Drama Queen

I sometimes don't appreciate my kids as much as I should. When Miss H. has her head buried in her book and her finger buried up her nose probing for the monster booger as The Boy is composing biological symphonies, I suffer mild consternation (and no, that is not treated with a laxative). Then we have a visit from this Verruca Salt wannabe, which started as a movie date, and ended up being an all-nighter. It was instructive in that I have a new-found appreciation for my offspring.

HOLY SHIT. How can an 8 year old human child be such a pain in the ass?? Such A giant pain in the ass?? She is wasting her talents on me because she belongs on daytime TV. Someone please get her an agent, she alone could resurrect the afternoon dramas with her swooning antics. And she's 8. EIGHT years old, and she's sulking in a corner crying because Miss H. is not bestowing 100% of her attention upon her, then she's flopping around because her "brain hurts" and she may need to go the the emergency room because I don't have any fuckin cheetos. She's uncomfortable around the other guests (with all the bad touch overtones included). And my most favorite: "your house smells funny Mrs. Bunker; no offense, but it does smell a little funny." I guess it's not fair game to tell and 8 year old that it's probably her breath blowin' back into her face, but that's what leaped to mind. And food cooking will smell strange if you're used to meals by delivery every night. CRIKEY.

An Important Matter Of National Security

Being a mindless fashion trend copier, I have attempted the dress flat. Although they are kinda cute, it turned out to be a supremely bad idea . Now in addition to my entirely shitty week which encompassed both home and work, everyone in the office now knows that I'm short. This had been a fairly well kept secret until just yesterday.
These magical flats are not so much more functional that the 3"-4" heel which I generally favor. It's not like I could chase down a purse thief any faster in these than in my heels, and they certainly would not offer any kind of advantage in a righteous beat-down. Worst of all, they MADE MY FEET HURT, despite my rigorous attention to appropriate arch support. Besides, all my pants are the wrong length. So then, what's the point??

Paradise

There are some days when I just want to shave my head til it's bald and then go beat the shit out of an inanimate object with an umbrella. That is precisely what I would do right now, except I forgot my umbrella (that being one of the aggravating factors for my foul mood, as it continues to piss rain). I've considered shanking a coworker with my letter opener, stealing the change from the blind beggar at the "L" stop (who does have a cell phone), or setting fire to some of Archie Nutsack Bunker's twatty treasures; unfortunately, each of these options has shortcomings (prison, sin, sanitarium, intervention, etc.).

Why Why Why this extreme foulness? Mostly because Mr. Bunker has been kicked out of his workplace for 3 days on account of being a general asshole to members of the public, which frees him up to be an asshole elsewhere, mostly around me. Also I can't sleep at night because of his bookkeeping system bleeding into my life. To avoid the extreme measures mentioned above, I am trying very hard to focus on the positives. Let's see...
All loved ones alive and well.
Absence of obvious pestilence.
Nothing is itching.
Running water and heat in my home.
My hair is looking good today! (unless my assistant is just fucking with me, which could be the case).
Lil Rounds will surely get voted off American Idol this week!
dat's all I got.

Surgical Pearls & blind dates

What to do you if you have a few too many cases a little too early in the morning when you're all worried about making it to the office on time because you're schedule is backed up? And maybe you're also worried sick about the economic downturn, and you can't quite stop thinking that that "Girls Gone Wild" thing will surely surface any day now?? Not to mention that you've just confided a big secret about a blind date from a few years back with someone who is currently famous for all the wrong reasons?? and the person in whom you confided laughed so hard she almost made in her scrubs??

Well here's the answer, as devised by my glorious idol, Dr. PA, who was the victim of this trying morning:
1.You write out the last procedure (that you could otherwise forget), and tape it onto the front of the scrub.
2.Then you hope that your big mouth blabby blogging friend doesn't figure out how to twitter in order to notify the world of your blind date folly.
3. Economics snchneconomics! nobody's paying you to think about that shit!
4. Reassure yourself that you probably looked pretty good in the video (not that there really is one, but who can be sure about these things??).

Problems solved! fabulous.

addendum: looks like yo boo ain't going to be able make his reality show...according to the judge, anyway. shucks.

Idol at my house

OK so we watch. I'm a little ashamed, but at least it's not "Dancing With The Busted Out Stars".
We all have our favorites. The Boy, unsurprisingly, sits there slack jawed and glassy eyed whenever Paula's tatas are on display. Miss H. acts all huffy, lil Miss Moral Majority, and says things like "Put those things away Paula". Ok maybe that was me, but I was just helping her verbalize, she needs a little help with the trash talk. She's not learning any from that Harry Potter pussy who never even drops an f-bomb on evil Voldemort.
I don't really like Matt that much, but I'm hypnotized by that cyclops thingy on his forehead. I can't stop looking at it. It bothers me.
Miss H. favors Adam, because he's a very girly boy. HER WORDS. I don't care for him that much. He looks like K.D. Lang when she tries to look like Elvis. I think his high register which he visits frequently sounds like a screaming car alarm. He does have a nice haircut though. Although he's the apparent front runner, I think he may be upset by the 16 year old girl with the hobo clothes and dust mop hairdo who sings like she's been sucking down a pack of Marlboro Reds everyday for 40 years. I'm not actually dedicated enough to vote for anybody, but if I did it would be for her so that someone could help her pick out some clothes that look like they haven't been balled up in Adam's theater/drag locker for months.

Tax time

This is the filing system employed by Archie Bunker. He keeps everything, everything, and everything. Oprah could fill an entire season with his hoarding habits. So what to do on April 15??
I will visit my accountant who will ask me WTF?? I'll say I dunno. My accountant will call Archie's accountant and he'll say he doesn't know WTF. I'll write a few checks and hope that I don't get fired for being a nuisance. An extension will be filed, and the whole exercise will be repeated in October.




Today also yields the downside of vacation: the unpacking and laundry, dealing with 500 emails and returing a stack of phone messages. I should be doing that RIGHT NOW!!

On the upside, I noticed that season 3 of "The Wire" is now available on comcast. According to the blog "Stuff White People Like", white people like "The Wire". Acting on this hot tip, I watched season one, and as sure as I am a white person, I like "The Wire". They soo so smart over there!

You Are What You Eat

After a week of keeping company with Archie Bunker sans the pressures of everyday life, my fears are again confirmed. I really, really don't like him. Even when there is maid service! He sill has the big crazy on the brain during vacation.
Since our vacation was split between a train ride and a visit to Seattle where the natives consume dandelion juice, wheat grass, and alfalfa sprouts, Archie was constantly on the lookout for a hotdog (and not one made from tofu, lips and assholes only please) or a pizza, or some GD-effing bacon because he was soo so hoongery. I'm through with bacon. I can't stand the sight of it anymore after watching so much of it being jammed into my significant other's pie hole. Except maybe crumbled on spinach. maybe. (Don't even start hassling me about that vegan shit, Dr. FK)

Archie Bunker's endless quest for food added at least another 10 pounds to his already impressive bulk. He was thoroughly disgusted with the fare that ordinarily accompanies a hike up a hill so he fortified himself with such aggression beforehand that he could barely even begin the hike. In the middle of the hike he'd get pissed because he was walking up a hill, and at the top he'd be upset because there was no buffet, just a bunch of truant executives pretending to be hippies munching on dry roasted almonds.
That being said, I think I should buy him the bacon alarm clock pictured below and move to Seattle permanently.

Train wreck

Tomorrow I will get up very early, attend a trauma lecture which may contain enough gore to keep me awake, swipe my card, and be done with half my continuing education hours for the year.
Next, I will don my haute couture super hero ensemble, wing it home, finish packing for everyone (because PACKING is a procedure with far to much complexity for Archie Bunker to handle), tell Mr. Useless to get out of bed so we can go on the vacation of his (HIS) dreams.

What could a sedentary maestro of the remote control wish for on a vacation?? How about a Barca lounger on wheels? This phenomena actually has been achieved, and is known as the Amtrak Empire line. I'm sure a short trip would be nice, but we're going all the way. ALL THE WAY!!! TO THE EFFIN PACIFIC OCEAN.
After the first hour of the train ride The Boy will become insane with pent up 5 year-old-boy super buzz electric hair raising jangling bouncing crazed fireball energy, and he will probably require some kind of SWAT team intervention because he will most likely take the whole damn choo-choo train apart in order to see if he can find some naked ladies. Miss H. will be fine, she will build a nest in a secret hiding place and knock out the 23 volume Magic of Xanth series. What will I do? My iPod is fully charged and I have my reading list prepared. Archie Bunker wants me to help him write his life history because he finds himself endlessly fascinating. Little does he know that there is practically a book written about him already, right here!! although not motivated by fascination. hmm. Yes, he truly wants to dictate his memoir to me.
I think it would work out to be sort of like this: type, puke, wipe, rinse & spit, type. repeat, repeat, repeat. It might be worthwile just to see what is happening in the parallel universe along side of me.
Anyway, last year's spring break was summarized in the post entitled "oh Johnathon Where Art Thou" and is under the "favorite posts" heading to the right.
Maybe he'll find another new best friend this year.

Continuing Medical education

This is pretty much what it looks like in the lectures. MAKE IT STOP. Please. I have to pay a gazillion dollars so I can snooze in an uncomfortable chair in a cold room with a bunch of strange men. This is somehow going to make me a better doctor though....right? If I can sit for endless hours on my hurting ass while shivering in the 60 degree conference room without falling out of my chair, that will prove that I am indeed invincible and some sort of superhero. One more day and I'm shopping for a cape and tights. HELP. Someone please rescue me from this tedium.

The pride of Kenya

It's time to taper! Eat a lot, run a little and make crucial wardrobe decisions which will be overturned race morning. That is, if you are participating in this year's Boston Marathon.
I (and the rest of the Kenya B team), am not actually in the run this year. The postpartum stress incontinence is over with for everyone, true enough. So what's the excuse now? Oh, yeah. That whole training through the mean months of winter thing. Shit.
That means we can't really do any of those fun taper activities, which has given me a full on case of the sads. I will treat this by listening to Pink Floyd's "The Wall" over and over again in a darkened room taking breaks to watch Sophie's Choice and Resivior Dogs. That alway helps so much! Pass the beef jerky and the tissues please.

The R-word

There is a national movement afoot. In the face of full-on worldwide economic crisis, poverty, starvation, and most worstest, Madonna's attempt to engulf another child, up rises an issue of dire need and great consequence. We're quibbling about banning the word RETARD. Discussions are heated, newspaper articles aplenty, CNN atwitter, and so on.
I'm confused. Is it like the N-word? can a retard safely call another retard "retard" without fear of retribution or what?

I guess the reason I can't really take this seriously is because it seems to be a largely victimless offense (unless you're a bored advocate), as the group in question, by and large, do not care much about how they are labeled. You really can lob just about any insult at them, and at the end of they day, they are still going to be the happiest fuckers on the block. I am certainly not unsympathetic to those with, ahem, "cognitive disabilities" (my best friends have cognitive disabilities!), but I think their advocates are the ones being retards at this point in time.

Mostly I'm confused about what I'm supposed to call the residents during surgery when they are dicking things up with the drill. "Drop your hand you "intellectually challenged person"?? it is just not snappy. "Drop you hand you jackass"? too gay. "Drop your hand you big dummy"? lacks heft. "drop your hand you idiot"? This should be just as forbidden as "retard", as it was once a medical term used to describe cognitive disability, as was "moron" and "imbecile". Honest. Look it up if you don't believe me.