you dont care how im doing

i seriously needed a vacation. i know this not because the bags under my eyes are expanding in 3 dimensions (oh what they would look like if i were an avatar...horror movie level of scariness). i know because on my way to my vacation out of nyc i was the epitome of the bitchy new yorker that has to get the fuck out of nyc. i screamed at my cab driver because i clearly know the traffic patterns better than someone who spends the entire life in a car, jumped out of said cab because man was pissing me off because wtf would he take 31st st to penn station, and then while on foot continued to run people's (read: peoples including small children, elderly) feet over with my suitcase. i know i live in nyc, shopping mecca of the world, but honestly, i find it difficult to shop there. im a mall girl after all. you can take the girl out of natick, but you can't take the natick mall out of the girl. or collection. and dammit, i love the cheesecake factory. best chain restaurant ever. after a good mall shop, all you want is an encyclopedia of food, of which i always choose the same damn dish. i hate reading anyways. now that is a good day. so when i go visit my parents in indiana, we go to the mall. i have a limit though. its not necessarily a time limit. my limit is more on the number of times i can hear a salesperson ask me how im doing. i can only snarkily answer 'fine how are you' so many times before i can no longer disguise my rage. you dont care how i am. and i sure as hell dont care about you, but it sounds insensitive not to return the question. i know shopping trip is over when im more likely to walk out of the store with the throat of the salesperson that asked me how i was doing than with the sweater i needed. i cant wait to go back to manhattan. where no one gives a fuck how im doing.

you know you are an anesthesiologist when....

1. you fall asleep on a plane and worry about improperly padded pressure points 2. you vampire-like stare at people's veins on the subway. vampires are still hot now, right? they sparkle. 3. your taste in men has changed. you could never be attracted to someone with a small chin (TMD<6cm). who knew you were getting such high standards. 4. you are so tired on call that you've actually thought about taking a nap on the OR table (or taken one). no matter how many times you call it a 'bed', it ain't no bed. 5. no one knows what your hair looks like. which is a good thing because you keep pushing how much of a mess you can hide under a scrub cap. answer: a lot. 6. your biggest fear in life is that you might be an unanticipated difficult intubation. you've checked your mallampati score and made others check to confirm. sigh of relief, im an easy intubation. thank you appendix. two less things to be worried about. im going to keep going with this....

making babies...

...come out painlessly. not that its come up often, or really ever... but if i ever needed a wrestling name, i would totally be 'the epiduralizer'. ladies of america, embrace modern medicine. here is a gift from me to you: the epidural. yes, women have squeezed out babies for gazillions of years without epidurals, but you know what, they f-ing hated it. have you seen a vagina? have you seen a baby's head? you know those shape games where babies play with a circle shape and try to shove it through a triangle hole until they learn better that it just doesnt work....that is what a vagina and baby are. triangle, circle. and some of you are having some huge circles. huge. ladies, you have embraced the modern medicine to get one or two, or octomom 8 in there, embrace the medicine to get it out. give your uterus a break. it has been through so much already. like my esteemed colleague said, if i had to push a baby out of my penis, goddammit im getting me some narcotics. the second im pregnant (sorry mom, not pregnant, no illegitimate grandbabies from me), im getting an epidural. i will walk around 9 months with that thing in my back. i will never know pain. take it from the professional baby makers, none of whom read my blog. but let me tell you, the chassids of nyc know how to have a baby. epidural as soon as they walk in. requested. dont talk to me unless you are the anesthesiologist. and while their 8th baby could probably fall out on its own and bake a challah, they get their epidural. because they know better. and i respect that. mazel tov, amen. ob to pt while in csection: "this big baby would never have come out your little vagina"

hell hath frozen over....im officially a new yorker

i immediately call my mom to apologize. i gave in. i gave up my roots. who am i now? literally just handed my identity over. my sense of self is gone. i am a massachusetts-er(?), massachusettsian (?)...fine, i give up, mass-hole, no longer. today, while standing at the dmv between a guy who i swear had tb and another guy who was making some shady cash deal where there were some choice words and large numbers were exchanged--i became a new yorker. the people at the dmv clearly did not know how serious this moment was. i was having palpitations. mostly because of the pressure of taking a decent picture after standing in line forever next to the tb guy, but also the loss of my identity. but mostly the photo. they asked me to sign for my official signature for my brand new ny license and i totally froze. all i needed to do was sign and stay in the lines. but my doctor signature has become such shit, i froze. for my new start in my forced new state i wanted a nice pretty signature like i used to have, like the one i tried to copy from my mom back in the day. i made an R then froze again. man just stared at me. I told him I was really trying to focus cause of my doctor signature, but when I restarted to sign, i went 100% out of the line. my one instruction. 5 year olds can do a better job than i did. i got shoo-ed off to sit amongst the masses and wait for my bingo number to be called. and then it happened. they took away my massachusetts id and put a staple right through my heart. and that was it. the end of an era. i miss you massachusetts. even you, worcester. i miss your rent. i miss your parking spots. i miss your accents. i miss your road rage. i miss your malls. i miss being able to afford your food. i miss you. mark my words, i will get my massachusetts license back. but until that day, im a new yorker.

S*** i eat: part 1

delivery is one of the amazing things about nyc. it goes in the 'love' column of my love/hate relationship with the stupid awesome city. im post call, dont want to be seen by anyone (scratch that: shouldnt be seen by anyone). its not pretty. and because i have no food in my fridge (scratch that: no edible/unrotten food in my fridge) its time for takeout. i click, give them my credit card, and voila, in less time than it takes me to put on my pants so the delivery man isnt freaked out, my thai food is here.



i look into my bag and see this. at first this was going to be a rant about how they fucked up my order. i didnt order soup. and i definitely didnt order cold soup. and then to my delight, i realized this is my thai iced tea. it came in what i will always negatively associate with my parents cole slaw containers. growing up my parents would eat a disgusting amount of cole slaw and then reuse the containers that would be scattered around the kitchen, never with a top that fit. even though it was all the same damn cole slaw container. and now, i get to do the same. which my nonexistent kids may in the future may have a negative association with moms 'thai iced tea' containers. i cant wait for the day.

and i still cant look at coleslaw without wanted to vomit. dont worry, i wont show a picture. it will never be part of s*** i eat.

i bring you..."S*** i eat"

i love topics of conversation that bring out strong emotions. no topic has brought out more anger and crazy rants than my topic du jour "whats your biggest facebook pet peeve?" clearly the front runners are "i dont give a shit your baby pooped" and other photo documents of every time your baby spit, smiled/farted, slept, opened eyes, closed eyes, etc. since i cant be so mean to babies (i do sometimes have a soul and they are innocent bystanders)...my new endeavor will focus on my personal pet peeve and yours as well..."i dont give a shit about what you ate". the inspiration behind my new series "shit i eat".
i know you eat. i assume you eat. im not sure a lot of the women of nyc eat enough, but thats a whole other topic. what i dont need is confirmation that you ate. im happy for you that you ate a pretty meal, but thats what restaurants are for. im happy that you made a pretty meal, that means you have more time than me. but not that happy that i need to see it cluttering my facebook space which is more better used for gossip. and funny george takei posts. that man gets the best stuff.
if you cant beat em, join em. because you know what, i eat too. and youre going to be forced to see it.

androphys (androphies?) are hilarious

ahem ahem, i would like to turn your attention to the button on the side. i only have 2 over there and they are very important. kids, donate your organs. if you die, you wont need them, but someone else will. someones, actually, as in multiple.
and then equally as important and life changing is willowpear. my sister blogs too, and if i may say so myself, we are damn funny. and considering we have collectively low self esteem, me saying that actually means something. while we are no stand up comics, mostly due to our fear of people, we are pretty amusing.
and since i know you cant get enough of me from my own writing, she writes about me too. im a fountain of inspiration.
ok, so maybe i dont have that low self esteem after all.