ladomivita's Xanga

will i open at the close?

Thu, 02 Aug 2007 01:38:26 GMT

When I first wrote this list, everyone said I was being ridiculously impossible. That may be true, BUT in my defense, I use it as a guideline, definitely not a checklist. Using this as a checklist would be crude and unfair. Plus, these aren't superficial qualities! It's not as if I am saying: "You must be a professional comedian, have brown hair, wear glasses, and host your own political satire show on Comedy Central at 11:30pm PST...Everyone else? Dead to me."

what ladomivita would like from a nice boy (born between 1970 - August 1980)

1. Kind. Everyone can be nice and polite, but it takes a real man to be kind, patient, and empathetic with those around him. Someone warm and brimming with compassion.

2. Honesty. Honest with me, honest with himself.

3. Open-minded. Strong opinions always welcome, but be flexible enough to see matters from different perspectives.

4. A keen intelligence. Someone brilliant in some area. (Note: not synonymous with being overly educated). You don't have to attend a fancy-schmancy school to engage me intellectually.

5. Self-aware and confident while being modest and humble. No matter how accomplished you are, if you're arrogant, yuck! Arrogance is my biggest turn-off.

6. Funny, witty. Someone who makes me laugh until my tummy hurts and who is unafraid to be silly at times.

7. Thoughtful and giving. Someone who thinks of ways to brighten my day or to do something nice just because. I'm not looking for material gifts. I'd be a happy clam if it's something like a sweet one-line email "hey how are you? thinking of you." Or maybe you know I'm having a super busy day and surprise me with lunch or a snack or coffee or tea. Yes, the way to my heart is through my stomach. Hee.

8. Cute (to me) in a kissable and jumpable way. Someone who finds me kissable and jumpable, too. There, I said it.

9. Passionate, curious, and inquisitive about the world and his interests. Someone who sees life for its possibilities and is excited about living.

10. Good and effective at communication and emotionally expressive. I am tired of inferring feelings based on facial expressions and small verbal cues. I know I need to cultivate faith and trust, but I need evidence-based reasons to believe and to have said faith and trust.

11. Ambitious but understands that his work is not his entire identity.

12. Strong - emotionally and physically.

13. WARM and affectionate. Enjoys hugging and kissing me and is good at it. An infectious smile.

14. Loves and adores me for me. (And lets me love and adore him back). And by me, I mean me in my silliness, for how I see the world, for the way I treat those around me, for the way I laugh, for the way I live. For reasons that you don't even know yourself. Not for objectifiable reasons (beauty, brains, my bookshelf, etc).

naked juices

Sat, 30 Jun 2007 00:05:30 GMT

Yes, that's about 30+ (90 dollars worth) of Naked Juices I bought with leftover meal tickets at the hospital. They're heavy. The first batch of 16 I got broke the handle of my paper bag. Wah. And while I was hoarding 16 more bottles into my extra-strength paper bag today, some crazy cafeteria lady gave me an evil stare and I thought: "B***h, haven't you ever seen a starving med student loot some nekkid juices? I earned this, dammit, ONE NAKED JUICE FOR EVERY DAY OF THE ROTATION."

Heehee.

My roommate opened the fridge this morning and thought "Holy s**t - is Domi ILL?" He thought I had suddenly come down with dysphagia and could only subsist on an all-liquid diet. Hahahaha. It's great: my roommate thinks I have cancer, my boyfriend thinks I have an eating disorder (half kidding about this), and some of my friends think I'm a functional bulimic (as in, I don't throw up, but I go for periods without eating and then eat a lot). I LOVE eating. I do. I think about food ALL the time. I just like to eat with people. Don't tell my mom, but some days go by and I just drink coffee and imbibe these naked juices like they're going out of style. Mmm yes.

**
I just finished my internal medicine sub-internship! And I loved it even more than I expected. I have embraced my inner detail-oriented uptight librarian-ish nerd. I learned so much and found myself driven by my own curiosity to figure out why things are the way they are and all that evidence-based goodness. Oh - and the people are amazing. At least at my institution, many of the attendings, residents, and interns are so admirable, kind, and well-balanced. The men are witty, handsome in a non-cocky-way, and devoted to their families. And the women - wow, what amazing role models: confident, sharp, warm, and beautiful inside and out. I was so lucky to be on this great team (it consisted of me the retarded MS4, 2 interns, and a resident) this past month and patients and residents called us the "Pretty Girls Team" (those are coattails I don't mind being on ) and the "Power Team." High-five. We discussed residency applications and NEJM articles and the nordstrom half-yearly sale and trending troponins in the same breath. They're phenomenal at their work, yet they're grounded and are in happy functional romantic relationships. I found myself growing up a lot this June by observing them and realizing what really matters: this stupid need for superficial affirmation is getting old - I'll save the neuroses for work. I want to be happy.

Ironically, I came to this conclusion following an afternoon of superficial affirmation - on Monday 6/18, I had the worst Monday with personal-life ickiness and patients crashing around me so I went to the gym for a swim to cool off in an attempt to feel better after work. The swim was good, and since the gym is near my apartment, I defer showering until I get home so I just wear a red sundress to and from so it's easier to get out of - I was walking home with my hair pulled back and in sunglasses all damp and this car is turning the corner and screeches to a halt - a woman rolls down her window and smiles and shouts out: "God, I HAVE to ask you! Where did you get that DRESS?" I sheepishly reply, "uh...this is from the Gap...years ago. I got it on sale." And she's so sweet and laughs and says: "Oh, that's awesome - you look SO cute in it!" To which I actually bite my tongue from arguing and say "thank you." That's right, I can stop traffic. Granted, it was in a residential neighborhood. In a small city. But to know that I can work a $19.99 Gap dress reeking of chlorine after a long crap day where I felt both unwanted and overwelmed - that felt nice.

I like compliments from other women - cause they're never a means to an end. Ah...but damn all these beautiful girls - they'll only want to do you dirt

**
What's the huge fuss over the iPhone? I can't even use my own regular razr cell phone to its full extent. Have you seen me text message? I take a million years.

**
I can't wait to see Ratatouille.

**
My favorite Supreme Court Justices are Souter and Ginsberg.

**
And I think THIS will be interesting to follow in the next few months.

**
And DUDE. What if on a long red-eye flight, a girl in tight jeans and a fitted top takes an OCP at a designated time? This study needs to be read more closely. Otherwise said girl might have to take some prophylactic heparin. Heh.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

Sat, 02 Jun 2007 23:39:05 GMT

I am now a fourth-year medical student! I'm so excited! And I can't believe my 3rd year is over. To be completely cliched and Dickensian about it, 3rd year: the best of times and the worst of times. Even amid the ego-crushing and self-doubt and constant sense of inadequacy and intermittent situational blues, there is beauty in this mess. I'm still giddy with excitement that I'm lucky enough to become a doctor.

MUST CHECK THIS LINK OUT: Bill Moyers interviews Jon Stewart.

Schoolgirl crush aside, I really admire Jon Stewart for intellectual reasons, too. As I watched this, I was humbled by how embarrasingly true it was that the majority of comfortable, middle-to-upper class Americans really can't be bothered by a 5-year war (FIVE YEARS!) when none of its immediate repercussions really affect them directly and they're too busy with their individual lives. Sure, I whine about stuff here and there, but I don't need to ration my food (or coffee!) or have people near and dear to me in dangerous regions or alter my life drastically because of war. I'm so freaking insulated. And admittedly self-absorbed. Dammit, I just don't want to be self-righteous or self-entitled.

Toward the end of the year, as my sanity and faith in humanity began to crumble, I thought 3rd year would turn me into a raving cynical b***h whose life will be work work work and become so bereft of meaning that she would need constant ego-stroking and validation at the expense of kindness and other people and of what really matters. And on my surgery rotation, where I expected to be humiliated and ridiculed and looked down upon, I just told myself: enough is enough. I am not letting anyone push me around. That, and I decided not to be so Holden Caufield and Eeyore since in the end, I only hurt myself (and apparently others, too, although that always confuses me since I feel everyone has the upper hand when it comes to being involved with me ) by living inside my neurotic negative mind. It must have worked a little bit since on my last day, one of my patients said: 'you know, you're really sweet, but you're TOUGH! You seem pretty tough." To which I said: "REALLY!? Me?!?! OMG you are so nice! TOUGH?! Wow I never thought I came off like that." Ha, silly man thinks I'm tough...psych consult anyone?

Even my hairdresser asks: "Are you one of those people who put themselves down after receiving a compliment?"

Um, yes? That's my modus operandi. Sometimes I turn it into a full-blown argument. It's great.

I need to learn how to say Thank You. And maybe some faith would do me good.

**
From Glamour Magazine: 11 Things Every Woman Deserves in Life (hee)!

(The bolded ones are the ones I want more).

1) A friend who takes your side and has the guts to tell you when you're wrong.
I have lovely friends like these already fortunately.

2) One item of clothing that instantly makes you feel twice as beautiful and half as nervous.

3) The occasional good cry, for no particular reason.

4) A man who just cannot get enough of your body.
Sigh...

5) At least as much pay as the guy at the next desk who does the same job.
Wait a minute...you mean men in medicine will get paid MORE than I do even if we're both, say, the same sort of subspecialist? WTF.

6) A same-size friend with an incredible closet.

7) A really hot, really fast red car. Failing that, really hot red shoes you can run in.

8) The expensive toilet paper.
Does Charmin count? I get it cause the bears are cute.

9) To sometimes lie back and take, take, take in bed.
No comment.

10) A grandparent equivalent: wise, huggable, all ears.

11) A life in which you play the starring role.
I don't need a starring role, I just want a happy one.

**

I will drink red wine and listen to Ella and Billie tonight.

Life is good. My cup runneth over.

time's arrow

Mon, 28 May 2007 01:30:06 GMT

Wow. I didn't anticipate such fervor over the whole male circ vs uncirc issue. I apologize for offending any guy friends and/or readers. For the record, I have no problem with foreskin in and of itself. I just hope to keep my professional encounters with it to a minimum and my personal brushes with it nonexistent. If you are happy with your turtleneck, then wear it proudly. Who am I to judge? Really.

**
As my third year nears its end (geez, if I ever become as self-important as these "OMG I save lives and I write! LOVE me!" folks, please push some KCl into me), one small thing I pride myself in is that no attending and no resident ever made me cry these past 10 months. Even on surgery.

Well, I've cried at the hospital: once with tears streaming down my cheeks and cellphone in the stairwell at the VA sobbing "you didn't call!!" (I know, classy) and my senior and intern (thankfully, both women and understanding of how heartbreakingly frustrating it is when a boy doesn't call you when he's supposed to) finding me and saying "aw, it's going to be okay" and then having to wash my face before seeing my patient. "Why are your eyes so red?" my patient asks. My reply: "ALLERGIES."

The few other times I've cried at work were in bathroom stalls after seeing patients dying or die in front of me. Many people find tears a sign of weakness, but I don't know how bottling things up and faking it can be healthier. And I feel so guilty when suffering is palpable all around me and all that's running through my mind is When will I eat? and When will I sleep? And sometimes I wonder whether the things we do to and for patients are really all that therapeutic or if it just f***s up their lives even more. I got choked up last week when a patient who wasn't yet aware that his unresectable abdominal mass turned out to be end-stage pancreatic cancer (which is a redundancy since pancreatic ca of any kind is a death sentence) asked me how my day was going and if I'd been outside to enjoy the sun cause the view from his room seemed amazing. Why does it matter how I am? My days aren't as numbered nor do I have to sell my possessions to pay off hospital bills. I hated not being able to say goodbye before he got discharged to hospice. There is no heroism or idealism or poetry in any of this.

I don't understand disease. I understand death.

(I lie. I don't really get that either).

Had brunch today with a friend where I told him it's such a strange business we find ourselves in - it's neither meaningful nor meaningless, it just is - and I feel so replaceable (anyone can do what I do) and insignificant (my hands - size 6 indicators and 5.5 overglove - are small and so am I) and that the world is 95% bullshit and 5% the startling kindness of friends and lovers and strangers. He says my outlook is just a defense mechanism and that I'm most likely not replaceable to those who directly interact with me and that I do bring something to the table. Ha, and what would that be?

On a brighter note, in one week, I'll be a fourth-year and begin my internal medicine sub-i!

I look forward to it.

**************

This is what I want (but edited and written better than this drivel...ha):

You. Me. A room with large windows. Creaky hardwood floors. Middle of nowhere. I want the evening sky marble pink and red and the dimming light filtering through dusty curtains.

Turn off your pager, cell phone, Blackberry, iPod, laptop.

The humid air hangs heavy. The summertime heat makes my hair stick to the nape of my neck. Beads of condensation cling to the glass of your marigold tea. We just made sangria with a 2004 Pinot from Sokol Blosser and cherries that stain my lips purple. I'm in my favorite white sundress. Coltrane is on the turntable. And it's too hot to think. To move. Even an inch. We are so still and you sit back, legs stretched, your eyes closed. I fold into you.

There's nothing between us.

Nothing between us but the scratchy music and the air whose scent is laced with hyacinth and whose breeze makes me shiver.

This is what it means to want in the edge of summer.

fun in the OR, fear of the uncirced

Tue, 22 May 2007 04:56:45 GMT

Had a great time in the OR last week when I scrubbed in on a case with an attending who turned out to be a classical music buff. Unbeknownst to him, the snot-nosed conservatory-trained MS3 retractor-holder across from him has 22+ years of classical piano playing under her belt and wrote dry and bore-you-to-tears tutorial papers on brahms and schumann at oxford.

As the iPod speakers blared 80s music, my attending turns to me and says: "I'm going to play Brahms in the next operation. Do you know why?" (Ah, gotta love the "read-my-mind" questions).

Me: "Uh...no. Cause you like it?!"

A: "Well, what's the next case?"

Me: "A gastrectomy."

A: "Yeah, and who was Brahms' best friend?"

Me (thinking WTF I can't believe I'm getting pimped on classical music on my freaking surgery rotation. But whatever, if this were a jeopardy category, I would dominate): "Schumann."

A: "How can that be? He tried to steal his wife."

Me: "Not true" (I know, I've got chutzpah) "Brahms admired Clara, he didn't want to get with her."

A: "Hahahaha. You're funny. But wrong. Brahms had another friend. Again, what's the procedure we're doing next?"

Me (not getting the orthogonal line of questioning): "Uh...a Billroth I or Billroth II?"

A: "Exactly. Billroth was Brahms' best friend!"

Me: "REALLY!?"

Go figure. Billroth the surgeon was apparently a music fiend. The thing about being pimped by surgeons is that the more questions you answer correctly, the more insane questions they'll throw at you just to see you fall flat on your face. If you answer wrongly, then God help you.

But I must have gotten on his good side and made him think I was mildly competent (knowing all the brahms/schumann stuff surely made up for not knowing the posterior border of the foramen of winslow...grrr) cause during the gastrectomy, he said: "You get to pick the brahms symphony that we'll listen to during this case." I picked the fourth, the e minor, and he had the scrub tech play it on the iPod for me.

High five for that. That's right, if it's classical we're hearing, I get first choice baby.

I am just dripping with pretension, aren't it? Apologies. I just wanted to prove it to y'all that my liberal arts background comes in handy occasionally.

**

Dude.

If I have to put a foley catheter in ONE MORE uncircumcised penis, I am going to scream.

Okay. Last week, I put a foley in an uncircumcised hoohahballooblahblah and was completely mortified and confused since it brought back bad memories of my first practice GU exam on this patient a year ago. Last year, as we were preparing for our clerkships, this paid volunteer had students do a genital exam on him and he was UNCIRCUMCISED and I spent at least 5-10 minutes trying to move back the foreskin to expose the head (dude, I had never seen an uncirced THING before and had NO CLUE what to do) and having an attending bark at me "HARDER! Pull HARDER! Keep pulling it up!" and then getting exasperated and subsequently pushing me aside and moving the foreskin himself. Gah. I was literally sitting there pulling wrinkly foreskin back and forth with both hands and getting nowhere. It was awesomely bad.

So last week I kept quiet and just followed directions when the scrub tech and my chief resident talked me through putting a foley in the uncirced patient. Once again on Friday, when I had to foley another patient (they're all under anesthesia already, don't worry), as they uncovered him, I couldn't hide my visceral reaction this time and blurted out: "OMG. Is he...uncircumcised?!"

NOT AGAIN. What is UP with this mutant population? My chief laughed at me and said "oh, Domi, you've done this before, just remember to pull back the skin to its original position after you expose the head."

AAAAAAAAAAAAH.

I hate this! Do you people know how difficult it is to put a foley in an UNCIRCED MAN!? To take your oversized-gloved NONDOMINANT hand (just ONE hand, cause my right hand is in the sterile field dammit) and grip firmly and pull back wrinkly flaccid foreskin?! My GOD. The scrub tech kept saying "Oh honey, you gotta grab harder, REALLY hard, pull it back, harder...you won't hurt it..." GAH. Foreskin is WEIRD and YUCKY and I felt I was giving this anesthetized dude a very unpleasant handjob with all the back-and-forth-ness of trying to pull back that damn piece of UNNECESSARY flesh.

AAAAAAAAAAAAH. I am so over this. But now my whole team is making fun of me and my R3 says she's going to scope out all pre-op uncirced patients so I can do foleys on ALL OF THEM.

Not. Funny.

**

I am also so over trying to appear "cute" in my scrubs. I'm resigned to looking like a dorky smurf in oversized clothing. I've been too focused on trying to appear minimally competent and I find myself spending more time trying to read and know as much as I can. But I have to say that I found a way to make my hair look pretty post-op. I put it up in a bun during the operation and when I walk out wheeling the patient to the PACU, I undo the bun, shake my head, and these lovely curls roll down my back. This is wavy greatness that I can't ever replicate with a curling iron. It's lame, but it puts me in a good mood until I realize I am so famished I could eat 5 steaks. R says I have hypoglycemia-induced rage, and I agree with her assessment.

**

I like the OR, but I'm not madly in love with it. Surgery is an odd profession - I feel, for better or worse, if one chooses to be a surgeon, everything in life from that point on will always be second to the OR and to one's career: every relationship, family members, and possibly one's emotional and personal well-being. This goes for both men and women.

In particular regard to women, I'm not going to play the holier-than-thou judgment game that the NYT likes to fuel when they showcase upper-middle-class Ivy League graduates who snag wealthy husbands whose 6-7-figure incomes allow them to stay home with their kids and feel superior to working moms because they're "home and THERE for the children." Please, that's bullshit. I think there are and will be women who make great surgeons and doting moms even if they require nannies for childcare. I think (or want to believe) that there ought to be men out there who are great surgeons and are also kind and devoted husbands and fathers (stop laughing, work with me here ). I just feel that the life and sacrifices required to be a surgeon aren't for me, and the choices that would come up if I became one are not ones I want to make. I want to be a good doctor, but I don't have the desire to have my profession occupy every corner of my life.

It sounds silly, but I imagine if I were in the latter years of a surgery residency or fellowship or whatever, and if I were post-partum then and still breastfeeding: what if I needed to scrub out to pump my breasts? It would be most awkward. And painful. Heh. These are the things I think about; I know it's weird.

obvious, c et al

Sun, 29 Apr 2007 09:59:33 GMT

Abstinence-Only Sex Education Found to Be Ineffective

Hahahahahahahaha.

Alright, who made Captain Obvious first-author? I swear, "Dr" Obvious is so widely published and a distinguished co-author of so many studies that garner media attention, I'm beginning to think somebody here is well-connected. What was the background/introduction in this abstract? "Many programs aimed at lecturing millions of horny teenagers to keep it in their pants until marriage seek to delay or prevent pre-marital sexy time. The purpose of this study is to assess whether merely talking to said horny teenagers about no touchy-touchy until matrimony and withholding information about contraception and safe sexy-time will indeed curtail 2000+ years of human evolutionary behavior and prevent naughty from feeling oh so nice."

While I feel abstinence is a worthy goal to pursue when one is emotionally immature and figuring things out (hell, i think some adults should remain abstinent), I don't think it should be the ONLY thing that is promoted. I want to throw contraception and condoms at all these teenagers and educate them to BE SAFE. Depo shots for all! HPV shots for all (and yes, for boys, too, because they're the ones GIVING it to the girls)! So frustrating, an insider theory (and by insider, i mean the word of one physician here, so take it with a grain of salt) as to one reason the FDA quickly approved the HPV vaccine might have included an implicit compromise that it wouldn't be marketed to boys in fear that the right-wing in this country would freak out that it was a "sex" thing. By marketing it only to girls, Gardisil is able to spin itself as a "cervical cancer" prevention cause, well, boys don't have cervixes. The optimist in me hopes the FDA is introducing this vaccine as "girls first" for political ease and then expanding it for boys later.

And I loathe the argument that the HPV vaccine is going to encourage girls to be promiscuous. Stephen Colbert compared that sort of logic to getting a tetanus vaccine and then going out and eating all the rusty nails you can find. Right-wing biatches, puh-leeze. You're delusional. The New York Times says so. Go get yourself some Trilafon.

Disease and unwanted pregnancy are concerns obviously, but no one ever talks about - gasp - emotional and mental readiness to deal with The Intercourse. I think the best thing society can do for young people (girls especially) is to saddle them with good self-esteem and a sense of self-respect and respect for others. I remember back in January on the rural peds rotation talking to that 13-year-old girl about sex (don't look at me like that, i know what you're thinking, the blind leading the blind) and just trying to reiterate to her that the worthy boys are the ones who will wait and won't pressure and that she has a right to say no and that there will be many guys who will want to do it with her and she shouldn't measure her self-worth by that and she doesn't have to do something she doesn't want just to feel liked and validated. i must have said something right cause her mom was in the room and was nodding along. i also told her (reneging on my previous Clintonian views) that sex is sex is sex regardless of what is inserted where. poor girl. she seemed mortified. i was such a spaz: "WAIT as long as you can, but if you're going to have it GET ON THE PILL AND USE CONDOMS!" Imagine being 13 years old and having to talk to ME about this.

Hahahahaha.

***
i should not be left unsupervised between the hours of 2300-0200.

the new profile picture is one reason why. go ahead, make fun of it. i know it's very "asian girl on xanga trying too hard to be alluring and deep while there are real things to worry about in the world." (although, to my credit, i did not cake on the eyeliner as most of them do in their profile pics; in fact, this is s/p shower and s make-up). dude, why the hell are you here? go read something of substance. shoo. go listen to rostropovich. tell me what the consequences will be once b**h vetoes. down with wolfowitz and gonzales.

***
ok, i thought i deserved a bit of self-indulgence (read: wasting time and procrastinating when i really need to clean my room and read Surgical Recall, a useful but strangely written book) this weekend before a 5-week surgery rotation. which i'm secretly thinking is going to be kinda fun. that's right, get those 6 and 6.5 (or is it 5.5 and 6?) double glovin' action ready.

my hair is so long now, i don't know what to do with it in the OR. M (the girl) says not to put them in pigtails cause then patients would freak out that some 12-year-old would be holding the retractor. (i've been mistaken for a patient during my peds rotation when not even wearing pigtails). So i'm thinking barrettes and a ponytail? i'll look...14. and don't get me started on how i have to wear the university scrubs in the OR. i have two Dickies pairs of my own that fit quite well but the ones from the scrub machines, even the SMALLS, fit horribly. <whine> the crotch part goes down to my KNEES and i have to roll it up and it is so unflattering. i feel like i'm wearing clown pants. and yes, M (the boy) and my roommate C say "Who the f*** cares?!" But it's like "I DO." I don't need to look good, I just want to feel like I wear something that fits so I feel confident and competent and name all the abdominal layers while doing so. Sigh. Scrubs were made for lean fit men like M and C anyway who look fabulous in them. Not fair! Scrubs are sexist. Hee.

**
i'm usually not so good at presentation when it comes to food, but i thought i gave a decent shot here on thursday 4/26 evening:

thank goodness i prepared salmon as a third course after the pho (i only took shortcuts with the salad roll appetizers and coconut cake for dessert by buying them...hee) cause everyone was hungry. btw, i think i'm going to go with pinot grigio to pair with asian food from now on; i can't find a gewurztaminer that i like, and i'm not good at picking out rieslings that are perfect (not too dry, not too sweet). grrr. if you have suggestions, let me know! and while i like reds over whites, i think asian food should be paired with the latter. full-bodied reds only please, no wimpy dessert-ish ones.

36 hours in nyc with a PG-13* ladomivita

Mon, 23 Apr 2007 18:32:35 GMT

*PG-13: scenes depicting drinking and some language unsuitable for young children

New York City was sunny and gorgeous this past weekend. You're welcome, darling, I know I brought my California weather to you (haha). Mmm yes. Practically everyone told me "you're lucky [the weather's] like this right now, you have good timing, but we don't live like this every day" What? You mean you don't eat good cheese and drink great wine on a 70degree summer-like evening every day? What is wrong with you people?

[I think my EtOH tolerance is building which means I am no longer a cheap date. Which is wonderful, that just makes me that much more high-maintenance. It's not two glasses of a pinot now, it's three]. (Pinot noir, not pinot gris, unless you're feeding me salmon).

Two confessions before moving on:

1) The men (at least the seemingly straight ones) in NYC are short. The average height must be something like 5'7" or 5'8." Why do you care, you ask? You're attached and 5'1." True, but even small girls like tall men (at least 5'10-5'11" is nice). And as for the attached comment, it's just an observation. Geez. If I were single and living in the city, I would have difficulty dating. That's cause I'm horrible at flirting. And clumsy and unsophisticated. H had to show me how to swipe my metrocard before getting on the subway. Yes, it's like "herro, welcome to america."

2) At my most drunken moments, I missed Portland. Well, I missed someone in Portland. And I was going nuts. In a good yet frustrating way. In a visceral "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh DAMMIT why am I 3000 miles away" way. Here is a picture of me in a compromising position. Not.

So no exciting pictures from the weekend; I'm not a photographer. But you can check out my flickr to see 5-6 photos I deemed okay to put up if you're bored.

Saturday:

Shopping was not fruitful. At all. I don't get what's "in" these days; it's like crazy people fashion. The loud swirly 70s colors, the billowy bordering-on-maternity tops, the cap sleeves that flatter no one, and do NOT get me started on leggings. WTF. While I was looking at a dress, some saleslady came up to me and said "oh, that piece is so versatile, you can pair it with leggings!" And I just looked at her thinking: "yes, and while I'm at it, I'll wear leggings OVER MY HEAD." Gah.

I got bored really quickly shopping. (Maybe it's cause I was wearing heels the entire time I was there and now my legs want to be cut off from my body...so sore). I wanted to go to the Met and see the new Roman Gallery/Exhibit but we didn't have time. Pout.

Ate lunch at Brasserie 360 and then dinner at Le Bateau Ivre where the wine was flowing. Le Bateau Ivre wasn't as pretentious as we feared, even though before we went my sister said "they're really mean there cause they're, like, actually French." Haha. Everyone's a little racist sometimes. We originally had planned to go to Citrus but everyone wanted wine instead.

I must be getting old since we went clubbing at Branch later that night and while the music was good (hip-hop!) and fun was had with the dancing and all, I was tired. And again, missed PDX. I sat in a corner drinking WATER 1/3 of the time. Sigh.

Sunday:

Took the subway for the first time and survived. Although some tall asian guy at the entrance kept staring at me trying to swipe the metrocard and I wanted to tell him "dude, haven't you ever seen someone mentally impaired before? It's not nice to stare."

Had brunch at the Clinton Street Baking Company with the lovely ML. It's great to catch up with friends from college since I've been so horrible at keeping in touch. The wait was long but the brioche french toast was worth it. Yum.

Oh, but NYC coffee sucka sucka sucks. Albeit coming from the Pacific NW skewers the way you see coffee...

Dragged D and H to Times Square much to their chagrin. I like shiny objects.

Saw Avenue Q which was hilarious and brilliant. Domi-Monster needs to get the CD.

On my next NYC trip, many more things to do, including taking ML out to dinner, forgoing the shopping and going to museums instead, and scoring tickets to the Daily Show and/or Colbert Report. A classical music concert would also be nice. Embrace my geekiness.

Speaking of pure geekiness...Spiderman!

36 hours in pdx with ladomivita

Mon, 16 Apr 2007 00:40:29 GMT

I'm amused that one of the most-emailed NYT articles this past week has been 36 Hours in Portland, Ore.

I've grown to love PDX in the past 3 years, although I half-jokingly and endearingly still refer to it as the poor man's San Francisco and Seattle, or at least their less noticed stepsister. I dislike how it's not as diverse as I anticipated for a west coast city, but parts of Oregon are breathtakingly beautiful, and parts of Portland are lovely and fun as well, if not a bit bordering on bougie.

Two of my favorite spots made the NYT write-up: Powells and St. Honore Boulangerie.

4/15/07 was gorgeous and sunny, and one of my favorite things to do on a Sunday afternoon is to get dressed up, grab a good book or some study materials, and head to a bakery and pretend I'm far away, sipping my latte and stuffing my face with choquettes or a raspberry croissant. And people-watch. Alone. (I know, I'm a misanthrope at heart). Did precisely that at St Honore today: crammed my brain learning types of congenital heart diseases amid the background jazz and hiss of espresso machines. Love. It.

The NYT version of 36hrs in PDX is sorta tame, sorta bougie.

So let's go over what 36hrs in pdx with ladomivita would be.

Well, I'd tailor it to which friend it is, boy or girl, and what they like to do, what their interests are (girls, the shopping here, three words: no sales tax). Regardless, there would be tons of eating and drinking. And a requisite trip to Powells. Yes, I will drag you into the Rare Book Room and make you stare at first editions of my favorite post-modern novels. I may take you dancing. If you likey the outdoors, I'd take you to the Gorge. We can walk under falls. Most likely, I will just keep you fed and drunk.

A quick run-down of a few current favorite (eating) spots.

Blue Hour. Went to happy hour here with R a few days ago. Great ambience, deceptively EtOH-laced orange drops, and hot bathrooms.

Baker and Spice Bakery. A little out of the way, but the people are nice (one of the guys who works there is from my hometown and goes out of his way to be incredibly kind) and the bread is jaw-droppingly good. Say it with me: YEASTY CRACK is what it is. I get my friends all their birthday cakes here.

Via Delizia. A dessert place we frequented last night. M and I shared the white chocolate pumpkin cheesecake, and M and R had the tiramisu. We debated the merits of journalism and medical missions. Foodwise: yummy, and I need to go back to have more of the gelato because I think it gave me flashbacks of Italy. Mmm.

Justa Pasta. A comfy favorite. I occasionally OD on this place and need some days away, but it's easily my most favorite Italian in town, almost rivaling Trattoria buon Gusto in Menlo Park, CA.

I can talk endlessly about food (in fact, I think about food 75% of the time). So many more places, but above is a quickie preview.

And the best Pho place in town is obviously my apartment.

Lodging: Well, again, my apartment. You would sleep in my bed. No, not with me. I would be sleeping in the living room. DOWNSTAIRS. But I do make my full-size bed lovely and comfy with cushy pillows and put on clean sheets (said sheets are light green: neutral and non-girly in color so as not to offend my male guests). I also provide fresh, fluffy towels and if you tell me in advance, I can even make sure the soap/deodorant/toothpaste you prefer will be available when you arrive! I even let you shower before me in the mornings and steal all my hot water. And if you know how showers rank in my world, this is a huge deal in terms of hospitality.

**

This coming weekend: 36 hours in NYC! Pictures and recap to follow...

So It Goes

Fri, 13 Apr 2007 04:46:24 GMT

One of my most favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut, has died.

Here's a decent obit on him in the NYT. I have nothing deep to add, only that I adored his work. My copy of Slaughterhouse-Five is worn from multiple rereadings.

**

This week, I tried a tiny experiment. A little self-CBT. Shhhh...don't tell. I'm not saying I'm cured of my chronic, um, "condition," but it is making me feel a lot better than anticipated. One of my residents today said I should "run with the positive feedback" that I get from attendings et al and build my confidence from that and stop being apologetic for things that aren't my fault. Yes, I've heard variations of this theme throughout the past 9 months ("must have more self-confidence, blah blah blah" during multiple feedback sessions and on evaluation forms), but my third-year is nearing the end, and I've gotten to a point where enough is enough, I'll finally think of myself in a slightly different light. OKAY?

So the things I'm telling myself this week include:

1) "You are not dumb, you are competent, you are nice, and kindness goes further than many people realize."

2) "Okay, so you're not HOT, but, you're not a monster. You're able to put together an outfit that won't go on a webpage like this. You have a boyfriend who thinks you're "cute." And "cute" doesn't have to be a four-letter word. You can be attractive independent of male attention. Repeat that last sentence."

3) "When children see you, they don't run away. In fact, they like to smile and play with you. This is not a bad thing."

And secretly, I think about how M told my friend M (okay, I know too many boys and girls whose names begin with "M") that it was great how between MS1 and MS2, I gained a lot of confidence (yes, it was actually worse in 2004) and somehow that made me more attractive (I think that's how the conversation went). ANYWAY, (blush), I would lie if that weren't somewhat of a motivating factor. Many high-fives for a guy who wants his girl to have a strong sense of self and be more confident. It's kinda true that when a straight girl thinks better of herself, she thinks better of men. Odd correlation, really. It's this weird respect that feeds off itself.

And this whole good-attitude thing has spilled over professionally. I am excited (and scared) about being a fourth-year med student in less than two months, and I LOVE my fourth-year schedule. It's almost perfect. I can't believe I get to learn all this great stuff. And even next month when I'm on surgery, I'm secretly looking forward to it (shhhh...don't tell anyone this either) and want to get as much out of it as I can. It's most likely that I'll be on a more meddie path, but part of me is apprehensive I might fall in love with surgery. LESS likely, but not impossible, and I've heard multiple times the "you play piano it's very conceivable you'll love and be good at surgery" argument from well-meaning friends, and then this will totally mess up my MS4 line-up. Gah. So y'all have the task of talking me out of it if I even flirt with the idea. Okay? Okay. Thanks in advance.

I feel more excited about life and much lighter, and dare I say it, happier.

Gulp.

Baby steps, people. I still have moments of utter "I am so dumb and ugly." And yes, it's lame this effort toward having a positive attitude has to be so deliberate.

Don't push me, I'll get there...someday.

Assessment: 26 yo girl with chronic insecurity and self-image issues 2/2 multifactorial etiologies, now started on self-CBT and slowly and cautiously trending toward gradual resolution.

Plan:
1) Continue gentle encouragement.
2) Kisses and gelato and sushi po (that's right ) as tolerated. Hell, make it ad lib.
3) Red wine prn frustration qhs.
4) Continue to monitor and reassess. Tomorrow.

So it goes.

no god but god, no life but life

Thu, 05 Apr 2007 05:30:20 GMT

I stole the first part of this entry's title from a book by One of the Most Gorgeous Men To Walk This Earth.

Reza Aslan, 34, is a hottie.

Of course, he's smart and open-minded and well-spoken and I've come to recognize his voice on NPR. A friend said that he looks like a muppet, but I don't see it. He's the author of No God but God and the forthcoming How To Win a Cosmic War. All I know about the Middle East I've learned from Mr. Aslan.

**
Anyway...

**

The NYT this week had several articles that struck a nerve. Fired up in me something fierce.

For Girls, It's Be Yourself, and Be Perfect, Too

I'm almost a decade older (god, shoot me now) than these girls, but someone should tell them that this never gets easier. It follows you throughout your 20s and if you're not careful, it potentially cripples your ability to think well of yourself, and eventually, your ability to think well of other people, especially men (if you're into them, that is), and if that happens, it could spell trouble when you've got someone genuinely kind and patient and understanding and utterly bewildered by your multiple attempts at self-sabotage.

Memo to overachieving girls: now that we've proven that we're intelligent and accomplished, the next level is proving that we're HOT and intelligent and accomplished. Keep those trendy glasses on, but take off everything else while reading Camus. In the original French. Lose weight, gain knowledge, and bring it. Don't say I didn't warn you.

According to one of the girls they interviewed, a character on Grey's Anatomy is gorgeous because "when she's taking off her scrubs, she's always wearing cute lingerie." Fuck. When I take off my scrubs, you find boyshorts. Gah. Clearly the black-lace peek-a-boo get-up (with garter belt!) I should be wearing underneath my scrubs will ultimately improve patient care. And might even save a life. Who knew?

Another article that incited, um, less angst, was a tremendously flattering profile of Dr Gawande:

Atul Gawande Rocks in the OR

Which made me think that the standards for overachieving men are a little lower than for overachieving women. There's less emphasis, if you will, on looks and parenthood. Regardless, Gawande (Stanford alum, HIGH FIVE) is actually a physician (even if he is a surgie and not a meddie ) who writes well and writes intelligently about health care without slipping into maudlin and self-congratulatory ramblings. I was surprisingly impressed with Complications. And he's coming to Powell's on May 2 for a reading! I am totally (like totally) there (if my surgery rotation call schedule permits) and bringing my embarrassingly inferior newsletter clippings/writings and seeing what he thinks. What? It's feedback.

Nancy Pelosi was wearing fabulous shoes in this picture with the Syrian president.

Somewhere, I think Maureen Dowd is scolding me.

**
I don't talk a lot about medicine here for several reasons. Rereading my July 2006 entry when I first started third year, I sounded so excited and full of hope. Now after months of sleep deprivation, long hours, the constant sense of inadequacy, the realization of bullshit and disillusionment and being snidely regarded and relentlessly judged and mindfucked, I'm still expected to be enthusiastic and loving IT. It's emotional masochism and intellectual masturbation at its worst: in the end, you are literally paying, with your wallet and your soul, for them to wear you down physically and mentally and strip you of your idealism until you're a shell of a person just trying to figure out when to sleep and eat, much less having time to figure out how to care about that patient in need. I see this a lot in doctors, and I'm petrified that I'm going to end up self-entitled out of feeling like I'm owed after these years of sacrifice. On better days, I am happy to be learning what I'm learning. But on darker days, I've just had it. I do not want to end up bitter and mean, I think this is something bigger than I am. I really want to believe that I'm serving some greater purpose. Is that too much to ask? Or am I just bullshitting myself to justify this path?

Sorry this is so depressing. I really am fine. I'm on my Peds rotation right now, and I thought for the longest time, I really wanted to be a pediatrician of some sort, and now I'm having second thoughts. This week I started working in the PICU, and it made me question my ability and emotional stamina not only to do critical care, but also to be a physician at all. Yes, objectively speaking, the PICU is intellectually fascinating, and when you can help these kids in acute need and actually make a difference and see them turn around, it's amazing.

It's when you see parents who are going to bury their child and are sobbing at the bedside - that I haven't yet found the reserve with which to cope. I keep myself numb and focused on work when I'm in the unit, but as I'm walking out of the hospital and reach my apartment, I've been having a good cry every night this week. I don't think I can handle seeing kids die. To put it bluntly, it fucking sucks. There is no eloquence for this sort of madness. In those moments you see how life is absurd and almost meaningless. Surely we must be more than bags of organs and blood and salt and water.