point, starbucks

The other day it was approximately 1 million degrees outside. We were at Starbucks and Y, a tried and true "regular coffee" kind of guy, saw an advertisement and decided it was just hot enough for a Frappucino.

If you don't get this reference, I don't think we can be friends.

"After all," he said, reading the sign, "a grande is only 140 calories."

The next time we visited Starbucks, he ordered another Frappucino in his standard tall size. He picked it up and frowned. "I feel like my last one was bigger than this one."

Poor, naive Y spent his entire college career preparing for med school while I (an advertising major) a)studied much less and b) gained useful skills that would come in handy in the real world. So I explained why Y's drink appeared to have shrunk.

On our last Starbucks run, he looked at the sign {strategically} placed next to the register which {strategically} only mentioned how many calories were in a grande. Before he could even think about it, he turned to the cashier and asked for what was on his mind: a grande Frappucino. He didn't even realize the words coming out of his mouth. Point, Starbucks.

When I explained this to him, his jaw dropped, like so:

And he exclaimed, "Holy crap, I just got advertised!"

I'll miss you...

This weekend was med school graduation, which means a few things: first of all, it means that several people that I've known for way too long to take seriously are now doctors (i.e. Scary Spice in the 7th grade talent show). It also means that we have almost exactly one year left here.

This countdown elicits something different in everyone who moves around for a spouse's job. Of course for many of us it means HOLYCRAPMYHUSBANDWILLBEADOCTOR (breath) ANDTHAT'SSLIGHTLYWEIRDSLASHKINDOFCOOL. For some med school families it doesn't mean much other than that. They're happy where they are and the med student will confidently apply to the program at their current school and with only slight anxiety, assume that's where they'll stay. For some people it's awful, they'll have to leave a place they've come to love.

Us? Well, we're ecstatic. We hope to end up someplace completely different - a place with snow, mountains, and/or tall buildings... a place where people walk from point A to point B without getting funny looks. Maybe a place where we won't have to explain what "Jewish" is.

As hard as it may be to believe, I don't hate it here. No, it isn't my favorite place in the whole world, but I was never expecting to live in my favorite place in the whole world - a patisserie in Paris, the coast of Ireland, the Met, or Epcot.

all we really need, right?

In an effort to prove this to you (and maybe myself) and to document our last year here, this week I'm going to start featuring a year's worth of things I'll miss. Some will be important, others will be the little things, some will probably be sarcastic. But they will all be here. And for now, they're all home.

{1, 2, 3, 4}

if the beatles wore gaucho pants

{image from Visit Abbey Road's hall of fame}

I can't believe I'm just now coming across the Abbey Road webcam. Standing on this corner 6 years ago, I shook my head and thought to myself that this had to be one of the most ridiculous spots on Earth. This was, of course, right before whoever was holding the camera [facing the wrong way] yelled "Go!" and I walked across the crosswalk [by myself].

{if I hadn't told you this was 6 years ago, could you have guessed the year by my awesome gaucho pants?}

If you watch the webcam during London daytime, you won't have to wait more than a minute or so before you see a group of people trying to recreate the famous picture. The tourists are constant. The traffic is constant. It's really very funny, and standing back and realizing I was right in the middle of such a uniquely odd place is one of my favorite traveling memories.

What's the strangest place you've visited? Have you ever crossed Abbey Road?

a confession

We boarded Ike this weekend while we attended a friend's wedding. .00001% of me was worried he'd be raptured without us, all by himself in a 3x6 foot run, with nothing but his bone, a t-shirt that smelled like me, and his bed. Doesn't his expression above just scream, "I'm being raptured all by myself?"

scholarly ike earns his glasses

Y and I should get a prize for dog training. No, we haven't figured out how to make Ike stop jumping on guests... or growling at other dogs... or whining for food.

But we did teach him a new phrase.

Ike now knows the ever important phrase "last one", used most frequently when playing fetch. Here's how I know he understands it:

Generally, when I throw Ike the ball he -- like most other dogs who play fetch -- runs back as fast as he can so I can throw it again. I wish I knew what was going through his little head.

"Hey guys, you lost your ball! I know you need it, so I brought it back! Try not to lose it aga-- ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! BRB."

But when I look at him sternly and say "last one" before I throw the ball, he doesn't come back after he fetches it. He just stands there and basically pouts.

"No more? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?"

junk mail

They tell you that med students will change their desired specialty many, many times. What they don't tell you is that each flirtation with a specialty brings a new realm of junk mail.

And those specialties don't care when the med student moves on to a new one. Y has gone through 3 specialties, and that's about a week's worth of medical paraphernalia. The worst offender?

EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. there's a new piece of mail with a brain on it. If there are any med students out there... think long and hard before you decide to proclaim interest in neurology. Do it for the trees.

nostalgia

I've noticed a heightened appreciation for nostalgia recently. Just this week, I've seen links to:

• 40 Things That Will Make You Feel Old (example: American Pie was TWELVE years ago)
• What Your American Girl Doll Says About the Rest of Your Life (I'm confident, capable, nonplussed, and have an aptitude for sarcasm)
• Remember When AIM was our Facebook?

Plus, today I found this blog that collected childhood memories from its readers. I was almost in tears. AND THEN, "Too Close" by Next came on the radio. Is the universe trying to make me feel old?

On a related note, I rescued a favorite old toy from my childhood bedroom a few weeks ago:

My Talkboy -- a toy invented for the greatest movie ever, Home Alone 2 -- was well loved, if you couldn't tell. But I didn't even use it for the normal mischief it was intended for. No way, I had no brothers and sisters to torment, so my Talkboy's main purpose was to record pretend auditions for my singing career. A LOT of Little Mermaid was recorded on that thing.

This commercial makes me happy. It reminds me of flipping through the wonderfully fat Toys R Us Christmas catalog. And strangely enough, it feels like this commercial was just on TV yesterday.

Tiger Deluxe TalkBoy by coolz0r

Soo... am I the only loser child who spent hours alone in her bedroom singing Part of Your World into her Talkboy? What was your favorite 90s toy?

take that, justins bieber and timberlake

3 random things:

1. I added a links page (which almost got eaten by the Great Blogger Maintenance Issue of 2011) in case you need some new reads. Medical spouses -- what are some of your other favorite blogs, because I know I missed some! There's a link at the top of the blog (next to the "about" page, which you should also read)

2. I have a Facebook page! I started it mainly because some of my relatives (hi, sister!) thought I didn't update my blog unless Facebook said so, and I didn't want to clog up my actual FB newsfeed. Then, I decided to beg everyone I know to join it, because I thought it would be kind of sad if the page only had 12 fans. And look, it's already more popular than both Justin Bieber's page AND Justin Timberlake's page!

Oh... that's not what that means? What does it take to make you love me, America? Curly frosted tips?


3. This is my new favorite childhood photo:

Anyone have a good caption?

Have a good weekend, friends!

well, it's not rocket science.

Y's rotation of the week: brain surgery.

Really?

{that would be a toy helicopter}

Really?

REALLY?

I'll be honest, my bamboozlement is not actually about Y "doing" (read: standing in the back of the room during) neurosurgery. It's just that I'm still not over the fact that my circle of friends is old enough to be trusted with anything, let alone a human brain. I can't even wrap my head around knowing people with one word job titles. Doctor. Lawyer. Dentist. Accountant. When I ask a peer about their job, I still expect it to be part-time and in the mall.

Tell me, those of you who are older and wiser, does this feeling ever go away? Bonus question: Who would you trust more with your brain -- the mime, Clark Kent, or The Pope? Discuss.

a post for the neglected dog

Ways in Which Having Ike Has Changed Me

1. I am an expert at baby talk. Like, if there was a baby talk convention, I might be asked to speak there. No word is safe. Puppy is now "PEEEEEEEEEEEEEPEEEEEEEE!"* "Who's a good boy" is "Oojabooja". (Well, what else would it be?) Teeth are "teefs". As in,

"Nice teefs, buddy."

2. I stop every time I see a dog that looks lost. You have no idea how much of my time this takes up. People of Louisiana, TAKE BETTER CARE OF YOUR DOGS. (we won't mention that time Ike got out)

3. I now own a lint roller. It is SO. NECESSARY. Especially because Ike and I have a daily snuggle-fest before I leave for work each day. A demonstration:

Before:

During:

After:

{FYI, we don't roll around in Ike's hair. We have a system where he is only allowed on the bed when the top sheet is unfolded, and when we're not doing photoshoots we only sit/lay under the blanket so as not to break the dog/person barrier}

4. I can't read books/see movies about dogs. Have you noticed that once a dog is introduced into a plot, it dies about 80% of the time? I can't handle that, mainly because I feel sorry for all of the other dog owners out there since Ike is immortal. We got lucky at the shelter.

*Y and I had a child-raising discussion the other day. We decided that since we are so fond of the word PEEEPEEE, when we have kids we're going to raise them to think that's actually how the word puppy is pronounced. We have big dreams for our hypothetical spawn - we imagine he/she will become a highly respected veterinarian, presenting research at big conferences on "The Evaluation of Gait Kinetics in PEEEPEEES". We're so proactively proud.

Bad PEEEPEEE.

from pelvic exams to salsa dancing

Cacti fascinate me.

I realized this in 2007, when I saw my first real, live, saguaro cactus. We were driving from Louisiana to California, and started noticing giant cacti standing around like it was no big deal. As soon as we saw one within our reach, I made Y swerve to the side of the highway so I could get a picture with the phenomenon that until that moment, I had never seen in real life.

Last week, I flew to Phoenix for a work conference. Which was fine and all, but I was more interested in making sure cacti were still real. They are.

But I don't recommend getting up close and personal to verify this. Trust me.

I spent 10 minutes or so behind a museum downtown in the 98 degree heat, pulling cactus spines out of my legs. No less than 4 groups of people passed and laughed at me. One guy asked if I had been "cactused". I'd say that was a pretty good word for it.

I made it. The spine removal was rough (most ended up getting stuck in my fingers, which hurt even worse) but I was pretty sure they were gone. I rewarded myself with an entire pizza at Pizzeria Bianco and cautiously set out to explore the desert.

Back home, at a dinner party full of med students, I feel the need to change the subject to something slightly less disgusting than "the 5 minutes or so your head is between someone's legs" during a birth. So I bring up my cactus assault. After a quick table-side physical exam, Y confirms there are still spines stuck in my leg.

So, while I eat a piece of cake, Y uses the antiseptic wipe he found in his white coat to clean my leg(fun fact: med students bring their white coats to parties. Or they leave them in their cars after work and there they stay through the weekend. Still counts). While the conversation around us drifts from pelvic exams to salsa dancing, Y shaves off the top layer of my skin with his swiss army knife and uses a pair of tweezers to pluck the spines.

And no one bats an eye.

astronauts

When I tell people we get the Sunday New York Times, I can feel them roll their eyes at the pretentiousness. Fine. Let them think I'm pretentious while I read what is basically a gossip magazine in black tie attire: the Sunday Style section.

Recently I've read an article called "Snookinomics", a profile of Andy Cohen, and an in-depth description of what one of my favorite authors wore each day for a week. I'm an expert on the guy who planned Prince William's bachelor party. And of course, my favorite part of the paper is the wedding announcements.

I like to see what jobs the couples have and how they met. Usually only children of crazy important people in the Northeast, mainly New York, are featured.

This couple from Houston caught my eye a few weeks ago. Houston? I thought, that's random. How did they get in the Times?

And then the obvious key word jumped out at me: astronaut. Duh - Nasa is in Houston. They were children of astronauts. That's what you have to do get into the Times if you live south of the Mason Dixon line - be the descendant of an astronaut.

And then another key phrase jumped out: emergency medicine physicians. Astronaut doctors! That particular job had never occurred to me, but of course they need physicians in space. A quick Google search made it pretty clear that most space doctors (space doctors sounds way cooler than physician astronauts, don't you think?) are emergency medicine doctors. In case you missed it, ER/EM/ED is what Y wants to do.

real, live astronauts...

What does it take to become an astronaut? I'm not sure - although the always reliable Yahoo Answers says "anyone can be an astronaut if you pass the health test". Of course, Y has barely expressed interest in a post-graduation vacation, much less a side-career in astronauting. But the revelation that Y could, theoretically, have found a backdoor entry into space travel intrigues me -- in the absolute worst way possible. I get nervous walking by the windows on the way to my sixth floor office, I don't think I could handle (vicariously) the heights involved with being an astronaut. I hear they go pretty high.

But it might be worth it to be married to Dr. Spaceman.

on royal weddings

In the summer of 2005, I studied abroad in London and was instantly in love.

The best part? Other than the perfectly stoic atmosphere after the 2 attacks on the Tube, the wandering around Notting Hill pretending to search for a handsome British bookkeeper (but not really pretending), and the breeze while studying in Hyde Park, I fell in love with high tea. At home, tea was a refreshing thing to drink while sweating your face off. In London, tea was a drink that came with three tiers of treats.

tea at Harrod's, July 2005

Who knew that a few months later, I'd start dating my half-British future husband, who would proceed to make me a cup of English breakfast tea almost every morning for the next 5 years (and counting)?

Anyway, I share that because I want to let you in on why I was so excited to celebrate the royal wedding with - what else - a tea party. Other influencing factors included:

1. the fact that this poster once graced my wall (right underneath a poster of Dawson and Pacey):

2. A REAL GIRL BECAME A PRINCESS!

3. HATS!

If you don't agree that those are good reasons to whip up some scones, break out the Pimm's cups, and plop a bunch of feathers on your head, well, I don't think we can be friends.

Hope you all started your weekend with a fairy tale celebration as well, and are ending it with some good old fashioned American pride if you're from the States!