One of these things is not like the other.

Do you remember on Sesame Street when Big Bird would say, "One of these things is not like the other, can you guess which one?" Then they would present you with three toasters and an orangutan, and you would happily yell out, "The monkey! The monkey!"



Well, I was sending an e-mail to a friend (shout out to Tor, woot woot!) about planning another friend's (woot woot AL!) bachlorette party, and these were the sponsored links along the e-mail.

Sponsored Links
Bachelorette Party Supply
Discount Prices - Huge Inventory Same Day Shipping
www.NawtyThings.com
Ladies Night Limos -
Bachelorette Party Limo's Nightclubs, Stripper, Drinks/Pizza
victoryorganization.com/ladiesnight
Fun Bachelorette Party
Pole Dancing & Jacuzzi Party At our studio in San Francisco
www.heelsontheceiling.com
Bachelorette Party Ideas
Custom Bachelorette Party T-Shirts Unique Ideas and Free Shipping
CustomInk.com
Butt Acne
Find about the latest
Butt Acne Here!
InfoZephyr.Com/acne

What I'm wondering is why Proactive doesn't start marketing to the probably 100s of people that suffer from butt acne. I want Jessica Simpson to come on TV and tell me, "For years I suffered from the embarrassing effects of butt acne. And it was just awful because I was always on the road showing off my butt, eating M&Ms, and being stressed out. They had to touch up all of my ass shots until I found Proactive. Just three steps a day, and I'm on my way to clear and smooth butt." I bet people will be super excited when it's easier than ever to tell others to "kiss my ass!"

--By Farrah, who is too scared to go to any of these sponsored links provided by gmail because she is way vanilla for heelsontheceiling.com

The Writers' Strike and Me

The Writers' Strike has been going on since November, and at first, I barely felt the effects. After all, my DVR was filled to the max with new episodes of really neat shows. It was an all-you-can-eat TV buffet back then.

Now in the winter of our discontent, when it is too cold to leave the house and engage with human beings due to an asthmatic bronchospasms induced by the frigid, Ohio air, the Writers' Strike starts to hit me hard. My TV watching habits are a shell of their former selves. I have started to waver between watching the debased lowbrow entertainment that caters to the "lowest common denominator" and the relatively highbrow (for Middle America at least) - CNN.

For instance, I realized things were getting dire when I started to watch the new season of One Tree Hill, an absolutely shitty teen show that is filmed in my native North Carolina. It stars a skeezy star, Chad Michael Murray, whose marriage to his costar ended after a mere six months because of an ill-fated dalliance with Paris Hilton. Now dear blog reader, one may be wondering why One Tree Hill is so horrific; does the fact that Keven Federline (i.e. the former Mr. Britney Spears) guest-starred as a rapper-singer in the vain of CrazyTown last night make it any clearer? What is happening to me, I thought, but I continued watching because I was that desperate.

I also started subscribing to multiple movie channels (I have nearly 12 channels devoted entirely to B-list movies). Before the Writers' Strike, I used to be a relative movie snob. I liked obscure, indie foreign films and despised mainstream comedies for their crass commercialism and their subtle endorsement of bourgeois values. I am no longer that person; for instance, last night, I watched Night at the Museum with Ben Stiller. Although Ricky Gervais was hilarious, I recall that that movie was nominated for a Razzie award for Worst Movie. I also watched John Tucker Must Die, a crap movie starring Hollywood douche Jesse Metcalf. Sample dialogue:
Heather: John and I belong together. He's the varsity captain, and after all, I AM the head cheerleader.

At the same time, though, the strike has reawakened my civic interests as I watch CNN's coverage of primary/caucus season obsessively. Who will win South Carolina? Nevada? Primary season is like a sporting event, as one roots for a favorite team team. The tickers at the bottom of the screen showing the percent of precincts reporting is mesmerizing. The political mudslinging is really cool, too - did Hillary Clinton, the Tracey Flick of the election, just call Obama, America's own popular, football player with a charismatic smile, a drug user? I have also started to find Anderson Cooper really dreamy and imagine what it would be like if we were married (most likely an intellectual free-for-all as we trekked through the Amazon to inform ignorant Americans about obscure, environmental travesties).

I have also started to watch ESPN. I am about two days away from watching Sports Center (I'm not there yet though!). For example, right now, in lieu of Gossip Girl and its fantabulous wardrobe, I am watching a sweaty Tyler Hansborough in an unfashionably shiny jersey in the Georgia Tech - North Carolina game. Tomorrow I might even watch Nadal or the Man Who Made Tennis Boring, Federer, at the Australian Open. I have really changed, and perhaps even, grown, as a person. It is a strange feeling.

--By Mariam, who really did not enjoy today's presentation on fiscal responsibility at school today.

From Patient to Proctor

Anytime you make a fool of yourself, you are bound to relive its horror until the end of time. For most of us, our first encounter with a patient, even a standardized patient, is awkward to say the least. Whether you laughed out loud when you heard the word "impotence," or you tried to keep a serious face when the answer to your question "What brings you in today?" was "My neighbor Sheila's car," you gained a memory that cannot be erased. I can still vividly remember my first patient interview from last year. I pompously thought asking a few questions will be easy. When I actually sat down for my interview in front of my peers, my voice went several octaves higher than my normal speaking voice, and I used the clever phrase "um" several times in a row.

I've gotten much better at interviewing patients and consciously lowering my voice to a mature alto. Despite my improvement, I'm still new enough at the task that I easily get nervous and speak in my high pitched little girl voice. Although we're looking at these interviews as real-life practice, our standardized patients are just playing a role. They are terribly good at their jobs, and when one tells you, "I'm having problems pleasing my wife in bed," you believe him. We're not living in a big city, and since our standardized patients are picked from the staff and community around us, we inevitably encounter them in our real life.

Student often comment on the Nazi-like rule over our testing. Those who arrive 15 minutes early get lectured about the importance of being on time, while those who arrive one minute before the test must wait in the back to be checked in before starting. In the stress of awaiting our exams, I'm not sure if anybody notices that most of our test proctors are also our standardized patients. They are all there: the alcoholic church lady, the impotent chemist, and the raving old woman who would grease her legs with something called elephant ears (?!?). I know that these proctors were just playing a role, but I can't really get my first memory of them out of my mind. Although I'm always going to look at them as the raving impotent alcoholics, I wonder if they remember their interviewers and look at me as the med student with the sing-song little girl voice. They never show judgment when I'm in the room, nervous about my own skills, for which I am grateful, so I try my best not to judge them for the roles they are assigned to play. Though now that we actually have to touch these standardized patients to practice physical exams, I hope they use somebody other than our proctors. Otherwise, before tests instead of focusing on the facts I have to remember, when I receive my scantron I will be thinking, "It's the heroine addict with a hairy mole on his back... gross."

--By Farrah, who now wants to name her band My Square Heart so it can go on bumper stickers as "MY[ ]<3"

What I Did on My Winter Vacation Part I

Remember in grade school when everyone did a report on what they did over summer/winter break? Since I went to Carlisle, those reports were very exotic -i.e. "I went to St. Thomas!" "I went on a tour of Europe with all my friends and a man named Nobel Marshall, and my Gucci watch fell into the Thames river!" (a la Lyz B.). Since I was a foreign kid, our vacations consisted of going back to a "developing country," Pakistan and dealing with the harsh, uncomfortable living conditions there.

Looking at property with Ayyaz and Shahla!

And so, this past break, I went to Pakistan after four, long years. I was anxious about my trip. I had just recently finished my Immunity and Infection blog so I was super paranoid about the exotic diseases that were endemic there. What if I got tapeworm?

Things didn't start out well for me. On the day of my departure, a huge blizzard hit Toledo. It was nearly impossible to get to the airport. My taxi driver was an old man of seventy. This was going to be the guy to navigate the dangerous, snow-covered streets and carry my 50 lb suitcases? Alas, I made it to JFK.

My dad and I flew on Emirates Airlines, which was fairly pimp - much like the U.A.E. - needlessly flashy and conspicuous. My throat started to hurt, though, mid-flight, and I started to sneeze continuously. My dad had taken an entire Ambien and alas was little help in providing me with a diagnosis.
"Dad, I'm getting influenza!"
"Mariam, you have acid-reflux," my dad said in a drug-induced sleep haze. I had suffered from Ashlee Simpson disease for nearly 10 years, and I knew that this feeling of general malaise was not GERD.

We finally reached Lahore, Pakistan after 18 hours. It had been a long flight, and I was anxious to get out of my smelly, plane clothes. However, there was no sign of our 3 suitcases at the baggage claim. Then, we waited in a small office filled with scary, aggressive, desi men, who kept saying, "Welcome to Pakistan!" in response to my anguish over the lost luggage.

One boy of about 20 started chatting my dad and I up, and I thought in my head, I will impress him with my super premium Urdu-speaking skills. He won't even realize I'm from America! Tragically, this boy started to use big words I didn't comprehend. I stared at him blankly, and my dad translated. So much for blending in with the natives.

We finally headed to my nana's house after spending three hours in a claustrophobic office reporting our lost luggage. I didn't get my luggage until four days later, and I had to wear my only outfit - a Carolina sweatshirt that my mom had bought me from the little boys' section. All the while, I was filled up to my ears with snot and had developed a hacking cough that made me sound like a pack-a-day septuagenarian with emphysema. Attractive. My mother, in a desperate attempt to make me look presentable to relatives I had not seen in four years, told me put on some lipstick. Unfortunately, there was no hope for that ill-fitting Carolina sweatshirt and my non-matching Uggs.

Pictures of Jinnah everywhere!


--Part II coming soon: Jumping through bureaucratic hoops to get my luggage, and a surprise at the Karachi Sheraton.

--By Mariam, who is really upset by the New Hampshire primary results and has been awake since 5 AM due to jet lag.