An Origin Story: About Sally

Once upon a time, on a cold January day, when the wind chill was around -23 degrees, I started to call Farrah "Veronica" and "Sally." Now, why I called Farrah Veronica is obvious. Anyone who has ever talked to me knows my three-year obsession with the CW show Veronica Mars. The show got canceled this year, and I was left heartbroken (damn you, Dawn Ostroff, damn you to hell!). I truly aspired to be a sassy, super-sleuth like Veronica, but I digress, and that is a blog for another time.

Anyways, Farrah, being the perpetually quirky, emo friend that she is (she is better served being on sketch comedy rather than being a lowly medical school student), just went along with her new name. Soon, "Veronica" got phased out (too many syllables), and all the backrowballers were "Sally." If you called out "Sally," everyone would look up. How convenient! All of the boys thought it was the dumbest thing ever. Since I was the biggest pushover, they would tell me that calling someone "Sally" was "very second grade," "stupid," and "weird." Elvis psychoanalyzed the situation as my sad attempt to fit into mainstream American society. Nevertheless, this blog is a type of origin story (a la comic books) as to why I chose Sally as a moniker for all of my friends.

Sally (aka Sarah Louise) is my good friend from grade school. She always did really crazy things when we were at Carlisle that got her into trouble. For example, once on a choir trip, a larger girl named Ruth Decker tried to strangle Sally on the bus for some transgression or another. Sally defended herself and got in-school suspension. Now, shenanigans such as these seem commonplace in middle school, but when you go to an uber-preppy school such as Carlisle, where no one has physical fights except maybe over the score on the 18th hole at Chatmoss Country Club, this was huge, front-page gossip news.

The most awesome thing Sally ever did was in the ninth grade. I was sitting next to Sally on the school bus as we came back from a field trip to the local community college. My friend Liz was sitting two seats in front of us with her new hunky, eleventh-grade boyfriend, Cullen, the school golden boy who was destined for preppy greatness at Notre Dame. Cullen and Liz were the Carlisle Upper School's version of Brad and Jen (before Brad left her for that sultry hussy, Angelina). All of a sudden, Sally pulled out a maxi pad from my bag, opened it up, and stuck it (sticky side down) on Cullen's head.

Although Cullen was resident golden boy, he was an unimaginative, dull one, so he just looked vaguely shocked and pulled the offending product off. Then, Mr. Owen-Williams, the stern Welsh headmaster, sprung into action. Since Mr. O-W was foreign and had a snobby accent befitting of a headmaster, all the students knew not to screw up under his watch, except Sally, the wild card. He hovered over Sally and me, and asked, "What is this?" Sally looked frightened and had to sit with Mr. O-W for the rest of the ride home as she received a stern lecture on not putting maxi pads on cute eleventh graders' heads. Later, Sally told me that Mr. O-W called her mom to tell her about Sally's faux pas. I often wonder how that conversation must have gone - a tall, dignified Welsh educator explaining about a prank involving feminine products is always very....awkward.

--By Mariam, who hopes (fake) Sally had a nice birthday!

Find single doctors near you!

After a night of debauchery on my birthday (including playing guitar with the blues band at the Bronze Boar - thanks for stealing that guy's guitar Abi!), I decided to opt for a tamer night and stay in. While listening to some relaxing indie tunes and shopping online for tickets to Chicago, I stumbled upon several ads for the website Match.com. Match.com has always been rather cavalier in their TV ads by telling us that "it's okay to look" because really they have no idea. For instance, if you are married, I would say that it's not okay to look. Although, I do think it's a fair assumption for Match.com to think I am single and looking because that could be a pretty big chunk of the population. However, their online ads are getting eerily specific.
For example:
They somehow managed to figure out that I am a girl seeking a guy, that I like being around intellectual people, and that I have an interest in medicine. It's not a far fetched assumption to make if they have some sort of cookie that tracks me searching both MDConsult for medical information and Nordstroms for pretty shoes. Always in the mood to conduct experiments, I refreshed the page with the ad to see what different people they would use to lure me to their site. Three out of six times, the doctor showed up. Two out of six times, the intellectual guy showed up. And only lowly time, an athletic guy showed up. I'm not a very good target for these ads because I somehow doubt that their are groups of dashingly good looking doctors, intellectual guys, and/or athletes just waiting for a sassy young med student to online date them. I also find the model terribly annoying. In his doctor act, he's trying to come off with a look that says, "I save lives all day long, and I'm making all this money that I don't know what to do with. I need a special lady to come home to at night. And if you're wondering, my life really is like Grey's Anatomy - you can call me McSexy." For some reason, I think an actual doctor at the age of this model would be saying, "I work all day long, and then I study, so I won't have that much time to spend with you. I'll try to hang out with you when I can. If you call me McAnything, I might throw up all over myself."

I can only wonder what guys see when their tailored match.com advertisements pop up. Are their lured by single female doctors? Does a guy with an interest in medicine see an attractive girl wearing nerdy glasses and dressed in scrubs? I somehow doubt it because as most girls in med school know, it's not a good idea to mention you're in medical school to a guy you've just met. I've actually used it before as a very effective method to deter unwanted attention from a creepy guy. When I fly home, I read JAMA or New Physician on the plane. The reasons I do this are two fold: 1- I will only attract the attention of those un-intimidated by a smart girl, and will otherwise be left alone by the many strangers on the plane, and 2 - Adults will think I'm older than fourteen, or at least a child genius akin to Doogie Howser.

I find it rather creepy that you can go on a website, design a perfect mate, and see if it matches with the reality of anybody in your area. I feel a connection made between a doctor and a girl that goes to a website looking exclusively for doctors would be terribly superficial. Although on the opposite end of the spectrum, I am really annoyed by the t-shirts worn at school that say "Be the doctor your mother always wanted you to marry." I know that it's all for female empowerment or whatever, but it implies that if a girl marries a doctor instead of being one that she's somehow failed. I suppose I'm may be easily annoyed, and I'm just not ready for the world of online dating or its ads.

--by Farrah, who is fascinated by the $1 bus rides from megabus

An Inconvenient Baby

My older sister just had her first child, making me an aunt, and making my mom tell perfect strangers that she just became a grandma. If Al Gore were making a movie about a baby, he would have to make a movie about this one. Arriving three full weeks early made baby terribly inconvenient. He might even be causing global warming. His tiny body emits a remarkable amount of heat - all that brown fat we learned about in cell bio. Damn you ATP uncoupling heat reaction!! My own birthday is in May, and I had been telling my sister's belly for the past few months, "Don't you steal my glory baby. May belongs to me. It's my month. When you come out, you'll be all cute and new and exciting - if you're born in May, you will steal my thunder. You stay put until June." But he didn't listen - babies are really unreasonable. Don't get me wrong, we are all really overjoyed. But we are all also terribly tired - this was how my last week went:

Monday: Backrow Ballers conduct important Veronica Mars-like investigation of anonymous poster on blog.
Tuesday: Investigation gets forgotten as my sister goes to the hospital to have her baby. Sally was on the phone with me when I found out, and thought I was making an excuse to stop talking to her. Baby is up to no good, pulling good friends apart!
Wednesday: My sister is still at the hospital waiting to have her baby. I pick up my mom and little sister from the airport, and I make several wrong turns taking them to the hospital. I pull out my second rate GPS device of a laminated map to find my way around. I become a chauffeur/catering service to the hospital. Take out food for everybody!
Thursday: Baby arrives at 3:30 am. Very convenient baby, it's not like any of us would want to sleep at 3 in the morning. Baby is in good health, and everyone is sleepy. I still make wrong turns en route to the hospital.
Friday: Still at hospital, still eating take out food, still sleepy, still no sense of direction.
Saturday: I remain a chauffeur/catering service to the hospital. My dad and brother arrive. At least 5 members of my family (everyone but me) participate in every diaper change in the tiny hospital room. Baby turns yellow - I suspect he may be a shape shifter.
Sunday: My dad decides to finish the hardwood floors that my older sister and her husband started before the baby got here. This means we all need to help finish the hardwood floors. In a 7 hour marathon of woodworking, the living room is completed. Baby sits in a tanning bed, and comes home.
Monday: Work on hardwood floors continues as dining room is completed. Baby learns to pee conveniently right after you take his diaper off.

This is how I had expected my week to go:

Monday: Backrow Ballers conduct important Veronica Mars-like investigation of anonymous poster on blog.
Tuesday: Chillaxing and painting
Wednesday: Playing guitar and tom foolery
Thursday: Sleeping and a trip to the hair saloon
Friday: Shopping and going out.
Saturday: a trip to Chicago
Sunday: more Chicago fun
Monday: continued adventures in Chicago

All things said, my new baby nephew is really freakin' cool, and I'm really happy to be an aunt. Baby is even cooler than the Sears tower. I'm afraid of heights anyway, so I don't really need a trip to Chicago to see it's unnecessarily tall towers. One time in Spain, I paid 9 euro to go to the top of the Sagrada Familia, only to be terrified at the top. Hmm... that was off topic. Anyway, the point is I'm afraid of heights... or maybe the point is I'm happy about Baby... I'm still too tired.

--By Farrah, who watches the Daily Show and the Colbert Report with baby to introduce him to punditry

You Can't Do That on Television

Eeek. Television faux pas on The View. Now I know why the 19th Amendment was so feared - womenfolk belong in the kitchen. Up with patriarchy! Down with feminism!

--By Mariam, who is saddened by Veronica Mars' untimely demise.

Why I Don't Watch Medical Dramas Anymore

TV shows about doctors are inescapable these days - doctors in tailor-fitted scrubs and A-line white coats are on every single network - CBS, Fox, ABC, NBC. Since I am a major TV whore (I am emotionally attached to my DVR and used to aspire to be a writer for the oh-so-illustrious TV Guide), I invariably watch all these medical dramas - Grey's Anatomy, House, and ER. Ever since I started medical school, though, medical themed TV shows have really lost their appeal. Here are reasons why:

1. Whenever I watched Grey's or House, instead of feeling immersed in the lives of these perpetually bed-swapping interns, I would get really stressed out. Some patient of the week would always have a disease that I had studied recently in class, and I would just start quizzing myself about everything I knew about said disease (which was usually not much). It was also a horrible reminder that I should be studying rather than clocking in more hours in Total Time Spent Wasting Mindless Television that Caters to the Plebeian Masses. And so, medical dramas are no longer a one-hour escape from the monotony of med school - they are just annoying quizzes on the causes of jaundice and lupus coming from the mouths of Patrick Dempsey and John Stamos rather than CBC or Dr. Baptista.

2. Even though I haven't stepped foot in a hospital this year, and most of my day was spent in HEB 100, it still doesn't take an experienced medical genius to figure out that these plot lines are completely unrealistic. Now, of course, everyone knows this on some level, but now, I have realized that show runner Shonda Rhimes even gets basic details wrong. For example, after a months in anatomy, I know that scrubs are universally unflattering on everyone (it doesn't matter how skinny you are or if you are gymorexic). They are super baggy (in the style of M.C. Hammer pants) and drape your figure like a body bag, rather than actual clothes. However, on Grey's Anatomy, Izzie, Meredith, and Christina's scrubs fit more like couture from the House of Chanel than the ugly puke green scrubs I had to wear for months. Also, Dr. Cameron's white coat on House is another point of contention (or source of envy) for me. Her coat is so perfectly A-line and accentuates her slim figure beautifully, while mine (provided courtesy of UTCOM) is huge and baggy and makes me look like an overweight, middle-aged mom rather than a fashionable professional.

3. I used to love House - Hugh Laurie has really dreamy eyes, and he is such a bad ass! However, after a whole block on Behavioral Science, one of my teachers diagnosed Gregory House with antiosocial personality disorder (yes, that's the one most commonly associated with sociopaths!). That one lecture has completely ruined the show for me. It actually frightens me that a sociopath treating patients is an actual premise for a show, and Hugh Laurie wins an Emmy and Golden Globe for his performance every, single year.

And so, these are the reasons why medical students should avoid TV dramas set in hospitals. You know you want to watch true trash television like Laguna Beach, anyway.

--By Mariam, who is viscerally disturbed by the massive amounts of free time the summer provides.

A Blast from the Past: A Very Retro Blog Entry

Blog readers get a brief look into my twisted, loser-ish mind at age 13! I found my diary in a deep crevice of my room and found it horrifyingly painful to read – I discovered that even as someone as pretentiously indie as me was once a big, fat dork with a crush on an infidel. Seventh grade was the first and last time I ever kept a diary. When you read what I wrote, you'll realize why.

5/15/97 (some names have been omitted to protect the innocent):
Today was really embarrassing! In science, I was doing my experiment with yardsticks (we use those a lot!), and he* started touching my hair with it. Then, he hit my butt. Then during 5th period, I had to take my IOWAS (in homeroom)...Then he hit me with a piece of paper. I was totally distracted. I think I failed. Then, I told Elizabeth F. about it, she said, "Oh, he's just flirting with you." God! How embarrassing! After lunch, I was walking to Art with Eliz. F, and he was in front of us. He opened the door. She told me about how Hunter burped in her face. Then, out of nowhere, Elizabeth says, "I heard about what you were doing to her at the IOWAS." He said, "Oh yeah." Then she said, "You like her, don't you?" He said, "No I don't." Eliz. F. looked at me, and I mouthed "no." God! It was really embarrassing…

5/20/97
[Girl who left Carlisle and moved away eventually] invited all the Clique #2 (at least, I think) and she didn't invite me. First, she left us and went to Clique #1. Then whenever she is in a fight with the clique, she's all buddy buddy with my clique. I really don't' care about that, but she didn't invite me! I hate everyone at Carlisle. This weekend, I'm going to do something really cool! I really have no idea what I'd do with Raabia, Naadia, and Bushra. They rule. All my Carlisle friends suck. Jenna's cool (most of the time). U don't understand how much I depend on them. My TRUE BFFs!

My tragic realization: the events that transpired in the 7th grade are eerily reminiscent of a typical day in medical school. This year, someone would always make uncomfortable comments like, "S/he likes you!" or "You like him!" or "Get a room!" This realization is fundamentally depressing – as twentysomething, future doctors, have we regressed to middle school behavior? Now, that is a truly scary thought.

--By Mariam, who is meditating upon time travel, regressive social behavior, and her dorky middle school wardrobe.

Tales from Backpacking

As a twenty something in the new millennium, I pretty much had an obligation to go find myself backpacking through Europe. So, I saved up all my money for a year and ran around to five countries last summer. I decided to make a travel journal of my adventures. I would sit in museums and make sketches and poignant reflections of the art in front of me - yep, I was that pretentious looking chick. Towards the end of my month long adventures, I was getting pretty tired and more eccentric from all that hostel life, and it showed in my journal entries. We were traveling in that Venice of Eastern Europe - Prague. I left about this time last year, and I'm pretty much filled with nostalgia about my magical adventures. So now, for you, here is an abridged entry from my travel journal from June 12, 2006.

THE DEFENESTRATION OF BIERTNEY

(in case you are wondering, Biertney is my BFF and travel buddy's nickname - given to her by my grandma who couldn't pronounce her actual name of Brittany)

Our two heroins woke up late on this warm June morning, for they were sleepy heroins. The woke up and they knew that they needed CULTURE! So narrowly escaping the first defenestration of Prague, they made their way to the National Theater. They passed countless MEMBERS OF THE RESISTANCE MOVEMENT, but they could not stop and help resist - They needed tickets to the Opera! They arrived at the theater and were met with this ominous sign:

Ztp. tehotne zeny a prislusnici obdoju maji prednostnipravo nakupu.

Translation: Physically impaired, pregnant women, and members of the resistance movement take priority in purchasing tickets.

Our poor heroins! They should have joined the resistance movement or gotten knocked up! Alas, it made no difference because when they checked the schedule there was only drama - no opera or ballet, and our heroins still do not know any Czech. So they continued on in their exploration of the fair city of Praha. Aboard the tram and up the hill, they found the large grounds of the Prague Castle. Guards stood at the door - guns blazing, looking dapper in baby blue. They snuck past the handsome young guards using their feminine wiles and wit. The fair ladies decided to explore the Old Royal Palace first, leading to the site of the second defenestration of Prague. With all the excitement and mystery of defenestration in the air, Farrah jumped in on the mob mentality and tried to defenestrate Biertney. To no avail however, because apparently Biertney is undefenestratable.

Our heroins made peace with each other, and moved on to see the coronation jewels - which they would try to steal because that's what Carmen Sandiego would have done. They explored the crypts, but there were no jewels to be found! So they went off to the History of the Prague Castle exhibit to learn more about the grounds, and snuff out the jewels. Finally, they saw the jewels behind the glass in that very history exhibit! The coronation jewels were however not all that impressive. In one crown, the jewels had been replaced with glass (no doubt by Miss Sandiego herself), and in the other crown the jewels were large but harshly cut, unpolished, and generally un-pretty. Our heroins considered taking the jewels and perhaps having Tom Shane spruce them up a bit, but they were being watched by grumpy troll-like guards. They left the exhibit, and went down the Gold Alley where the Alchemists of old used to work tirelessly. Farrah could really respect that all that chemistry went down there, even if it was foolish chemistry. They walked down the alley to discover that they had paid for a ticket to walk down an alley of stores = LAME!

--By Farrah, who may be an aunt as early as TOMORROW!

Thoughtful Reflection on Sweet Valley Med

The end of the (school) year always makes one nostalgic and reflective on "closing time" (you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here) at Sweet Valley Med: Toledo Edition. Although part of me wishes that the backrowballers (aka backrowbums) had drama, intrigue, and suspenseful twists and turns that rivaled an Aaron Spelling nighttime soap, in reality, Sweet Valley Med was a lot tamer with more blog rivalries and daily Borat impressions than catfights and hair pulling.

Now, this lack of soap opera-like drama could be attributed to the fact that the backrow was filled with lots of foreign/ethnic kids with two fairly conservative Muslims (of the non-fundamentalist variety) thrown in. And everyone knows that said foreign/Muslim kids are unable to manufacture drama in the traditional, exciting sense. After all, there's a reason why Beverly Hills, 90210 and Dawson's Creek were not ethnically diverse shows – stick an Asian kid into the mix and he'll just be studying hard as Mom and Dad look on (that wouldn't make exciting television).

Dear blog reader, you may be wondering then, why I refer to UTCOM as Sweet Valley Med. Although the backrow was unable to create drama in the traditional sense, there were still moments this year that could be plot lines in the poorly written, trash series, Sweet Valley High from my youth. Below I have cataloged "special moments where someone from the backrow learned a profound life lesson" and "a time filled with tension and anxiety amongst backrow individuals."

1. Accepting Friends for Who They Are: During "Separate but Equal Night," Farrah and I realized a sad fact about our backrowgangster friends – their tragic, alienating obsession with video games. That night could have torn us apart, as Farrah and I made a resolution to find new friends, who didn't stare at TV screens for four hours straight and ignore human company. Then, I realized my inherently anti-social nature and crippling inability to reach out and befriend people not in the backrow. And thus, crisis averted!
2. Compromise is Bad: One day, it snowed so hard in Toledo that school got out early. The backrow's foreign logic told them to not to go home to wait out the impending apocalyptic snowfall, but to go to lunch! Some wanted to go to Sam's Club/Toledo Market. Others were inclined towards Wing Station, a depot for horrific smells and unsanitary food. We settled on Ruby Tuesday's, but the damage was done. The act of compromise was too much to take, and after that, the backrow usually split up during lunchtime so no compromises regarding food would have to be made again.
   
3. A BackRowBaller Learns a Life Lesson #1: After a mean comment on the blog about my credit card usage, I got super upset and started to cry in a bathroom stall at Mulford. They hate me, they really hate me! The internal monologue in my head repeated over and over a la Sally Field's Oscar speech. After ten minutes, though, I got a grip and realized that twentysomethings cry and create drama over things like their boyfriends turning gay or their Chanel bag being stolen on the subway, not over an anonymous comment on a mere blog. That was when I realized that my histrionics were comparable to Susie writing something like "Shelly iz a slut" in the girls' bathroom in junior high.
   
4. A BackRowGangster Learns a Life Lesson: During the AMA elections, Ashot learned the hard the way that doing an entire speech in the voice of a 60 year-old foreign grandmother is not a good idea to win votes from fellow medical students who hate laughter.
   
5. The Rest of Medical School Class Learned a Life Lesson: The backrow would get fundamentally pissed off if someone took our seats in the morning. Despite many backrow people's pathological inability to get to school in time to claim their seats, we still got viscerally angry when someone would be there as a temporary place of refuge before they got back to their "real" seats with their "real" friends. After a political pamphlet was posted on the blog and Shlee's characteristic Persian rage, the rest of med school learned that the backrow doesn't think sharing is caring when it comes to seats.
   
6. A BackRowBaller Learns a Life Lesson #2: Sarah was hesitant towards Farrah, Abby, and I calling her "Sally." I think she believed she still had an identity or something, and she grew to love the idiosyncratic nickname I gave her (as an homage to Sally Lewis, my dear friend from Carlisle).
   

Ultimately though, the year was filled with learning and good, wholesome fun. Hopefully similar life lessons and dramas can be repeated next year (inshaAllah)!

xoxo

--By Mariam, who is like really obsessed with Clive Owen after watching Children of Men.

blah

So I realized something truly awful today. Aimlessly trolling around the internet is not that fun if you don't have any studying that you are supposed to be doing. I have no idea what I'm gonna do for the rest of the summer.

So Long, Farewell, Au weidersehen, and Khuda Hafiz

The backrowballers' first year of medical school has finally come to a close! When we started this blog back in November on a passing whim, I never thought that we'd overcome our attention deficit disorder and keep this site going for as long as we did. After all, one of the things that I am known for is coming up with lots of ideas and then losing interest about 2 minutes in (examples - playing a fullback/goalie in field hockey for Carlisle School, playing piano and then clarinet in middle school band, starting a dork-fest pre-med club at UNC, and a brief, tragic foray into fashion design sketching).

And so, it has been an eventful year for the backrow blog, here at Sweet Valley Med with our blog war that rivaled the Capulet and Montague feud, blog comments ranging from supportive and loving to the hateful and stupid, and even a blog secret admirer.

We will continue to blog on in the summer (although entries will have a more light-hearted, summer vibe, rather than the dark dramas and tribulations of medical school vibe). But nevertheless, in the immortal words of the Killers:

"We hope you enjoyed your stay
Outside the sun is shining
It seems like heaven ain't far away
It's good to have you with us
...Even if it's just for the day."

Thanks so much for reading, dear blog reader, and good night, and good luck!

--By Mariam, who should be doing some last minute cramming for neuroscience, but feels compelled to blog.

Teaching the MCAT

I graduated a year early from undergrad, and decided to take a year off before medical school. For some reason, I decided I could make a few easy bucks by teaching MCAT preparation. I had not actually paid attention during my own MCAT classes, but my score had magically gone up 11 points. There had to be something informative about these $1500 classes. Also, since I had paid so much for these classes, I might as well get something back. Looking at these classes from the inside gave me a whole new insight into my own MCAT teacher. I thought she had been unbelievably dull, but well dressed. She might have actually been pretty chill, but the script she had to read was unbelievably dull, plus she was forced to wear professional attire. Already a shining beacon of awkwardness, I now had to play the role of MCAT teacher. I am readily mistaken for a 14 year old at airports, and putting me in professional clothing just makes me look even more ridiculous. I do not know why I thought I could teach pre-meds. I really should have known better because I had been in classes with most of the people who would become my students. You and I both know that 90% of pre-medical students are egotistical control freaks.

When I walked into my first class, I got the same look from my students that I had given my MCAT teacher. It easily conveyed their inner thoughts of "um... when does the real teacher get her? This chick was in my O chem class, and I'm pretty sure I did better than her." I knew I had to impress them somehow, so I introduced myself trying to come off like Doogie Howser: "Hi, I'm Farrah, and I graduated in only THREE years from college with a degree in Biochemistry. Soon, I'll be going to medical school in Toledo." They were not impressed, so I tried to get through the script I had been given. I encouraged the class to ask questions, secretly hoping they did not have any. I took a different approach and I decided to impress them with my incredible short term memory for names. I slyly made a seating chart of where everybody was sitting, so I could call people out by name while pretending to look at my script. This method works because people do not like being called out by name and were being forced to pay attention. If I had been the student, it would have been my worst nightmare. My first class was definitely somewhat disastrous, so I knew I had to work really hard to make the second one better.

I aggressively did extra research on my next physics lecture so I could field any questions about how the see saw model of torque could apply to clinical situations. I drew ridiculous pictures and diagrams for them, and could not stop laughing as I made them. This sometimes started them going because they could laugh at me laughing at myself, and I didn't mind as long as they were happy. I tried coming up with cheesy mnemonics to tell them. "To remember Charles Law relates to Temperature and Volume, I like to think about how the show Charles in Charge was on TV," I'd tell them with enthusiasm rivaled only by a cheerleader on speed. I'd get no reaction out of them. It's like they didn't watch Charles in Charge, but honestly who didn't watch Charles in Charge?! I knew they were messing with me, so I followed up with, "You guys don't like Scott Baio?" I got two or three laughs and considered the class a success. When I was done teaching, I sincerely told the ungrateful little snots that I wanted them to do really well on the exam. I did actually want them to do well and felt really responsible for their performance. I volunteered to hand out granola bars on test day that the company gave me, and wished all my students good luck on the test. Even if they didn't like me (and I'm pretty sure they didn't), I sometimes won them over with my sincerity at the end.

Eventually I fell into a groove and enjoyed teaching a little bit more. The testing company had given us the approach that as teachers we are experts on the MCAT, and we don't necessarily need to know anything beyond the scope of what the MCAT tests. While that works for teaching SAT or ACT, that doesn't apply to teaching pre-meds because you need to know everything about everything for them to pay attention to you. Once I figured this out and arrived for every single class over prepared, I could teach them a lot easier. It almost makes me sympathize with my current professors in medical school because we really are a pain in the ass to teach. Almost, but not quite.

--By Farrah, who sometimes wonder what would have happened if she paid attention during her MCAT class

An Intimate Profile: The Back Row Gangsters

When I moved to dreary, flat Toledo from sunny, supremely awesome North Carolina, I was apprehensive about the type of people I'd meet in the Midwest - I expected classmates who talked like bit players from Fargo and liked cheese, football, and family values (a la Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby).

I was partly right with the notable exception of the BackRowGangstas/Mafia (I am unable to keep up with whatever hoodlum name they are calling themselves each week). While this group of foreign kids trash talk about the backrowballers and spread negative propaganda about our blog on their site, they still warm the cockles of my jaded heart and inspire warm, cuddly feelings that I thought were reserved only for Chinese babies and puppies.

The BackRowGangstas/Mafia include: Ashot, Shlee, Elvis, Tahir, and Roman. These guys all say (except for Shlee) they are bad ass mother fuckers in the manner of Donnie Brasco or Tony Montana, but I know that they are as cute and sensitive as a custom-made teddy bear from Build a Bear in the mall. These guys are real softies despite all their posturing as original gangstas, "who shoots first and asks questions later."

The following is a helpful chart that separates the myth verses reality of the backrow guys as they struggle to establish themselves (unsuccessfully because they are such cutie-wootie students) in the footsteps of giants like Vito Corleone.

The "Gangsta"	Myth	Reality
Ashot	"An Armenian thug who shoots first and asks questions later"	-A nice guy who enjoys being nice to people and not making judgments about them unless they are Turkish. -Also likes historical books about Native Americans, Jane Austen, and foreign affairs.
Shlee	"We got a direct descendant of King Xerxes who will bitch slap you back to Persia"	"We got a direct descendant of King Xerxes who will bitch slap you back to Persia" (but not while the Lakers are playing).
Elvis	"Badass Balkan from Albania"	-The only true thing is that he's Albanian, really liked anatomy, and loves cubicles. -Likes European soccer and enjoys calling close friends "douchebag. "
Tahir	"One Pakistani Caliph Jamil who'll cut your head off if you look at him wrong"	-He's from New Jersey, drives a Honda, and sees dead people. Oh whoops, that's Haley Joel Osment.
Roman	"An Uzbeki Jew who is part of the Russian Mafia"	-A Jew from California who likes to say "Niiiice" in Borat voice on a regular basis. -Is not a part of the Russian Mafia, but does let grandma set him up on dates, which I can only assume to mean that he loves his family like a nice Jewish boy.

--By Mariam, who is totally kidding. No offense, y'all.

A Serious Blog Entry

After an extensive, thorough investigation of backrowballers.blogspot.com, I realized that 100% of this blog consists of "funny" blog entries (I already foresee comments from "anonymous" saying stupid shit like, "Girls aren't funny." They are, get over it). This was a truly disconcerting finding. Did this mean that Farrah and I have extremely funny lives (being foreign lends itself to inherent tragicomedy)? Did this mean we were incapable of being serious? After all, stories from the back row, left side should convey a range of moods, besides quirky, lighthearted moments. Even someone as awesomely funny as David Sedaris can show his serious side (see: "Hijra").

All of this blog soul-searching pulled me into a spiraling paranoia. What if this blog was the reason that people looked to me for being their source of entertainment in the soul-deadening monotony of medical school learning? What if this blog was the reason for #9 on the Back Row Mafia's DSM-V criteria? What if the funniness of this blog was the reason for global warming, the Darfur situation, and Britney Spears' recent meltdown?And hence, this blog entry, a serious self-analysis of the backrowballers blog, resulted.

Tragically, though, even this blog entry consists shades of comedy because I am super paranoid that if I did a blog on "Issues" like my hateful thoughts on Ann Coulter, racial profiling, or the radicalization of French Muslims, the 16 dedicated readers that we do have would be forever turned away (everyone knows that issues elicit icky, serious, self-reflective feelings). And so, the backrowballers blog marches forth on its straight, narrow path of comedy, providing sunshine and happiness to the downtrodden, depressed, medical school proletariat masses. The backrow has dedicated itself to a cause: comedy, and it can't get all deep and profound and start discussing say, the lasting effects of the Holocaust on shtetl life in Eastern Europe.

--By Mariam, who thinks she failed with this whole concept of serious blog entry thing.

Dear Matt

The library is truly a magical place. I always heard stories of girls snagging available doctor guys at the library - all that whispering in soft tones, and all those...thick binders filled with notes and highlighters - these things all spell romance and are so conducive to finding love.

One day, after studying at the library all day, I went to Ruby Tuesday's with some friends. I ate a crab cake burger with extra vigor and had uncomfortable conversation about something deep. When I came back, I found my notes had been defiled; an unknown person named Matt had written, "I think you're cute. Are you free for coffee Friday? Love, Matt." For a second (but just one second), my heart fluttered.

Then, my gut instinct kicked in, and I knew someone was screwing with me. Sapna, my lab partner who had spent the better part of anatomy laughing at me with her partner in crime, Lisa, had been lurking suspiciously in the library that day. I asked the library regulars who had left this mysterious note - everyone claimed they knew nothing because everyone knows habitual library-goers are as tight lipped and close-knit as the Italian Mafia. The day yielded no answers.

Two days later, I returned and found another note from "Matt." "I stopped by on my break, and you weren't there, I'll check back later." What "break"? Break from his custodial duties? Break from the local brothel house? A break from prison? Once again, no one could tell me if anyone had dropped by my table to leave the offending notes. Sapna played dumb:
"Dude, I've been sitting here and didn't see anything. You're psycho!" (Whatever).

After a careful handwriting comparison of the two notes (a la Veronica Mars), I found that there were 2 different Matts. Sadly, I couldn't get the real (or copycat) Slim Matt to please stand up. Ultimately, "Matt" keeps writing comments on the blog, and I'm firmly convinced that someone out there knows what fucker is messing with me. Please, if you have any information about the identity of the Matt, come forward. Harassment via secret admirer is a serious crime and is not tolerated in the state of Ohio. Come on, do the right thing.

--By Mariam, who is Desperately Seeking Matt.