Today I shadowed a physiatrist, a doctor specializing in physical medicine and rehabilitation. I learned a bunch of technical terms from him, my favorite being "ridiculopathy". Ridiculopathy. As in, from the Latin "ridiculus" (laughable) and Greek "pathos" (suffering).
Only just now I Googled "ridiculopathy" and found out the actual term is "radiculopathy".
Lame. I like ridiculopathy better.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
A Defense of Poptarts
Ok, today's post is going to express my concern over a big controversial topic right now... poptarts. Yes you heard me. Poptarts.
I love Poptarts. I always have. They make a delicious and nutritious (hey, strawberry filling is fruit, no?) breakfast or snack. They're good hot, room temp, or apparently frozen. (I haven't tried that variation yet, but I plan on it.) And there are so many flavors to choose from - from blueberry to s'mores, chocolate fudge to cherry - that I never get tired of eating them. Omnomnomnom.
While I love Poptarts, I consider myself an equal-opportunity breakfast pastry lover. So yes, I've eaten a few Toaster Strudels in my time. I find them quite good too. Very different from Poptarts, sure, but not better.
But it seems that Toaster Strudel has gotten its (their?) panties in a bunch and has started a war on Poptarts. I've a couple of commercials for Toaster Strudel in the last few weeks, and they all single out Poptarts! Uncool guys. In Poptart commercials you don't see or hear any mention of the rival product at all; Poptarts are so confident in their delicious goodness that they don't need to put anyone else down. But Toaster Strudel... I don't know what they're trying to do, but they just piss me off.
I like Toaster Strudels just fine. But please, Mr. Strudel, don't hate on my Pop Tarts.
Omnomnomnomnom.
I love Poptarts. I always have. They make a delicious and nutritious (hey, strawberry filling is fruit, no?) breakfast or snack. They're good hot, room temp, or apparently frozen. (I haven't tried that variation yet, but I plan on it.) And there are so many flavors to choose from - from blueberry to s'mores, chocolate fudge to cherry - that I never get tired of eating them. Omnomnomnom.
While I love Poptarts, I consider myself an equal-opportunity breakfast pastry lover. So yes, I've eaten a few Toaster Strudels in my time. I find them quite good too. Very different from Poptarts, sure, but not better.
But it seems that Toaster Strudel has gotten its (their?) panties in a bunch and has started a war on Poptarts. I've a couple of commercials for Toaster Strudel in the last few weeks, and they all single out Poptarts! Uncool guys. In Poptart commercials you don't see or hear any mention of the rival product at all; Poptarts are so confident in their delicious goodness that they don't need to put anyone else down. But Toaster Strudel... I don't know what they're trying to do, but they just piss me off.
I like Toaster Strudels just fine. But please, Mr. Strudel, don't hate on my Pop Tarts.
Omnomnomnomnom.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Weekend
Here are some pros and cons of the present weekend.
Pros:
- Got to spend time with my lovely sorority sisters at a bridal shower
- Just had the most delicious beer ever - Pliny the Elder
- Going out to dinner at a fancy-schmancy restaurant tonight, all paid for by Boyfriend's boss
- Gorgeous SoCal weather
- Saw Kung Fu Panda 2
Cons:
- The bridal shower was infiltrated by a creepy stripper
- My favorite flower hair pin broke
- Boyfriend's apartment is packed like a can of sardines
- Tomorrow is Monday
All in all, survey says successful weekend.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Cheesesteakland
In less than two months, I'll be moving to Philadelphia for medical school. While I'm definitely going to miss my family and friends back home, I'm really excited about living in Philly. Here are my top three reasons:
1)
2)
3)
Life is good.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Another Fire Story
Howdy. I would have written another blog post earlier, but I was just almost burning Boyfriend's apartment down. You know, the usual Sunday night routine.
Last night we were going to make sweet potato fries for dinner, along with some yummy hamburgers, so we put a pot of oil on the stove to heat up. (I wanted to just roast them in the oven but no no no, he HAD to fry them in oil. Mistake.) We had both been watching the stove for about 20 minutes and the oil still wasn't hot, so we went into the living room for like 2 minutes, until I smelled smoke... we ran into the kitchen, covered the smoking pot, and Boyfriend tried to take it outside so the apartment wouldn't get too smoky... and as he's walking he spills a little bit of hot oil on his hand, causing him to scream and drop the smoking pot onto the carpet... which immediately burst into flames. We got the fire out quickly, but not before the apartment filled with smoke, a small section of carpet got completely scorched, and a thin layer of ash settled over the entire place. We spent like 2 hours trying to clean up all the ash and soot. Quite an adventure. At least everyone was ok (minus a small burn on Boyfriend's hand), and even the damage wasn't too bad. But still. Not fun.
I never even got my hamburger and fries for dinner.
And that's why you don't fry food.
Last night we were going to make sweet potato fries for dinner, along with some yummy hamburgers, so we put a pot of oil on the stove to heat up. (I wanted to just roast them in the oven but no no no, he HAD to fry them in oil. Mistake.) We had both been watching the stove for about 20 minutes and the oil still wasn't hot, so we went into the living room for like 2 minutes, until I smelled smoke... we ran into the kitchen, covered the smoking pot, and Boyfriend tried to take it outside so the apartment wouldn't get too smoky... and as he's walking he spills a little bit of hot oil on his hand, causing him to scream and drop the smoking pot onto the carpet... which immediately burst into flames. We got the fire out quickly, but not before the apartment filled with smoke, a small section of carpet got completely scorched, and a thin layer of ash settled over the entire place. We spent like 2 hours trying to clean up all the ash and soot. Quite an adventure. At least everyone was ok (minus a small burn on Boyfriend's hand), and even the damage wasn't too bad. But still. Not fun.
I never even got my hamburger and fries for dinner.
And that's why you don't fry food.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Laura
Apparently I look like someone named Laura. Or at least, that's the only reason I can come up with to explain why multiple people have called me by that name in the past week.
To earn some extra money, I've recently been working a couple of early-morning lifeguarding shifts at the Y. While getting up at 4:15 isn't particularly enjoyable, I do like that I've gotten to know the "regulars," the same people who swim early every morning. We chat, we laugh, a good time is held by all. I know most of their names, and I thought they they all knew mine. (I mean, seriously, it's written on two separate white boards at all times during my shift.)
False.
In the past week or two, I've had two of the regulars call me Laura. At first, I didn't even really notice. I was sitting up on my lifeguard stand when one woman, Amy, calls out and waves goodbye as she leaves the pool deck after her swim. It's pretty hard to hear people from all the way across the pool deck, so I didn't think much of it when I thought she said the name Laura. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly, I thought, or maybe she was actually waving to someone else in the pool named Laura.
But then, the next day, I see Amy again and I distinctly heard her say "Good morning, Laura." Now at this point there are literally no other females on the pool deck, so unless the bald man swimming in lane one is named Laura, I know she must be talking to me. I was just about to go tell her that my name in fact isn't Laura, but she got in the pool and started swimming before I had the chance.
A few days later, or maybe that same day (I'm not sure... these 5am shifts all seem to blur together), I'm chatting with Lucy, a fabulous sassy old woman with white hair and perfectly manicured hot pink fingernails. (I want to be her when I grow up.) When she's done with her workout, Lucy exits the pool, and we say our goodbyes. She glances at the whiteboard with my name written on it as she leaves. "Julie? I thought your name was Laura!"
It doesn't really bother me to be called the wrong name. Growing up, I was lucky when my parents managed to call me JooJoo, instead of Manders, Moose, the dog's name, or some combination thereof. ("Come here ManderMooJooWhateverYourNameIs!" was a common exclamation yelled in our house.) And I understand when someone calls me a variation of my name, like JooJoo-ette or JooJoo-ana. (Maybe I should go by JooJoo-ette, I like the ring of it.) But Laura? That doesn't sound anything like JooJoo. And it doesn't look like JooJoo written down either. So I'm not at all offended that these people keep calling me Laura; I'm just confused.
On the bright side, if I ever needed to run away from home and create a new identity, I know just the name.
To earn some extra money, I've recently been working a couple of early-morning lifeguarding shifts at the Y. While getting up at 4:15 isn't particularly enjoyable, I do like that I've gotten to know the "regulars," the same people who swim early every morning. We chat, we laugh, a good time is held by all. I know most of their names, and I thought they they all knew mine. (I mean, seriously, it's written on two separate white boards at all times during my shift.)
False.
In the past week or two, I've had two of the regulars call me Laura. At first, I didn't even really notice. I was sitting up on my lifeguard stand when one woman, Amy, calls out and waves goodbye as she leaves the pool deck after her swim. It's pretty hard to hear people from all the way across the pool deck, so I didn't think much of it when I thought she said the name Laura. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly, I thought, or maybe she was actually waving to someone else in the pool named Laura.
But then, the next day, I see Amy again and I distinctly heard her say "Good morning, Laura." Now at this point there are literally no other females on the pool deck, so unless the bald man swimming in lane one is named Laura, I know she must be talking to me. I was just about to go tell her that my name in fact isn't Laura, but she got in the pool and started swimming before I had the chance.
A few days later, or maybe that same day (I'm not sure... these 5am shifts all seem to blur together), I'm chatting with Lucy, a fabulous sassy old woman with white hair and perfectly manicured hot pink fingernails. (I want to be her when I grow up.) When she's done with her workout, Lucy exits the pool, and we say our goodbyes. She glances at the whiteboard with my name written on it as she leaves. "Julie? I thought your name was Laura!"
It doesn't really bother me to be called the wrong name. Growing up, I was lucky when my parents managed to call me JooJoo, instead of Manders, Moose, the dog's name, or some combination thereof. ("Come here ManderMooJooWhateverYourNameIs!" was a common exclamation yelled in our house.) And I understand when someone calls me a variation of my name, like JooJoo-ette or JooJoo-ana. (Maybe I should go by JooJoo-ette, I like the ring of it.) But Laura? That doesn't sound anything like JooJoo. And it doesn't look like JooJoo written down either. So I'm not at all offended that these people keep calling me Laura; I'm just confused.
On the bright side, if I ever needed to run away from home and create a new identity, I know just the name.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Why Mr. Freeze Was a Bad Name
I'm not sure if you remember the 1997 cinematic masterpiece Batman & Robin, but if you do, I'm sure you recall the evil villain Mr. Freeze, played by none other than our former Governator. Now as far as all movie villains go, Mr. Freeze is quite a badass. He freezes people solid with his cold gun. He has superhuman strength and awesome bluish skin. He delivers such memorable punny lines as "Let's kick some ice." But the one weakness Mr. Freeze has, which is never mentioned in any of the Batman movies or TV shows, is that he actually doesn't always stay frozen. Sometimes, Mr. Freeze melts.
I don't know for certain if Batman possesses the capabilities to melt and destroy Mr. Freeze, but my former neighbor Nick sure does.
Growing up, Nick and Alli lived in the house behind ours, and they were definitely my sisters' and my best friends. (An important note is that when referring to Nick and Alli, you generally just considered them to be one entity, pronounced, Nick-n-alli. Just so you know.) Manders, Moose and I spent so much time at Nick and Alli's house, and vice versa, that they were practically considered family. Even so, the first night that my parents left my sisters and I home alone to attend a party up the street, the specifically forbid us from letting anyone, including the neighbors, inside. "Manders, we're expecting you to be responsible, so that means keep the doors locked and stay inside," my parents lectured. "We'll be back in a few hours, so don't get into trouble."
And we didn't get into any trouble, really. We ate our favorite dinner of mac 'n' cheese with chicken nuggets (i.e. the only dinner my sisters and I could make on our own), watched some Nickelodeon, and enjoyed an evening without our parents. But then, maybe 2 hours after my parents left, we heard frantic knocking on our front door. We peered through the glass and saw it was Nick-n-alli. "Let us in!" they shouted. "Out house is on fire!"
For the next 30 seconds, Manders, Moose and I looked at each other and shrugged, the contemplation probably visible on our faces as we silently debated what to do. On the one hand, our mom and dad specifically told us we were not allowed to let anyone into the house, including our neighbors. On the other hand, their house was effing on fire.
Manders made the executive decision that a burning house trumps parental rules, so we let Nick and Alli into our house.
Nick then told us what happened. He was playing with his Mr. Freeze action figure in the afternoon, when his mom called their family to dinner. Not paying attention, he tossed the Mr. Freeze back behind him and ran to the dining room, not noticing that Mr. Freeze had landed in the top of a standing lamp, right on top of the hot light bulb. While the family was eating their lovely dinner, the Mr. Freeze action figure was getting hotter and hotter, ultimately melting into a molten goo of scorched plastic. Meanwhile, the family had no idea what's happening ... until they noticed a burning smell coming from one of the bedrooms... and then smoke alarm went off.... and then Nick-n-Alli's mom send the kids running to our house as she called 911.
As it turned out, the house wasn't actually on fire; Nick's room was just full of smoke from the molten plastic that used to be Mr. Freeze. But that didn't stop 3 firetrucks from being dispatched to the neighbor's house. Or the panic my mother surely felt when Manders called her cell phone to say "Hi Mom, we're fine, but there's 3 firetrucks on our street..."
Saturday, February 12, 2011
How to Fail at Being a Criminal
So an unfortunate thing happened at work recently: my boss's company credit card was stolen. Three fraudulent purchases to some coffee of the month club were made with the card before the boss found out and contacted her credit card company. Not a huge deal, just a minor inconvenience.
Except it wasn't really an inconvenience at all. In fact, I'd say the card being stolen was actually quite a fortunate thing. The reason for this is that the coffee purchases that the credit card thief had made were delivered to none other that our office. Yes. That is right. Someone stole a company credit card, bought coffee with it, and had the coffee delivered to our work.
And it wasn't just coffee either. We are now the owners of a brand new top-of-the-line coffee maker. As the person who makes coffee for the office often enough, and a self-proclaimed coffee connoisseur, I'd say the new coffee pot is just superb. And we had a fancy-schmancy single-cup coffee maker delivered a few days later. (Although the boss's boss said we had to return that one. Meanie.)
Oh, and might I add that the first batch of coffee that was delivered to us was absolutely disgusting. I like coffee a lot, and I like a lot of types of coffee. So it's pretty difficult to serve me coffee that I find hard to stomach. This coffee though, was just that. But hey, free coffee is free coffee, so I'll take what I can get. And the next batch of delivered coffee was quite tasty, so it more than makes up for the yucky coffee, in my opinion.
But seriously. Who steals a credit card and orders something for the people that the card was stole from? I have no intentions of ever stealing anyone's credit card, but you can bet that if I suddenly have kleptomanic tendencies and start snatching up credit cards, I'm gonna be keeping every purchase I make. But maybe that's just me. Maybe not all criminals possess common sense. This one clearly did not.
Or maybe the thief is someone who works in our office and is dissatisfied with our current coffee standards. In which case, I plead the fifth.
Except it wasn't really an inconvenience at all. In fact, I'd say the card being stolen was actually quite a fortunate thing. The reason for this is that the coffee purchases that the credit card thief had made were delivered to none other that our office. Yes. That is right. Someone stole a company credit card, bought coffee with it, and had the coffee delivered to our work.
And it wasn't just coffee either. We are now the owners of a brand new top-of-the-line coffee maker. As the person who makes coffee for the office often enough, and a self-proclaimed coffee connoisseur, I'd say the new coffee pot is just superb. And we had a fancy-schmancy single-cup coffee maker delivered a few days later. (Although the boss's boss said we had to return that one. Meanie.)
Oh, and might I add that the first batch of coffee that was delivered to us was absolutely disgusting. I like coffee a lot, and I like a lot of types of coffee. So it's pretty difficult to serve me coffee that I find hard to stomach. This coffee though, was just that. But hey, free coffee is free coffee, so I'll take what I can get. And the next batch of delivered coffee was quite tasty, so it more than makes up for the yucky coffee, in my opinion.
But seriously. Who steals a credit card and orders something for the people that the card was stole from? I have no intentions of ever stealing anyone's credit card, but you can bet that if I suddenly have kleptomanic tendencies and start snatching up credit cards, I'm gonna be keeping every purchase I make. But maybe that's just me. Maybe not all criminals possess common sense. This one clearly did not.
Or maybe the thief is someone who works in our office and is dissatisfied with our current coffee standards. In which case, I plead the fifth.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Why I'm a Great Sister
Growing up, Manders was the boss. Being the oldest sister, she made the rules. If Manders said run down the hall, you ran down the hall. If Manders told you to give her your candy, you gave it to her. If she told you that you were a vampire, then you'd better believe you were a vampire.
Which is exactly what happened.
As the middle sister, I was low enough on the totem pole to do whatever Manders said, but since I wasn't the youngest I wasn't the subject of her torments. That honor was reserved for Moose, the youngest sister. One day, Manders decided that dressing up in scraps of cloth leftover from my mom's sewing projects wasn't enough fun, so we needed to convince Moose that she was a vampire. I happily obliged.
Moose didn't need much convincing. Manders pretty much just said "Hey Moose. You're actually a vampire," and she believed her. "It's true," I told her. "You sometimes come out in the middle of the night and try to bite us." (I may have confused vampires with werewolves, but that's neither here nor there.)
Moose was terrified when she found out the bad news. I mean, how would you feel if you suddenly discovered you were a bloodsucking monster? But being the supportive big sisters that Manders and I were, we comforted her by telling her all the things she needed to do to transform back to a human. "Go mush up 10 snails in the front yard." "Don't eat any more chocolate, give it all to us." "Go play by yourself in your room. That will help you transform back."
The next day, we told Moose that she had successfully become a human girl again. "Good thing you had us to help you."
So what makes me a great sister?
a) I will go along with your crazy scheme to mess with your little sister.
b) If you're a vampire, I will help you transform back to a human.
Which is exactly what happened.
As the middle sister, I was low enough on the totem pole to do whatever Manders said, but since I wasn't the youngest I wasn't the subject of her torments. That honor was reserved for Moose, the youngest sister. One day, Manders decided that dressing up in scraps of cloth leftover from my mom's sewing projects wasn't enough fun, so we needed to convince Moose that she was a vampire. I happily obliged.
Moose didn't need much convincing. Manders pretty much just said "Hey Moose. You're actually a vampire," and she believed her. "It's true," I told her. "You sometimes come out in the middle of the night and try to bite us." (I may have confused vampires with werewolves, but that's neither here nor there.)
Moose was terrified when she found out the bad news. I mean, how would you feel if you suddenly discovered you were a bloodsucking monster? But being the supportive big sisters that Manders and I were, we comforted her by telling her all the things she needed to do to transform back to a human. "Go mush up 10 snails in the front yard." "Don't eat any more chocolate, give it all to us." "Go play by yourself in your room. That will help you transform back."
The next day, we told Moose that she had successfully become a human girl again. "Good thing you had us to help you."
So what makes me a great sister?
a) I will go along with your crazy scheme to mess with your little sister.
b) If you're a vampire, I will help you transform back to a human.
Why I Had to Kill a Spider
I was taking a shower this morning when I met an unexpected visitor: a daddy long legs spider. Normally, I am terrified of spiders. I hate their quick little legs, all eight of them, scurrying around to try and catch me. I have a theory that all spiders are plotting together to kill me, so naturally I try to kill them first. This is true for all kinds of spiders except, of course, for the daddy long legs.
I'm not sure why daddy long legs spiders don't scare me as much as other spiders. Maybe it's because they move their long legs so slowly, so I feel pretty confident I can outrun them. Maybe it's because they look a bit silly, so I assume their awkward looks have left them feeling lonely and in need friends. Maybe it's because they have "daddy" in the name, and who can hate something that's a daddy? In any case, I don't really mind daddy long legs. When I see one in my house, I'll just leave it be.
My non-hatred of daddy long legs spiders aside, I really don't want them too close to me. In my personal space. Touching me. Which brings us to this morning. I'm in the shower, singing like a diva and washing my hair, when I turn around and see a daddy long leg on the tile above me. It's about 2 feet over my head, just chilling on the tile wall. Being the nice (and one hundred percent completely sane) person that I am, I start to talk to the spider. "Whoa there. I didn't see you. But I'm not going to kill you. You can just stay up there on the wall and I'll leave you alone."
I'm not sure if the spider didn't hear me or what, because he then proceeds to start walking down the wall.
"Stop it. Don't come any lower." (Good thing no one else was home, because I'm not sure what anyone would think to hear me talking out loud while I'm in the shower.)
The daddy long legs keeps crawling down.
"Spider, stop. Don't keep climbing down here. Climb back up. Please. If you come down here, I'm going to have to kill you. I don't want to kill you, but if you keep getting close to me I'm going to have to do it."
Still climbing down.
"Dang it, Daddy Long Legs! I'm sorry."
I cupped my hands, filled them with water, and flushed that poor spider down the drain.
And that's why, dear spider friends, if you step foot into my personal space while I'm taking a shower, I will kill you.
I'm not sure why daddy long legs spiders don't scare me as much as other spiders. Maybe it's because they move their long legs so slowly, so I feel pretty confident I can outrun them. Maybe it's because they look a bit silly, so I assume their awkward looks have left them feeling lonely and in need friends. Maybe it's because they have "daddy" in the name, and who can hate something that's a daddy? In any case, I don't really mind daddy long legs. When I see one in my house, I'll just leave it be.
My non-hatred of daddy long legs spiders aside, I really don't want them too close to me. In my personal space. Touching me. Which brings us to this morning. I'm in the shower, singing like a diva and washing my hair, when I turn around and see a daddy long leg on the tile above me. It's about 2 feet over my head, just chilling on the tile wall. Being the nice (and one hundred percent completely sane) person that I am, I start to talk to the spider. "Whoa there. I didn't see you. But I'm not going to kill you. You can just stay up there on the wall and I'll leave you alone."
I'm not sure if the spider didn't hear me or what, because he then proceeds to start walking down the wall.
"Stop it. Don't come any lower." (Good thing no one else was home, because I'm not sure what anyone would think to hear me talking out loud while I'm in the shower.)
The daddy long legs keeps crawling down.
"Spider, stop. Don't keep climbing down here. Climb back up. Please. If you come down here, I'm going to have to kill you. I don't want to kill you, but if you keep getting close to me I'm going to have to do it."
Still climbing down.
"Dang it, Daddy Long Legs! I'm sorry."
I cupped my hands, filled them with water, and flushed that poor spider down the drain.
And that's why, dear spider friends, if you step foot into my personal space while I'm taking a shower, I will kill you.
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