Errands!

Saturday… America’s errand day.  Today I was excited because, like a regular person, I was going to take my little person and run errands.  Where to? Well, Target of course.  Now, most of the time I feel like I live in a biggish town instead of a small city.  It’s called a city but when you visit a real city, you realize it’s a town…until you go to Target.  We have the ultimate “urban Target”.  Why do I say this?  It’s because it’s on the second floor of a building.  That’s right.  That’s all it takes to make a Target feel urban.  If it’s not on the ground surrounded by a sprawling parking lot, space must be at a premium and you must live in a city.  We will just ignore the fact that there is nothing on the first floor of the building.  Apparently we don’t have enough urban populace to support a Target and a Home Depot in the same building.

Regardless, my urban, millennium, enviro-conscious baby and I packed up our reusable shopping bags and our Baby Bjorn to make a splash at the urban Tar-jay.  Learning from some past mistakes, we boobed up before we left the house to allow for maximum shopping time.  She was sporting a very cute outfit from KissyKissy.  I’m pretty sure we were the hit of the store.  Cute and quiet, as we walked in we heard the oohs and aahs.  “How old is your baby?”, “That’s a little one”, “Look honey, you used to be that small”.  We were feeling pretty full of ourselves.  We stroll in and are about to grab a cart when I spy the Starbucks.  Oh really?  There’s a Starbucks in Target?  I completely forgot! That’s not at all why I wanted to do my shopping here today but, since it’s here, I should probably just grab a little something to sip on while we shop.  I’ll just have to be careful not to drip piping hot coffee on my daughter’s head as it bobs beneath me in the BB.

After taking the first sip of my Decaf Venti Non-fat, No whip Mocha (the beauty in life is in the simplicity), we are ready to shop.  What’s on the list today?  Pants, as the child is drowning in onesies with nothing to wear beneath them, and toys.  Apparently, as both her nanny and my mom informed me, my child’s brain will not develop if I don’t get her toys.  She will be a dull, grey person content sitting and staring at a wall for the rest of her life working at a menial job that she hates.

First, to the clothes.  Let me just say that in the summertime, your little girl is not allowed to wear pants.  Only cute pink dresses and hotpants…yes those tight little shorts specifically designed to accentuate the sexiness of the diaper.  Is Carter not aware that most little girls live in air-conditioned homes and have nannies who already feel like we are freezing our child???  I found two lousy pairs of pants and, of course, I had to get the denim shorts because they were too cute…and they were only $5.  They were also made in Bangladesh, likely by a child not much older than my daughter.  I did bring my own shopping bags though, doesn’t that count for something?

Next, to the toys.  Here I went from enthusiastic neuron-developing-mom to stressed out uber-consumer in 30 seconds.  Did we need the tummy time mat with 85 danglies to play with, or the door jumper.  They only had the Johhny Jumper and not the Jane Jumper.  Is the gender difference solely in the design of the harness or are there different support structures to accommodate different pelvic structures?  Does she need the jungle tummy mat or the pink one?  Which one will give her fewer gender identity issues?  Do we shoot ahead and get her items designed for a 3 month old or is that like teaching calculus to a fourth grader?    We settled on two tropical birds that hang from the carrier and a Baby Einstein fishy mobile…now that will make her smarter.  A quick scoop of hair ties and cat food and a few adoring comments about our babe snoozing away in the carrier and we are back at the car with our petroleum laden toys, our child-labor clothing and not a single plastic bag.  Virtuously, we leave our items in the car and walk, that’s right, walk across the street to the Best Buy and Trader Joes.

As we made our way across the street, I started to feel a wiggle…uh oh.  Best Buy was going to have to be a quickie.   I went right over to the universal remote area and began my comparison-shopping.  At this point she had had it.  She started to complain more loudly and as I scanned the area in vain hoping to find a nice Geek to help me, I started the sssshhh-ing, the swaying, and the bouncing.  I can’t imagine why no one wanted to help, I’m sure I’d be able hear them over the screaming as I danced around like an idiot.  I made my remote decision like I pick out wine in a restaurant by choosing the one in the middle price point (which I’m sure means that I pay the highest premium for the lowest added value).

I noticed through the deafening howls that we weren’t getting any little questions now, just looks of pity mixed with varying degrees of annoyance.  After paying, I left my purchase at the counter and ran to the restroom for a quick boobing.  One thing I have to say Best Buy, you keep a spotless restroom.  I’m sure there are many mothers out there who take nursing very seriously and stare meaningfully into their child’s eyes while offering them sustenance.  I take the opportunity while standing in the handicap stall to check email, read a book on my Kindle app, type this entry and even pee (not all at the same time mind you).

About midway through nursing, as often happens, I felt a rumbling down below and suddenly her diaper became a lot warmer.  Wouldn’t it have been great if I had brought my diaper bag along?  I wonder how my carbon footprint of the day will be affected by having to wash her outfit twice to get the fecal stains out of it.  Nothing I can do about that now.  I squish her damp little butt back into the BB and we run out of the store leaving a trail of a faint aroma of poo.  We trot across the building to the Trader Joes, buy our frozen, individually wrapped in plastic, crushed garlic cloves, throw them into our reusable shopping bag and head for home.

As I unload the packages from the big-box store, the electronics store and the grocery, I send a quick text to my wife.  “On your way home, can you stop and buy some C volt batteries for the mobile?”.  I hope she has a reusable bag with her…

Newbies

I’m going to write a group of blog entries that are based on the same idea.  I am a planner.  As such, I like to know what is going to happen in my life.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m flexible and can go with the flow as well as anyone…as long as it doesn’t interfere with my schedule.  Planners are annoying people in many regards.  On a day to day basis, as my wife will tell you, the first thing out of my mouth in the mornings (or when I’m ahead of myself, the night before) is “So.  What is your plan for the day?”.  This allows me to appear interested in my wife’s life and it allows me to start filling in my day.  I can start slotting in the things I want to do…..she wants to do a few hours of work in the afternoon?  That’s when I’ll slip in a quick run or do something around the house (laundry, or dishes, or watching “In Plain Sight”).  Don’t confuse this need for schedule with organization.  I actually get very little done in a single day BUT, I know the order in which I do very little from the time I get out of bed.

Unfortunately, I apply this principle to all aspects of life. I want to know what things are going to be like and I spend a fair amount of time thinking about them.  Before pregnancy, I imagined what it would be like to be pregnant (I was very, very wrong).  During my pregnancy, I was already thinking about what labor would be like (wrong), what having a child in the house would be like (very wrong indeed), and what the second pregnancy would be like (likely completely wrong).  This, as you might imagine, means I’m a bit of a worrier.  Before you tell me about all the things I could do to improve this state of being for myself, I’ve tried them.  I’ve read dozens of books on Buddhism, tried meditation, yoga, and read “The Worry Cure” (great book by the way).  I totally agree with the concept of being in the moment and try very hard to do so, but I’m not very good at it.  As such, to avoid adding constant self-correction to my litany of neuroses, I’ve decided to embrace this aspect of myself.  I will continue to study ways to be more in the moment, and work on it.  I will also enjoy the humor in trying to anticipate the un-anticipatable.  I will appreciate the humility that being constantly wrong brings me.  I will write about it so that others can giggle with me (notice I do NOT say, “at me”).

Getting back to the blog, I am entitling this section “What I expected/what I did not expect”.

 

 

What I Expected:

…to fall in love with my child

 

What I Did Not Expect:

…it would take a few days

 

It may surprise the reader to know that pregnancy was not what I expected, for some reason, I thought it was going to be a wonderful experience and that I would love it.  I wondered why everyone laughed at that.  While puking my way through weeks 13-39 of pregnancy, my friends and colleagues all assured me that it would all be worth it the moment she was born because I would be instantly in love.  So, being the anticipator that I am, I eagerly awaited her birth.  After many hours of labor, which I will not discuss, she emerged and I looked with great excitement at the blue creature that was placed on my belly, awaiting the euphoric feeling of unbelievable love to wash over me.  I thought to myself, “she’s cute…and blue.  Somebody get this child to the warmer and make her cry”.  I can’t help it.  I trained in pediatrics and at all the deliveries I went to, the focus was on getting the baby to me quickly.  We didn’t let the anoxic infant roll around on mom’s newly deflated abdomen while everyone is offered a pair of scissors to cut the cord.

I am not totally unfeeling but I the feelings I had were more those of amazement that I built this creature.  That first night, they wheeled me into my little room with Rosalie and I sent everyone home.  Okay, that’s not true.  My mother sent everyone home to get a good night’s sleep.  Smart woman.  Somebody needed to stay sane because it wasn’t going to be me.  My nurse came in and explained that she would be stopping by every two hours to remind me to feed her (the baby not the nurse) and that she would be taken to the nursery briefly for her hearing test and then she would be back (again, the baby, not the nurse).  Hold on a second.  I thought that the purpose of staying in the hospital was to get some rest.  Why was she going to be spending the night in my room??  Wasn’t she going to line up in the parking lot of the nursery next to all of the other babes on wheels?  Who were passersby’s supposed to ogle if all of the babies were in the rooms with their mothers?  And how, pray tell, was I supposed to maneuver her in and out of the bassinet when my legs weren’t working?  We survived the first night.  My nurse was wonderful and she awakened me every few hours to feed the little milk dud.  She spent the night going from bassinet to boob to bassinet.  This is not bad, I thought.  I can do this!

The next night was a slightly different story.  Apparently, the baby is a little worn out the first day after the whole labor thing and has a quiet night.  After a good night’s and day’s sleep, she was ready to go.  What I had not expected was that she, with her slightly improved exhaustion and increased awareness, would find the great big world a little intimidating and would want to be near her mother.  This was cute for the first 4 hours of the night but by two o’clock in the morning, I couldn’t put her in the bassinet without an impressive display of crying (hers, not mine…then, hers and mine).  Feeling like total failure, I plopped her little swaddled self on my chest, kept the head of my bed up and cuddled her.  I had been awake for the past three nights now thanks to labor which, as promised, will not be discussed and I was having a bit of trouble staying conscious.   In my mind, all of medical training was yelling at me, “Don’t sleep with your baby in the bed! Don’t sleep with your baby in the bed!”

These were the last thoughts I had as I drifted asleep.

About an hour later, I half awakened to this strange sensation in my arms.  Always rational, I was worried that I had a complication from the epidural that was going to slowly cause arm paralysis. Then I realized that the sensation was the feeling of a swaddled infant slipping slowly from my arms.  The little dumpling had wriggled her head from a 12 o’clock position to a 7 o’clock position and she was heading, like a white fuzzy torpedo out of my hands, down my side, towards a brief leveling off on the bed before she would plunge down to the hard tile.  Great.  I wonder how many MOTY (Mother of the Year) points I would get for dropping my newborn child on the floor…while still in the hospital.  With one swift movement, I grabbed the bundle, turned her upright and plopped her back onto my chest where she spent the night without any further misadventures thanks to the adrenaline pumping through my body.  It’s amazing how bleak life is at 3 o’clock in the morning when you almost injure someone.  I thought to myself, this was a mistake.  I shouldn’t be a mother.  I like my life too much.  I sleep too soundly.  I clearly don’t care enough.  This creature is going to change me and I don’t want to change.

It’s also amazing how beautiful 9 am is when the sun is shining and the whole day is ahead of you.  It also helps to have a large coffee brought to you by a good friend.  Sipping my Starbucks, I gazed down at the little peanut who made me question my judgment, my sanity, my capacity for love and my generosity.  Her little mouth rooting around the world for the boob.  Her eyes bright and unseeing.  Her body wriggling.  Her brain searching for me as the only familiar object.  And then it hit.  Suddenly I knew what everyone was talking about.  This was the feeling of love I could never have anticipated.  It was overwhelming.  Then, I peed myself…damn epidural.

Hit and Run

To The gentleman who struck our car with my wife and 2 week old infant inside:

Sir, today started like any other day we’ve had in the last 2 weeks.  We snuggled with our new baby in bed.  By her good graces (and the fact that she’s tired of looking at my straggly-ass hair), she gave me her hair appointment so that I could get this shit trimmed.  Fear not, good friend, I will be getting it colored soon as well.  The appointment was originally at 3:30 but got moved to 12:15, otherwise fine man, we would never have met today.  When we left the house, tardy as usual, we attempted to get into the leased vehicle (if you had hit that one friend, we would not be quite so put out), however someone, no names will be mentioned here, left the lights on and the battery was dead.  Not ones to be dissuaded by such a small hiccup, we threw the infant, in her appropriately fitted car seat, into the vehicle we own.  Again sir, we might not be so unhappy with you had you hit our other vehicle.  I arrived at my hair appointment on time for the first time in my life.  My darling wife went home to get a blanket so that we could take our little Pooky-bear to her first luncheon.

During this time, I was enjoying a good shampoo and the best scalp massage ever complete with hot towel (sir, if you’ve never had this experience, it is quite divine).  I was enjoying some witty banter with my good friend and stylist when I got a phone call from my wife.  Yep, this is when you come into the story.  Apparently, you ran a red light while she was turning onto South Blvd.  Thankfully for her, my infant and frankly you as well, there was a slight delay in her getting into the intersection once the light turned green as she was trying to halt the screaming from the banshee in the back seat with a pacifier…no small task when the alien is behind you.  I’m sure you understand as it appears that you had a little person of your own in the car.

My friend-stylist-superhero finished trimming the bangs in record time and then drove me to the scene of the incident.  You seemed so nice and courteous at the time, asking how everyone was, making sure the baby was ok.  You even, despite, multiple websites’ advice, clearly you didn’t Google “I just was in an accident what do I do” before you got out of your car.  You told me three times that it was your fault; for future reference, you don’t need to say that.  We took some photos of the damage while we awaited the police and stood around (well, you and my wife stood around, while I breastfed my infant in the front seat of the damaged vehicle…nothing, not even your mistake, can keep the girl from the boob).  You stuck around so long, it didn’t occur to us that you would do what you did.

I write you this letter not because I’m that angry.  Everyone is fine and it’s just a car.  My beautiful wife is sore but will be ok in a few days and my precious daughter is similarly unscathed.  I write because, in the future, when you try to flee the scene of an accident that is your fault, do NOT drive away in a direction and at a speed by which I can leisurely memorize your  license plate number.  As I watched your Expedition slowly make its way onto the highway ramp, I was even able to ascertain that it was a Maryland plate.  We all learn from our mistakes.  Things you might want to glean from this experience.  Pay attention when driving your own precious cargo around, by the grace of whatever, this time no one was hurt.  Do not leave the scene of the accident.  Even if you are uninsured, you couldn’t get into more trouble by staying put than you would leaving…it just pisses people off, even Charlie Brown (our officer at the scene, can’t make that up).  And lastly, if you are considering a career as a get away car driver, you might want to rethink your options.  You are neither good at driving nor getting away.

Unfazed

 

Fazed

 

Wyatt Wednesday

Look…it’s not my fault.   Ok, so I did take the loaf of bread off the counter and eat it on the rug.  And, there are soggy crumbs smooshed into the carpet that will never come up.  But, look, I’ve tried to put the remaining slices back in the bag.  I just can’t seem to stuff them back in there…..

What about your role in this?  You left the loaf right there on the counter behind the tomatoes.  Why aren’t you taking any responsibility?  And Max?  He nudged it closer to the edge of the counter where I could clearly see and smell it. Does he get ANY blame in this?  Don’t forget about Petey….his stomach growled which totally reminded me that I was hungry…why are you still yelling at me????

This worked so much better for BP.

The Thirteenth Time Is the Charm

I’m not someone who runs to see the sights of any new city to which I travel.  Sure, I’ll hit a museum or two but my greatest joy is sitting in restaurants, wandering around and getting a feel of what it might be like to live there.   My second greatest joy is reading the guidebooks.  I tend to skim through the overall history of the place.  Sure, there were some riots, Evita was beloved and be-hated, they can never get the economy off the ground, etc.  But, it’s the little stories tucked in that can make an entire trip worthwhile.  On our third day in Buenos Aires, after my master class was missed (more about that on another day), we went to Ricoleta.  This is a beautiful part of the city, with great shopping, a huge park and the famous cemetery.  There were wonderful parts about that day, from seeing the huge gum tree where I had a picture taken of me at the age of 6, to the dogs (which, by the way, take themselves very seriously in the capital city….don’t laugh at them) but I loved the cemetery.

The Ricoleta cemetery is one of those beautiful and yet creepy and questionably sanitary mini-city of above-ground mausoleums.  Much like above-ground pools, they call into question the judgment of their owners.  At first, there is the shock of seeing some rotting coffins just behind a gap in the marble.  Then there is the gross factor of seeing that they have an impressive drainage system that must mean that seepage must occur.    Then you realize that each mausoleum has an underground area to keep the majority of the family that begs the question: “who ranks highest in the family to get the above-ground digs?”.  Then you see the coffin gourneys strewn about which implies recent additions.   Then you pet the “death kitties” which roam around before you realize that they can get into the mausoleums and probably do some mean ratting down there.  But none of these activities were my favorite part.

There is a mausoleum in Ricoleta dedicated to Ruffina Something.  Stop if you’ve heard this story before.  Ruffina had a cataplectic fit and was buried at the age of 19.  At some point after the initial burial, or as I like to call it “Death.1”, she woke up and realized she was in a bad situation.  She attempted to claw her way out but was unsuccessful.  “Death.2” occurred as a result of some serious splinters under her fingers, anoxia and a heart attack.  There are many questions I have about this scenario.  Did they not check pulses in the 18^th century?  How long did they wait after the fit before they threw her in the box…thirty minutes?  An hour?  How did they know that she had not died before they tossed her into the ground?  I’m imagining a few possibilities.  “Antonio? Did you hear something?”  “No, I just have a little gas”.  “Has that coffin lid always been askew?”.

But this isn’t the best part of the story.  Apparently, some well-meaning friend of the family, or neighbor, heard about poor Ruffina and made a vow to never allow something this tragic to ever happen again.  So, he set to work, designing a coffin with an alarm system and a release.  Now, this gentleman was tenacious and he wanted to make absolutely sure that his new contraption would work.   So, like any good engineer, he tested it….12 times.  Not satisfied with a mere 12, he decided to give it another go and, on the thirteenth time, his design failed him and he died inside the coffin, of finger splinters, anoxia and a heart attack.   I don’t know about you, but I have more questions now.   Were twelve attempts not enough to reassure him that his product was safe?  Did he not tell anyone what he was working on?   Why on earth would he do this by himself?  It would be a simple favor…”Hi Antonio, I’m going to be testing a new coffin, would you mind hanging out in case it doesn’t work?”  Maybe they did hang out for a while but got bored after test #8 and decided to head to Cabreras for a glass of Malbec and a tenderloin.

When you stand in front of Ruffina’s grave (a substantial upgrade as only guilt can buy), you are struck by the statue of the young woman with her hand on the door handle.  It’s as if she is saying in a bored tone, “Hi.  Come on in.  I’ve got a story to tell you.”



Conferencia!

Today, I went from “local lecturer” to “World Speaker”.  This is not to be confused with “world narrator”…you know the type; they read all the building signs as you drive by, comment on everything they see.  This is not to be confused with “low talker”…you know the type; they sit too close to you at a party and comment on everything in a running monologue, right into your tympanic membrane, despite the conversation you are in the middle of with someone else.

Nope.  Today, I gave my first lecture outside of my own little microcosm of residents.  I flew out of the nest.  I left the farm for the first time.  I left the hive behind and buzzed out into the world.  It’s important here not to confuse “world speaker” with “international renown”.  More accurately, I am like Celine Dion, working out the kinks in my performance overseas before I bring it back to the US.

So, standing in front of a room full of Argentine physicians, I dazzled them with my brilliance.  I also learned a few things.  For example, despite the simultaneous translation, jokes don’t really translate well.  During the talk, a paparazzi-esque photographer kept snapping photos of me while I droned on about metabolic diseases in infants.  Angeline Jolie?  Yeah, I feel her pain. After the morning session, the woman organizing the event planned a “meet and greet” lunch.  This was my favorite part of the day.  Sitting in a circle and discussing the various pleasures and problems we found with medicine in our respective cultures.  Their socialized medicine structure appears very much intact and I couldn’t tell at times whether they are behind us or our future.

If you’re ever planning a little lunch for people who speak different languages allow me to suggest getting an official interpreter.  I speak Spanish a little bit.   Essentially, I understand 8-9 out of every 10 words people say.  This means that I can carry on a conversation without difficulty at times and that I can also completely miss the point.  For example “We’re so excited to have you here sharing your ideas of emergency medicine” can also be “We’re so excited to have you here sharing your diseases in our emergency department”.  Despite my imperfections though, I think I would have done a better job than the interpreter we had.  The organizer, a completely lovely and enthusiastic woman, made the most lovely introductory speech that went something along the lines of “On behalf of the physicians here, we would like to extend a warm welcome to our American colleagues.  We are so excited that you travelled all the way to Buenos Aires to speak with us and to sit with us here to share ideas.  I would like this time to be about asking each other questions about the way medicine works in our very different systems.”  The interpreter then “translated” this to be “She welcomes you to Buenos Aires, if you have questions for each other, ask.”

Really, it appears that their issues are similar to ours.  How do you do research in a busy clinical practice, how do you keep patients happy when there are so many inefficiencies and waits, and how do you practice medicine for 30 years without becoming burnt out.  One of my colleagues addressed the last question with the basis of academic medicine in the US.  You can avoid burn out by staying in an academic setting and decreasing slightly the number of clinical hours you work by pursuing loftier goals: research, advocacy, administration, etc.  They were all nodding their heads until he stated “….and this way, you’re not seeing patients for 40 hours per week”.  At that point, we lost them.  The woman next to me, coyly remarked that she works 12-15 hour days at three different jobs.  It turns out the “part time” physician here works 36 hours per week and that is only because her husband works more and makes enough to support them.  I’m no health care czar but I think that if you went to most American physicians and said “Look, good job and everything on your eight years of graduate studies and 5 years of residency.   You’re now going to need to take a second job to make ends meet.  Maybe a third…it’s hard to say right now”….you would have a riot on your hands.  Not a violent one, more of a conservative physician, sulking in the corner type of riot….holding signs that said “we don’t want to play anymore” and “I’m taking my stethoscope and my pen and I’m going home”.

12-15 hours per day.   That is unreal!  Now, I’m sure they don’t have the same stringent rules about documentation.  I’m sure their nurses don’t spend 2/3 of their time writing in charts as opposed to taking care of patients.  And, you don’t hear a lot about big payout Argentine malpractice suits.  So, maybe medicine here is actually fun to practice.  Maybe they spend the majority of their time making decisions based on medical necessity and not patient satisfaction scores.  If I didn’t have to coach my patients to say that they received “excellent” care today when they were phone surveyed a month from now, after they recovered their health and received their $1000 bill, maybe, I wouldn’t mind working 12 hours a day.   Doctors in the US used to practice this way.  Round at the “public hospitals” before you went to see their patients in your clinics.  So I really couldn’t tell if these fine and brilliant physicians were behind us or if this will be our future.

Cat Blimp

Today I received one of the funniest emails.  It was a video clip from my hometown.  One of the ER residents was asked to be on TV (that frequently happens, a health issue comes up and local news stations set up interviews with “experts”).  You’re supposed to take it seriously as this is PR for your hospital but it’s difficult at times.  The weather gets cold and you’re supposed to remind people of the importance of hats.  Really?  Who doesn’t know to put a hat on when it’s cold?
With his white coat on and serious expression he noted the importance of protection against cold weather especially for the extremes of ages.  On TV, he is quoted as saying “it’s especially important for the extremes of ages, kids, the elderly, elderly kids, BabaBouie.” And he went on without missing a beat.  For some reason, this did not get caught in the editing room and was aired.  It was hilarious.
I was never asked when I was a resident to perform for the local news and I was pretty happy about it.  It’s not that I’m camera-shy, it’s just that I hate all of the resulting footage that results when I’m photographed/filmed.  Thus, it is vanity and not shyness that keeps me out of the limelight.
Last summer, I was sitting in my office (a windowless cube room that I share with 6 other people with two ancient computers, a circa 1972 couch, and a plastic plant) when Tricia came to the door.
“Emily, the news wants to interview one of you’all about sunscreen at 3 o’clock and I can’t find anyone else to do it.  Do you mind?  It will be a total of 90 seconds of your life, they don’t air all of it and they ask dumb questions.”
“Um.”  Quick Emily, think of something, ANYTHING that will keep you from doing this.  “I guess if you can’t find anyone else, I’ll do it.”
Damn.
Not wanting to appear uneducated, I spend the next 30 minutes, reading up on sunscreen.  Newest recommendations, new products and chemicals, etc.
My time came.  I brushed my hair, tucked in my shirt and went out to meet the news van.
I       was       charming.  I smiled, we laughed, we talked about sunscreen.  I told the good people of my town to save their money!  Don’t buy the spf70!  45 should work just fine.  Just apply frequently.  Make sure to lather the kids until they just slip through their greasy fingers.  She thanked me and I went back to work and forgot all about it.

Two days later one of our patient representatives, a southern lady through and through drawled to me as I passed her in the hallway.
“Dr. Emily.  I saw you on TV last night saving those kittens.  I thought ‘well that sounds like Emily, saving kittens.”
“Jane.  I talked about sunscreen.”
“Oh yeah? It’s all the same.”
Sunscreen and kittens, I get the two confused all the time.  I forgot all about it.

The next weekend, we were hanging out at the neighbors pool (slathered in spf45 as I am paler than Powder) and they said “Emily, we DVR’d your news special.  It’s hilarious , you’ve got to see it.”
Oh no.  Trying to seem nonchalant, I leapt out of the pool and barely dried off before I stood in front of their TV, dripping on their hardwoods.
“Well.  I guess, if you went to the trouble of taping it, we should watch it.”

We fast-forwarded (interesting how that has become a verb) through the usual shootings, car accidents and weather.  Then…..oohooh….there she was, my interviewer.  Standing in what looked like a park with a bunch of sunscreen products in front of her.  This is not where we interviewed.  Where was I?  She spoke about sunscreen and the things we talked about.  She misquoted me (making sure though that she got my name right) and said “We have to break for commercial but we’ll be back with the doctor to tell you more about the dangers of sun exposure.”
The news came back on.  It wasn’t me.  It started with a male reporter describing a “terrible tragedy” that occurred the day before.
“Today, a _____ county man is behind bars for cruelty to animals and littering.  Yesterday, he was spotted throwing a garbage bag full of baby kittens from the drivers’ seat of his pickup as he sped down ________rd.  AND THIS WOMAN SAW IT ALL.”
Who was this special person who is now living with nearly a dozen cats?  Apparently, it’s me.  There I am, in a video clip, (muted, of course) standing in my scrubs with my #*Y%-ing name tag on, smiling and laughing and, ostensibly, discussing the horror of watching the Hindenburg of cats go flying out of a pick-up.
So, if I seem to be snobby or disdainful of the local news and their need to get an expert to tell you to put a coat on, it’s with reason.  They’re idiots.

Animalia

I have hit that moment in life when all conversations directly or indirectly involve my animals.  I don’t know when that transition point was.  I used to talk about last night when I was so drunk.   Now I talk about the dog’s ailments, the cats trips to the vet and then segue into other cute animal stories.  Today, I spoke with my good friend Lisa on the phone where we gracefully transitioned between three animal stories.   It wasn’t intentional. She’s not my “animal buddy” like I have “work buddies” or “music buddies”, “med school buddies”; she is the perfect unlable-able friend.  I started the conversation very innocently (while walking my hound dog).
“Hey! What are you up to?”
“Driving to meet Chris and his friend and some chickens.”

Background:  Lisa is a vegetarian, thus she would not be driving up to find dinner chickens.  However, she has mentioned on numerous occasions that she would like to raise them.  I find this admirable…as it is also icky.

“Are you going to buy some?”
“No.   Although I have had some eggs from this farm and they are the best damn eggs I’ve ever had.”
“Is Chris going to buy some?”
“No.  This is the place where he hunts turkeys in the fall. We’re going to feed the turkeys and take a walk around the farm.”

At first I was confused. Why on earth are there turkeys at a chicken farm.  Maybe if you grow chickens, you dabble in turkeys? Or is it the other way around?  After I got comfortable with this bit of information, the cruelty of their gesture started to sink in.  Hey turkey, I’m going to make a special trip up here to feed you and get you used to me so that when I come back in the fall to shoot, kill and eat you, you won’t be scared of me.  I can see them all right now.  Hey! It’s that guy who comes for visits and morsels of good food.  I don’t know what that large stick is that he’s carrying.  Maybe he launches the treats towards us so we don’t have to waddle so far.   Hey! We’re over here! Launch some goody treats our way!
Lisa and I quickly transitioned to more practical matters.  Why hunt the turkeys when the chickens would be so much easier.  You could just sit on the fence and pick them off.
For some reason, this made me think of Buddy.  Buddy is our neighborhood’s newest edition.  He’s a yellow lab and as such, he is not that bright.  The neighbors already had three small children, so it’s unclear at times why they thought a mentally challenged puppy would be good to add the mix but there he is.  Buddy has an electric fence that allows him to sit out in the front yard and observe the world around him.  Buddy is out there a lot.  It’s unnerving.  He is the only dog in the neighborhood that spends any great deal of time outside.  While the rest our animals are snoozing away their afternoons in our beds, we sit astounded that a dog could survive out in the wilds.  The neighbors have wondered what terrible crimes he could have committed that have relegated him to this “outdoor” existence.  Did he eat a Pottery Barn sofa?
Buddy also inspires a fair amount of guilt.  For example, my bloodhound and I like to play fetch.  It is a slight derivation from what many people would consider something I like to call “classic fetch”.  In our derivation, I throw the saliva-laden racquetball and Wyatt goes charging after it.  He doesn’t catch it so much as stop it with his body and then grabs it off the ground.  Ball in mouth, he runs right past me ignoring my pleas to stop.  About 20 yards away from me, he drops the ball out of boredom and exhaustion and then returns to me, without it, in hopes that I will go and get it and then throw it again.   It’s great exercise.  It is also impossible to play this game in front a Labrador puppy who watches the event as though he were a spectator at Wimbledon.
Lisa and I discuss Buddy’s fate as though he were a political prisoner in Tibet.  So unfortunate. What an innocent soul.  Surely they’ll have to bring him in soon.  At this point I bring up the lion.
If any of you haven’t seen this video, you must check out Christian the lion on YouTube.  I’m a little fuzzy on the details so bear with me.  These two guys see a lion cub in Herrods’ and decide that department store living is no good for a cub, so they buy him.  They take the cub to some place.   I think it’s a church? Or a school? Where they spend the next year raising him.  Lots of great footage of two men with bad hair, rolling around on the ground with what looks like large kitten.  When said lion cub, named Christian, reaches critical mass, they realize that this church/school/park/whatever is no good and that he needs to go back to Africa.  SO they send him.  I’m sure this was a more involved process but, again, details not clear.  The best part is that a year later, they go to Africa to find their lion….and they do.  Now here’s where it gets good.  They get warned that their old buddy might not recognize them because their lion is now the head of his….tribe?      herd?      group?     pride?      peeps? something.   You then see, our heroes walking through the African plains and a male lion running up to them at full speed.  They get down on their knees as if they are our neighbors welcoming Buddy back into the house.  The massive cat leaps for them and nuzzles them.  The three of them roll around on the ground together.  Each time, it looks like Christian is going to take a good bite of the jugular and instead they are all laughing.   When asked why they were so sure that the bounding 300+lb cat was going to be friendly, they said that they could tell by his body language.  His body language.  After a year, they trusted their ability to read a lion’s body language that he was not, in fact, going to eat them but merely say hello.    All I’m saying is that it’s a good thing they’re milking this for all the publicity they can, because they don’t sound very bright.

After that, I asked Lisa how she was feeling about starting law school in the fall.  “Fine”.  “Great.  Well I really didn’t have anything else exciting going on.”  “Me either.”  We agreed we’d talk soon and hung up.  It feels so good to really connect with someone.

Mulcho Problemo

Navigating the waters of relationships can be tricky.  I have to brag that most of the time, our waters resemble a cool, deep lake.  No currents, no risk of tipping, and any possible obstacle is completely visible before your vessel approaches.   The only problem with this scenario is that when you see said obstacle, there is a great deal of discussion as to which side to go around it as we silently but purposefully start rowing in opposite directions.  As the rock draws nearer, our conversation becomes more impassioned as we continue to row against one another.  One of three things happens: one of us gives up but sulks about it for a while pretending to not be bothered by the whole thing, we hit the rock (slowly usually and with much laughter), or one of us (usually me) agrees just the point of making the other one let up a bit.  At this moment, the agree-er digs in like the Swedish team in the two-man boat Olympics and takes the boat where they wanted to go the whole time.
Before we all talk about the potential problems with all of the above behaviors, allow me to say that they are unintended.
1.    The agreement with sulking.  This usually occurs as we’re getting ready to go somewhere.  We are running late.  We haven’t dropped off dry cleaning in a month so instead of closet full of clean ready to wear clothes, we have a pile of wrinkly worn once but clearly smell too bad to try again clothes.  In the flurry of activity, a question gets thrown out.
“what are you wearing tonight?”
“expletive….I don’t know.  What are you wearing?”
We see that this is getting us nowhere so I make the first foray into the closet and appear with, what I think, is a lovely outfit.
“what about this?” –smiling
“you cannot wear those jeans with those shoes.  Where is your belt?  Do you maybe want to iron that shirt?”

Now, at this point, any reasonable person would say the following.  “You asked for advice.  You don’t want to go out looking bad so you really should be thankful that someone cares enough to notice the details and have you looking your very best when you walk out the door”.  The reality is, I do feel that way.  How I respond though is with a snarl. “Fine.  What shoes should I wear?” (if you’re so smart you tell me).  “The black boots.”  Damn.  “With the heels?!?”  “Yes”.  At this point, I’m throwing off the tennis shoes and scowling at the boots that I can barely walk in but at least look decent.  Now, she’s pissed…for good reason.  It all goes back to advice my father gave me.  “Don’t ask for an opinion when what you’re looking for is assurance”.  I realize I’m being unreasonable so I try to act happy and rational about the whole thing.  She avows never to give advice again and that I can just look like I get dressed out of a 1980’s Target catalog if I want to.  The boat goes the right way.

2.    We hit the rock.  We have a lot of house guests.  We love having house guests.  We feel so honored that people would come all the way to see us that we spoil them rotten when they get here.  We get overwhelmed with house guests. (Note to all of those who may come to visit….we can’t wait!)

Excitedly -“Hey. I talked to Sally the other day.  She wants to come for a visit.”
Guarded – “When?”
With enthusiasm – “Great question.  She’s not entirely sure but sometime in the next few weeks.  I told her my work schedule so I think maybe one of the weekends I have off.”
Perplexed – “OK.  We’ve had a lot of house guests though and you were just saying that you needed some downtime.”
Rationally -“I know. I know.  But it’s Sally.  We haven’t seen her in forever.  She’s totally low maintenance and we’ll all have a great time together.”
Irritated – “Maybe we can just put it off for a few weeks.  Remember how you just said last night that you were exhausted?”
Deflated and irrational- “You’re right.  You’re right.  I’ll give her a call and let her know that we can’t do it right now.”

A few weeks later…still gliding toward the rock.
Concerned – “did you manage to get a hold of Sally and tell her that this month doesn’t work for us?”
Oops – “haven’t had a chance yet but I’ll call her today.”

Later that night…rock looming ahead
Sheepish – “Couldn’t get a hold of Sally.”
Irritated – “Wasn’t she supposed to be coming this weekend?”
Blink-blink – “Um..yea…. I think this was one of the weekends we spoke of.”
Sigh – “Do you think it might have been nice to let her know earlier?  If she’s planning on coming here then she is leaving her house tomorrow morning.  You can’t just change someone’s plans like that.”
“oh”

Next day…house guest arrives…rock meets boat.

Another great weekend enjoyed by all until Sunday evening.
Concerned – “Hey Em. You look irritated, what’s going on?”
Frustrated – “I’m just tired.  I really need some downtime.”

3.    The fake
This is another one of my party tricks that could not be more irritating and brings us to the title of this essay (finally). Mulch.  There is a large area in our backyard that is left “natural”.  This is code for “Jesus Christ that’s a big area.  No way do I want to plant, weed and tend to it but we can’t afford to get it landscaped so it sucks to be our neighbors”.  This year, we decide we’re going to mulch.  Bringing order to chaos.  Organizing our little section of nature and beautifying our view from the patio we are finishing so we can enjoy sitting out there.  She and I have different ideas of what will look good out there.  As the person responsible for mulching my parents yard when I was growing up, I am partial to the large mound of double hammered hard wood that gets dropped on the driveway.  It’s rich dark color and fragrant aroma are a joy to work with which is good since it takes my twiggy arms about two days to spread it all out.  She likes the aesthetic appeal of the nugget variety.  Crisper.  Neater.  And here is the rock in our lake.
As we glide toward the rock, negotiations begin.  I won’t bore you with the details, let’s just say it’s an intelligent back and forth about the relative merits and downsides of each of our mulch choices.  We listen.  We understand.  I still don’t agree but I offer compromise.  “If the mini-nuggets are as good for the soil underneath, I will get them, otherwise I’d prefer the double hammered hardwood because it will condition the soil for planting in the future.”  Seems so rational doesn’t it?  She stops rowing.   I call and the mulch-expert on the other side of the phone tells me all about how great the hardwood is and I’m sold.  I start rowing like there’s no tomorrow.
She, with good reason, is now irritated. “Why did you waste my time and energy discussing this if you were going to do what you wanted anyway?”  The good news is, though, that she will have lots of time to tell me “I told you so.”  Invariably the path that I choose leads us around the rock into another rock.  I’m sure that later in the summer when the well-conditioned soil under the warm southern sun is sprouting weeds like crazy through my carefully placed hardwood, she will enjoy reminding me of the merits of the mini nuggets that I will then be placing on top of my double hammered hardwood.

Stay tuned gentle reader, the mulch will be delivered on Friday.

Nausea

The other day I sat in Starbucks working.  I would like to linger on this statement for a moment.   Desiring to work in a more peripherally stimulating environment is the only acceptable reason to sit for any length of time in a coffee shop with the exception of the following activities:  reading a book, meeting a friend for quiet conversation or listening to live mediocre local music on a rainy Tuesday night.  The coffee shop experience is based on warm color, endless supplies of caffeine and a background of activity that makes you feel less isolated.   I would like to place some emphasis on the word background. This means that I don’t want to hear you discussing your morning meeting agenda with a colleague, I don’t want to listen to a gaggle of teenage girls and their almost unintelligible English (honestly, the can barely stand listening to themselves as evidenced by the amount of distracted texting that goes on in the middle of a conversation).  I don’t want to hear about your problems with your children and I especially do not want to be approached by anyone.  This is not a meet and greet.  It is the façade of being less isolated that I seek, not actual social engagement.
Slight digression.  I was sitting at Starbucks, trying to get work done when a very distinguished and obviously retired gentleman comes up to ask me about my internet connection.  He dangled his new MacBook Pro in front of me like a carrot so of course I offered to assist.  I am not a computer genius but I am happy to try to help a fellow Mac user.  For me, it’s the modern day equivalent of drawing a fish in the dirt with the toe of your sandal.  I instantly see an ally.  Turns out, his problem was easy to solve and he was right away on the internet.  At this point, he asks me the standard Mac user questions.
“How long have you had a Mac?”
“Since my first computer”
“This is my first one.  I love it.”
“Aren’t they wonderful?’ (At this point, I didn’t think he’d appreciate my “Once you go Mac you never go back” commentary).
“Yeah, I initially got it because I take a lot of photos of the grandkids.  I wanted to make some videos.  I have around 9,000 pictures now.”
Silently.  “Oh no”
“It’s amazing to me how easy it is to work this stuff.  I’ve only been to the genius bar a few times.  I keep trying to get a one-to-one but we don’t have a Mac store where we live [what kind of a place is that exactly].  It took me only a week or so of messing with it, and I’ve already made some DVD’s.”
Trying to be supportive without displaying any interest in seeing his grandchildren “I love the iLife programs.  Do you use iDVD or iMovie?”  Mistake! Mistake!  Don’t ask questions. Abort!  Abort!
“If you have a minute, I’ll show you.  This is a video I made of a friends house we went to visit.”
Silently – “shit”.  Aloud – “Yes, I’d love to see them”.

The video began and, to be honest, with the exception of the 30 amateurish photos he took set to banal music….Norah Jones…..really?  It was very sweet and captured the weekend he and his wife spent with their friends very nicely.  Sadly though, I saw neither TV nor computer in their mountain home.  This begs the question, how will they watch this gift when they receive it?

I get very tired when social commentators discuss the lack of written records we leave.  It’s true, nobody writes letters anymore.  Only the grooviest and most introspective folks write by hand their thoughts and goings on in a journal.  I see no problem with this for a few reasons that I will title completely offensively as a cheap ploy to grab your attention.

1.    You are average
Let’s face a few hard facts of life.  We are all average.  There are a few shining stars that compensate for the multitudes (I put myself here) that can’t even achieve the median.  These stars are the only ones we should spend time on.  Who’s diary to we really care about? John Adams? Or, his second cousin Bob the soy farmer who never left his hometown?  John’s diary includes beautiful imagery of what life was like at the time as well as describing the interpersonal relationships of the fathers of our country.  Bob’s diary, I feel would have read something like this. “March 13: got up, ate breakfast, fed the cattle, worked the field, came home, ate dinner, went to bed”….fascinating.   Should we really mourn the loss of such potentially stimulating page-turners?
“But how will people know what life was like in the early 21st century without diaries and correspondence?’  This brings me to my next point.

2.    We waste our lives AKA I’m thrilled nobody knows how I spend my time
Thank God no one knows how I spend my time.  Diaries were interesting when evenings were spent retiring to the great room for conversation with neighbors, a glass of brandy and clever discourse regarding the days’ events.  All the while, the women were completely tapestries of embroidery projects and men were smoking cigars.
Do we really want people to know what we do?  “Today, after work, I forced myself to go to the gym. Here I worked out enough to justify eating a large dinner and drinking half a bottle of wine but not enough that I will hurt for the rest of the week.  After coming home and tending to the needs of the hound, I cooked dinner, which we subsequently ate in front of the television.  After dinner, we watched a Netflix episode while taking turns looking at our Facebook pages.  After a continuation of our eternal debate, whether to open another bottle of wine, we decide to go to bed.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love my life.  But if I journaled every day, I might want to hang myself.

3.    Nobody wants to read your shit
One saving grace of diaries and letters is they are meant for a very specific audience or none at all.  Sure, we’d all like to think that posthumously our thoughts would be published as “a brilliant commentary of the author’s era”!    I would like to refer you to #1.  I’ve tried on numerous occasions to express myself creatively.  I’ve played music and made numerous half-hearted attempts to write.  I was in orchestras and played in a punk band and I would like to describe my artistic impact as being akin to an ATT phone plan.  I was able to reach out and touch Friends and Family.  If my thoughts were profound, well communicated and performed, they might reach a larger audience but the reality is that nobody outside my plan really cares.  I don’t say this disparagingly.  I just continue to hope to strike some chord, create one thing that’s above average enough to outlast me.

In the meantime, I say to all those who wish that people committed more to paper, be careful what you wish for.  You might be forced to watch a ten minute video of a country house.  Those things that are truly excellent will rise to the top and be preserved for the rest of us to aspire to and deeply appreciate.

The irony that I’m writing all of this in an average Joe blog, for my friends and family plan to read, is not lost on me.