Willing to find true love... but only with a coupon

Despite my embarrassment, I present for your entertainment the tale of my 3 month participation in internet dating.  Like many of my single lady resident friends without the time to meet new people outside of the hospital, I turned to the internet.  The marketing was excellent - commercials pan in on a single, confident woman running her own business and talking about how she was too busy to take time away from work, then it cuts to a scene of her wearing a giant engagement ring with a handsome fellow hugging her and smiling on a beach - because that's what people do and it looks so natural!  So after months of deliberation in my head, I finally signed up.  After signing into the site, I scoffed at the price.  Sixty dollars for one month!  That money would be much better spent on one third of a dress at Anthropologie. I let my profile sit unpaid for on the site for a few months, and the site started sending me increasingly desperate e-mails - 30 people have viewed your profile in the last 5 seconds! Your match could be in this e-mail!  Once you start paying, you can communicate with your matches and tell the world you're ready for love!  Finally, the site started sending me coupons (3 months for the price of 1), and much like an Anthopologie dress in the clearance section, I didn't wait any longer to make my purchase.  

I made a profile full of charm and charisma.  I put up pictures of me at a friend's wedding, whitewater rafting, and wearing a fake mustache.  Although I felt at the time it was an interesting profile, looking back it was pretty standard.  I somehow became this foil of myself with a diluted personality presented for others approval.  I found myself to be overly judgmental of what others put up for my approval.  I automatically disqualified any potential match that had taken their picture with a camera phone in front of a mirror.  I created these arbitrary rules mostly out of fear, hoping my instincts would prevent me from accidently meeting a kidnapper on the internet.  Strangely, I don't apply the same judgment when I meet somebody in a coffee shop or park - I guess I'm more willing to be kidnapped by somebody who likes the same coffee I do.  When a potential match finally made it past the initial screening process, we were forced to answer horrible dating game type questions to communicate.  For example: What is your idea of a romantic time with somebody you've dated for over a year? What is the worst date you've ever been on?  How would you describe your parents relationship?  The answers were often predictable and more often boring.  To be fair, I quickly discovered I was very bad at conveying my dynamic personality over e-mail with strangers. I asked banal and idiotic questions - what is your favorite movie? What kind of music do you like? I could just as well have asked - do you like cheese? Do you own a vacuum? 

At the end of 3 months, I had viewed thousands of profiles, sent and received hundreds of communication requests, e-mailed dozens of eligible partners, exchanged numbers with six men, and met three men for coffee (strangely all named Mike).  I had to turn down a few men rather awkwardly and got accused of playing the "Persian game" at one point.  Most of my matches lived in another town, and all the men I met had to drive between 40 minutes to 1.5 hours to meet up with me - not the easiest way to get to know somebody and keep it casual.  After the subscription finally ended and the e-mails stopped, I felt relief.  I did not find true love, even with the coupon.  I am happy to get back to my old methods of acting awesome with my good friends out on the town and then waiting for a stranger to notice - the most passive form of flirting (flirting is a skill I never practiced).  

Since I know what you really wanted from this internet dating story is embarrassing stories of first dates with creepy strangers I will leave you with a creepy excerpt from a creepy match that I quickly deleted.  This particular fellow looked like Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite, and describes what he wants "In his own words": 

Any woman who bring smile on my face.  Who is good companion sensuous and love having intimate moments and share happiness of life.  With whom I feel as if I am on top of the world who love to have sex and know what she is doing. 

Reading that really makes me wonder if I need to give this internet dating thing another chance!

--By Farrah, who often can't watch the show New Girl because it reminds her of herself in a way that is awkward to watch

Southern Hospitality... NOT

It's time for another blog post - that makes 2 this year, I'm on a roll!

Today in clinic a patient came in with his home health nurse.  I went in the exam room to get his pillow for his wheel chair, and his nurse followed me to gather the rest of his belongings.  My attending was still in the other room talking to the patient's mother, and the elderly female nurse stood in front of me staring at my ID badge.  "I recognized your name, and I was wondering if you were planning on continuing your work here or going back overseas," she stated with an eerily calm demeanor.  At first, I thought she meant she recognized my name from the hospital and her other visits with this patient.  Then, I realized with a crushing blow of racism that she recognized me as a foreigner.  Was it my yankee English that made her suspicious? Did I inadvertently slip into my mom's accent? Was she just screening every vaguely foreign person she met (even if they did look like an innocuous pediatrician in a cardigan) for suspicious behavior to report to Homeland Security? Are my eyebrows significantly bushier than usual today? I responded that I was born and raised in Colorado, and she seemed confused.  I was confused too because I don't encounter this stuff much... maybe out of willful ignorance.

--By Farrah, who was asked by an attending physician once if her favorite movie was Aladdin because she looked like Jasmine.  She didn't know if she should be flattered or offended, so she just nodded.  

Reasons to get a roommate besides Teddy

This morning at 3:14 am, my alarm started its mighty wail. I leaped out of bed, unaware of the time or the implications of the alarm going off. I went straight to the wall and turned off the alarm as if I had walked in the door from the garage and nothing was wrong. I finally took in the alarm's unfamiliar phrase as I typed in my code - back door open back door open back door open. I looked at the back door, and it was OPEN. Teddy was hiding under my bed shaking - a very useful watch dog. My phone started to ring as I stepped toward the back door. The alarm company called to verify I was still alive. Talking to the security guy on the phone, I verified my safety code without really considering if I was safe or not. Security guy asked if I need the police. I replied, "I don't think so, nobody's here. I just wonder why the door is open." He said obviously, "maybe you didn't close it all the way." Uh, thanks dude for your insight. I closed the back door, and set the alarm again. Teddy and I sat in my room revved up and wondered what the next step should be. It was very windy and a little rainy outside. It was probably the wind, plus teddy is afraid of rainy weather which explains his persistent shaking. But then I thought, what if an intruder had intimidated Teddy into this fearful behavior. I decided if I ever wanted to sleep, I would have to search the house for intruders. I went to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find. I sleuthed through every room like a detective from Law and Order, my back against the wall sneaking to the doors, then busting though each door knife pointed forward. I was reassured after my search, and I settled back in bed with the knife on the nightstand. I let Teddy climb into bed to help calm him down. Teddy promptly pooped in the bed - parasympathetic rebound is the pathophysiology, an hour long clean up was the result. Now, needless to say, I cannot sleep - though my bed is now in perfect condition to prevent SIDS - no bedding or pillows, just a warm outfit on firm mattress. The washing machine is producing the noise of a large unbalanced centrifuge unaccustomed to the weight of a duvet and pillows. I may just have to invest in a new bedroom set.

This is not the first time Teddy has soiled a bed. Back in our Boulder days, Teddy soiled my sister Sami's bed when he wasn't feeling well. Sami was in Denver that weekend, so I started to clean everything with the hope she wouldn't find out. In another battle of washing machine vs. duvet, her bedding ripped and the washing machine flooded. I started to sew everything together, hoping I could still salvage the situation. The rip was right in the center after repair, and I went to the fabric store looking for something to help. I bought her name in iron on letters and ironed them over the sewn up tear. She got home shortly, and I told her I had a surprise for her. She went up to her room and emerged with an extremely confused look asking why I had labeled her comforter. I hurriedly replied, "Teddy pooped in your bed, your comforter ripped in the clean up, there's a small flood in the bathroom, and I have to go to work now. I'm really sorry! byyyeeee."

--By Farrah, who's sleeeeeepppyy

Stories from Thanksgiving

Our blog has recently been distracted by the long hours of residency and most of our posts are about the woes of internship. I hope this blog will take us back to our blog roots, funny stories about growing up with foreign parents. Recently, I hosted my very first friendsgiving. The night was a rousing success with plenty of food, and traditional board game fun. The party went off without a hitch, especially since I removed the extra bag of entrails I accidentally left in the roasting turkey before most of the guests arrived. It was during this evening I discovered I am turning into my mother by participating in her favorite past time - embarrassing people. I made everybody go around the table and state what they were most thankful for - since we have all only known each other for a few months, it was admittedly awkward. My fellow intern Sarah, who hates awkward situations, went last and was simply thankful that the awkward moment was about to end. However, I did not pull out my mom's awkward and embarrassing piece de resistance, which brings us to the heart of this thanksgiving story. Every year at the thanksgiving dinner table, my mom makes my little sister (by little I mean 1 and 1/2 years younger than me) sing a song with the chorus line "shaniqua don't live here no more.". You may be thinking, "I've never heard of that song, it is clearly made up." The song does exist, and awesomely, my mom thinks it is a hilarious song. A hit in the year 2001, the hip hop duo of Little T and One Track Mike hit it big with their one hit wonder "Shaniqua." Enjoy it yourself below:

Yes, the experience was surreal for us all at the first thanksgiving my mother demanded the song at the dinner table. Even more surreal for my brother-in-law's run of the mill american parents who were spending their first thanksgiving with us. Now it's a regular event, despite my younger sister's insistence every year that she does not remember the words to the song until she eventually gives in and busts a rhyme.

--By Farrah, who wishes you a very happy thanksgiving tomorrow

Things in the movie Babies not recommended by the average pediatrician

Once again a blog brought to you by the random and obscure shit available on Netflix instant watch. Here are some things not recommended when providing infant appropriate anticipatory guidance.

1) Riding a motorcycle while holding your babies

2) Co-sleeping

3) Letting your toddler hold your infant

4) Letting your baby suck on a piece of chicken

5) Letting your baby crawl through a field of cows

6) Giving your baby coca-cola

Overall, a very adorable movie, but there exists a point of adorable overload - this point was reached during the viewing of this film.

--By Farrah, who sees adorable kids all day everyday so her standard for cuteness is unattainable by the average child

Lonely Nights in the Baptist

Being on call is not as sexy as Grey's Anatomy makes it seem - well, at least for not anyone I know. There are no call room sexual hijinks, no flirting with cute, single doctors, and no dire emergencies (or at least in psychiatry). Instead, call is really busy and very mundane. I usually wander around the ED, very cranky and irritable, wishing that I had become anything else in the world but a doctor, wearing an old UNC sweatshirt that makes the Wake Forest security guards who are inevitably stationed outside a suicidal/homicidal patient's door, telling me "I don' like yo sweatshirt....I'm a [insert any other shitty ACC team here] fan." At 4 AM, however, no one wants to give a dissertation on why you are a Tarheel fan, no matter how die-hard you are about the Dean Dome, Dean Smith, and Roy Williams.

However, probably what I hate most about call is not the work or the scary/depressed/psychotic patients who have decided that 3 AM would be the time they would come into the ED with their crazy command hallucinations or decide to cut their wrists with that trusty old razor blade, but my loneliness. When I'm on call, I swear I hear the Britney Spears' chorus running through my head as if a soundtrack for my current state of mind - "My loneliness is killing me....baby hit me one more time."

For psychiatry, we do not have team structure call - I am literally the only psych person on call - no on site upper level or attending in sight. So I wander the halls of the Baptist alone in my solitude. I wander into a resident work room and see at least 6 internal medicine residents all hanging out together, joking about patients, having human interaction at 3 AM, and I get jealous of their comraderie. The other night I went to the friendly bagel shop to get their disgusting asparagus omelette bagel contraption, and as I waited in line, I saw 4 handsome internal medicine residents drinking their chai lattes at 3 AM, joking and chatting amiably. I enviously looked in their directions in the hopes that someone would talk to me, but they didn't - cliquish as they were. I grew irritable and thought, "Hey, I have friends! They're just at home...sleeping right now, but when they come back, we talk and joke just like your program." And so, I bravely trudge on through calls, counting down the hours before it ends, because after all, the night eventually does have to end, right?

--By Mariam, who realizes the shitty nature of this blog but was getting tired of Farrah's constant reprimanding, "I am keeping this blog alive since residency started, Mariam." This one is for you, Fars.

Vampire Weeknights

I've started to work the night shift in the emergency department, and I can tell you right now that I would make a horrible vampire doctor (or Dr. Acula). I do not look elegantly disheveled with perfectly tousled hair after sleeping all day like the vampires all the tweens are into these days. I certainly don't have the patience to stare intensely at anybody like that dude from the Twilight movie. I usually describe myself as a night person, but this schedule is really messing with my flow. I perpetually live in sweats transitioning from scrubs to PJs to workout clothes then back to scrubs. The workout clothes are simply prophylactic to encourage me to work out, lest my regular pants not fit after my month of elastic waistbands is over. I could conceivably get out of the house in the afternoon when I wake up, but it doesn't feel right. I feel like I'm living in a dream world where work at night doesn't really count, but I have to work all night, so my days are not terribly productive. I sit around waiting to work all night, and then I work all night. Sleeping during the day is not great either, light always manages to seep through the seams of my blackout curtains and Teddy often barks at the stupid birds chirping outside. This experience brings my complaints about residency up to two:

1) Night Shift
2) Residents who complain about residency

On to the topic of complaints, I know that everybody needs somebody to vent to about the crap you have to deal with during residency, but seriously every resident gets over worked with crap - stop complaining about it! Just get a little attitude adjustment and before you know it your month of torture will be replaced with different month with possibly less torture. I'm a little peeved at myself right now just for complaining about the complaints. But seriously, this is my conversation with any intern in almost any specialty - I have had this interaction on multiple occasions from 3rd year of med school till now.

Me: how was your night?
Other intern (OI): *extreme exacerbation* I had to see (insert any number from 1 to 100) patients last night, and I still have to finish (insert any number from 1 to 100) notes! *prolonged sigh*
Me: Oh, I'm sorry, did you at least get to see anything interesting?
OI: Not really. *lets out loud involuntary groan as something on computer doesn't work*
Me: Well, you at least you get to go home soon?
OI: I'm so tired I can't even function right now *falls asleep in chair*

This is how the interaction should go:

OI: how was your night?
Me: TOTALLY AWESOME!

Ok, so maybe that's a little hypomanic reaction, but when you're sleep deprived you have an excuse to act a little loopy every once in a while (as long as there is no alcohol involved). I will admit Surgery gets worked harder than say Pediatrics, but if you picked Surgery, it's your own fault you're so busy (sorry Abby - I still heart you). At least the night shift slows down around 3 am and affords some free moments for blogging - live from the ED!

--By Farrah, who's nickname in the ED has been declared to be "Fawcett head"