Apparently I’m a glass 95% empty kinda gal

Never to be underestimated is my consistent ability to hone in on that which could potentially be spilled.

Within the last 48 hours, I’ve managed to…

…empty the very red, and very carpet-staining contents of an entire glass of wine onto the carpet in my bedroom.
…topple over a freshly opened bottle of beer, also onto the carpet in my bedroom (though, sadly, not in the same location as the red wine…that might have actually helped dilute out the cabernet).
…drain my travel mug of nearly every last drop of my morning green tea into the small compartment in my car that holds my various hospital ID badges, assorted pens, my pager, and a few old triple A batteries.

And I was sober for every single deluge.

I think I missed my calling as the fourth of the Three Stooges. Either that, or I am just not cut out to be an optimist.

Supporting evidence for the argument that I have bad wazoo karma

There are two people who I don’t particularly enjoy visiting. One is the dentist and the other is the gynecologist. This has largely to do with the fact that the dentist tends to stick cold, metal instruments into my mouth and the gynecologist tends to stick cold, metal instruments into my wazoo.¹ If I had to rank how I’d prefer to spend my time, spending it with either of these two individuals would go right under performing a trapeze act while suspended from fish hooks looped through my eyelids…which, incidentally, I haven’t tried yet, but only because I’ve been a bit busy. I hear it’s a total rush.

The only reason I bring this up is because I had to visit the gyno last week for an annual exam. Apparently, there were many a ladyfolk in stirrups that morning, as there was a bit of a wait for the doc. And as I lay there reclined on the cold, disinfected (I hope!) exam table, naked except for a remarkably large paper napkin, I looked back on all of my gynecologic experiences over the last decade. As luck should have it, all of my gynos have been almost exclusively men. And not for any particular reason other than they always seem to have more appointments available. Which is not surprising…women tend to want to see women for matters of the snatch. Me? I’m simply not that discriminating.

It’s a wonder, though, that I’m not…especially when one considers my very first experience with a male gynecologist. It still goes down in history as one of my most embarrassing moments ever. I was 19 and similarly reclined on a similar table in a similar exam room with the same Eau D’disinfectant. The paper napkin was much, much smaller, though. (Lucky for me, so was my ass.) I don’t think I breathed during the entire exam. The resulting cerebral hypoxia, coupled with the vivid images conjured by my gynecologist’s lengthy explanation of how he thought we should shove a few trocars into my abdomen to laparascopically diagnose the endometriosis he thought I had, culminated in me passing out. I came to with the paper napkin having flopped completely open (rendering me completely exposed) with my right upper and lower extremities dangling limply over the side of the exam table (crotch facing my gyno’s direct line of sight), with the nurse shoving smelling salts up my nose. They might have presented me with the Award for the Patient With The Most Theatrically Impressive Nude Syncopal Episode had I ever gone back to claim it. I didn’t. Ever.

For several years after that, just for the sake of convenience, I went to the gynecologist who my mother worked for as a nurse. At first, I thought it might not be the wisest idea, given that my mother would have easy access to my medical records. I was sure she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to take a peak into my sex life. So I repeatedly assured Dr. Williams that when I went out hooking on Friday nights, and then on to my sex show at Whips, Chains & Trapezes on Saturday nights, I’d always use protection…he nodded, unphased, and noted it in my medical chart for her reading pleasure.

Then, I started residency. And, again, for the sake of convenience, I thought it best to just go see a gynecologist who worked in the clinic building adjacent to the hospital where I worked. That way, I could just pop over in between OR cases. This seemed like a good idea at the time. It ceased to be a good idea about six months after the appointment, when I was scrubbed in on a complicated colon cancer case. We called an intraoperative OB/GYN consult for some input on a rather suspicious looking ovarian lesion on the patient who’s colon cancer we were resecting. And who scrubs in but the very gyno who ventured down into my nether regions just six months before! This would have been fine, except he kept looking at me from across the OR table. After about five minutes of curious glances, he finally said, “You look extremely familiar…have I met you somewhere before?” My general surgery attending peered up from the fungating colonic lesion in his hands and, despite the mask over his mouth, I could see the smirk in his eyes. Likewise, I was fairly sure that my crimson face could be seen despite my mask. After a few seconds, during which I regained my composure, I looked at our consulting gynecologist and said, “Yeah, I think you gave my cervix a clean bill of health about six months ago. I'm flattered I was so memorable.”

So, that was the end of that! And last week, as I lay there on the exam table waiting for my new, and hopefully more tactful, gynecologist to walk in, I crossed my fingers in the hopes that the visit would go seamlessly, and in the very least, without a syncopal episode.

Then.

In walked perhaps the best looking gynecologist on the planet. Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes, chiseled face, medium/muscular build. NOT the middle aged, mormon, paternal dork with 9 children I was hoping for. For the love of crotches, this guy shouldn't BE a gynecologist, he should PLAY one on TV.

Me and my vagina just don’t have very good luck with gynecologists.

1. Wazoo – one of the many non-medical words for vagina that I consider an acceptable substitution. This one came from a friend of mine who, incidentally, is a gynecologist. His daughter had to stand up in front of her kindergarten class to say what her parents did for a living…when it was her turn, she stood up and said: “My mommy stays at home to take care of my sister while my daddy looks at bellies and wazoos all day long.” Needless to say, her dad had the most impressive profession out of all her classmates’ parents.

Our growing compendium of incidents involving automotive retardation...

Heretofore, it was thought, even proclaimed!, that I was a bad driver. I think it bears documenting here and now, that I am not alone in my vehicular ineptitude.

The Brit, using the precision and exactness acquired from years of pulling out of the same driveway every morning for five years, recently managed to scrape and then yank the rear bumper off of Vinja’s car with the front end of his Mini.

This would be considered a momentary lapse in a previously impeccable driving record…except he’d, just months before, careened right into the driveway gate, thus successfully and permanently dislocating its several rusted joints.

Prior to that, he’d destroyed the front bumper of our rental car while pulling out of the carport of our lodge in Namibia.

Prior to that, he’d lurched headlong into a deer on the freeway.

I’m not saying I don’t deserve being mocked for cracking my driver’s side rearview mirror while pulling out of a parking garage or for denting the passenger side of my car with the driver’s side rearview mirror of another car while attempting to parallel park on a hill…but I’m just saying…

Take a bow with me, my dear Brit!

It’s a wonder either one of us manages to get out of the driveway most days.

Don't get me wrong, I love my boss...I just don't LOVE my boss!

This morning, I had a meeting with my boss. And it was high time we had one; it’d been a few weeks. This is not altogether uncommon as she's about as hard to pin down as a greased up pig at a county fair. Five minutes into my shpeal about some of the pathology data from one of the clinical breast cancer trials that we’re running, she interrupted me…

“By the way, thank you SO much for the bouquet,” she said.

“The bouquet?”

And then, wistfully and with her hand placed gently over her heart, “It was beautiful. But I especially loved the quote the most.”

“The quote?” At this point I was thoroughly confused.

“Go on,” she said, indicating that I should proceed with what I’d been discussing before the interruption.

“Uh, right, ok so…” And I continued on. I had a lot to cover, and considering I had no idea what she was talking about, I flippantly disregarded her bizarrely misplaced references to flora and literature.

A short while later, I got back to my desk. That is when it hit me. And BOY did it hit me. I immediately reached for my cell phone and sent the following text message to The Brit:

“I just had a meeting with my boss. I think I just located the final destination of those elusive Valentine’s Day flowers you attempted to have delivered to me at the office. She said she especially loved the quote. So…what sweet nothing did I just send to my dear boss?”

To which he responded:

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." -Toulouse

You have taught me so much and given me even more. I love you with everything I have, I am so grateful and am so happy to be with you. Love, The Brit

Oh dear.

Am I getting too old for this?

Thursday
Came home from work and spent a good portion of the evening in the kitchen making two Cuban flans in preparation for this Sunday’s party (the annual Oscars party The Brit and I host).

Friday
Came home from work. Went with The Brit to two different grocery stores to buy the obnoxious amount of groceries needed for the Oscars party menu. Did this til 10pm. Then, spent what was left of the evening in the kitchen making a Chocolate-Raspberry Mousse Cake.¹ Did this til 1:30 AM. Then…packed. Went to bed at 2 AM.

Saturday
Got on a plane to San Diego at 7:15 AM, leaving The Brit behind to do a full day of cooking by himself. Ran ceaselessly around San Diego with The Mexican Ho² in preparation for her 30^th birthday party that evening. This entailed picking up enough tortillas to feed both the Mexican AND the Irish sides of her family morning, noon and night for roughly a week, inhaling a quick breakfast, taking a trip to the nail salon for a manicure and pedicure (she’s kind of a Diva), picking up our favorite Italian Ho at the airport, getting the Mexican Ho’s makeup done at Bobbi Brown (hey, she didn’t get the Diva title accidentally), dressing up, and finally…partying. In her parent’s lavishly done-up back yard…complete with lights, papel picado, a Mariachi band, a piñata, a DJ, a rented dance floor, a rented deluxe porta-potty, 80 or so of her closest friends and family (including an abuelita who makes one mean tamale) and enough beer, wine and sangria to permanently damage the livers of everyone in attendance. It was a Treintañera the caliber of which more than made up for the fact that she'd never had the more traditional coming-of-age Quinceañera party. And we were sure to celebrate it Spanglish style, in honor of her Mexican Irishness. (Or is it Irish Mexican-ness?) Feliz birthday, mi Ho Mexicana…estoy tan happy que I was able to venir to your party! Espero que you enjoyed it…because I sure lo disfrute! Besos y hugs!

Sunday
Got on plane back to SF at 6:20 AM. Arrived home at 8 AM to find The Brit, in the kitchen, experiencing a palpable bout of uncharacteristic panic. Which was weird. He never stresses. In fact, he’s often so completely level-headed and reasonable that it’s annoying. I’ve mentioned this before. Anyway, there he was, armpit deep in a kitchen whose counters were no longer visible under a sea of dirty mixing bowls, measuring cups, teaspoons, tablespoons, cutting boards, recipes…having finished only two thirds of the planned dishes³ and currently mid-way through the painstaking assembly of the Vietnamese Fresh Spring Rolls. He was clearly only moments away from beginning to twitch and babble senselessly from the stress, so I took over the kitchen duties, freeing him up to go set things up at the art studio where we were having the party. I then spent the next several hours making ludicrous portions of Ham, Leek & Three cheese Quiche, Red and Blue Potato Salad, Smoked Salmon Squares, Chicken Satay Bites and the ganache for my Chocolate-Raspberry Mousse Cake. All just in time to make it to the party one hour late. But with all the food. Which I then spent the next several hours serving. In a cute cocktail dress and very uncomfortable shoes.

All of this was okay, and moderately manageable…until the very end when a certain board member of the art studio (the very one who approached The Brit and proposed that we harness the popularity of the annual Oscars party, which we usually hold at our house free of charge to the invitees, and turn it into a fundraiser for her art studio) started having a public conniption about the fact that the party hadn’t generated as much money as she’d expected and how it was all just a waste of effort and how she’d put SO much work into it all and boo hoo friggin’ hoo. Thank goodness there weren’t any bacon stuffed pepperocini’s left over because I might have shoved them somewhere unsavory. And thank goodness for the fact that I was too tired to shove one of my painfully edematous and throbbing feet anywhere as well.

Instead, I silently applauded my restraint (promising myself a nice piece of cheese as a reward) and headed back home with The Brit, in the rain, with a car full of dirty dishes to a kitchen full of filthy dishes. Which we then cleaned. Til 1 AM.

Monday
Back to work

I need a big nap. But first, some cheese...

1. I'd love to provide the link to this recipe but can't seem to find it online. Only have the hard copy in Bon Appetit magazine. SO good.
2. A term of endearment developed in our younger years...back when were too young to appreciate that ten years later, it might not be so fun to be introduced to a friend's family & friends and have them say: "Ohhh, right!! You're one of the ho's!!!"
3. He'd already made the Spinach Dip, Cheesy Onion Roll-Ups, Crunchy Chicken Bites, Chickpea Salad with Parsley, Lemon, and Sun-dried Tomatoes, Greek Pasta Salad with Roasted Vegetables and Feta, Rice Salad with Feta, Citrus and Mint, Stuffed Pepperocinis, Mushroom Shallot Quiche, and Pistacchio Brittle Cheesecake.

I'd like to thank the Academy for this honor...

It seems that in addition to the many surgical procedures at which I’ve become skilled during my residency, there is another procedure with which I am also apparently very familiar: Open mouth, insert foot. This, I learned at a recent out-ing…one in which I played a starring role. If there were an Oscar for Best Leading Idiot, I think I’d have a good chance of winning…

Allow me to set the stage with a brief prologue: Vinja decided a few months back to randomly subscribe to a few magazines to help out some neighborhood kid trying to raise money through subscription sales. One of the 12 magazines that seems to pile up on our kitchen counter almost daily (only slightly exaggerated) is Out Magazine. This, for those of you who don’t know, is a magazine that touts itself as “A gay and lesbian perspective on style, entertainment, fashion, the arts, politics, culture and the world at large.” Which I am ALL for as the men and women offering their aforementioned informed perpective in said magazine are greased up and gooooood lookin’. (And I’ve always been of the opinion that a little body grease helps get a point across that much more effectively.) A gay friend, Huerequeque, came over, perused the latest Out magazine, and found (amongst the smorgasbord of delicious manmeat) a great one-page article on how to select a good sake wine. He tore it out and considered giving it to one of his coworkers who’d recently asked for his advice on a good Japanese brand of sake. Considered it, that is, until he turned the page over and saw that there were a few small details that might ‘out’ him to his coworker. One of those details being that it actually said, in small print, “Out” at the bottom of the page. The other of those details being the full-page underwear ad featuring the lubed-up torsos of two fine male specimens (both with cullions of curiously large proportions) who were tenderly holding hands. We agreed that this might give him away. So he kept the ad to himself. Umm…I mean the sake article. *cough* He kept the article to himself. *cough*

Fast forward to a dinner a couple months later at which I am in attendance along with Huerequeque and some of his coworkers, some of whom are mutual friends, others of whom are perfect strangers. One of those strangers, Mr. Straight-Laced Protestant White Male Married With Children, was sitting across from me at the dinner table. The sake, selected by the knowledgable Huerequeque, was flowing. As was the conversation. And somehow, somehow Mr. SLPWMMWC turned the conversation toward the topic of Huerequeque’s proclivities. Don’t ask me how. All I know is that I had little to do with how the converstion started and everything to do with how it ended…

As if scripted, I said to Mr. SLPWMMWC, “Oh, me and Huerequeque go waaaaaaayyyyy back! So I know ALL ABOUT his proclivities!!!!” [Obnoxiously loud laugh.]

“Oh yeah??” Mr. SLPWMMWC joked back at me. “So you know about all the catholic school girls he brings back home with him?? HA HA HA…”

“Catholic school girls?? HA!!” I chortled. “More like CATHOLIC SCHOOL BOYS!!!!!” [Even bigger obnoxious laugh.]

Oh God. What a twit.

Now, in my defense, there was sake involved. Lots. (So, clearly I am the victim here. It’s all Huerequeque’s fault. For ordering such good sake.) And this conversation, including my blunder, occurred almost too quickly for me to even appreciate the momentary look of shock on Mr. Straight-Laced Protestant While Male Married With Children’s face. He scrambled, just as quickly as I’d gaffed, to change the subject. But by then I realized just how much of my foot I’d stuck into my mouth. The only reason my entire leg didn’t go in is because I have pretty sizable thighs. And though my mouth is big, my thighs are bigger.

After a moderate amount of gagging to get my foot dislodged from my pharynx, I leaned over to Huerequeque who was sitting next to me and whispered (out of earshot of Mr. SLPWMMWC who was busily talking someone else’s ear off about his two beautiful, straight, God-fearing children who loved sports and church), “Sooooo….I probably wasn’t supposed to have said that, huh?”

“Yeah, NO,” he smirked. “But I suppose it’s not anything that wouldn’t have come out eventually anyway.”

I nodded, thankful that he was so gracious as to roll with the punches. “Well, let’s look on the bright side,” I said, “I guess now you can give him that article on sake!”

In sickness and in health, with one itty bitty testy exception

A compendium of the most recent health issues I’ve been asked to address and/or examine by friends and family who I (for the most part and under normal circumstances) care greatly about:

Dochechka’s healing surgical incision. (Looks lovely, by the way.)

Abuelito’s lower back sebaceous cyst. (Not quite as lovely. Charming, I think, would be more fitting.)

Vinja’s through-and-through dog bite to the left ear. (Not kidding.) (I suppose that’s what he gets for ignoring all of my persistent medical advice to stop hanging bacon from his earlobes.)

Blossom’s local anesthetic needs for a very large tattoo. (She wanted to know if I considered it safe for her friend (a dentist) to do the anesthesia on her back. Considering there are no teeth on her back, I advised against this.) (Also not kidding.)

[Will remain unnamed]’s scrotal abscess. (I SO wish I was kidding.) (Thank goodness this consultation was solicited from long distance via the telephone. My advice to this individual: Uhhh…you should go see a doctor for that.)

This last encounter has inspired what will be the caveat to all future consultations by loved ones and acquaintances. I hate to have to do this, gentlemen, but from here on out, when someone asks for my advice, my agreement will require the acceptance of the following terms: Keep your boils, your scrotums, and your scrotal boils away from me. Sorry, ladies, I suppose to be fair, you’ll have to keep your ovaries away from me too.

In other non-scrotal news: I go to Japan tomorrow! Yippee!!

WTF??

You know those moments when you feel old? Those moments when you walk down the street, you see a barely post-pubescent girl who clearly hasn’t learned her limits with mascara or eye shadow (or lip liner) quite yet…you look at her purple tights under her unflatteringly short denim mini-skirt, her white tank top/black bra ensemble…and the pink camouflage suit jacket with which she’s topped it all off. And you think to yourself, “Ohhhhh, that’s what’s in these days???” Either that or “Does this child have a mother?? And if so, should I call her?” Moments like those kinda make you feel like the days between you, a girdle, and some daily fiber supplements are numbered.

Well, I had one of those moments recently. Only not with a 15 year old who was so Desperately Seeking Susan (at least not today), but with the use of the English language.

I was sitting in my office at work the other day. And, in with the overwhelming smell of hospital-grade disinfectant, wafted the sound of one of the interns saying (in a tone that is soooooo stereotypically Californian), “Ohhhhh Emmmmm Geeeeee!!!!”

Did she really just…?? Yes. Yes she did. She really did just say the letters “O”, “M”, and “G” instead of just saying “Oh My God.” She didn’t text message it. Didn’t IM it. She spoke it. Out loud.

I stopped just short of booking myself a nice room in a geriatric living community that has a daily domino hour in the rec room when I realized that I must not be completely out of touch. I mean, afterall, I DID know what she meant by OMG. Do I get partial youth credits for that?

Sure. Why not. And while I still have a few days left in me before I trip on my slippers and break my hip, I figure if I can’t beat em, join em. Right? What the fuck have I got to lose? Or rather, WTF?

No. Wait. Let me do this properly. Double-u teeeeeee efffffffff?

On airport etiquette...

I believe airports, particularly the ticketing counter personnel, can turn otherwise normal, sane individuals into crazed, maniacal, screaming lunatics on a serial killing rampage. I’d go so far as to say that I think they just might be able to dishevel the bow tie of even the most obsessive compulsive, anal and piously well-mannered oncologist at the Breast Cancer Symposium I just attended. And a disheveled bow tie, for someone with OCD, is arguably worse than serial killing. (As long as the killing is done neatly and in multiples of three.) I’m happy to say, though, that I stopped short of doing anything that would deserve life in prison this morning at the ticketing counter. I understand that while airport personnel have control over many things (like which atrocious shade of blue eye shadow they wear or whether you’ll actually be flying anywhere on the day you expect to), I can also appreciate that there are things that are outside their control (like the weather in Salt Lake City or, apparently, the degree and authenticity of their politeness). For this reason, I always try my best to remain polite even when the airport staff “has no choice” but to be impolite to me. But the shit storm...oh the shit storm from the other equally frustrated passengers this morning! My eyes have not witnessed a flinging of feces like that since my last trip to the monkey exhibit at the city zoo which, incidentally, was a very long time ago. Unfortunately, much of it was well deserved, as the display of rudeness on the part of the airport personnel was nothing short of astounding.

For the sake of propriety, and because I’m just a good girl, I don’t care to disclose the name of the airline by which I was mis-handled this morning. (But just to give you a hint, it’s name starts with a “D” and ends with an “elta.”) I arrived an hour and a half early for my flight back to SF through Salt Lake City…a flight I picked specifically to make it back with ample time to help The Brit out with the last minute details of the holiday dessert and wine party we’re hosting tonight. As a side note, this is the third annual holiday dessert party we’ve hosted, and like last year, 100+ people have RSVP’d to come. The Brit and I usually spend the evenings of the week preceding the party in the kitchen together making ten different gourmet desserts. This year, The Brit had to fly it solo in la cocina due to this last minute trip I had to take for work…something that weighed heavily on my mind as I took my place in line to wait for a self check-in monitor.

My turn came up and I approached the monitor. Despite all my efforts, my flight number kept coming up as “nonexistent.” Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute….I checked my itinerary just to be sure. Yup. I had the right flight number. Hmm. I flagged down an attendant behind the counter, who rolled his eyes at the burden of having to take the three steps needed to reposition his corpulent self closer to my monitor. (In retrospect, the first sign that things would go badly wrong.) I explained the situation to him and asked politely if he knew why I couldn’t retrieve my ticket info on the self check-in monitor. He asked what my flight number was. I repeated it for him. Then he smiled smugly at me (you know the smile…the closed-mouth grin while the eyes are closed) and said, in a tone one might use with a kindergartener, “That’s because your flight to Salt Lake has been canceled. Go get into that line over there.”

And that’s how I became person #35 in line to speak to a ticket counter person for a new ticket…just in time to witness person #2 in line self-destruct into a hysterical, babbling buffoon. She’d apparently just missed her flight due to waiting too long in the line….and everyone was gonna hear about it if it was up to her. (And, apparently, she’d decided it was up to her.) Oh jeez. This didn’t look promising. I inched forward in line for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, after several close encounters with hurdling logs of feces from the growing line of unruly wanna-be passengers behind me, I got to the front. I stepped forward and explained my situation. I got another smug smile from the She-Devil behind the counter (seriously, does this airline pull these people aside and train them how to perform this?) who then told me that what I really needed to do was go get in line behind another 30 people to use a TELEPHONE to call an airline agent to rebook a flight. This was quickly turning into a moron-run circus. What was the friggin’ point of my waiting all this time in this line?

“You’re kidding right?” I asked her, genuinely confused. “Isn’t that what you do here at the counter? Book tickets?”

Smug smile. “Most of the time, yes. However, today, we’re asking that those who were booked on the Salt Lake flight that was canceled call the direct line to speak to a ticketing agent.” She started to look behind me, as if to call the next person in line.

“Well, Pam,” I said, after a cursory, but deliberate, glance at her name pin, “most of the time I don’t mind waiting in three different lines in one morning. But today, I’m going to draw the line at two, and ask that you find me a new flight to SF.” I smiled smugly back at her. Closed eye for a closed eye. (Mine without blue eye shadow, though.)

She-Devil threw daggers at me with her now opened eyes. She paused, opened her mouth as if to say something. Then closed it. Then hesitantly began tapping away at the keyboard. She produced a flight to the east coast that would connect to a flight to SF, getting me in just in time for my morning coffee tomorrow. The anger started to erode the epithelial lining of my stomach. Making it to my party was starting to look like a bleak possibility. She looked at me apathetically and began to nod, about to explain that this was all she had available…and in this moment, I summoned the teenager within me. The teenager who, primed by years of probing questions from a mother with a Hispanic brand of motherly curiosity, developed an imagination that inspired some world-class lying. (I have since outgrown the need to lie. My mother is still “curious”, but adulthood has equipped me with new methods for dealing with her questions. Honesty. But surely I could be permitted one little fib today…)

“I’m the maid of honor in a wedding tonight in SF. I need to get there before 5 pm. So, that flight won’t do…I guess you’ll just need to look for flights on a different airline.” My, how easily we fall back into old habits!

She-Devil sighed while nodding and smiling smugly, only momentarily unlocking her gaze from the computer screen to perform the fleeting closed-eyed grin. (She was really quite talented, in retrospect! Such swift multi-tasking!!) After many calls and lots of typing, she found a flight through another airline that would get me back into SF at 3pm.

And that’s how I ended up being person #45 in line at a different airline’s ticket counter…

On airport security...

It’s a well-known fact, now, that as airline passengers, we are no longer permitted to bring our liquid explosives in our carry-on luggage. Well, I suppose this isn’t entirely true. Now we just need to be economical about it. We’re allowed to bring liquids, as long as their quantities do not exceed 3 ounces and as long as they all fit into a clear, quart-sized Ziploc baggy. I kept this in mind this morning as I assumed my place in the security line at the airport. The militant She-man guarding the x-ray machine barked at us to have our baggies out for inspection. So I complied by putting my face wash along with my entire makeup case into the Ziploc bag. She-man eyed my Ziploc. Dissatisfied with the contents, she unzipped the baggy and probed into my makeup case.

“What’s liquid in here?” she growled. In my sleepy haze, one that She-man only somewhat successfully snapped me out of, I still had the good sense to see that her mustache was due for a bleaching.

Too tired to care about the physical properties of my make-up (as it was 6 AM), I pointed only to the foundation.

"Um, NO!!" she retorted. She then proceeded to inform me, with scientific certainty, that I was mistaken. In fact, my mascara is liquid as well. Touché! She did, indeed, have me on that one. Oh, mascara, how you deceive me with your viscous properties!!

She then proceeded to investigate my face wash, which, admittedly, was in a 4.3 ounce squeeze tube.

"Um, Mam, this is more than 3 ounces. I'm going to have to confiscate this."

"But the tube is clearly more than half empty." Her mustache was starting to bug me now. (Note to self, schedule flights later in the day so as to have the resilience to deal with mustached She-men.)

"Sorry Mam," she was clutching my sacred face wash.

"Mam," I mimicked her tone, snatching the tube from her She-man hands. Then I did a Vana White demonstration for her, "There is quite clearly less than three ounces in this 4.3 ounce container. I'd like to keep my face wash."

We then proceeded to have a back and forth battle of a conversation, the maturity level of which was reminiscent of the tennis match fights my brother and I used to have when I was 6 and he was 4. "Mom, Homeslice hit me!" "No I didn't!" "Yes he did!" "No I didn't!" "Yes he did!" "No I didn't!" "Yes he did!" "No..."

Mom usually resolved those with a smack. One for me. One for Homeslice. This match, over the face wash, was resoved by the He-man head security guy. I wish he would have smacked She-man. No such luck. He did, however, plainly see that there was less than 3 ounces in my 4.3 ounce container. So, I got to bring my face wash with me. I resisted sticking my tongue out at She-man as I glided through security and settled, instead, for a barely audible "Nana nana boo boo!!"

As I boarded the plane to San Antonio, Texas, a last-minute impulse trip my boss orchestrated to send me to the annual Breast Cancer Symposium, I reached into my purse to hunt for my ticket (to confirm my seat number). I realized then that I'd forgotten to include my lip gloss in the plastic baggy for She-man's interrogation.

Lucky for her (and all of my fellow passengers), I decided to use the sparkly, rosey-hued, papaya-flavored liquid for good rather than evil.

No sooner had I snuggled into my "spacious" economy class seat and successfully wrangled my laptop bag under the seat in front of me (not an easy task), I looked up and saw Steve Young. A bit random! Perhaps only slightly more unexpected than that, he was looking straight at me.

He paused for effect. In fact, he stood there in all of his you-know-you-recognize-me-because-I-am-none-other-than-the-great- Steve-Young glory for a moment too long. (In my humble opinion.) When he decided the moment had sufficiently marinated in the stale, stuffy, artificially scented air of the economy class cabin, he asked, "Would you mind trading seats with me and my son?" He pointed to his circa-5-year-old son and continued on, indicating the emergency exit row seats behind me, "He's not old enough to sit in the exit row. If you wouldn't mind, of course. There's more leg room!"

"Oh, of course!" I said as I stood up to achieve my intimidating 5 foot, one-and-three-quarters-inch presence. "I often find that with my stature, I do need that extra leg room."

He smirked the smirk he probably routinely smirks for his autographed promo photos and then proceeded to watch me struggle to unwrangle my bag from under the seat in front of me. (Not any easier coming out than it was going in.)

So, I sat down in the exit row, Steve Young and his son sat in the row in front of me, and Steve's go-to guy sat next to me. The "excitement" of having a "super" star on our plane might have diminished somewhat over the course of the trip if Steve's sidekick next to me didn't have his head so far up Steve's ass the entire flight. He seriously spent the entire duration of the flight perched excessively forward in his seat...so as to achieve maximum closeness to Steve, I imagine. My attempts to nap were repeatedly interrupted by continual exclammations of Steve's brilliance and ingenuity. "YES, Steve! SUPER! Oh, Steve, that's a FANTASTIC idea! Gee whiz, STEVE, what would we EVER do without you?? May I wash your feet for you?? Perhaps hand-feed you your cheese nips while I fan you with peacock feathers??? Accompany you to the bathroom and wipe your bum with my nose?"

After about half an hour of this guy's ass-kissing, I started contemplating exactly how I might use my sparkly, rosey-hued, papaya-flavored lip gloss for evil rather than good.

me and my juicy caboosy

It was only a matter of time ‘til I wrote about it…the one thing about my corporeal self that I wish I could change. Some would wish for clearer skin, a straighter nose, bigger boobs, fewer wrinkles… Me? I’m a simple girl. I’d just settle for a slightly smaller bum. (Without having to give up cheese, though.)

Let’s talk about the birth of the Culona* Complex.

My first memory of my hinie being of any sort of interest to anyone was at the ripe age seven. Ballet class in upstate NY. My instructor would circle around the studio with a long stick. One day she gingerly smacked my behind with it and said, “Tuck it in!” Huh? I already was tucking! Further tucking while attempting to stand straight would require flexing my knees. I so desperately wanted to be a ballerina, though, that I tried it. The attempt was rewarded with a stick to the knees. What was a girl to do? [Insert ominous, foreshadowing lightning strike and thunder clap here. The complex begins.] I talked to Mamacusa about it. She sighed in understanding and said, “Ahh, yes. Your culo.** It was the hardest thing to push out in labor.” Thanks Mama. Culona Complex Defining Moments 1 & 2.

Next up: High School. Hormones + the utter importance of other peoples’ opinions + a clear ignorance of the fact that tweezers even exist (seriously, my eye brows were OUT of control) = the petri dish in which a healthy culture of teenage insecurity grows. Even for the most confident of individuals. And particularly when one has a father that says things like: “We should take some of that ass of yours and put it where your tits are supposed to be.” I know I’ve quoted him on that one before, but it’s a statement that still echoes through time to disturb me even in my adult life (particularly when I’m trying on jeans with little to no spandex, otherwise known as: the bane of my existence). CCDM 3.

My family has called me "La Culona" for as long as I can remember. (Though, to their credit, when I got my MD, it became "La Doctora Culona.") CCDM’s 4 – 50.

College. In between o-chem and biochem and physiology for my major in Biology, I was taking enough ballet, jazz and modern to fulfill a minor in Dance. So picture me, a 20-year-old culona, in a leotard, in ballet class. Then picture my 200-year-old ballet instructor who, upon commanding everyone in class to make a ¾ turn, looked at me through her cataracts and said, “…except for you, dear. We wouldn’t want the audience to have to see that derrière of yours, now would we?” CCDM 51.

Med school left little time for dating, but on occasion, I got out there. I used to date, do, hang out with an artist who, from time to time, would draw me. It was funny to watch his eyes go back and forth from me to the paper. I could always tell when he got to my butt. He’d let out a heavy sigh and mumble, just barely audibly, “…the impossible curve.” CCDM 52.

Since then? I’ve heard it all:

“Damn, girl!! You built like a sista!”

“That could take all night!” (That one from my brother, in reply to my sarcastic command to “Kiss my ass!")

“Damn girl, you got DOOKIE!” (This one truly confused me, as I always thought “dookie” referred to excrement. And I was pretty damn sure, at the time, that I wasn’t wearing a diaper full of shit. But whatever.) CCDM’s 53-55.

So there you have it. I’ve got somewhat of a complex. And no amount of cardio, carb cutting, yoga, or miracle butt creams are gonna get rid of it. Despite the fact that J-Lo, for a fleeting moment in wafe-dominated time, made it cool to be bootylicious, and despite the fact that spandex is now a more essential part of denim (thanks to the gluteally gifted Brasilians)…the complex persists. Don’t get me wrong. I know it could be worse…I could have two heads or four nipples or a rectovaginal fistula. But, I’m sure you can understand how I’ve arrived where I am today. I care about my buns in the same way that I’d care about a gigantic harry wart on my nose, or in the way that I’d care for an ugly child of mine. They’re mine. What can I do about it other than accept it?

Which brings me to today. Walking back from parking my car after lunch, in my peripheral vision, I see a van pulling up to the curb nearest me. I look over. An African American “gentleman” peers out from behind a descending driver’s side window.

What I thought he was going to say: “Excuse me. How do I get to Masonic Street from here?”

What he actually said: “I KNOW you eat’cho rice ‘n beans, girl! DAMN!”

What I actually said: Nothing. Speechless, I rolled my eyes in disgust, grunted to myself about how men are pigs, and scurried back to my office.

What I should have said: “Why yes. In fact I do. But I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.”

*Culona = Spanish for a gal with a large ass.
**Culo = Spanish for ass.

The drawing featured above was an unsolicited caricature drawn of me by a Cuban sidewalk artist who was so compelled by my voluptuousness as to sketch me right then and there. CLEARLY he has no sense of scale in his art as, and anyone who knows me can attest to this, my boobs aren't nearly that big. Not even close.

Study your anatomy, then talk amongst yourselves…

Just as I was about the step into the shower this morning, I realized my car was parked on the “Friday” side of the street. I swear, the topic of street cleaning always occurs to me at the strangest moments. Anyway, I threw on my long house robe and scuttled outside in my Chinese slippers to repark. As I made my way to my car, a gust of wind tugged at my robe front, and, well…let’s just say, if my early morning neighbors were enjoying their AM coffee by their windows, they got a little show. (Sadly, I got no tips.) It immediately occurred to me that perhaps next Friday, when I go through this ritual again, I should put on some underwear first.

Which is precisely why I’m appalled at all of the media chatter about Britney’s recent genetalia exposé debacle. What’s all the fuss about? Apparently, she’s been caught prancing around town with her “vagina” in full view on more than one occasion of late. This I learned from The Brit yesterday, much to my surprise. (Surprised because neither one of us can claim to have, shall we say, a finger on the pulse of Hollywood. At least not as closely as say, the wrinkled, albeit neatly manicure, finger of the repeatedly nipped and tucked Joan Rivers.)

There are a few points I’d like to make about Britney’s ladyflaps:

First of all, if you don’t want to see them, stop shoving a camera in her crotch.

Second of all, regarding the use of the word “vagina” to describe which part of her anatomy we are all being blessed with a panoramic of…I can assure you, unless she is also walking around with a speculum stuck up there, we are not seeing her vagina. More likely her labia majora. And perhaps, but only with a telephoto zoom lens, a good angle, and some planetary-aligning luck for being in the "right" place at the right time, only then perhaps her whole vulva. But certainly not her vagina, people. (Anatomy is fun. Study harder.)

Third of all, if Britney were embarrassed about being so exposed, it would have occurred to her, as it did to me this morning, to put on some friggin’ underwear. The fact that she hasn’t can mean only one thing. She wants you to see her snatch. Wooptidoo. Chics expose their beavers all the time in Playboy (and plenty of other equally reputable mags). I’m sure some of them have children at home too. Are we slaughtering their coochies as publicly and caustically?

So there. Look at it in all it’s hairless glory and appreciate it for what it is. Or don’t look at it. Either way, who cares.

Right. Off to go fight breast cancer. (Shall I wear underwear today? Hmmm...)

Lower your windows, Homeslice is back in town!

I’m proud to say, I arrived early at the airport today to pick Homeslice up. (Actually, his landing was delayed half an hour due to the thick fog and I arrived about five minutes after his original arrival time…but if we’re talking net time here, I was 25 minutes early.) (Shut up. I’m never early. Just let me have this.) So I spent a good portion of my lunch break today parked in my car, listening to NPR, waiting. I caught the tail end of Neal Conan’s “Talk of the Nation” segment and learned something that truly shocked me. Fox Corporation announced today that it was canceling its plans to publish a book and run an interview with OJ Simpson. Both the book and the interview would have been entitled “If I did it,” the idea being that in both, he’d give a hypothetical account on how he might have murdered his wife and her boyfriend, you know…if he were going to have done it. [If I were in a movie, and I were drinking coffee, this is the part of the movie where I would have spit out my mouthful of coffee in disbelief. But I was neither starring in a movie or drinking coffee…so I settled for waving my arms around animatedly.] I’m not sure what shocked me more…the fact that this concept even got off the shooting blocks and into a well-developed plan or the fact that Fox Corp, a network that never seems to miss an opportunity to stoop to newer and lower levels of immorality [Exhibit A: the show “Who wants to marry a millionaire?”], actually canned the whole thing! The former is, to say the least, a rather ill-conceived idea…and the latter is frankly, just refreshing. Apparently, Fox was getting so much friction about the whole thing from smaller affiliate stations that were planning to not air the special that Fox actually responded appropriately! What a concept! It’s not too often that I say this without disdain, but “Bravo, Fox!” Just as I was about to start foaming at the mouth about the fact that some thought this was perfectly good news-worthy journalism and how this is just poor, forgotten OJ’s way of getting back out there in the limelight…my phone rang. Homeslice had arrived. Woo hoo! I said a small prayer that every other network and publishing house follow Fox’s lead and refuse to put this crap out into the world…then off I went to collect my brother.

We had a lovely lunch at a restaurant near the house…I chose the lasagna, he chose the duck leg. (It’s a rare occasion, but today, he chose more wisely.) We caught up on the family opera (latest news, Daddio’s elopement off now, wedding back on), his recent work trips to Germany and Switzerland (in which he mostly learned how to say “May I have another beer?” in three different dialects of German), my work (the astoundingly endless amount still to be done in cancer research). He had me laughing to the point of a headache over his story of how he got robbed while in Mallorca a few years back by a German couple with a toddler and infant in tow. Too much catching up to do and not quite a long enough lunch break. As I drove him up to the house to drop him off and head back to work, he skillfully and triumphantly deployed a bouquet of aromas (one of which was surely the recently consumed duck confit) from the lower end of his alimentary canal…I lowered the car windows and thought to myself…ahh, it’s good to have my brother back. (Wait a minute…I have to smell him for a whole week??)

Holy Crap!!!

I think Poltergeist-inspired nightmares single-handedly destroyed two things for me when I was seven: sound sleep and clowns. I still think clowns are just downright creepy because of that movie. But I think I’ve just seen the adult equivalent of the scariest movie ever. Jesus Camp. Seriously frightening. It’s a documentary about Evangelical preacher Becky Fisher’s summer camp for kids. I think I spent the entirety of the movie with my jaw dropped…in utter disbelief. One of the summer camp kids was quoted as saying that he was born again at age five “because he just wanted more from life.” WTF?? Most disturbing thing about it all: it’s real. Fisher really does preach to children, children that have been guided in by their evangelical parents, that Satan is after them, that this way (and only this way…which is her way) is the only right answer, that they need to wage a war with all of those who are not believers. (She somehow also managed to include the sidenote that if Harry Potter had been around in the Old Testament, he would have been put to death!) Within seconds of starting her sermon, she has six and seven year old children with hands stretched towards heaven, bawling, repenting their sins, and speaking in tongues. My jaw is still open. It makes me think of the bumper sticker I once saw: “Dear God, save me from your followers.” Makes me want to go out and smack one on my bumper, actually!

The only problem…I consider myself to be a spiritual person. I find myself at Grace sitting amongst the Episcopalians with a certain degree of regularity…not just because it’s a beautiful church (medieval with lots of arches and stained glass, replicas of the Ghiberti doors out front) but because it’s accepting, liberal, controversial. The sermons are given not just by Episcopalians, but by people from numerous other faiths. Weekly forums are held on topics, religious and non-religious, like gay marriage, stem cell research, the state of Islam today. And the main guy, Rev. Alan Jones…I think the reason he appeals to me is because his sermons address real life…he asks questions about what it means to be human and flawed…quotes the likely and even the most unlikely characters (like Winnie the Pooh, Adolf Hitler, Pablo Neruda)…assures me that it’s ok to have questions about faith. Thank goodness for that!

Questions…I’ve got plenty of them. The religious ping pong I was made to play as a child probably didn’t help much. My Catholic mom resorted to follow my Baptist preacher of a father into his brother’s church…until I was 7. That’s when my parents separated. My brother and I were thrust into the Catholic church after years of Baptist Sunday school and I went through the very confusing ritual of taking first communion. I liked it at the time because I got to wear a pretty white dress. But I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I was used to my uncle or my father passionately screaming scripture from the pulpit, and here, people were whispering quietly and politely, taking wafers into their mouths, holding hands. And why the hell was Mary here all of a sudden? I thought this was about Jesus!? That’s ok though…turns out I didn’t need to understand it…my parents got back together. No more wafers, white dresses, or Mary. No sooner had I taken my first communion with the Catholics, I was taken back to the Baptists and submerged in a “cleansing” pool of water. My uncle baptized me. (And he held me under the water for a little too long, if you ask me.) We stuck with the Baptists for a while…and then the military took us to the predominantly Roman Catholic country of Panama. I went to a few of the masses with my high school boyfriend. I didn’t understand it any more than I did when I was seven. So I quit religion altogether. I went away to college and my parents tried out a “nondenominational” church for a while. Not for me. None of it seemed for me. Especially since it all seemed like a load of piping hot crap anyway…particularly when my uncle, the very preacher who baptized me, divorced his wife, his child and his church for a life full of the very sin he screamed from the pulpit about. Hopefully, God is as forgiving as my uncle used to say he is.

Now, as a scientist, I find religion a particularly befuddling question. I have no answers. Only questions. When I think of the complexity of this world and where faith might fit into all the starving, sinning, and suffering that goes on in us and around us…the last thing I think is that a child should be made to grasp it all. I can’t even grasp it for myself…I hardly think the kids in Fisher’s Jesus Camp can either. That much I know.

For now, Grace appeases to the confused child in me…the one standing out on the corner wondering whether to go into the First Baptist church, Second Presbyterian church, or the Third Whatever church of Whomever. Appeases me because if it’s ok for Rev. Jones to quote a communist within the church’s medieval walls, then there’s room for me and my questions too…

Keeping quiet
By Pablo Neruda

Now, we will count to twelve
And we will all keep still for once on the face of the earth
Let’s not speak in any language
Let’s stop for a second and not move our arms so much
It would be an exotic moment
Without rush, without engines,
We would all be together.
We would all be together in a sudden strangeness.
Fishermen in the cold sea would not harm whales.
And the man gathering salt would not look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
Wars with gas,
Wars with fire,
Victories with no survivors,
Would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about.
If we were not so single minded about keeping our lives moving,
And for once could do nothing,
Perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness
Of never understanding ourselves
And of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
As when everything seems to be dead in winter
And later proves to be alive
Now, I’ll count up to twelve
And you keep quiet
And I will go.