Fast Cars

There is an obvious gender bias in our blog's fan base. Girls find us hilarious as we offer laughter in times of annoyance when one just can't find that cardiac plexus in a juicy cadaver. On the other hand, guys call this blog names because the very essence of their masculinity is threatened by even reading it. So per Cristina's suggestion, this entry will be about my car so as to attract a male audience.

My car is black. It has large wheels (six-spoke, 17" aluminum alloy) that take me places. It has a 3.5 L V6 engine and 270 horsepower with a 19.2 gal fuel tank. And some ass tool keyed the side of it in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Not cool, not cool at all.

--By Mariam, who would ask Best Buy's father for proposal of marriage if it were physically possible.

Self-diagnosis

Every time somebody asked a member of my family what I was like as a child, they inevitably mention that I used to eat dirt. (Don’t say “that explains a lot” – you’re not as funny as you think you are) I was two years old – it seems to be a very small part of my life in the grand scheme of things, but apparently it was memorable. My own theory stems from my love of chocolate cake – dirt kind of looks like chocolate cake… right? Anyway, I would sit happily in front of the potted plants in my house stuffing tiny handfuls of dirt in my mouth. My mom had to start putting the plants up on counters and tables so that I couldn’t reach them. My older brother and sister would promptly put the plants right back on the ground to laugh at their stupid new little sister.

Now that I’m an adult (ok, the adult part is debatable) in medical school, I can diagnose myself. I had Pica – specifically Geophagy. Pica is defined as an appetite for non-foods. Geophagy is defined as a practice of eating earthy substances such as clay, chalk, and laundry starch. It’s quite common in children, but as long as it stops around the age of two, your kid will probably be okay. Now you’ve learned something new – ergo this blog was not a waste of your time. Take that!

-- By Farrah, a winter coat enthusiast

PS - The kid in the picture is not me. I just found it on the internets. I told you pica was common.

FARRAH AND SARAH’S GUIDE TO “McGiver”-ing Rx

Do you have conjunctivitis? No time to go to the doctor? You have three options:

1) Find some antibiotics. Crush them up. Pour them into visine. Shake it up! Drop into eyes.

2) Don’t have any antibiotics? Find some Neosporin. Squeeze into Visine. Mix into a slurry! Smear over eye.

3) No Neosporin? Let a dog lick your eyes because their saliva has anti-biotics. Make sure the dog wasn’t just licking his own ass – that would be bad medicine.

Journey around the Classroom in 180 Days

After talking to the plebeian masses, I realized people like blog entries about medical school. Since I am an egalitarian writer who writes for the public (in the manner of those $6.99 mass market paperbacks sold at Wal-Mart), this entry is about how I found my seat in the back row, left side of medical school.

When classes started, I chose the left side, middle aisle for a seat, mainly because the front rows were prime real estate for individuals who got to class at 7:45 A.M. and set up their pencils in an organized manner. I began to call these seats the "cheap seats" because the people who sat there 1) were stragglers, having the audacity to come in at 8:04 A.M, and 2) had not yet found their five best friends they would do everything with (short of sharing underwear). Sadly, only one person in that row would talk to me – JPL. Even JPL, though, would get tired of me saying weird things to him, like "You have a crush on [insert older male professor’s name here]," and he would tell me "sssshhhh" so he could learn how to be a doctor. It was a lonely time.

One day, second row, right side aisle invited me to sit with them. Although the company was enjoyable (hi Emily, Jack, and Christy!), it was emotionally disconcerting because I could see the teacher so well. I could see the teacher's mannerisms, his facial features, but most importantly, I had to pay attention. So, I moved.

Then, Block 2 began. I walked in (late) and saw Sarah, a student with a husband (hi Adam!), sitting in the back row, left side. Since Sarah never came to class, she was like a rare flower that only blooms on a certain day in December during the winter solstice; my excitement upon seeing her was quite understandable given the circumstances.

My move to the back row, left side was an excellent decision as it led to the creation of this blog. The back row, left side is accepting of my weirdness (except for Tahir who thinks that I "have already mapped out the conversation before I even talk to [him]," an accusation with a tragic ring of truth). The back row, left side is awesome because (mostly) everyone here is exactly like me (mainly Farrah, the Iranian, more emo version of me). In conclusion, although my journey around the classroom was like Odysseus’ torturous wanderings to get back to Ithaka, the wonder of the final destination has made the temptations I had to withstand completely worth it.

--By Mariam, who likes to eat chicken carcasses whole (No, just kidding that was a reference from Amelie)

Entry from Second Row, Right Side Aisle

Today we have a contribution from a guest blogger, Emily, who sits with Jack and Christy in the second row, right side aisle.

MR. CLEAN IS MY BOYFRIEND

So I think I'm going to go and get one of those handy-dandy Swiffer cleaners and some Clorox wipes. I know, they're too expensive and very yuppie-ish, but OH SO HANDY! And come to think of it, I'm kind of turning into a yuppie anyway, aren't I? I'm 22 (young), smack-dab in the middle of Toledo (urban), and learning to be a doctor (professional).... scary. Anyway, besides, I just don't have the time to be all housewifely and actually mix up a batch of Lysol and use rags and then hang the rags to dry and then wash them and blah-di-blah blah. That's one thing that sucks about being a med student.... no time or money.

I also need to get it out of my head that weekends are when it's time to clean. That's always how it was when I was growing up, so I think it's embedded in my brain. But it makes for a messy, dirty little apartment here, because if I get busy and don't clean the kitchen on the weekend, I'm like, "Dangit! Now I have to wait until next weekend!" Um, no. Cleaning is allowed on weeknights too, I promise. (Note me talking to myself. They say it's one of the first signs of insanity, and I do it all the time.)

Another thing. My dishwasher? SCARY! It's like a separate entity all by itself. Ignore the fact that it's loud.... many dishwashers are, no big deal..... it's still scary.
First thing: It doesn't turn off when you open the door. Like, if you start it and then realize you forgot to put in a pan? TOO LATE, the water cannot be stopped. The dishwasher never looks back, it is driven and one-track-minded. Creepy.
Second thing: It is angry and forceful. If I put lightweight plastic dishes in there, like plastic cups or tupperware containers, they end up all upside down and on the floor of the dishwasher and full of water, and very traumatized. My dishwasher is a bully, for sure.
Third thing: It is HUNGRY. I put my contact case in there, to get it good and clean? Opened up the dishwasher, and the contact case was gone. The dishwasher ate it. It did the same thing to the bolt that held on the handle of my saucepan lid. Yes people, my dishwasher managed to unscrew the bolt from the lid and eat it. Seriously, it's gone. The dishwasher scares me.

Hmm... I just said I don't have time to be all housewifely, but I look back and see that I've filled up three paragraphs with RAMBLING ABOUT HOUSECLEANING. I need to not be so lame. I need to lead an exciting and eventful life that I can look back on and smile and tell thrilling stories to my grandchildren.

But first, I'm going grocery shopping.

--By Emily Muller, a MS1 who knows lots of things about science.

The year 2000 is so retro

The year was 2000. Not so long ago for VH1 to do a variety special on the year, but long enough to be just a little retro. I was sixteen years old. It was the new millennium when we were just a little terrified that the world might come to an end and/or we couldn’t program our VCRs properly. I personally was more afraid of what Conan O’Brien would do with his “In the year 2000 sketch” after the year 2000. NSYNC was at the top of the charts with their first album – girls everywhere swooned, as boys everywhere rolled their eyes. But there was another hit song that year, which brings us to the story at hand. Who let the Dogs out by the baha men was all over the summer charts. (By the way, the baha men won a Grammy that year, a f*ing GRAMMY, for this song)

On weekends, my friends and I would often have a sleep over in the basement. We were all fast asleep on the floor the next morning after watching several movies and insomniac music videos. My mom came over the house intercom, and the loud beeping jarred us awake. My dog, Pepper, had trapped himself in the garage and started barking. She beeped the intercom precisely three times, echoing pepper’s barking. The she said in a falsely deep voice, with her adorable accent, “who is going to let the dogs out?” echoing the baha men. Three more beeps, and then she said again, “who is going to let the dogs out?” The answer to this question was me; I was going to let the dog out. We all started laughing, and my mom was established as the chillest mom in the world.

-- by Farrah, a native of Colorado

A Short and Trashy Romance

This story is crap, so I deleted it. I'm just keeping the space to host this photo, lame of me, I know.

--By Farrah, a native of Colorado