The 1001 Nights
For tonight, I thought about reviewing Christopher Moore’s Lamb, which I’ve finally finished. But I’m afraid I can’t give Lamb a favorable review, and it’s such a good-natured story, I’d end up feeling like a bully. Yeah, yeah, Moore can take it, but I don’t feel like being a bully. Not tonight.
Then I thought about telling the story of my first sleepover back when I was a kid. It’s not a bad story, but the high point is the fact the host family were the Wieners and they had a dachshund named Hot Dog, whom I couldn’t help but call Wiener, not out of brattiness but as an honest mistake. And that really isn’t much of a high point.
So when Lyvvie took the bait yesterday, and I quote,
Dish the story.
. . . I decided to leap at the opportunity. Just so we’re all on the same page: this is a new idea for a novel, kind of a big deal for me since I haven’t had any fun ideas in a long while. I don’t know how bright it is to start a new project when I still have old projects in need of editing, but that’s another post for another day. Besides, I’m not starting a new project; I’m only talking about a new project. Ain’t the same thing.
Follow me below the fold if you want to get in on the ground floor of something BIG.
(yeah, right . . .)
I’m not fat, I’m big-boned!
We learned yesterday that Harmonica, our gigantic ferret, does not have a hormonal problem. We’ve been waiting a couple weeks for the result of a blood test. The verdict: he’s fat, and he needs to go on a diet.
Meanwhile, my comic edge is blunted by the fact I’ve seen 59 patients in the last two days. So I came home, snapped at my son, and then tried to put my dominant hand into the garbage disposal. (Try explaining that to my Worker’s Comp insurance rep.) Reminds me of the time post-call, during residency, when my right hand stabbed my left hand with a scalpel. I don’t think they’ve talked since.
Since I can’t be funny, I’ll let Lisa Altalida do it for me. Here’s more from Chapter One of The Pocket Idiot’s Guide to Getting Girls.
You are actually the type of guy that women want. See the power in that. You can meet women just as readily as stereotypical men. Real men have as good a chance to meet attractive, nice women as the next guy. The key is to understand what your strengths are and improve on your weaknesses.
. . . answer these questions to determine your positive traits:
1. Are you funny? Not at the moment.
2. Do you make others feel comfortable? The old folks feel pretty good after I get the wax out of their ears.
3. Do you have a nice smile? You be the judge.
4. Do people compliment your eyes? Only if “Didn’t get much sleep last night, eh?” ranks as a compliment.
5. Do you tell good stories? Yeah, sure. I told my patient this afternoon, a teenage girl, the story about my microbiology prof, Stan Falkow, who once showed a slide of a cholera bucket* with the caption, “Other people’s feces are my bread and butter.”
6. Are you a good friend? If I had any, I would ask them.
7. Do you have a nice physique? Yup. I call it “Russian Mud Wrestler.”
8. Can you point out any other positives? I only pick my nose when people aren’t watching. Except during live-blogging. But that’s not nose-picking, that’s nose-rubbing, so shut up already.
And I have this idea for another novel, but I’m always afraid I’ll irk the piss out of my readers if I bore them with story ideas, so I’m keeping it to myself. That’s a positive too, isn’t it?
D.
*Cholera bucket: a container marked volumetrically, placed below the cholera patient’s hindquarters to catch the drips. Here’s the idea: however much volume comes out, that’s how much volume needs to be replaced. This is a big help, since dehydration is one of the primary ways cholera kills.
Yes, I explained that to my patient. See? I’m an educator, too.
The Idiot’s Guide to Getting Girls, Chapter 1
While searching for an Idiot’s Guide to Fishing, I found this gem. Comedy gold, I thought, and I was right.
As a single man, you probably have a goal: to meet as many single women as possible.
Meet. Is that what you call it.
I’ve recorded my review of Chapter One using Stickam. One-point-five hours later, it’s still “processing.” And it was good, too! So now I’m torn — should I try doing it again using YouTube, or wait a bit longer?
To hell with it. I’m going to go roast my chicken. If the video still hasn’t “processed,” I’ll try again using YouTube.
Watch this space.
Okay, here’s my second attempt, this time on YouTube. If the Stickam one ever finishes processing, I’ll post it, too. That one came out better. The YouTube vid has quality issues. On the other hand, the YouTube version prompted my wife to threaten my generative organs with a nail file, so perhaps that one has special qualities, too.
D.
I need a hot tub
Among other things.
We have two hot tubs, matter of fact, and both are vintage 1974. We inherited them with the house. The one outside has teeny perforations all over the place that tickle you EVERYWHERE. And I do mean everywhere. You can’t turn off the bubble flow from the little holes. Thus, not a pleasant experience from that one.
The indoor one is huge and loud and baby blue. It would be a bitch to clean if we ever used it routinely. We do use it routinely, as a matter of fact — as a ferret bath.
I need a hot tub. Can’t do it, because we have higher priorities for our remodeling money (floors, remember? And siding. Indispensable stuff like that).
I need a drink. Can’t do it, because I have fresh tonsils out there, not to mention I have an inpatient, too.
I’m going to watch the debates. That ought to be relaxing, right?
Sorry I don’t have more for you, but I’m still feeling bulldozed.
D.
Stormy weather
“Stormy,” by draganea and ljilja.
Rough weather here in the Pacific Northwest, although you would think (from that Reuters article, for example) the storms stop magically at the Oregon border. Sorry, no. Our house is getting blown to hell and back. At least we haven’t lost power . . . yet.
Power was out in Crescent City from about 2 AM to noon. That’s where I work, on the California side of the border. You wouldn’t think an ENT could do much without power, but you’d be wrong. I can’t clean ear wax and I can’t use my fiberoptic scope, but I can do just about everything else. I was able to see a few patients before the shit hit the fan this morning.
I can’t reveal details, of course, but this particular medical crisis required my staff and me to go to a patient’s home (the phones were down), go to another doctor’s office so that I could use my fiberoptic scope (the other doc has a generator, I don’t), then to the ER so that I could arrange for my patient to be flown to Portland. We got very, very lucky — hit a clear window amidst all the bad weather. My patient arrived safely in Portland after a remarkably smooth flight.
What a week.
D.
The dangers of embellishment
How about a preview of an upcoming Cosmo Thirteen? From the January issue, here’s a bit from Sex Snafus that Ended Up in the ER:
“A young couple came in with this story: During sex, the woman had grabbed a medium-sized rubber ball and inserted it into her man’s back door. The ball became lodged so high in his rectum, they couldn’t get it out . . . and neither could we! The attending MD paged a surgeon, but while we were waiting for him to arrive, the man began coughing. The ball came flying out of his butt with enough velocity to ping around the room and hit the just-arriving surgeon in the head.”
I have a few observations.
(1) I would really, really like to see Mythbusters tackle this one, because
(2) The story has been embellished past all semblance of reality. But if the writer wanted to create a fanciful story,
(3) The ball should ping around the room a few times and then lodge itself in the arriving surgeon’s gaping mouth. Sadly,
(4) They would call me (or some other ENT) to remove it.
Hat tip to my son for figuring out how to improve the story.
***
What a weird, cruel week it has been. For a two-and-a-half-day week, I managed to fit in about four months’ worth of emergencies. My patients are fine, and for that, I’m grateful. But I feel bulldozed, too.
I’ll find you a Friday Flickr Babe later this evening. Meanwhile, enjoy Dean’s Flickr Babes (NSFW).
Mmmmm. Butt cleavagey.
D.
Obama,
Edwards,
Clinton
Notice something odd about the Iowa caucus coverage? Edwards pulls off second place, despite being greatly outspent by Clinton and Obama, despite being third in nearly every pre-caucus poll, and which way does the media tack?
This is a failure for Edwards, who needed to win Iowa.
Clinton and Edwards (NOT “Edwards and Clinton”) in a dead heat for second.
Edwards’s performance with labor groups and lower income voters was disappointing.
Edwards? Edwards who? (They have been trying their damnedest not to say his name.)
What should be the talking point, when it comes to Edwards? Edwards narrowly defeats Clinton, despite being outspent by Clinton at least 2:1 (sorry, I didn’t make note of the actual numbers). Grrr. Know what it is? Edwards attacks corporate greed. Guess who owns the media.
And congratulations to Barack Obama, whom I would be delighted to call my President. Yeah, I love Edwards — I think he’s the most revolutionary of the bunch, the one who cares most for the poor, the uninsured — but Obama’s saying all the right things, too. They both gave kickass speeches, although Edwards’s speech choked me up, Obama’s didn’t, and Clinton’s made me want to hit the ultrafast forward button.
As much as I would love to see a woman in the White House, please, God, not Clinton. She’s a hawk and a corporate minion. Anyway, to misquote Stephen Colbert, I don’t see race and I don’t see gender. I’m voting for the populist candidate.
D.
The spooky rerun
The first day back at work is always a bitch, and today was no exception. It could have been an easy day, but I had to take one of my patients back for post-op bleeding, so everything ended well past 5 when it should have ended around 2:30. No trip to the gym for me, only a hurried visit to the supermarket to scrounge some heat-uppable food for my family. Oh, and toilet paper. Gotta have toilet paper.
And there you have it, my excuse to rerun an old favorite of mine: fatigue! I’m always griping about fatigue, I know, I know. Maybe if I weren’t so damned tired, I wouldn’t gripe about it so much.
Anyway, this memory got jostled today. The old gf and I write one another, as some of you know, and she was creeping out over the fact a friend of hers was following the advice of a psychic. That reminded me of how negative she was about my tarot-reading shtick back in the old days. I think she even made me swear never to touch them again, but we broke up soon after, so you can guess how well I honored that promise.
In my email today, I finally (after 25 years) told her the story below. Of course, I told y’all the story nearly two years ago, which means she could have read it two years ago if she would read my blog, which she doesn’t. Go figure.
But before story time, I want ALL of my Iowa readers to make it to the caucus tomorrow.
And now: Wheel of Fortune, originally posted here, in case you want to read the comment thread. It was a good one.
Drinking and flying
My dad bought Jake Microsquash’s Flight Simulator X for Hanukkah. I suspect Jake wanted a flight simulator because of a recent episode of Mythbusters in which Jamie and Adam tested out the myth that an untrained airplane passenger could land a 747 by being “talked down” by an air traffic controller. (Answer: kind of, sort of.) Jake has no intention of taking the tutorials. He’s going to dive right into it and see whether he, too, can land a jumbo jet with no prior flight experience.
Jake’s father, on the other hand, believes you should take advantage of the tutorials. But why can’t I manage to solve the first tutorial?
I discovered this new beer I like: Pyramid Apricot Weizen. It really does taste like apricots. And so I’m sipping my beer, wondering if a joystick would make this process easier. Use the arrow keys, the tutorial says. But all I can do is climb or descend — how do I level out? And where’s my altimeter, where’s my speedometer? Is it even called a speedometer? And why do I keep crashing?
I need more beer. Clearly.
Now, I’m climbing, leveling out. This is good. I shot past all the hoops the tutorial wanted me to fly through (fuck it — if they’re not flaming, I ain’t bothering), banked to the left, executed a well controlled 180, and took her in for a landing. The voice-over said, “It looks like you’re taking a tour! Land anywhere to complete the tutorial.”
It’s high desert, Edwards Air Force Base, not a rock, cactus, or California desert tortoise in sight. It’s true, I really ought to be able to land it anywhere. (Take another drink, Doug, to work up the courage.) And as I’m coasting in for my landing, I get the blue screen of death. WTF?
This computer must like the blue screen of death. It shares it with us so frequently.
Well, we’re home, really and truly home, and this is a good thing, even if I can’t manage to get past the first tutorial. Tomorrow, I’ll be operating. It’s a tonsil day. And don’t worry — I’ll be stopping at one beer tonight.
D.