just d and y

my favorite things

2012-02-05T23:59:00.000-06:00

long overdue: the contents of my "favorite things" package:

1. a Rifle Paper Co notebook.

2. tissues in my favorite colors, grey and yellow.

3. my favorite scent, by Lollia

4. pencils from my favorite Target collaboration, Missoni (although Jason Wu did not disappoint)

5. my favorite soap - rosemary and mint, made locally!

6. a favorite quote on a bookmark: you can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me. -- c.s. lewis

7. my favorite snack with tea: stroopwaffel

8. {not pictured} a mix CD with some of my favorite songs, old and new

"weekly" gratuitous ike

2012-02-02T22:04:00.002-06:00

Of all the songs we've penned about Ike ("don't cry for me Ikey-tina", "don't go chasing your tail") this one is the most likely to get stuck in my head. Forever.

life in passport pictures

2012-02-01T22:14:00.000-06:00

ballerina by day, world traveler by night

college student in need of better hair products and some sleep

ready for adventure; hair under control; accidentally dressed like a mime again.

Yesterday I took a new passport photo for our upcoming residencymoon [a term I just created] to Holland/Belgium. (aka, let's go on a vacation because chances are slim you'll get one anytime in the next EVER). The Rite Aid where I stopped informed me that their camera was broken, and wouldn't you know it -- I had managed to stop at the only drugstore in America where there isn't another drugstore across the street.

{two photos are are missing - thank goodness my high school passport is missing, I assure you that photo doesn't need to be shared. Although my 3-year-old passport was probably pretty cute. }

interview trail: north carolina

2012-01-31T22:14:00.000-06:00

Let's just get this out in the open: I let Ike sleep like a person when Y is gone. Under the covers, head on the pillow, the whole deal. Sometimes we spoon. Now you know.

We certainly have it better than Y, who had such a terrible experience at his hotel in North Carolina that he felt compelled to review it on Tripadvisor:

Welcome to the future, welcome to the Millenium

Looking for a memorable experience? Look no further! Relax and Allow the negligent and undermanned staff of the Millennium hotel transport you to that long forgotten mystical era that to which you have always wanted to return; the era of style, panache and wonder. The legendary era of the early 1980s! Enjoy the narrow, dim hallways lit only by small candelabra bulbs last seen in the waiting area of a Reagan era olive garden. Breathe in the lingering scent of tobacco still emanating from the dirty floral print carpet. Gaze, in wonder, at the latest in television technology that 1983 has to offer! Store your belongings in a sagging armoire and refresh yourself in a state-of-the-art rust covered shower complete with your own personal colony of tenia pedis. Prepare to be pampered with truck-stop quality toiletries and then wrapped the thinnest of towels. Sleepy? Feeling the need to perform a few bodily functions on your bed before retiring? No worries! The Millennium hotel has pre-stained your sheets for you, so you need not soil them yourself. It's the little extras that really make this hotel experience unique. Hungry? Thinking of ordering room service? Feel free to peruse the tattered and stained menus and brochures not replaced since Devo was topping the charts. In town, and feeling the need to check your new fangled "electronic mail?" The business center is outfitted with the most modern computers running Windows 98, which are unable to print boarding passes. Welcome to the Millennium!

Yes indeed, all these amenities and more can be yours at this hotel, which for reasons beyond current scientific understanding received a 3 star rating on Hotwire.

interview trail: midwest stop #5

2012-01-16T23:30:00.000-06:00

In the interest of vagueness, I'm not going to tell you anything about this city except that it has an arch.

While Y was at his interview, I stood in front of said arch, playing with my camera. A man, who was either a) homeless; b) drunk; or c) both stumbled up to me and asked where the library was.

I, obviously, had no idea.

This pissed him off. In retaliation he narrowed his eyes at me and said, "Okay, fine, how much for an hour?" and stalked off.

I hope he managed to find the library without traumatizing any more tourists.

weekly gratuitous ike: cutest injury ever?

2012-01-15T23:30:00.000-06:00

The vet tech looked guilty as she led Ike out to meet us. We had just returned from Boston, and were picking Ike up from being boarded in a 3 foot wide room for 6 days.

"He's bleeding," she said, "from the tip of his tail." She was worried we would be mad, and the explanation rushed out, choppy. "I guess his room wasn't big enough for his tail and sometimes it hit the wall."

The reunion was exciting, and we didn't follow. "What?" we managed to ask while being bombarded with licks.

The vet tech looked down at the ground, ashamed she had let us down. "He wagged his tail so much it started bleeding."

interview trail: Boston part 2

2012-01-13T13:03:00.002-06:00

A few random thoughts about Boston:

1. I was apparently on the flight from Memphis to Boston with the Small Bladder Convention. People were constantly going back and forth to the bathroom, and each time the door opened, the air recirculated and I got a huge whiff of weed. Naturally, since the smell was correlated to the bathroom door opening, I assumed someone was smoking weed in the bathroom. But then, as I pressed my forehead against the window to get a better view of Manhattan as we zoomed over it, the smell got stronger. I looked down and saw curly tendrils spilling into my personal space. This girl's weave REEKED of pot. She did manage to sleep the entire flight -- maybe I should rethink my pre-flight rituals?

2. Y got some good news about his clinical skills board exam while we were in Boston! I like to think I helped with that...

3. If we were basing our choice of city on desserts, I think the lobster tail from Modern Pastry would push Boston into first place.

4. But all of the Dunkin Donuts would be a disaster. Currently our motto is, "See a DD, inhale at least 2 donuts" because we never know when we'll see one again. If we move to Boston, that has got to stop.

5. While Y was at his interviews, I avoided shopping by going to museums.At the JFK library, I was reunited with my inner American History geek. I also learned the following: JFK played a lot of shirtless rugby before he was president, JFK looked good in wayfarers, Jackie had a lot of pretty dresses.

6. Can we discuss this portrait of Paul Revere at the Boston Museum of Fine Art? More specifically, can we discuss how Paul Revere looks EXACTLY like Jack Black? I stopped dead in my tracks when I walked into the gallery with this picture. I was sure I was on [the worst and most boring episode of] punk'd and Jack Black was going to step out of the shadows laughing at me. (By the way, the internet already knows about the Jack Black/Paul Revere resemblance -- and, naturally, is accusing Black of time travel.)

(Also, this is officially my second post about Paul Revere. I love American history and all, but I never thought my blog would cover Revere in such depth.)

(read the rest of my notes from the interview trail)

four eyes

2012-01-12T12:00:00.000-06:00

When I look at old pictures of anyone (but especially myself), the first and most embarrassing thing I notice are the glasses. Who is watching this person try on these glasses, I think, and giving them permission to appear in public?

When I look at pictures of my siblings in the 80s and 90s, their glasses are huge and terrible by today's standards, yet they elected to continue wearing them as their face was immortalized on film. This means at some point those glasses were considered attractive.

The purpose of this post is to give Future Me easy access to Current Me's glasses. Laugh all you want, Future Me, but believe it or not, these glasses were actually kind of the norm in 2012. And people actually told me I looked good in them. I know, right?

Interview Trail: Boston Part 1

2012-01-11T16:41:00.000-06:00

You probably don't need me to tell you this, but medical students -- at least the ones I know -- have know-it-all tendencies.

On a completely unrelated note, do you want to know the worst person you could probably travel with? A KNOW IT ALL.

Within 5 minutes of arriving at the airport, Y decided that his last few weeks of travel canceled out the fact that I had ever set foot on an airplane. He criticized:

the speed at which I removed my ID from my purse ("You need to have that out beforehand!")
the shoes I chose to wear on the plane ("Boots?! You've got to be f*king kidding me. You do know you have to take those off, right?")
my shoe removal technique ("You're not fast enough!")
the placement of my jacket on the security conveyor belt("You need a second bin for your coat. Everyone knows that.")
my failure to push the bin forward ("You can't just set it down! It has to be pushed. You're holding up the line!")
the pocket I chose to store my quart size bag of liquids ("You need to keep them closer to the front so they're easier to remove!")**

And once we were on the plane:

"That smell you're smelling is the beverage cart. It smells bad on 100% of flights."
"Dammit! I've already read this issue of Skymall. Twice."
"What?! Both of our flights are on Canadair Regional Jets? I myself prefer the Embraer or any of the Boeing jets."
"PSH! This turbulence is nothing."

And then... the seasoned air traveler discovered something he hadn't noticed before.

"Hey!"

"That speaker looks like a thyroid!!"

**In Y's defense, I may be exaggerating a teeny tiny bit. But I truly believe he would have said all of these things had I not given him a look of death after he tried to tell me which pocket to put my toiletries in.

my favorite books of 2011

2012-01-10T14:31:00.000-06:00

favorite book

The History of Love -- Nicole Krauss. I finished this book on January 1, 2011, and no other book came close.

favorite fiction

{other than The History of Love} Sarah's Key - Tatiana de Rosnay

favorite non-fiction

Devil in the White City - Erik Larson. It took me what felt like forever to read this book, but it was so worth it. I now have a strange fascination with World's Fairs and, if I had a time machine, I might choose to go to a World's Fair rather than save Kennedy or Lincoln or stop Hitler. Does that make me a bad person? Don't answer that.

favorite book about food

If I got hate mail, I would get hate mail for this choice: I read a Ruth Reichl book this year and, well, it wasn't my favorite book about food. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake had enough gorgeous descriptions of food for me to consider it a food book. Although the ending weirded me out, I loved the road that led up to it.

favorite "beach read"

The usual suspects, Emily Giffin and Lauren Weisberger, didn't hold a candle to Jennifer Close's Girls in White Dresses. Yes, the plot was non-existent and the characters kind of confusing, but I loved it because reading about these girls felt like a 300 page conversation with your best friends, complete with sarcastic one-liners and complete ridiculousness.

favorite audiobook

It's a toss up - The Help had a different actor reading each character. Bossypants and Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns) equated to 12 hours of basically hanging out with Tina Fey and Mindy Kaling. I guess The Help was harder to turn off since it had a plot with twists and turns and all that, but really - apples and oranges.

edited to add - My least favorite books of 2011? Probably Heart of the Matter, Palace of Illusions, and let us not forget my hatred of Black Heels to Tractor Wheels.

(Are you a total bookworm, too? Let's be friends on Goodreads!)

one year ago today...

2012-01-08T22:08:00.000-06:00

One year ago today Y was on his OB-GYN rotation and I learned a very important lesson that I made sure to document.

You see, the only experience I have with delivering babies is the magical, life-changing, Hollywood delivery room scene. Apparently real life is slightly different and involves enemas and ducking out of the way of flying bodily fluids and trying to convince patients not to name their child after an STD.

Pride & Prejudice

2012-01-06T11:00:00.000-06:00

In November, my book club read Pride and Prejudice. Having never read the book or seen the movie , Mr. Darcy had a LOT of hype to live up to.

(Especially Movie Mr. Darcy. I started watching the movie before I had finished reading the book, and I did NOT like movie Mr. Darcy. I had to stop. He was ruining Mental Image Mr. Darcy and that was not okay.)

Once I finished reading the book the morning of our book club meeting, I chose what I thought was my Pride and Prejudice-iest shirt and baked some scones.

My shirt was deemed P&P worthy because it had some ruffles. Good enough.

Book club that month was in Lauren's beautiful house.

I almost felt like we were in a British mansion in the 1800s listening to Elizabeth Bennet (aka Lauren) describe how Mr. Darcy (aka Justin) proposed. Congratulations, Lauren!

We started by attempting to read the front cover. It was difficult, as you can see.

Then someone asked, "Wait, which one was Elizabeth Bennett in the movie? Winona Ryder?" and we decided to talk about something else.

As for my opinion, I expected the old-fashioned language to bore me, as it used to when I read books for English class. I was pleasantly surprised, but I definitely don't think Mr. Darcy filled the ENORMOUS shoes that the world built for him. I was more impressed by Elizabeth Bennett, who was way ahead of her time. As far as the romance, the last half of the book, where Elizabeth kept hearing from others that Mr. Darcy loved her, made me smile - it reminded me of the fun feeling you get in high school when you hear a boy might like you. Or, in my case, when you're in college and your friend tells you a boy you like likes you and it turns out she was lying. (but by that point it doesn't matter because you're engaged to him.)

PS: This is how Y believes Pride and Prejudice must be read (and this is what Ike thinks of the book):

Interview trail: a brief break at home

2012-01-05T23:59:00.000-06:00

After his fifth trip -- at five days it was the longest so far -- the boy is finally home, in his own shower, his own bed. The next flight is in just two days, and a good night's sleep in his own bed is a must. He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, his stomach full from homemade chicken pot pie (and cramped from laughing at the girl's botched haircut).

The girl falls asleep soon after, but is woken in the middle of the night by the boy's tossing and turning. She opens an eye wearily as the boy rolls over, groans, and whispers in her ear.

"Are we in a hotel?"

weekly gratuitous ike: puppy love

2012-01-04T23:24:00.001-06:00

Interview trail: Tour de PA part 2

2012-01-03T21:52:00.000-06:00

This is the tragic tale of an exhausted medical student, on the tail end of 5 consecutive interview trips away from home. This time, he's in the faraway land of Pennsylvania.

----

The men stood up, pushing their chairs back as they shook hands, thanking each other briefly for their time. More thorough thank yous could wait; there was a plane to catch and a stack of blank thank you cards at home.

As soon as he was out of sight, he checked his watch. He had exactly two hours before his flight departed to deposit him across the state, where he would attend interviews at 2 more schools. There was no time to change out of his suit. Luckily, his flight time was less than an hour. He could handle being crammed onto an airplane in a suit for 45 minutes, especially when the entire plane would be looking at him thinking, "Wow, that guy must be important." He stood up a little taller.

After dashing next door to his hotel to grab his bag, he was in a shuttle on his way to the airport. 1 hour and 30 minutes left, he thought, am I going to make it on time? A notorious worrier, he always assumed he would miss his flights and had been known to arrive at the airport two hours before a domestic flight. He paused for a moment to think, Gosh, is my propensity to arrive at airports way too early annoying to my wife and other loved ones? He shook the thought out of his mind. Preposterous.

Just as his worrying was reaching its peak, he realized his shuttle was at a standstill. Traffic. He put his head against the window in defeat, taking in the dreary city around him just as it started to rain. To calm his nerves, he sent a message to his beautiful and hilarious wife. Stuck in traffic. Weather sucks.

She wrote back, So your flight's delayed?

He hadn't even thought of that. He checked his flight status; his flight was delayed an hour. With this new information, at this rate he would make it to the airport 2 hours before his 45 minute flight. His ideal scenario. He sat back to enjoy the stop and go shuttle ride.

And then, at the airport, sat back at his gate to enjoy the ~~1 2~~ 3 hour delay.

Finally, he was on the airplane -- his dinner plans ruined; his suit too wrinkled for anyone to believe he was of any importance. 45 minutes, he thought, exhausted, in 45 minutes I'll be there and on my way to my bed.

Meanwhile, at home his wife watched TV and refreshed his flight status when she remembered. When a red bar appeared, she gasped. Because what else does one do when they're checking to see if a plane made it safely and out of nowhere, a giant red bar that practically screams EMERGENCY! DANGER! pops up? Did no one think of this when they were designing the site? COME ON.

Sorry.

Anyway...

After circling Philadelphia in terrifying turbulence for over an hour, the plane finally landed, and the flight watched as the smelly, exhausted man in the wrinkled suit made his way off the plane. "Is he homeless?" they probably whispered to each other, "Do you think he stole that suit?"

He had only one thing on his mind: a bed. By the time they landed, it was almost midnight. He blocked the next 30 minutes out of his mind: the disgusting airport, the shuttle that never came. The next thing he remembered was standing in the lobby of his beautiful hotel as someone handed him keys, then standing in front of the door to his room, fumbling with the key and contemplating falling asleep on the carpet outside of the door if not for the sweet, sweet bed that awaited him inside.

He opened the door to his hotel room.

There was no bed.

this year

2012-01-02T16:41:00.001-06:00

I will never be one of those people who rolls their eyes at holidays. If you give me an excuse to celebrate, I will do it. (Exception: Sweetest Day. What is that?) When I hit the appropriate age, I will probably wear themed knit sweater vests with musical lightup pins. You have been warned.

My ideal New Year's Eve would be spent in a crowd of people, head to toe in sparkles, champagne in hand, crossing my fingers no one shoots a gun in the air. (Although this year spent sitting cross legged on the floor, top half clad in sparkles, champagne in hand, board game on table was not half bad.)

I like resolutions as much as I like sparkles and champagne. I like them so much I make them weekly. (buy eggs, sit up straight, go to the post office)

Every year I make a dramatic list of New Year's resolutions that will never come true because, as I said last year, for one second on New Year's day anything seems possible.

Too keep myself from being too discouraged when I look back, I throw in a few

achievable goals. Last year's included fill a journal, have a tea party, do more yoga. The fact that I accomplished all 3 of those makes up for the fact that I didn't learn two languages.

This year, nestled between write a novel for no particular reason and be on time every single day and never forget anything and always look naturally put together sits take beautiful (or close to it) pictures. I've had my dslr for over a year and I still haven't become fluent in manual. I want to figure it out before we travel abroad and move to our new city. Doable, no?

If you see me spending 20 minutes taking pictures of my funfetti fudge, you'll know why.

Happy 2012, friends! What are your highest of hopes resolutions?

Interview trail: tour de PA part 1

2011-12-29T00:00:00.000-06:00

You single people don't know how good you have it. While Y was on this trip -- Tuesday through Saturday--, I realized I could forgo taking a shower for four days straight and no one would notice. Another perk: leaving the house an absolute mess and cleaning up only just before someone came over. Why didn't you guys tell me about this stuff before I decided to go and get married?

The other great thing about Y leaving for a week is what I like to call Operation Summer Vacation. If you were like me in middle school and high school, you were nerdy, chubby, and, well, in great need of a makeover.

Every year as the final bell rang on the last day of school, you smiled to yourself and thought, This is it. This is the summer I will become hot. I'll work out everyday. I'll get a tan. I will read Seventeen magazine very carefully to build up a show-stopping wardrobe. When I come back, no one will recognize me.

If you were like me in middle school and high school, this never worked. You came back to school with a farmer's sunburn and some scary new moles, as chubby as ever and - if your parents really hated you - with braces.

Regardless, when Y left on Tuesday Operation Summer Vacation was in full swing. I got my eyebrows waxed (not like he's ever noticed that), worked out every day, and made an appointment to get a hairstyle that I knew Y would not only actually notice, but really love -- bangs.

I sat in the chair at the salon, an hour before Y returned, freshly showered for the first time in four days. My stylist spun me around to see my new bangs. "All done!" she beamed, "What do you think?"

I only had a nanosecond to look at myself before jumping up. "They're fine!" I blurted out, ripping off my cape, throwing money at her, and running to my car. The thing was, all I saw was that they were closer to my hairline than my eyebrows. And that was all I needed to see -- they were too short and anything she tried to do to fix them would just make them shorter. She needed to stop touching them immediately.

It's just hair, I told myself. Surely it will look better in the car mirror, right? They couldn't possibly be as short as they looked in the salon... right? And even if they are, maybe I can pull off short bangs. I was feeling pretty good about myself by the time I got to my car and opened the mirror.

The good news: it turns out only one side was too short.

Operation Summer Vacation had failed again. When Y walked in the door the first thing he said was "your hair looks weird" followed by stifled laughter and a week of jokes at my expense.

Just like middle school.

lonely Jews on Christmas /giveaway winner

2011-12-28T15:24:00.001-06:00

Y's family was once interviewed by the paper to answer the timeless question: what do Jews do on Christmas? Since the paper thought an entire city might want the answer to that mystery, I thought I'd shed some light on the topic for my readers.

Spoiler alert: have you ever been hanging out on a Sunday, bored out of your mind, whining about about how there's nothing to do except go to the movies? That's Christmas.

Except this year, it was dark and rainy outside and I was glad not to have an excuse to put down my book and get out of my sparkly pajamas. This and catching up on How I Met Your Mother took up approximately 90% of the day. The other 10% was spent inserting Ike's name to the tune of the How I Met Your Mother theme song.

At sundown we lit our menorah because we were jealous of all the people celebrating. And because it was the 6th night of Chanukah.

"Classic" Jewish Christmas dinner: Chinese food. (I'm now realizing that putting the dog in the collage may have been a poor choice.) We purposely ate this because everyone expects Jews to eat Chinese on Christmas and we think it's funny to indulge fantasy stereotypes. I can't speak for everyone, but I think the tradition has reached the point of only being observed to be ironic -- clearly we could have made something non-Chinese, but what would be the fun in that? In the spirit of being completely lazy, we put towels on the bed and ate there while watching Limitless. Ike was obviously invited.

(PS: [non-authentic] Chinese food recipe (it's Y's favorite dinner) + a blog post from the Smithsonian about Jews/Chinese food)

And for dessert? My favorite cold weather treat: peppermint white hot chocolate.

To recap: reading, soy sauce, Bradley Cooper, warm indulgent drinks. Just your average Sunday.

-------

Congrats to MB for winning a few of my favorite things! I'll be sure to share what they were as soon as I know MB received the package - I wish I could send all of you presents :)

a surprise giveaway!

2011-12-20T13:07:00.006-06:00

I've mentioned before how much I love giving gifts (however late they may be), and now I want to give one of my readers a little gift. I know I sometimes go weeks without posts or take an insanely long time to respond to your comments, but it makes me so happy that you've stuck around to read and that perhaps something I said made you smile or nod your head in agreement.

One thing I've had to explain a lot in my lifetime is that during Chanukah -- if my family is feeling generous and ambitious and I happen to be under the age of 10-- I receive one present per night for eight. whole. nights. According to the kids I knew growing up, this almost made up for not having a Christmas tree. In that spirit, I've put together a surprise package of eight of my favorite things - a little Chanukah experience for one of you.

(Although, in typical D fashion, I'm late and you won't get to open one every night. But, you CAN celebrate Accelerated Chanukah, which my dad made up for those busy holiday seasons when we went out of town during Chanukah. Basically it consists of opening up eight presents in one night. It doesn't suck.)

All you need to do is be a follower and leave a comment on this post. I'll pick a winner Tuesday night (the last night of Chanukah)!

For a bonus entry, leave a comment on this post telling Y how hilarious he is. But don't tell him I told you to do it. Wink, wink.

PS. I'm pretty sure I deserve some kind of prize for managing to spell Chanukah the exact same way five whole times throughout this post.

(not that my modest existence on the internet should make you feel like I would be compensated for doing this, but I thought you should know that I'm not being compensated. Just a mild case of holiday spirit.)

(Also, fair warning, the gifts are kind of girly, so don't get too excited if you happen to be male.)

notes from the interview trail: Midwest Stop #4 (part b)

2011-12-19T23:47:00.001-06:00

A few things I've learned:

When a guy's nearest and dearest friends and family take the time to send a wedding gift on his behalf, he is helpless to write a thank you note. "But... but what do I say?" he asks. "Say thank you for the thing they got you," you say helpfully. The notes pile up on his desk and eventually some are even forgotten about. However, when there's a job on the line? Thank you note writing becomes an art and the most important thing he can possibly do. "They wrote me a thank you note for my thank you note!" he says, "Should I write them a thank you note for their thank you note for my thank you note?"

It might seem exciting to travel around the country, run through airports, eat free meals, and explore new cities' public transportation options. You might even be jealous. But don't be fooled. I was, until I heard the phrase "soul-crushing loneliness" from a Microtel in Michigan.

When you're home alone and you wake up in the morning to find your couch smeared with blood, save yourself a heart attack and don't automatically assume someone broke in, tried to kill something, freaked out at the sight of blood, and left. It might sound ridiculous, but I was home alone and saw blood -- wouldn't your first thought be murderer?? Luckily,it turns out my queasy murderer was just my dog, who decided to bury a pack of gum in the couch with his nose. He did so with such intensity that he rubbed his nose raw and streaked our tan couch with smears of blood that would have left Dexter Morgan scratching his head.

Interview trail: Midwest stop #4

2011-12-16T10:30:00.000-06:00

interview trail: midwest stop #3

2011-12-15T10:30:00.000-06:00

While Y was on interview #3, some kind of rodent took up residence in our walls. Of course it decided the best time for its stay would be when I was home alone, extra sensitive to every little noise. Every time I thought I was falling asleep, I would hear a taptaptap behind my head and before I knew it, Ike would be standing on my chest barking. Not cool, unidentified rodent.

But the incident reminded me of a story: when Y and I lived in a crappy old apartment at LSU, something lived in our ceiling. We heard it running around occasionally, mainly when it got cold. Our apartment was an upgrade for Y; he had lived in a ramshackle quadplex where a dead mouse was a weekly occurrence.

Our apartment was a downgrade for me: my friend and I lived in a fairly new townhouse with a new washer and dryer and a bowling alley. Okay, it was a long narrow closet, but we called it the bowling alley. My point is, there were no rodents.

Anyway, one morning at the new apartment, Y and woke up and heard scratching coming from the ceiling. "Ugh, it's that mouse again," I groaned, rolling over and falling back asleep. When I eventually got out of bed, I stepped on something grainy with my bare feet. I squinted at the neat little pile on the ground. Paint chips? I thought to myself. How did those get...

I happened to look up. And scream, because this is basically what I saw on my ceiling:

I don't mind squirrels, honestly. Just when they're sticking their head through my ceiling.

And that's what kept me up until 1 am while Y was at interview #3. Fear of a squirrel.

---

Y's pre-interview dinners were sometimes during my environmental health class. So two weeks in a row, while I suffered through three hour lectures on lead poisoning and occupational health, Y texted me pictures of the amazing gratis meals he was eating.

Do you have any idea how good blurry pub food sounds when you're learning about reproductive issues in factory workers in Korea? Really good.

interview trail: midwest stop #2

2011-12-14T10:30:00.000-06:00

Y is a different sort of traveler than I am. I'm the kind of airplane passenger who puts my headphones on or buries my nose in a book immediately after sitting down. I don't care where you're from, 16A, I don't care where you're going, and I don't want to tell you what I'm reading. Unless you have a baby. If you have a baby, I want to hold it and then give it back to you as soon as it starts crying so no one thinks I am that person with a crying baby on a plane.

Y, on the other hand, comes home with a person's first and last name, where they went to elementary school, and the latest argument they had with their wife. During layovers, he dines in airport bars with plane-friends. On this trip, someone from Y's flight was staying at his hotel and they went out to lunch. I DON'T GET IT.

-----

When Y told me he got this interview, I gave him the so-called stinkface, a term coined by Katie. I had never even considered visiting this particular state or city, much less living there. But then the following things happened:

the city's standard Wikipedia page made it sound amazing.
every single person I mentioned it to told me I would love it.
part of our criteria for ranking is Ike's reaction when we say the name of the state.* When I asked Ike if he wanted to live there he did this:

My point is, don't completely write off a place just because you wouldn't go there for a girls' weekend.

----

A theme of Y's interview travels: call people you haven't spoken to in 3 and a half years and ask to stay with them when you visit their respective cities. You get a free night and get to catch up with an old friend. And they get an unexpected houseguest who smells vaguely like a hospital. Win win.

*kidding. Isn't it sad that I had to clarify that?

Notes from the interview trail: Midwest stop 1

2011-12-13T10:30:00.000-06:00

I don't want to hurt Y's feelings, but being alone for a few days was kind of nice. I watched two seasons of The Wonder Years, and as Kevin and Winnie fell in and out of love I realized something: I can make ravioli.

Every week at the grocery store I pass by the refrigerated pre-made ravioli and tortellini and suppress my drooling. Y has made it clear that he hates any kind of filled pasta, and his disgust of it managed to convince me that I didn't like it either. But as soon as he left town, I knew I had to have some.

As I boiled the water, I thought to myself that Y being out of town really wasn't that bad if I got to eat my sodium-laden portobello ravioli whenever I wanted. As I was eating, savoring every bite, I got a text message. From Y.

Just had the most amazing portobello ravioli at dinner.

---

When Y got back, I had plenty of questions for him. Did you bring me anything? How was your flight? Wait, you didn't bring me anything? Not even a [insert name of chocolate peanut butter delicacy unique to state Y was in]*? What kinds of questions did they ask you?

Apparently that last question was a stupid one. A residency interview isn't your typical job interview -- for the most part there are no questions. Here's how it goes: the department takes the applicants out to dinner (and apparently reverses everything the applicant thought he knew about his favorite foods) and the next morning, they sit in on the conference typically held each morning. Then, they have individual interviews -- which are more like "getting to know you" sessions, with maybe one important question - What about internal medicine appeals to you?

That sounds nothing like the practice interviews the career services department offered the School of Mass Communication. Becoming a doctor sounds so easy! Let's all do it!

---

*Fine, he was in Ohio.

residency interviews

2011-12-12T22:46:00.000-06:00

For the past few months, fourth year medical students have been flying around the country interviewing for residency spots. This time is affectionately known by Y and his friends as interview season, which sounds to me as if they're out in the wild hunting interviews. Which I guess they are.

Since the season is over for now (and Y has figuratively killed about 10 interviews), over the next few days I'll be sharing some of the notes from the interview trail from my perspective. Locations will be vague, as I don't want to screw anything up.

Anything specific that anyone wants to know about interviewing (out of curiosity or for future reference)?

weekly gratuitous ike: kong

2011-12-11T23:55:00.000-06:00

Every morning when I leave for work, I do the basic things one does when leaving the house: turning off all the lights, closing all the doors, grabbing my keys, and singing Sisqo to my dog.

"Ike," I say, "Bring me your kong-ka-kong-kong kong." Which begins a 5 minute long routine in which I dance around the house stuffing treats into the kong. I'm pretty sure this is a perfectly legitimate reason to be late for work every morning.

(By the way, if you don't have a dog and you're jealous of my excuse to bust out The Thong Song, this also works with tongs. As in, "Hey Y, please hand me the tong-ta-tong-tong tongs.")

The real point of this post (not that Sisqo isn't a great topic of conversation) is that I'm curious how your dog eventually removes his treats from his Kong. Call me a nerd, but I think it's fascinating to watch dogs solve problems.

If you're not familiar with the Kong, it's a heavy duty dog toy with a space in the middle that you can wedge a treat into. It's supposed to keep your dog busy.

Ike used to drop his Kong on the floor until the treat was dislodged and slipped out. But he's figured out recently, genius that he is, that he can bite down as hard as he can on the Kong until the treat breaks and crumbles out.

They don't call him Scholarly Ike for nothing.

What about your dogs? What's their strategy?

keeping gift giving interesting

2011-12-09T23:59:00.000-06:00

I love giving gifts. I love sitting down and thinking about what the recipient loves and coming up with a special twist on it that they would never expect or would never buy for themselves. I love wrapping it up in a pretty package and watching the person's face as they open their gift, or getting a phone call that says I've made their day. The thought of asking someone what they want and giving it to them verbatim has never crossed my mind.

This year for Y's birthday, I got lazy. Or overwhelmed. It was a week before his birthday and I was struggling; I knew he was into watches and ties but I was sure I would misjudge his taste and get something completely wrong. I did the only appropriate thing: I procrastinated.

Then he said, "I think I should start wearing cologne."

And I pounced. "I'll buy it for you for your birthday!"

I couldn't believe I said that. It was so anti-my preferred method of gift giving.

But the truth is, when you're hopefully going to give someone approximately 180 big gifts in their lifetime, things are bound to get boring. (That's birthday, holiday, and anniversary presents for 60 years.) I couldn't let it happen. At least not on gift 7/180 of our marriage.

A few days before Y's birthday, we went on a little "date" to Ulta and Sephora (they're in the same shopping center -- drama!), where we gathered a big stack of tester strips and trudged through the cologne aisle, from Armani to YSL, testing each scent and giving it a yea or nay.

After we weeded out the bottom half, we narrowed it down to our top three -- and I got to make the final decision. A final decision that I would purchase the next day and which was not to be revealed until his birthday.

Then I tried to buy some nail polish and spent 15 minutes trying to decide what color to buy before giving up in exasperation, convinced I was going to pick the wrong shade.

That purple would be great for a football game, but would you ever wear it to work? ... White? Really? That's going to look like you got bored with Wite-Out.... Gold sparkles? What are you, 12? They are really cute though...

I'm pathetic. Is anyone else so picky about nail polish?

Anyway. The moral of the story is that on his birthday, Y still got to unwrap a surprise.

And I didn't feel quite as bad about my mundane gift.

Indiana is for lovers

2011-12-03T22:48:00.001-06:00

Facebook, I'm offended.

I'm offended that you think I would honeymoon in Indiana.

The Winklevoss twins would never have made such assumptions.

thanks

2011-12-02T23:14:00.001-06:00

My blog was pretty silent over the Thanksgiving holiday, and there are two reasons for this.

exhibit a: the ritual 4 day long face stuffage

exhibit b: the ritual cramming to finish a book for book club, in this case, Pride and Prejudice.

Which brings me to the 2 things I'm thankful for: Thanksgiving food (which is my go-to answer for the "last meal" question) and the fact that modern society affords us more hobby options than walking in circles around a room.

Jaws have been known to drop when I reveal the number of people present at our Thanksgiving meal: 65. Everyone brings something amazing (my family happens to be really proficient at Jello molds. I never even think about Jello every other day of the year, but on Thanksgiving it's usually my favorite part). The meal is served buffet style, and people eat at tables set up throughout the house. Afterward, there's a big family softball game.

The holiday serves as a family reunion for my dad's side. His grandfather, who came through Ellis Island from Hungary, had 5 children, 10 grandchildren, 17 great-grandchildren, 28 great-great-grandchildren, and so far I think 5 great-great-great-grandchildren. 4 generations are usually represented at the holiday. This year, there was a family tree set up, and people were constantly stopping by to figure out how exactly they were related to one another.

It's still confusing to me. People were suggesting name tags for next year, but I'm envisioning an interactive app, where I can scan the person and find out how they're related to me. Because chances are, I will have just finished eating 4 times my body weight and won't want to think.

My family's Thanksgiving is fascinating to people like Y, who has a whopping 4 relatives in the U.S., and not too many more abroad.

It is also fascinating to people like Ike, who cannot comprehend why humans had to complicate the art of throwing and retrieving a ball.

fashion, or lack thereof

2011-12-01T23:37:00.000-06:00

On occasion I work with a colleague named L. The first time I met L he told me my outfit was very "Anne Hathaway". I knew we'd get along.

L lightens the mood around our office when he's in town, rearranging office furniture and picture frames, reminding everyone of important facts like Madonna's daughter's name (Lourdes, duh), making me mix cds featuring "Rock DJ" and "Suddenly I See".

He recently made an appearance at my office door, saw me, and nodded approvingly. "CUTE!" he declared. I held my breath. I was wearing an outfit I had been itching to recreate after seeing it on Matchbook's Tumblr, and was anxious to find out if it would receive the coveted "Anne Hathaway" designation.

L took in the ensemble, a look of approval still on his face. "Is that a skirt or an apron?" he asked.

I squinted my eyes at him from across my office. We were surrounded by computers and filing cabinets, not an oven or sink in sight. "An apron?"

He shrugged. "It kind of looks like an apron. It's not one?"

"You thought I got out of bed and decided to wear an apron to work today?"

"Bu-"

"You complimented my outfit even though you thought it might be an apron?"

He was confused by my confusion. I let it go.

Moral of the story: if worse comes to worst and you need to wear an apron to work, I will look at you funny and ask you about your apron in such a way that it needs to be italicized.

weekly gratuitous ike: really really ridiculously good looking

2011-11-20T22:48:00.000-06:00

There's something you need to know about Ike.

Every night when we get into bed, Ike sits patiently on the floor to our left. He's figured out that as soon as we unfold the comforter -- the barrier Ike sleeps on so we can keep his hair from getting all over us -- he's allowed to get onto the bed.

When the comforter unfolds, his ears perk up. He knows that's his cue.

And this is where it gets tragic.

He doesn't get on the bed right away. Because Ike is not an ambi-jumper.

It's a problem he's had since he was a baby. He can't jump onto the bed from the left side.

So when he gets the signal to get on the bed, he has to run to the right side of the bed to jump up. He leaps up victoriously, turns around in a circle a few times, and settles in for the night at our feet.

I know what you're thinking - it's surprising that a seemingly perfect animal has such a remarkable flaw. We're clearly heartbroken over here. Won't you make a donation to the Center for Puppies Who Can't Jump Good?

P.S. If you really get me (you can read minds?) you knew this was coming:

blink

2011-11-19T14:06:00.001-06:00

I took this picture in July. Summer threatened to last forever -- stopping to snap this picture probably left me sweating and exhausted -- and the flash of purple and yellow, our team's colors, made me long for everything that comes with LSU football: crisp air, dragging our down comforter out from storage, scarves.

I took this picture yesterday. Our football team is 10-0, the regular season is almost over, and Thanksgiving is close enough to touch. That top picture and the longing for the suffocating summer to end feel like yesterday.

And that's a little scary.

{the soundtrack to this post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJBhdKrwTOc}

filling in some blanks

2011-11-17T21:51:00.001-06:00

1. A nervous habit I have is twirling my hair. Really, could I have picked a ditzier habit? Also, not that this is exactly a habit, but sweating. So if I'm ever really sweaty and acting particularly airheaded, you know why.

2. Something that makes me sad is the circus.

3. Today I am thankful for glittery fuzzy slippers, peanut butter, a particularly goofy husband, leaves that change colors, and the word particularly.

4. My favorite room in my house is the bedroom - it manages to stay clean when the rest of the house isn't, has the best light, and stays the coolest.

5. I can't stand the music that plays on the closing credits of tv shows. It's usually a [in my opinion] creepy version of the theme song. I distinctly remember, as a kid, covering my ears and making a lot of noise so I wouldn't have to hear the closing credits to Sesame Street. I have the same sentiment toward music that plays over and over again on DVDs. I have no clue where on earth this hatred came from.

6. If I had an extra $100 to spend on whatever I wanted today I would pay to have a professional pet hair remover come to our house. It's 30 degrees outside, Ike. WHY are you still shedding?

7. The last person I hung out with was my friend Laura. She rented the Kiera Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice so we would be prepared for our next book club in case time ran out. I tried SO hard to cheat on Pride and Prejudice the book with Pride and Prejudice the movie, but I felt guilty 30 minutes into the movie and had to stop. I much prefer being wooed by fictional characters through reading than through watching. If that makes me a nerd, so be it.

flattered

2011-11-15T14:25:00.001-06:00

The girl arrives at work in her frumpiest outfit, rushed and sweaty after yoga class, no makeup. Who’s going to see her anyway, she thinks.

Later, exhausted and self-conscious, she buys a cup of tea at the cafe. She stands in line behind a handsome doctor. He glances behind him and says, “...and I’ll pay for whatever she’s having.”

The girl thinks she must look (and smell) even worse than she thought; the doctor must have felt sorry for her. "Thanks," she says, embarrassed. She walks off quickly, head down and back slumped, undoing whatever benefits the yoga class had on her posture.

As she stirs skim milk into her hot tea, she is struck with a thought: Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to buy me a drink.

And then, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in a window and gets angry.

Who does this asshole think he is? Just because he has a white coat and a chiseled jaw, he thinks he can make some frumpy girl's day? No way. I will not allow myself to be flattered by this. I don't need some handsome doctor to make me feel special.

A few hours later, she tells the boy, her own handsome [almost] doctor, the story.

He listens then nods, understanding.

"You do kind of look like crap."

{because it's more fun to tell your "love story" in the third person}

fall decorations for under 5 dollars

2011-11-15T08:22:00.000-06:00

I'm not a big seasonal decorator, but this year three unexpected things happened that added up to some easy fall decorating.

1. GIANT ACORNS!

You guys. The acorns this year are on steroids. At least, the ones falling off one tree on my street and one tree on my dad's street. I tried to pick some up without looking like a total weirdo -- which is a lot harder than it sounds. I think I managed to grab a few handfuls without being noticed and stuck them into some empty Starbucks Frapuccino bottles. Insta-fall!

2. I followed through with a thought I had last year.

That would be saving all of the thank-you cards I received. Can you think of a more appropriate Thanksgiving decoration that you already have on hand? (Note: cornucopias don't count. Don't lie, you do NOT have a cornucopia on hand.)

I'm proud of this one for two reasons. A) Spending more than five seconds on an idea is not something that comes naturally to me, much less waiting a year to implement it. B) I think I came up with this all by myself - not from a blog, not from Martha, not from Pinterest. My own head. That rarely happens anymore, right?

P.S. Do you love our pomegranate dish as much as I do? It was a wedding gift, and the pomegranates are from our neighbor's tree.

3. Y bought me flowers.

Y is not the type to buy things like flowers. But one day he unexpectedly came home with the perfect fall-hued flowers that promptly replaced my dying basil plant on the windowsill. (The French Lavender, however, is still going strong.)

weekly gratuitous ike: reflection

2011-11-13T17:56:00.000-06:00

On Halloween, I dressed Ike in his costume before we went on our walk. His costume was... a dog in a hat.

This was the hat - photo taken New Year's Eve.

Then I giggled for the duration of the walk. I'm sure we were quite the sight, a girl in hysterics and a dog in a fancy hat.

Once I was done giggling, I started to feel bad for poor Ike. I believe that those 10 minutes spent wearing a hat in public traumatized him and forced him to re-evaluate his life.

So I made a video about it.

Click here to watch it on Facebook, or here to watch on Youtube - I hope it makes you smile.

some saturday advice

2011-11-12T14:42:00.004-06:00

This is why you don't nap while the news is on:

P.S. I think this is great: http://proudtobeapennstater.com/

just call me mrs. hemingway

2011-11-08T18:46:00.001-06:00

The Paris Wife is told from the point of view of Ernest Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley. The book is a work of fiction, but it uses biographies and Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast to accurately follow the lovers as they meet, fall in love, and live in Paris. Eventually their marriage falls apart (because someone whose name rhymes with Shmernest Shmemingway is a man-whore). The book is a dreamy inside look at the lives of Hemingway and other movers and shakers of the literary world during that time -- if you’ve seen and loved Midnight in Paris, you’ll love this book.

Hadley’s world could not be more different than mine. Y and I don’t often run off on impromptu trips to ski or watch the running of the bulls, and while Y’s in med school I’m surrounded by minds of the left-brained variety, while Hadley finds herself surrounded by larger than life creative minds.

But I felt like I got her a lot of the time.

Hadley and Ernest attended get togethers at Gertrude Stein’s home with other artists and their wives. Hadley and the other wives, nothing linking them except their significant others, were sent off to another room while the artists discussed their craft.

“I felt a twinge of regret that I wasn’t a writer or painter, someone special enough to be invited to talk with Gertrude, to sit near her in front of the fire.”

I had this exact same feeling Y’s first year of med school. Y and his new friends would organically migrate to their own separate cluster at get togethers, speaking their secret med school language.

“I wasn’t at all convinced I was special, as Ernest was. He lived inside the creative sphere and I lived outside, and I didn’t know if anything would ever change that.”

The other wives and I would talk about... them. We had nothing in common, so we talked in circles about our husbands, their classes, how busy they were. It was boring, and at times I wished I was in med school so I could belong to something and have original, important things to talk about.

“Alice seemed to feel easier in her role as an artist’s wife, throwing herself wholly behind Gertrude’s ambition... but maybe she’d just been doing it longer and could hide her jealousy better. “

I’ve since gotten over it. Or maybe, like Gertrude Stein's partner Alice, I've gotten better at hiding it.

But isn't that the funny thing about books, that it took reading about the Hemingways’ life in Paris to explain to me how I felt?

What about you guys? Anyone else felt this way?

insta-weekend

2011-11-07T23:22:00.003-06:00

This weekend we bought some art to remember the city at a local craft fair.

Booked a trip to Holland (and then bought a bag of stroopwaffel to celebrate)!

Watched our team win, complete with heaping piles of Louisiana food.

Made homemade pop tarts, which are my new favorite thing in the whole world. (edited to add the recipe I used: http://smittenkitchen.com/2010/04/homemade-pop-tarts/)

And attended a 5 course underground dinner complete with a very generously poured 5 course wine flight.

{Which should explain why I have nothing but pictures today.}

second city

2011-11-04T11:50:00.003-05:00

Chicago, 2008

I've been thinking with some dread about applying for jobs when we move next year. As a true procrastinator, I realize how much of a pain it's going to be to update my resume, yet I make no move to start. In fact, every time I think about it, my mind wanders.

What if I can't find a job? What if even Starbucks isn't hiring? Or Ihop? Mmm, waffles. Leslie Knope likes waffles. Amy Poehler has a great job. I wonder what her resume looks like. I wonder if I could put the time I performed at the Second City Theater in Chicago on my resume?

When Y and I took our month long road trip in 2008, Chicago was the second-to-last stop, after Washington, D.C., New York City, Philadelphia, and several more places I can't list because it's exhausting me just to type them all out. What were we thinking?

In a money-saving strategy, we stayed at an airport hotel. On our one day in Chicago, we woke up at the crack of dawn and took the hotel shuttle to O'hare, where we caught the El into the city and proceeded to walk around for, oh, TEN HOURS. The only time we sat down was to a) shove pizza into our faces and b) ride a tandem along Lake Michigan.

At the end of our ten hour stroll, we sat down in our front row seats for an improv performance at The Second City Theater.

You guys, the show was hilarious. Probably one of my favorite things I've ever done on vacation. It's been 3 and a half years and we still reference the performance. If you ever hear us talking about smegma flavored jellybeans, that's what we're talking about.

But there's one skit we don't talk about.

In this skit, a female castmember needed an audience member for an improv mime performance. Her face covered in mime makeup, she reached down into the audience and pulled me onstage. I had no choice.

She began miming that the two of us were on a date, and I was supposed to mime with her, reacting.

Here was the problem: there is a reason why there is no such thing as micro-miming.

When you're up close to someone who's miming, and a bright light is shining in your face, you can't tell what the hell they're doing. The movements look random and they don't make any sense.

From my point of view, I was standing next to someone in makeup having a long, weird seizure.

From the audience's point of view, I must have looked like a puppy, cocking my head in confusion as the mime CLEARLY opened a car door for me and pushed me inside and CLEARLY strapped a seat belt on me and CLEARLY gave me a flower and looked out in the audience like "Why am I going on a date with a total idiot?"

I literally stood on the stage motionless for three minutes. For the audience, it must have been like how I feel when watching Michael Scott make a complete fool out of himself: like the agony is so awful I want to remove my eyeballs from my head so I don't have to witness it.

I can't remember if people laughed. The only thing I remember clearly is Y's face, as compassionate as I've ever seen it, looking like he wanted to pluck me offstage and carry me out of the theater.

It was bad. So bad that the people behind me said, "At least you were wearing a cute dress up there." So bad that the actor who played the mime came up to me at intermission and asked if I was okay.

Somehow, I don't think Amy Poehler has anything like that on her resume. Back to square one. Waffles.

dandy faq

2011-11-03T00:00:00.000-05:00

This week's writing prompt from Mama's Losing It challenged us to create our own FAQ. Mine are legit - I have been asked all of these questions at least twice; some, I've lost track of the number.

Wait... what's your name again?

My theory is that the amount of time I spend explaining my name accounts for why I'm late so often. My name is Esther, and my nickname is derived from Queen Esther (from the book of Esther)'s Hebrew name. Sometimes I just give up and go by Amy.

So what you're telling me is, you've never had a Christmas tree?

Nope. I was asked this a lot as a kid. When you're 8, not having a Christmas tree is pretty much a fate worse than death.

Didn't you used to be heavy?

Yes, I actually have been asked this verbatim by a well-meaning great-uncle. He was just being honest. (PS: Oooh...would we call her chubby?)

Is your dog a boy dog or a girl dog?

I walk Ike past some pretty forgetful kids every day. He's a boy dog, children, but he'll forgive you if you call him beautiful.

You know it's cold up there, right?

This is a recent question. I'm asked this each time someone asks me where we'll be moving next year, and I say "probably somewhere up north." I watch Al Roker, people. I know what's going on.

Can I have the TV to watch Battlestar Galactica?

This question is also pretty recent. Netflix Instant is turning my husband into a nerd.

How are you liking that Prius?

When I started driving the Prius in 2004, I was a celebrity. People asked me to roll down my windows at stoplights so they could pick my brain about the car. Strangers crossed vast mall parking lots to ask me about my gas mileage. Since then, the attention has died down, but I still get questions every other month or so. Most recently, someone saw me park at the grocery store and then found me in the milk aisle with questions.

Are those Toms? Where did you get them?

I have never gotten as much attention for any piece of clothing as I have for my Toms wedges. One time a librarian raised her voice in the library to get my attention and tell me how much she loved my shoes. But my favorite encounter was in Phoenix, where a fashion-forward Phoenix woman asked me if I had bought them at Nordstrom. "Are you joking, lady?" I wanted to say, "I don't think there's a Nordstrom in my entire state."

the worst of pinterest

2011-11-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

Somehow, I was a member of Pinterest when it was in beta. For months, no one I knew in real life had heard of the site, and the name of it existed only in my head.

It was just a few months ago (at lunch with Lauren and Sarah) that I said the word "Pinterest" out loud. It's strange saying a word you've never said before, right? It's kind of like this scene from the movie Garden State. Kind of.

Since then, I've grown comfortable placing the p in front of interest in everyday conversation. And I've found it's much more fun to discuss the worst pins than the best ones. Here are three pins that just keep popping up that I wish wouldn't:

This makes me queasy and confused. As far as its plausibility, I consulted an expert who said, "Uhhh, no." And by that I mean I showed it to Y.

WHY has this picture been pinned approximately 1 million times? WHY on Earth would you do this? As my friend T said, "I have nightmares about this picture."

I consulted my expert on this picture too, and I might have to fire him because he said, and I quote, "That. Is. AWESOME."

This picture is on every "places I'd like to visit" board and is listed as being in Dublin, Ireland. This one I understand. I'd like to visit Photoshop Castle too, but it's just not in my budget right now.

Tell me, what pins are you tired of seeing? Have you tried the hot dog spaghetti abomination? If so, WHY? I want to hear from someone in the pro-spaghetti-hotdog camp.

{PS, the rock formation [not the building on top of it] in the last picture is real - according to Wikipedia it's called Ko Tapu and it's off the coast of Thailand. Which is kind of like Ireland.}

his & hers 2: notes

2011-11-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

While Y and I are both in graduate/professional school, our programs are drastically different. He needs to remain competitive; I can slack off if I want. His classes require a level of brain power I could never hope to achieve; mine... don't. My classes are in English, his technically are as well, but it's debatable. For example, paraphimosis? That word does not exist in any language I learned.

I think our notes reflect the differences in our graduate education:

Y's notes on who-knows-what:

We have notebooks full of pages and pages of this stuff - and not even one margin of my name with a heart around it. I'm offended.

My notes, after a particularly thrilling International Health lecture on the deadly threat of guinea worms, which have to be pulled out of their host's leg. Gross, right?

One of us is going to go far in life.

By the way, when I posted my first "his & hers" post, I thought I had come up with this great new blog concept. But alas, as with pretty much everything in life, it had been done - very well, might I add - by the adorable blog Hooray (and probably countless others). You gotta admit though, you probably won't find another "his & hers" post containing the words "boggy waterlogged sponge consistency of prostate".

And with that, I'm unique again.

lost

2011-10-30T23:05:00.002-05:00

I've decided to apply for non-profit status.

The amount of time I spend scooping up lost dogs I find on the side of the road could be considered a part-time job. In the past 2 weeks, I've helped return 6 dogs to their owners. I've been late to work twice and missed one appointment. But I can't not stop and pick up a dog that's wandering in and out of traffic, who obviously belongs to someone. It just comes with the territory of being a crazy dog lady.

All of this dog-rescuing, besides being kind of a pain in the ass, has me thinking about what I would do if Ike got lost. When he somehow escaped through our fence (aka teleported) last year, I wondered why we didn't just keep a stack of pre-made "missing" posters.

So today I made some. Because I'm a paranoid, crazy dog lady with too much time on my hands, I have missing dogs on the brain, and I don't think this would be a bad idea for all pet owners to do.

(Also because I wanted to remind you that my dog has a heart on his back.)

PS, My neighborhood also specializes in lost babies. That story never gets old.

I'll miss you... Baton Rouge

2011-10-28T12:36:00.003-05:00

When I drive over the bridge heading east into Baton Rouge at night, the lights of hundreds of far-off, tiny skyscrapers greet me. For a split second I squint and pretend I'm entering New York City or Tokyo.

photo via cricketdiane

Then I crest the bridge and realize I'm staring at glittering oil refineries and entering Baton Rouge: college town, state capitol, traffic nightmare, home to awkward teenage memories.

But past the skyscraper mirage, I can see Tiger Stadium and the LSU campus, and the small but revamped downtown where I got married. And my memories of this place consume me and make me think that maybe it's better than any metropolis.

In small doses, anyway. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

When we move, I'll miss our proximity to my home and college town. The spirit and energy at LSU on a game day; the peacefulness of playing golf with my dad (aka watching him play) at the crack of dawn; spending time with friends so close that you can lay in bed for hours and giggle about absolutely nothing; the anticipation of finally setting foot in an Anthropologie and a Whole Foods again.

PS, a little video from campus 2 weekends ago.

Song is "Louisiana Saturday Night" by Benjy Davis project and for the sake of I have no idea who my youngest readers are, let's just say the lyric is "turn the funky radio up"...

I'll miss you... archive:

movie moments
antique stores
nice people
lunch date
Counter Culture

my letterman jacket

2011-10-26T23:37:00.001-05:00

Dear high school me,

Right now you're probably sitting in an overly air-conditioned classroom, shivering, wishing you had a jacket. At least, that's what you'll tell anyone who asks. What you really and truly wish is that you had a boyfriend, and if you're really going out on a limb here, a boyfriend who has a letterman jacket. Think about how warm you would be, swallowed up in a twice-your-size jacket that just reeks of manliness?

Well I've got news for you, sister. Something better awaits you.

Ten years from now, when you're feeling a little chilly, you can slip on the letterman jacket's way cooler cousin: the white coat.

Just like the letterman jacket, wearing the white coat will let everyone know that the coolest guy in school picked you. And when you wrap yourself up in the scratchy fabric and take a deep breath, you'll not only smell notes of manliness, but - bonus! - undertones of feet that haven't seen any personal hygiene in decades.

Forget about patches, or varsity letters, or whatever it is that the cool kids put on their letterman jackets (I can't remember; it's been ten years. Do people even wear letterman jackets anymore?). When you run your fingers over the sleeve of the white coat, you'll find something better: mystery stains. Red, brown, and every color in between. Badges of pride, for sure, because getting squirted with bodily fluids is far superior to making the varsity football team.

And the pockets. Oh, the pockets. Inside and outside, of varying sizes, most of which are perfect for stashing... miniature notebooks. So convenient! You'll never need a purse again.

So hang in there, high school me. And if I can give you one piece of advice, it's this: bring your own sweater. Because you won't have a boyfriend for a loooong time. {Also, don't really touch the mystery stains. Gross.}

book club: black heels to tractor wheels

2011-10-25T22:36:00.002-05:00

Here's what I knew about the blogger Pioneer Woman (Ree Drummond) before I read her book:

Girl makes a mean cinnamon toast.
Apparently Reese Witherspoon will play her in the NY Times best-selling story of her life.
I have entered no less than 5 giveaways on her cooking blog to win candy-colored Kitchenaid mixers
I am the proud owner of all of her {free} photoshop actions, such as Old West:

As you can probably tell, I had no expectations going into reading her book Black Heels to Tractor Wheels.

Here's what I know about blogger Pioneer Woman after reading her book:

She annoys the sh*t out of me.
I can think of three people off the top of my head who could write a better book than she did.

Obviously, I was not a fan of this book. And when our book club met at Laurasia (my phone's autocorrect pet name for "Laura's"), we were pretty divided on it. Here's the breakdown:

The "loved it" girls felt like Ree did a great job expressing the "fizziness" of a new relationship. The "hated it" girls thought Ree was a bad person and her relationship was based on a lot of making out and some big arm muscles. My personal opinion was that the story wasn't even that interesting, although a better writer could have made me care. Case in point: in the book, Ree runs over her childhood pet, and in describing it, didn't even make me feel bad for her. I felt like I was reading a far-off narrator explain to aliens how a girl might act if her dog died.

When my car suddenly shook from a series of unsettling bumps, i knew something dire had happened. To my horror, when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw that I’d run over Puggy Sue. Puggy Sue, my fat, prognathic canine who’d settled into my arms the day I’d returned from California and had become, in effect, my child during my time at home, was now lying on my parents’ street, squealing, writhing, and unable to move her hind legs.

Hearing Puggy’s yelps from inside the house, my mom darted outside, scooped her up, and immediately rushed her to the vet’s office. Within thirty minutes, she called to tell me the news to which I’d already started resigning myself: Puggy Sue, my little package of fawn-colored love, was dead.

I spent the next several hours in a fetal position, reeling over the sudden death of Puggy.

I'm glad we read this though, if only because the conversation was hilarious and the food - recipes from the Pioneer Woman blog including fig and prosciutto pizza, bruschetta, chicken spaghetti, and pear clafouti- averaged about 4 sticks of butter per dish. And there was sangria. Butter and sangria, who could ask for anything more?

& a few pictures from our Gatsby book club night, which somehow slipped through the blog cracks:

flowers in her hair

2011-10-19T22:39:00.003-05:00

This week's writing prompt from Mama's Losing It: tell the story of your current Facebook profile picture.

The girl in this picture has flowers in her hair, and she's happy - no, delighted. What else could she want in life?

{Plus, she doesn't know it yet, but she's about to watch her former camp counselor/role model dance on a pool table to Empire State of Mind. I repeat, what else could she want in life?}

I keep this picture up because even though I'm tempted - like every member of the story of our lives that is Facebook - to display that picture of me in oh-so-perfect lighting or that outfit that photographed one hundred times better than I thought it would, this one not only tells my story best, but reminds me who I am when I'm at my best: delighted with flowers in my hair.

roleplaying

2011-10-13T22:15:00.000-05:00

Yes, you read that title right. Roleplaying. Complete with costumes.

But before you assume things have taken a turn for the scandalous around here, you should know that I've been dressing up as Paul Stout, a 75 year old man presenting to the clinic with hearing loss.

Y takes the next part of his boards in a few weeks. This part of the exam process tests the student's ability to communicate with patients and ask the right questions. Y has been studying with a big book of fake cases, and when he asked me if I would practice with him, there was only one answer.

Yes, but only if I can use props.

Compromise, people. It makes healthy marriages.

Besides Paul Stout, I've been John Matthews(above), a 25 year old banker who was texting and ran into a tree; Jack Edwards, a 28 year old male angel dust user who sees writing on walls (probably my finest acting thus far, if I do say so myself); Gwen Potter, a graduate student who can't sleep (and whose famous last name inspired a strong British accent); and the mother of Adam Davidson, a child suffering from bed-wetting issues. A special guest star took on the role of Adam:

He was brilliant.

I'll miss you... Humphrey.

2011-10-12T23:07:00.002-05:00

The name Humphrey obviously evokes a dashing old-fashioned gentleman. And I suppose you could call the subject of this post, the Humphrey Yogart, the handsome grandfather of plain tart yogurt.

Or, if you're not like me and don't feel the need to personify everything, you could just call it delicious, delicious yogurt. Your call.

{photo from www.counterculturela.com}

The next time you go out for yogurt - and if your town is anything like mine, you've got at least six trendy self-serve shops to choose from -- and you order "original tart" or whatever they're calling it these days, I want you to remember something.

Before Pinkberry, before Red Mango, before Orange Leaf, we were enjoying plain, tart yogurt here in Louisiana courtesy of Counter Culture. And while it may not have fancy toppings (mochi! pop tarts! orange balls that pop in your mouth!), sometimes nothing beats a classic Humphrey Yogart: plain yogurt, bananas, strawberries, red grapes, granola, and honey.

Fun fact: these pictures were taken during a little blogger get-together. Sarah found my blog and since she passed my "99% sure she's not a serial killer" test, we decided to meet for lunch with two other blogger friends, Lauren and Lindsey. When I first started writing here, I honestly thought I could be the only person in my town to have heard of the blogging phenomenon.

A year and a half later, and I know three other people who blog. We're a fast growing community, guys. But at least we have Humphreys. And we'll always have Counter Culture.

I'll miss you... archive:

movie moments
antique stores
nice people
lunch date

life as a med student's wife

2011-10-10T22:46:00.000-05:00

Our friend T's homemade table, site of many dinners with medical students

I wrote this for the Real Simple blogger contest this summer, which asked bloggers to write about the friend they were most surprised to have. At the last minute I decided it didn't really answer the question, so I didn't enter it, but I thought it might be worth sharing.

---

My only memory of high schoolscience is the day we thought it would be funny to ask our teacher what “sodomy”meant (it wasn’t). My most vivid memory of college science is my elation thatattendance wasn’t enforced.

And yet, here I sit at a restaurantwith a medical student (my husband), two surgeons, a dentist, and a physician’sassistant. They talk about medicine, science, break to discuss the food, then moremedicine, more science. I chime in to comment on the risotto but remain silentwhen talk returns to bodily fluids. Though discussing discharge over dinner nolonger fazes me, I have nothing to add.

Our waiter reads the specials. Whenhe leaves, the table huddles together. I lean in, in case it’s laypersongossip.

“Did you see that?” someone asks.“How about the lump on that guy's neck?” The rest of the tableagrees, throwing out potential diagnoses. I realize I’m the only one at mytable who doesn’t perform a secret physical examination on every passing human.

Born to be a liberal arts student,I was shocked when I married someone who was so thoroughly a scientist. Though I know he accepts me masscommunication degree and all, it’s hard not to be intimidated when we meetfriends for drinks and discuss the experience of delivering a baby.

It’s a daily test, but I’m becomingacclimated to my unexpected social circle. I’ve learned when complaining aboutmy terrible day in the office is in poor taste (right after a friend sharesthat his patient died, for instance). I’ve absorbed enough to comment on medicine occasionally. Mostimportantly, I’ve discovered that as intense as these very smart people are,they sometimes crave tales of life outside the hospital. And that’s where Icome in.

on iphones

2011-10-05T23:18:00.002-05:00

Just this afternoon, I marveled at the fact that even while sitting at my desk at work, I was able to coat-shop with Y. (I convinced him our coats, made for Louisiana Novembers, might not cut it when he interviews in a Wisconsin or Minnesota November.)

Just yesterday at work, I read about the ways that doctors using iPads and iPhones can revolutionize patient care in medicine.

Which sounds like a great idea and all, until you realize how hard it is for an almost doctor to type something simple like "woohoo".

Or that time he told me Ike had large forks. (He meant laryngitis.)

Oh well, we can't all change the world.

But we can try, right?

"the only way to do great work is to love what you do."

-steve jobs

this proustian moment brought to you by world market

2011-10-04T23:08:00.001-05:00

Y's family is relatively exotic. There are weekly phone calls to family members in other countries, in foreign languages. A charming aunt lives in a flat in Europe, just waiting for a visit from her American great-nephew. At holidays his parents bake traditional foods that, growing up, I didn't know existed. (like sufganyot at Chanukah. Why would America deprive its Jews of jelly donuts?)

I'm boring in comparison. My Russian grandmother did pass on her delicious kugel recipe, but let's face it: kugel is old news to any Jew who's ever been to a synagogue luncheon.

While shopping at World Market the other day I found my answer to his family's homemade jelly donuts and schnitzel.

My eyes met that package of sprinkles and I swear I heard cheesy romantic music. In the middle of World Market, the rush of memories nearly knocked me over: the crunch of sprinkles on top of toast and the perfect combination of chocolate and butter.

Because it turns out that I do have one exotic connection, a magical place where parents feed their children toast with chocolate sprinkles on top for breakfast. I don't remember much from the three years my family spent in Holland, but oh how I remember hagelslag.

Or as I described it to Y when I got home, chocolate sprinkle toast.

He approved. Is it possible not to approve?

And in the game of exotic childhood treats that he didn't know we were playing until this post, I like to think I win. Chocolate sprinkles for breakfast every morning > jelly donuts once a year.

fragrant

2011-10-03T23:19:00.001-05:00

The girl spends her day off at a local boutique inhaling perfume, coffee beans, perfume, coffee beans. She just exhausted her latest bottle of the perfume she grew up with and it's time for a change. But her new scent has to be perfect; when she leaves on weekend getaways the boy breathes in her signature scent from her empty pillow.

After an hour of back and forth and he'll love it, he'll love it not, she finally lets the cashier wrap up a scent. A sweet, almost fruity scent; chosen as much for its warm vanilla bean and rice flower aroma as for its pretty bottle.

The most luxurious of fragrant escapes.

At home, she spritzes her neck and waits for the boy. When he walks in the door, he inhales, pausing for a moment, a faint smile appearing as a memory plays out in his mind.

The girl is satisfied, she's chosen a scent that calls to his mind a comfortable childhood memory.

The boy finally exhales.

"You smell like diabetic ketoacidosis."

{because it's more fun to tell your "love story" in the third person}

i'll miss you... lunch date

2011-10-02T22:52:00.002-05:00

When Y started med school, we were told we would never see each other. I planned for my alone time, scheduling TV shows on our DVR that I knew Y would never watch. I was ready to eat frozen tortellini or cereal for dinner every night.

But. My tortellini is still frozen. Unwatched episodes of The Bachelor clogged our DVR and had to be deleted. In fact, my TV is constantly blaring the sounds of World War II battles and pawn shops and whatever else it is that boys watch. I love that we get to hang out, but judging from the horror stories I heard, I never though I would come to relish the time when I'm home alone and can light a candle and watch The Glee Project without being mocked.

Part of the reason we see each other so often is because I work at his school and we have lunch together almost every day, even when we have nothing to say to each other. Not that I'm complaining.

I'm sure next year when I've gained 10 pounds from frozen tortellini and reality TV marathons and haven't seen my husband in the daylight in a week, I'll be begging for the sounds of Saving Private Ryan. For now I'll meet him for lunch in our spot, an alley that's perfectly shaded and chilly enough to make a Southern October feel truly like fall.

I'll miss you... archive:

movie moments
antique stores
nice people

International Pet Vacation Day

2011-09-27T16:44:00.000-05:00

It's been awhile since I've posted a story about Ike (well, it's been awhile since I've posted anything at all). To be honest, it's hard. All I want to do is talk about Ike. He sits! He yawns! He whines at the door! He cocks his head when I say "laundry"! It's all SO CUTE. But you would stop reading if I posted that kind of stuff everyday. (It's ok, I would stop reading, too.)

But I know you guys love Ike. So I subconsciously created a story for you in the form of an incredibly specific dream two nights ago. Here's what happened:

{we are now entering dream-world. none of this actually happened}

Ike was stolen from our house. (for real this time)

I woke up one morning and he was gone. There was no sign of breaking and entering, and neither Y nor I heard any strange noises in the middle of the night. We decided to keep vigil by the computer (I mean, where else are you going to do it?). Lucky that we did, because we soon received an e-mail with this picture:

From the fine print of the e-mail we learned that Hallmark decided that Patriot's Day (which is 9/11) was a little too depressing so close to the holiday season. So the execs at Hallmark, with their infinite holiday-inventing-power, decided that September 11th should be International Pet Vacation Day.

(Genius, right? No stealing, Hallmark. This amazing idea is copyright my sleeping brain.)

To get the word out about the new holiday, Hallmark implemented a guerilla marketing campaign: in the middle of the night, they would send a giant claw (much like one of those claw vending machine games) through the roofs of houses, steal family pets and send them away on a luxury vacation. Just when pet owners became frantic, Hallmark would send an electronic greeting card showing the pet having a fabulous time. How they knew each pet's exact dream-vacation, we'll never know. (It's eerie; Ike often speaks of his desire to roll in waves of the Atlantic.)

Shortly after the e-mail was received, Hallmark sent each pet back to their home, tanned and rested and ready to return to the strenuous life of being a furry family member. But I don't remember this part, because I woke up after the e-mail, laughing at myself for thinking up this stuff in my sleep.

101 in 1001: Austin City Limits

2011-09-19T23:59:00.000-05:00

scenes on South Congress

Confession: I started one of those 101 in 1001 to-do lists last week.

I know I'm, what, 2 years late to this party? But I had a great reason: September 15, 2011 was exactly 1001 days until my 30th birthday. I can't think of a better thing to count down to than my impending senior citizenship.

Just kidding. But 30 is kind of scary, considering I feel 16 about 99% of the time.

Anyway, I think rather than sharing my 101/1001 list here, I'll just be sure to tell you when I check something off, like I did this past weekend: attend a music festival.

Even though I've been to Jazzfest in New Orleans twice, I felt like I had never had an actual music festival experience. My first time, I was a senior in high school and was only allowed to be there for a few hours. We got there just in time to stand at the back of a Dave Matthews concert, and left immediately after. My freshman year in college I went back, armed with a Sharpie-d shirt that said "WE <3 U JOHN MAYER" which I'd like to pretend never existed.

I've always wanted to go to Austin City Limits, and I knew next year I might not have the luxury of a relatively short car ride. So I went.

We heard Ray LaMontagne, whose voice was -- as the girl behind us correctly noted -- like butter despite his lack of personality (made up for by his sassy sign language interpreter). Dehydrated and hungry, we stood in the middle of a haze of smoke listening to Foster the People. We arrived early for Sara Bareilles and ended up front and center; she played her song "Let the Rain" on guitar and when she threw her pick into the crowd, it landed on my foot. She and her band busted out the accordion for a perfect cover of Mumford and Sons' "Little Lion Man".

I stood in the middle of the park with "Love Lockdown" in my left ear and "Viva La Vida" in my right ear as people streamed back and forth, trying to decide which concert to see. We eventually ended up at Kanye West, in the middle of thousands of white people in tight jeans and fedoras yelling we want prenup!

I only made it to ACL for one day, but I'd say I had a pretty great music festival experience. I can't wait to go back to Austin and I'm mildly obsessed with this little video of the trip I made using the 8 mm camera app and iMovie:

a night in our office

2011-09-14T22:13:00.001-05:00

I like to think he's gazing at my picture.

But I'm probably wrong.

I'll miss you... nice people

2011-09-13T22:51:00.000-05:00

7:57 a.m. 3 minutes until the public can get their hands on a coveted new clothing line, one that is sure to sell out in a few hours. In larger cities, lines twist around city blocks and claws come out as the doors open.

A Target employee is starting to open our store, and the five of us that have gathered outside move inside, discussing what we hope to find. There's a woman whose daughter can't bear to face the lines in New York where she lives and sent her mom to pick up a list of items. My pilates teacher is there, deciding which pattern of plates she wants to buy her kids. Two more strangers compare printed out lists of what they were going to buy before Target.com crashed for the morning. We walk around the store at a quick pace, not wanting to seem too eager but not wanting to miss out on anything. We discuss our surprise that there are actually other people in this town who knew what was happening this morning.

In the sporting goods section, a mom and I chat about the availability of the zig-zagged bike that I'm currently drooling over. She buys one, I don't. Later I see her with her teenage daughter, and they wave me over, holding up the cute dress they found. In another section, the mom to the daughter in New York asks what size I would take in a particular shirt; I'm about the same height as her daughter. I tell her one size would probably be too short on me. "Well she's in New York," she drawls, winking, "you know how much less conservative they are up there."

I wander back to the bike. There's one left. I pace in front of it. I text Y. He says, "Gross. that looks like Beetlejuice's bike." I reason that we'll be buying at least 10 plane tickets in the next few months; I can't justify a $499 bike. I wander across the store, grabbing a zig-zagged coffee mug for $4.99 instead. "We decided we can't get the bike." I say to the crowd, because by now they all know my plight. They groan, not missing a beat shoving melamine plates into their carts. I hold up my consolation prize. "But I am getting a coffee mug!" They laugh. We're old friends.

I venture to guess that not everyone's 8 am Missoni experience was like this. I consider myself lucky.

{By the way, although the selection was vast at my store, I kept all those plane tickets in mind (and thought a lot of the clothes were ugly) and left with only the mug, some pencils, and the softest, longest cardigan that I can't wait to snuggle up with on an airplane.}

I'll miss you... archive: