from the vault

So I was digging around in my archives looking for old pictures (about which more later) when I found this mini-comic from the archives--October 2004, to be precise. I was on a PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) rotation at the time and I had a Sub-I (basically, a fourth year medical student doing an elective rotation) on the unit with me who was very, very annoying. Also he thought he knew more than me and was constantly and subversively trying to one-up me, which is a sure way for a medical student ingratiate himself to his supervising resident, a person who happens to be GRADING HIS PERFORMANCE. (Med students, take note!) Click the image to see bigger.




And also, this crude schematic of the sleeping situation in the resident call room, elucidating why you should always, always try to get the bottom bunk.




Thanks, way back machine! You have both amused and depressed me!

Speaking of pictures from the vault, I am starting to pull up old pictures for my book website to sort of flesh out and give a little extra color to some of the stories I tell in the book. This is a big project, as I have more than ten years of archives, but at least I got something started. Check back again soon, though, because this is a larger undertaking than I had originally alloted time for (see: the length of Mack's nap, plus or minus one episode of "Dino Dan"), and I'm just going to have to chip away at for a while.

also because I'm trying to forget that I'm on call tonight

OK, I'm holding this pager and I'm too superstitious to go to sleep so I'm just going to unbox this.

THE GUYS NEXT DOOR.





The Guys Next Door was (were?) a TV show-based boy band created by NBC to capitalize on the popularity of the New Kids on the Block. I think they were supposed to be The Monkees to NKOTB's Beatles, which is a flawed analogy in may ways in that neither of these 90's analogs had nearly the staying power of either of their 60's counterparts, but perhaps it's accurate at least in the sense of their relative popularity as compared to each other. The Guys Next Door, as self-described, were like The New Kids but with a black guy. (Just like All 4 One was like Boys II Men with a white guy.)





Look, I'm not going to lie and say I didn't watch "The Guys Next Door" religiously every Saturday morning, because I did. And I'm not going to say that I didn't have their one and only album on cassette tape, because I did. And I'm not going to say that I didn't have a favorite Guy Next Door and that I didn't debate the relative merits of the different Guys with my friends, because I DID, and WE DID. (For the record: it was Chris, the long-haired one. My friends preferred Damon and Patrick respectively, but I was like, "Say what?" No one liked Bobby, he was the George Harrison of the group, which is not to say that he was talented and deeply religious, just that he was somewhat homely.)

They Boys Next Door had several skills. One was exuberant dancing whilst wearing overlarge boxy blazers.





The second was sensitive emoting into the camera so as to make you feel like they were your boyfriend.





The third was Charlie Chaplin-esque comic pantomime.





Look, I don't know if you remember being an eleven year-old girl, or if you even want to, but I did and I do, and I just loved that stuff. It was like "Saved By The Bell" except with singing and without Screech and all those annoying girls in it lousing up the works. (Not that I didn't like the "Saved By The Bell" where Jessie, Lisa and Kelly formed that girl band and made that music video in a gym and Jessie got addicted to caffeine pills because OMG THE PRESSURE TO SUCCEED.) I have no regrets or embarrassment about this era in my development--not like I'm over here now, listening to Miles Davis' "The Birth of Cool" and nursing a snifter of brandy or anything--but the only, only point of this entry was to tell people that I, possibly like you, love and miss the youthful, candy-coated exuberance of "The Guys Next Door," as well as the relative naïvite required to fully appreciate them.

How about you? What bands did you love as a preteen, and miss beyond all reason?

new look, same great taste

So, you want to see the new cover design? Hot of the presses, from my e-mail to your...eyes. (OK, that metaphor kind of fell apart.)




Honestly--and I know this is a little biased, like a parent saying her own baby is the cutest, but--I LOVE IT. I honestly think it looks better than the original. It retains the essential iconography, it's very clean and eye-catching without being excessive, and most importantly, it's still recognizably the same book. I love it. I hope you do too. And thank you so much to Claire (the designer at Grand Central Publishing) for working so hard to get this in under the wire.

Onward and upward!

I do not like them with a mouse, I do not like them in a house

For a few months now, we've been letting our current landlord know that we've been hearing a lot of noise up in the attic crawl space. Alive noise. Running and skittering and gnawing and what have you. Tiny little voices singing about making a new dress for Cinderella.* I'm not going to get into details too much, but let's just say that the problem has not been solved. And then, this morning, as I was getting ready for work, I took out what I thought was a clean new bar of soap from our bathroom cupboard and saw this:




Gnawed box! Forensic quality incisor marks in the (apparently delicious) soap! YERSINIA PESTIS! This is the first evidence (aside from a turd or two in Joe's closet) that they've actually penetrated the outer hull and entered the house. And I, for one, welcome our new rodent overlords.

Oh, wait, no I don't. Time to start looking for a new house. Oh, we did already? Awesome.

(* To make myself feel better, I am referring to them as mice, because mice are kind of cute. However, given the amount of noise we're hearing and the size of the bite marks, they are likely of a larger rodent genus, like a rat or a squirrel or a...raccoon? Wait, raccoons? OMG RABIES.)

placeholder

I sincerely apologize for not updating this past week. If it makes you feel better, I have four half-finished drafts on entries saved on my computer. It's just that everything I want to talk about or show you I can't talk about or show you yet, and all this includes:

1.) The new cover of my book! I saw a sneak preview, and guys, it looks so good. It's actually much closer to what I had originally wanted to to be than the other cover, and I can't wait to show you, hopefully by the end of the week.

2.) We bought a house! I mean, I think. We are getting it inspected on Sunday, so I guess we may still back out when we find ye olde burial mound in the backyard or what have you. But still...HOUSE. I am really excited to put up pictures, not so much for the HOUSE aspect of it all but because the inside does need some updating and...look, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO AND I'LL DO IT. Anyway: we are under contract. See, what with all the real estate terms that I now know. Closing costs! Earnest money held in escrow! Glengarry Glen Ross! I am a fountain of vaguely understood terms.

3.) I started looking for a preschool for Mack. This is one of life's more painful experiences, because first: oh my god, it's so expensive, and secondly: clearly you don't understand that my baby is a sensitive handsome genius and what school could possibly be good enough for him? Well, no, I guess I don't really think that anymore (if I've learned anything in the past, oh, say ten years, it's that kids are both endlessly adaptable as well as virtually indestructible) but we are looking at preschools and it is somewhat excruciating, though not without humor. This, for example, is a picture off the glossy pamphlet of one such school, a picture that I'll caption, "Rosie O'Donell circa 1992 loves the children of all races!"




Anyway, apologies again, and I will update you on any and all of these things once it is prudent or allowable to do so. But until then--hey, look the program for the Iowa Writer's Workshop Writing in Medicine workshop is out! And there we are, Saturday at 9:00! So far it looks like you have to register for the conference in order to attend the panel, but if we can work it out, maybe we could tape part of the panel and put at least some of it online after the fact. As a panel about the relatively untapped potential of blogging in medicine, I feel like there would at least be a little interest out there in the general population, don't you?

opening gambits, closing costs

Today Joe and I got a babysitter and looked at four more houses. I'm not quite sure why we did this, because we actually had a check for the earnest money for a house on which we were 98% sure that we were going to make an offer in our back pocket all the while. But our realtor (a very good guy, we actually like him a lot and he's much more honest and helpful than any agent needs to be) encouraged us to just look at a few more that were closer to our original search parameters prior to making an offer on a house which we really like, but turns out to be more of a departure from what we had thought that we wanted. Which reminds me:


A SHORT PLAY ABOUT TRYING TO BUY A HOUSE

JOE
So I have to get a check for the earnest money.

MICHELLE
To show we are Earnest.

JOE
Earnest Goes to Jail.

MICHELLE
See, you went lowbrow. The first thing I thought of was the Earnst equation.

JOE
That's the Nernst equation.

MICHELLE
Doesn't matter, it's still funny.


Anyway we looked at the houses and three of them were awful and one of them was pretty nice, but it was nice in a grown-up way. You know, like it had nice granite countertops and, like, crown molding or whatever. The other house, the one that we originally liked, is a house that while it looks a little haphazard (it seems like they redid the house room by room, but each room that they did it seems like they decided to do in a different style, such that the end result is a little calico) it's a house that's going to be fun for kids. It has a good play space and a good family room and a fun backyard and a nice garden and the stairs are not the kind that Mack can hurt himself too badly if he decides to go paratroopers over the side. (And he did indeed try to do just that several times when we went back to visit yesterday.) So at the end of our four house second-guessing tour, we did what we knew we were going to do, which is to say that we made an offer on the first house, which is the house that we liked all along.

So.

Well.

(Crickets.)

They could decide to accept the offer or not. Our agent seems to feel like we'll hear back from their agent tonight, but we might not. Who knows, maybe they'll think our offer is insulting and they'll just ignore us. Most likely they'll parry back and ask for something higher. Maybe something too high, and we'll have to walk away. And lord knows, if that happens, there are tons of other houses out there empty and ready and waiting for people like us to swoop in, with our compressed cardboard furniture, mismatched bedding, and many many Legos and broken crayons to secret in the heating ducts.

Or maybe it will work out.

(Crickets.)

Man, there are a lot of crickets out here in the suburbs, aren't there?

exteriors and interiors

Hey guys, thanks for all the nice comments on that last post. Funny thing about a blog--I don't know any of you, but you really did make me feel better. I do recognize that this topic has the potential to devolve into some sort of negativity spiral no matter how civil a group we all are (and I do honestly think that I can claim some of the most rational and level-headed readers on the internet--and believe me, I have seen a lot of internets!) so I just decided that the easiest way to keep the peace (we'll call it an NSAID move) is just for me to not talk anymore about the book cover issue beyond what's going on now and what's happening next. But thank you, thank you, THANK YOU all for your wonderful words and support. It has meant a lot, probably more than you know or than I can express.

My book (along with, you know, the front part of the book) was supposed to go to press this week, so obviously there's something of a time crunch in coming up with a new cover. I think we've eked out an extra week to get our affairs in order, but obviously, at this stage, for something this important, two weeks isn't a hell of a lot of time to bounce ideas back and forth. I'm told that they have taken the original designer of my book cover off all her other projects so that she can just work on this, and only this, until we have a satisfactory end product. I have a few ideas myself, but of course, as I mentioned (I think in the comments) I as the author don't actually get final say on what my cover looks like, as it's ultimately more of a marketing decision. But I still have ideas.

Originally, after I heard the news, I started really blue-skying it and came up with a number of ideas--ideas that I still think are pretty cool. (One in particular involved an all red cover with line drawings in white and a sort of copperplate font...well, whatever.) But in the end, I came to the realization that while the new cover had to be different, it probably shouldn't be too different, because I want it to still be instantly recognizable as the same book that it was before. I spent six months building momentum behind the old cover image, I shouldn't have to throw all of that away. Anyway, it's ultimately out of my hands, but I had some ideas, and I e-mailed my editor a couple of Photoshop-generated cover composites, for what little that's worth. Anyway. We'll see.

So.

Hey, so we went back to see that house today! I was a little bit nervous about going back (firstly because I thought I might have romanticized things out of proportion; secondly because it is inhabited by what looks like an older childless couple who have a collection of many many ceramic knick-knacks balanced on top of the skinniest, most delicately balanced display pillars I have ever seen, and we were there with two kids with a penchant for acceleration--never has the term "bull in a china shop" been more accurate) but it was fine. It was more than fine. We're seeing four more houses tomorrow a little closer to our current neighborhood, perhaps more to convince ourselves that we are not rushing into anything more than any actual interest in seeing these other homes. But after that, we may be in the position to make an offer. It may not be the offer than the owners want, and they may well say no. At the very least they will parry back, and we may bat things back and forth for a while, like cats. But after that...well. I'll let you know what happens after that.

Joe and I have often remarked that, considering what boring people we are, we have a lot of exciting things happening to us, and we feel very fortunate that we have so many good people who and interested in coming along for the ride. Endpoints are never certain, but as long as we are in good company, we can have fun on the way there. So thanks for that.

shaking hands, kissing babies

My publicist (that sounds weird) suggested, along with a couple of other things, that I make business cards for book promotion purposes, and that I start giving them out to everyone I know, have known, or will ever know. That seems a little grassroots in These Modern Times (or possibly borderline inappropriate--I'm not going to do that anywhere near work or the hospital for instance, because that's freaky), but the act of making the cards seemed easy enough. So I did.




(I made them on Qoop, by the way--seemed like a good service, and they make full-color two-sided cards, which is nice. I wasn't in love with the idea of having a black-on-one-side-red-on-the-other business card, because it feels a little bit Third Reich, but their choices of background colors are limited, and it matches the colors on the book cover, at least.)

I do wish I had that gene that makes schmoozing total strangers easy instead of enervating (let's call it the Bill Clinton gene) but it's something that I'm going to have to work on. One other thing that my publicist wants me to do in advance of the book publication is to work on an article (something like an opinion piece or an Op-Ed) that we could try to submit and hopefully get published right around the book publication date. She told me about this, by the way, the day before I read Amy Chua's "Chinese Mother" article in the WSJ, which is why 75% of my reaction to that particular article has been, Oh my God, that woman is a genius, because everyone on the freaking planet is talking about her and her book right now.

I don't think that my book has as much built-in potential to inflame (nor would inflammation necessarily be my goal--in general I am an anti-inflammatory), but it can't hurt to pick a topic that people want to talk about. Certain hoary old chestnuts are probably played out, or at least I know I'm sick of reading about them (the whole working mom thing, for one) but if there's any topic that either directly or peripherally relates to the book or this blog that you feel that people would be interested to read about in a more conventional periodical setting (think: newspaper, magazine, morning program, NPR) I would love some outside input on what people Out There In The World are generally interested in reading/hearing/talking/arguing about. Look at me, asking what real people are interested in, just like a robot who longs to be a man. What does it feel like to have emotions? What is this human concept called you call "love"?

(Also, if you know me and want a pile of these business cards, just ask, because I am probably going to be too embarrassed to actually distribute them. Maybe I should just leave them scattered all over the sidewalks and phone booths in Midtown, like those porno flyers.)

this old house

Hi, are you alive? I, too, am alive. Good, so we got that straightened out.

This weekend Joe and I got a babysitter and looked at seven houses. SEVEN. Actually, it ended up being six--one of them had some problems with flooding that they needed to deal with before they were ready to show it to prospective buyers, which actually worked out well because who wants to buy a house that has problems with flooding? Of the six houses we had two good leads--two leads that actually highlighted the key schism in the real estate market generally. One was a older, smaller house closer to the middle of of town, and the other was a newer, bigger house farther out towards the suburbs. I grew up in a 900 square foot apartment in Manhattan (actually, 900 square foot might be optimistic--I was smaller at the time, after all) so you can imagine which way my loyalties skew; I often argue how our consumeristic American lifestyles make us think that we need more space when they've been living in prewar nestlike warrens in Europe for centuries and having a pretty good time of it. But actually--and very surprisingly, at least to me--I found myself gravitating towards the house farther out towards the suburbs.

It's not that I need a lot of space, mind you. For a family of four, we really don't have a lot of stuff, and even if we did, our habit of serial relocation has forced us to purge most of the non-essentials. The fact that what little furniture we have is basically disposable (various castoff mismatched Ikea-esque plywood monstrosities, what have you--except for Cal's little bed, none of the rest of us even have bedframes, JUDGE IF YOU MUST) winnows our possessions even further, as it's unclear what would survive one more move or what at this point is even worth moving. (I'm looking at you, interspecies pee-stained sofabed.) And the house wasn't even that nice. At least, not to the general public. It's been on the market for more than a year. It has weird 80's decorator touches inside, the equivalent of giant triangular shoulder pads on a teal and black power suit, but, you know, inside a house. The exterior is a little unusual-looking. Not decrepit or depressing, mind you (there are houses that we saw that I basically discounted immediately because you walked inside and my initial gut reaction was GAH, THAT'S WHERE THE OLD LADY HANGED HERSELF) but just a little unusual for the area--it almost reminded of of New England in a way. Our realtor (a very straight up guy, he's not one for the hard sell) tactfully referred to it as "an ugly duckling."

BUT I LOVE IT, YOU GUYS.

I know you're not supposed to fall in love with a house, and look, I'm not in love, it's business, strictly business...BUT THIS HOUSE IS GREAT. I could see us living there. I figured out where the kids should put their toys. I figured out where my bookshelves could live. The light is great. The backyard is where Cal could plant his vegetables. There's a whole separate room with two walls of windows where I could paint one wall with chalkboard paint and put a big wood table turn it into a homework room. GUYS GUYS YOU GUYS A HOMEWORK ROOM. If that didn't just give you a big old Chinese Mom boner, well, then I don't even know you anymore.

I'm not saying it's perfect and I'm not saying it doesn't need a little touch up work, but...guys. I love this house. I can't explain why, I can't explain why I love it so much more than the other houses in the same school district with the same number of bedrooms and the same square footage and offered at the same price. BUT I DO. Maybe we won't end up living there. Maybe we'll make an offer and they won't accept it. Maybe we will go back this weekend and realize that it was built on an ancient burial ground. They moved the headstones but they left the bodies! And maybe it's an ugly duckling, that much is evident by public consensus. But it's the only place that I've seen during our three-plus years of home-searching that I've so vividly been able to imagine us in.

We're going back to see it this weekend. This time, we're bringing the kids. And then after that...we'll see.

best quality crab



I would be in remiss if I didn't respond to the numerous comments and e-mails and tweets that I received about this article in the Wall Street Journal, titled simply, "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior." If reading that headline elicited any emotion in you at all, in any direction, welcome to the human race, because this article has really be making the rounds and getting a lot of notice. Which, quite frankly, is probably exactly what the author intended, especially given that she--surprise!--had a new book that just came out this week. So kudos to her on that canny piece of marketing and publicity, first off, because if she wanted to get a lot of attention, IT WORKED.

If you haven't read the article yet, you probably should do that first. Go on, we'll all wait. (Foot tapping, tuneless humming, awkward throat clearing.)

So anyway, the gist of the article was this: Chinese mothers are superior because instead of coddling their children's fragile little psyches, they expect and demand excellence from them (mostly of the academic variety) with methods that I daresay would be considered extreme in Western culture. We can discuss whether or not this is true in the comments, I'm sure everyone has opinions, myself included. But what I would like to say first is that this is exactly the kind of topic that causes fist-fights on the internet. It has all the crucial elements, namely, a lady parent who holds one extreme point of view on a topic who writes what a heartfelt (possibly baiting) piece that implies (well, more like explicitly states in the title) that those lady parents who hold a different point of view are doing things wrong. THIS IS HOW INTERNET FISTICUFFS GET STARTED, PEOPLE. So before we talk about this, let's all agree that we're going to talk about this but not, you know, hurt people's feelings, even if we disagree with each other.

OK, now here's my opinion.

I am Chinese. I am a mother. But I don't think I'm the kind of Chinese mother described in the article. Perhaps this is in large part due to the fact that I am significantly Americanized, having been born and lived my whole life in this country. This is not a bad thing, and ultimately I don't raise my kids based on any kind of theory or cultural boilerplate--I don't even think I consider my approach to capital-P "Parenting" as much as the authors of Redbook or Women's Digest or Parent and Child Weekly would insist we surely must. I just have kids and enjoy them and for the most part I try every day to help them a little bit so that someday they will be happy, successful adults. That's definitely not the quote-unquote Chinese Mother approach described in the article. Is that good or bad? Time will tell, I guess. I've got two case studies developing as we speak.

My parents are Chinese parents more in the classic mold. I don't think they were as extreme as many (in my mind, an Asian parent is like an overbearing stage mom, only for academics. "What happened to the other two points?" was a common shorthand at my high school for getting a 98% on a test--nearly half the student body at my high school was Asian) but the ideas put forth in the article are true and cultural and deeply ingrained. And growing up, I definitely felt it. My parents pushed me, but they did it because that's what you do when you love your kids. You pushed them to be the very best. As the article stated, there is the sense that allowing your kids to not be the best is the worst kind of parental neglect. I was raised "the Chinese Way" and every day I am grateful for it.

There were some downsides to it too, though. In a culture where every child is expected to be "the best," there ends up being an awful lot of pressure on the child, because the fact of it is, not every child can be the best at everything. Everyone wants to think of their child as "above average," but by definition, 50% of all kids have to be average or below that, right? Is it fair to insist on the superlative if, statistically, it's impossible for everyone to be at the top? And how much of it can be shaped by work ethic versus intrinsic aptitude or desire?

Between me and Joe, I think I'm definitely the stricter parent. It doesn't always come out in the most flattering ways. Though I don't insult or shame them, I do yell at our kids more. I tolerate a lot less guff, though much of my short leash is related to etiquette and behavioral issues rather than academics per se. That said, we do push the math and the reading. We think about this a little more with Cal than with Mack since Cal's older and actually in school, but the fact is, as great as the school is, we just don't feel like Cal's working up to his potential. And who better to assess his potential than us, his parents, right?

But we're not strict about it. We don't set a timer for his work. If Cal's having a bad day, we'll sometimes skip it. If he starts getting overly frustrated about not understanding something, we'll take a break. We do have the sense that we want to make the experience of learning enjoyable so that it can ultimately be self-directed, rather than academic exercise just for the sake of the exercise. Those are the ways in which we are more "Western" in our parenting than the Chinese Mother that the article so lauds. Because ultimately, the most important thing for us is not that our kids are the best, but that they're happy.

But there are times--more often now that Cal is getting older--that I think I should be pushing him more. I think back to when I was Cal's age, and, in an academic sense, I was able to do more than he is doing now. Multiplying three-digit numbers by three-digit numbers in my head, which my dad would use to drill me, often while walking home from school or waiting for the bus. (It is somewhat inconceivable to me that I could do this at age four and five, since I can barely do this now, as an adult, but I did.) Playing the piano. Reading more. Writing more. I know it's not fair to compare, since we're different people, and there are things that Cal at this age is much better at then I was when I was five--but I was raised the way I was raised, and I worry that I'm not being tough enough on him. Not that the toughness is the important part, but I worry sometimes that I'm underestimating my own child, that I'm taking the easy way out, the lazy way, and that I'm failing him by not pushing him enough. I'm worried that I'm letting Cal down because I don't have the heart or the will or the patience to do what it may take.

I'm not saying that this so-called "Chinese Mother" approach is the right one, and there were certainly more than one descriptions in the article that made me wince, because the idea of doing it to my own kid was utterly unpalatable. So what do you think? Is Amy Chua a miserable, gloating harridan who pushes her children to achieve at the expense of their own sense of self-worth? Or is she a gutsy, uncompromising advocate for her children because she knows what they're capable of and she won't allow them to do any less?

Discuss. (But nicely, please.)

iced

It all started so innocently.




Since last week, were talking about the snow that was expected to arrive in Atlanta Sunday night, but I didn't think about it much. Snow, big deal. Of course people were getting hysterical about it, it's the South, people start denuding the supermarket shelves of milk and toilet paper if it's even slightly below freezing out and some guy with dandruff is standing next to a fan. It did indeed start snowing early in the evening, but even as I went to sleep that night I didn't worry much about it. Those tiny little flakes, this was clearly a lower-case-s snow, not the SNOW SNOW SNOW they were hyperventilating about on the news.




There's a saying, ready-made for needlework samplers (along with some kind of rueful saying about how Mother Knows Best) that it's not what happens to you, it's how you deal with it. Well, when it comes to winter preparedness, it's not how much snow you get, but how your city responds to it. When I woke up Monday morning, there was...maybe four inches of snow? Certainly no more than six. If it snowed that much in New York, it would undoubtedly be inconvenient and slow things down for the morning commute, but by midday, at least in heavily trafficked areas, it would be salted and sanded and shoveled and trampled into a muddy brown slurry that would crust on the sidewalk until it either melted away or got covered up by the next big snowfall.

But in Atlanta, it has been like the apocalypse. SNOWMAGEDDON.


(Photo: David Goldman / AP)

See, it's not that there was that much snow. But none of it was plowed. None of it was salted. Not just the local roads, but the big arteries, the highways, the interstates, all totally snowbound. By Monday the snow turned to sleet and then the sun went down and froze it all again, and by this morning, it was like a Zamboni drove over the entire city. There were two-inch thick sheets of ice covering the entire (and I mean the entire) highway. I drove up the GA-400 at 20 miles per hour the entire way to work, except when I was on local roads, where I was driving 10mph. Even at that speed I could feel my wheels skidding. The highway was strewn with abandoned cars along the side that had careened into the guardrails or skidded into banks of ossified snow, irretrievable, one presumes, until the thaw.


(Photo: Journal & Courier, John Terhune / AP)

I made it into work OK both Monday and Tuesday, but I think that I had one major protective mechanism, which was my relative inexperience as a driver. See, I don't think I'm an awesome driver, and as such, I know that I'm not some kind of badass. And as I tweeted late Monday morning, what I saw a lot on the road (from the few brave/stupid souls that decided to leave their homes) was an overestimation of driving skill and an underestimation of the physical properties of frozen water. I can tell you now: you can try to go 40 miles per hour around a turn on a completely icy road if you have that much faith in your steering and wheels and obscenely gigantic SUV, just don't do it anywhere around me. Slow and steady won the race in my case for getting into work, but I had jackasses almost careen in to me two or three times along the way.

So anyway, Atlanta has been pretty much shut down for the last two days, and given that it's going to be below freezing until at least Thursday (more likely until the weekend) I don't expect the rest of the week to be a hell of a lot better. Everything is closed. Everything is cancelled. Everyone has been advised to stay off the roads. I might not have even tried to go into work at all these past few days, except for one fairly important thing: I work at a hospital. Like law enforcement or the fire department, medicine doesn't take a snow day. So I'll be there. I might get there slowly, and I might skid in there sideways, but I'll be there.

How's the snow where you are? And are you coping with it any better than us in Atlanta?

now, later, and much later

Hey all! It is I, the blog posting person! Just one quick word about the last: I thought that people would understand that I was kidding about "forgetting" Mack's birthday (obviously I can remember his birthday, I went to med school, at bare minimum I can remember many many numbers and facts, whether they are important or not). I just meant I didn't realize that it was THE DAY until I actually wrote the date down on my chart, which, it also must be pointed out, was at 7:00 in the morning, before the much-fêted birthday boy was even awake. But I'm already boring myself to death talking about it, and anyway, I'm not one to take things personally in what I view as a forum which is, by construct, largely impersonal and speculative, so let's just move on. Right? Right. Amigos? Para siempre! Thanks for the birthday wishes, everyone!




(Mack says thanks too.)



* * *


A couple of you have been asking how the blurb solicitation for the book was going, and I think (at least, in my perspective) it's going pretty well. Here's a list of the people who have submitted some advance word-of-mouth for the book so far (I had to call it "Advance Praise" on the website because that's commercial don't you know, but that sounds so self-congratulatory it makes me cringe). I am really floored and honored that so many of these authors took the time out from their very busy lives to read my book in its typo-filled galley stage and even more humbled that they had nice things to say about it. I view this whole book process as nothing much more than a dalliance into a different field, an interesting side hobby, but I have to say that I'm really looking forward to next Spring. It's going to be fun.

On the topic, we're set to present at the conference at the Iowa Writer's Workshop (I'm told) the morning of Saturday, April 23rd. I'm relieved that we secured a weekend date for the panel--aside from ease of travel, I really wanted to make sure that wouldn't have to miss any work to travel to Iowa (that is to say, that I would not have to arrange some elaborate series of trades for coverage) and now I'm trying to figure out some way to tack on some kind of meet-up after the conference. I realize that I can't exactly expect too many non-locals to travel out for an event in Iowa (even with the enticement of CME credits--come on y'all, gotta keep that licensure up to date!) and even if you were going to the conference, that you might have other plans and other cooler people to hang out with.

HOWEVER. For those people who have nothing else to do and who wish to relieve my crushing loneliness (remember, this will be the first trip I'm taking without my kids since...well, since I had kids) is there anywhere cool to meet up around the university? I notice that Prairie Lights seems to have a café (a café that serves booze), so that might be a nice place nearby, but I'm waiting to hear from them to see if I can schedule a reading there and that kind of thing. But in case that doesn't work out for one reason or another, is there anywhere else nearby with a laid-back, hangout, non-fratty vibe? E-mail me, I will try to see if I can try to set up something in advance.



* * *


Joe, Cal and I moved to Atlanta in 2008. Since then, we have lived in three rental homes. Yes, we have moved three times in the past three years. It seems like in New York, when you rent, you just keep living there forever or until the building goes co-op or is condemned. But in Atlanta, housing rentals are by and large one-year leases, and I'm getting pretty sick of feeling so temporary.

We've been delaying one of the great milestones of adulthood for some time now, largely for financial reasons, but the lease at our current home is running out in July, and I think it's time to stop living out of boxes. (In answer to the flurry of questions of why we are continuing to live in Atlanta despite being New York partisans, the answer, quite pragmatically, is this: Atlanta is where our jobs are, and we really like our jobs. Hey, I want to live in Paris too, but I don't have a good job there either. Look, I'm not going to lie to you, as a place to live, I prefer New York. But choices in adulthood are more complex than which city has the best take-out options, so...yeah.)

Anyway, we're starting to look at real estate. We're looking to become homeowners. About which, hopefully, more later.

dropping a deuce

Full disclosure: it's possible that I didn't remember that it was Mack's second birthday until this point in my day.




"January 6th...something familiar about that date...oh yeah."

Happy birthday, Mack! Who knew it only took two years to grow from grub to a little old man.




Keep on frowning, baby. We love you.

mystery reader



So my being on call yesterday was not just mere happenstance, it was actually a request--not so much for the fact of working overnight last night, but the need to be post-call this morning, so I could go into Cal's school to be the "mystery reader" for his kindergarten class. Every week a different "mystery" parent shows up to read a book, and the big excitement is that none of the kids know which parent it will be until you actually show up. Outside of the setup, there's not very much to it, I just showed up at the predetermined time and read a book (well, actually two books--I brought a backup in case my first choice did not go over well, but in the end enthusiasm was high so I ended up reading both) but Cal was very excited to see me.

As per tradition, the kids were all sitting on the carpet when I came in, but they had their heads down so they would not see me until my big "reveal." (Yes, very makeover reality show, I know.) As I walked to my spot it was high drama, as the class was all shouting out muffled guesses of whether I was a man or woman based on the sound of my footsteps. When the teachers finally told them they could lift up their heads to see who the mystery reader was, everyone went "WooooOOOAAAAH!" (imagine the sound of twenty-two kids screaming) and Cal's reaction was priceless--he literally fell down with shock. If it was a cartoon, his hat and shoes would have flown off. Also he would have had exclamation points shooting out of his head, and maybe a couple of springs and cogs.

"You're here! But you never come!" he kept saying to me. (Joe managed to make it in for about twenty minutes two, having scheduled a gap between surgeries.) "I can't believe this! You never come to my school!" I reminded him that mom and dad work at the hospital, and we're very busy, so it's hard for us to come to school for every little class party and field trip and performance during the school day...and anyway, we're here now, aren't we? It takes some planning and some trading and occasionally some wheeling and dealing, but for things that matter, we're here. And that's something, right?

Probably this is a message he'll understand a little better when he's older, because I remember feeling pretty much the same way when I was a kid about my parents' participation at my school. (My parents never even went to Parent-Teacher Conferences, which so far as I can tell are essentially mandatory, but which my parents seemed to view as a somewhat indulgent American custom, and at any rate, only for the parents of kids who were flunking out, which I wasn't.) Joe and I are never going to be those parents who are planning every class party and chaperoning every trip to the zoo, and aside from guilt (which everyone has, regardless) we're fine with that. But we do what we can, we try our best, and we're always there when it's important. Which is essentially what parenthood is, right?

windows



I saw these window washers on the outside of the hospital building this afternoon (look carefully, they are on a hanging walkway near the bottom towards the right) and the first thing I thought is: those guys are never going to finish. Here's another shot of the same building, reflected in the windows of another, equally glassed-in hospital building across the street, the window panes of which I'm sure these guys are also going to have to wash.




It just seems like such a Sisyphean task, because by the time you're done with the last window, it's probably time to start cleaning the first window again, especially so close to the traffic pollution on the highway, or in the spring when the pollen here is so bad. And then I thought: how fitting, because that's exactly what working inside the hospital feels like sometimes too. So many patients. So many issues. You finish one and the next one pops up. Endless. And, after a while, it can all start to run together.

But you keep going, and keep working, and at the end of the day, you can hopefully look back and see that maybe you made things a little better. And then what? More windows to clean. More patients to take care of. So you come back the next day and you do it again and again and again and try, as best as you can, to help.

At least, that's what I thought very briefly, in the three minutes it took me to walk from the ORs to my car. And then I drove home, kissed my kids, and got ready to do it all again tomorrow.

on deck

I know that as someone who writes on the internet I should be more up on this kind of thing, but I just today figured out how an RSS feed works and how to organize them into some kind of reader. I am like your uncle who makes you print out all of his e-mails so that he can read them. (Or the mom who turns off her computer by unplugging it from the wall.) Technology! I has got it!

Anyway, it's back to work tomorrow for me and most everyone, and though you always have that end-of-vacation pang ("if only I had one more day to sleep in, then I would really be refreshed!") for the most part I'm ready to go back. I like my job. I miss doing it.

It's always a little hard to return to the hospital after being on vacation, kind of like stepping off one of those moving walkways at the airport. You have to readjust your pace. Your reflexes are a little slower, and you have to recalibrate them. Your thought process hasn't clicked all the way back in yet, it's like on manual reload versus automatic. (Sorry for the gun metaphor. Just pretend I'm talking about a camera.) I remember coming back from maternity leave after Mack was born, and after six weeks off, how just plain out of practice I felt, like an athlete in the off-season. You don't realize how active of a vocation (both physically and mentally) medicine can be until you have to jump back into it after a prolonged absence. I've only been on vacation since Christmas Eve, and already I feel like fat Elvis.




(Meaning deconditioned, not, you know, actually fat or nostalgically-slash-ironically beloved.)

Anyway, the holidays are over. It's a whole new year. Finish the last of your fruitcake and let's get back in there.


to excess

I sometimes have a problem falling asleep--not for lack of being tired, mind you, but I get into that loop where I am thinking lots of thinks and my mind gets a-racing and next thing I know it's 1:00am and I have to wake up for work in four hours. So sometimes I will take 25mg of Benadryl to help things along. It's just a Tylenol PM without the Tylenol, not habit-forming (so far as I know--maybe some smart neuroscientist among you can tell me if there have been any long-term studies on upregulation of central muscarinic receptors after long-term antihistamine use for whatever reason--but like I said, so far as I know) and man, it works.

I still remember when I was hospitalized in medical school for peritonitis--it's a long story but the short version is that I had appendicitis and they sent me home from the ER and my appendix perfed, which led to about a month of GOOD TIMES--and in the hospital I was prescribed IV Bendadryl prn for sleep. Most of the patients had the standard Ambien PRN reflexively penned into their charts by some dutiful little first-year resident (just like how every patient no matter what they were admitted for* is written for Tylenol PRN, because one less call from the floor for a Tylenol order is possibly one more minute of sleep before the next call from the floor) but since I was NPO (nothing by mouth, you know, because of my guts was all FULL OF PUS) I was written for IV Benadryl instead. I initially thought it was weird to be prescribed an antihistamine a sleep aid, but boy howdy, I am a believer now.

Anyway, I couldn't fall asleep last night, despite initial indications that I would barely be able to stay awake until midnight to ring in the New Year. Only instead of one 25mg Benadryl, for some reason, I took two. Not really sure why, but I'd been taking Benadryl for the past few days (Joe's Aunt Sue, with whom we were staying this week, has two cats that I was unfortunately allergic to--somewhat disgusting aside: I have been told that the major trigger for cat allergies is not so much the cat fur itself rather the cat spit, with which each cat hair is lovingly coating in the process of self-grooming, a factoid that I could have probably done without) and I figured...well, I don't know what I was thinking. Anyway, 25mg = good dose, 50mg = probably overkill. I barely even moved until 9:00am, which is very late for me, at which point the kids practically pried me out of bed with a crowbar. (An acoustic crowbar, but either way, it's metaphorical.)

Here's to hoping your New Year's Eve was less excessive than mine, I guess.

* Well, maybe not liver failure.