roleplaying

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.

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:

what is it?

roundabout

coffeeshop where everybody knows your name

crape myrtle

corn

movie moments
antique stores
nice people
lunch date

life as a med student's wife

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 school science 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 that attendance wasn’t enforced.

And yet, here I sit at a restaurant with a medical student (my husband), two surgeons, a dentist, and a physician’s assistant. They talk about medicine, science, break to discuss the food, then more medicine, more science. I chime in to comment on the risotto but remain silent when talk returns to bodily fluids. Though discussing discharge over dinner no longer fazes me, I have nothing to add.  

Our waiter reads the specials. When he leaves, the table huddles together. I lean in, in case it’s layperson gossip.

“Did you see that?” someone asks. “How about the lump on that guy's neck?” The rest of the table agrees, throwing out potential diagnoses. I realize I’m the only one at my table 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 mass communication degree and all, it’s hard not to be intimidated when we meet friends for drinks and discuss the experience of delivering a baby.

It’s a daily test, but I’m becoming acclimated to my unexpected social circle. I’ve learned when complaining about my terrible day in the office is in poor taste (right after a friend shares that his patient died, for instance).  I’ve absorbed enough to comment on medicine occasionally. Most importantly, 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 I come in.

on iphones

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

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

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

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:

what is it?

roundabout

coffeeshop where everybody knows your name

crape myrtle

corn

movie moments
antique stores
nice people