Sorry for the Hiatus

My MCAT-itude
Well, it's done. I've taken the test and have been, essentially, recovering from it for the last couple of weeks. Actually, it killed most of my desires to write or read or think more than base, superficial thoughts. On many occasions, I've been asked how it went. When faced with such a daunting question, I usually respond with "It went." Honestly, I can't really gauge how I did on the test other than I didn't feel as though I did as well as I would have liked. Hopefully, there's a gap between how I felt I did and my actual score. Furthermore, I'd prefer the score to be much better than I felt I performed.

This photo represents how I felt about the MCAT.
Note: I'm represented by the chap in green.

My Testing Center Was Equipped with Cutting Edge Computers (for 1984)
The MCAT recently changed formats from paper-based to computer-based testing. So, anyone taking it is really at the mercy of the testing centers contracted to administer the test. I expected something with fairly modern equipment although my wife tried to lower my expectations. She'd completed all of her NCARB exams at these same centers and spoke about the outdated equipment. I didn't fully believe her.

When I arrived for the exam, I was pretty quickly signed-in and fingerprinted. The electronic fingerprinting station didn't work that well for me. I probably tried about 8 times to get it to read my print. This trouble led to a very awkward exchange in which the lady at the testing center gave me a nice dollop of hand lotion, massaged it onto my hand and finger, and repeated the process with my greasy hand. Remarkably, it worked but I felt dirty. For the record, alleging that you'd removed your fingerprints and making a sarcastic joke alluding to Spacey's character in Se7en won't earn any laughs from the testing center lady.

After successfully completing the registration, she led me to my workstation. I stood there and looked over my wee cubicle with about 4 inches of usable desk space, a CRT computer monitor about 8 inches from my face, and a well-worn roller-ball mouse. I almost asked her if she was kidding me. Really, a few hundred dollars gets me this? Classic.

That $#%* Was Hard
Really, there isn't too much more to be said for the actual content of the exam other than it was hard.

Aftermath (Read: Beers)
After the test, I walked to my wife's office where we'd meet for a late lunch. On the way, I called my dad and managed to string together a few obscenities to describe how I felt. After that, my mental faculties began to shut down. I couldn't do simple math, make simple decisions, or carry on a decent conversation. I was shot. Luckily, a nice Caribbean meal helps to alleviate some of that.

Later that afternoon, Dr.J3K, his girlfriend, and I headed to the FlatIron in EAV for some beers. We were on our second pitcher of Sweetwater when we heard the crack of gunfire. We looked up the street toward the row of shops and saw a few people sprinting away from a few of the shops. We tried to reassure ourselves that it probably wasn't gunfire but, more likely, fireworks or something. Then, we heard sirens approaching. As a resident of the village, I felt like I should at least have an idea of what was happening so I left Dr.J3K and Sandy and walked toward the mayhem. Turns out that some people stole a laptop and some shoes from one of the boutiques. The owner, a huge guy who packs heat, chases them into the alley where the perps are entering their get-away car. Shots are fired; the proprietor takes a bullet in the ankle. Bystanders got the tag number, administered first aid, and called the po-po.

This was during daylight! It's 4:30pm and this shit happened! What the hell? I guess it was some of the Friday, the 13th madness or something. Shaken, I rejoin the gang at the bar. We were convinced that, at the time, we were in the safest place in Atlanta with all the cops swarming the area.

Vacation
On Sunday, I joined my wife's family for a vacation on Edisto Island, South Carolina. I spent the week outside in the sand, staring at the ocean, and soaking in the sun and surf. It was bliss.

The view from our bedroom.

We ate tons of shrimp caught on this boat.

Also, we took a trip to the island's serpentarium. I saw tons of rattlesnakes and strange, dangerous exhibits. Picture this: an outdoor pit filled with tons of venomous snakes and surrounded by lots of kids leaning precariously over the edge. Entertaining? You betcha!

One of the Serpentarium's finest.

The gift shop was as entertaining as the reptile exhibits:

"Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy this jumbo bag of snake skins."

Happy, Fun Surgery Time!
A few days after we returned from vacation, my wife had surgery to repair her torn ACL. So, I've been acting as her nurse, chauffeur, chef, personal assistant, and (on one occasion) whipping boy. She's doing well and is recovering nicely. When possible, I'll post some surgery pics.

Here We Go...

I'm about an hour and 15 minutes away. This is probably going to hurt.

This Pretty Much Sums It Up

I'm in the final throes of studying for this Friday's MCAT. To get a sense of what my days have been like, watch the following video gem.

Onward, Upward

Ten days and counting until the MCAT (pronounced: MCrAP). At this point, I'm really ready for this damned thing to be over. At the moment, however, I'm not pleased with my scores on the practice exams, so I'll continue to work, work, work.

Stay Out of Room 237
Over the last week, I was alone for much of the time at the mountain house in north Georgia. I thought it was pretty funny to picture a scenario like "The Shining" but with me descending into madness in about 48 hours. Hilarity ensues! Pretty funny until I started thinking about the movie a little too much and actually ended up spooking myself a little bit.

One night, a thunderstorm blew threw the area. I'd been upstairs watching SportCenter before heading to bed. When I made my way to my downstairs bedroom, I noticed that the door leading outside was standing open, the room felt like it was about 1000 degrees, and it was filled with insects. For a few minutes, I like I was in "Temple of Doom."

That night, I had one of the most disturbingly violent and bloody dreams I've ever had in my life. Seriously, it was like being in some freaky, freaky version of "The Shining." Instead of 'redrum' being painted on the doors, it was more like physics and chemistry formulas and such. Sounds a little funny but, trust me, the details I'm withholding make it really terrifying.

Mileage of the Devil
So, returning to Atlanta last night. My car started having some problems with temperature. I ended up getting off the highway before the car overheated entirely. As I'm pulling into the gas station, I noticed my trip odometer: 66.6. Freaky.

Pizza of the Devil
Luckily, my wife came to the rescue and met me at the gas station in Duluth. She arrived about 5 minutes before the tow truck showed up. After the car was loaded and sent on its way, we drove back into the city. As we were pretty hungry, we phoned in a take-out order from Savage Pizza and headed there. I paid and went outside with the wife and Dylan to pass some time. After about 15 minutes of waiting, they told us that some moron took our pizza by mistake. This occurred, evidently, while I stepped outside momentarily. Seems the ding-dong was in a non-stop conversation on his mobile, looked up when they said my name, and took the pizza. When I looked at my beer, guess what number was on it? The number: 420.

So...
Of course I'm stressed, why do you ask?

18 Day Countdown

MCAT in 18 days. Holy smokes, I'm suddenly very nervous. This weekend, I was back up in North Georgia to study. Last night, we came back to ATL so that I could do some volunteer work at Grady. Then, Tuesday, I return to the mountains to sequester myself and study.

The following pages say only "Oh crap! Oh crap! Oh crap!"

I'm starting to get my "freak out" on.

3 Nights at Fenway South

Tonight marked the final night of the inter-league play between the Braves and the Red Sox. Normally I pull for the Braves but, when the Sox are in town, I unabashedly root for them. Evidently, so do 90% of the attendees. Honestly, it's like being at a large, really nice Fenway without the monster or the obstructed views. Well, let's say the obstructed views aren't caused by columns being in your way but, rather, people who feel it's appropriate to stand up and chat during play. Here's my recap of the series:

Monday, Red Sox Lost 4 - 9
My wife and I took in the game from the visitor's section, midway between 3rd base and the left field wall. Unfortunately, the Sox lost this game. Schilling got shelled. Apart from the game, I was annoyed/amused by the Yankees fan in front of us and the d.b. right behind us (team allegiance unknown).

The Yankees fan was a real prima donna. Each time the stadium erupted with a "Let's go Red Sox" chant, he'd turn around and scowl at all the Sox fans surrounding him. Then, whenever the Braves made an excellent play, he'd stand up, turn around and gloat. I pointed out to him that he was dressed in full Yankees apparel. My point was that him acting so smug was a little misplaced as he had no obvious ties to the Braves organization. I loathe the Yankees fans who believe their team is God's gift to baseball and the world. By the end of the night, I'm two feet behind him and openly attempting to photograph him doing such idiotic things. Unfortunately, my photographic exploits were fruitless. I've only the following images.

Awesome Yankees fan!

The real winner might've been the gent behind us. In typical Atlanta fashion, he arrived a few innings late and proceeded to do the worst Matt Foley: Motivational Speaker impersonation I've ever heard. I might not be the best at it but I know when something is bad. Trust me, this cat was rotten. Then, he affects a Boston accent and uses "Green Monstah" in every sentence for the next half hour. Later, he and his buddies are talking about hockey and, in all seriousness, he says: "You know, my favorite hockey movie might be 'Slapshot.'" His buddies were oohhing and awwing at his insightfulness. ("Slapshot? " Really? You sure that any of the "Mighty Ducks" series aren't up there? How about "Mystery, Alaska?" Honestly, aren't there about 3 hockey movies? By the way, "The Cutting Edge" doesn't count as one of them.) Then, he pontificated about what a great movie "Caddyshack" is. Genius and timely, I thought.

Anywho, a fun night. Coco Crisp had an amazing night with 2 HR and a great attempt to catch a McCann homer. Too bad the Sox lost.

Tuesday, Red Sox Won 4 - 0
My buddy the Renegade joined me for this one. This time, everyone around us was pretty cool. Again, we were mostly surrounded by Sox fans. I sat next to an old leatherneck who was there with his wife and granddaughter. He was a chisel-faced old man with a stark-white crewcut. When I walked up and took my seat, he noticed my Red Sox cap, looked my square in the eyes, and shook his head in disappointment without ever speaking a word. He scared me.

Here's a nifty little game to play with your pals: Before first pitch at the ball game, predict the winners in the upcoming, goofy jumbo-tron distractions. You've three "games" to predict: the Napa Cap Shuffle, the Harrah's Cherokee Casino Pinball Game, and the Home Depot tool/paint race. I chose the middle cap, pinball #2, and the paintbrush/saw. None of my predictions stuck. The Renegade, however, went 3 for 3.

Beckett pitched a hell of a game and managed to squeeze in a hit off of Hudson. Coco Crisp had another fine game, making a fantastic diving catch to Rob Tim Hudson of a hit. (You probably saw it on ESPN.) Papi hit a homer and so on. It's nice (and a little humorous) to see Papi in the field, playing 1st base.

I love what this guy does.

Wednesday, Red Sox Won 11 - 0
Tonight, PJ2K7 and I hit the stadium for the final game. Again, there were hardly any Braves fans around us. Honestly, it was amazing to see such an outpouring of fan suport for a visiting team. In reality, it's probably much, much easier for Boston fans to score tickets in Atlanta than at Fenway.

PJ2k7 realizes he just ate too many free peanuts.
Uncle Jesse, on the other hand, thought we were spying on him for Boss Hog.

Anywho, we ended up getting free peanuts from the first concession stand we hit. Peej bought two beers and a bag of nuts. The two guys working looked at each other, did terrible math, and somehow ended up giving us a free bag of peanuts. We gladly took them. Hell, it's a seven dollar value.

The first two innings were amazing. The Sox almost batted through their order on poor Carlyle who attempted to pitch for the Bravos. In the first at-bat of the game, J.D. Drew took one out of the park. Later that inning, Coco went deep. Next inning, Papi drilled one. Later on, Manny went yard, followed later in the game by Hinske. Seriously, they put on a hitting clinic for the Braves. And, they played great defensive ball. I think the Braves had 5 hits on the entire evening. Good stuff.

Player of the Series?

Coco was en fuego for the last few games.

Retirement for Old Faithful?
At this year's series, I realized that it might be time to retire my favorite Red Sox cap that's been with me since January 1993. Together, we've been through a lot. For the past several years, it's gotten fragile to the point that I only brought her out for Red Sox games: a few at Fenway, many more here in Atlanta, and the playoffs. Last year, the adjustable strap had failed beyond repair, so I taped it with duct tape. This year, the duct tape kept failing, so I taped it, stapled it, and re-taped it. Although it pains me to say it, I think tonight might've been its last game at the park. All in all, I'm pretty sad about it. They just don't make 'em like that anymore. Where can I get it bronzed?

After 14 years, it might be time to retire my favorite cap.

I love baseball.

Volunteer Orientation at Grady is Efficient, Informative*

*By "Efficient, Informative," I mean an endless journey to the ninth circle of hell.

Monday, I returned from north Georgia to attend a orientation at Grady Memorial Hospital. Over the next few months, I'll be volunteering a few hours a week at ATL's trauma hotbed, the Grady ER. If anything, the orientation was a frustrating example of the inefficiency of our public health system.

The session was scheduled to begin at 4pm with no listed completion time. (Did you catch the subtle foreshadowing in the previous sentence?) I arrived a few minutes early and walked into a room packed with about 30 people. Some were sitting; about a third of us were standing because there were only about 20 chairs. At one end of a long conference table, a nurse administered TB skin tests. At the other end, a woman took photos for ID badges.

At first, I wondered if this was some sort of social experiment in which a bunch of people were cramped into a room and left to descend into chaos. Essentially, that's what it amounted to minus any scientific observation or the death of some fat kid with glasses. The volunteer coordinator was noticeably absent. There was no order to anything: no lines for photos or injections, no circulation of paperwork, no explanation for what we needed to be doing. We simply jockeyed for position, stared at one another, and laughed at it all. Occasionally, the volunteer coordinator's secretary popped into the room and looked around. Later, she announced that the orientation would take place in a "larger" room upstairs that could accommodate everyone. She instructed us to go upstairs when we finished with the photo and TB test.

At 5:15 pm, I made it upstairs and joined the masses. We sat there waiting for everyone to join. Again, nobody official was present to set any sort of expectation of when we'd even begin, much less finish. It was apparent that we were waiting on every person to arrive before starting. "Obviously, there is some really important information that we'll get if we're waiting for everyone to begin," I thought.

At 5:30, an hour and a half late, orientation started. Everyone received an information packet full of papers and protocols. Finally, the volunteer coordinator swept into the room and promptly began the orientation by bitching about how slow the nurse was, complaining about how this particular nurse would never be back at orientation, questioning the nurse's professionalism, and other rantings that demonstrated a glaring lack of professional decorum. After being delayed an hour and a half, I was thrilled to see her using everyone's time so wisely and respectfully. Honestly, it was a fantastic use of my afternoon. I listened intently from the edge of my seat, waiting on her next enlightening words!

Next, she reviewed the contents of our packets which contained mostly administrative info for those new to the hospital. (In retrospect, this portion of the orientation was the most informative and efficient.) Then, she read, verbatim, a two page checklist in our packet that we were apparently incapable of reading ourselves. She did, however, add tons of insight to it with comments like: "I don't know why those elevators are sooooo slow but they are. You should really be ready to wait and wait. You could take the stairs but not if you're going up to a really high floor. You wouldn't want to do that." My eyes welled with tears; I swallowed my tongue.

Next, we flipped though our packet to the hospital's policy regarding respectful treatment of its patients. In theory, we were to read this policy and sign it. Instead, we were treated to a 10 minute explanation of it. She performed a lively, dramatic reading of it, frequently pausing to embellish it with every scenario one could imagine! This is the hospital's policy toward patients:

Treat everyone respectfully. Even the poor people. Even the crazy people. Even the homeless people. Even the poor, crazy, homeless people.

(Now, try to turn it into a 10-minute song and dance number. Hard, huh?)

The crown jewel of the whole ordeal was her review of the following safety pamphlet:

Based on a 2-minute review, it's not too important.

In my opinion, this was perhaps the most critical thing in the whole damned packet. Time spent to review it: 2 minutes. These 120 high-powered seconds included a lackluster paraphrase of the entire brochure and the answers to the quiz we were required to complete, sign, and submit as part of our training.

She attempted to conclude the session by having everyone sign and submit their forms individually, so that she could make sure the handwriting was legible. I had none of it; I went around the room, collected everyone's forms, and gave them to her. This seemed to catch her off guard, as if nobody had ever given her a stack of papers.

So, to recap: an insanely elaborate explanation of "be nice to people" and a ten-second, oversimplification on how to avoid accidentally contracting a lethal infection. Correctly prioritized? You bet your ass it is. (Be sure to ask me again in a couple of weeks when I'm in Denver for treatment of the drug-resistant TB that I'll soon contract.)

That's just the way it goes at Grady, I guess. It's not like I shouldn't have expected things in the administration to be the same version of the bat-shit craziness that goes on in the ER. Hopefully, I won't have to sit through any more of this woman's presentations. If so, I'll definitely bring something I can use to stab myself which would get me to the ER where people are a little more sane.

Happy Fun Study Times Explosion!

This weekend, I'm at my in-laws' house in the north Georgia mountains. I came up this afternoon for weekend study retreat. I'm about a month away from the MCAT and getting increasingly anxious about it.

Anywho, I'll study hard this weekend before heading back to ATL on Monday. I have a volunteer orientation at Grady Hospital on Monday afternoon. A few hours later, I'm seeing the first game in the Red Sox @ Braves series. I've been waiting for these three games since opening day. Yippee!

On the subject of baseball , the following photo really makes me laugh. Click it to enlarge and just drink in everyone's expression. I'm alone here in this huge house, laughing hysterically at the people in the photo. Good stuff.

That's probably going to leave a mark.

Bob Barker is an Ass

Maybe knowing that Bob had taped his final TPIR show made be a little nostalgic. Maybe I thought I should actually heed his suggestion to "have your pets spayed or neutered." For whatever reason, we had Dylan neutered and I feel terrible about it. Rather than take responsibility and own my guilt, I place it squarely on the shoulders of Mr. Barker. Help control the pet population, my ass.

Earlier this week, my wife asked me if I'd mind taking Dylan to the appointment. As I recall it, the conversation went something like:

"Yeah, I mind. I don't want to do it; I feel like I'm selling him out. He's going to be pissed at me," I confided.

"But you agreed that we should have this done. Now, you're telling me we're not going to do it?," she asked.

"No, we should do it. You asked me if I wanted to take him and I don't. I don't want to do it but I will."

And from there, the balls were in motion. I made the appointment for Friday. As I hung up with the vet's office, my anxiety began and my guilt started to build. Whenever, I'd take a study break and look outside to check on Dylan, it just so happened that he'd be licking his figs. You don't even know what's about to happen, I thought. There's a storm on the horizon, my friend, a storm that's going to leave you with an empty coin purse.

He had no idea how this week would turn out.

Thursday night, I met the gang for our usual THAD (THursday Afternoon Drinking, an admitted misnomer) where we get together for a few beers and some nachos. Dr. S, our vet and a good friend, was there with her husband. I let her know that she be working on Dylan the next morning. We chatted about it for a while. She assured me that it was the right thing to do, that it wasn't that bad for Dylan, that the surgery didn't take that long, and so on. She really put me at ease. I asked about prosthetics balls; she laughed and waved me off. She did, however, tell me to go visit the Neuticles site. (You should too, it's good stuff.)

I remember, as a kid, watching the vet work some cows at our home. I specifically recall the crazy look in the cow's eyes as he stood in the headgate, as if he knew that no good would come out of the next few minutes. I was awed by how quickly the vet seemed to work. Seriously, it seemed like only a couple of minutes for the entire procedure: one swift incision, reaching for the testicles, tossing them onto the ground nearly out of the animal's sight. Then, to add insult to injury, our dog Sam would run up and feast on them. Recalling this memory, there is no way for me to think that it wouldn't be that bad for Dylan.

As we finished dinner and were leaving, Dr. S asked me if I wanted to keep Dylan's boys.

"Sure," I said, "why not? I'll put them on the mantle."

"Great. I'll put them in a little 'formyl' for you and you can take them with you."

"Sweet. As the very least, I can give them to PJ."

That night, I barely slept. What sleep I did get was fitful and restless. I woke at 5:15 am and went to the gym. Then, I came home and gave Dylan a bath. He needed to be at the vet's between 8:30 and 9:00. I put off getting in the car as long as I could. Normally, Dylan loves riding in the car. Today, however, he was as happy and excited as I've ever seen him. It crushed me.

At the vet's office, he rushed in, sniffed things out, and promptly peed on the wall. Everyone had a good chuckle about it. A few minutes later, the vet tech came to take him back. I patted him on the head, scratched him under the chin, and handed over his leash. As I watched him leave the room and the door slowly close behind him, I felt queasy. I turned to the woman next to me and said, "I am such a traitor." She smiled but didn't disagree.

Later that afternoon, I went to go get him. When the vet tech brought him to the waiting room, he was still high from the anesthesia. It was sad but a slightly amusing: his eyes were bloodshot and droopy; he was slow and clumsy. A minute or two later, Dr. S comes out and we chat about how the surgery went, what to watch for, how long the recovery should take and so on. Then, she excuses herself for a moment, and disappears into the back.

A moment later, Dr. S comes back with a clear plastic bag with two specimen jars in it. As she's walking out, a vet tech asks her what she's got. Without missing a beat, Dr. S in a very clear, loud voice announces to the entire waiting room, "They're Dylan's testicles. He's taking them home."

Dead silence fell over the room. Judging eyes fell on me. Dr. S laughs, gives me a big hug, and gives me the goods. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

Now, I'm in some strange version of Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart."

My Dog Just Doesn't Get Me

So, I'm coming up on almost a month since classes have been over. This is about two weeks since I've been fully relaxed and feeling OK again. I realize that I'm missing the human interaction that I took for granted when I was on campus. Usually, I'm here at the house in the office trying to study and keep occupied.

When I make some funny, self-deprecating comment about how I just don't get something, Dylan raises his head, stares at me for a second, grunts, lays back down, and goes back to sleep. I feel like he's just not really giving me the respect I deserve.

I gotta get out more.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Unfulfilled Potential

Last night over beers with some friends from school, we somehow started talking about Harry Potter. Many at the table were eagerly anticipating the release of the final book and the next film in the series. I let everyone know that I had the inside scoop on what happens to Harry. I'll share with you what I told them:

Harry gets the Weasley girl pregnant and drops out of Hogwarts to take a job slinging burgers at a fast-food place in Diagon Alley. Occasionally, Voldemort visits the establishment to harass his once-powerful nemesis. Harry chokes back his anger during these infrequent visits. Each time as Voldemort leaves, Harry whispers "I'm Harry Potter, a very powerful wizard. I am the one." And each time, Harry's manager always yells at him to get back to work because "this ain't no fancy quiddich match, 'ere." In the evenings, Harry is emotionally distant and attempts to drown his sorrow in Butter Beer.

We all shared a good laugh and the conversation moved on to other topics. About five minutes later, one of my classmates yelled "That would never happen! They're wizards, they have contraceptive spells!"

"Fertilization renuncio!"

We all agreed. Then for the next ten minutes sat around randomly yelling spells and making wand motions to cast them. Overheard:

• "Fertilization renuncio!"
  
• "Spermato retreato!"
• "Zygotus obliteratus"
• "Abortivo levioso"
• "Coitus interruptus!"
  

I Am Older. Wiser.

Birthdays
My grandmother would have turned 88 on the 25th of May. As my birthday is on the 26th, I always think of her. Every year, we'd call each other with wishes for a happy birthday and invitations to dinner. She's been gone a few years now and I still miss her terribly; I was absolutely crazy about her. I miss her laughter, the way her eyes would light up when you walked into her house, the incessant offerings of food or candy, her political rantings, the way she would hug you goodbye, and about a million other things that I didn't realized I'd noticed until she was out of reach. Make sure that those people you care about know it; go give them a hug or something, damn it.

My sister with Bamba, our grandmother.
This might be one of my favorite photos of her.

This year, my wife and I hosted a cookout on my birthday. My goal was to see people that I've not seen in a while due to school. My plan worked. It's pretty fun (and tiring) to see several distinct social circles mixing and mingling with one another. Anywho, we had a good time catching up with everyone, having some cold beer, and grilling.

I Am a Horseshoe Pitching Champion
On Sunday, we drove to my in-laws' mountain house near Helen for some R&R and quality time with the family. On Monday, they opened a horseshoe set and, wouldn't you know it, a tournament broke out. Seriously, people were challenging one another. Then, you followed through in your bracket. Intense. Unbelievably, I won the whole thing. In a proud day for our household, 1st and 2nd place trophies are on the mantle here. I defeated my wife in the championship match. Following is a video that I made from still photos I shot from my perch on the victor's throne. (At the time, though, it was a simple lawn chair; revisionism is awesome.)



In directly related news, I'm thinking of pushing the MCAT back indefinitely so that I can properly train for the rematch that will surely happen over the summer. I must defend my crown with strength and honor. I've joined the National Horseshoe Pitchers Association of America and signed up for regional tournaments. Look for me on ESPN2 in the coming months.

Canine Bliss

Today, our friend, "R," dropped off her dog, Moses, to play with Dylan. Usually, they play all day long without getting into too much. Earlier this week, however, they dug up the garden that "R" had planted. A few hours ago, I looked out the window and noticed that each dog is orange and that they've unearthed one of our sprinkler heads. Honestly, Moses looked like a lion at a kill. Seriously, his faces and haunches were so stained that he looked like he'd been ass-deep into a dead elephant. Classic.

Immediately after being discovered.

Moses, who enjoys sticking his entire face into mud.

Dylan, thoroughly covered in red mud.

Tonight is bath night.

Another Day of Bliss

I know it sounds nuts but, for the last 10 days, I've not really cracked a textbook. I've casually been working on application-related things but have taken a vacation from the studies.

Here are a few things that I've done in the last 10 days that I've neglected over the last 12 months:

• Played two consecutive games with the Sleestaks, my softball team. During the playoffs, I smashed a triple to right-center field for 3 RBIs during a rally that led to us beating the #1 seed by 1 run (22-21) after being down 19-10.
• Worked in the yard planting hydrangeas and other plants for the day.
• Sat on my front porch before 8am, having coffee, and reading "Blink" by Malcolm Gladwell.
• Spent some good time and had a long conversation with my parents.
• Slept until 8:30 for three consecutive mornings.
• Walked the dog during the day.
• Exhaled calmly while not really thinking about anything.
• Started making the rounds to contact friends that I've neglected over the last year.
  

This too shall pass. I'm feeling the first twinges of what I like to call my "Oh Shit!" moment when I freak out and suddenly find the motivation to become laser-focused on something. MCAT, here I come!

A Sigh of Relief

The results are in: I earned a "B-" in Organic Chem. Man, I was sweating it. I can't tell you how relieved I am to be over this hurdle. For the semester, I turned in the following performance:

• Physics II : A
• Biology : B
• Organic Chem II : B-

Suddenly, things seem much more real. My cumulative GPA for the post-bacc program turned out to be 3.482. I wanted a 3.5 or higher but I'll take what I earned; it's not too shabby. Now, I simply need to kick some ass on the MCAT and I'll be okay.

Not a bad showing for such an intense year.

What a year. I remember starting this thing last year and being completely unsure that I was doing the right thing. (As evidenced by my earliest posts on this site. For example, this and this.) Basic algebra was really freaking me out. Certainly, I was making a huge mistake. Looking back though, it doesn't seem quite so bad. This might've been one of the most difficult things I've done. It is, of course, but the first step on this journey.

Now, I've got to get it in gear; no rest for the weary. (I'll take a breather when I'm 41.)

The Immediate Aftermath

I finished my finals. Honestly, the Organic Chem final was something from hell. Our prof give a standardized exam from the American Chemical Society so that she may gauge her students' performance against a national standard. When I opened the exam, I wondered what stinking language I was reading. Really, it looked SO different from anything I'd studied previously. I absolutely love feeling that way on a test, you know. You know, the old "What the hell is this? I've never seen any of this before!" feeling.

Anywho, I needed to make at least a 30 on the exam to keep a "C" in the class. I figured that I needed at least a 70 to earn a "B." This morning, I found my grade was in the high 70's about 5 points above the class average. Perfect! It looks like our prof is also working with the grades to move everyone up a few point. Right now, my cumulative grade shows up as a 79.52 excluding the stuff that she's adding in. Keep your fingers crossed that I'll get a "B." Hopefully, everything will work out for the best.

Final grades are officially posted tomorrow. I'll update then. Right now, however, I'm feeling more that a little relieved that I made higher than a 30 on the final. For a while there, I truly thought I'd be scraping out a 30.

Meanwhile, I've been taking a few days off to recover before I dive back into studying/applications. I'll begin with application work today before diving headlong into MCAT prep.

More later.

Two down...

One remaining exam: Organic Chemistry, the bane of my current academic endeavor. Tomorrow, I'll take the exam and relax.

Picture this: In a quiet, upscale romantic restaurant, many well-dressed patrons are quietly dining. Suddenly, a window bursts open as bodies crash through it. They fall to the floor wrestling. Customers shriek and scurry to a safe distance from the maelstrom and curiously watch as a guy who's on fire simultaneously fends off the vicious attacks of a ninja, a dwarf, and a sad clown. He's also being attacked by a puma that's snarling and swatting wildly at him.

Now, think of me as that guy.

Just trying to set the scene for tomorrow night.

Crybaby (Deluxe Edition)

I'm in the beginning of our finals period and am waiting for my "oh shit!" moment to propel me into full study mode. Right now, I'm sort of ambivalent about things and have taken the last day or so to clear my head and relax before heading into the gut-wrenching exam week.

I can't honestly say that I've finished this one on a high note. Organic Chemistry eludes me. On the last test, like most everyone in the class, I made a high D on the exam. That's right a "D." Now, that I've backed myself into a corner, nothing to do but fight my way out via the final exam. Keep your fingers crossed that I manage to pull a "C" or better in the class. I just don't get this stuff.

I'm not that unusual in this regard. A friend who is completing her Ph.D. in neuroscience at Emory told me that she too had a difficult time with it. Her theory is that you might be one of three kinds of people: someone who gets it an earns an "A," someone who never gets it and fails, or someone who gets it just enough to scrape by. I'm definitely scraping by on the seat of my pants.

One of the World's Biggest Crybaby Assholes
Seems that every social group will include at least one person who thrives on conflict and drama. You know, the idiot who has to create a shitstorm when everything is peaceful and easygoing. Well, the social dynamic among our program is no different. From the get go, one person seemed to be leading the charge in dodging accountability and creating drama. This person is always worrisome, terribly negative, and not totally grounded in reality. For example, if she received a low score on a test or something, she lay blame on the test for being unfair or poorly worded. If anything required critical thinking or an "out-of-the-box" approach, she shut down and cried foul to the professors. (Really, though, doctors don't need this type of skill because everything is just like a textbook - an open and shut diagnosis that clearly follows protocol.) Anyway, I've been getting slowly fed up and occasionally amused over the course of the year.

For all practical purposes, this photo represents my classmate.
Notably, however, the baby is more mature and trustworthy.

The last several weeks have found her reaping what she's sewn. Since last summer, she's been jointly enrolled in the Ph.D. program in which she was supposedly close to completing. Evidently, she's been taking funds from that university and, instead of using them to do the work expected of a doctoral candidate, using them to fund her participation in the post-bacc program at our institution. Needless to say, this finally caught up with her when she made a research proposal that was deemed "unviable." So, I believe that she's effectively shot herself in the foot on the Ph.D. thing. I feel bad for her situation but, deep down, she's in the hole that she dug for herself.

Anywho, the preceding anecdote is just fodder. A little background, if you will. Recent events that foreshadow upcoming acts of desperation.

I should also point out that, during the course of the program, things have generally been quite collaborative. People have banded together to help each other out. Our star has been the beneficiary of quite a bit of this help from various other students. She asked for help and people helped her out. Personally, I've spent a fair amount of time scanning old tests and working with "That Guy" to be sure that they were emailed to everyone so that we could study them.

One Step Over the Line
So, after the dreadful Organic test last week. I learn that there was an old test that a few people had been using to study. Turns out that the T.A. for the class had given it to our beloved, assuming that it would be shared with everyone. Obviously, this didn't happen. To make matters worse, it wasn't simply a case of forgetfulness or of passing something down a chain that breaks. It was a deliberate effort to withhold information from the entire group! Superstar told people to keep the test on the low-down and not to mention it to certain people, which evidently includes me and a few others. (The scuttlebutt is that because we don't "study" with their group, we're elitist or some other 5th grade bullshit.) Really? This is how it's going down? Seriously?

Turns out a few questions from the old test matched our exam. Conceivably, I could've earned a few more points and pulled a low "C." Light speed in black hole, right? Anywho, a few of us talked with the professor about it. We didn't ID anyone but because everyone signs an honor code at the start of the year and because the college holds moral integrity in high esteem, we thought she should know to help alleviate the same thing in the future. (Instead of the T.A. giving the exam to one person, post it online for all to access.) The icing on the cake is that nobody did well on the test. Even with her "competitive advantage," she still bit it.

I disgusted by it. After all the help she's received and after the collaboration that everyone has shown, she undermines it all like this? Unbelievable. Funny how adults can revert back to middle school social behavior, isn't it?

The Icing on the Cake
Tonight, I get an email from her regarding the final for the lab portion of Organic Chemistry, which was an open-book test. My jaw dropped. I really tried to just delete it without responding. When I was responding, I had to fight everything in me to call her out on being such an idiot. Here's her message :

From: [Crybaby Asshole]
Sent: Wed 5/2/2007 12:02 PM
To: [Lab Prof]
Subject: concerning lab final and final lab report


Dr. [Lab Prof],

I am concerned about the grade I received on the lab final. I spent several hours working on the final, finding the answers in the lab book, lab reports, organic chem text book, and even online sources. I knew that there were two questions that I was uncertain about but I was surprised when I submitted the final and missed 6. I would really like a copy of my lab final to see what exactly I missed so that I can figure out how I could have missed 4 more than I thought I might have. Also, days after the final many of us discussed our grades because many members of the class (who normally do well on the lab reports and lab quizzes) were similarly surprised by their low grades on the lab final and we were unable to figure out what questions we missed. Any light you can shed on this issue would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Best,
[Crybaby Asshole]

________________________________


-----Original Message-----
From: [Crybaby Asshole]
Sent: Wed 5/2/2007 12:11 PM
To: The Scholar
Subject: FW: orgo lab final

[T.A.] said Dr. [Lab Prof] is going to be submitting our official lab grades by the end of the week. I have already sent him an email (above) and highly encourage you to do the same if you felt the lab final was unfair or flawed. I know it's finals time but let's rally team! It can't hurt us. :) (I didn't send this to everyone so please send on or remind other people in class to do the same.)

[Crybaby Asshole]

________________________________


I didn't find it to be either unfair or flawed; I'm sure that the questions I missed were due to me fouling them up and not due to the exam. Good luck with this campaign and with finals.

-- The Scholar

I'm amazed at how she thinks that every grade she earns is negotiable. I really think that she believes she can argue like this in medical school. At what point does one become accountable for one's actions? Without a doubt, she's got the makings of a great doctor. (As long as you exclude accountability, strength of character, honesty, ethical behavior, critical thinking ability, and interpersonal skills.) Really, save the drama for the stage.

Whew. I feel a lot better. (For the record, I'm not an ass all the time. I feel this was warranted.)

The National's Matt Berninger sold me new wheels

Ahh, the stress is finally peaking...

In my waking life, I'm starting to experience the dreaded VW electrical gremlins that inevitably plague older vehicles. After having my car in the shop for a couple of months (!) earlier this year to alleviate a problem with my alarm, my rear driver's side window suddenly stops working. Of course, this happens after I successfully let it down. Honestly, this is causing me little to no stress because, hey, I have no other monumentally stressful tasks to deal with at the moment.

In my dream life, I drive my car to the VW dealership which is more like a brightly-lit coffee house than repair shop. Berninger sits in the corner, at a desk absolutely covered with papers. On my entrance, he sees me and waves me over to his desk. He's timid and sleazy, in a used car salesman way. We quickly get to the business of repair talk.

"Sure, we can take care of the window," he assures me. "We'll have it up in no time."

I mention that I have no intention of sinking a ton of money into the repair because I'm going to trade it in very soon. I explain that the electrical problems are just too much, that I have neither the patience or the funds to continually make repairs.

After nodding his understanding, he asks "Well, what are you going to do about the wheels? You're missing a hub cap, huh? How long has that been gone?"

"About a year or two," I confess. "It's not that important to me."

"Well, nothing will up your resale value like a set of matching rims," he baits.

"Really?"

"Oh sure, it'll get you at least $500 more."

I agree to see what he has to offer me. First, he shows me some ultra shiny chrome wheels that would more likely belong on a superstar rapper's car than my humble Jetta. I decline and we continue to move down the list to the lower-tier options. Finally, I decide on a set of black rims that are exactly like the wheels currently on my car: basic wheels meant to be covered by a hub cap.

"Let me see what I can work out for you on the price," he tells me while escorting me to a conference room.

He excuses himself, returns to his desk, and begins vigorously working the phone. I'm watching him in his conversation. He's leaning back in the chair, phone held tightly to his face, gesturing wildly with his free hand. On his desk, a cigarette is burning in an amber ashtray full to overflowing with butts. When he sees me watching him from the conference room, he winks and gives me a thumbs up. Minutes later, he hangs up the phone and quickly walks back over to me.

"I worked a little magic for you," he says smiling. He pulls out a pen, writes a figure on a Post-It note, folds the paper, and pushes it across the table toward me. "This is our final number; it's the best we can do."

I open the paper and read it. "Four hundred and twenty-four dollars?," I ask.

"Installed," he replies.

"Deal," I proclaim as we shake hands.

Then, I ask him about their tour and the new album. I gush on and on about how I really dig what they're doing. I beg him to bring some Kentucky Gentleman to tonight's show at the Civic Center.

Next thing, I know, I'm awake and almost laughing. Matt Berninger from The National just sold me wheels for my car that are exactly like the ones I presently have.

Crazy, Crazy World; Crazy, Crazy Times

Since the Virginia Tech shootings, I've really been unable to get thoughts of Jamie out of my mind. For some reason, I keep remembering a field trip that the gifted class took in high school to the state capitol. My memory is one that is neither terribly enlightening or encapsulating of him as a person; it's simply this:

We're on the interstate heading either to or from Atlanta in a school bus full of kids. I was a freshman at the time, very close to his younger sister. The bus was loud in the way that buses are when filled with kids and barreling along a highway. Things were blowing around inside because everyone had a window cracked. I remember looking back at Jamie and some of the older guys. They were the older, bright kids that I admired; I looked up to them. So, there in the din of the bus, Jamie sat in the rear with his friends, talking and smiling.

That's the one image that keeps coming back to me.

My Dream
Obviously, the tragedy of this event is haunting me. The other night, I had terribly strange dream that, in it's own way, helped me deal with it a little better.

In the dream, I'm again working at a software company with my colleague, Scott M., we're teaching a big class to what seems to be an auditorium full of people. I don't know, we could've been at a convention or something. I remember hearing the R.E.M. song "Fireplace." Anyway, some sort of commotion breaks out. Unsurprisingly, it makes us question our lives, identify those things which we hold so dear that we'd sacrifice ourselves to protect. He talks to me about his kids, all four of them, and his wife. Those are the things for which he'd die without any reservations. Then, he started talking to me about living a good life, the life you want to live not necessarily the one you're living. If you love what you're doing and die doing it, things are OK.

I don't know, I woke up comforted by Scott's words. Even though they occurred in my sleep, I don't think they're terribly different than something he'd tell me over lunch.

More coverage about Jamie:

• NPR stories here.
• An article in The Red & Black, UGA's student newspaper, here. This one has great photos of Jamie playing Toli while at UGA.
  
• An article in The Columbus Ledger-Enquirer, here.
  

On a Lighter Note

From yesterday's Red Sox game...

Food at the park is way too expensive to waste ... unless you get on television and written about in the Boston Herald.



John Tomase at the Boston Herald caught up with the parties involved. Read his article here. An excerpt:

... Sole had given them grief about having a large pizza in the stands just moments before the at-bat. He wanted to know where they got it.
“He turned around and said something like, ‘Your mother,’ ” Sole said.
“No,” interjected Ho. “He said, ‘The pizzeria.’ ”
Either way, all parties were annoyed.
“They had been giving us (expletive) about it,” Madore said. “Next thing I know, there’s a fly ball to left field and it goes foul and my buddy says, ‘You want some pizza now?’ And he hits him right in the face. Hey, the guy wasn’t paying attention. When you’re in the stands you’ve got to be ready for anything - a foul ball, a flying slice of pizza, everything.”

This will be my strategy for ballgames this season. At the very least, I won't pay for any pizza.

Thinking of the VT victims

This morning, my thoughts and prayers are with the families and friends of those involved in the shootings.

Jamie Bishop, the German instructor who was killed, went to my high school. He was a couple of years older than me. At the time, I was close friends with his sister who is my age. Admittedly, I never knew him well. In fact, I probably had only a handful of conversations with him. I know, however, that he was a ridiculously smart kid who had grown into a pretty interesting guy.

I'm trying to process all of my emotions about this. Like most everyone, I'm shocked by it, disheartened by it, saddened by it. With this tangential connection to it, I'm drawn to the story, more empathetic to the victims, hungrier to know why this happened.

I am so sorry for his family and his friends.

At this point, I'm waiting for more information to come in from friends with contacts back home. If you'd like more info, leave a comment on this message (with your email address) and I'll pass it along as I learn more.

Go to the AJC article about Jamie, here.

A Few Thoughts on Major Media Coverage
Thankfully, I missed most of the story as it was unfolding yesterday. As horrific as it is, I really hate the media's coverage in times of such crisis.

Flipping by CNN last night, I was treated to Dr. Phil preaching about the dangers of allowing potential psychopaths to play hyper-violent video games. I'm thrilled that he used that time to so wisely instead of offering any sort of advice on how to emotionally comfort the survivors and the family and friends of the victims. This confirmed my suspicions that Dr. Phil is a self-serving, talentless ass.

Later, I watched as the reporter on "Anderson Cooper 360," who, in fact, was not Anderson Cooper, clumsily revisit the story, attempting to entrap a student into claiming that the university president was negligent in not closing campus, and literally saying that "this is a story with a human toll." Then, he fumbled his tag line, "Live from Virginia Tech...Massacre at Virginia Tech."

Honestly, I find that an on-site reporter narrating such an event in such a manner is highly insulting. People are smart enough to realize that such an event is horrific, that it has snuffed out promising lives for no reason, that families and friends will never fully understand why their loved one was killed, and that the experience was truly, utterly terrifying for those involved.

I await the day when the media shows respect for the situation, for those involved, and for those who want to be informed by the news, not entertained by it.

In the Grind

Gearing up for finals. Had a killer Physics test today covering Optics. Anyone need any custom crafted lenses to correct near-sightedness? I'm your man. Of course, they'll be constructed from Saran Wrap and Scotch tape and will be accompanied by a pencil drawing of how they should work.

In better news, this afternoon, I shadowed by friend Beth (aka Griffer) at her pediatric practice. By shadowing, I mean that I followed her around and watched her work her magic all afternoon. At first, I thought that the parents and kids wouldn't be that accepting of an older, unshaven man wearing tight-fitting denim cutoffs and a neon green muscle-shirt but, boy, did they surprise me. I really think that winking and raising my beer can whenever they looked at me helped to alleviate any tension. Really, Griffer is fantastic. She's got an incredible way with the kids. They love her.

(More on this later. Very tired at the moment.)

How 'Bout Them (Horse) Apples?

This evening, I had to do an "out-of-class" swim. Essentially, the instructor takes a day off from class and we have to do the workout at an odd time. Usually, we try to stick to the class schedule and get it out of the way. Last week's Orgo test prevented it.

So, me and another guy in the class meet to swim this afternoon. Little did we know we'd be the oldest ones in the pool. It was kiddie swim day. Between laps, I'd take a look at all the kids learning to swim. I bet the oldest kid in there was maybe four. They were killing it! Splashing around, having a great time, swimming with better techniques than I use.

"Damn, they're cute," I'd think before swimming some more. When I finished my swim, I walked into the locker room intent on a quick rinse before heading home to study.

Two steps toward the shower, I thought I saw some dirt. Then, I thought I smelled some poop.

"Certainly, I'm not seeing this, am I?," I asked myself aloud. I leaned in for a closer look. "Son of a bitch," I say, "it is poop." I stopped and stared at it, not believing what I was seeing.

Either some kid had dropped a deuce in the shower or a tiny horse had gotten into the locker room or this was some prank. Either way, the shower was littered with tiny, stinky turds. Further inspection revealed neither a tiny pony or Ashton Kutcher. It was a kid. (FYI - If the med school thing goes bust, I can fall back on my awesome skills as a private detective.)

This is crap. In the shower. Left by adorable little defecators.

Suddenly, those adorable kids weren't so damned cute; they were living containers for tiny little bowels packed with feces and tiny little bladders filled with urine, all ready to discharge anywhere with no notice.

Then, I thought about all the pool water that had gotten in my mouth during my swim.

Hours later, I'm wondering what will kill the taste of the chlorine bleach. Just for the record, stick to Listerine or something. Never bleach.

Danny's Mangled Kicker -The Photos

My sister and I visited Danny and his family yesterday. He continues to look better. (As long as you don't make eye contact with this leg, a.k.a. the mangled kicker.) I'm still feeling really, really terrible about this whole thing. I'm also more than a little gun-shy about playing. If you're looking for me when the Sleestaks take the field, I'll be the jackass in the medieval armor.

For your viewing pleasure/displeasure, I've dropped some photos of Danny's leg online. For more, click the photo.

What's wrong with this photo?

If you guessed:
Dan's beard - Shame on you; deduct 10 points.
Lack of leg wounds - Correct; award yourself 1 billion points, smarty.

By the way, rumor has it that Danny held on to the ball during the collision, meaning that his tibia and fibula weren't the only things out on the play.

Ouch.

Three things that I've been thinking of this week:

1. My wife's torn ACL
2. Danny's gruesome broken leg
3. Organic Chemistry

ACL Hell
Today, we're going for an MRI to determine the extent of the damage to the ligaments. The doctor said that even if the ACL is completely torn, she'd wait until the MCL had healed before doing surgery on the ACL. This way, the recovery might be faster because the body will be healing from the surgery instead of surgery plus additional ligament damage. Anywho, it sort of sounds as though surgery is a likely outcome.

One of the best parts of the ordeal is that while I'm busting my hump yesterday studying for my Orgo test, the MRI imaging service calls to tell us that we'll need to pay $550 out of pocket for the MRI because our insurance won't cover it because it's a "pre-existing" condition.

"Huh?," I ask. "Pre-existing? From when, a week and a half ago?"

"Just telling you what they said, sir," the voice on the phone told me.

"Seriously, they realize that this is the result of an injury that we reported a week ago, right?"

"I don't know, sir. All I know is that they denied payment for a code of 'pre-existing condition.'"

"Fantastic."

Anywho, here's what a $550 MRI scan will get you:

Although I'm no doctor, comparing this image
with info on the internets
leads me to believe her ACL is busted.

O' Danny Boy
My boy Danny went home from the hospital the other day and now starts the road to recovery with his leg. Honestly, I've been haunted by the very thought of being injured so badly. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain. Stories from the field (the softball field) keep rolling in, each with a different take on how bad the situation was:

• J3K told me that the sound of the bones snapping sounded like a gunshot that he clearly heard in the outfield. At the sound, coupled with Dan's awful moaning and screaming, he immediately ran infield.
• Danny recounting that he heard and felt his leg snap. After falling to the ground, he reached to grab his leg and it just flopped around ... not at the joint or anything but in the middle of his shin.
• A teammate in our dugout passed out as a result of the sights and sounds of the ordeal. She fell and hit her head really good. She's OK.
• Keith, the guy who, in my absence, is playing shortstop, has remarked that if his throw to home was off (instead of a laser-precise bullet), Dan wouldn't have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
• PJ2k7 (aka Dokken) said that the first paramedic to arrive thought he was responding to a "possible fracture" call. Evidently, the phrase "the bones are sticking out of his shin" didn't translate into a for-the-love-of-God-please-hurry-your-ass-up response call. He arrived at the field and meandered up to the scene where he quickly realized that he was unprepared. Think Brody in Jaws when he sees the shark and says, "We're going to need a bigger boat."
• Because they paramedics didn't think they were responding to a high priority call, they didn't bring a fully stocked ambulance. Danny keeps recalling the complete lack of any kind of pain medication until after he reached the hospital. His story about being in the ambulance as it drove off the field, evidently hitting every single bump possible, makes me wince.
• The surgeon described the approach of implanting the metal rods in Danny's legs. Noting, of course, that he would first thoroughly clean the bones to rid them of the dirt from the softball field. (?!?)
  

Luckily, the surgery was successful. The kid is at home recovering with his family, beginning his physical therapy and the road to recovery. I'm going to see him tomorrow and promise to get a photo of his mangled kicker.

Orgo-asm
I took a big Organic Chemistry test this week. I did my best to study my ass off for it. Honestly, it was a welcome distraction from all the health issues. As usual, it was tough.

One of the questions dealt with synthesizing a tri-substituted benzene ring. For my answer, I drew SpongeBob. In really big, block letters, I wrote his name under it. It was all done in crayon. I think I wrote the "S" backwards.

Right when I was finishing, my arm shattered, sending my bone and blood all over the desk.

Absorbent and yellow and porous is he.
(And able to synthesize benzene with glee.)

Stuck Between Stations

I'm roasting in Organic Chemistry hell. Big exam tomorrow and I'm trying to make the big push to be ready.

Tough week. My pal Danny broke his leg during a softball game. Actually, some ding-dong put his knee through Dan's shin while trying to score. Dan's tibia and fibula broke and burst through the skin in his leg. Later that night, he spent three hours in surgery having everything cleaned up and nice new metal rods inserted into the bones of his leg. Everything seems to be fine; he's recovering. More details later.

Life. It really throws some curveballs, huh?

Here's a video for a song from a band that really, really makes me happy. It's "Stuck Between Stations" from The Hold Steady.

Spring Break 2007

I’m wrapping up my spring break. Unlike me and J3K had planned, I’m not in Daytona. (The very idea of it didn’t fly well with the wife.) Anywho, I’m in Avon, Colorado and have been skiing Vail and Beaver Creek. The weather has been good but terribly warm. We’ve been catching the first lift and making first tracks on the mountain before all the idiot college spring breakers (myself excluded because I represent a classy women’s college) dust off their hangovers and get on the mountain.

Yesterday, I did a double black diamond. It was ridiculously steep. Honestly, it scared the hell out of me. On the trail map, it was only a single diamond but when we got there, it was a double black. Anywho, one for the record books.

By the way, here are two contrasting methods to get a free day of skiing:

My way:
Get off of the plane, drop off luggage in the condo office because it’s too early to check in. Change clothes in the bathroom, grab snowboard and head to slopes. Present boarding pass for flight that arrives as Vail/Eagle airport. Receive free lift ticket (a $70 value). Kick ass on slopes before anyone else arrives.

Yep, that's me owning the mountain (but not the photo).

My wife’s way:
Have a great day on slopes. Warm up on some green runs with an occasional blue. After a lunch break, hit another blue run. Unfortunately, catch ski in slushy mogul, twist knee while falling, strain MCL, and tear ACL. Receive refund from resort for purchased lift tickets.

Bones are OK; ligaments are hosed.

All told, I think my approach was a little easier.

Jedi Mind Tricks Would Help Me Erase This

Last week, I was in Physics lab, mapping magnetic field vectors. My lab partner left our workstation and walked over to another table full of women in our program. She started talking to one of our younger classmates. While continuing to work, I overheard her congratulate our classmate. The younger woman responded, “Thanks. We’re excited but we’ll probably wait until after I finish this program to really start making plans."

At this point, I didn’t want to be left out of congratulating her, so I shouted across the room: “Congratulations! So, when did it happen? How? Gimmie some details!”

As soon as the words left my mouth, any noise from the class ceased. I’m talking needle scratching the record, nothing but crickets sort of silence. Everyone silently stared at me.

My lab partner returned to the table and urgently whispered to me, “Do you know why I was congratulating her?”

“She didn’t get engaged?” (I think my voice cracked when I said this.)

“No. She just found out she’s pregnant.”

“She’s not engaged, huh?”

“Nope.”

At this point, I broke the silence by yelling: “On second thought, I don’t need any details at all. I don’t care about when or how it happened. Congratulations, though.”

I packed up my things and left with tons of eyes watching me.