, but I didn't want to push things. Literally. I shrugged and went in.

Or nearly did. She stopped me again and asked me how many times I had done this before. Several hundred, I told her, nearly a thousand. Then she wanted to know how long it took. In her case, I told her, it'd be a quickie. I left out the fact that sometimes, I was in and out for hours.

Finally, she let me in. She mouthed a quiet moan, then kept still. I was out the moment I finished, and gave her a tissue. She smiled and told me I was pretty good. Thanks, I said. I get a lot of practice.

Nasal endoscopy can be rather fun, in fact.

Toilet Resurrection

2006-03-07T02:24:22Z

The wife and I just repaired the fill valve in one of our toilets. I don't want to go into the sordid details, but I will go so far as to mention the fact that WE DID NOT HAVE A WRENCH. Just pliers, which are only good for throwing while swearing when plumbing is involved. I'm currently in awe of the power of a good adjustable wrench. My aching forearms and skin burns are proof of its remarkable utility. If we had one, that is.

But then we'd be plumbers. And millionaires, because those guys charge an arm and a C-note by the hour. How do they get away with having awesome hours, good pay, and casual butt-crack day every Friday? How?

The mighty adjustable wrench. That must be it. All that power in a spanner which fits neatly in the palm of one's hand. Which we didn't have. But managed anyway.

Excuse me while I micturate just so I can flush the damn thing.

Where AA = Academy Awards

2006-03-06T03:15:34Z

So I'm watching the Oscars despite myself, peering over my laptop screen to see just what that Stewart guy has for the show. I've missed the monologue, though. I'm glad he hasn't taken this too seriously.

I hope Russell Crowe doesn't kill him.

Kill Me Now

2006-03-01T02:47:40Z

Just between you and me, the only difference between us is that while you may be sick and tired, I'm sick of tired. And sick.

Anyways, back to studying.

Handle With Care (aka I'm Too Old for This Sh*t)

2006-02-22T16:51:41Z

I'm too old for this blog. I was talking to a resident three years my junior today when he mentioned that his 20 year-old cousin had asked him if he blogged.

"I asked him what a blog was. I mean, can you imagine? What would I do with a blog?" he asked me. "Write about what I ate for lunch? Give the sordid details of my diet? 'I'm really hitting the vitamin B's this week; especially B12, because I drink beer as my primary source of nutrition.' Ha! I mean...you know what I mean?"

I nodded and laughed knowingly, because I do, actually. Know what he means. He means I should quit and be gone. Because, I mean

...Who?

...Blogs?

...At our age?

Anyways, I'm having ground pork with bean noodles and bai cai with white rice for lunch. Plus Poland Spring water and a banana.

The Italian Job

2006-02-20T02:34:34Z

I took the train into Manhattan Friday in search of an Italian. Suit. There was a sale on 17th Street and...and something - an avenue. Whatever. Those of you living there know, and the rest of us don't. Care.

In order to assure success in this vastly ambitious undertaking, I enlisted the aid of my brother, a style maven, and his girlfriend, a recently recurrent transplant from sunny L.A. She possesses more fashion sense in the sole of one of her well-heeled feet than I will ever have in this lifetime. Or the next.

The two of them were gracious enough to spend time trouncing one fashion faux pas after another as we shopped. I nearly dropped. Dead. Actually, the experience was far less painful than I had previously imagined. My heart did not go into a life-threatening arrythmia, and I did not stroke out. I didn't even fall much, except for the time I had to look at two blue suits and not only comprehend that they were different, but actually choose between them. That left me in a fetal position on the concrete floor until the smelling salts were brought.

Man. Ask me about ectomorphic body type or nasal tip rotation, and I'll provide a treatise. Ask about denim and die. I'll cut you. It's what I do. But back to fashion: I am <<<< fashion. Still, the suit is hella cool.

Wait. Do people even say that any more? Did they ever?

__________________

*Above suit is only vaguely representative of the one I got. Very vaguely.

Reality Dating Game Show Scenario

2006-02-15T05:04:38Z

My ideal date began with a full day of work. That's right, work. I'm not one for having the usual prep time ogling in front of the mirror at home. Sail into the date wearing scrubs, I say. Scrubs and a grubby sweatshirt to ward off the cold. That's the way of it. That's the ideal.

And the girl didn't want flowers. She isn't interested in more flowers. She's had them in spades already. She's dried some, thrown out others, potted a few, and grown them from bulbs and bonzai trees. She has the bamboo, the shoots, and the little pebbles. Really. The gift of plant life is dead to her. She warned me in no uncertain terms that flowers are not to be involved this time around. Not again.

She also banned the following as urbane: jewelery, poems, perfumes, lotions, anything arriving in a gift basket, anything requiring electricity, and music. It's already been done in various and sundry ways.

And the ideal date would involve takeout. Would have, too, if the favorite restaurant had cooperated and not chosen this single day to focus only on their pish-posh in-house clientele. But any ideal date has to have a little hiccup along the way. And it was just a hiccup, because she decided to "throw a few things together" in the usual nonchalant fashion. As in a three course dinner made in 45 minutes from scratch, because 1½ year olds don't believe in delayed gratification when empty stomachs are involved. I just sat and pretended to put my daughter to sleep over and over again like it was an aerobic sport. I can't begin to describe the grilled shrimp with the garlic intangibles, the clever little tofu and mushroom concoction, or even reimagine the soup, but it was good. So was the Shiraz. Good thing that was just lying around. Didn't even have to run out for it.

The best part so far was after my daughter's bath, when my date had just finished reading our daughter's second bedtime story. The first story is always this one about the very diligent spider, or something. Which is cool, because my daughter can actually say spider in Mandarin. Which took me about 30 years to do. Exactly. But back to the best part so far. It was when she hugged our daughter while she was giggling and looked over at me to say, "See? Isn't this better than some stupid flowers and a restaurant?"

And she was right. Of course, that's not all of the date. Just some of the good parts.

%#$&ing Wicked Awesome! REALLY.

2006-02-13T04:42:56Z

I just wrote an amazing entry. Really. It was wicked awesome, which also happened to be the subject title. And the concluding paragraph. Really. It was amazing, and LJ ate it. It ate the links, the inside jokes, and the self-flagellation. It ate the metaphors about GoBots and Transformers, and it practically ate my wife. Because I was writing about her. And pens. Really. It was fantabulous, and manly, even though it had a little too much to do with pens. Damn you, LJ! AND BETA VERSION OF IE 7.0!! I want my entry back!!! It was

Wicked!!!! Awesome!!!!!

Really.

That's the Ticket

2006-02-10T04:25:28Z

I had an excessively difficult time today with a patient’s family, one which involved just under half the hospital staff by the time I got to the room. It was a headache I didn’t need, and I was chewing my tongue to dull it. I kept the smile running. After all, we’re never our best when a loved one is ill.

On my way back to the operating rooms, I chatted with an administrator who’d been called into the ruckus. She noted that it wasn’t a good day to be a clinician. I nodded in agreement, and she asked me to remind her that people were basically good. Tell me a story about a patient’s family giving back, she said.

This is what I told her.

During my intern year in general surgery, when everyone laughed at the new eighty-hour work week limits and told me I was fortunate to slide in under a hundred every now and then, I spent three months at a hospital which required a thirty minute commute. Not great getting there before dawn, but a nightmare leaving after a 35+ hour shift. One day, while driving home and thinking about sleeping the hell out of the rest of the evening, I saw a speed trap up ahead. Six squad cars were parked on the side of the highway. I was driving the speed limit, and decided to change lanes to let the car tailgating me pass.

The cop stopped me. I hadn’t signaled for TWO FULL SECONDS before changing lanes. I sat and clenched my teeth while he looked over my license. Then he looked at my scrubs and asked me if I wasn’t a surgery resident. Yes, I told him, I was. “Well,” he said, “My wife told me about you. You see, my son had appendicitis last week, and you were the one who explained everything to her, then managed to put the IV in so it wouldn’t hurt. She remembered you very well.”

He handed me my license and smiled. “Now you have a nice day,” he told me, “And drive safe.”

No ticket.

Our Boys Can Swim

2006-02-06T05:23:53Z

Just found out another of my co-residents is expecting a child. That's three coming THIS YEAR. We have a small residency, with only 10 residents. Including the three pregnancies, we'll have nine children (six of us are parents), total. You'd think we were a pediatrics or Ob/Gyn residency. But we're a bunch of boy and girl surgeons. None of the three girl surgeons are pregnant, of course. Only one of them has a kid (from well before residency).

Some double-standards like to stick around.