What I Want to be When I Grow Up: A Blogger

During USMLE study time, I did 3 things:

1) Study.
2) Watch decade old-reruns of 90210.
3) Read ever single online publication/blog out there - the lowbrow, the middlebrow, the highbrow, the middlebrow for the high brow. From the obscure to the mainstream, I read practically everything on the World Wide Webs to avoid learning.

As a result of number 3, I came to a major conclusion: blogs are the wave of the future. A recent New York Times article was about a socialite who blogged about her married life and issues with dishwashers. If the esteemed Times could spend time waxing poetic about a blog composed mainly of uninteresting pictures, then how important had blogging become to the upper-middle class white people culture? The guy from Stuff White People Like had gotten a book deal. Julia Allison, Star Magazine's editor-at-large and the real-life version of Carrie Bradshaw, was a constant object of mockery on Gawker. Perez Hilton, formerly an unknown, chubby but snarky loser, was now a still-chubby, famous Hollywood power player.

Before the internets, artsy types hoping for a glamorous career amongst the New York literati had to be a well-connected rich kid who could hire a ghostwriter (I'm looking at you Jonathan Safran Foer...JK).

However, with the handy advent of the Internets, blogging has now democratized the entry into these formerly exclusive halls. If enough people found your thoughts were interesting, you, too, could get a book deal or sell ads at an upwards of $50,000. Maybe most of you devoted fans of this blog (all 8 of you) already realize this, but I just realized that blogging could be a legit profession literally two days ago.

Weirdly, last year, when the winter of my discontent became all-consuming, I'd ironically say I wanted to be a "blogger" when I grew up, and I laughed at the utter absurdity of such a career. After all, as a first-generation, in my world-view people got jobs as professionals. People didn't blog for a living. They wrote blogs as side projects because they were fundamentally, at heart, narcissists, who thought their unfiltered, unedited, grammatically-incorrect posts mattered to an invisible legion of kind-hearted readers.

However, blogging is merely a component of "micro-fame." It satisfies our voyeuristic sensibilities that define the current zeitgeist. After all, consider the popularity of reality crap shows like The Hills. The seemingly vapid LC's willingness to live her life out on the stage of Hollywood has granted her a certain tabloid fame, well beyond the allocated 15 minutes.

And so, we blog on, thinking that our spur of the moments thoughts matter in some small, shitty way. But now, there is this fear of "oversharing" on the internets that Emily Gould let us know about in her cover story in New York Times Magazine. She was a former gawker.com editor who would overshare about her relationships on her blog and on her posts on the website, and it came back to bit her in the ass when her ex divulged all her dirty little secrets in Page Six. So while all bloggers believe sharing is caring, I think we all know what the lesson here is: while Al Gore is an all-round do-gooder these days with his fancy Noble Peace Prize, his crazy invention of the Internet is really difficult to control. So, be careful, little lady, it ain't safe out there on them blogs.

--By Mariam, who can't figure out how Hilary Swank won two Oscars. I mean she played Steve Sanders' GIRLFRIEND on 90210.

A Blogging Gift

Hello Upper East Sider...er Toledoers, Blog Girl here,

Just kidding. The latter was a mere parody of bloggers who think of themselves as reincarnations of Kristen Bell since the advent of the show. Well, the Back Row Ballers are still on blog-iatus, tragically. I am withering away in North Carolina studying and having random aggressive, emotional outbursts aimed at foreign medical school graduates, NBME, and inexplicably Katie Holmes. So in short, I will not be back sharing sarcastic adventures for a while.

However, to tide blog readers over, I have found this so-bad-it's awesome blog via Gakwer: "socialite" Emily Brill's blog (her dad invented Court TV), a therapeutic exercise in narcissism (as I guess all blogs are) and self-aggrandizement and an obvious attempt to portray oneself as an up and coming "It" girl but with an "edge." Let the mocking of the disaffected, over-privileged Ivy League grads begin!

You know you love me, xoxo

--By Mariam, who seriously hates lysosomal storage diseases. HATES. THEM.

Ah yes, I am an ass

So I guess Mariam and Farrah stepping down from the blog means its time for other people to step up (I looking at you Abby). Luckily for the blog world, I embarrass myself in front of large groups of people on a very regular basis. Unluckily, I am a terrible writer and storyteller, so bear with me.

For some time now, my husband Adam and I have been talking about having a baby, weighing the financial burden (that’s right, babies are burdens, anyone who disagrees should watch the show Jon and Kate Plus 8) and the actual logistics of having something you can’t leave in a cage when you want to leave the house. Finally, we decided now would be a good time to try: Adam is making enough money and I am able to delay the horrors of the third year of medical school for a year while I participate in a pathology fellowship. I decided that if I became pregnant, I wouldn’t tell anyone other than Adam for the first trimester since the risk of miscarriage is very high. I did however decide to share with my friends that I was trying to have a baby, mostly because if I tried to keep it secret my head would explode. However I tried not to tell too many people, as I am pretty sure most people really don’t care about my reproductive status. And yet, somehow, at a school function I managed to tell 20 strangers (and Sapna) that I might be pregnant.

I signed up to be a peer mentor group facilitator at school and had to attend an orientation dinner where, in the grand tradition of leadership training, we played an icebreaker game. I had been popping in and out of the dinner all night because my lunch and I were not agreeing with each other about my having left home so when I walked back into the dinner for the third time everyone had formed into groups. I hastily returned to my seat and joined whatever group was located there. Upon sitting down, I was handed an index card and told to write something unique about myself, but to not put my name on the card. I figured at this point we would turn the cards in and they would be read aloud amazing everyone that someone so unique was in the crowd. So I turned to Liberty who was sitting next to me and said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I wrote that I might be pregnant? I mean, how ridiculous would that be?” She uncomfortably agreed it would be pretty funny (I should have taken the hint).

This is where the night took a turn for me. The rest of the game was then explained: we were to pass in our cards and they would be redistributed to be read aloud. Then the reader would guess who had written the card, and afterwards the person who actually did write the card would identify themselves as the writer. At this point my stomach dropped and I turned to Liberty in a panic, “Oh my god, what should I do!? I don’t want all these people knowing I might be pregnant!” Liberty shrugged sympathetically but as they already had passed the cards back out, there was really nothing I could do.

So my card was read around and every looked around in befuddlement. I could see in their expression they were thinking who would share pregnancy news at a peer mentor facilitator group meeting? I debated just staying silent and not admitting to my possible oven bun. Luckily I didn’t have to decide because Simas, the current pathology fellow whom I had informed a month earlier my husband and I were trying to have a baby so I could get an idea of my schedule for next year, was in our group. Immediately after my card was read he turned and pointed right at me. I turned red and tried to explain I had no idea that we would be reading the cards aloud or I would have said something like banal like “I have three dogs!” Instead I spent the rest of the dinner flushed with the realization that by tomorrow everyone in the school would have heard the story about this weird girl telling everyone she might be pregnant during an icebreaker at a school dinner! I guess one good thing will come out of this embarrassing experience. If later the hormone surges of pregnancy make me bite someone’s head off (I am looking at you Simas), they will have received advanced warning that I am both unhinged and possibly pregnant.

Ok, so I know I have more ridiculous stories like this (hopefully they aren’t so long). So if you enjoyed this one, and can remember me telling you any embarrassing story about myself let me know and I will write it up. If you didn’t enjoy it, you should probably be studying for boards anyways.

--By Sarah, who wishes her hair was as big as all the secrets she was filled with

A Blog Hiatus

The Boards are rapidly approaching, as my friends can attest. I inundate them daily with emails asking advice on what books they are using, reading, thinking about, and cherishing (I'm so sorry). As a result, Farrah and I will be taking a blog-iatus for the next 2 months. I am deeply sorry for such a crushing below, but I'm sure that the majority of you dear blog readers are medical school students yourselves and will also be busy with Goljan lectures rather than read well-crafted essays about foreign people.

So, I thought I'd say goodbye that that we will meet again in cyberspace soon. Ironically, when we resume blogging again in late June, Farrah and I will no longer sit in the back row, left side (and actually, Farrah doesn't really sit there anymore anyway, because she doesn't come to class). We will be (inshaAllah) full-fledged third years, and we will sit where the attendings and residents tell us to rather than an emo, foreign-filled row of our choosing. I thank all our readers - both the vocal and the silent - for their support and love, and we will see each other soon. Our blogs will take on a different quality. In my case, they will be less about medical school as an institution but about embarrassing things that have happened to me while on my rotations - I am horrifically clumsy so I'll probably just make a patient bleed by merely staring at them.

And so, in the immortal words of Heidi Klum, "auf weidersehen."

--By Mariam, who is wondering what book you are using for embryo? Can you tell me? E-mail me back! Thanks!

Agree to Disagree

One man's trash may very well be another man's treasure, but can these men be friends? To form a great friendship, you have to have some things in common. They should hate some of the things that you hate (strangers, talking on the phone with strangers), and they should love some of the things that you love (This American Life, my dog Teddy). We happily agree with each other that our taste in movies, music, clothing, and even toilet paper is generally more awesome than the taste of all the losers around us. Most of my friendships proceed like this indefinitely until we inevitably discover we cannot agree on something. Will this something tear our friendship apart? When these disagreements pop up, most friends will take any of the following actions:

1 - Drop/change the subject: I guess I might vote for Obama... your shirt is super cute!
2 - Make fun of me for my position until one of us moves away/becomes deaf/dies: It's okay, vote for Obama. I always knew you were an elitist who hated the working class. :p
3 - Start a civil debate: This is why I'm voting for Obama, why are voting for Clinton?
4 - Aggressively argue for their own position. These are the kinds of friends you can't bring up politics or religion around because they will take over the conversation. If I say I'll vote for Obama, will you shut up?

Those individuals who find themselves in the fourth category too often don't make friends easily, or I should say they don't keep friends easily. If you truly disagree, somebody has to eventually drop the subject or risk going from category three to four, where feelings are hurt. If you get too aggressive about your own opinion, I'm liable to stick my fingers in my ears and yell, "LALALALALALAALA!" until you stop talking, and I wont want to hang out with you anymore. (That's why I haven't hung out with Tom Cruise since he called Matt Lauer "glib") An occasional discussion in the third category may be a welcome intellectual discussion, but it carries a danger of escalating and ruining friendships. This is why Trivial Pursuit can be a very dangerous game. In this battle of wits, people will argue anything to get their pie piece. (I still think "the tube"="the underground" you competitive bastards out there!! I want my pie piece! *sob*)

I've started to realize that every good friendship also has a healthy element of disagreement. It keeps things interesting. I've also realized that if Abby or Mariam gives me a food suggestion in a restaurant, it is the exact thing I should NOT order. At least I got to try a lot of interesting foods I didn't like on the road to this discovery. Abby and I recently discovered we might disagree on more than we thought. We went to see Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day in an empty theater, where we could talk as loud as we pleased, and had the following conversation:

Farrah: That guy's pretty cute.
Abby: He's okay... *silence*
F: Oh no, that guy's cuter!
A: *silence*... um, he's not my type
F: Look at him play the piano, he has to be growing on you.
A: I'm starting to realize we have nothing in common

Fortunately, our friendship falls into the second category, and I've progressed to telling Abby a friendly, "You're stupid," on a regular basis. I think friendships are happiest in the second category. I know I'll never convince my friend Brittany to like South Park as much as I do, but I can just make fun of her obvious hatred of all fat comedians (Cartman, Chris Farley, Jack Black) because she's a "fatist." Next time you find your friend on the verge of offending you, just tell them how their shirt is super cute (or make fun of their ugly shirt), and go on your merry way.

--By Farrah, who found she simply can't focus when it's so nice outside, so she hopes it rains today

Am I a White Person?

If you are my friend, here is what a typical interaction consists of:

Mariam: Hello infidel white person!
Jack: You are as close to a non-white person I've ever gotten! Saracens aren't too bad, I guess.

Or something like this:
Mariam: When I was growing up, amongst white folk, and I was the only brown person, and my mom made me kabab sandwiches instead of turkey, it was really hard on me. Yay Pakistanis!
Abby: I'm a WASP, and I went to Lehigh, where diversity goes to die.
Sarah: I am figuratively and literally very white.

I also enjoy saying things like, "I had one white friend in college. She was a cheerleader in high school!" as if the latter fact is some affirmation that she was a normal, mainstream white person American. And so, the bottom line is this: my day consists of reaffirming white people's whiteness, and my own difference as a brown person infiltrating this hegemonic whiteness. I.e. I am so foreign, so different, so exotic, look at me, I had weird experiences with immigrant parents and strange, smelly foods.

Many people who are foreign but very assimilated spend time telling me that I am not foreign because I was born in America (Granite City, IL, which could possibly about as middle-America as you can get). People like Shlee, who is Persian, but considers himself an American, say things like: "I am not foreign. For example, my girlfriend is white." I think that's excellent that Shlee is doing well for himself in America, but if I were a white person, I would look at his dark hair and beard and think, not American! Maybe that's just me, though.

Anyway, one day, my entire identity was called into question. Last week, I stumbled onto a really cool blog called Stuff White People Like after reading about it in the New York Times. Mocking whitness was a clever idea, but then, things took a very dark and sinister turn. I realized I liked 41 out of the 95 top things white people liked.

This seemed excessive so I asked Jemily, my favorite medical school power couple. Emily cheerfully told me not to worry - the blog was mocking her, too! Easy for you to say, you are white, I thought meanly. Jack argued that these were merely "people interests." I personally thought that of course, he would think this - white males always tend to think that the their interests are the world's interests.

An identity crisis ensued. I prided myself on not being mainstream - I even stated as much on my Facebook profile. I was proud of my varied, decidedly unique interests (David Sedaris, English lit, Michael Gondry, Whole Foods, incidentally all things on said list). And I was proud of my ethnic heritage - always showing off about being Pakistani to make white people aware of their own inherent homogeneity. And ironically, this, too, was on the list. The blog made me realize not only that I wasn't very unique, but that I was almost a parody of the typical, upper-middle class, educated white person.

A mere blog made me realize a fundamental truth about myself - that I was more assimilated than I thought I was. I had white friends because I was just like them - I wasn't exactly the threatening picture of difference people often associated with foreigners (for example, Elvis, who came to the US in 1998, asked me what a "dreamboat" meant). All the white people thought they were being diverse and liberal by befriending someone from a different cultural background (extra brownie points because I was from a recently maligned religion and country), but in fact, they were just becoming bff with someone just like themselves.

In high school English, we learn about a hero's tragic flaw (or hamartia) in classic Greek tragedy - and I guess I found mine - hubris. I had such pride in my difference, my browness, standing proudly in a sea of white, and then I realized I wasn't so different after all. Because ultimately, you are a product of your environment, and hanging with all of these white folks had rubbed off on me.

--By Mariam, who went to Pakistan and had to experience the pitfalls of a "developing nation" for her summer vacations. Take that, white people!

When Drug Naming Goes Bad

It's a pity that we are supposed to memorize the generic names of drugs rather than the brand names.  The drug companies have fancy teams of marketers to make sure the newest drug brand name is unforgettable and rolls of the tongue in a phrase like: "Doctor, why haven't you tried prescribing me Requip?  I saw an ad for it the other day on my television."  They might follow up and provide you with their own diagnosis: "I didn't know my shaking leg was a disease!  I always thought it was because of my 18 daily cups of coffee. I have Restless Leg Syndrome, and you can treat it, what a relief!"  It's much easier to say Requip than its generic name ropinirole - that's 4 extra letters!  It's completely unreasonable to expect the American public to say a word that long.  Sometimes brand names have a handy way of remembering their drug's function, for example the drug Procede is supposed to keep your bald husband's hair from receding, catchy!  The generic names of drugs don't provide this luxury.  It doesn't matter that I remember the name Minoxidil because there are no hints revealing its function - it takes brute memorization to remember that it is the highly advertised hair loss drug Rogaine. 

Abby and I have both started to pay attention the drug ads on TV because it's a little bit of studying hidden in our marathon of watching The Hills.  Watching TV the other night, we noticed the newest drug for acid reflux.  Before I give you the name of the drug, I want you to think of the board game Mad Gab where you get a card that says "Eye Mull Uvma Chine" which you repeat over and over again, until you finally yell out "I'm a love machine!"  The name of the new drug is AcipHex.  You know like acid effects on your stomach, only they used pH in the middle of the word (you know, like a measure of acidity!), and you pronounce it "ass effects."  With this revolutionary drug, you can eat the entire plate of food shown to the right without the bothersome effects of acid reflux... or if you pronounce it my way, without the bothersome effects of flatulence.  

--By Farrah, who is sorry. She phoned this blog in because she's starting to feel the pressure of board exams looming like the bleak gray skies of Toledo.