A cryptic message. Little red type on a slender white sliver of paper. Along with my lucky numbers for the day: 7, 33, 15, 17, 3, 4. This is what I pulled out of my fortune cookie while out to lunch today with two of my coworkers. Seemed more like an enigmatic set of instructions than the faux enlightenment or vague prophecy that I was half-expecting and not at all hoping for. (So why do I open these? Particularly when I know that most of the fortunes come not from wise little Chinese philosophers but from little-known non-Chinese Californian authors? Because I like the cookie and I'll read whatever's in front of me. That's why.) But alas, as instructed, I will not overlook an opportunity to revel in my good fortune. This weekend was full of it…which is different from what my usual weekend is full of (which is another set of stories entirely)…
I am not accustomed to having four days off in a row. For a surgery resident, this would usually require that (1) I personally hemorrhage more than about 50% of my own blood volume due to a bodily injury that had better not end up being my fault (otherwise my coworkers might think I did it just for a few days off) OR, (2) ofcourse, (since residency directors are not completely devoid of human pathos) a death in the family, or (3) in my present case… “pertinent research pursuits.” I consider several consecutive days off in a row to be a treasure. So, needless to say, this past Thanksgiving holiday weekend was treasured. And will remain catalogued as such.
It provided for plenty of beautiful sunrises viewable from my very bed. Despite the fact that I’ve been away from my usual clinical schedule (5AM wake ups!) for months now, I still have a knack (at times, a somewhat annoying one) for waking up ridiculously early. Some might refer to these small hours as “the ungodly hours” of the morning…but after the sunrises I’ve seen this weekend, I’m not sure ungodly is the term I’d use. If God lives in the clouds, amongst the Carebears like I used to envision as a unicorn-loving 7 year old, I’m sure he’d want a few sunrises like the ones I witnessed this weekend. Tangerines and fuscias airbrushed onto a fluffy white canvas of clouds. Absolutely jaw-dropping lovely. And for now, I get to enjoy watching these evolve into a fully blossomed morning whenever I want to.
The weekend of good fortune also allowed for hours of down time with Homeslice and The Brit…hours spent watching movies, occupying small corners of curious little bars, and conversing over several rounds of drinks. Empty calories, yes. But good stories. Good fun. Lots of laughs…a particularly good laugh at the idea that Homeslice showed up to a Halloween party a few years back in a snorkel mask with little arm floaties identifying himself as Elian Gonzalez. Priceless.
Turkey leftovers got a bit overplayed by the end of the weekend, so we planned accordingly for Sunday night. To the microbrewery downtown for yet another round. Only this time with some tapas and a flamenco show to wash it down with. I love flamenco + my boys love beer = Happiness. Despite the belligerent fraternity boy, Fratty P. McFrattimus III, sitting to our right calling out “ANDALE ANDALE ARRIBA ARRIBA!!!” throughout the entire show and distracting the dancers with the flash photos he kept taking of himself, I’d say the evening was a smash hit. (Note to self, bring injectable paralytic agent with me for future obnoxious McFrattimuses.)
The long weekend also permitted me to aquaint myself with a few more of my brother’s neuroses/afflictions/talents (all depends on how one chooses to look at it). I’ve already made mention of this “joint problem” that he seems to have developed. Incidentally, in a similar vein (which, much to my dismay, is no less foul smelling or boisterous sounding), Homeslice has also managed to become a bit of a paranoid character: “Hey, do you hear that? I think someone’s following us?” [Insert scratch and sniff fart here.] He’s become a bit overly religious for my taste as well quoting the book of Genesis ad nauseum: “He smelled it, and smelled that it was good.” [Another fart here.] And he’s become increasingly aware of some of the more rare and exceptional bird calls: “Listen…can you hear that? I hear the call of the yellow bellied sap sucker…” [Yes. Another here.] (For the latter talent for bird calls, we must give credit where credit is due...dearest Daddio. He had a knack for such calls as well.) (In other words, the art of the fart, was an aquired and critically acclaimed skill in our childhood household. Bravo, Homeslice, for keeping the dream alive so creatively.) I think this still constitutes good fortune??
Hard to say. But whatever fortune it was that brought me this weekend...I'll keep it! (Though I may need a gas mask if Homeslice carries on this way!)