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.
Showing posts with label giggle guffaw snort. Show all posts
Showing posts with label giggle guffaw snort. Show all posts
Monday, April 23, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
In which even MY high standards of vulgarity are trumped...
It’s not too often that I am NOT the most obnoxious person sitting at the dinner table, but I daresay I was recently, even if only temporarily, trumped…
…and by a Brit! Not The Brit of course, the pillar of politeness that he is, but A Brit nonetheless. I should have known that if anyone were going to make me spray a Napa Valley syrah through my nasal passages, it would be this particular Brit.
The Storyteller, one of The Brit’s close childhood friends (and, incidentally, the brother of one of my favorite bloggers), blows through town every so often on the wings of a Virgin. While mounted on said Virgin, he offers up the best “First Class Cart Tart” service (as he endearingly refers to it) at approximately 30,000 ft. While dismounted, and safely at or around sea level, he offers some of the best gay company on this end of SF (and by “gay” I mean both “merry” and “homosexual”). All of this simply goes to say that his brief visits don’t go a single minute without an entertaining story of some sort, all of which result in deep belly laughter and, ultimately, syrah through the nose. I should just stop taking sips when he begins to speak, really.
At dinner the other night, we stuffed ourselves silly with divine food and drink, all the while disturbing the peace with our raucous laughter. As per usual. Our dinner plates were cleared, just in time to spare me the embarrassment I would have suffered had I given in to my urges to lick up the remnants of my seared scallops and potato puree. Then, our attentive waiter handed us the dessert menu.
“Room for dessert?” the waiter asked.
The Storyteller’s response: “I doubt I could even fit so much as a cock in my mouth right now, no matter how much I might want to!”
I’m assuming the restaurant has stain remover for their white tablecloths.
Hope so.
…and by a Brit! Not The Brit of course, the pillar of politeness that he is, but A Brit nonetheless. I should have known that if anyone were going to make me spray a Napa Valley syrah through my nasal passages, it would be this particular Brit.
The Storyteller, one of The Brit’s close childhood friends (and, incidentally, the brother of one of my favorite bloggers), blows through town every so often on the wings of a Virgin. While mounted on said Virgin, he offers up the best “First Class Cart Tart” service (as he endearingly refers to it) at approximately 30,000 ft. While dismounted, and safely at or around sea level, he offers some of the best gay company on this end of SF (and by “gay” I mean both “merry” and “homosexual”). All of this simply goes to say that his brief visits don’t go a single minute without an entertaining story of some sort, all of which result in deep belly laughter and, ultimately, syrah through the nose. I should just stop taking sips when he begins to speak, really.
At dinner the other night, we stuffed ourselves silly with divine food and drink, all the while disturbing the peace with our raucous laughter. As per usual. Our dinner plates were cleared, just in time to spare me the embarrassment I would have suffered had I given in to my urges to lick up the remnants of my seared scallops and potato puree. Then, our attentive waiter handed us the dessert menu.
“Room for dessert?” the waiter asked.
The Storyteller’s response: “I doubt I could even fit so much as a cock in my mouth right now, no matter how much I might want to!”
I’m assuming the restaurant has stain remover for their white tablecloths.
Hope so.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
The definition of High Maintenance
I went with Dochechka to pick her Mamichki up from the airport last night. Afterwards, the three of us went to dinner. What ensued is not at all atypical of an evening out with Mamichki. She’s like a second mother to me, so I mean this in a very loving way: Mamichki can be a royal pain. And if Dochechka ever gets a bit grumpy or indecisive, I just remember that she got half her chromosomal matter and all of her mitochondrial matter from this woman…
Mamichki looked fleetingly at the menu and then tossed it over by Dochechka, “You peek for me. I dun’t know vhat I vant.”
“Ok. Well, what do you feel like?”
“I dun’t know. You peek.”
“Ok. You want the duck?”
“No.”
“You want the Ahi Tuna?”
“No. I don’t vant ze fish.”
“Okaayyyy. The Shrimp?”
“NO! I don’t vant ze FISH! I had big fish vhen I was in ze Spain…you cean’t even imagine how big! No fish!”
“Well, shrimp isn’t really fish, but ok. How about the chicken?”
“Fine. I vill have ze shrimp.”
“Are you sure? Is that what you want?”
“No. I dun't know.”
“Well, Mamichki, why don’t you look at the menu and pick something out for yourself.”
Without looking at the menu, “Fine. I vill have ze chicken.”
“Good. Ok.”
Mumbling under her breath, “But I dun’t really vant ze chicken…”
“Mamichki, just look at the menu!”
“No! You peek for me!! Why you don’t order me same sing as vhat you get?”
“Because I’m having the tuna.”
“I don’t VANT FISH!”
“I KNOW!”
Blissfully unaware the potential peril of entering the conversation, the waiter arrived, “Are you all just about ready for me to take your order?”
“Yes," I said. "She’ll have the duck."
Mamichki looked fleetingly at the menu and then tossed it over by Dochechka, “You peek for me. I dun’t know vhat I vant.”
“Ok. Well, what do you feel like?”
“I dun’t know. You peek.”
“Ok. You want the duck?”
“No.”
“You want the Ahi Tuna?”
“No. I don’t vant ze fish.”
“Okaayyyy. The Shrimp?”
“NO! I don’t vant ze FISH! I had big fish vhen I was in ze Spain…you cean’t even imagine how big! No fish!”
“Well, shrimp isn’t really fish, but ok. How about the chicken?”
“Fine. I vill have ze shrimp.”
“Are you sure? Is that what you want?”
“No. I dun't know.”
“Well, Mamichki, why don’t you look at the menu and pick something out for yourself.”
Without looking at the menu, “Fine. I vill have ze chicken.”
“Good. Ok.”
Mumbling under her breath, “But I dun’t really vant ze chicken…”
“Mamichki, just look at the menu!”
“No! You peek for me!! Why you don’t order me same sing as vhat you get?”
“Because I’m having the tuna.”
“I don’t VANT FISH!”
“I KNOW!”
Blissfully unaware the potential peril of entering the conversation, the waiter arrived, “Are you all just about ready for me to take your order?”
“Yes," I said. "She’ll have the duck."
Monday, April 2, 2007
Evidence that I've been hanging out with The Brit for far too long...
The Brit and I had a weekend getaway this past weekend. In celebration of the fact that this was the first time we’d both be in the same place for two consecutive weekend days since we were in Japan together, we decided to head down the coast four hours to the town of San Simeon. It’s a small coastal town just north of Cambria (which is, incidentally, a waaaay cuter coastal town), just west of Paso Robles (where there is wine tasting that rivals that of Napa & Sonoma), and just minutes away from Hearst Castle (where I’d never been). Yep. We had BIG plans. Plans involving sleeping for shameful amounts of time and then hanging around in bed until we absolutely had to go out (probably when one of us got hungry). With the exception of one to two hours which we’d planned to relegate to eating and wine tasting, the goal was basically to see how much we could accomplish in our underwear. (And if wine tasting were an experience that could be delivered via room service, I daresay we’d have ordered it. That’s how serious we were about this goal.)
We set out for the four-hour drive a bit later than planned on Friday evening. And nearly the entire drive down, The Brit tortured me with his “most frequently played” list on his Ipod (for which his car “conveniently” has a plug-in). Now, if you know this much about The Brit, then you know what I mean by torture.
What actually transpired is still a bit hazy, but I believe that after about two solid hours of movie score after movie soundtrack (most of which was John Williams’ ET, Star Wars, Indiana Jones…) I finally had a grand mal seizure and then remained in a dazed post-ictal state for the rest of the trip down. When we finally got to the hotel in San Simeon, it was almost midnight and some good, solid sleep (sans Ipod) was much needed.
We hit the sack and a few brief, blissfully silent moments later, our next-door neighbors turned on their TV (to a volume of 11 on a scale of 10) and then proceeded to go at it like a couple of sweaty baboons in heat…
“Grunt!! Grunt!! GRUNNNNNNNT!!!!!!!!!” he’d grunt.
“Shriek!! Shriek!! SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!!!!!!!” she’d shriek.
“Blare!! Blare!! BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!!!” the TV would blare.
“GRUNT!”
“SHRIEK!!”
“BLARE!!!”
“GRUNT!!!!”
“SHRIEEEEEEEEK!!!!! Shriek! Shrie—”
“BLARE!!!!!”
“Grunt!!!! GODDAMMIT, GRUUUUUUUNNNNNNNTTT!!”
“Shriek!!!! OHMYGOD, SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!”
“BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!”
This went on. And on. And on. But it only took a few minutes of listening to this pornographic symphony to put my finger on exactly what we were listening to. I was sure of it.
“Hey, Brit, isn’t that The Last of the Mohicans they’re watching?”
We set out for the four-hour drive a bit later than planned on Friday evening. And nearly the entire drive down, The Brit tortured me with his “most frequently played” list on his Ipod (for which his car “conveniently” has a plug-in). Now, if you know this much about The Brit, then you know what I mean by torture.
What actually transpired is still a bit hazy, but I believe that after about two solid hours of movie score after movie soundtrack (most of which was John Williams’ ET, Star Wars, Indiana Jones…) I finally had a grand mal seizure and then remained in a dazed post-ictal state for the rest of the trip down. When we finally got to the hotel in San Simeon, it was almost midnight and some good, solid sleep (sans Ipod) was much needed.
We hit the sack and a few brief, blissfully silent moments later, our next-door neighbors turned on their TV (to a volume of 11 on a scale of 10) and then proceeded to go at it like a couple of sweaty baboons in heat…
“Grunt!! Grunt!! GRUNNNNNNNT!!!!!!!!!” he’d grunt.
“Shriek!! Shriek!! SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!!!!!!!” she’d shriek.
“Blare!! Blare!! BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!!!” the TV would blare.
“GRUNT!”
“SHRIEK!!”
“BLARE!!!”
“GRUNT!!!!”
“SHRIEEEEEEEEK!!!!! Shriek! Shrie—”
“BLARE!!!!!”
“Grunt!!!! GODDAMMIT, GRUUUUUUUNNNNNNNTTT!!”
“Shriek!!!! OHMYGOD, SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!”
“BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!”
This went on. And on. And on. But it only took a few minutes of listening to this pornographic symphony to put my finger on exactly what we were listening to. I was sure of it.
“Hey, Brit, isn’t that The Last of the Mohicans they’re watching?”
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Warning: Annoying when hungry
I walk into Dochechka’s apartment to find her in a partial state of readiness for our lunch date. I perch myself just outside her bathroom door so I can moan, rub my empty belly and give her my best pouty hungry face.
“I’m almost ready, I swear. Just give me a few secs,” she says as she takes a blowdryer to the last few locks of her wet hair.
[Sigh heavily.] [Roll eyes.] “GAWD. You’ve had FORTY FIVE MINUTES to get ready!”
“I know, sorry. I’m running a little late.”
Moments pass. More hair is blowdried. Then, hair is curling ironed. Hairsprayed. Still more hair is curling ironed. Repositioned. Curling ironed again…
“You wanna know what I think? I think your hair looks hungry. I think it could really use a tuna melt sandwich right about now.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Look at it. It’s crying out for nourishment!”
“Okay, okay. But, really quick…” she runs into her room and emerges in a different shirt, “Do you think this shirt goes better with this sweater?”
“You wanna know my honest opinion?”
“Yeah.”
“I think either shirt will go with the sweater at this point because your sweater wants a tuna melt so damn bad it doesn’t even CARE what shirt you wear with it.”
“Fine. Let me just put on a matching necklace.”
“You wanna know which necklace I think you should wear?”
“The one that wants a tuna melt sandwich?”
“Damn straight.”
“Have I mentioned how annoying you are?”
“Have I mentioned how bad I want a tuna melt sandwich?”
“I’m almost ready, I swear. Just give me a few secs,” she says as she takes a blowdryer to the last few locks of her wet hair.
[Sigh heavily.] [Roll eyes.] “GAWD. You’ve had FORTY FIVE MINUTES to get ready!”
“I know, sorry. I’m running a little late.”
Moments pass. More hair is blowdried. Then, hair is curling ironed. Hairsprayed. Still more hair is curling ironed. Repositioned. Curling ironed again…
“You wanna know what I think? I think your hair looks hungry. I think it could really use a tuna melt sandwich right about now.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Look at it. It’s crying out for nourishment!”
“Okay, okay. But, really quick…” she runs into her room and emerges in a different shirt, “Do you think this shirt goes better with this sweater?”
“You wanna know my honest opinion?”
“Yeah.”
“I think either shirt will go with the sweater at this point because your sweater wants a tuna melt so damn bad it doesn’t even CARE what shirt you wear with it.”
“Fine. Let me just put on a matching necklace.”
“You wanna know which necklace I think you should wear?”
“The one that wants a tuna melt sandwich?”
“Damn straight.”
“Have I mentioned how annoying you are?”
“Have I mentioned how bad I want a tuna melt sandwich?”
Friday, March 2, 2007
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:
“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." -ToulouseOh dear.
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
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Just wanted to point out...you know, just in case you didn't notice...whatever...it's cool...
Over at It's not me, It's you, Dochechka (ahem, Innigma) and I joined forces recently and came up with a top ten list of reasons why one should abstain from the well-intended exercise of setting friends up for the perpetual and unavoidable act of awkward social flailing and blundering. A hypothetical list, of course. Even still, though, it should be avoided. And here's why...
* Dear 5 readers of mine, I know you have dating stories to tell. I know it. And yet, only one of you has shared! (Which was hysterical, by the way! Bravo Waspgoddess!) I beg of you, please share. Otherwise, Dochechka and I will be forced to exhaust all of our real stories and move to making stuff up. And trust me, when left to our own devices...well, let's just say it ain't pretty. And besides, there's just too much good stuff out there to justify doing that. Come on! Thanks, LCG
Top 10 Reasons NOT to be a Match-Maker for your Friends:
10. Your intention (to simply get him and her some action while they continue their search for “the one”) backfires (and leads to a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship).
9. In its off-again phase, he and she both call you, repeatedly, and make it abundantly clear how profoundly wrong you were to have EVER thought that they would be compatible. In any way. Well, except for the sex way. In which they are pretty compatible indeed...
8. Ok. So it's on-again. Again. All things are whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string and suddenly...for more, see Top 10 Reasons...
* Dear 5 readers of mine, I know you have dating stories to tell. I know it. And yet, only one of you has shared! (Which was hysterical, by the way! Bravo Waspgoddess!) I beg of you, please share. Otherwise, Dochechka and I will be forced to exhaust all of our real stories and move to making stuff up. And trust me, when left to our own devices...well, let's just say it ain't pretty. And besides, there's just too much good stuff out there to justify doing that. Come on! Thanks, LCG
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
In which I whore my ass out for $100/hour
A friend recently forwarded me the following email in the hopes that I might be able to offer its author some assistance:
Subject: Looking for a fit modelTo which I responded…
As a [insert big name jeans company] designer, I am currently looking for women to participate in the development for a new, fit, “curvy jean” in misses size 8 (height 5'5" - 5'9"), and petite size 6 (height 5'2" - 5'4").
Curvy jean is especially designed for a woman who has a small waist, with a larger seat and hips. Our aim is to develop the perfect jean fit for a woman who has this body shape so that the back does not gap when she sits.
Please note: We are looking for more of an "apple" shape, not "pear". A "pear" shape represents wide hips (from the front view), but is not necessary bubbly. An "apple" shape is one which is not wide from front view, but sticks out a lot from the side view. The model we need must have a bubbly "up high" booty. She is most likely African American or Hispanic…
Salary for a fitting is approximately $100 - per hour.
It has been extremely hard to find this shape of woman through a modeling agency. Please contact me ASAP if you know of anyone you think is appropriate shape/size.
Subject: The apple of myeyerear
To whom it may concern:
I can only imagine how difficult it’s been for you to find an apple-shaped model through an agency. I mean, you know as well as I do that none of those chics ever eat solid food, much less the carbohydrate-laden arroz con gandules that us Hispanic chicas eat.
I must say, it was with great joy that I received your email….as it brought with it not only new information (to think that all these years I’ve been made to feel like a PEAR when I’m really an APPLE!) but also a flicker of hope. You see, shopping for jeans has always been the bane of my existence. And your words brought tears to my eyes…tears of joy at the prospect of finally being able to find jeans, made right here in this country by real live gringos, rather than having to travel all the way to Brazil where they’ve had the good sense to put spandex into their denim for decades now.
Not only will you be saving me money, you’ll be sparing me the embarrassment and emotional trauma of showing my plumber’s crack every single time I sit down or bend over. And if this is the case, bueno...my apple orchard is all yours. (For $100/hour, though, right?)
Sincerely,
La Cubana Gringa
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Airing out the Dick
Last time I checked, I didn’t have a penis, a pair of testicles, or the innate need to constantly scratch and adjust said penis or testicles. So, as long as that’s clear, we can all rest assured that I am very much NOT a man.
Please excuse the seemingly unnecessary and rather brash declaration of my sex. It’s not usually something I have to announce outright as I tend to do things that make it fairly obvious that I am quite rightly in possession of a pair of X chromosomes. Things like: swoon, wear corsets, shield my delicate skin from the sun with a parasol, stay indoors during times of menstruation (so as not to offend the menfolk), and demurely play with the ringlet that always falls into my right eye. So I suppose I should cut Mr. Representative from The Particular Professional Risk Management Company who sent me a letter recently some slack. Since he hasn’t actually ever seen me. You know, he probably just tapped into some database of MD’s and assumed that I couldn’t possibly be a girl. A girl doctor! Heavens no! Must be some sort of typo…I’ll just go ahead and fix that. This must be what Mr. Representative from the aforementioned Particular Professional Risk Management Company was thinking when he addressed the envelope and the letter within to me.
This explains how I was the recipient of a letter addressed to a Dr. Richard [MyLastName]. Mr. Representative is trying to sell me professional liability insurance coverage specifically for health care professionals complete with “top notch legal counsel and toll-free risk management consultation.” Hmm. Sounds pretty good. But I fear I won’t be eligible once he finds out I’m: [whispered] a girl.
Here’s the best part. Wanna know what Mr. Representative’s first name is? Richard.
I’m thinking Mr. Dick Representative will shortly be in receipt of a letter from a Dr. Richard [MyLastName] in which I’ve peed on the stationary.*
While standing up, of course.
* Don’t be silly. If Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it.
Please excuse the seemingly unnecessary and rather brash declaration of my sex. It’s not usually something I have to announce outright as I tend to do things that make it fairly obvious that I am quite rightly in possession of a pair of X chromosomes. Things like: swoon, wear corsets, shield my delicate skin from the sun with a parasol, stay indoors during times of menstruation (so as not to offend the menfolk), and demurely play with the ringlet that always falls into my right eye. So I suppose I should cut Mr. Representative from The Particular Professional Risk Management Company who sent me a letter recently some slack. Since he hasn’t actually ever seen me. You know, he probably just tapped into some database of MD’s and assumed that I couldn’t possibly be a girl. A girl doctor! Heavens no! Must be some sort of typo…I’ll just go ahead and fix that. This must be what Mr. Representative from the aforementioned Particular Professional Risk Management Company was thinking when he addressed the envelope and the letter within to me.
This explains how I was the recipient of a letter addressed to a Dr. Richard [MyLastName]. Mr. Representative is trying to sell me professional liability insurance coverage specifically for health care professionals complete with “top notch legal counsel and toll-free risk management consultation.” Hmm. Sounds pretty good. But I fear I won’t be eligible once he finds out I’m: [whispered] a girl.
Here’s the best part. Wanna know what Mr. Representative’s first name is? Richard.
I’m thinking Mr. Dick Representative will shortly be in receipt of a letter from a Dr. Richard [MyLastName] in which I’ve peed on the stationary.*
While standing up, of course.
* Don’t be silly. If Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
A few too many combovers for my taste, but overall, a hootinanny of a good time
There is one solid conclusion I was able to make after last night’s symphonic performance of “Music from the Big Screen.” And that is this: the only others who seem to share The Brit’s bizarre passion for movie scores are those who are but one cardiac pacemaker misfire away from death. As we took our seats in the auditorium, I looked around, noting octogenarian after octogenarian (after octogenarian), and realized we were, by far, the youngest in attendance. Which was fine. It was quite good fun to hang out with the old geezers, actually. We all enjoyed a selection of Max Steiner’s music from Gone with the Wind followed by Maurice Jarre’s Overture and Suite from Lawrence of Arabia. Then, at intermission, we all got up to adjust our hearing aids, change our leaky Depends, and enjoy a digestive. Following the break, we were dazzled by Elmer Bernstein’s Suite from The Magnificent Seven, Bernard Herrmann’s Suite from Vertigo, and Howard Shore’s Suite from The Lord of the Rings. During that last suite, The Brit, having behaved for nearly the entire performance and now entirely incapable of containing himself, went ahead and conducted the symphony from his seat. After the music stopped and all the hullabaloo and hootinanny settled down (old people terms for excitement), we decided to make an appearance at the after-party.* You know, kinda like a post-Oscars party, just without all the celebrities. And instead of doing shots off Scarlett Johansen’s chest or Paris Hilton’s twiggy thighs, we just played several rounds of hard-core Bingo. But not before soaking our dentures, changing out of our 18-hour girdles, and taking our evening round of medications with some nice prune juice.
* And by “after-party” I mean a very nice restaurant in the Mission District where The Brit and I enjoyed a lovely dinner for two. And for the record, the music really was spectacular.
* And by “after-party” I mean a very nice restaurant in the Mission District where The Brit and I enjoyed a lovely dinner for two. And for the record, the music really was spectacular.
Friday, January 19, 2007
The Brit has died and gone to heaven
So, one of the things that I love about The Brit (and by “love” I mean “can’t comprehend anymore than I can comprehend why it is that I have more ass than I know what to do with and yet not nearly big enough boobs”) is that he adores, ADORES, movie scores and soundtracks. And by “adores” I mean…
He can tell you exactly what part of which Lord of the Rings movie corresponds to the part in the score when the flutes swell and the cymbals crash. (In case you’re wondering, it’s the part when Viggo Mortensen, that delicious hunk of man-meat, makes out with Liv Tyler. That slut.)
He can identify the composer for just about any movie before the opening credits are half-through. And when he does, he proceeds to tell you every other movie that composer did the music for. Which is useful information. You know, in case Jeopardy calls.
He considers it fun to watch movie trailers and guess which movie score they borrowed the music from to make the trailer. And when he figures it out, he shouts it out as if the correct answer was the only thing between him and a million dollars in prize money.
He considered moving down to LA to pursue a career in movie sound but just couldn’t bring himself to get the size double D breast implants and gossamer blond hair extensions that one needs to fit in down there. That’s my boy. True to himself.
He’d probably willingly give up beer for the rest of his days if it meant that the score of Star Wars could be the soundrack of his life. This is saying a lot, for his love of beer runs as deep as the force is strong within Luke Skywalker.
Anyway, the reason why I’m even mentioning this is because we’ve got tickets to go to The Brit’s real live Wet Dream tonight. In other words, we’ve got tickets to go to a symphony that is performing “Music from the Big Screen.” Don’t look at me! I didn’t buy them for him! Vinja did! THANKS Vinja! (And by “thanks” I mean, “What in God’s name were you THINKING??”*) So anyway, you’ll understand why I’m considering catheterizing The Brit’s urinary bladder and attaching a collection bag to his leg, since he would otherwise run the very sizable risk of wetting himself from the excitement of it all if I don’t. And besides, this way he can drink all the beer he wants at intermission and won’t have to get up for a potty break!
* Dramatized for humorous purposes. Really, thanks. Very sweet of you to get him a gift that he really will enjoy. And then talk about excitedly. Nonstop. For the next several months. Thanks.
Note: While I truthfully do not share The Brit's love of movie scores, I do enjoy seeing him enjoy them. It's like watching a kid on Christmas morning. Every time we go to the movies. Which makes movies that much more fun. And by "fun" I mean "dorky." Just kidding. Fun. Really.
He can tell you exactly what part of which Lord of the Rings movie corresponds to the part in the score when the flutes swell and the cymbals crash. (In case you’re wondering, it’s the part when Viggo Mortensen, that delicious hunk of man-meat, makes out with Liv Tyler. That slut.)
He can identify the composer for just about any movie before the opening credits are half-through. And when he does, he proceeds to tell you every other movie that composer did the music for. Which is useful information. You know, in case Jeopardy calls.
He considers it fun to watch movie trailers and guess which movie score they borrowed the music from to make the trailer. And when he figures it out, he shouts it out as if the correct answer was the only thing between him and a million dollars in prize money.
He considered moving down to LA to pursue a career in movie sound but just couldn’t bring himself to get the size double D breast implants and gossamer blond hair extensions that one needs to fit in down there. That’s my boy. True to himself.
He’d probably willingly give up beer for the rest of his days if it meant that the score of Star Wars could be the soundrack of his life. This is saying a lot, for his love of beer runs as deep as the force is strong within Luke Skywalker.
Anyway, the reason why I’m even mentioning this is because we’ve got tickets to go to The Brit’s real live Wet Dream tonight. In other words, we’ve got tickets to go to a symphony that is performing “Music from the Big Screen.” Don’t look at me! I didn’t buy them for him! Vinja did! THANKS Vinja! (And by “thanks” I mean, “What in God’s name were you THINKING??”*) So anyway, you’ll understand why I’m considering catheterizing The Brit’s urinary bladder and attaching a collection bag to his leg, since he would otherwise run the very sizable risk of wetting himself from the excitement of it all if I don’t. And besides, this way he can drink all the beer he wants at intermission and won’t have to get up for a potty break!
* Dramatized for humorous purposes. Really, thanks. Very sweet of you to get him a gift that he really will enjoy. And then talk about excitedly. Nonstop. For the next several months. Thanks.
Note: While I truthfully do not share The Brit's love of movie scores, I do enjoy seeing him enjoy them. It's like watching a kid on Christmas morning. Every time we go to the movies. Which makes movies that much more fun. And by "fun" I mean "dorky." Just kidding. Fun. Really.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Because I do so enjoy performing rectal exams...
I hesitate, when I’ve just met someone, to tell him or her that I’m a physician. Even when I am asked flat out what I do for a living. Because the response I tend to get usually involves a look of surprise (which, in principle, could be taken as either a compliment or an insult*) and a verbal response somewhere in the ballpark of, “Wow, uhhh…you must be, like, really smart then, huh?”**
No. Actually. Dumb as a box of hair. I’ve just risen to the top by honing my blow job skills and then demonstrating them on all the right people.
I usually almost immediately regret saying this out loud. Not because it doesn’t amuse me. It does. (Every time.) (Have I mentioned that my middle name is Crass?) But only because if I had to say it in the first place…the conversation was in dire straights from the get-go. I mean, honestly, what kind of response does a question like that deserve anyway?
But sometimes, I encounter a person, as I did recently, who is genuinely and wholeheartedly interested in knowing about my job. And by genuinely and wholeheartedly interested I mean unequivocally obsessed with ER, Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs, Nip Tuck, and all the clever, and exceptionally good looking forensic pathologists (of which, in real life, there are NONE) on all those CSI shows. And they want details. Details like: What kinds of surgeries do I do? Doesn’t all the blood make me sick? How do I handle all the death? Do all the doctors really make hot monkey love in the dustbin closet or in an empty ICU bed like they do on Grey’s Anatomy? How did I decide to go into surgery anyway?
I always enjoy giving the answer to the last question first. I tell them about the real life story of me, in med school, in the impressionable days of my fourth year. I was doing a surgical pathology rotation*** and the attending I was working alongside was processing an abdominoperineal resection specimen. He removed the fresh slab of tissue from the bucket, still warm from having just been resected from it’s owner, and examined the hard, circumferential mass of rectal cancer within it. While he did the standard pathological assessment, he and I nonchalantly chatted away, much in the same way one does with their hairdresser while getting their hair cut. We touched on topics like why I had chosen to apply for a general surgery residency and why he, years ago, chose a profession in pathology. Now, forget for a moment that my attending was clearly NOT cutting my hair, but instead processing a specimen that was inclusive of a patient’s rectum, their rectal cancer, and their anus complete with a small cuff of skin and one stray, stubborn hemorrhoid. Let’s just focus on the fact that it was at this moment he expressed that his reasons for going into the non-clinical field of pathology (as opposed to the clinical field of surgery) were primarily because he never wanted to have to do another rectal exam**** again ever in his life. I paused for a moment as I watched him stretch the specimen out in front of him, holding it in the way one would a telescope, the hairy anus end within inches of his eyes. Then I said, “Riiiiiiiiight. So how did that work out for ya?”
It was that moment that confirmed why I’d much rather work with patients, real live people, than just their tissue. Mostly so that, years later, some obnoxious medical student couldn’t just waltz into my office and totally debunk my reasons for who I’d become.
If I still have an audience by the end of this story, which this particular time I did, then I give them a real treat. I tell them that, yes… [Cue 70’s porno music here.] In the small, dark, cramped, sweaty corners of the hospital…it’s all doctor on doctor, doctor on nurse, nurse on nurse, medical student on doctor, nurse on medical student. TWENTY. FOUR. SEVEN. It’s a proper brothel for all intensive purposes. Which means that it really is like Grey’s Anatomy. Cuz Lord knows all those emesis basins and colostomies just make us all SO insuppressibly hot.
* For example. A Complimentary look of surprise, if it had a mouth, would say: “My goodness, you look so young to be a doctor!” whereas the Insulting look of surprise would say: “You? You’re a doctor? Yeah…and I’m the fairy godmother.” I’ve been on the receiving end of both.
** I know. Can you believe anyone would really say that? Not to be sexist in any way, but seriously, only men have ever said this to me. Women tend to say something more along the lines of “You GO girl!”
*** In Surgical Pathology, the pathologist examines the gross (visible to the naked eye) and the microscopic appearance of all the specimens that come out of the OR: the lump of breast cancer that came out of a patient, the ruptured appendix that came out of another, etc.
****Meaning a Digital Rectal Exam performed on a live person to check for things like prostate or rectal cancer.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Recipe for hotness
Do you have one of these? 
No? Well, if you’re hopelessly single and clamoring for a better first impression gimmick…I think I just found the solution for you.
The Grabber 2000.
Strange. Curious. Provocative. I know. I never knew these existed until I went to go see my Dochechka. Being blessed with a Russian brand of foresight, just prior to her recent back surgery, she preemptively purchased a Grabber 2000 so as to minimize having to bend when reaching for things in the post-op recovery period. I was intrigued when I witnessed her use her shiny new go-go-gadget arm for the first time. With cat-like speed and agility she used it to skillfully turn the ground level space heater up to high. (Though, admittedly, intrigue did turn to annoyance when I witnessed her use it to dig out the tub of chocolate macaroons I’d strategically hidden from her in the bottom cupboard.Dammit, I thought I'd have those all to myself. A nose like a beagle that one has!) But above all, I realized the Grabber’s potential utility for say, a first or second date: a gentle caress of the face…perhaps the loving relocation of a stray hair out of your date’s eyes…or better yet, a subtle ass-grab. Endless possibilities for those who are fumbling through the early days of physical awkwardness. I mean really, what better way to communicate that you want to feel someone up than to do it first with a part-aluminum/part-plastic member? Brilliant. Home base never looked so good, huh?
I mentioned this to Dochechka and told her that her Grabber 2000 would complement her Push Cart on Wheels (circa 1970) quite nicely. (She really does have one of those.) With these two items, not only will she be able to compete with all the fierce, old ladies in Chinatown, she’ll soon be beatin’ all the men away with a stick! Well, a Grabber, actually.
No? Well, if you’re hopelessly single and clamoring for a better first impression gimmick…I think I just found the solution for you. The Grabber 2000.
Strange. Curious. Provocative. I know. I never knew these existed until I went to go see my Dochechka. Being blessed with a Russian brand of foresight, just prior to her recent back surgery, she preemptively purchased a Grabber 2000 so as to minimize having to bend when reaching for things in the post-op recovery period. I was intrigued when I witnessed her use her shiny new go-go-gadget arm for the first time. With cat-like speed and agility she used it to skillfully turn the ground level space heater up to high. (Though, admittedly, intrigue did turn to annoyance when I witnessed her use it to dig out the tub of chocolate macaroons I’d strategically hidden from her in the bottom cupboard.Dammit, I thought I'd have those all to myself. A nose like a beagle that one has!) But above all, I realized the Grabber’s potential utility for say, a first or second date: a gentle caress of the face…perhaps the loving relocation of a stray hair out of your date’s eyes…or better yet, a subtle ass-grab. Endless possibilities for those who are fumbling through the early days of physical awkwardness. I mean really, what better way to communicate that you want to feel someone up than to do it first with a part-aluminum/part-plastic member? Brilliant. Home base never looked so good, huh?
I mentioned this to Dochechka and told her that her Grabber 2000 would complement her Push Cart on Wheels (circa 1970) quite nicely. (She really does have one of those.) With these two items, not only will she be able to compete with all the fierce, old ladies in Chinatown, she’ll soon be beatin’ all the men away with a stick! Well, a Grabber, actually.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
If I were 13...
I’d have been mortified, embarrassed to the point of digging a hole and burying myself right inside that crowded coffee shop, when Mamacusa and Abuelito began stuffing fistfuls of our unused napkins into Mamacusa’s oversized purse. We’d sat down and enjoyed a lovely round of hot cocoa and coffee to get out of the fog one day over the Christmas holidays, and just as we were about to leave, I witnessed The Napkin Snatch.
“What are you DOING?”
“They’re just going to throw them away anyway! We might as well take them! They’re PERFECTLY GOOD napkins!” Mamacusa said this, eyes on the napkins the entire time. Clearly she was concentrating, probably making sure to place the napkins in their designated, specially built-in napkin compartment within her mammoth purse.
Surely if we’d have just left them there in a neat little stack, the next customer might have used them. I thought this at the time. But Mamacusa was so swift (clearly she’d done this before) that the deal was already done. I chuckled as we left the coffee shop. What would have killed me in my adolescence merely amuses me now. I must be getting old. Before I know it, I’ll be wearing a sun visor, high-waisted, elastic-banded jeans pulled to just under my armpits, black socks and white sandals. With Velcro. So I don’t have to bother with those tricky little sandal buckles. And when the teenagers laugh at me, I’ll just hiss at them and throw one of my carefully saved Starbucks napkins at them. Surely, this is just days away.
By the time the holidays were over and my family went back home, they’d harvested napkins from just about every place we’d stopped off, eaten at, or even contemplated ordering something from. Little, thin, folded, papery souvenirs of our jaunts around the city of San Francisco. Hey. They’re PERFECTLY GOOD napkins!
So, you'll understand when I say that I wasn’t the least bit surprised when, in my daily phone conversation with Mamacusa yesterday, Mamacusa told me what she and Abuelito were about to go do now. I could hear the hum of Mamacusa’s car in the background. They were headed to Costco. Not because they particularly needed to buy bulk quantities of toilet paper or olive oil. (Or napkins.) Instead, they were making the trip just so that they could fill up on all the free samples of food Costco always gives away. This at Abuelito’s suggestion…you know, so Mamacusa wouldn’t have to bother with cooking dinner that night.
I love my family.
“What are you DOING?”
“They’re just going to throw them away anyway! We might as well take them! They’re PERFECTLY GOOD napkins!” Mamacusa said this, eyes on the napkins the entire time. Clearly she was concentrating, probably making sure to place the napkins in their designated, specially built-in napkin compartment within her mammoth purse.
Surely if we’d have just left them there in a neat little stack, the next customer might have used them. I thought this at the time. But Mamacusa was so swift (clearly she’d done this before) that the deal was already done. I chuckled as we left the coffee shop. What would have killed me in my adolescence merely amuses me now. I must be getting old. Before I know it, I’ll be wearing a sun visor, high-waisted, elastic-banded jeans pulled to just under my armpits, black socks and white sandals. With Velcro. So I don’t have to bother with those tricky little sandal buckles. And when the teenagers laugh at me, I’ll just hiss at them and throw one of my carefully saved Starbucks napkins at them. Surely, this is just days away.
By the time the holidays were over and my family went back home, they’d harvested napkins from just about every place we’d stopped off, eaten at, or even contemplated ordering something from. Little, thin, folded, papery souvenirs of our jaunts around the city of San Francisco. Hey. They’re PERFECTLY GOOD napkins!
So, you'll understand when I say that I wasn’t the least bit surprised when, in my daily phone conversation with Mamacusa yesterday, Mamacusa told me what she and Abuelito were about to go do now. I could hear the hum of Mamacusa’s car in the background. They were headed to Costco. Not because they particularly needed to buy bulk quantities of toilet paper or olive oil. (Or napkins.) Instead, they were making the trip just so that they could fill up on all the free samples of food Costco always gives away. This at Abuelito’s suggestion…you know, so Mamacusa wouldn’t have to bother with cooking dinner that night.
I love my family.
Monday, January 8, 2007
It's funny cuz it's true
It was the new years resolution of many of my single girlfriends this year to “take control of their dating life” and join an on-line dating service. Now, I agree, this screams of frantic XX’s, grasping with white knuckles at the last bastion of hope against nature’s apathetically applied expiration date on ovaries. But we’re talking about sane, intelligent, attractive, accomplished women here. Only a few of whom are “frantic.” And none of whom, that I know of, are particularly stressed about reproducing soon. So what gives? Why the tide shift to electronic loooove resumes and touched up digital picture first impressions? Who knows. (I have my theories.) (Later.)
All I know is that I’m going to enjoy the vicarious ride while I can. And besides, who am I to rain on the parade of e-lovin’? I have Match.com to thank for The Brit being in my life. Well, indirectly. Ok. Here’s our story, in a nutshell: My Friend logs onto Match.com. Likes Boy’s profile. My Friend and Boy meet and begin dating. My Friend and Boy throw a party. I come to the party to see My Friend. The Brit comes to the party to see his friend, Boy. The Brit and I meet and exchange witty banter at said party. And voila. The rest is history. Oh, as are My Friend and Boy. They no longer date. But still, Match.com worked for us. And neither one of us had to log on. Yay on-line dating! Woo hoo!
Anyway, back to the living vicariously through my friends bit…one of them asked me to proofread her profile before she posted it. Why yes, I said. Yes I will! With goodie goodie gum drops glee, we logged on together. Just for fun, we first perused some of the other profiles. You know, just to get a feel for the kind of stuff people write about themselves. (Or rather, the kind of “crap” people write about themselves.) And perhaps for a laugh or two. Glee quickly turned to eye-gouging boredom after reading profile after profile of a “fun-loving easy-going guy seeking like-minded woman…” Jeez. Does that lifeless dribble actually get game? Whatever. I decided then and there that my friend’s profile would need to be funny. Even a touch obnoxious. ANYTHING to be different from the drab, garden variety profiles already up there. So we turned our attentions to making a few minor adjustments.
Here were my suggestions for her Likes/Dislikes section:
My likes include: sunset walks on the beach, Polynesian dining, rainbows
My dislikes include: mean people, tuberculosis
Vetoed. On the grounds that some might not get it was a joke. (Sadly.)
Ok. How about my suggestions for the Ideal First Date section:
One in which my date immediately proves to me his manliness…by perhaps slaying a dragon or getting to the seventh level of Super Mario Brothers. (It’s an either/or scenario, his choice.)
Vetoed again.
Needless to say, after the above vetoes, she really didn’t like my suggestion for what she should put for the What you’ve learned from your past relationships section:
That I screw like a porn star.*
But she did humor me on some of my suggestions. Let the dating fun begin!
*She has actually been told that. By two different guys. Not to worry, dear Brit. I’m taking notes.
All I know is that I’m going to enjoy the vicarious ride while I can. And besides, who am I to rain on the parade of e-lovin’? I have Match.com to thank for The Brit being in my life. Well, indirectly. Ok. Here’s our story, in a nutshell: My Friend logs onto Match.com. Likes Boy’s profile. My Friend and Boy meet and begin dating. My Friend and Boy throw a party. I come to the party to see My Friend. The Brit comes to the party to see his friend, Boy. The Brit and I meet and exchange witty banter at said party. And voila. The rest is history. Oh, as are My Friend and Boy. They no longer date. But still, Match.com worked for us. And neither one of us had to log on. Yay on-line dating! Woo hoo!
Anyway, back to the living vicariously through my friends bit…one of them asked me to proofread her profile before she posted it. Why yes, I said. Yes I will! With goodie goodie gum drops glee, we logged on together. Just for fun, we first perused some of the other profiles. You know, just to get a feel for the kind of stuff people write about themselves. (Or rather, the kind of “crap” people write about themselves.) And perhaps for a laugh or two. Glee quickly turned to eye-gouging boredom after reading profile after profile of a “fun-loving easy-going guy seeking like-minded woman…” Jeez. Does that lifeless dribble actually get game? Whatever. I decided then and there that my friend’s profile would need to be funny. Even a touch obnoxious. ANYTHING to be different from the drab, garden variety profiles already up there. So we turned our attentions to making a few minor adjustments.
Here were my suggestions for her Likes/Dislikes section:
My likes include: sunset walks on the beach, Polynesian dining, rainbows
My dislikes include: mean people, tuberculosis
Vetoed. On the grounds that some might not get it was a joke. (Sadly.)
Ok. How about my suggestions for the Ideal First Date section:
One in which my date immediately proves to me his manliness…by perhaps slaying a dragon or getting to the seventh level of Super Mario Brothers. (It’s an either/or scenario, his choice.)
Vetoed again.
Needless to say, after the above vetoes, she really didn’t like my suggestion for what she should put for the What you’ve learned from your past relationships section:
That I screw like a porn star.*
But she did humor me on some of my suggestions. Let the dating fun begin!
*She has actually been told that. By two different guys. Not to worry, dear Brit. I’m taking notes.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
I am now a musical genius...
My inability to breathe has been replaced with the talent (?) of being able to whistle through my left nostril with each inhale. My very own nasal kazoo! I should take this act to the circus!
(I now pledge to cease pissing and moaning...)
(I now pledge to cease pissing and moaning...)
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Cada cinco minutos...
Every five minutes, Abuelito needs something...
"OYE, CULONA, NECESITO UNA TOALLA.” Towel.
“OYE MAMACUSA…DONDE ENCUENTRO UN TENEDOR?” Fork.
“AGUA?” Water.
“CULONA, COMO ENCIENDO EL TELEVISOR?” Television.
“MAMACUSA, TENGO QUE TOMAR LAS MEDICINAS!!” Medications.
“CULONA…UN PEDASITO DE PAPEL POR FAVOR.” Paper.
“MAMACUSAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!……….”
Mamacusa looks at me, nerves frayed. Then screams back at him, “Que Papi?”
“NADA…solamente para decirte que no te necesito en este momento!” Nothing, just wanted to tell you that I don’t need you at this exact moment!
If he weren't 81, she might have bitch slapped him. Instead we just giggled.
"OYE, CULONA, NECESITO UNA TOALLA.” Towel.
“OYE MAMACUSA…DONDE ENCUENTRO UN TENEDOR?” Fork.
“AGUA?” Water.
“CULONA, COMO ENCIENDO EL TELEVISOR?” Television.
“MAMACUSA, TENGO QUE TOMAR LAS MEDICINAS!!” Medications.
“CULONA…UN PEDASITO DE PAPEL POR FAVOR.” Paper.
“MAMACUSAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!……….”
Mamacusa looks at me, nerves frayed. Then screams back at him, “Que Papi?”
“NADA…solamente para decirte que no te necesito en este momento!” Nothing, just wanted to tell you that I don’t need you at this exact moment!
If he weren't 81, she might have bitch slapped him. Instead we just giggled.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Christmas crack
“Oye, Culona, check out my back, I think there’s a cyst or something back there I need your opinion on.” My Abuelito, El Exagerado, stood before me, fresh out of the shower, smelling like a rose. (Literally. He used my favorite rose soap.) He was wearing a long t-shirt and, one would assume, some underwear. “Mira, chica!” he insisted as he turned his back to me to facilitate the examination.
I leaned down and lifted up the bottom of his shirt. Nothing but bare, 81-year-old ass crack staring back at me.
El Exagerado, pleased with himself, erupted into a hearty laugh.
Sheesh. What an amateur my grandfather is! If it were my brother that’d done that, he would have topped it off with a fart to my face.
That’s right, the family is here for the holidays. Let the merry making begin!
I leaned down and lifted up the bottom of his shirt. Nothing but bare, 81-year-old ass crack staring back at me.
El Exagerado, pleased with himself, erupted into a hearty laugh.
Sheesh. What an amateur my grandfather is! If it were my brother that’d done that, he would have topped it off with a fart to my face.
That’s right, the family is here for the holidays. Let the merry making begin!
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Adios Mr. Leprechaun (and Mr. Rumsfeld)
Contrary to popular belief, Leprechauns aren’t always Irish. Some of 'em are English. Surprised? I didn’t know this either, until The Brit walked into my life…donning nearly decade-old black leather shoes accentuated with atrocious gigantic silver buckles. (Lucky for him, he has dimples that distract one from looking at his shoes too much.) I thought, early on, about the pros of dating a leprechaun. There are many, as it turns out. Rainbows. Endless Lucky Charms. (They’re magically delicious!) Three wishes. And I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d find a pot of gold somewhere! But, alas, after two years of dating…I’ve yet to reap any of the benefits those hideous shoes implied I might. And when The Brit pulled them out of the closet the other day to wear in public, I recoiled as I looked at them…their rubber soles coming unglued from the front end of both shoes. Uh uh.
When I told him these shoes needed to be incinerated and then flown out to space (or put into a time capsule to be laughed at by our children in the future), he looked at me incredulously and said, in earnest, “What’s wrong with them? They’re REAL leather!"
Real leather, perhaps. But more importantly, real ugly.
So yesterday after work, under the guise of “Christmas Shopping,” I cunningly directed him to a great shoe store where we found replacements not only for the leprechaun shoes but for another almost-as-detestable pair as well.
Fire up the incinerator. Get the space craft prepared for lift off.
Also replaced today, Donald Rumsfeld by Robert Gates. Let's hope this new secretary of defense is as dramatic an improvement as The Brit's new shoes are.
Friday, December 1, 2006
LeBron on Ice
Nearly a decade and a half ago...in the lush green land of Panama, where the warm rain falls as if from a faucet...gigantic cruise and cargo ships transect the land through a man-made channel ...where mosquitos grow to the size of pterodactyls with the capability to siphon your entire blood volume...
...I was an obnoxious teenager consumed with the know-it-all days of high school. (Muchas gracias al US Military who stationed my father down there.) I must say...of all the places to spend your curious, hormonally turbulent, pubescent days fumbling through your social retardation to find a place in this world, there is no better place than Panama!! To ease the pain of being "gifted" with bushy, misshapen eyebrows (this was well before I discovered the wonderful contraption known to the world as "tweezers") and a bum that warranted my father's scarring comment: "Hey, we should take some of that ass of yours and put it where your tits are supposed to be," I surrounded myself with obnoxious friends. Mr. Poopie was one of them. (This nic name dates back to high school; its origin I'm not sure of, but I do not recall it having anything to do with actual excrement.) Actually, Mr. Poopie was the King of Obnox, and amongst the top few in a small heep of friends. I'd lost touch with him and all of the others when I moved to CA for college. But, thanks to the glorious people-connector that is the internet, we have recently reconnected. It had been eleven years since we last saw each other.
Turns out Mr. Poopie lives near DC. (And I thought my luck was over when I found out I won 550, 000, 000 Euros via email!) It didn't take a neurosurgeon to suggest that we meet up while I'm out here in DC for work. (It just took a simple general surgeon, actually.) So, last night, Mr. Poopie called me after my work day was thru at the NCI...
"Hey!! Wanna go to a Cavs game??"
"Umm. Sure! Quick question though...what's a 'calves' game?" I had visions of a rodeo style arena with a bunch of fledgling calves competing for one of their mother's moo moo teats. So this is what they do in DC for entertainment.
"WHAT!?! HeLLO! Only the friggin' team that LeBron James plays on!" he explained to me in the tone Paris Hilton might use to explain the social importance of Prada to a poor person.
Ahhh. LeBron. Basketball star. I used to watch an occasional basketball game from time to time, but upon starting residency, the 80-hour work week kind of started interfering with my sports fan schedule. (I brought this up to my superiors but didn't get very far.) So, why do I know who LeBron is? Not quite sure, but it must be due to a brief commercial I didn't Tivo out while watching the Daily Show with Jon Stewart (aside from NPR, my only real and reliable news source).
Before I could answer..."I know a guy who can get us GREAT seats near center court!" he said with the pubescent wonder that made him so amusing in the ol' days of Panama. Then, slightly crestfallen, "...but, you know, if you don't want to go to the game, we can just, like, go to dinner or something. It's cool. You know...whatever."
So we went to the game. (I may cut people for a living, but I'm not cruel!) I met him by the metro-scented saxophone player at the Gallery Place metro stop. After we exchanged a few exclamatory remarks, "OHmyGodsogreattoseeyouhowAREyouJeezyoustilllookthesame!!!" we walked over to the arena.
We were so consumed with the business of catching up (and with the business of purchasing wildly overpriced, nutritionally vacuous arena food and beer) that we completely missed one small detail. Trivial, really. As we made our way to our seats, though, it kind of announced itself.
This is the part where I ask you to join me, if you will, on the ice.
Yes. That's right. Ice. No hard wood floors. No basketballs. No hoops. No Lebron James. No Cavaliers.
Ice. Pucks. Sticks. Capitals.
Yes sirree...this wasn't a "Cavs" game, it was a "Caps" game. Apparently Mr. Poopie and his friend didn't have such a good cell phone connection when discussing the night's plans. We settled into our "center court" seats (for what it's worth, they were really great seats), and, after a laugh, the size of which constituted my ab work out for the entire week, we had a great time. I mean, how many games can you go to and cheer out loud "BUST A CAP!! BUST A CAP!!" (In Oakland or San Francisco, someone might just "bust a cap" in your ass for having the audacity to invite them to!)
The evening yielded lots of good laughs and plenty of great photos (several of which will keep Mr. Poopie out of public office should he ever decide to run). With eleven years of catching up to do, there was a lot to cover!
-
Off now to meet up with my 'Rican Tia who also happens to live in the area!
*Picture of metro stop was taken by The Brit on a prior trip to DC.
...I was an obnoxious teenager consumed with the know-it-all days of high school. (Muchas gracias al US Military who stationed my father down there.) I must say...of all the places to spend your curious, hormonally turbulent, pubescent days fumbling through your social retardation to find a place in this world, there is no better place than Panama!! To ease the pain of being "gifted" with bushy, misshapen eyebrows (this was well before I discovered the wonderful contraption known to the world as "tweezers") and a bum that warranted my father's scarring comment: "Hey, we should take some of that ass of yours and put it where your tits are supposed to be," I surrounded myself with obnoxious friends. Mr. Poopie was one of them. (This nic name dates back to high school; its origin I'm not sure of, but I do not recall it having anything to do with actual excrement.) Actually, Mr. Poopie was the King of Obnox, and amongst the top few in a small heep of friends. I'd lost touch with him and all of the others when I moved to CA for college. But, thanks to the glorious people-connector that is the internet, we have recently reconnected. It had been eleven years since we last saw each other.
Turns out Mr. Poopie lives near DC. (And I thought my luck was over when I found out I won 550, 000, 000 Euros via email!) It didn't take a neurosurgeon to suggest that we meet up while I'm out here in DC for work. (It just took a simple general surgeon, actually.) So, last night, Mr. Poopie called me after my work day was thru at the NCI...
"Hey!! Wanna go to a Cavs game??"
"Umm. Sure! Quick question though...what's a 'calves' game?" I had visions of a rodeo style arena with a bunch of fledgling calves competing for one of their mother's moo moo teats. So this is what they do in DC for entertainment.
"WHAT!?! HeLLO! Only the friggin' team that LeBron James plays on!" he explained to me in the tone Paris Hilton might use to explain the social importance of Prada to a poor person.
Ahhh. LeBron. Basketball star. I used to watch an occasional basketball game from time to time, but upon starting residency, the 80-hour work week kind of started interfering with my sports fan schedule. (I brought this up to my superiors but didn't get very far.) So, why do I know who LeBron is? Not quite sure, but it must be due to a brief commercial I didn't Tivo out while watching the Daily Show with Jon Stewart (aside from NPR, my only real and reliable news source).
Before I could answer..."I know a guy who can get us GREAT seats near center court!" he said with the pubescent wonder that made him so amusing in the ol' days of Panama. Then, slightly crestfallen, "...but, you know, if you don't want to go to the game, we can just, like, go to dinner or something. It's cool. You know...whatever."
So we went to the game. (I may cut people for a living, but I'm not cruel!) I met him by the metro-scented saxophone player at the Gallery Place metro stop. After we exchanged a few exclamatory remarks, "OHmyGodsogreattoseeyouhowAREyouJeezyoustilllookthesame!!!" we walked over to the arena.We were so consumed with the business of catching up (and with the business of purchasing wildly overpriced, nutritionally vacuous arena food and beer) that we completely missed one small detail. Trivial, really. As we made our way to our seats, though, it kind of announced itself.
This is the part where I ask you to join me, if you will, on the ice.
Yes. That's right. Ice. No hard wood floors. No basketballs. No hoops. No Lebron James. No Cavaliers.Ice. Pucks. Sticks. Capitals.
Yes sirree...this wasn't a "Cavs" game, it was a "Caps" game. Apparently Mr. Poopie and his friend didn't have such a good cell phone connection when discussing the night's plans. We settled into our "center court" seats (for what it's worth, they were really great seats), and, after a laugh, the size of which constituted my ab work out for the entire week, we had a great time. I mean, how many games can you go to and cheer out loud "BUST A CAP!! BUST A CAP!!" (In Oakland or San Francisco, someone might just "bust a cap" in your ass for having the audacity to invite them to!)
The evening yielded lots of good laughs and plenty of great photos (several of which will keep Mr. Poopie out of public office should he ever decide to run). With eleven years of catching up to do, there was a lot to cover!
-
Off now to meet up with my 'Rican Tia who also happens to live in the area!
*Picture of metro stop was taken by The Brit on a prior trip to DC.
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