Traumarama: Girl with big hair can't shut up

When Mariam introduced the idea of a “Traumarama” section on our blog, I had no idea I would have so many awkward experiences to share. Most of these experiences have happened since I entered medical school. I am almost positive I was not this awkward before. Maybe it has something to do with all this extra oxygen in Ohio; it’s going straight to the “make a fool of yourself” center in my brain. Back in Colorado, I am quite chill (I hope). The names in this particular traumarama have been disguised to protect the innocent people who had to put up with me.

It was the first week of orientation, well really my first week in Ohio. I was following some important advice my mom gave me back when I was attending school in Boulder, “People decide vhat dhey vill think of you vhen dhey see you. It is important for you to look nice, dry your hair straight, and put on some makeup. Don’t be a hippies!” I was trying to look nice and make a good impression – I’m sure we all were. My hair is naturally curly, but it doesn’t fall into lovely ringlets. It kinks and turns into medusa-like sprawlings. That morning I spent a good hour flattening my hair and putting product in it. Despite my best efforts, I really didn't understand how to prevent my hair from becoming frizzy in the humidity. As the days went on during orientation, my hair slowly grew to gargantuan proportions. I knew my first impression had gone from “there’s that quiet girl” to: “Does she own a hair brush?”

We had just gotten our school IDs in the lounge, and were given our obligatory ration of Marco’s Pizza. I was one of the last people to arrive to the food. I carried my pizza around desperate for a place to sit down. There were some round tables outside with benches, but all of them were occupied with one person on each bench. I had met a few people, and I saw two friendly faces sitting at a table with two other people. I went over and asked Daphne and Velma if I could sit with them. They agreed even though Velma had to move over so I could squish myself onto the tiny bench. I recognized the two other people, Fred and Shaggy, from the first night of orientation at Doc Watson’s. That night, I had asked Fred about normal things like where did you go to school and where are you from. I also had a brief conversation with Shaggy about going abroad over the summer and the various recreational plants grown back at my alma mater CU. I didn’t really know what to talk about at this lunchtime gathering. Well, apparently nobody else knew either.

Over the next half hour, an awkward conversation ensued. I found out that Daphne lived in Toledo. Little did poor Daphne know that she would become my go to person during the awkward silences. I would take a bite of my pizza and wait for somebody to say something. When I was done chewing and it was still silent, I decided I would have to speak. I broke the silence so many times that I was turning into that chick that can’t shut up. I was just a little nervous around new people and in a new location. Over time I would mellow out, but that day, I really couldn’t shut up. Here are some highlights of the conversation:

Me: So Daphne are there any good concert venues in Toledo? Do any good people come through on tour?
Daphne: Yeah there are a few places here in Toledo. We get a few people come through town, but mostly you go to Detroit to see a specific name.
Me: Oh

** Awkward Silence. At this point I considered asking about their musical tastes, but I knew I would emerge as an awful pretentious music snob and kept my mouth shut about it**

Me: So Daphne, are you into comedy at all? My roommate and I last year were really into Mitch Hedburg. We would quote it all the time, and I still can’t get out of the habit.
Daphne: I haven’t heard of Mitch Hedburg, but there is a comedy club here. It’s pretty fun to go to, next time they have a show we can get a big group and go.
Me: Sounds awesome. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of Mitch Hedburg. He’s got really funny stuff. His CD has this base playing in the background, and you can just tell he’s high.
Fred: I haven’t heard of him either.
Shaggy: I saw him online. He’s pretty funny.
Fred: Oh
Daphne: I’ll have to check him out. Maybe we can go see him?
Me: He's dead. Drug overdose.

**awkward silence. I decide to break out the long list of Mitch Hedburg jokes in my head**

Me: He has this one joke I really like where he’s like you know how a traffic light works. Well, a banana is like the opposite of a traffic light. Green means wait. Yellow means go. And red means where the fuck did you get that banana?

**Halfhearted chuckle followed by awkward silence. I wait for the shock and awe at how funny Mitch Hedburg’s jokes are - It doesn’t come.**

Me: He has this other joke where he’s like I saw a wino eating grapes, and I was like, “dude, you have to wait.”

**more halfhearted chuckles, and then of course awkward silence. But seriously blog readers, you should go check out Mitch Hedburg - I swear his jokes are funnier than I'm making them**

It was just so awkward. The silence loomed over the conversation for so long, and I felt like the only person willing to break it. This is how most of the conversations went over the course of the week. Fortunately, I later met Abby and Sarah who jumped right on board from the moment I mentioned my first Mitch Hedburg joke and repeated a different one right back to me. It was truly a magical moment.

--By Farrah, who should probably learn something about neuroscience now

My Affair to Remember with World War II

It all started in the fourth grade with Lois Lowry's Number the Stars, a kids' book about how Denmark saved its Jewish population from the Nazis. This book turned me into an amateur World War II historian. In retrospect, it is morbid that a short, Muslim nine-year-old would have an intellectual curiosity about the most devastating world event of the 20th century, but I guess we can just boil that down to me being really weird.

After Number the Stars, I obsessively read Holocaust memoirs as my book du jour. Luckily, I found a kindred spirit in Elizabeth F., a tall blond who loved World War II as much as I did. During P.E., when Mrs. Collins would make us run laps around the gym, Liz would sidle up to me and ask, "Ready any good World War II books lately?" Now that I think about it, I am grateful Liz ran with me since I am an incredibly slow runner (I "ran" the mile in 13 minutes!).

Tragically, my affair with World War II caused me to have some major psychological issues. I had a different variation of the same dream - Hitler chasing me and me frantically hiding. I was convinced that these dreams were prophetic and that God was telling me about how Pakistanis would be interned in some crappy camp in Wyoming. It was my duty to let them know so that they could save themselves by emigrating to the Home Country. I'd frantically tell everyone about these dreams, firmly convinced I had important knowledge to impart like an old, wandering, sage everyone pities and ignores. Needless to say, people weren't too keen on relocating to Gujrawala based on my recurring dream (ass tools!). And so, for the sake of maintaining my mental health and not looking crazy, I usually avoid anything Holocaust-related. It has been hard, but it's probably for the best.

--By Mariam, who feels compelled to keep watching this crappy ABC show called October Road.

A New Poll from Shlee

One day that was actually today, Shlee told me I was "socially fu*!ing awkward." I am my own biggest defender, and I responded, "Uhh. No. Actually I have amazing social grazes that I can put even the biggest socially challenged loser at ease."

However, I am an equal opportunist, so I'm going to pose the question, am I socially awkward? Post below, homies!

--By Mariam, who is now going through an existential crisis.

A Short Blog Entry

Some people think my blog entries are too long. Obviously, these people hate books because a fictional novel, for example, is about a thousand times longer than my pitiful 500-word blog entry.

Anyways, this short blog entry will cater to people with short attention spans and low reading skills. The original gangster, Elvis Cami, is this foreign, Albanian kid who sits in the back row next to Abby and dresses very Eurotrash (Armani Exchange tees and gold chains anyone?).

The reason I have mad respect for Elvis is because he is not a poseur at all. Also, he doesn't give a flying shit about the materialistic machinations of Society. You would never find Elvis engaging in polite, meaningless banter like "Your outfit is so cute!" to get along with people. For example, once after Ashot's bitter defeat in the AMA elections, he told his obviously emo friend that he "blew his chances with that dumb speech." It was really mean and shocked a softy like me, but it was also really awesome because it reminded me of Bill the Butcher's character in Gangs of New York.

Here is a compilation of what people say about Elvis:
Ashot: He is so cool and cute.
B. Bo: He is my best friend.
Abby: I like him because he has no feelings and emotions, like me!
Tahir: Elvis is not nice to his friends, but he is nice to hot girls.
Dimitrios: Elvis is a Balkan badass.

With all these back row testimonials about the most under the radar guy at MCO, how can you resist being friends with a guy who asked me the other day what the definition of a dream boat was?

--By Mariam, who really is freaked out by the idea of turning off the heat at her house.

The Social Event of the Year

APPNA stands for the Association of Pakistani Physicians of North America. My dad is a lifetime member. To the average American person, APPNA sounds like a really lame organization for old people (like the ACLU or something), but it is really so much more.

Every year, APPNA hosts an annual conference in a big city like Chicago and New York City during the fourth of July weekend. All the old, foreign doctors bring their hot, young teens and twentysomethings and their equally hot, well-preserved wives (I call them "hot aunties"). APPNA banishes the old doctors to CME conferences which allow my add to get a tax credit for the vacation (who can resist a tax deduction?).

The wives all magnetically gravitate towards the hotel basement, where the annual bazaar is set up. For the Pakistani trophy wife, this bazaar is the equivalent to the a jihadist's heaven of 79 virgins and fountains of wine; it is filled with gold jewelry and diamonds and expensive Persian carpets. There is so much bling in this bazaar that even someone as pimped out as P. Diddy or Russell Simmons would be impressed. Usually, my mom disappears into the bazaar early on, and she only reemerges when she has huge, blingy jewelry that she claims will be passed onto me when I get married.

APPNA is more than just bargaining for diamonds and presentations on diabetes - so much more. For loser Pakistani kids, it is the social event of the year. It is almost like our proms as many of us Pakistanis didn't make it to our own because our parents were afraid of the corrupting influences of dances on the impressionable Muslim mind. Many kids only have one thing on their mind - hooking up and/or marriage. The APPNA lobby is the sociological site of the elaborate mating ritual in which guys and girls check each other our from a distance and then consult close friends on the hotness of this or that guy.

To an average reader, APPNA sounds like a really shallow event that is just an elaborate show of conspicuous consumption of Pakistani people; well it is, but I ain't going to lie - it is still super fun. Here are some things that happen every year:

1. Invariably, you will see the girls wearing clothes that you saw Lindsay, Paris, and Nicole wearing in last week's US Magazine. That is how en vogue APPNA is. For example, I saw that ugly leggings under dresses trend, the super long necklace trend, and the patent leather heels trend all weekend on every single girl there way before it showed up at your friendly, local mall.

2. Everyone (even guys) is super dressed up even though they are just going to stand there in the lobby and stare at each other rather than engage in real conversations about real issues.

3. Ever year, my friends and I always try to leave the hotel by making elaborate shopping plans. Ever year, this never happens because we a) take forever getting ready, b) are too obsessed with looking at other people in the lobby to move, c) follow our moms in the basement and are too mesmerized by the sight diamonds and pretty people to leave. It's as if the hotel prevents people from leaving via black magic or something unseemly like materialistic capitalism.

4. I always meet some really weird people. One year in Orlando, I met this guy named Ashee who really loved outdoor sports (which was already weird because Pakistani people hate nature and sports, generally). Anyways, when we went to MGM Studios, Ashee was the epitome of prepared for the extremely sweltering Orlando weather; he brought a backpack with him that had a built-in water bottle, complete with a dorky looking straw that he pulled out whenever he needed a drink. Needless to say, while my initial reaction was to make fun of him for this inherently dorky move, he didn't have to pay $6 for bottled water like the rest of us did.

5. No one ever eats. My friends (nameless friend 1, nameless friend 2, and Raabia) and I are all too busy staring at people in the lobby that we fail to remember to eat. Also, eating is for fat people, and any good APPNA girl is suffering from anorexia throughout the year or at the very least just for that weekend.

--By Mariam, who wishes her "nameless friends" would get over their internet phobia so that she would look like she had some friends.

Traumarama: Girl becomes desperate trying to escape microanatomy review

We were all getting ready for anatomy exam number two. We had dissected the pelvis and perineum - I had unofficially established that point as my "no turning back" milestone. Once you've dissected genitals, I think you might as well finish out your medical school career. I had finished most of my gross anatomy review and was ready to do a little micro. I was waiting patiently in room 100 (our regular lecture room) for a microanatomy review to be set up before me, when to my surprise the room was being prepared for a test. Some people told me the review had been moved to room 103. I walked out of the lecture hall to discover that I was stuck behind a long line of gunners waiting to get into the review. I found Abby and Mariam outside in the hall. We braced ourselves for the impending rush to the limited seating in the much smaller room. We finally got in - we would find one seat only to have gunners swoosh in from all directions to occupy all the seats surrounding it. We realized we would have to sit separately. I carefully chose my seat in a corner next to a door that said "Exit" - that door is a liar, but we'll get to that later...

Mariam was sitting on the steps with Abby. Abby left the room after about fifteen minutes, and her spot on the stairs easily led to the door. My seat was turning out to be an awful choice. The seat in front of me was occupied by two gunners making awful microanatomy jokes, and the position of my seat at the side of the room meant I couldn't even see the slides very well. After an hour, Mariam got my attention. She mouthed, "Should we leave?" I mouthed, "YES! I'm about to poke myself in the eye with my pen." Just in case she didn't get the message, I motioned my pen towards my eyes with a jabbing motion. Mariam quickly escaped through the back doors. I gathered my things and headed out the door marked EXIT in the front of the room. I was stopped by a voice behind me... an older sounding voice... a voice that might have belonged to a professor, "You can't get out that way. It's not an really an exit."

Shit. I was stuck, and the room was still obscenely crowded. I looked down the aisle I was sitting in, but it was swamped with two people per chair and their bags all over the ground. I had already interrupted the review, so I calmly walked across the slides to the aisle on the other side of the room. It was just as crowded. Shit. I couldn't stand to search any longer for a means of escape in front of the whole review - I felt like a stupid squirrel veering to avoid a parked car. So I tried walking through the overstuffed aisle. I was really struggling to get through and trying not to step on laptops. I tried to whisper a sincere apology to all the people in that row as I tripped over their bags and made them squish in their seats. It was all just too much, and it triggered some sort of stress-induced tourettes. I was muttering, "Shit f*** I'm sooo sorry F***ING SHIT!" I also used the Lord's name in vain a few times. I made it through finally, and went to the hall for refuge. Then about 5 minutes later, the review was let out. Awesome - my face was pink pink pink and it could have been prevented if I had a slightly longer attention span. Maybe I will work on that in... ooh, my dog just came in the room!

--By Farrah, who's blogging from Denver and celebrating the first day of spring in style

Traumarama: Future Doctor kills Bugs

As some of you may remember, I have killed bugs before. (see post: POP QUIZ) I left the splattered remains of that particular bug from the "Pop Quiz" post as a reminder to other bugs not to fuck with me. The dark smudge remained on my wall for a many months, and no bugs had dared venture forth.

I mooch off my older sister and husband by living in their house. My sister reads this blog and knew the contents of the dark smudge. She had been begging me to clean it off for weeks and weeks. Finally, she brought it up the day before the anatomy final. Sarah and Abby were over at my house studying. They pretty much all agreed that I should clean the dead spider off the wall. The peer pressure was too much to handle, and I went upstairs with a bottle of 409 tight in my grasp. The spider was gone, and I'm sure his little spider family rejoiced that he had a proper spider burial in the trashcan.

Later that night, I was quietly sitting on my bed going over flash cards. Then I saw something dark creeping over my sweats. It was a stink bug! (You may be thinking "um... a stink bug? Is this another term you crazy Coloradans use that the rest of the country doesn't?" So I looked up the proper name too: it's the Western Conifer Seed Bug.) When I saw the offending creature, I shrieked like any normal girl and threw it on the ground. I went back to studying my flash cards, but my mind was preoccupied. What if it came back onto my bed?

I had to go bug hunting. Over the course of the next hour and a half, I saw no less than 3 of these bugs. I'd kill one crawling back on my bed, only to see another one crawling on my shoulder while I was brushing my teeth. By the time I killed the third bug, I was thinking "Holy Bananas! Dead spider on the wall really was an effective insect repellant!" But the dead spider was gone, and the bugs were back. It was really upsetting the night before the test. That was an hour and a half that I could have used to learn about the mucous membrane innervation in the pharynx. By the way, I'm not totally against bugs - I've held a friendly taranchula (Rosie - the Chilean Rose Hair Tarantula) when I went to the Denver Butterfly Pavillion on a field trip. They just don't belong in my room. End of story.

--By Farrah, who knows this post is boring but feels an obligation to post

A Vote for Shlot...

is a vote for the Home Country. Here are the reasons why you should vote for Shlot (aka Ashot and Shlee) for AMA VP and Community Service Chair, respectively, and the various other positions they are running for (?):

1) Ashot and Shlee are both foreign (Ashot is more foreign because he wasn't born here, unfortunately). Foreign people are way interesting because they have crazy customs that make the heteronormative picture of perfection (namely Aryan, blue-eyed, blondes) feel boring and bland. For example, in my culture, it is haram to have a dog, and if by chance, if one licks you, you must go through an elaborate purification ritual to get rid of the dog cooties.

2) Both sit in the backrow. The back row, as we all know, is notoriously oppressed (see Back Row is the Ghetto post).
If you vote for Ashot and Shlee, it would be like when Denzel Washington won the Oscar for Training Day or when Scorsese (the Susan Lucci of movies) finally won the Oscar for The Departed. Voting for Ashot and Shlee is like voting for an oppressed people of medical school who are brutally ignored and whose seats are taken away on a daily basis. It would make you feel good and more importantly, it would be symbolic, sort of like those Sally Struthers' commercials from the early 90s that urged Americans to support African orphans on "just under seventy cents a day."

3) Finally, Ashot has a blog. As we all know, bloggers are a more superior, sensitive brand of human being than non-bloggers (or they may just be narcissistic assholes who have finally found a medium in which at least 16 people will read their thoughts). (Note: Shlee does not have a blog).

--By Mariam, who was NOT asked by Ashot to post this propaganda on the blog and who totally did this because of her own free will.

**Picture is of Ashot and Elvis (not Shlee). Please do not get confused and vote for the wrong person. I know foreign people can look the same!

Deep Thoughts

I'm studying the human body. You'd think I'd have the greatest study aid in the world - you know, because I'm human. I should be a living example of every single question on an exam. Now, my brain was sometimes a little confused about arteries and nerves down in the rest of the body. But now we've moved on to neuroanatomy, which leads me to wonder: Does my brain know that I'm talking about it? Does my limbus pop up and pout, "I'm not emotional!" when we identify its function? Does my brain know what flavor of warm jello it most resembles? (I think the answer to this might be Margarita flavor - I saw it at Target today. The Jello industry finally caught on to what college students like to do with their wholesome dessert)

Well, I think it's time we all identify the flavor of our brains with this nifty jello flavor finder.

CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR JELLO FUN!

--By Farrah, who is hopelessly distracted by most flash animations

A Conversation with B.Bo

I always imagined medical school to be filled with students who looked like they belonged on the set of the classic 80s nerd flick, Weird Science, kids whose profound love of those $6.99 fantasy books about sorcerers and interactive computer games (War of Warcraft, anyone?) got in the way they interacted with real live, human beings. While this proved to be mostly true, medical students are far more idiosyncratic than I thought - people who are afraid of strangers, people who love their hand sanitizers, and other kids who hate the Ottoman Empire with a fiery, burning passion.

One day, Bryan Bonder - aka B.Bo (a nickname made in the manner of J.Lo or LiLo) - joined our study group. B.Bo peered into my colorful living room and said, "Your house reminds me of my grandmother's, and it smells like it, too!" I was unsure how to react - maybe this was a Midwestern version of a compliment? After all, who doesn't love their warm, cuddly grandmother? At the same time, his comment pulled me into a downward spiral of neurosis. Did my supposedly contemporary, modern living room, swathed in warm reds and cool greens, really possess the prim, prudish decor of a matriarch? My entire design aesthetic had been called into question by a lanky Jewish kid called B.Bo. But here was the clincher - B.Bo had also told me my house smelled like his grandmother's. After I overcame my dizzying paranoia, I sniffed around my house and realized I had forgotten to take out the trash -oops!

Later that evening, the conversation turned to feminism and the state of modern gender relations. I always thought my perspective on women's issues was fresh, young, and hip; my ideas were the epitome of Generation Y, cutting edge, and gleaned and adapted from the recent publication, The Female Thing: Dirt, Sex, Envy, and Vulnerability. When I started to articulate some ideas from Maureen Dowd's recent book, B.Bo piped up enthusiastically, "Mariam, you would get along great with my grandmother. You are just like her!" Not only did I smell and decorate like B.Bo's grandmother, but our personalities were one and the same. Who would have thought? A Pakistani girl from North Carolina and B.Bo's Jewish grandmother brought together in complete harmony in the crevices of B.Bo's mind.

After my conversation with B.Bo, I began to ask myself some philosophical questions or the Big Question of Life. Was there a grandmother lurking deep within my twentysomething soul? Or was B.Bo so emotionally tied to his grandmother that he saw a little piece of her in every person he met and every place he encountered? Unfortunately, these questions did not have easy answers.

--By Mariam, an MS1 who is now afraid of the North Carolina sun after months and months in Toledo, a place where the sun don't ever shine.