Pontificum Scriblerus

http://new.music.yahoo.com/blogs/stopthepresses/132331/ricky-martin-i-am-a-fortunate-homosexual-man/

One of the things I find most frustrating about my husband - besides how he's so much smarter and more organized than I, and uses unfair techniques like logic when we argue - is that he has zero memory for names of people or places. A typical exchange, for example, would be something like this: ME: Do you wanna go to Oleana's? Him: What's that? Me: It's that restaurant we went to with our friends. Him: Which one? Me: the one with the fire place. Him: blank stare Me: we ordered blank and blank. Him: blank stare Me: sigh... forget it. or something like this: Me: so, Ben says to me today... Him: Ben? Me: Ben, the one I've been working with. For 2 months. Him: Ben the fellow? Me: No, Ben the attending. Him: Is he the Pakistani? Me: no. Him: Is he the British? Me: no. Him: Is he the one who yelled at you that one time? Me: No. Well, yes, he yelled at me that one time, but not the time you're saying. Him: Blank stare. So, I was plopped on the couch (big surprise), ...

I'm not saying I do have preggy brain, and I'm not saying I don't. But the fact remains that I put on two plastic cover up gowns while performing colonoscopies at work last week. They're these horrible plastic full length, long sleeve bibs, essentially, that we wear to avoid getting splashed by never mind what when we do procedures. Usually, you wear just the one. Last week, I was doing a procedure, and suddenly, I was so hot, I could feel sweat dripping down my back and between by boobs and into my eyes - and I kept saying, Jeez, it's so hot in here, isn't it? God, I'm just so hot! I was accompanied by 2 menopausal nurses, who agreed heartily, and 1 less than sensitive male attending, who said, dismissively, "You're just pregnant." Then, I finished the procedure, and ripped of the gown, like I normally do. Imagine my surprise when the long awaited breeze of fresh endoscopy suite air didn't hit my sweaty body. Instead, my tactile senses...

but morning-sick. does the end justify the meanzzzz?!

A few years ago, we made a family trip to Spain. Among other places, we visited this little town called Ronda down near the Mediterranean. This little village is nestled in the mountains, and in certain places, gorgeous views of vastness open up to you. Should be enough to take your breath away - hence, the phrase, "breathtaking views." I remember, though, standing at the edge of a mountain looking over a huge rocky valley, dissected by a sharp line between shadow and coolness on one side, and rays of sun on the other - I remember standing there and thinking, this should be taking my breath away. It really should, and I know it here (points to head) but not here (points to heart). What happened to my ability to feel that shaky feeling in the pit of the belly, that odd combination of joy, happiness, anticipation, and awe? I pondered for a while, and decided, that the acuity of such feelings fades and blunts with age. Remember, when you were a kid and you'd run tow...

Don't you just hate unwelcome visitors? Especially, if they know they're unwelcome? And especially, if they're repeat offenders? Like, when I'm given to understand that I'm unwelcome, I usually stay away. I don't see another way to handle it. I think I just figure, why bother someone who doesn't want to be bothered. Plus, if I'm unwelcome, there must be a reason. If it's a good reason, then they're right to make me unwelcome. If it's a shitty reason, then it's beneath me to even be bothered to think about it. But I guess that's not the same for everyone. Just saying.

Lucky me, who specifically requested to have no call the second half of the year, knowing that I'd be knocked up and relatively miserable, gets to pick up F2's first 2 calls which she'll be unable to do on account of the firing. Ironically, SOMEbody forgot to put the operators in the know, so I was fooled into optimism Friday night, as no one called me for hours on hours. But around 9pm, the operators got wise to the fact that they had the wrong person listed on call. So, Saturday, I got a series of pages asking me if I was Dr F2, and when told that no, I wasn't, but yes, I was on call, the callers were incredulous, and that prolonged the conversation by at least 15%. Saturday night, all traces of optimism were wiped by the continuous torture of innocuous and ocuous phone calls. Now, I'm here, underslept and overconsulted, and so goddamn nauseous! I thought we were done with the nausea, but I guess not? I'm just writing this to document that I am eating a reg...