thought experiments

Grief

2011-03-12T22:03:00.004-05:00

Well, so it's been a year. And, as is the way in life, things are different but still the same. I quit my job at the second veterinary clinic where I worked in order to decrease my hours and save my sanity. I picked up a few more hours at the primary clinic so I wouldn't be entirely destitute, and I'm trying to live on less. Not much fun when you have only eight bucks left in your budget week, and I eat cheese and crackers for dinner occasionally, but I have a home and a car and, better yet, I have not felt like yelling at a client, quitting my job for a lucrative stripping career, or banging my head against a hard surface since the new schedule has happened. I'm sure my friends and family appreciate this part as well.

It's a hard job sometimes. When I tell people what I do for a living I often get one of two responses: "I always wanted to be a vet but couldn't do that--it would be too hard," or, delightedly, "Don't you love what you do?"(The expected answer being yes). Maybe I'm just too honest to answer with a simple "yeah" and move on. Or maybe I'm not like other vets--but in talking with my colleagues I think I am. (And this may come as a surprise to you, but substance abuse and suicide are fairly common in my profession, sadly.) But I don't always love my job. In fact, sometimes I hate it. But probably not for the reasons people might think. I wanted to become a veterinarian to be useful, to help others (animals and people), and to find meaning in my job. But like any job, there are parts I'm good at that I like, parts I'm good at that I don't like, and parts I'm only average at. (For my vanity, I don't think there's anything I'm terrible at, though I could be wrong. Hey, still employed.)

And as for the first comment: I know what people mean when they talk about what seems hard about my job. But the things I find hard aren't always the things that people expect. What's hard for me is explaining inconclusive test results to owners, when we both really really wanted answers. What's hard is explaining why we have to run another expensive test when this one didn't get us there. What's hard is giving advice and having people ignore it. Of course the sickness, the illness, that's hard too. But sometimes the sickness has a second side for the doctor, completely separate from the terrible fact that someone's pet is sick. There is the thrill of diagnosis, the skill of answering the why and the what to do that is rewarding. In fact, this is the key, I think, to the reason why I did become a vet and the people that make that first comment didn't. It's tied to the other common thing I hear, mostly from younger people who are giving reasons for why they want to go to veterinary school: "Oh, I love animals." And the most valuable thing I can say to these folks is this. You must love more than animals. Loving animals in my profession is almost beside the point. Of course you love them. But so do a lot of people. It's called owning a pet. But you have to have something beside the love of animals to get you through the hard days, or truly, the sickness and the illness WILL bring you into a dark place. You need to love science, and medicine; you need to have the curiosity, to feel the little twinge of excitement when you get an interesting case, and the surge of satisfaction when you figure out the answer. You need to love giving advice, and be prepared to let go of your ego and sense of responsibility when people can't hear the advice. If you go into this profession with only a love of animals, you will have no reserves when they die.

And even with that love of medicine, some days are hard. Today was hard. And so I write to think of the things that do get me through, because today I lost a patient. And he was a good dog, a well-loved dog, a dog that his owner would have done anything to save. And there was no way to save him. No superhero, no magic, no medicine that could have saved him. I can be grateful his death was quick and painless, and that in some ways this death may have been kinder than the one I see more often: the long, grinding, slow halt. But today that thought is not a comfort. I am simply sad that he is gone, and sad that all my knowledge and skill would have done nothing for him. These are the ones you carry with you for years, and that you struggle with. I struggle with: how to carry them without letting them turn into heavy stones in the heart, how to move forward. For as much as he was not my dog, grief calls to grief, and becomes a sign of how we all suffer loss. How do we go on when those we love die? How do we remember them without living in darkness, and how can we not grieve? It is natural to comfort one another, but I think we are too quick to passify and to turn away from painful feelings. Maybe it's ok to sit with grief a while, and be with sadness, and feel sorrow. Maybe that's another way to move through loss.

Hey buddy--you know who you are--I'm sad. I feel terrible for your mother, who is devastated. You were a good egg, one of my favorite patients. And I will always remember you.

A Poem Falls into the Silence

2010-02-13T19:57:00.001-05:00

As my husband is currently finishing up his Master's degree in Education, I found this appropriate.

Did I Miss Anything?

Question frequently asked by
students after missing a class

Nothing. When we realized you weren't here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours

Everything. I gave an exam worth
40 per cent of the grade for this term
and assigned some reading due today
on which I'm about to hand out a quiz
worth 50 per cent

Nothing. None of the content of this course
has value or meaning

Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose

Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
a shaft of light descended and an angel
or other heavenly being appeared
and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
to attain divine wisdom in this life and
the hereafter
This is the last time the class will meet
before we disperse to bring this good news to all people
on earth

Nothing. When you are not present
how could something significant occur?

Everything. Contained in this classroom
is a microcosm of human existence
assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
This is not the only place such an opportunity has been
gathered

but it was one place

And you weren't here

by Tom Wayman
From: The Astonishing Weight of the Dead
Vancouver: Polestar, 1994.

More gardens is good

2009-06-14T21:57:00.006-05:00

See the garden grow!

I am winning the battle (but will always be losing the war) against weeds. I am very tickled to see all the growing that is happening outside our house. Sowing seeds is an act of faith, and I realize I seldom perform such acts (or at least, ones I notice so clearly). Some of them came up, and I was happily surprised. The roses are also MUCH happier than they were last year. I have yet to address their aphid problem, but they seem to be soldiering on. Funny how they grow so easily here. I grew up thinking of roses as the ultimate prissy flower, watching my mother try to baby them through the North Carolina heat, and the June bugs. So I watch my roses now with wary pleasure, ready to lecture them severely if they start acting uppity.

No uppity roses here. Look at all those greens! Salad, anyone?Peas. And beans. And tomatoes. Oh my.

My first poppy. And the first dahlia, which was supposed to be a late summer bloomer? Far be it for me to discourage you, dahlia, but it is June. Overachiever? Don't worry, me too.

We also planted a little rock garden with succulents in the strangely useless space between the house and the front walk. It sits under the eaves and hardly gets any rain. Perfect. All the succulents like it--they are blooming!

That's your garden update. No deep thoughts. Just dirt. Mmmm. Dirt.

THE GARDEN SAGA

2009-04-12T15:15:00.008-05:00

So, I promised a garden sequel. Let's revisit the house:

Here we are, the 1954 single-story ranch. The previous owner took very good care of the basics and left off the frills. The roof is solid, the foundation good. Inside, all the walls were white, the curtains were white, the kitchen was white, and the bathroom you have seen. Outside, all the ferns were sad and sunburnt. And at some point, the car was parked on the lawn. We didn't really get to a garden last year, but this year we were determined. The backyard is home to the mobile destruction module of doom (otherwise known as our 50lb tortoise, Rasputin) as well as the wild and wooly doglets, so we decided to keep the tender young veggies away from the depredations of our menagerie. Plus, less to mow! Behold:

Originally, there was simply lawn choking the iris and rose bushes, as well as a chain link fence. We have no photo records of the fence, as we prefer to erase its memory completely. Now we have the new flowerbed and two large raised beds for veggies. At some point, there may erupt another one or two beds on the other side of the (BLINDING!) white door. Not to mention maybe a new paint job for the house itself.

It has been lovely this spring, and I am jealous of all the flowering plants in other yards. I am partially assuaged that the people several houses down have a large magnolia tree with fuschia blossoms. I LOVE those trees, but they get quite large. So I can enjoy the blooms vicariously. Here's spring at my house, looking south.

That is, of course, my car in the foreground. I think about taking off the Cthulu sticker, but then it makes me giggle again. Maybe it's timeless. (You can't read it completely when you click on the picture, but the caption reads: "Why vote for the lesser evil? Vote Elder Party." Hee.)

Now, if only I had planted more daffodils last November. I'm a fan. As for the vegetables--this is why it's called a saga. You now, it continues...

Who am I? Where am I? What is this blog?

2009-04-08T17:40:00.069-05:00

I claim amnesia. Really. I only just remembered who I am and that I used to write things on the internot (a Joelism).

FINE. Like all journals, diaries or other attempts at self chronicling I suck at consistency. Most of the time, my urge to write is driven by the grumpy part of me. As in, just another forum to bitch. But I refuse to use this space to whine constantly (or, as the Brits say, whinge--I love that expression), though I do reserve the right to do it occasionally. And I do believe heartily in self-editing, something that the current climate of blogging and twittering makes (sadly) unusual. I can whinge in my own head, but I don't really think YOU want to hear it. I'm usually just home from work when I have time to write, so I'm usually thinking about work and frustrations related to, etc. Also, I am trying (believe it or not) to be professional. While dealing with clients can be tiresome, and sometimes I just want to complain about my day and blow off steam, I take my job fairly seriously and believe that being in the medical field people don't want to hear you discuss their foibles and shortcomings (maybe this is a little different for a vet, since my true "patients" are hardly ever trying in the same way that their humans are, so I'm not usually directly talking about my patient). A doctor is someone you are supposed to trust. Sometimes we give them almost super-human status. This is a little bit too high of a standard (look into Atul Gawande's essays on medicine and learning); we do have to be human (and able to make mistakes), but since a blog is a semi-public forum, posting snarky stories about clients is different than complaining to a friend or even my own head. I certainly, even when discussing a difficult day, never use names to identify anyone.

Anyway, I've decided that what I enjoy about my friends' blogs is being able to keep tabs on the small joys and events that fill their lives. While I may not be very good at keeping up regularly, I can fill you in on a few things that have happened in the past few months.

HOUSE WORK

When we moved in (March 2008), it looked like this:

The door is open in this picture, which is just as well since it's a vast expanse of hideous whiteness. One day to be changed, as will the strange pinky-brown (baby poop after beets?) color. It's a small house, 880 square feet, no basement or garage, but for all it's smallness it has an easy, open layout and a great backyard. Note the fern under the large window. Then note that the window in question faces west, which means we get a lot of very hot afternoon sun. Then consider the poor fern, who prefers damp and shade. Needless to say, he is happier after we transplanted him and his other hapless brethren to the forest behind the folks-in-law's house. Why people, why? Do you hate the fern?

Anyway. When we bought the house, the bathroom looked like this:
Note the lovely faux marble plastic shower insert. And look! An original wooden sashed window. IN the shower. WOODEN. With the cute little mini-shower curtain that together with the regular shower curtain created a vortex sucking effect so that when showering, you had to fend off an unwelcome and enthusiastic plastic hug from both sides. By the way, the depth of that tub is exactly 12 inches from basin bottom to edge. A true foot bath. And by my standards, woefully inadequate. I am an inveterate soaker. I had lived with no tub for exactly 2 years. Far too long, for someone that takes baths almost every day. Do you like the adorable shell sink? The cabinet was so rotten at the bottom that eventually the front board below the doors fell off. We still have the wooden toilet seat, I confess, but mostly this is just due to laziness.

We put in a new bathtub before we moved in. (This involved removing the wall in my closet, but I digress.) But the bathroom remained in state of transition for almost 7 months, sadly enough. We showered in plastic sheeting for longer than I'd like to remember. Finally, a good friend took pity (and now can claim my first born child), and over a series of 3 weeks helped me put this beast together. Here we are laying out tiles for one wall.

I designed the shower on graph paper first, although I really only specified where major tiles would go, and we added the different colored tiles at random when we laid the walls out on the floor.

I should mention that this project started because we have a fancy tile place in town called Pratt & Larson. Their tiles are often hand painted and cost a month's supply in groceries. Lucky for us, they have a seconds store which carries extras, slightly damaged or off color tiles. My mother-in-law has been collecting these tiles for a while, so I first got the idea to use them when we were looking through her collection. So I went over to the seconds store, found a color I liked, and bought a bunch of light green tile I wanted to use. But then, of course, the much ignored and hidden art major took over my motor centers and headed me into the fancy tile section. The rest is, as they say, history.

This is what the shower looked like before the tile. Note the new VINYL window that Joel installed. With privacy glass. As much as I miss that sensation of being encased in a wet plastic hug, we now know that there is a lack of water dripping through the wall and rotting the window frame and bracket beneath it.

The color is a little off in these pictures. This is the far left wall. You can see how at first, you start with a plank (one you hope is straight) and tile upwards. After that, it's masking tape to hold the tiles to the ones above them.

That's me in the bathtub finishing the bottom tiles.

Here's part of the final result. I tried to make a montage of several photos to give a sense of the whole, but can't apparently master the photo program well enough to get it to work. Plus, I'm just not that motivated to learn how, since just remembering the way my back felt after three weekends of mortar and grout makes me want to stop posting this. Needless to say, I very much like my shower now and try not to notice the little places where things are not quite aligned (did I mention my inner perfectionist and my inner artist are in league and give me no peace?). The best part? I can shower now.

Here you can see the new sink. I figure if we ever leave this house, I'll just have to carve out the shower and re-install it. On second thought--I guess we just won't move. The children will just have to sleep in the shed, as there are no more bedrooms in the house. It'll be like a clubhouse-- fun! I mean, we won't lock them out so that they can still come in and use the bathroom. It'll be fine. As it is, I'm planning on attaching hooks to the (future--not pregnant!) baby's clothing so that we can just hang it from the ceiling. If I use bungee cords, it'll be just like a home-made "Johnny Jump Up." Social Services will understand; I hear they're very nice.

So ends the bathroom saga. Next up: THE GARDEN EPISODE.

Light entertainment about food

2008-09-28T23:04:00.054-05:00

Not really normal for me, so all the better. Thanks, Jessi!

The following is a list from a blogger who has challenged omnivores everywhere to try everything on this list once in their lifetime. I must admit, I shall never meet that challenge, but I had fun thinking about it.

Directions for fun:

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison (I've had elk, and there is some venison in my freezer, but I haven't tried it yet)
2. ~~Nettle tea~~ (Ugh. Tea. I can't handle it unless there is cream and sugar. I was spoiled by that trip to London at the age of 10)
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht (Not a big fan, but I've eaten it. The best thing to do with beets, in my opinion, is to slice them, cook them, and then stab then, while saying in an evil creepy voice "BLEEDING BABY BEETS." Great fun when you are young and forced to eat beets. At least everyone suffers.)
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari (YUM)
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. ~~Fruit wine made from something other than grapes~~ (No wine for me, can't have sulfites)
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. ~~Foie gras~~ (Sorry, this is one food I won't eat for ethical reasons. I guess we all draw line somewhere. Plus it sounds gross. The liver is the body's detoxifier. I choose not to eat it.)
24. Rice and beans (I should technically cross this one out. I hate beans. But I'd eat it if I were really hungry, with less protest than some of the crossed out things.)
25. ~~Brawn, or head cheese~~ (Umm. No.)
26. ~~Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper~~ (Eek. Mouth on fire! Bad pepper!)
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. ~~Wasabi peas~~ (see number 26. Except substitute peas in the last statement.)
32. ~~Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl~~ (Actually, I really like clams. But they don't like me. After three entirely separate incidents, I got the message and stopped eating shellfish in general.)
33. ~~Salted lassi~~ (No salty drinks, please.)
34. ~~Sauerkraut~~
35. ~~Root beer float~~ (Boy, I'm weird. I hate rootbeer. Funny how opinions are so strong and so individual. However, I love a coke float with chocolate ice cream--go figure).
36. ~~Cognac~~ ~~with a fat cigar~~ (No strong alcohol. I find it too strong and exceedingly bitter. Just ask my husband. Hey-he gets a designated driver built-in, mostly.)
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O (Vodka's about the only thing I can handle, since it is disguiseable. However, I'd just as soon have the Jell-O without the vodka)
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. ~~Whole insects~~ (Maybe, but I doubt it)
43. ~~Phaal~~ (Again with the spicy. I'd eat curry, but I have wussy American taste buds, plus spicy make my mouth itch. Is that normal?)
44. Goat’s milk
45. ~~Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more~~ (see number 36)
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala (My favorite Indian dish)
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut (The Krispy Kreme doughnut originated in my home town. One of the most divine items. But secretly, even better: take a slightly stale glazed Krispy Kreme, melt a little butter in a frying pan, and re-fry that doughnut. You CAN improve on perfection. Plus, I grew up in the South-everything's better fried.)
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear (Tastes like apple. Only more dangerous to eat.)
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal (I probably have had certain portions of this, but I think I can safely say I've never eaten a Big Mac. Just the plain old cheeseburgers.)
56. Spaetzle
57. ~~Dirty gin martini~~ (Revisit #36)
58. ~~Beer above 8% ABV~~ (ditto)
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. ~~Sweetbreads~~ (Being in the veterinary trade, just can't eat certain organs, sorry.)
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. ~~Durian~~ (Have smelled it, and that's as close as I EVER want to get.)
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake (Oh yes, all of these!)
68. ~~Haggis~~
69. Fried plantain
70. ~~Chitterlings, or andouillette~~ (See 62. Actually, I'd much rather eat a thymus than offal. I've seen too much E.coli in my time to eat intestines.)
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. ~~Louche absinthe~~ (Alkyhol. Nope.)
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. ~~Baijiu~~ (Also alcohol)
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. ~~Lapsang souchong~~ (TEA--run away!)
80. ~~Bellini~~ (more alcohol)
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. ~~Spam~~ (Sorry Monty Python.)
92. Soft shell crab
93. ~~Rose harissa~~ (Apparently spicy. No can do.)
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano (Have eaten, do not like.)
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. ~~Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee~~ (No coffee either--how do I survive?)
100. Snake

And people say I'm picky....well. Maybe. Truth is, I find many foods bitter that others like, such as the coffee and alcohol. Even coffee ice cream is gross to me. I have gotten a little better, since I can take a little coffee in my chocolate cake, but given a choice I'll eat some other dessert than tiramisu. And then there's the allergies--sulfites, clams. And did I mention the texture thing? Pudding, creme filled pastries, custard, yogurt--they all give me the gag factor. The bean thing? Kind of a combo texture bitter thing. Damn. I really do like a lot of foods, I swear. And I have a few thing to add to the list. I've eaten squirrel, octopus, conch, star fruit, tobikko, anchovies, green tea ice cream (hideous and awful, but I've had it), and an entire seven course dinner based on mushrooms. So much to eat. Mmmmmm. Too bad it's bedtime.

P.S. I'm sorry I had to remove all the links, but I'm not versed enough in html to make the blog do what I want (namely bold, link AND keep things the same damn color at the same time) and with the links the format was getting confusing. So if you need to n=know what the heck everything is, either Wiki it, or go back to the original blog page (linked above), where everything is linked still.

Endings

2008-03-21T20:35:00.051-05:00

Funny way to start a blog post after almost a year, I guess. But this week has been dramatic, making me wonder if there's something about the end of March that I should hide from next year (considering my March of 2007), or just sort of pushing me back into needing to say something about life by shouting it into the electronic soup.

Part the first. This has been one of those death/crisis weeks at work. As a veterinarian you do see plenty of death, and plenty of heartbreaking diseases and/or circumstances that lead to death. You don't get used to it, and you shouldn't. The best news for anybody who wants to get out of the ER and into private practice is that 1) you see way less death and, 2) often it has more meaning because the animals you see that are dying you know, you grieve for. Maybe number 2 should make it sound worse, but somehow, at least for me, it isn't. It's not easy, and it sometimes makes me cry later on that night, at home, where I try to leave work behind, but there's something noble? ethical? at least decent about providing that one final service for a patient; making it as quick and as peaceful as possible, and providing their family with compassion and understanding during a tragic and heart-rending decision.

Many weeks, I see no grieviously ill patients at all. It's been quite some time since I euthanized a patient, and I am grateful to the universe for that. And yet, this week many dear and beloved patients have struggled to their utmost and failed. The elderly dog with terrible immune-mediated joint disease that finally no longer responded to medication. The neurologic dog who howled and circled and stumbled all night. The 21 year old, 5 pound cat whose kidneys finally failed her. And we have had some near misses with grave undertones: the newly diagnosed congestive heart failure dog; the ferret with abdominal effusion likely from cancer; the ferret with a blood sugar too low to measure. Somehow this week has felt less like "the universe hates us" or perhaps "why do bad things happen to good people" and more like a gentle "all things end in their time; acquiesce to the slow march of time." I don't really know why, because I have definitely spent a lot of time in the why do bad things happen camp, but I am moved profoundly and quietly by this sense of grace in the face of grief.

Part the second. Several of my friends may be emotionally where I was last year; stunned, broken and full of doubt. From relationships lost to abrupt loss of future paths, this week has been scattered with little emotional shock-waves. To those I love I send as much support as I can. Whether that be talk or not, a silly card, or complete disregard of the subject at hand and a deep insightful discussion of the best easter candy to be had in the US, I'm there. It's spring here in Oregon, please call.

Stray Poems

2007-05-30T00:36:00.000-05:00

I was sitting in my car, on the way to lunch after doing some volunteer neuters at the county animal shelter (Note to self: kittens are way too cute. That's how they sucker you. Must resist all cuteness, for the dogs are plenty of trouble already.) And I happily caught the daily "Writer's Almanac" on NPR. Now some may not like Mr. Keillor (My stepdad has never been a big "Praire Home Companion" fan, finding it too saccharine, but I have always been an unashamed enthusiast. First of all, it's funny. Second of all, I'm a sucker for folk music. I am also sometimes a sucker for saccharine. And truthfully, the show also reminds me of my father, who died when I was eleven. It's a small connection through the years to his character and his life.), but I confess I brighten to hear his quiet and measured voice making connections to history. And, even better--there's POETRY. I'm hopelessly hooked. Today's poem hit me just right; the kind of moments where I involuntarily exclaim or grunt, as some image hits me in the literary solar plexus; quiet punches to the gut that have come to be my markers of a good poem. Grunt on, oh readers.

Advice to Myself

Louise Erdrich

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic--decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

Savage momentos indeed. I like that poems find you like stray dogs sometimes; you didn't even know you needed a furry greeting or a friendly tongue at home, but then one finds you and your days somehow become infinitely better.

There oughta be a word....

2007-05-25T14:36:00.050-05:00

Since the advent of computers and the internet, we've developed new terminology to help us grapple with all these new developments. This fact is really not all that surprising, considering the number of technical dialects we humans create when new areas of expertise arise (consider the jargon of the medical profession--that example, or course, comes easily to my mind). In fact, it's hard to believe that most folks around the globe don't know these words. (Doesn't everybody know what a web site is? Apparently not. It seems very strange to us when we are reminded that this language is not universal. And yet, I remember the time before the virtual takeover, much the way my parents remembered getting their first television. In 4th grade, my school got its first computer; it was kept in the library and it was a huge and awesome responsibility when you got to try out your handwritten attempt: a program that made Logo the turtle draw a flower, or a rocket, or, more often than not, a random smattering of colored lines that was obviously NOT the flower or rocket you had in mind.) So I think there should be a word for that sense of guilty inadequacy of having not once written anything (clever or otherwise) in your blog, leading to procrastination and a compounding of said emotion. And due to the current cultural trend of flippancy leading to "i"everything or "e"this, it should include some clever reference to blogging, or virtualness. Blogofear? As in "blogofear of the blogosphere?" Gack.
Whatever it's called, I've got it, leading to days where I randomly remember that old post where I gamely called blogging my new attempt to get in touch with my inner self and cringe. Ahh, well. I guess that inner self is still somewhere around here. (Hello? Hey inner self--what gives?) I was never that great at journals either. Good thing I'm not Catholic. (Dear Diary, Forgive me. It has been 4 years since my last entry/post/confession. I'm sorry about the mildew, and promise to reform.) In truth, sometimes my inner self isn't interested in exposing itself and its messiness to anybody but my nearest friends, who will at least pat her inner back and not hold the worry and tears against her. So, in short, much has been happening outside the laptop for the last several months, and I can finally give you the run down in short, business like blurbs. Assuming you are not mildewed.

1. I'm getting married. In August. People keep asking me if I'm excited. To be honest, the feeling I have when I think about it is just more a sense of expectant pleasure, and a feeling of rightness. Joel and I have been together for 5.5 years and through three moves across the country, and I can't imagine a better future. But to me, my wedding day is about celebration and having a nice party with friends and family. Elegant? Sure. But fairy princess wedding day industry by the book planning? Ugh. The whole commercial aspect is disgusting. Doesn't anyone else find it ridiculous to spend over 1000 dollars on a dress you wear once? And a bachelor/bachelorette party? Catering to that notion that the night before you get married is somehow the end of freedom, and freedom has something to do with getting really trashed and watching other people get naked? I know that many people don't follow these rules (you go, people!), but the connotations make me itchy with revulsion. I'm kind of enjoying discovering how different I feel about all the traditions, and a lot of what I find about the expectations of planning a wedding are amusing. I have to have colors? Does puce count? Ring bearer? Well maybe the dog--no, she'd run past us and try to catch squirrels. Bridal shower? Umm--isn't this just an underhanded way of getting more presents? What would I do with lingerie? I like pretty panties as much as the next girl, but truly, I have no use for rash inducing lace or wedgie themed teddies. Bridal games? Shudder. Let's go out for breakfast and talk about our lives, or books, or reminisce about the times we went skinny dipping in college. Please, keep the impractical underwear at home.

2. I quit my internship. Big surprise, maybe--maybe not. Considering the bitterness and crankiness of the last 9 months (and mostly, I try not to blog out bitter and cranky, but I've bet you noticed anyway), maybe others could see it coming more than me. However, it was at least three weeks of wailing and gnashing of teeth and trying to pit mental sanity against the fear of the "f" word (FAILURE), or the "q" word (QUITTER) provided by my own sense of ambition combined with the "oh-but-you're-almost-done" comments I got from most people when I mentioned my turmoil. It's hard to choose yourself over an image of yourself. Harder than I have ever imagined. Considering how driven we in the medical profession have to be to get where we are, quitting things that bring us prestige, and knowlege and a certificate often makes us feel like we are no longer deserve to be in our profession. And yet. And yet, crying whenever anyone asked me how my job was, starting on anti-depressants simply to get through the next three months and having panic attacks when walking in the door may seem, to sane people, too great a sacrifice for knowlege. Had I been required to complete this internship for entry into a residency program (unlike medical doctors, veterinary internship and residency are not required unless one wants to specialize) I might have stuck it out. But the basic truth was, not a year out of school and I hated being a veterinarian. Having put both a huge amount of effort (not too mention money) into the pursuit of this goal, this feeling was terrifying. I had to get out of the emergency room. One thing people hope for, when they walk into a room with a doctor (human or otherwise) is someone who cares, who listens and tries to help. I was having a hard time getting there. And that is the kind of doctor I want to be. My mentors and classmates said you could do anything for a year. I'm sure that's true. But should you? In the end, I chose myself. It feels good.

Really, there is no other major news. I'm broke, unemployed, and feeling more myself than I have in ages. I've been sleeping, weeding, riding horses at my old barn where I worked before vet school, walking the dogs, and reading voraciously. In the past month I have read:
"There and back again" by Pat Murphy (still in the middle of this one)
"I'll be watching you" and "From a whisper to a scream" by Charles de Lint writing as Samuel Key, and "Seven wild sisters" by Charles de Lint
"Princess Academy" and "River Secrets" by Shannon Hale
"Fairest" by Gail Levine
"Plainsong" by Kent Haruf
"Mystic and Rider" and "The Thirteenth House" by Sharon Shinn
"A Storm of Swords" and "A Feast of Crows" by George R.R. Martin (write the next one, George!!!)
"The Pinhoe Egg" by Diana Wynn Jones
"Music to My Sorrow" by Mercedes Lackey
"Sister Emily's Lightship and other stories" by Jane Yolen

Hooray for the library when you're broke. You may notice a theme, here. Almost all these books are fantasy/sci fi, which is my version of brain candy. I also read fast. I expect that by the end of May I'll have finished a couple more. Many of these books can be found in the young adult section, as well, a fact which amuses me. About 5 or 6 years ago, most of them would have been found in straight sci fi. I simply think of the quote from Maurice Sendak: "Kid books...grownup books...That's just marketing. Books are books!" and laugh. Here's to my inner self, who apparently has come back to visit.

COUNT DOWN

2007-03-21T02:08:00.000-05:00

Looking at this makes me happy. The snail, however, has a certain symbolic thrust.

People keep saying, "Oh, you're so close to finishing your internship." However, every shift to me is frigging interminable. To the those of you out in the ether who may be related to the medical profession, or more specifically, laboring under the medical version of hazing known as "being an intern," I salute you. To those of you considering this noble form of slavery, I must tell you: although everyone you ask will say " Oh, it's only a year," in this breezy, cavalier kind of way, as if to say, " how bad can one year be?" A YEAR IS A LONG TIME. Maybe not when you're 80 and looking back on your beautiful life, but otherwise it is 365 days, 8760 hours, 525,600 minutes, and most of those minutes are spent in the service of an evil and spiteful god known as education who requires his worshippers to abase themselves in exchange for hard work, long hours for little payment and demands all their self-confidence be shredded into little bits. Bitter? I'm not bitter. And I'm NOT EVEN DONE.

To the critics: so yeah, I've learned stuff. And mostly what I've learned is that valuable, painful lesson of snooty zen sages everywhere, "I know nothing*." I have also learned that I have almost crippling anxiety when it comes to going to work, night sweats, 13-16 hour shifts 4-5 days a week, the easiest way to make me cry is to mention the ER, and I clearly must not be normal to consider finishing this thing. I have been asking my own self what I hope to gain by not just walking away, and I have only nebulous thoughts of "but you're so close to finishing" (thanks, guys), and "crap--that would mean writing a cover letter." Not great reasons to stay. And yet I find myself reluctant. Lest we get into the whirling maelstrom that is my anxiety and emotional state, I shall only say that my new motto is "blame not thyself." This sounds eminently reasonable and self-evident, and perhaps all you readers are well-balanced folks who are faintly puzzled by my proposal. But I think this is the hardest lesson I have ever tried to learn, and one I'm bad at, and one that I may never get a firm grip on. But the only way to get through the next 3 months, one week and 3 days until freedom (besides a new job, a hole in the head or a sudden lottery windfall) are me saying to myself "you can only do this much, and that's OK." It the that's OK part that is especially hard for us over-achiever types. See--I should go back to art, where the crazier you are, the more OCD you are, the better your work becomes! Maybe if that lottery money comes through....

There's been a lot of exhausting emotional work going on over behind the slowed to a crawl blog entries, much of which I shall keep to myself. Believe me, when this sh#t is over, I am taking a big old vacation. And there will be NO emergency anythings allowed.

*"Especially when it comes to cats, who have never read a medical textbook and would be horrified if someone suggested they follow proper patterns when they are ill."

Mirrors

2007-03-13T15:52:00.000-05:00

"...the stories I want to tell you will light up part of my life and leave the rest in darkness. You don't need to know everything. There is no everything. The stories themselves make the meaning.

The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.

When you look closely, the twenty-four hour day is framed into a moment; the still-life of the jerky amphetamine world. That woman--a pieta. Those men, rough angels with an unknown message. The children holding hands, spanning time. And in every still-life, there is a story, the story that tells you everything you need to know.

There it is; the light across the water. Your story. Mine. His. It has to be seen to be believed. And it has to be heard. In the endless babble of narrative, in spite of the daily noise, the story waits to be heard.

Some people say that the best stories have no words...It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case the wrong size to fit the template called language.

I know that. But I know something else too...Turn down the daily noise and at first there is the relief of silence. And then, very quietly, as quiet as light, meaning returns. Words are the part of silence that can be spoken."

---Jeanette Winterson, lighthousekeeping

I'm not able to articulate my interior silences at this moment. But I thought to make an attempt to mirror that place like a magpie, borrowing and stealing meaning. Better that than no attempts to reach deeper at all.

Is Therapy a Bad Word?

2006-11-24T05:52:00.000-05:00

Because if it is, you'll be washing out my mouth with soap weekly. I meant to start this post with "My therapist suggested to me this week that I should have a spiritual practice, if I considered myself a spiritual person" (which is sort of an obvious statement, I'll admit--I mean spiritual person = someone who should spend some time being spiritual, right? Like cheerful person = someone who at least some of the time is cheerful), however, then I got all hung up on the fact that I had to then use the word therapist, introducing this whole 'nother element to the self-revelatory aspect of the blog, and all of a sudden I found myself acutely uncomfortable. As if I were now some new, sordid sort of person who "seemed, so normal ya know, but then, like, we found out that, like, she was in therapy (hushed tones)." I thought I was immune to the cultural stigma of admitting that now and then goddammit I'd like someone to talk to about life stuff who isn't involved personally; someone to just listen to me mostly cry and carry on and talk out loud about stuff I'd like to figure out about my life. I'm all for self-awareness, and reflection and crying and carrying on, if it will help you. So why does it feel like a dirty secret? And can I say, in defiance of this nagging feeling that I've suddenly farted at a fancy party, that one of the coolest people I ever met as a kid was my therapist? She was the first adult that ever cursed in my presence, as if it was natural. I was so impressed. Lest you think this was superficial on my part, I should explain. I was in the throes of the classic "everyone at school hates me and I have no friends" middle school experience. I know this is a common one, but if you are in the know on this one you'll also remember how alone you felt, how abandoned, how desperate. And it wasn't just that my therapist cursed--it was that she cursed for me, in favor of me, against those kids who were hurtful and mean, and she meant it. All of a sudden my nagging sense of self-worth and righteousness was invoked, because someone else suggested that it was OK not to care what those kids said and thought. "F*** them," she said to me, and all of a sudden it was OK to be me; maybe it was them who were wrong. That curse was powerful medicine for a twelve year old. (I guess you could insert joke here, about therapists and cursing being linked in my mind...)
It's been almost 15 years since I went for therapy, and that is still a powerful memory. Such a positive one, and yet I find it really hard to type about revisiting therapy, even though the point was to make a leaping off point for a blog about spiritual practice. Hmmph. I guess I'll just figure that squirming is better than silent embarrassment, especially when I can't quite figure out why it should be embarrassing in the first place.
So, is it too late to ask the original question "what the heck is spiritual practice anyway? Does blogging count?" These are mostly rhetorical questions, because I suspect that spiritual practice is whatever you want it to be. For me, blogging isn't it, not really. My spiritual practice involves me without an audience, and it may involve more than one activity, and I definitely don't do it often enough. In fact, my spiritual practice may often involve four feet, a tail and a saddle. What strikes me as odd about this is how easily things that are sometimes spiritual practice are also often not spiritual at all, like the days where I really don't know if I want to go the barn, or the days when I'm frustrated and my horse is being a blinking idiot because he didn't get any turnout and the wind is up his tail wheeee! So how is this spiritual practice? I have often gotten the feeling that people think of intention when they talk about this issue. So if you intend it, and are aware of it, and work on this awareness in a consistent manner, you're doing it. And that makes a certain amount of sense, at least, you've got the practice part down. But maybe the truth is even more depressing; it's really HARD to have a spiritual practice. Hell, it's hard for me to consistently floss, much less schedule time for spirituality. And us non-organized religion types I think get a little nervous about ritual, and kind of hope spirituality is this independent spontaneous type that should just drop in when the mood is right, because it's more genuine, I mean, look, it came for a visit without asking, right? But what if the days that I get all pissed off because my horse is resisting the bit or falling in is also my spiritual practice? And then you wonder: is this bad practice? Like practicing the same mistake over and over in a piano piece? Or, if this is spiritual practice, than what in the world is not spiritual practice? Because I may not be able to draw clear lines, but I'll tell you right now flossing my teeth, in my world, is NOT spiritual practice. Here I think organized religion maybe has one up on us: there's this framework for you, if you so choose to use it (shhh! don't tell them I said that). But no, there I go being all difficult and sarcastic and rejecting that whole pre-made thing, so I've gotta just make this crap up as I go along (Attention, this is sarcasm. Sorry to suggest it's easy--honestly I think despite the organized part, we all still have a heap of trouble trying to figure this kind of stuff out).
I do see this longing in our world for it to be easy, for the struggle to be over. This kind of yoga, that kind of diet, it'll all make sense if I just take Wednesday off for meditation or horseback riding or teeth flossing. And I'm definitely here on the bed with the rest of you, kicking my heels and whining while begrudgingly admitting that I'm not gonna just magically become centered and balanced, or suddenly begin seeing the truth in all things.
You do have to start somewhere, though. I can't just throw up my hands and say to heck with it now. I suspect my true spiritual practice is gonna suck hard sometimes, and involve things that are really hard for me, like being nicer to myself when I screw up, or being good enough rather than the best. I'm not really looking forward to that part of my spiritual practice. Sure, there's still horses in there, and the woods; some poetry and art and good friends, but if it was that easy I'd wouldn't be talking to a therapist, or feeling overwhelmed at work, or writing this blog entry.
I also meant to talk about Thanksgiving, seeing as how it's about focusing on the positive, the things you ARE happy about, and this is something I feel I've been lacking a lot of lately. Despite the fact that I always sort of thought of this holiday as some smarmy day where we say what we're grateful for but then run off and buy crap for Christmas. Poor Thanksgiving--I used to feel sort of patronizing towards you, some stupid holiday that celebrates the sweetness before the massacre of the natives or the mass marketing frenzy--but now it's just sad. The fricking holiday songs were playing before you ever happened. It was Halloweenmas this year. I find myself wanting to resurrect you, and play along with your however brief gratefulness, and be glad of things. So instead of thinking about work tomorrow night, I'm trying to think of gratefulness. I'm grateful for my bed, which will receive me in a few minutes, and for my dear old ferret who is just hanging in there, naked tail and all, and for the boy in the bed who will snuggle up, and the goofy dogs, and the fact that I do get to ride now after 4 long years of horse drought, and for pciking up the drawing charcoal again (I attended my first life drawing session in over 10 years last week), and for therapy and crying and for hot showers and clean socks and good food (sometimes it happens) and good books and for being six months into the internship which means six months to go, and even for painful life lessons that are knocking at my door (I guess). A toast. And happy Thanksgiving.

Compassion Fatigue

2006-09-22T02:13:00.000-05:00

I think a good writer is partially defined by their ability to shape a thought; to cut out extras; to craft a piece of work where at first seemingly unrelated paragraphs are later revealed to be integral and precisely inserted. I don't feel much like a good writer tonight. I start my first overnight shift tomorrow night and so I'm up tonight, trying to push the sleep away so that I'm not undead in the wee hours of the morning tomorrow. And my thoughts are swirling and buzzing and glancing on each memory, trying to impart meaning, to make an image into a symbol of my mood, or an explanation for my emotional busyness. It feels like a vigil of sorts, only most vigils I can think of aren't conducted with a can full of soda and a laptop computer. And the word vigil seems to make it heavier than I want. Perhaps it's just this up late at night when the world is asleep vibe. Emotional busyness seems more apt than turmoil or confusion. It wasn't a bad day, or even a bad week. Here's why I write: not to be a good writer (although I figure I can at least spell, string a sentence together and maybe know how to use a semicolon properly), but to hone myself; to figure out what is extra; to make connections.

I want to whine about evening news programs, which I have to admit I watch rarely (and by that I mean maybe once every six months? Every eight?), but tonight I was trying the bad TV method to start off the hopeful insomnia fest. And hey, if you don't watch I guess you can't complain, so now I can just go right ahead. I mean, what is the deal with some couple's private infertility troubles headlining the news? Now I'm usually the first to complain about all the depressing murder/gunshot/car crash/reads like a combination of an episode of "COPS" and some made for TV detective movie crap they like to show (nowhere is life so depressing as when one considers the possible truth in demographics revealed by ratings), but I'm sorry, I really don't want to know about some poor couple's fertility issues, no matter whether there's a putative legal issue that somehow catapults this into the "public" forum. Aren't you folks suspicious when the first story is just interviews between the TV news people and the newspaper journalists who are also making this the headline news of tomorrow's local newspaper? Oh, and THEN on to the body parts and mayhem. And the only news of Iraq is another local man killed, and some local peace protesters arrested, without any true commentary. Needless to say, I turned off the TV before I became some cynical private version of MST3K in my one living room. (Newscaster: "Tell us, oh expert psychology witness, what could it mean that the victim was chopped into pieces before he was thrown into the river?" Expert: "Well, it could be that it was a professional job--purely business--or perhaps the victim and the killer had some kind of relationship [my emphasis]." Me: "Of course there was some kind of relationship, you idiot! It's awfully difficult to chop your own self up and throw yourself in the river!")

And then I look over on the couch where Foo Foo is sleeping the contented sleep of the well-fed dog allowed on the furniture, head on a pillow and one foot dangling off the sofa, and I think, a little guiltily, about my ranting post of a few weeks ago. And while the rant is still very true in some sense, it, of course, is a rant. Something to blow off frustration, and to hide the other parts of self-doubt and exhaustion, and something that is only one sliver of a complicated whole. I don't want to be sorry, because I'm sorry too often anyway, and I feel the need to claim my own anger and frustrations that come with dealing with stressed (or drunk, or angry, or manipulative) people in any people service job. (Talk to your friends who wait tables, if you have them--they'll tell you.) And while it's medicine, people, it is ALSO a service job.

But tonight I'm thinking about other aspects of what I do. And I'm thinking about my own dogs, who have to put up with things normal dogs don't (I guess sort of a twisted kind of analogy to kids whose parents make them endure profession related embarrassment, like coming to their school to teach sex ed, or something--sorry, it's late, my analogies are growing weak). My dogs have a mother who palpates their abdomens for practice, or lends them to the cardiology department to try out their new ultrasound machine, or gives them a wacky hair cut so that she can try out her ultrasound skills. And I look at my dogs and tell them fiercely that they are NOT allowed to get old, they are NOT allowed to get sick and die. The thought just wrecks me.

This is the crux of tonight: this post is for the ones I couldn't save. You know, I don't have any time to stop and absorb things during a shift, especially when receiving emergencies. So I often feel like I'm handling things fine. But truly, these days catch up with you when you are sitting up, trying to stay awake, watching trashy TV. And you find yourself weeping over the overplayed drama because you need to, you need to cry about something, evening if it's something else. Now I realize that this is what they're talking about when they bring up the danger of "compassion fatigue" in the medical profession. It's only three months in, people, and I have seen so much death. I'm not talking about any deep ethical debate on euthanasia in this moment. I'm just simply thinking of the ones that were broken, that were not saved, for whatever reason. This is not about judgement.

This is about the terrible balance between a heart that has trouble pumping and a potentially lethal threat to the kidneys. This is for the 13 years you spent with him, and the car that ended it. This is for all you foolish ones who ate what you weren't supposed to, who got old, who never had a chance, who were loved, who were never loved.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I could not save you, that I could not fix everything, that I never had a chance to even start. I never walked into this expecting to be able to heal everyone; I expected death as an inevitable companion. And yet, I am still sorry.

This poem has always been an amulet, an instruction manual; a way to encompass grief.

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

Mary Oliver

An apology in advance for the upcoming rant.

2006-08-22T14:45:00.000-05:00

First of all, I will try to soften this post with poetry. If you are an pet owner, then perhaps you will become distracted, and forget to continue. Lest you hold this post against me, let me caution you that all jobs, no matter how nobly pursued or loved, have their days, and that I am as human as they come. While I shall always attempt to do my best for your animal, I don't have to always like you. Sorry.

all our lives dreamdogs, dreamcats have lived
with us, rising up when we lie down
to prowl the house that we presume to own.
no nightbird sings for them, but they survive
those hours of the absence of our eye
by sniffing at the hem of the nightgown
you've kicked the covers off or listening to the moan
i make, beside you. the world they improvise
out of the random buzz and clatter of our sleep's
the world we wake to: paw prints on the sills,
fur balls in the corners, echoes of nails
clicking across oak floors, hisses and growls
of the busy demiurge that our dreams keep
up all night licking our days into shape.
--Alvin Greenburg

Now. To preface. I am working in an ER, not a day practice. We are the ones open 24 hours so that other vets can get some sleep. It's a different kettle of fish, mostly. Yes, vets are vets to some extent. But those of us who choose to work in ER did so to get away from the management of skin and ears and vaccinations. So.

ADVICE TO ER CLIENTS:

1. Your dog's ears ARE NOT AN EMERGENCY. Sorry. If your pup's been shaking his head for two weeks, why in all that's holy was today (a Sunday) the day that you decided he should come in?

2. This also follows for your dog's rash, dental disease, or overgrown toenails. I will give you the benefit of the doubt for a nasty hot spot.

3. Skin mass? NOT AN EMERGENCY.

4. Please understand that if you bring your animal to me, that sometimes I will not know what's wrong just by looking at it. The power of the physical exam is pretty awesome sometimes, but when your budgie is sick I may have to do some other tests. If you did not come prepared to deal with this, why did you come? If only I had holy healing hands I would be set.

5. Money sucks. Believe me, I have been poor for most of my adult life, and I have shelled out a few pretty pennies for my ferrets (hence their unofficial title, solid gold weasels). And it sucks that pet health insurance is not really a great deal yet. (Although I would never ever want animal health insurance to resemble people insurance in many regards, but that's another story.) However, have you ever stopped to think what you would have to pay for your ER visit if you had no insurance? A pretty penny, my friend. I have all the training and most of the tools they have at human hospital. And everyone at the hospital has to get paid so they can eat and live like the rest of us. And the equipment will need care--oh you get the idea. It's expensive, but I cannot give free care out of my innate caring heart. (Newsflash to those who think that loving animals is the sole reason to be a vet. Sorry. Loving animals is great--get a pet, love it, care for it. Most of us in this profession love animals, but we also love people--despite our rants--and we love medicine and science).

6. Science sometimes sucks. It is our greatest ally and has many shortcomings. There are NO blood tests for cancer. Wouldn't that rock if there was? The only cancer you see in the bloodstream is leukemia. Most others are a lot harder to find, and more common. Sometimes I do not know what is going on with a patient. Believe me, I wish I always did. But the body is often a mystery, despite our greatest desire to know its secrets.

7. Sometimes you have to wait to see a doctor. I hate that too. Believe me, I am not in the back picking my nose or playing cards with the techs. I am sorry your pet is scared/hurting/vomiting, etc. But your dog's bum leg is not going to kill him in 5 minutes, or probably ever. As opposed to the cat or dog that was rushed in 5 minutes ago hit by a car. Your pet is your best friend, or your baby, or your life and you are freaking out. I get that. But I am one person and cannot be everywhere at once. Being rude to me is not helpful.

8. Birds and ferrets, etc. deserve regular medical attention too. Why do you bring me your exotic pet when it has never seen a vet before and expect me to fix it now that it's at the end of its lifespan? A pet is a pet. They need yearly physicals just like your kids.

'Nuff said. I just get annoyed sometimes. It's not fun to be bitched at, or have to remove a skin mass at the end of a 12 hour day when you have at least 3 more hours of paperwork ahead of you. Be gentle, people.

Git in tha Cellar, Ma! A Storm's a Comin' !

2006-08-22T14:06:00.000-05:00

As most people can tell you, there's always the inevitable jokes made about your name. People named Gloria are probably so sick of the 1982 one-hit Laura Branigan wonder with the same name. If you have an embarrassing last name, you've probably heard every imaginable crude joke there is (An unfortunately named veterinary student I met once took her last name in stride. She had another friend with a similarly unfortunate moniker. "All we need now," she told me ,"is one other vet--maybe someone named 'Gay'? Then we could open a practice called 'Gay, Butt and Cox'"). Everyone somewhere has some song with their name in it, that some unfeeling clever stranger belts out when they're introduced to you (unless you are someone with unusually creative parents, in which case, you usually have a different sort of embarrassing label problem). I've always counted myself lucky, as there are only two songs that involve my name, both somewhat obscure, and my name really rhymes with very few things. But the spector of my shortened name has loomed. Now, I don't mind being called "em," generally. I answer to it; it just sort of happened over the years, an organic change. But I could see as my friends and family hit their child bearing years that it was coming. And, as of August 16th, it's official. I AM "AUNTIE EM."

Too late, it's just too late to avoid the image: Clara Blandick, crotchety and hairbunned, no-nonsense, trying to keep that girl Dorothy in line-- a dear girl , but foolish like all young people are. Since I can never free myself, I have embraced it. Hmmm. I'm not sure where we'll put the pigs, though. Come to find, I'm excited to be an auntie. I get the good bits--the presents, the holiday visits. And you never know, maybe there will be cousins for her to play with, down the road. Funny what babies do to otherwise sane people--I've already sent her my favorite book from when I was small, and she's not even learned about focusing her eyes yet! I am often pessimistic about the future of humankind, and yet I cannot regret anywhere in my heart that she has been born. Welcome to you, niecekin. Come up and visit sometime--I'll let you slop the hogs and feed the chickens. Just watch out for that Toto dog--he likes to run off!

My niece. Pretty disgusting, eh? I'm smitten.

Hey baby, where you been all my life?

2006-07-13T22:58:00.000-05:00

Well now, there's been a little drought over here at Chez Blog. Sorry folks, that's what happens when you pack/work for three weeks, graduate from veterinary school (that's Ms. Docktah to you, suckah!), drive a very large rental truck across the country and start an internship one after the other. I can't promise as frequent an internal checking in, either, considering the internship schedule, but hey, there may be months where I'm awake on my overnight schedule where I can't do squat on my day (nights?) off except sit in my apartment while the world sleeps. Right now I have a bit of the cushy schedule--although last year's interns had to work 5 days in a row with one day on call and one day off, they have modified our schedule this year (we have a resident this year, which means extra bodies) and sometimes we get two whole days off with one day on call. So I effectively got a three day weekend this week, albeit in the middle of the week, since no emergency surgeries happened while I was on call. Now, lest you get dismissive of my easy schedule, let me tell you that on my other days at work, the shortest shift so far has been 14 hours long. So there.

It may also be hard to write without a) boring the pants off anyone who actually looks at this site, and b) compromising patient confidentiality. I hate to say it, but my life is filled with good old veterinary stuff, which gets old really fast to most people. Just try going to a vet school party. You'll see what I mean. I even dream about it, a fact that I'm really hoping will go away soon. Even I have my limits. And also, I really can't talk about cases on the internet--do doctors publish stuff about you online? Nope. Maybe it's a good thing--a place to make an effort to find the other, non-doctorly parts of myself. But I suspect it will be hard this year to focus on those bits. I'm still in the throes of the newness of being a doctor at long last, and learning all the stuff that goes with it. I've actually been surprised--I haven't had nearly the trouble I expected talking to clients about difficult things, like money, or death. Lots of stuff is hard, but that part has gone better than expected. But hoo boy is there a whole lot of paperwork!
Anyway. On the job front, I have euthanized my first pet without owners present (I cried) and with owners present (I didn't cry). I have seen a bunch of interesting stuff so far, and I guess I'm developing my spiel for various and sundry diseases (it's hard to be organized when you explain things to people, so a general spiel is a good thing). All my internmates are awesome, although we barely see one another out of work, since we're all on different schedules. AND I got my first paycheck. Believe me, I may be making diddlysquat--but it's a vast improvement on making nothing.

On the life front, it's so good to be back in Portland I can barely stand it. Mass seems like a distant bad dream I barely remember. Sorry you guys I left behind--I miss you, but NOT living there. This is the best place ever. In these last three? weeks or so I have been to Powell's twice, eaten mud pie at Montage, flaming bananas foster at The Pied Cow, had breakfast at Fat City, shopped at Food Front and seen movies all around in cool old theaters with beer and pizza. Worcester, you can send me hate mail if you want, but you cannot even begin to compare. We have a local dog park that is full of mellow folks and mellow dogs, and the Foo and the Fluffy get to go most every day. Today we went for a two hour hike in Oneonta Gorge out in the Columbia River Gorge, and yesterday I went back to my old barn and rode a horse for the first time in two years. And I have a NEW car. Yup, can't complain.

So, coming soon are photos from the trip (have to wrangle them from the boy, who is the keeper of the digital camera). Maybe pics of the apartment? Don't get too excited. We do actually fit (sort of) in the apartment. It's nothing fancy, and it's full of icky carpet, but it's big, cool in the summer, and CHEAP. Very good. Come visit--the couch is long enough for a 7 foot man. So, the rain falls again in blog land. Admit it--you missed me.

If there are priests for dog owners,

2006-05-11T19:17:00.000-05:00

...then please, I must confess. I'm not even Catholic, not even remotely. But hey, it's a culture of confession--just watch a talk show. My main problem is that I need some absolution here, not just a listening ear. So let's get it right.

Forgive me Father (? Do you suppose that would be the proper form of address?) for I have sinned. First of all, I feel silly starting off like this in the first place, and secondly, I guess I'm not sure that in the scheme of things, difficulties in dog training would really count as "sins" in my world, and even more truthfully, as a secular humanist, I'm pretty uncomfortable with the liturgical language and the word "sin" itself. Let's just say I'm feeling guilty and leave it at that. I feel guilty, and angry, and like a big frustrated failure. Oh, right--you need to know why.

All right. We have two lovely dogs, let's call them Foo Foo and Fluffy (the names have been changed to protect the guilty--or the innocent, as the case may be). Foo Foo has been with us for two years, and is altogether a bit mellower and less pushy than Fluffy. He has his moments, though. These moments consist of either jumping our fence, or his problem with other dogs while on leash. Lest you think Foo Foo is a big hideous meany, let me explain: Foo Foo gets so excited by other dogs that he gets what dog folks call "aroused." Although perhaps the word is unfortunate (especially if you consider the possible key search words for this post on Google), it means simply that his energy levels go way up. Dogs in this state are much more likely to tip towards other high energy states, such as fear or aggression. We've figured out that Foo Foo is afraid while on leash. Perhaps this comes from some deep seated pychological incident--but he's not telling. And neither of us can think of any such incidents. But essentially we figure he's decided that he's both genuinely excited to see the other dog and he also thinks he has to take care of the situation because nobody else will, and this involves getting big and giving warning signs. We know it's not true aggression, because he's damned friendly off leash, and has never attacked a strange dog for any reason. It also is telling that this started off as simply getting excited and barking on leash, which is often how he tries to play with other dogs. HOWEVER. Can I tell you how embarrassing it is to have your otherwise sweet tempered dog start barking and growling and lunging at other dogs? It's like saying you're a Republican at an enviromentalist rally. You get nasty looks--judging looks--looks that say: "I can't believe you walk such an aggressive vicious beast in public." If you say he's afraid, you get the look that says "yeah, buddy, pull the other one." Our dog is sending mixed signals, and this sucks for eveyone involved, including the other dog, who eyes him with some distrust. It would be like if a stranger came up to you and hit you hard on the arm and said, "hey, wanna play with me, m*therf#@!!?"

Fluffy is a different ball of wax. We've only had her about 4 months. She was a shelter dog, and came to us as almost an adult. She's got a heart of gold (well, so does Foo Foo), but her heart of gold is hidden by a very busy brain and a pushy nature. We can speculate that either her doggie momma didn't teach her no manners, or her first human parents let her get away with murder. It doesn't really help her that she's at least part Border Collie, so her tenaciousness tends show itself in inconvenient moments, such as those where the toy is taken away but she really still wants it! She has improved greatly, but her basic desire is to push. If Fluffy could talk, we would have these kinds of conversations:
Me: "Fluffy, leave it (referring to the good smelling thing on the counter)."
Fluffy: "Are you sure? Cause it smells really good. Can't I have just a teensy bite?"
Me: "No."
Fluffy "Well, I mean, OK, but if you change your mind, I'll be right over here."
Her modus operandi with other dogs is to run and jump on them bodily, because surely, that must be endearing and will entice them to play with her.

So. We have been going to dog classes. Both dogs have passed Basic Obedience with flying colors. And diplomas. Really. They are both very smart, eager to learn, and know both verbal and hand signal commands for sit, down, stay, wait, leave it, paw (and lately they have been learning "knock it off" and other less polite commands. It has been an impatient week). What we have discovered is that they are excellent--BUT--only when there are no to very few distractions. Like other strange dogs. So the first couple of classes can be a little wearying, but after that, the classmates are no longer strange dogs. Foo Foo is in an intermediate class, which we then take home and apply to both dogs. And we have been having the trainer out for both dogs one hour a week. So we have been working on how not to pull on a leash. At first, it was amazing. Both dogs walk by our sides beautifully. But walking both dogs at once and encountering such exciting things as other dogs? Or dare I mention C-A-T-S? Even other people are distracting, since they would both like to be petted. And hence, my sorry tale.

I took both dogs for a nice walk tonight. At first, we were doing great. A few people distractions, doin' pretty well. A barking dog, not too bad. So I said, with the naivete of the optimistic, boy, we need a bigger challenge. Let's cross the street and go to the other neighborhood. So Foo Foo's lagging a little, like ususal, and Fluffy is trying to get ahead of me every other step, a thing that seems to be much harder to control when I have both dogs. And I'm getting a little annoyed at her. And then: the OTHER DOG on a leash (thank goodness) must walk by. And instead of the calm controlled I'm - in - charge - let's - keep - walking - nothing - to - see - here - move - along mode, I can't get either dog behind me; they're both out in front, pulling my arms off, trying to leap off the leash. I make them both sit. It works, sort of. And I am so livid at this point I could kick both of them (OK, now that I write this, it seems sort of more trivial. But people, I can't believe that I can't even walk my own dogs properly!) and am convinced that 1) I am doing something completely wrong for them to be so obnoxious. 2) I am failure as a dog trainer and should simply get some cats. Or fish. 3) I am a bad person and a bad owner because I am so angry at these two creatures I can't even communicate with them properly, and I'm sure, knowing just enough to be dangerous, that I am confusing the hell out of them, ruining their training, their trust in me, and our future relationship.

What's worse is that this happens A LOT. So maybe that's why it's so upsetting. And the thought that we are about to move to a city, and they really will have to behave on leash. And of course, in my true perfectionist fashion, I envision my dogs as eventually beautifully well-behaved creatures who never jump on others or fail to come when they're called. And I can't stand bad manners in any creature; I can't just say "oh, dogs are just like that" because they can be beautifully well-behaved. It just takes WORK. I didn't know this for many years, and many people just figure Fido should hit the end of the leash and keep on pulling; chew the carpet; leave footprints on your new pants. I'm sorry, y'all, I have been converted. I cannot look at that kind of dog without comparing it to some sort of three-year old run rampant. Would you let your toddler run into the living room full of guests and leap onto people without invitation? Or eat whatever he or she wanted? All I see is my badly behaved dogs, and I'm embarrassed. Now, most of our friends tell us what well-behaved dogs we have, and--another confession--I often wonder what non-jumping, non-pushy, non-obnoxious animals they are referring to. So I am all wrapped with guilt and shame, because sometimes I don't love my dogs. Sometimes I want to come home to an empty house and not have to worry about the walk, the pushing, the training. Is it because I spend most days lavishing care on animals, most of whom are either too sick to behave badly, or behave far worse than my own, to have patience with my own dogs? I sure hope not, or it's gonna be a sucky lifetime for all concerned. Is it OK to want to throttle your dog when they give you that "hey mom, f- you look?" (If you've ever had a dog disobey the come command, you know the look I mean.) You read far too much drivvle about the sweet dopiness of dogs; the slobber, the oops-I'm-sorry-about-the-carpet-mistake-but-aren't-I-cute personality, the unconditional love. It makes them seem like over-sized pillows with an appetite. My dogs are good dogs, fundamentally. I wouldn't give them up for the world, and they ARE making progress. But sometimes they are bad dogs, and they make me really mad. And intellectually I figure this is OK. But the guilt about feeling angry is huge and boomerangs into a sense of failure. It's probably magnified by my profession, which paints me as a caring animal lover that would never consider bodily harm to an animal, right? And therein lies my desire for expiation.

I guess it's nice it'd be nice to hear from you, Mr. Dog Priest/Bishop/Cardinal thingy. But really, we all know who really needs to hand out the forgiveness here. The trouble is, she's got such high standards she has to post about it on her blog in order to recognize who has to be the true absolver in this story. Damn. I'm awfully hard on myself, aren't I. Busted.

ATTENTION K-MART SHOPPERS: VETERINARY SCHOOL IS OVER!

2006-04-28T20:02:00.000-05:00

(I wonder if I'm dating myself--it sure seems like K-Marts are pretty much replaced by Wal-Marts and Targets at this point. Shall we shed a tear for the mythical Blue Light Special? Naah...)

Well folks, it's the end of an era. Today was the last official day of veterinary school for me. Now it's all fun and games and wondering where the money is coming from until my internship starts in late June. Strangely enough, we are given these next three weeks to do nothing (in my case, this means try to make money) until the official graduation on the 21st. What's the unwinding to stress time ratio, do you think? Is three weeks long enough to let go of four years of adrenal hyperplasia and overstimulation (for those of you not in the physiology know, just think stress)? I can barely handle the fact that yesterday all I did in the afternoon was work on a creative project AND DID NOT FEEL ANY GUILT. It (the unwinding) must be working, at least a little. I don't think I get to use my new title until the official diploma lands in my hot little hands, but there's not much now that would stop that day from coming. Doctor me. Doktah! Weird. But fun to say!

There is a weird time slip that hits in about fourth year. Before that, school seems like it was over in a blink of an eye. Now it feels like that first year was a hazy eternity ago. Mind you, when you're still in the middle, it can feel like being stuck in a painful slow-motion sequence.

For those of you who wonder what veterinary school is like, well, I can't tell you. But I can give you my take on these last four years, as best I can. If you're thinking about applying, good for you. But you can't take me as a representative sample. At least, in my own unofficial comparative research between peers, I'm an anomaly.

Let me outline the four years for you quickly.

Year 1: Basics. This is to teach you "normal" and how it works. Anatomy (includes many smelly hours dissecting dogs, horses, cows, goats and llama, to name a few), physiology, physiologic chemistry, developmental biology, etc.

Year 2: Pathophysiology: or What Went Wrong. This year is taught by systems. Cardiology, renal physiology, neuromuscular physiology. Then there's the grind of microbiology and parasitology, where endless laundry lists of bad things are memorized. Pharmacology and so forth.

Year 3: a shorter version of the same stuff, rehashed to make it "clinical." Anesthesiology, small animal medicine, large animal medicine (my school does not "track," meaning everyone takes every class--you don't specialize in small animals--dogs and cats--versus large animals--cows and horses), ophthalmology...And you spay your first dog ever, which is more fun than class put together, unless you're a stress cadet and then I think you are miserable; at least that's how it looks on the outside.

Year 4: this year at my school actually starts in March of year 3. You are liberated, handed a white coat, and sent to the hospital. Everyone completes a set of core rotations: Small and Large Animal Medicine, Surgery, Radiology. Pathology, Anesthesia, Ambulatory (cows, mostly) and Wildlife. You learn how to examine an animal, or two, or five in the few hours stolen from sleep before morning rounds. You get to watch back surgery, or try to figure out why Mrs. Smith somehow never mentioned to you that Foo Foo had diarrhea, despite your acurate history taking skills, and yet manages to mention it to your attending doctor immediately, making you look like a fool. Again. No summer vacation, sometimes no weekends off, sometimes no sleep, and then at the end of a year and seven weeks, you think, oh crap! Now I'm in charge?

For most people, vet school seems to be a pyramid. First year sucks, second year sucks a little less, and then the slow ascent into clinics. For me, I loved first year-this makes me odd. Second year had some good parts, some bad, and there was a time in October of 3rd year where I would have cheerfully submitted to the lash to get out of one more *@@!!ing exam. That was my personal nadir. I simply can't handle sitting in a classroom from 8am to 5pm without deep despair. Fourth year was the best--in this I think at least I match with others' opinions.

Then there's studying, and grades. You may have been an A student in college. That means nothing. Part of this, I think, has to do with how college is designed. You're a bio major, say, and every semester you take one or two, maybe three science classes. But this is college; you're required to take a little of everything, and you have a lot of free time. I'm sorry if this offends any college students out there--when I was in your shoes I would have been offended too. But once you work full-time and then go to class at night (like I did before vet school), then you see how easy you had it. Or once you go to vet school, and realize you are taking seven science classes, at once, and if you drop them all to study for the next big exam, you have just screwed yourself for the exam after that. In college, you get used to a rhythm. Mid-terms, finals; big pushes with some slack in between. Vet school is pretty much all exams, all the time. Classes begin and end at odd times (one class ends before Thanksgiving. Another ends in the spring. One lasts only one month, etc.) You have mid-terms in many classes, it's just that mid-term for one class is three weeks after another class's mid-term. So it's no wonder you're not used to the kind of juggling you need to do. And, as someone who went to three undergraduate schools, there's also a wide variance in what you're used to having to do to pass (or get A's, if you're that kind of person. Most people come in the latter, and come out the former). I attended a liberal arts school back in the day, before I ever considered veterinary school. I never even took biology. However, classes at that school were as rigorous as all get out. You were there to learn: no one coddled you, or handed you anything. Didn't do the reading? Not your professor's fault. Yours. Want to major in Anthropology? Write a five page paper on a Saturday between 9 am and 5 pm, and then use it to petition the department to get in. Then there was a community college. good school, designed differently, not used to having really dedicated students, but not a cake-walk. Then another undergraduate university. These classes were huge in internal variety. Biochem? Hardest class I ever took, harder than any class in vet school. Genetics? Catered to the "general populace," of students, who could take it to get their science class requirements out of the way. And folks, I'll admit to being an intellectual snob, and also to thinking that being an intellectual snob is not a bad thing, but many well-respected schools (of which this was and is one) have a bunch of ignorant, lazy kids running around whining about how hard their classes are, and they are being listened to! DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! (I'm sad to say that I firmly believe the majority of the next generation of students is unfortunately full of entitled and ill-educated complainers.) Anyhow. You could see how a person might have done quite well in college and then get to vet school and Boom.

The worst part about this is that people who get into vet school are all cut from the same pretty ambitious cloth. They're used to doing well, andthey're used to being praised for it. And then they're in a room full of other smart people and wholly *@#, Batman, vet school is HARD, and there's nobody there to praise you. It's hard because it's busy, it's hard because it's 100 pages of reading every night, it's hard because you are studying for one exam while being in class all day and having to keep up with the other classes at the same time. Bad grades are like a blow to the head from a friend you could always rely on before. It can get nasty. Not nasty between students, but nasty in your own head. A lot of doing well on tests comes from confidence. And if you get knocked down in the beginning, it's a lot harder to get up again. And it happens to everyone at some point, even the ones who do well. So it's no wonder first year is hard, and it's mostly hard from getting your sea legs, as it were. I had and have compassion, guys, I really do. But this is something I've always felt I needed to say, and still feel strongly about: it was hard. It remains hard for those who are still in it, and we were all full of tension and self-doubt and struggle. But really, you whined incessantly, and I just have to say: SUCK IT UP!!!

Now I liked first year, and it's mainly a weird stroke of luck for me why. I had just finished an entire year of pre-requisites. It was all science, all the time, and it was fresh. And I had just taken physiology and biochemistry from very good professors. (Let me say now, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU. You know who you are. Never imagine that what you do goes unappreciated.) And I LIKE anatomy, and physiology, and believe me, that makes me a weirdo by many standards, but it helped. And I read quickly, and test well. So I liked it. For me, the hardest part of veterinary school has not been the classes. (Believe me, there were days where the urge to violence was great, but they were not as many as one might believe.) For me it has been the lack of a social life, and the great difference I felt from my classmates. Partially, this is no one's fault. We are all, or were all, crazy studiers with too much to do. Partially this comes from being an older student, with a long-term partner, and with a very different backgound (liberal arts, remember? Me pre-vet = had attended crazy kooky undergraduate school, with intellectuals for parents, living with blue hair in Portland, OR. Most of the vet world comes from white middle class or upper middle class early twenty-somethings in GAP jeans). And while my classmates are fine students and warm people, for me the social aspects were slow to click (now don't start playing me a mournful tune, I made out OK eventually). This was frustrating, erosive to my confidence and embittering. I look back and I can't really tease out all the whys and the could have beens or should have dones. It just was. Now in my final year I can appreciate some of the good friends I have made, but in looking back, it was the worst part of the whole experience. And of course, there's the whole Massachussetts thing, but let's not get into that.

So now I'm doing my best to move on, and unwind. Slowly, the smaller wrinkles are softening. It's a gradual unfolding, one you are hardly aware of until days later. And you do look back, and you think. Wow. I did do that thing. And when you're in the middle of it, you are living in a different mental plane, wound up, with no idea how tight you are, because there's nothing to compare it to. So people, if you know someone in vet school, be kind. They know not what they do. Don't worry, eventually they will become normal again, once their adrenals short out entirely and they can no longer feel fear. Except for the veterinary jokes. You'll have to just endure those.

Nothing rhymes with origami...

2006-04-14T18:28:00.000-05:00

Flying Walking Stick, Robert J. Lang, 2006

...that would do justice as a title to this post. If you're like me, you remember origami. It's sort of a fond memory, and yet it brings with it a sense of failure. Because, if you are like me, you managed to find a limited repertoire of foldable shapes (the crane or the balloon--the latter was always a hit since you actually get to blow it up) until the diagrams in the helpful books simply began to look like abstract art. "These can't be right," you'd mutter. "How can this foldy bit over here become this other shapey bit?" All the colorful squares of paper included with the helpful book ended up as cranes, or as balloons. It's almost a relief now, seeing the work of Robert J. Lang. I can finally admit that I should leave origami to the big guys, who are far more creative with a single sheet of paper than I will ever be (let me reiterate: A SINGLE SHEET OF PAPER. Holy folding frenzy, Batman!). While you are strolling through the website (and I think the insects are my favorite), take a look at some of the crease patterns. I have no words. Thank you, Mr. Lang, for making my jaw drop in honest admiration. The origami weenies of the world salute you.

meme/quiz storm!

2006-04-12T12:33:00.000-05:00

This is not because I have nothing else to say...This is because I'm sitting in a lecture hall for the first time in a year and a half and I'd forgotten the moral fiber and neurologic fortitude required to sit--all.day.long. So I've been doing what all students do with the quintessential time-wasting-distraction device, the laptop: I've been playing solitaire, browsing the web, and exploring my inner self by taking random quizzes designed by strangers who have more or less experience at web design and random seeds which is directly correlated to their ability to sucker me into thinking: "hey they DO know me!" So here we go.

1. The Wikepedia birthday meme, thanks to my old friend Matt. The rules are: go to Wikepedia, enter your birthday without the year, and list:

Three neat facts:
1014 - Battle of Kleidion: Byzantine emperor Basil II inflicts a decisive defeat on the Bulgarian army, but his subsequent savage treatment of 15,000 prisoners reportedly causes Tsar Samuil of Bulgaria to die of shock.
I like this one because a) Battle of Kleidion kind of sounds Star Trekky and yet was thousands of years before Shatner came up with intrepid jump-suit clad space traveling races who all somehow look suspiciously bipedal, b) the poor Tsar died due to shock over savage treatment of prisoners, which makes one ponder what would have happened if this particular affliction were to surface today.
1940 - Beginning of the Blitz air attack by Nazi Germany on Great Britain.
A little more ominous. Just because it is my birthday doesn't mean that bad things can't happen to good people. Although they shouldn't. I mean, it is my birthday.
2005 - Astronomers discover 10th planet.
This is just cool.

Two births:
1805 - Alexis de Tocqueville, French historian and political scientist (d. 1859)
Dear old de Tocqueville, who wrote one of the first tourist guides to the US, although he left out the restaurant reviews and the hotel ratings. We read this book in my AP US History class, thanks to one of the best history teachers I know (thanks, Mr. Hierl) who managed to make me learn history in spite of my resistance.
1883 - Benito Mussolini, Italian dictator (d. 1945)
Hmmm. I'm sure this is pure coincidence. Right?

One death:
1890 - Vincent van Gogh, Dutch painter (b. 1853)
Is it wrong that I found the list of people who died more interesting than those who were born? What's the deal with the two (count 'em, two) Roman Emperors who were assassinated on the same day on the same year? Did the assassin have a quota to meet?

2. The personality DNA meme, discovered by random blog browsing.

Benevolent Creator

This was by far, the fanciest version of a "who are you?" quiz out there. My favorite thing about this one was that you get a pretty sort of Mondrian-like painting for your blog. This is probably not the intent of the personal DNA people, but tough cookies. And, of course, who wouldn't like being called "A Benevolent Creator?" I mean, let's just cut the crap and just go ahead and build a little altar to me, with some candles, a few pretty mosiacs or statuettes or something, and please, unless you want my wrath, avoid the stinky incenses! Handmaidens, though, I might like a few handmaidens. Flattery will get you everywhere, my dears. I always think, let's see, if I take this quiz again next week, or standing on my head, or while whistling, I will probably get some other personality label, like "Bizarre Dictator." My former anthropologist roots are twitching, sensing some deep-seated cultural theme that would explain our fascination with self-diagnosis and reality TV shows. (Seriously, these things all share this idea that somehow our ordinary selves will be revealed as special, as the winner, as the best one. Which must be predicated on the idea that people are boring, drab, and ultimately so underconfident that money or TV will transform our lives--read inner selves--forever.)

3. Tarot Card quiz

You Are The Chariot

You represent a difficult battle, and a well-deserved victory.
You tend to struggle to get what you want, both internally and externally.
You excel at controlling opposing forces, getting down the same path.
In the end, you bring glory and success - using pure will to move forward.

Your fortune:

There is great conflict in your life right now, either with yourself or others.
You must find a solution to this conflict, which is likely to be a "middle road" between the two forces.
You posses the skills to triumph over these struggles, as long as your will is strong.
You are transforming your inner self, building a better foundation for future successes.

What Tarot Card Are You?

Well. My next-door neighbor in this lecture hall just asked if I would move over, as my large, swollen head is blocking her light and making it hard to take notes. That's gotta be why we do these things. All in the name of self-revalation and introspection. And by the way, I do accept personal checks as a form of prayer.

What I Did On My Vacation

2006-03-24T20:55:00.000-05:00

So after all that stressful life planning business, I got down to the hardest task of all: relaxing. It doesn't come easily, which is annoying and a little sad. However, last week I got a much deserved rest visiting my folks in North Carolina. The preformulated housing developments are creeping in around the edges of my old haunts; there's a brand new ginormous high school not five minutes from my house, and believe it or not, both coffee shops and espresso have finally reared their cultural little heads. Now don't get too excited; it's still damned hard to find a coffee shop open in the evenings, but hey, in high school nobody had ever even heard of coffee shops; we had a mall. I found returning to my old town a lot harder during college and immediately after. This time was maybe the first where I had a real sense of distance. And it was nice. Nice to visit, nice to toodle around town; just nice. Of course it helped that the weather was a balmy sixty degrees in comparison to the ice locked state of Massachusetts. All the trees were in bloom, the daffodils were their joyful yellow selves and the forsythia followed their example. My internal seasonal clock is definitely still on North Carolina time.

My favorite place, Reynolda House. Originally designed to be a model estate, conceived by Katharine Reynolds after marrying R.J. Reynolds (of tobacco infamy), now an art museum dedicated to American art. Something I found even more surprising was the Reynolds's dedication to education of all tenants, irrespective of race or class. The grounds are free and open to the public, while the house itself has been recently renovated, with a new wing for traveling exhibits. It's a lot more museumy than it was when I was a child, and I am grateful for the times I had during its summer programs where we were allowed to run free in the basement, bowling and swimming and eating cookies in the mirrored bar.

My parents, meanwhile, have been busy with their usual hustle and bustle. In addition to their jobs, their social lives and their community outreach, I found they have been busy raising killer koi in our backyard (see example below). I couldn't give them up to the authorities, so be warned if you come to visit.

Anyway, it was the Irish time of the month of March where most people just go have a pint or two or seventeen. But in the newfound spirit of finding culture in Winston-Salem, my stepfather and I went to a poetry reading, complete with Irish poet, whistle and fiddle. And one of the poems especially spoke to this past six months and my battle with the fear of the unknown. While I cannot read it to you, and even if I possessed that much techno savvy, I could never imitate the beautiful brogue which recited it to me that night. So tough cookies.

Fear
Ciaran Carson (pronounced Kee air un, accent on the second syllable)

I fear the vast dimensions of eternity.
I fear the gap between the platform and the train.
I fear the onset of a murderous campaign.
I fear the palpitations caused by too much tea.

I fear the drawn pistol of a rapparee.
I fear the books will not survive the acid rain.
I fear the ruler and the blackboard and the cane.
I fear the Jabberwock, whatever it might be.

I fear the bad decisions of a referee.
I fear the only recourse is to plead insane.
I fear the implications of a lawyer's fee.

I fear the gremlins that have colonized my brain.
I fear to read the small print of the guarantee.
And what else do I fear? Let me begin again.

The Scramble

2006-03-23T14:06:00.000-05:00

I sort of left you all hanging, huh? What happened to her the next day? Fidget, fidget, on the edge of the seat, nail biting...for god's sake man, just tell me! Actually, it would not surprise me to find out it's a little more like: oh, right. There was this important thing that was going to happen to that blogger person, I think. I'll find out later, I'm doing the crossword.

Well, and some of you already know, anyway. It's all resolved now. Looking back, the funniest part was the immediate 48 hours post Match day. So here's how it goes, this thing called THE MATCH. You decide for some unknown reason that you wish for another year (internship) or three (residency, usually done after the internship) of veterinary torture. This is not a required desire for all veterinarians, unlike in medical school. We could simply go out and start hawking our skills to practices who might wish to hire our scared selves. (I mean, we've had four years of school, but that in no way compensates for years of experience. I know that when people call me "Doctor" in a few months I'm going to be looking around in confusion. Yet, the only way to get experience...) So why do it? The lack of remuneration and all the glamour just call to you (just in case you weren't paying attention, this is called sarcasm, folks) . Or, I suppose you might really want to get some more advanced training, or specialize in something like surgery, or cardiology, or maybe you just like taking really hard tests and having extra letters after your name.

So, the Match. You send in stuff to a central agency that orchestrates most of these positions. This includes: a) your grades b) a little form thingy saying what position you are applying for c) a letter of intent which hopefully doesn't make you sound like an ass, and yet lovingly highlights your good qualities in a unique and eye-catching way (for those of you on these committees, my hat's off to you wading through that mulch) and d) three letters of reference, which again, hopefully highlight your good qualities without any veiled allusions to BAD THINGS, such as: "A very smart hardworking student, but can be difficult to work with," (This means, what a B*TCH!) or, "Shows great potential; needs to be pushed harder." (Meaning, she's lazy and picks her nose at rounds.) Again, hats off to the clinicians who write these umpteen letters for people they may have only known for a week. The ridiculous thing is the trepidation one feels for asking for these letters. When advised, you are told, only ask if the person feels that they can give you a good letter, implying that leaving out the word "good" somehow invalidates the contract, so they could just write you any old letter. Dear Blah Animal Hospital, they will say. I am free to say how I feel because that fool Jenny Joe Schmoe FORGOT to ask for a good letter. So, thinking about Jenny Joe Schmoe as an intern? HA! HA HA--Don't make me laugh too hard. Whatever you do, stay away from her. She actually didn't know the dose of Clavamox for a urinary tract infection! Can YOU IMAGINE? Love, Dr. Soandso. I doubt that doctors really write such things, but such advice over petty language makes you worry a little.

Anyway, once you send all that in, and pay the pretty scary people (it's like the Mafia, maybe?) you then get to rank all the programs to which you applied. And then the people offering the positions rank the candidates they are interested in. And then the magic begins...It reads a little like a complicated word problem: "If Johnny has 13 apples and he leaves his house at10:45 am walking west at 3 miles an hour, and he eats the apples at a rate of 1 apple per hour, how likely is he to die from indigestion before reaching his destination?"

An actual quote from the website:

By way of example, Metropolis University (MU) has four residencies available in surgery. MU received 22 applications, out of which it chose to rank 12 candidates. In effect, MU has offered jobs to candidates 1, 2, 3 and 4 on its list. Candidate 1 has Metropolis U ranked fourth, #2 has it ranked first, #3 ranked it second and #4 ranked it first. Metropolis would be matched with candidates #2 and #4 and nothing else would happen until candidates #1 and #3 are matched elsewhere, or the programs ranked higher than Metropolis on the candidate lists were filled.

See what I mean? It makes a twisted sort of sense, if you like word problems.

Anyway, I only applied to two places, which between them had 6 positions. Knowing this, I was prepared, as much as I could be, not to match. The thing that really got me, though, was how I would say this to some well meaning person and they would reply, "Oh, I'm sure you'll match, you're ______." And the blank would be some nice compliment, etc. Now lest I seem ungrateful, let me explain my objection to this comment, and show you instead, that I am actually analytical and picky and--well, maybe ungrateful. This whole comment was of course designed to be innocuous and soothing, and was probably what they themselves also needed to hear. But to me it implied that if you match it was because you were _____, therefore, if you didn't match, that must somehow imply inferiority and not _____. I thought, hell, I may not match, it's statistics. Because I'd much rather blame the vagaries of the word problem than my worthiness as a candidate. I wasn't actually all that worried about my worthiness as a candidate truth be told. So you might see how the compliment failed to meet the mark, and that I can't take a compliment to save my life.

Now, there wouldn't be much of a story here if I had matched. So, no, I didn't match. And I found this out by logging on to the website and being politely told by the webpage, and it was all impersonal and sort of fine. My main problem was: WHAT DO I DO NOW? Do I think about getting a job next year (EECK!) or applying for open internship positions in potentially up-until- now unconsidered states (URK?) or do I crawl in bed and sing a little happy song until it all goes away? I'm not just making this decision for myself, y'all. I have a man and two dogs and two ferrets and a large tortoise (in a pear tree?) to consider, and the man especially has what you might call an ANTI-Desire to stay anywhere on the east coast or the midwest. He's an Oregon boy, born and bred, and it calls to him...Anyway, there is this long list of internship openings available because not all the places match either (it felt like a small justice, at the time).

By 11 am that morning I had gotten 6 phone calls and 8 emails from random people at random hospitals all over the country asking if I wanted to come be their Bitc..ahem..intern. At first it was a heady rush of power: ME, they want ME, HA HA HA...wait a minute, I have how long to decide if I want to come to your hospital in Podunk IL? The answer: "we'd really like to have the position filled by Wednesday." This was Monday, y'all. From no known future to consider moving to Florida? Sacramento? Virginia? But DECIDE RIGHT NOW. Hmm, now I've never been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type gal. But forgive me if I'm wrong, even without the boy and the dogs and the ferrets and the tortoise (in pear tree?) I'm not sure impulse shopping for an internship is such a good idea. People say, "it's only a year," in this casual offhand way as if we just drop a year here and there, no big deal, you can handle anything for a year. ANYTHING? I can think of a lot of things I wouldn't want to handle for a year. Isn't that what reality TV is based on? And the emails and the phone calls just.kept.coming. You see, they publish the list of all those folks who don't match, and then this 48 hour period is called The Scramble. Think of it as a giant country wide game of musical chairs, played with chairs you can't see and players you don't know; they may turn out to have beautiful chaise lounges to offer you, or you may end up being squashed into an old plastic cafeteria chair by Bertha, the 300lb human resources manager who forgot to mention that they 're suffering from a technician shortage and you'll be responsible for all evening treatments, at no extra cost to you (Disclaimer: there was no Bertha, and I'm sure people with that name are lovely at any size). You are expected to send them those original references (try tracking down three faculty members in 12 hours, I challenge you), maybe the application, and then wait.

So I called the only place left in the Northwest that had an open position. I know a few people who have worked there or work there still, and I got the skinny from them, and I said, well, it's about the only thing I can think of that would work right for everyone concerned and would not cause me to tear out my hair or be abandoned by my boyfriend or lead to madness. And right when I thought I might have to re-track down those three faculty members and apply for some position in San Diego (which I hear is a nice town, but it ain't Oregon), I was in. Phew! And you think it was a long story to read! It was a crazy 48 hour period, but I have learned. 1) Smile pretty and try to take the compliments, they don't mean anything by it. 2) There's no point in being frantic over the future, because it just comes right up behind you and kicks your butt anyway. 3) Don't make plans. If you are like me, you will continue to make plans anyway, but you can at least remember you once thought it would be a good rule. 4) Vet school is stupid sometimes and tries to convince you your life is ending. It is wrong. 5) I'm going to be in my favorite city next year and that makes everything seem good good good. Yippee!

Looking the other way is revealing

2006-03-05T15:03:00.000-05:00

I was in Whole Foods the other day (is that okay to say on a blog? Am I supposed to disguise the names and places in my life so as to protect the innocent? I guess I'm not here to slander Whole Foods, nor am I really here to promote them, so too bad. And then the leading question: who is really innocent around here?) and I had to repress an outburst. Maybe the fact that I suspected the lady ahead of me was eyeing my sushi with disdain says more about me and some unexamined lifestyle choice paranoia, but I got the surreptitious I'm-eyeing-your
-grocery-choices-and-making-judgements-about-you feeling. And I'm sure it was partially the frustration that I couldn't afford to stock my kitchen with any of the very pretty vegetables or gourmet cheeses that made me want to scream: "YES I EAT MEAT AND SOMETIMES I EVEN BUY HARMFUL CHEMICALS; I'M WEARING LEATHER SHOES AND SOMETIMES I LEAVE THE LIGHTS ON!" I imagined a hush falling over the store; the cold stares; the muttering. (Now, be reasonable, you coo, nervously. Not everyone who shops at Whole Foods is anti-leather or anti-meat, and hey, what's wrong with the goal of non chemical healthy food? It's OK, I'm calm, I'm calm, I mean, I 'll be fine...) I've been under a lot of pressure lately, you know?

This is one way of saying, today is the day before tomorrow, and tomorrow is the day where important veterinary future things get decided, like: will you be toiling in some practice next year for some money (but there's still the evils of job hunting) or toiling in a veterinary school for no money in the hopes that you'll gain some crystallizing experience that tells you once and for all that you're a doctor now? And you see, I'm not thinking about this right now. I'm thinking around it. I'm thinking about how when you move someplace, your environment defines you in some intangible way, much like the way physicists talk about every action with its equal and opposite reaction. It may look like you're sitting on the table, but the table is also opposing your butt with equal and opposite force, otherwise it would be the floor, suddenly, opposing your now bruised posterior. You push on your environment, it pushes back. (Huh, you say? What does this have to do with tomorrow? Wait for it...) So now I'm thinking about next year, and moving back to the west coast, and how it will be like a tight sweater that used to fit. You put it on, and--huh, you say to yourself, how come I never noticed that squidgy way the sleeves hug my armpits? I'm not really the same exact person now after vet school. And you see, Whole Foods reminds me of Portland, a little, because the whole place is so much more populated by a liberal population generally willing to buy spices in bulk and high priced granola. And when it comes right down to it, I suffer from two basic emotions when I think about moving back. (Very basic, don't say you weren't warned, this is straight back to middle school, people.)

(Let me digress for a minute, at the risk of revealing too much and exaggerating my background to the point of pathos, which is not my intention. I was NOT a popular kid in middle school. Whether or not this should matter is a moot point. It did, and it still does somehow, because it was a defining moment to get to a college where all of a sudden I felt like I belonged. And whenever you move, there's that need to find someplace where you still belong. And when you don't it's slowly and quietly unsettling; it undermines you; it crops up when you are anxious about your abilities or your future. Like maybe how good a doctor you will be? Or where you will be next year? Get it?)

One is the disappointment you feel when you hoped or first belonged to a new self-identified group of people that you thought were so cool and then you discover THE.BIG.SECRET. You admire they way they dress, or talk, or opine, but inside they are just people. CRAP! They have hypocrisy and stupidity and egotism just like all the other people you didn't want to be like. This may make you philosophical and happily assume, yay, we're all more alike than we think! Or, like me, you may get a little bitter and lash out desperately in some public forum, like say...a blog, for instance. And maybe deeper down, or just mixed in is the other basic emotion. This is the ohmygod iwannabecoolihopetheystilllikeme/doistillbelong? emotion. Tricky. Which came first, the wanting or the rejecting? Or do they just keep happening over and over and all mixed up? Lest you think I'm a complete self doubting, self-hating noodle, I will say in my defense that tomorrow is scary and I've been trapped in my house in the frozen tundra of the north in the dark thinking about it for many many months. AND I don't get out much. I promise, soon I will try and remember how to talk and play well with others, and respect their opinions about organic produce and try to have well-reasoned and insightful conversations about the merits and demerits of factory farmed fish, but right now I want to say that for lunch I had factory produced beef from Stop N Shop, my shoes are leather, and my hair is undyed. The truth is, I'm still twelve, I'm wearing a dorky sweater and I don't know which bands are cool, thankyou very much. Here's to hoping you like me anyway, dear west coast, tainted as I may be, because no matter what happens tomorrow, internship or job, I'm coming home.

A Poem For Current Events

2006-02-20T18:20:00.000-05:00

I randomly picked up my Wislawa Szymborska poetry collection (you may have magazines in your bathroom, but today I had poetry). And I opened the book at random, which is my favorite way to read a poetry book, since you will always have unread gems to find later. And a poem that might not have struck me on any other day kind of hit me; I was skimming through it and then in the middle I stopped and really started READING it, and I thought of Iraq and Iran, and even the proposed wall against Mexican immigrants.

Voices
Wislawa Szymborska

You can't move an inch, my dear Marcus Emilius,
without Aborigines sprouting up as if from the earth itself.

Your heel sticks fast amidst Rutulians.
You founder knee-deep in Sabines and Latins.
You're up to your waist, your neck, your nostrils,
in Aequians and Volscians, dear Lucius Fabius.

These irksome little nations, thick as flies.
It's enough to make you sick, dear Quintus Decius.

One town, then the next, then the hundred and seventieth.
The Fidenates' stubbornness. The Feliscan's ill will.
The short-sighted Ecetrans. The Capricious Antemnates.
The Laricanians and Pelignians, offensively aloof.
They drive us mild-mannered sorts to sterner measures
with every new mountain we cross, dear Gaius Cloelius.

If only they weren't always in the way, the Auruncians, the Marsians,
but they always do get in the way, dear Spurius Manlius.

Tarquinians where you'd least expect them, Etruscans on all sides.
If that weren't enough, Volsinians and Veientians.
The Aulertians, beyond all reason. And, of course,
the endlessly vexatious Sapinians, my dear Sextus Oppius.

Little nations do have little minds.
The circle of thick skulls expands around us.
Reprehensible customs. Backward laws.
Ineffectual gods, my dear Titus Vilius.

Heaps of Hernicians. Swarms of Murricinians.
Antlike multitudes of Vestians and Samnites.
The farther you go, the more there are, dear Servius Follius.

The little nations are pitiful indeed.
Their foolish ways require supervision
with every new river we ford, dear Aulus Iunius.

Every new horizon threatens me.
That's how I'd put it, my dear Hostius Melius.

To which I, Hostius Melius, would reply, my dear
Appius Papius: March on! The world has got to end somewhere.

Playing catch (up)

2006-02-18T13:54:00.000-05:00

The best intentions of mice and men...sigh. As for using this blog as a way to keep in touch with my inner self, I must say that she seems to be out for tea and crumpets (well, maybe not tea. I don't think that my inner self is a tea person, since even my outer self likes to pollute tea with as much milk and sugar as possible. Maybe hot cocoa, or lemonade and crumpets) with incredible frequency. But I finally got around to posting my aforementioned Dominican Republic trip photos on Flikr. Who loves you, baby? I always come through eventually.

First, a little bit more about the trip. This trip is under the auspices of the MVMA (Massachusetts Veterinary Medical Association) and goes twice a year to the Samana region of the Dominican Republic. This is the peninsula off the east side of the island. The trip has been in existence for 9 years, and by all reports has made a great deal of difference in the region. The vets donate time and many supplies, and offer low cost to free spaying and neutering of dogs and cats and castration of mules and horses. If you are a veterinary student in your fourth year (me, for example), you will be given plenty of practice in these surgical skills. I spayed two or three dogs and helped with other spays, neutered a few dogs and castrated or helped castrate many many horses and a few mules. Mules are the trickiest, being much smarter than horses and often more aggressive.

I flew into Santiago with two other people who were helping out on the trip. It was startling to realize that, at least at night, traffic signals are entirely optional. And there's nothing like being a tall white chick on the streets of Santiago to make you feel slightly out of place. The trip out to the peninsula was a pole-position video game made real. Luckily(?) for us, the male of the group had always apparently dreamed of living the game, and cackled gleefully as we catapulted down partially paved roads and passed as many people as possible. We never did figure out how many points you got for the double pass (you passing someone who's passing someone else). If you were hard up for a goat there were plenty of stands on the way out of Santiago to replenish your herd. We did watch some poor guy on a moped get whacked by the front bumper of a car trying to pull out. The guy was ok, but some strategic part of his bike did end up on the pavement.

I had a conversation with a visitor from Spain about the trip before I left. He was sort of betting that I would be shocked by the poverty on the island as compared to America. We were having this long conversation about how Americans view pets and how much money they spend on pets as compared to the rest of the world. (It is surprising to most--our new roommate has recently arrived from Beijing, and she was amazed at how much time I spent in the hospital during small animal surgery, and how many people would pay for surgery on their dogs.) And if you care, America, why is that in all these conversations do I feel obliged to defend you, shamefacedly, as if covering up for an alcoholic uncle who's just shown up drunk to a fancy party? I mean, I can happily admit you have a problem, but I just can't quite leave you in the cold.

I have to say my reactions to the poverty level were more mixed and complex. Shock seems like a worthless emotion. It seems an easy pitfall; another cliche; pampered American goes "oh, how horrid, or oh how sad." Both patronizing and soon forgotten. My first reaction was more one of "who am I to come in here and say such things? What use would you have for my pity or shock?" People around me seemed happy (will I be hung for my use of the word, for my subjective and outsider's brush?) and busy, living lives that could not be condemmed as sad or hollow simply for lack of STUFF. Where in America are your social gatherings after dark? Your entire community sitting outside, talking or listening to loud music? These things are SCHEDULED in our country, penciled in on calendars and arranged by soccer moms or the neighborhood association, because god forbid you see your neighbors at random, or leave the air conditioning or your internet. Arguably once the Dominicans have air conditioning or internet they too will stop putting chairs out by the road, but I hope not. On the other hand, you had to notice the lack of infrastructure; the trash on the streets and in the medians, even in little towns; the menace of the new hotel built with bribes and no built-in waste disposal, which threatens to eat up the water supply for the residents. No answers.

As for the trip, the local residents have found out over the years some of the usefulness of castrating their mules or deworming their dogs. It's still harder to get a man to cut off his dog's cojones than you would imagine, but the idea is gaining acceptance (and I gotta say, you do notice. I mean you're driving down the street and you see some dog and you think, holy ****, that dog has really huge testicles!). The dogs of Samana are smallish, mostly 20 to 30 pounders, and clearly someone's German Shepherd was once making free with some local mutt. There's the occasional terrier looking thing, and sometimes a Dalmation (!!?). They are mostly free of mange, and mostly fed enough, although never fat. The horses are small, maybe 14 hands, with plenty of Paso Fino thrown in. And I have to be amused thinking of the fancy dressage barns with their natural wood paneling and lack of turn-out, where coiffed and breeched ladies are horrified at the idea of leaving a lead rope on in the stall, and comparing this to the horses tied by the neck on the roadside, left there all day to graze. Do those horses go around breaking legs and running off? Not often. Now, they're not being asked to do upper level movements, either, and the dressage people do give their horses free access to water, but the horses on the island are also not considered useless if a little lame or ill-made. While I wish the one culture would recognize pain and husbandry issues, I have to ask the other to stop being so damned precious.
I'm not sure either place has it right. It's the same thing with the cars. Cars that someone in the US would have thrown to the junk yard were all driving along just fine. More dangerous? Probably in some cases. Due to inabililty to afford new cars rather than some sense of pride in reuse and recycle? Yup. And yet I still hate the hideous buy a new car and toss the old one that we can afford here at home more.

We also were the proud owners of three flat tires. Separately. And while the rental car did have a spare, it HAD NO JACK. That's what happens when you take a Honda CRV down an unpaved, unleveled and ungraded road. But that's when you provide amusement as silly gringos, as the entire community of young men try to outdo themselves looking for a jack. And then there's the guy with the roadside auto "store" who will drive you himself to your destination, drive back, fix your tire and then bring your rental car to you. Sure, he's making money, but who here trusts some guy they've never met to take their car and bring it back? You probably can trust strangers more often than not, but the point is, who would?

So we don't live on an island, and we mostly obey traffic signals and we don't usually carry propane tanks across our laps while driving 45 miles an hour on a moped, but sometimes I think we are lacking in a lot of other ways.

Poems on the Job

2006-01-28T11:16:00.000-05:00

There's nothing better than getting paid to read poems. Or to write blogs that include the reading and disseminating of poems. I mean, maybe the school doesn't realize it's paying me to do these things (I'm currently "working" at the hospital as a weekend radiology technician. My title today shall be henceforth: O Glorious Taker of Radiographs, O Illuminator of Fractures, Her Holiness of the X-Ray. Hmm...Now where can I find a nametag around here?), but I think it should be proud to witness the versatility of its students, who are not all nose-to-the-science-only-grindstone, but share art and wonder with the world. Share away, O Illuminatrice, I say to myself, share away!

The Onion
Wislawa Szymborska

the onion, now that's something else
its innards don't exist
nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist
oniony on the inside
onionesque it appears
it follows its own daimonion
without our human tears

our skin is just a coverup
for the land where none dare to go
an internal inferno
the anathema of anatomy
in an onion there's only onion
from its top to it's toe
onionymous monomania
unanimous omninudity

at peace, at peace
internally at rest
inside it, there's a smaller one
of undiminished worth
the second holds a third one
the third contains a fourth
a centripetal fugue
polypony compressed

nature's rotundest tummy
its greatest success story
the onion drapes itself in it's
own aureoles of glory
we hold veins, nerves, and fat
secretions' secret sections
not for us such idiotic
onionoid perfections

And the moral of this poem is: you can't radiograph an onion. How profound, indeed, how profound.

What I know about weasels

2006-01-15T17:17:00.000-05:00

would take a long time to write down. I don't really have a long time, in fact, I'm supposed to go next door and have dinner in about an hour, and I should probably wash (if you're reading this, Dani, sorry, I probably didn't wash). But I was making chocolate chip cookies and thinking and I felt the need to write this down. (By the way, there's not a lot of things more comforting than chocolate chip cookies when you're having a nasty day. If you make them yourself, you can lick BOTH beaters and the bowl. And then have some cookie dough and remember the times you made cookie dough when your parents weren't home and you were finally old enough that the kitchen taboo had been lifted. And you made cookie dough and DIDN'T COOK ANY OF IT. Ahh, the surreptitious and careful cleaning of the mixing bowls and the measuring spoons. Our parents would never have believed us capable of such cleanliness, knowing how we chose to keep our bedrooms. I kept raw cookie dough under my bed. I think back and wonder how I escaped hideous food poisoning. Some things cannot be explained.)

Anyway, what I know about weasels is:

1. They aren't REALLY weasels. More like cousins. Same genus Mustela, but their own species.

2. This means, contrary to popular belief, they are not the same as their black-footed friends living on the plains. They have actually been domesticated for thousands of years, if by domesticated you mean kept by humans for a purpose. Mostly they hunt out vermin, and were kept by roofers to flush and kill rats (in attics? in newly built houses? not exactly sure why the roofers got this job...)

3. This means (ATTENTION CALIFORNIA FISH AND WILDLIFE) they don't really exist as a wild population. But they are illegal in California. And truly, I don't think you could get all the factors right to make a colony of domestic ferrets a breeding colony in the wild (see the following points for supporting arguments). And anyway, California, what are you scared of: that they'll decimate the crops?

4. They like rough sex (this is a direct quote from a guy in my Vertebrate Zoology class when we had to give a presentation on a specific genus. We always suspected that socks and sandals heralded a disturbed mind. It appears in this instance we might have been right.) Anyway, females are induced ovulators, meaning they have a biological reflex that induces ovulation that is only initiated during sex; and I suppose, if Mr. Sandals did his homework; sex of the rather ungentle persuasion. So if you are a female ferret in heat, well, to be crass, you have to get it on to get out of heat. And being in heat for too long is actually very bad for you. (OK guys, this is for you: prolonged estrogen production is actually toxic. You always suspected it, didn't you?)

5. They are descended from the European Polecat.

6. They are only sold in pet stores neutered and spayed. A good thing, too, since who wants to breed their female every time she's in heat?

7. However, even if one unspayed female got lost in the wilds of CA, what are the chances she'll find a ferrety-man in her area to help her out in time to establish a wild population?

8. I used to have to have licence to keep ferrets when I was living in NY State. However, I was disturbed that all I had to do was send the Fish and Wildlife people 10 bucks and I got a license to have, breed and sell ferrets, no questions asked.

9. I have two ferrets. For those of you who know me, this is an abrupt and probably poor way (sorry) to explain partially the reason for this post.

10. Ferrets are like kittens forever. Except more work. But curious and playful. And no scratching of the furniture. However, burrowing in the furniture is fair game.

11. I once wrote a cartoon about my ferrets in a children's magazine.

12. I have had ferrets for 11 years (but not the same ones).

13. Ferrets can get the human flu virus. This doesn't kill them, but it's icky for them too.

14. Ferrets can live up to 9 or 10 years (maybe 11, if my friend Jen's ferret really was that old) but most don't, in my personal experience. If you hit 6 or 7, you're doing really well. However, every ferret I've ever owned has died with their very own tumor. Sometimes it's not the tumor that kills them, but if you have ferrets, you have tumors.

15. There's a lot of speculation about the reasons for this, since it seems to be related to American stock only. Apparently their European counterparts don't have as many problems. This is in part due to our limited breeding stock. If you go into a random pet store and check out their ferrets, they will most likely have two little blue tatoos in their ears. This doesn't mean they're rebellious. This means they come from Marshall Farms, a large breeder of many animals. The thing about Marshall Farms is that half their animals are sold to reasearchers (see number 13). And researchers want genetic homogeneity. And the public isn't all that well informed about this fact, so no one goes into a pet store thinking, uh oh, genetic homogeneity. I sure didn't when I was 20.

16. Pet stores and Marshall Farms and the public like cuteness. But they like easy cuteness. So young ferrets (called kits) are sold young (6 to 8 weeks) already neutered, and often descented (more about that next). I'm not against neutering, believe me. But new research has shown that, unlike dogs and cats, early neutering may be harmful to ferrets. Their adrenal glands seem to be wired a bit differently and early neutering may contribute to the development of adrenal tumors later on.

17. People are working on strategies to prevent this. And you can buy a from a local breeder, if you hunt for one.

18. In my experience, descenting is crap. Truth is, ferrets smell. The scent glands they remove don't prevent this. If they empty those scent glands, believe me, you'll know. I've smelled those scent glands only once, when two of my ferrets were fighting. And they didn't smell like the normal ferret musk. It was STANK.

19. The best way to prevent overwhelming ferret stink is laundry laundry. And clean litter boxes. Baths last 3 days, tops.

20. You either hate the smell, or you don't care. Actually, it seems to me you either like ferrets or you don't. These things go together.

21. Ferrets can be litter box trained. But unlike cats, their proficiency needs constant help, and it seems to wane in direct proportion to the size of the room and the number of corners. They like to poop in corners, usually the ones that are the hardest to put litter pans in.

22. Landlords aren't really keen on this, nor the smell. But if you're a careful owner, the house WILL NOT smell like ferret when you leave. TAKE THAT (you shall remain nameless, but even you admitted the truth of this statement when I moved out).

23. My ferret Oliver was named both for his atonal compositions on the piano (after Oliver Messiaen, the avant-guarde composer) and because I couldn't resist the pun: "My ferret wants to be oliver the house." (tee hee).

24. Oliver is henceforth known as the "Solid Gold" weasel, because he has had part of his liver removed, and had his spleen out, and not at the same time. This was rather expensive.

25. I have had 7 ferrets total. Between them we have had:
3 adrenal tumors
2 cases of IBD (inflammatory bowel disease)
uncountable numbers of insulinomas (tumors in the pancreas)
5 mast cell tumors (not a big problem for ferrets, thankfully, just itchy)
1 hair ball the size of a finger
2 biliary cystadenomas (benign liver tumor)
1 splenic mass (benign)
a case of raging lymphoma (tumor of the immune system)
This sucks. But ferrets don't.

26. Ferrets are the best ever when they are happy. They jump around and make little chuckling noises. If they are scared they will puff out their tails.

27. When they jump around they open their mouths. This does not mean they want to bite you. This is called the open-mouth-play-face. I don't know who came up with this, but I really like the phrase. The thing is, they do know the difference between a play bite and a real bite. If you have a really young ferret you might have to teach them this.

28. My ferrets love tubes. You can buy french drain at Home Depot. It's cheap. If you can find the clear kind of tubing (not at Home Depot), they run through it and you can watch them wag their tails.

29. I made both my ferrets' cages. Much cheaper than buying them, but you need a feed store.

30. All my ferrets except the first one came from ferret-only shelters.

31. Oliver is the smartest, and therefore the naughtiest. He pushes books off of bookshelves, anything off the desk, climbs the chair onto the desk, etc. He is especially naughty if you have been ignoring him, a fact which proves his intelligence.

32. Sebastian was abandoned by his owner. When I first got him he was anxious and ran away if you walked towards him in a fast or aggressive manner. I'm not all that into psychologizing about my pets, but the day we put him in the car to move across the country he didn't sleep like the others, and I swear he thought he was going back to the shelter.

33. Sebastian has very particular ideas about where his toys go, If you move them, he will move them back.

34. After college, I wanted a dog but couldn't have one. So my friends and I decided that 5 ferrets taped together equalled a dog. I've never made it to 5 ferrets at once, though. One of my friends had 7.

35. My friend Skye wanted me to call my ferret Roo, "Plop." This was a great joke when he developed diarrhea, and I got to tease her; saying she must have caused it.

36. I called Roo: Chicken, Bug, Roo-bug, and Fatty fat fat. He was the fattest weasel. If he had been human he would have been a big jock, friendly and not that bright, but the kind of guy who was everybody's friend.

37. This is the part that sucks: Roo died today. I have been crying a lot. He was good bug. I don't really ever speculate on the afterlife, but I hope if there is one he'll be galumphing over when I get there. Him and all the other weasels. You guys are the best stinky weasels a gal could have ever had.

Poems for the Maudlin

2005-12-22T20:40:00.000-05:00

I don't mean maudlin poetry. I mean a poem that stops you cold in your tracks and pares away the excess fat and self-pity from your mood.

Gift Horses
Jack Gilbert

He lives in the barrens, in dying neighborhoods
and negligible countries. None with an address.
But still the Devil finds him. Kills the wife
or spoils the marriage. Publishes each place
and makes it popular, makes it better, makes it
unusable. Brings news of friends, all defeated,
most sick or sad without reasons. Shows him
photographs of the beautiful women in old movies
whose luminous faces sixteen feet tall looked out
at the boy in the dark where he grew his heart.
Brings pictures of what they look like now.
Says how lively they are, and brave despite their age.
Taking away everything. For the Devil is commissioned
to harm, to keelhaul us with loss, with knowledge
of how all things splendid are disfugured by small
and small. Yet he allows us to eat roast goat
on the mountain above Parakia. Lets us stumble
for the first time, unprepared, onto the buildings
of Palladio in moonlight. Maybe because he is not
good at his job. I believe he loves us against
his will. Because of the women and how the men
struggle to hear inside them. Because we construe
something important from trees and locomotives,
smell weeds on a hot July afternoon and are augmented.

Freezing

2005-12-22T20:14:00.000-05:00

I'm having another fit of the blue megrims. While this in itself is a bit miserable, I love the phrase "the blue megrims." I tried to google the origin of the phrase but the results were lackluster at best. However, if you are wondering what the phrase means, here you go. Megrims when defined gives you several meanings, with the first one a dull beast best avoided (and relegated to a parenthesis, HA. I choose to not use megrim to mean some form of migraine). But it can mean a caprice, a whim, a fancy. This is a bit too lighthearted for my taste tonight, though a slightly delicious term to stick in your pocket for later use. The last definition is the one I'm on about: depression or unhappiness. It's only to be expected by most rational people, I mean, look at the facts:

1. I have to be up before the sun every day. Every day. Maybe some of you like it, but I don't.

2. I have to be at the hospital every day. This does get old.

3. I never see my boyfriend on a weekday for more than 15 minutes. Don't forget: we do supposedly live together.

4. I hate being on call. And, though I wish I was evenhanded and egalitarian and didn't mind, I'm not, and I hate doing treatment shifts at the hospital after a long day or on a weekend (for those not in the know, this consists of walking dogs and occcasionally mucking about with IV medications). And this rotation requires both. Frequently.

5. I hate snow. I hate ice. I'm in Massachussets in December.

6. I hate orthopedic surgery (I have to qualify this. I hate it NOW, because my job is to stand there and occasionally offer my services as the human retractor. It might be less boring if I ever actually perform an orthopedic surgery). Guess what tomorrow holds? Five surgeries: two knees, two hips and a tibial fracture.

7. I am not good or graceful when making mistakes. I tend to berate myself which then leads to awkwardness and cringing. Which I also hate in myself, and on towards more recrimination. This past week and a half has been a good fun lesson in one small mistake after another. Nothing big and disastrous. Just a little lemon juice of incompetence dripping on the small paper cuts in my ego. (And that metaphor is enough to make me wonder if I deserve to use a keyboard.)

All this and it's no wonder I get home and freeze. I have projects multiple to finish: some creative, some practical. The lists pass through my mind as distantly as if they were someone else's shopping list. I can't even summon up the gusto to play video games, much less keep from making excuses not to go buy bread. (Joel, if you're reading this: we need bread.) I think maybe what the internet needs is a maudlin police. They could come and get me after tonight.

What I want to do is sit by a window in the dark and look out over an untouched expanse of snowy night with a bright moon, and listen to some suitable atmospheric music, and wallow in my blue megrims a little.

After the cooling off period

2005-12-08T17:54:00.000-05:00

Here I am, shamefaced over my outburst (well, maybe not shamefaced--it was a very satisfying post) or at least here to soften it a bit round the edges. Mellowing, I am mellowing about the experience. First, there was the next morning. Where I retell my woeful tale to my sleeping boyfriend, who reasonably says, why don't you drop the tire off across the street? (There really is a tire place almost directly across the street. Actually, come to think of it, there are two places.) To which I reply, they're not open yet. And then he says, well, leave a note. At which point, feeling badgered, I snap, I don't have time (which was true) I'm going to be late (true also). Of course, these are standard answers probably heard out of every veterinary student's mouth every morning when life throws them unexpected glitches. I'm beginning to seriously wonder what I'll be like once this whole experience is behind me. Because (to veer off track for a moment) you really have NO time. Your parents say, we're coming to visit. Can you go out to dinner? Your reply is: I don't know. And you don't; it's not some half assed excuse. You might get out at 5:00 (today) or 7:30 (Tuesday). You certainly won't be leaving the hospital except for time off in the cafeteria for good behavior. Meet someone for lunch? Nope, you only get lunch on the edges, the hyena of the veterinary savannah. It's unlike most other daily routines I can ever think of experiencing. But, as usual, I digress. Where were we? Oh yes, snapping and being late. So, feeling slightly annoyed at the lack of time, my snappishness and my (unintentionally?) implied tire fixing scheduling inadequacy, I stomp off to school.

Now: I'm coming home that night, feeling responsible. I stop by the tire place to find out when they open in the morning. Driving home, I meet my boyfriend in the driveway (more common these days than other normal places, like the house. He's working two jobs and if we thought we never saw each other when I was studying for exams, boy we were silly) who suggests, with a twinkle, that I visit a specific tire place (remember, there are two). Can you guess? Who looks in their way back when getting in a station wagon? That's right. My boyfriend had actually found my car in the parking lot at school (he works at the school, so this isn't as wacky as it could be), took my tire out and took it to one of the places across the street. I think if you subtract that from the original equation, you end up reducing the amount of true suckiness by a bunch. You might even get negative true suckiness.

And as for this tire thing, I give up. I just want to say that today, I watched them put that tire back on my car with an air compressor wrench. Ouch.

Arithmetic for an evening

2005-12-06T21:52:00.000-05:00

Well, alas, it has come down to this. When all is said and done, a blog is there too receive your ranting. It's not the first time, and I'm sure it's not the last time this page will become a vessel for pettiness and reactionary ill-humor. But oooooooohhhhh I can't help myself because I can't imagine a worse evening! GRRRRRRRR...

It goes like this: (1 cold with yellow snot * vertigo from aforementioned snot) + last one of my rotation out of the hospital + (frigid cold)^3 (one big fat flat tire + somebody's stupid idea to put the lug nuts on with a friggin air compressor wrench) = TRUE SUCKINESS.

I'm sure there's some variables I could include like yes I let my AAA membership expire and the bright idea some pinhead over at Subaru came up with that went something like: "Hey, guys, great idea, here! Let's use some cheap ass metal like, like ummm...aluminum, yeah aluminum, for the tire rims so that not only will we save money but we'll screw our customers since our aluminum rims will oxidize their tires causing them to have to put air in them (sometimes at 75 cents a pop because, yup, air doesn't just well, come out of thin air you know) every two weeks." And then factor in the tiredness thing plus the truly pissed off feminist inside me that says, why do tire stores insist on screwing the damn lug nuts down with an air compressor so that us girls have to call some guy just to get the damn things off? I KNOW HOW TO CHANGE A FRIGGIN TIRE, DAMMIT. I resent the whole damsel in distress role. It's as if the universe is saying "not only are you exhausted and ill and your choice in vehicles could use some work, but you're also the wrong sex. Sorry, babe. Oh, and by the way, be sure to catch up on that total intravenous nutrition in alpacas article you're supposed to have ready for rounds tomorrow." I'm sure there's some patron saint of lug nuts and upper body strength just giving me the finger right now. Well, buster, come a little closer. I'm sure I'm still nice and contagious.

Inertia

2005-11-24T12:24:00.000-05:00

This last month has been a lot like the proverbial object in the frictionless sterile physics universe, given one tap and 'poof', its moment of inertia evaporates. There it goes, speeding over the non-existent ground, obediently obeying the laws and wondering if entropy exists in some distant universe. That object, of course, would be me. And November has felt like that continuous dash through reality, with me secretly astonished and wondering if there will ever be another pause. At least so far I have not been called upon to demonstrate the principle of the conservation of momentum. And now, giving pause and thanks for pause, I am not even sure how to begin. This is the only time I begin to resent you, you and your endless confessional, oh electronic repository.

So November began with a crisis of intention that has still not resolved. And because I'm the kind of person that psychically wriggles with discomfort when faced with unresolved crises, I'm going to be mean and leave you hanging. Trust me, it's the kind of thing I will write much more coherently and wittily about in hindsight. And maybe in hindsight it will even seem silly (I can hope). If I write about it now I'm liable to get bogged down and upset, and I have my slim cyber-dignity to preserve (at least I like to think I do--pray, kind reader, let me keep the illusion).

And then I was off to another country to collect the fiercest chigger bites known to man (I'm not kidding: it's two weeks later and my feet still appear leprous and occasionally send me into paroxysms of itching). Well, the actual goal was to provide free neuter/spay services to the people of the Samana peninsula of the Dominican Republic, but I think the chiggers also got a pretty fair deal. This trip is a whole post in and of itself, perhaps more than one. Again, wait for it. I will say that driving in the country is a lot like the old 'Pole Position' video game, only you get a lot more flat tires and a lot less points. And I wish to say to all the whiny children I ever taught to ride ponies: you have no idea. It's all in the available choices you are given at birth. If you are taught that riding is an art that you must struggle to master, and that riding without stirrups is a chore and a trial, and that you must be driven to the barn by your parents, well. I guess a small boy riding down the road on a horse with NO, I repeat, NO bridle and NO saddle would be hard to figure. You may think I'm crazy, but I kind of wished I had been born a Dominican child at that moment. To whet your anticipatory whistles, here's a picture:

Oh, and by the way: I can now castrate a horse in 9 minutes flat. How's that for gifted?

After the Dominican Republic I spent a week riding with some nice vets in Rhode Island that listened to my crisis nicely and made no disparaging comments. Here's a thank you for that. And for those not in the vet school know, now is the time to apply for internships (which are, in fact, optional for veterinarians, but essential if you wish to pursue specialty or advanced training, such as surgery, cardiology or the like). And November is the ticking time bomb of your life: internship or not? In what? Where? And despite the flexibility of the profession (I know many who have gone from one discipline to another) it still feels a lot like a large hand pointing at you and declaiming: "DECIDE THY FUTURE, MORTAL!" (Oh crap, I'm getting a little close to the crisis thing again.)

And this week? This week it was the TEST. You know, lawyers have the bar, etc. We take "THE BOARDS." Of course, it's only one test, despite it being FIVE HOURS LONG (I think, if there were a limit on capital letters, I might have reached it). And everyone I talked to said--"oh, you'll be fine, hardly anyone fails it, yadda yadda." The general consensus has been, if you don't already know it, then...And I did study, if haphazardly-I mean, how do you study for a FIVE HOUR TEST? So why did I come out of the test feeling both stupid and unprepared? Do people just say stuff like that to you and secretly they're giving you the subtle wink that says, "I'm only saying this to cheer you up, lass. What I really think is that you should study your butt off, like everyone else." I mean, I take tests well. I even sort of like taking tests (please keep that under your hat, even if everyone reading this knows anyway). So let me just tell you all now. That test SUCKED (sorry, needed caps). It really did. I have no idea if I passed. I know that doesn't mean much, but normally I have a sense of how I did, and I'm telling you right now, I have no idea (hey, it's not caps). And I, like every other overachieving goal driven vet student out there have a not-so-secret (we're not fooling anyone) fear that we will fail. I'm now having that not-so-secret worry shouting at me from each memory of each stupid question that involved a miniscule radiograph (with no enlargement ability) that was totally unhelpful, to each stupid question about pig diseases (sorry, pigs, can't help you), to every question that read like: "A six year old spayed female wolfhound presented to you with a lisp and a strange alien growth. All lab work was normal. What is it?."

Yup, I'm ranting. See what I mean about this month? Please let me know if you see any potential objects in my way. At least I'll have prior warning before I hit.

Meme Epidemic

2005-10-23T20:40:00.000-05:00

Well, I was exposed. I tried to fight it off, but it appears I have been infected with the meme bug. Fascinating, in a way, though. The way these waves spread through blogs and websites. It kind of reminds me of the popular fads in middle school. Do you suppose Slam books are still around? I bet you they are. That was the one where some kid, inevitably cooler than you were, got a whole spiral bound notebook and devoted each page to some pithy question, like "favorite food." And there was an intricate pretense of anonymity, where you signed your name on the first page and you were assigned a number which you used to "sign" your entries. An then there were "the anonymous pages" where you wrote such delicate private information as "the cutest boy" and the cruel pages like "nerdiest boy" or "ugliest girl." As I remember, you still wrote your private number down, but it was as if the folded over page was enough to erase your identity, to absolve you from shame, not to mention the big "GIRLS ONLY" or "BOYS ONLY" scrawled in capitals over the covering half (but the secret thrill was--what if the boy you wrote down saw it and he liked you too? Surely there was romance novel material just waiting to descend!) and if you were hapless enough to peek under the "ugliest" page and find your name it was your fault for choosing to look in the first place, since those pages were supposed to be secret. That was the evil bind: you were complicit for looking, you agreed to your fate, since admitting you looked was proof that not only were you the ugliest, you couldn't be trusted either.

Looking at it that way, memes at least so far are harmless, more of a "look at me and how I relate to the random universe" kind of thing. They don't demand you participate in your own degradation. More of a cold then an Ebola type virus. So I guess I'll sheepishly admit to being more amused than anything else by this meme. Although I'm a bit concerned that the virtual Emily often seems to be a disturbed child, and picking through some of these search pages gave me that same feeling of turning over that folded page and seeing my own name.

"Emily needs" Meme (Put "{your name} needs" into Google and away you go)

Emily needs to find something that's her own to fulfill her

Emily needs to be whipped into shape by Nanny 911

Emily needs to get control of her business and begin to set some boundaries

Emily Needs Attention.

Emily needs a series of exemptions to Harvard’s administrative rules

"Emily" needs to be read as part of the American gothic tradition (I'm a classic)

Emily needs to know exactly what the girls want

Emily needs extra vitamin C so she poops.

Emily needs a boyfriend so she'll leave me alone.

Emily needs a great deal of persuasion to talk about herself. (Hmm...not this one--hence the blog)

All Emily needs to do then is click Send.

All Emily needs to do now is to be quiet while the machine makes its measurements. (My favorite--so ominous. THE MACHINE...)

Emily needs a little time for herself.

Emily needs a comfortable and inspirational place to brainstorm her money-making ventures (I do, I do...)

Emily needs to calm down (I AM CALM! VERY VERY CALM!! Don't you know calm when you see it?)

Emily needs to really focus on some comprehension skills (yeah, that vet school thing ruins your mind)

Emily needs total support for all of her personal care needs (so get moving, will you?)

Emily needs funds (and if I could just get that place for my brain storming, I'm sure this wouldn't be a problem any more)

Emily needs a special certificate for her efforts.

Emily needs some intensive work to change these deeply ingrained habits

Emily needs to learn how to be a super-hero (whaddaya mean, needs to learn?)

Emily needs to reclaim her life.

Emily needs to make a choice,

Emily needs some excitement and mystery to feel the relationship is beneficial again.

Emily needs an abundance of supplies.

Emily needs to go sit on a bench on Lake Mendota and have an existential and journalistic awakening.

Emily needs help from no one

Emily needs to dig deep down for strength.

Interlude

2005-10-06T20:39:00.000-05:00

I can't be bothered with promises right now. Sorry, but that's the way it is.

Let's all stop to take a breath.

This poem is in honor of Dr. William Hanff.

On Death, without Exaggeration

Wislawa Szymborska

It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.

In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.

It can't even get the things done
that are part of its trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.

Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.

Oh, it has its triumphs,
but look at its countless defeats,
missed blows,
and repeat attempts!

Sometimes it isn't strong enough
to swat a fly from the air.
Many are the caterpillars
that have outcrawled it.

All those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.

Ill will won't help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d'etat
is so far not enough.

Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies' skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees fall away.

Whoever claims that it's omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it's not.

There's no life
that couldn't be immortal
if only for a moment.

Death
always arrives by that very moment too late.

In vain it tugs at the knob
of the invisible door.
As far as you've come
can't be undone.

Lumpers and Splitters (or: Tying up Loose Ends, Part II)

2005-09-29T20:34:00.000-05:00

Whokay...It's been a doozy of a week (have you ever been abandoned by an attending doctor because there's another emergency crashing two feet away, while trying to suture up a puncture wound and put in a drain--which you have never done before--in a dog that's barely anesthetized and it turns out needs to be intubated and put on gas anesthesia and then get sewn up which you are told to do three different ways by three different people? Yup. That was my night yesterday). But I am working through these loose ends, and this brings me to the whole lumpers and splitters thing (other things I'd rather: May 4th post).

This originally comes from some anthropology class in college, and it struck me as a wonderful explanatory paradigm from which to explain how certain people think. And despite its binary nature (which I think with some justification is looked upon as questionable in these post-modern-multiple-voices-multiple-reality times) I have found that it's still a useful party trick in explaining how people learn from or misunderstand one another. It goes like this: in anthropology, specifically, you often see that the person going full ignorant blast into another culture is either so struck by the intricacies and nuances of that culture that they do their utmost to describe its uniqueness; holding up its difference ultimately as a counterpoint to our own. This is a splitter (as in of hairs). And then there are the Claude Levi-Strausses of the world, who wish to delve into the underlying likeness of humans everywhere; a starting point with many variations, but still, variations in which they point out the likeness in certain customs, similar organizing principles, etc. Lumpers. Now, it would be reductionist (I've ALWAYS wanted to use that in a sentence, ever since my liberal arts education ruined me for honest labor) to say that splitters dehumanize, or that lumpers biologize or gloss over. Like all binary organizing principles, when applied in extremes, it is ridiculous and even dangerous. And like all binaries, it tends to get flavored by that massive sticky-fingers-in-everyone's-pie dichotomy of good vs. bad (as in, if I am a _____, and you are a ----, then _____ is good, and ----- must be bad). But as a spectrum, you may find yourself consistently on one side or another. So anthropology might have meant something kind of specific by lumpers and splitters (as in how one might approach another culture), but I like to use it in the wider world.

I'm a splitter. I love finding the nuances, the little flashes of difference, of color, the stupid details. Splitters tend to talk in footnotes (sound familiar?) and pepper their explanations with little goofy examples that while relevant or illustrative, really are just happy window dressing, or ornamentation. These people can be annoying to learn from if you've never taken a subject before, or if you happen to be a lumper. Details are distractions from the big picture, they muddy the waters with parentheses until you scream GET ON WITH IT! Lumpers can of course be annoying to splitters, as they make grandiose statements that splitters just want to interrupt with "but...but..." Learning from a lumper has its ups and downs too, sometimes lacking a more textured or flexible application. Real life often doesn't read the well organized text book and all that.

That's as far as I want to go in making generalizations (because, you see, we splitters have to make them sometimes--spectrum, remember--but we're always thinking about those nagging possible exceptions who tug on our sleeves that go "but...but") about lumpers and splitters. You can make your own conclusions from here. I just forget that people have never heard of this (WARNING: ANOTHER WORD I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO USE IN A SENTENCE AND THAT MARKS THE DEGREE TO WHICH A LIBERAL ARTS EDUCATION WILL SCAR YOU FOREVER IS COMING. GUARD YOURSELF) heuristic (DID YOU WINCE? I DID. BUT THEN I GRINNED WICKEDLY) device and I devoutly feel that others should know of its use. For example, in my first year of vet school one of our professors was a tried and true splitter. I loved his classes. Others found him confusing or great as their own proclivities (ATTENTION BLOGGER! THIS IS THE VOCABULARY POLICE, ARTSY FARTSY INFRACTIONS DIVISION: CONSIDER THIS A WARNING) drove them. I was discussing this prof with a classmate one day (vet school students are way too fond of this ad naseum critique of their own education) and said, "well, he's a splitter." She looked at me in puzzlement. Clearly, not enough of you have had a good anthropology class in your past. Consider yourself forcibly enlightened.

To carry this silliness a bit further, should we start a quiz? Now that you're indoctrinated into my cult, should we create our own Meyers-Brigg lumper/splitter personality test? How often do you use the words "always" or "never" in conversation? Sometimes, Occasionally, Never? You might be a splitter if: you've ever contradicted someone you basically agree with because you feel they're ignoring a facet of an argument that interests you...etc. Hey wait! Where are you going?

Promises Promises (or: Tying up Loose Ends, Part 1)

2005-09-20T11:09:00.000-05:00

I've noticed a certain macabre bent (or at least a bit of a downer) in the last posts. And I spent the better part of the last hour trying to figure out what to write about. I mean, it's a bit like relationships, right? You start out all excited, and there's SO much to talk about, and you feel so witty and showing off a little so that your new lover can see just how clever you really are...And then comes the day when you realize that it drives you crazy when he leaves his socks on the floor, or whatever petty thing he does that has always really driven you crazy. So I was going back through my posts and realizing that I've made a few promises here and there to continue some train of thought that needed more than a really super long parantheses. And what is it to me, you ask, oh kilobytes per second reader? You probably don't even remember (or haven't ever seen) those posts.

And then I got to thinking: is it merely an anal sort of perfectionism that nags at me to finish those thoughts? (Valid point.) Or is it related to this fundamental feeling I have always had that if you are creating a thing, be it a drawing, a story or a blog, it ought to be done to the best of your ability, tedious or not? I can't leave things I make unfinished (or at least when I do I always feel slightly ashamed). (This is the feeling I couldn't articulate well when it was necessary to raise our backyard fence to prevent our dog from climbing/jumping it. We have very little spare capital to be buying nice looking fence material. So we settled for chicken wire and stakes. And part of the reason I got so irritable and frustrated was because it was so UGLY, and I guess I equate ugly somehow with unfinished, and with slacking and laziness and not caring. Which wasn't fair, since we started out knowing we didn't have time or money to make it pretty, but there is just something inside me that balks and drags its feet and stomps and says 'that's wrong! You shouldn't do it that way!' So this is my way of explaining/apologizing to my boyfriend for my grumps that time.) Hey, this IS coming from a girl who once made a sculpture back in college in February in the woods in NY with 88 balls of twine. (I have to keep reminding him sometimes.)

Combine this with a feeling of inadequacy whenever I get my alumni magazine, which always seems to be filled with people who write, casually and breezily, things that go like this: "Well after helping build my NGO from scratch I'm moving on to the backwoods of Appalachia where I plan to teach the impoverished sustainable agriculture and how to build generators out of pine trees and rubberbands." Or: "Such-and-such has a new film showing in NYC that is making people who wear black in Manhattan applaud." Somehow "I'm sticking thermometers up animals' butts and still don't feel much like a doctor," doesn't seem very glamorous. So I'm driven to fill this inadequacy with things I can do, like keep my promises to my fractionally small readership. (This desire to keep even small promises also makes me think about the fact that I have a great deal of deeply ingrained ethics that might have me keeping company with much more conservative minded individuals, though I suspect they would never know, not being able to get past the whole nose ring, pro-gay marriage thing. Things like: if you're going to bother, you might as well do it right; hard work is good for you; saying "NO" is necessary when raising children; and a little pain and hardship in your life helps you stop being such a selfish pain in the ass. I can't understand how somehow these have been coopted as 'moral values' that only christian republicans understand, and if you're a lefty you're lefty [pun intended] with soft squishy lovey never experience anything bad or your life is scarred forever theories. Now I shall sit upon my soapbox self--we all have one--and squelch her. BACK! Back in your box!)

Now. You are, at this point, tapping your foot or looking at your watch or whatever and saying, OK, but what about those promises? (You see, I've got you all excited now.) Alright. First of all, I have made rather a lot of them, and so I think this may happen to be an installment plan thing (see how I have cleverly arranged content for my next posts so that I can draw on my original enthusiasm rather than have to come up with new topics?) The first one was made in May 3rd's Ambulatory post. I promised you a picture of an alpaca from my father's 1956 American college dictionary:

I have also included a bonus , (for a dear friend of mine who really likes them), a picture of a tarsier. I'm very impressed that this dictionary has the tarsier in it at all, much less a drawing of one. The dictionary has this to say about the tarsier:

tarsier (tar' si er), n. a small arboreal primate, genus Tarsius,
sole representative of a suborder, Tarsiodea, found in the U.S.
of Indonesia and parts of the Phillippine Islands, with enormous eyes.

I love the enormous eyes bit. So wonderfully random! And then there's the alpaca. Here's what the dictionary has to say about the alpaca:

alpaca (al pak' e) n. 1. a domesticated sheep like South American
ruminant of the genus Lama allied to the llama and the guanaco,
having long soft, silky hair or wool. 2. the hair. 3. a fabric made of it
4. a glossy, wiry, commonly black woolen fabric with a cotton warp.
5. a rayon and alpaca crepe, with a viscose and acetate rayon warp.
[t. Sp., from paco, Peruv. animal name to which the article al has
been prefixed.]

Hate to be the guy that had to write that one. Viscose and acetate? Sounds like the seventies. And they left out the vicuna! I love the vicuna, they look like they are the racing high octane version of a camelid. Here is what I know about alpacas:

They are the short ones. Llamas are taller, and don't have quite so fine a fleece
They are all camelids. Camelids are ruminants. Being ruminants (see sheep cow goat), they ruminate (eat their food several times by re-chewing the material in their first stomach compartment), have no top teeth (betcha didn't know that), and like living in herds. Technically, they are slightly different than your average cow, more closely related to the camel (hence the whole "camel"id thing), and they have only 3 stomach compartments vs. the cow's 4, unless you are a fractious anatomist and like to cause trouble ,(you'd be surprised at the amount of controversy there is surrounding anatomy: the dog's cecum causes brawls every year in freshman anatomy).
They make a delightful short humming noise, that gets faster and louder when they are anxious and they can really scream bloody murder when you restrain them and they don't like it.
They do spit, but not that often. Don't be one of those annoying people who looks at one over a fence and freaks out because it might spit. Frankly, you're not worth it unless you are actively pissing them off. Do you curse at people you've never seen before for no reason? (If you said yes, remind me not to ever meet you on the street.) Depends on how much they're handled and just how much they don't want their temperature taken. Just don't stand in front when they're really mad.
They're stronger than they look.
They are some weird new fad in this country and I can't really figure that out, despite their very large limpid brown eyes and big bangs cute thing.
Their venous blood is as bright as their arterial blood, they have really thick skin, and they clot a lot faster than other animals (important when taking blood).
They hate their feet and back touched, and really don't ever seem too impressed with people, even if handled a lot. In fact, as far as I can tell they only like having their chins scratched.
They have the longest sexual act in the domestic mammal category (up to 90 minutes). If you get reincarnated as an animal, consider the alpaca or llama.
When they lay down, it is called cushing. Just remember when you sit on a cushed alpaca to keep her from moving while on a wheeled cart because she won't walk down to the scale, they ARE stronger than they look.

There you are then. One promise fulfilled. I had fun getting here, even if it was a long time coming.

Talking to grief

2005-09-17T23:13:00.000-05:00

I've had a sad day, mostly. One of my patients from yesterday died this morning. And I euthanized a case that could have lived for a another year with simple, cheap medication. The owner just couldn't face watching her get gradually worse. But OH I am sad about it. I've always been a crier. I guess watching this gets easier, and I'm glad I can keep from crying in front of clients, but I've got this time lag thing now: I'm home, I look at my own dear pets, in their health and their infirmities and I grieve for the lives we didn't or couldn't save. Now, you invisible reader, I ask you to do an even harder thing. Suspend your judgement, your condemnation of this owner who couldn't watch, and think of how hard it is to watch a loved one deteriorate. Feel her own pain. And I do think she is at home tonight, grieving as I do. Try to hold all of it at once: your anger at the waste of life, your grief over its loss, and your empathy for someone who had to make a terrible choice. Contradictory? You betcha. To this there is no good answer. Which is why I'm sitting up when I should be sleeping, crying over a pet I only just met.

Talking to Grief

Denise Levertov

Ah, grief, I should not treat you

like a homeless dog

who comes to the back door

for a crust, for a meatless bone.

I should trust you.

I should coax you

into the house and give you

your own corner,

a worn mat to lie on,

your own water dish.

You think I don’t know you’ve been living

under my porch.

You long for your real place to be readied

before winter comes. You need

your name,

your collar and tag. You need

the right to ward off intruders,

to consider

my house your own

and me your person

and yourself

my own dog.

Is this Website trying to tell me something?

2005-09-14T22:41:00.000-05:00

Why has all the text on my previous posts suddenly turned grey? I have gone back and changed a few, but still. No editorializing from the nebulous ghost in the machine, please. Anyway, for the next three weeks my days will be obliterated by my 10am to 10pm ER shift (you WISH it was filled with EMS personnel dashing in yelling stats, handsome doctors and moral quandries created by just-complex enough patients--not to say it's boring, 'cause it really isn't, or that we don't have good looking doctors, but really, when's the last time someone peeed on the floor or tried to bite the doctor on TV?). It's amazing how coming to work in daylight and leaving at night makes you feel like a time-lapse photograph on fast forward. I get tired just thinking about it. The animals that come to us can often be at death's door, so this is a poem for all my potential patients.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

In Memoriam

2005-08-26T19:11:00.000-05:00

A Visitor
Mary Oliver

My father, for example,
who was young once
and blue-eyed,
returns
on the darkest of nights
to the porch and knocks
wildly at the door,
and if I answer
I must be prepared
for his waxy face,
for his lower lip
swollen with bitterness.
And so, for a long time,
I did not answer,
but slept fitfully
between his hours of rapping.
But finally there came the night
when I rose out of my sheets
and stumbled down the hall.
The door fell open

and I knew I was saved
and could bear him,
pathetic and hollow,
with even the least of his dreams
frozen inside him,
and the meanness gone.
And I greeted him and asked him
into the house,
and lit the lamp,
and looked into his blank eyes
in which at last
I saw what a child must love,
I saw what love might have done
had we loved in time.

My father had hazel eyes, like me. And his only meanness perhaps the egoistic conviction we would all be better off without him. But I have wandered through this landscape enough to admit that the voices of his despair spoke louder than love, leaving him nothing but a narrow track with a dark conclusion. How much more indestructable is our own internal half-logic!

If you consider time as our fourth dimension, it may be easier for you to acknowledge the existence of an echo effect; ripples from long ago events that make themselves felt years later. I don't mean the way the past shapes the future--nothing that simplistic-- this is more a cyclic effect, often subconscious, that earlier meaningful events affect our feelings, maybe on their anniversaries, or every couple of years (surely one could allow that if such effects were ripples, they might begin to occur every month and gradually widen to every year, then every other, and so on, as the emotional wake, if you will, subsides). Now I buy this theory (because I made it up, fine, but really, there's more), because I notice that every year or so, right around now I become melancholy and introspective. It comes over me gradually and I often think, what the heck is up with me? Why this mood change? And eventually I think, oh right, it's August. The wrong time in the solar year, maybe, to think about change and uncertain futures, but the right time in my personal calendar, here around the anniversary of my father's death. And I love this poem (can't forget the poem) because of the redemption at the end, the softening, the forgiveness. I too, have gone round and round in years past, chasing my mental tail, trying to reason it through on some days and trying not to think of it or agonizing over it on others. The bitterness, the swollen lip, these things for me are post-mortem; they are caused by the refusal to see, to acknowledge the ugly parts of the past and the difficult and contradictory emotions caused by death. How needed, how essential is that ease at the end, the ability to say, I forgive you (and likewise myself, for my anger and my guilt about my anger). This moment also comes more often as the years do, and the whole thing softens into grey hues from its original hard lines. My father's ghost is my harbinger of uncertainty, of anxiety, of fear of loss. But I must greet his ghost some nights, and pare away the symbolism, and there he is my father again, and I a child, with a child's love, and I am simply allowed to miss him.

Pond Moments

2005-08-22T20:03:00.000-05:00

So much for deep introspective thought. It's sure been a while since I've had time to sit down for any of it. The worst thing about busyness is you get this vague feeling like maybe deep thought is simply too much effort. Since I've left any footprints here (splayed or otherwise--don't get the reference? Try Billy Collins) I have been across the country and back, bought myself a new computer (the flowerbed beneath my window was in danger from the old one. Because I was going to lose my temper and heave it out, you know), learned about the beauties of opioids (not what you think, either to your relief or dismay-I'm talking about vet school stuff, again), rode on a ferry, spent over $400 in order to sign up for a 6 hour exam, and performed an autopsy on a cat (another vet school activity, which, to admit my utter geekdom/how-I-am-not-like-most-people, I kind of enjoyed). But there hasn't been much time for inner contemplation. .

I did go for a long walk with the boy and the dog tonight. The smell of the woods marches me straight into my childhood memories. I used to think everyone remembered their childhoods the way I do, but I no longer believe this. For me, I have vivid glimpses of many scenes from many different years, all coming fast and clear, and full of echoed emotion. The lake at camp, summer camping in Wilmington, hiking Stone Mountain and Blowing Rock, late nights lying on the warm asphalt feeling like any minute now, the earth would let go and I would float away. Such vertigo, imagining another living creature orbiting another star and staring back at you wondering the same thing--who and where and how?

We met a pond that was a Mary Oliver poem.

The Ponds

Every year
the lilies
are so perfect
I can hardly believe

their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds.
Nobody could count all of them--

the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch

only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?

I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided--
and that one wears an orange blight--
and this one is a glossy cheek

half nibbled away--
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay.

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled--
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing--
that the light is everything--that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

I love Mary Oliver's poems. The last lines of the poem on the next page have always haunted me, calling at wild pond moments, or on pensive evenings. "Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?" she asks. The last lines that surface often in my brain are: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

The truth is, I don't know. But the question always hits me in the solar plexus, a wild cry of grief mixed with a sort of impatience, like a child stamping her foot. Get on with it, don't you remember what's important here, she asks me. And I have to say, shamefacedly, that no, I often forget.

I am very grateful for pond moments tonight.

Maintain control of your carry-on baggage at all times

2005-07-10T14:15:00.000-05:00

I just can’t do it. I mean, it sounds easy. Maintain implies that you are already there, in the land of control, briskly sweeping your personal chaos along with ease. But I confess, I just can’t. It’s unruly. I mean it, it plots and conspires against me, a stubborn stubby little nemesis on wheels. Is it resentful that it came from Building 19 and ¾ or ⁵/₁₈ or whatever, the local buy-it-for-less-for cheap (where I always spend more money than I intend. Hmmm. How cheap is that, really)? Great, my luggage has an inferiority complex (my luggage has baggage, tee hee). Or is it just what it was: cheap? I can’t answer these pressing questions, but I do know it bites my ankles, twists in my hands and insists on having a handle just a leetle eety bit too short for my height. Rolling is its least favorite gait.

I hope you didn’t think this was going to turn into some deep metaphorical story about personal hang-ups, psychological inhibitions and traveling on the airplane of life or relationships or whatever. Nope. This is about airports. I’ve always really liked airports. I like to think about them and muse about how they used to be and what they’re like now. I mean, I grew up before the “all non-ticketed passengers must meet their parties at the baggage claim area” stuff. Non-ticketed passengers? Need I say anything else about that phrase? I remember how exciting it was, the building frustration about that passenger ahead serenely blocking your way up the concourse, because on the other side might be your mom, or your boyfriend, and their eyes would light up, and maybe there’d be balloons or flowers, but at least a big hug. And the huge, sliding disappointment when you got out the door and they were late…Now I know we still have some version of this when you get out of security, but there was something about combining that hideous 15 minutes when you’re half-crouched under the luggage racks because it’s better than remaining in that stinking little seat one moment longer, watching the people ahead of you in the aisle and wondering when that shifting will translate itself into real movement OUT of the plane, with the first brief freedom of walking up the concourse and yet not really being out of confinement and the rising excitement of only a few more steps…

I was once waiting at the gate while the previous flight emptied (here’s another fun one: de-planing. Un-planing? If I get back on am I re-planing?) and watched as each passenger got off carrying a flower and walked over to a confused but flattered young woman. By the end, she had a large bouquet, and the last person off was her boyfriend, who asked her to marry him. I guess I don’t think of the airport as my ideal place for a marriage proposal, but I love the way that young man had it all planned out, and enlisted his fellow passengers in a brief comradeship, just by buying flowers and carrying a photo of his girlfriend.

And what about how we all have the same luggage now? What’s that all about? Did luggage technology just take off (no pun intended) and now we all have to have the wheels and the handles? And every single one is black? I do include myself here, people, don’t worry. We’ve resorted to ribbons and tape to ID our stuff now. And I seem to be traveling with a new electronic object every year, so that I’m really only the sum of my cables. Bionic woman, here I come.

Anyway, I love to watch the sheer numbers of people. Any size, shape, outfit you can imagine. In my daily life I tend to forget the amazing amount of variety that exists in the world. And I think it’s sweetly bemusing how we almost always walk how we drive—on the right. Is it different in other countries? Can you tell the Americans in foreign airports because they collide with others, trying to walk on the right? I’ve been in foreign airports, but for the life of me, I can’t remember.

So here I am, picking at what passes for an egg roll (now there’s another amazing subject, airport food. I didn’t feel this way at first, but I think we may all be better off with just the snacks they serve these days. It’s hard to mess up pre-packaged granola bars. Of course, that means they can charge even more for what seems to be a salty fried egg roll type object, and they do) and reveling in the cheap industrial carpeting (how can that guy sleep on that stuff?), and the too-loud announcements, and listening to my fellow identically luggaged, laptopped, mp3’ed passengers speak in other languages on their cell phones. My bag is quiescent for now, but watch out when my zone is called, I barely have it under control.

For the boy who does not know the answer

2005-06-29T21:15:00.000-05:00

Well. Lets just say I've had better days and leave it at that. Actually it wasn't really the day, it was more the night part. But I'll just tell you that tonight made me feel like an incompetent and leave it at that (a hard pill for a perfectionist). I suppose this could be humbling, but I'm not humble enough to take it that way, I'm just un-humble enough to feel shamed and upset and taking it personally. Boy, this ego thing gets tiring some days. What I want is something quiet and soft, like

Prayer in my Boot
Naomi Shihab Nye

For the wind no one expected

For the boy who does not know the answer

For the graceful handle I found in a field
attached to nothing
pray it is universally applicable

For our tracks which disappear
the moment we leave them

For the face peering through the cafe window
as we sip our soup

For cheerful American classrooms sparkling
with crisp colored alphabets
happy cat posters
the cage of the guinea pig
the dog with division flying out of his tail
and the classrooms of our cousins
on the other side of the earth
how solemn they are
how gray or green or plain
how there is nothing dangling
nothing striped or polka-dotted or cheery
no self-portraits or visions of cupids
and in these rooms the students raise their hands
and learn the stories of the world

For library books in alphabetical order
and family businesses that failed
and the house with boarded windows
and the gap in the middle of a sentence
and the envelope we keep mailing ourselves

For every hopeful morning given and given
and every future rough edge
and every afternoon
turning over in its sleep

You know what part of this poem I inhabit right now? I want to be the boy who didn't know the answer. What's more, I want it to be as full of possibilities to not know the answer as the poem seems to imply it could be. I want not knowing to be OK. And I'd like to breathe easily over every future rough edge. I'm not sure I can right now, but maybe I should put this poem in my boot.

Taking stock

2005-06-26T11:12:00.000-05:00

Boy, have I got a lot of books. I mean, I thought it would never happen, but I finally have so many that I forget and buy duplicates once in a while. Or maybe that's just the senility creeping in. I'm finally making a catalogue of my library, so I can put it in my PDA so that when I go buy books I know what I already have. This brings out the anal side of me (right now some of you may be thinking, whaddaya mean BRINGS OUT?) and I feel like a dragon gloating over my hoard. Yeessssss my preciousssss, I do I have a copy of the 3rd P.C. Hodgell book in hardcover (so pretty, so shiny, yesssss) that I ordered especially since there were only some minute number printed...(and surprisingly, so does the Portland Multnomah County Library). That illustrates my book SF Fantasy nerdiness (all the prerequisites: obscure author, hard to find book, other connosieurs give a little gasp of delight and envy and I look smug). However, I am not above cheese, and have just about every Mercedes Lackey book known to man (OK, I will argue they're not ALL cheese, but most of them are and you know it's true because you can eat them like candy). Now, lest you think I am only a one hit wonder, I also have a respectable amount of fiction and a healthy poetry collection (big surprise). Then let's not get into the comic book collection (it brings up depressing finance issues)...
Here I must interject for those of you who don't know me: I do in fact dress well, am not hideously pale, have never played Everquest, have social graces, can cook, actually exercise and really do go outside. So that's enough of that stereotype.
Anyway, the truth is, I'm up to 220 records in filemaker (OK, another geek thing, but I guess you were warned when I mentioned the whole PDA thing) and I'm not even through the first bookcase yet (there are 5). I'll admit it freely, I'm a hoarder. The only time this is a problem is of course, when I move, which is unfortunately more frequently than I 'd like. (Next May, any takers on moving help?) Still, I am astonished by people who never read. I feel like an anthrolopologist in the house, noting no shelves, and lack of reading lights by couches, not mention rooms where all the furniture subtly points at the TV. I'm not going to get all self-righteous about the evil of TV (I've been known to turn it on myself) but I will admit I get twinges of fear when it's the only thing presiding over a room. I get this all the time in school "OHMIGOD how do you fine time to read a fun book?" I often respond to people by asking if they watch TV, and they usually say yes, and I usually say, well, I don't really watch TV that often, so there you are. I don't mean this to denigrate their TV decision, but it's sort of a stupid question in my opinion, since it's simply a mattter of time management. Theres only so many hours in a day. Since I am in vet school, there are very few of those I can dedicate to what I want to do. For me, not reading would basically be like not breathing. TV is amusing, but it's no substitute for breathing. Therefore I don't watch TV, I read. There are those who claim they can't put a book down and that this disrupts their studying life (like having to eat every chocolate in the box, it's so good I guess), and while I sometimes burn the candle a little too late, again I say, for me, reading is like breathing. If having to put the book down is a prerequisite of getting to read a bit, than I'll put the book down. Kind of an oxymoron, but if being able to stop reading is required, I can do that too. But that's just me. I have a framed article on my wall from The New Yorker. In it, Art Spiegelman and Maurice Sendak are talking about books. (And I love the fact that this article is not actually an article, it's a comic strip drawn by Sendak and Spiegelman together.) Here's the part I love:

ART: You're doing a book for grownups?
MAURICE: Kid books...grown up books...that's just marketing! Books are books!
ART: I suppose. But when parents give "Maus," my book about Auschwitz to their little kids, I think it's child abuse...I wanna protect my kids! When Nadja, my 6-year-old daughter, was asked what I do for a living, she said, "Daddy draws mice!"
MAURICE: Art...you can't protect kids...they know everything!" (section omitted) People say, "Oh, Mr. Sendak. I wish I were in touch with my childhood self, like you." As if it were all quaint and succulent, like Peter Pan. Childhood is cannibals and psychotics vomiting in your mouth! I say "You are in touch with your childhood self, lady--you're mean to your kids, you treat your husband like shit, you lie, you're selfish...That is your childhood self!" In reality, childhood is deep and rich. It's vital mysterious and profound. I remember my own childhood vividly...I knew terrible things..But I knew I musn't let adults know I knew..It would scare them.

I love this perspective. Books are books. The rest is marketing. I love the bit about childhood too--I couldn't resist putting it in--I love that: "you're mean to your kids, you treat your husband like shit, you lie, you're selfish--that is your childhood self!" But that's another blog entirely. Maybe next time. Anyway. I definitely have a lot of books. It's a good thing.

Candy corn, what kind of a person doesn't like candy corn?

2005-06-10T19:17:00.000-05:00

I've been busy with so many horses lately I haven't had much time for contemplation. I'm also staying with some very nice folks I've never met before, and haven't wanted to hog their computer. I'm out in Bend, OR, externing at the Bend Equine Medical Center, which has been great. Before I left Portland, however, I made the obligatory visit to Powell's (the best bookstore in the known universe. Ironically, when I lived in Portland I could never go there because I hate torture. Bookstores when you have no money are definitely torture). Anyhow, I bought a book of poems, and so far my favorite is called "I Said Yes But I Meant No." You should read it.

I Said Yes But I Meant No
Dean Young

People are compelled to be together good and bad.
You've agreed to shrimp with the geology couple.
If you like one 85% and the other 35%
that's not so bad.
You need to like one at least 70%
and like the other not less than 25%
otherwise it's agonizing and pointless
like being crucified without religious significance.
Averages are misleading:
I like that couple 110% could mean
each is appreciated 55% which will not kill you
but neither will sleeping in your own urine.
One should like oneself between 60 and 80%.
Under 45%, one becomes an undertaking,
prone to eating disorders, public weeping,
useless for gift wrapping and relay races.
Over 85% means you are a self-involved bore,
I don't care about your Nobel prize in positrons
or your dog sled victories.
Of course there is great variance throughout the day.
You may feel 0% upon first waking
but that is because you don't yet know you exist
which is why baby-studies have been a bust.
Then as you venture forth to boil water,
you may feel a sudden surge to 90%,
Hey, I'm GOOD at boiling water!
which can be promptly counteracted by turning on your email.
It is important not to let variance become too extreme,
a range of 40% is allowable,
beyond that it is as great storms upon drought-stricken land.
I.e. mudslides.
Sugar, retirement plans, impending jail time
all are influential factors.
Generally, most data has been gathered
regarding raising percentages,
the modern world it is argued is plentiful
with opportunities of negative effect.
The tanker splits and the shore birds turn black and lose their ability to float.
Sometimes a good scrub is all that's needed.
A fresh shirt.
Shock therapy has never been fully discounted
and people have felt significant surges
from backpacking into remote and elevated areas,
a call home.
Yet the very same may backfire.
Thwanp, thwamp, the helicopter lowers the rescue crew,
the phone is slammed down.
Each case is profoundly nuanced.
like the lock systems of Holland.
Some, frankly, are beyond help,
but if you are a tall woman, wear shoes to make you taller!
Candy corn, what kind of a person doesn't like candy corn?
Tell that 70/30% rock couple you can not come,
you forgot your fencing lesson,
your cat just had a puppy,
your tongue is green,
you are in fact dying.

I've been feeling a lot of daily variances in in my self-like quotient, which happens a lot when I'm 1) in a new place, 2) really want to not act like an idiot 3) don't really know what is expected of me. All of which is has been true the last two weeks. I've really felt like that, like "Hey, I'm GOOD at boiling water!" Or more like, "hey, I'm GOOD at making meds and taking temps!" The desire to be liked is truly a curse at these moments. And the knowledge of both the curse's existence and its effects on you still don't help you get out from under its thumb. No matter what, your primary objective is to have people like you. How do you get away from such a fundamental hope? Well, so far as I can tell, you don't. You just find some days that your confidence shoots up to 90% and then poof, evaporates. Eventually, it evens out from over a few hours to happening on a less roller-coastery every few days cycle. Maybe I should go get some candy corn (although I guess I really am beyond help if I admit I'm not really all that crazy about candy corn). But I can repeat to myself in the bad moments: "Hey, I'm GOOD at boiling water!"

G-H-O-S-T

2005-05-29T17:18:00.000-05:00

I learned a new game the other day. One of those amuse the kids on long car trips sorts of games. (Do they still play those anymore? I believe these things last through generations, a long line of fifth graders teaching fourth graders, teaching third graders, etc., despite the keep-'em-quiet DVD method advertised in many family marketed cars these days. I mean, kids still sing some version of "On Top of Old Smokey" that involves the inappropriate demise of their teachers, right?) This one is called Ghost, and I learned it in a car, driving around CT.

Here's how to play. One person thinks of a word. They say the first letter. The next person then adds a letter, also thinking of a word. The next person continues this hypothetical word, and so on. Now, the rules are: if you finish a word (i.e., say the last letter), any word, you lose. This is not a game where you can use compound words. For example, you can claim you really meant to spell 'carburetor', but it doesn't matter because you have spelled 'car' no matter how you slice it. (This begins to suck if you play with people who know lots of obscure three letter words and are sticklers in a competition.) If you add a letter that doesn't spell any word, you can be challenged by the next person. If you are challenged, you must then tell the word that contains the impossible letter combination. If it's a real word, and you can prove it, the challenger loses. If you're bluffing, you lose. When you lose, you are given the letter 'G'. Once you lose again, you are given the letter 'H', until you spell 'GHOST'. And then the game is over. I guess. Or you play it again until your eyes bleed, ot something.

OK, it maybe sounds a little inane, but first of all, it's more challenging than you might think. Depending on the number of people playing, you have to be careful which words you end up spelling. We had four people, and because the English language has lots of five letter words, it took us a bit to realize that being the starter of the word was the surest way to lose. Secondly, you can get out of losing in ingenious suffixlike ways (I was spared from defeat when I added 'I' to C-E-L-E-B-R-A-T, to make 'celebrate' into 'celebrating'). And, as in many of these word games in the car, you actually get silly over them and find random bursts of laughter possessing you.

The thing that seized me about this game was the way the first letter presents you with a whole universe of possibilities. Someone says, 'W' and you are off. Is it 'whispering' or 'wimple'? 'Whiffle,' 'waffle' or 'widget'? Each successive person narrows down the elusive word until it become almost impossible to spell anything else. (I can't help having the slightly gruesome image in my head of a string of letters, nailed to the floor by their little downstrokes, squeaking as the next letter is captured and added. They bulge and turn various colors until the word is done, and poof, you have a turnip that gallops off into the night.)

Often the starter is proprietary. You get a small feeling of frustration when that next person says 'U' after you were thinking the word was 'calliope'. Quickly, it turns out you were spelling cucumber after all. "That's not how you spell 'calliope'!" you say, only half-teasing. It's a funny opening and closing of the universe; a minute example of how choosing closes doorways until a concrete idea or action is born; how deciding something is so may actually make it so. It reminds me of how we create the world between us, by bouncing this word back and forth until it is polished and formed, maybe not the word we originally wanted, but hey, we like cucumbers and really, there's no good place for a calliope in the house anyway.

Don't get me wrong. This is not just some benign cutesy idea, as if we always are happy with the final result, or even able to get there. Have you ever watched two people who have a falling out decide "how it is" between them, meaning the other person has been defined as a "he always" or "she never" and neatly put away to be scorned? And you can't convince them otherwise, because there is no more room for negotiating in that area: the word was chosen, it was a bad word, and we don't say those. Never mind the fact that it may have started out differently, never mind that each person picked a new letter that led inorexably downward. Dearest was really demon all along. Don't get fooled into thinking people are always happy exchanging cucumbers for calliopes.

I'm not happy about ending something with just dark omens. So I can't stop there. But lest this get precious and start to turn into a new positive upswing about isn't it great there are so many possibilities, or, it's all about attitude, isn't it? I'm going to say that isn't it funny what car games bring up in some people? You could either say they often see the world as a fractal universe: greater meaning presed into the mundane activities around us, or you could say, boy, they think too much.

Yup. You're right.

Homish

2005-05-29T15:40:00.000-05:00

I'm prolific, when I want to be. Or I'm on a roll, but prolific sounds better. Anyway, I thought I'd mention that I'm not actually in the minor outlying islands of eastern MA right now. I'm actually back in my adopted home, Portland, OR. This is where I want to say I'm from, when people ask me that question, but honesty and a funny compulsive attention to minor details keeps me from omitting all those other years when I lived in other, less fond places. (It'll come up eventually, I think, so why bother pretending?)

I think we underestimate how much places define and shape us. I cannot tell you how foreign I felt yesterday. You see, I took up running while in vet school. This is in general a good thing, since I mostly enjoy it (this, coming from someone who failed the presidential fitness test in school every year, with pleasure), I think I need to stave off the circling vultures of my mother's metabolism, and vet school is designed to make you hideously chair-shaped. But I never once ran in the six years I lived here. My friends all looked at me funny as I pulled on my running shoes.

I find in myself some strange mix of New England definitions of daily life and comfortable old Oregon habits. I don't really like where I'm living now. No, let's be candid and say I can't wait to get the hell out of there. But I can't say I dislike all the things I've collected (image of myself, rolling through space, attached as if by velcro to new crumbs and dog hair and books labeled 'obscure facts about goats') in my new habitat. But every time I return places, it's a bit like that hole I left and now re-enter has been closing over, scarring a little, and a little the wrong shape or size. I feel this way often at parties, when people with non-medical lives talk about their day and I'm not sure they want to hear about the prolapsed uterus I helped replace that morning, and that I learned that cheap rain gear is a really good idea in this situation.

However, I'm coming to accept this new feeling as something I might just have to live with. Maybe my two selves will learn to merge. Or maybe I'll be a Clark Kent-like figure, or some kind of secret agent with a top-secret identity: a life of danger, a life of mystery! One self runs while the other eats too many sweets! One self holds forth on the cultural wonders of opera, while the other is covered in blood and uterine juices! So glamorous...Isabella Ninja (another story that's really a you had to be there kind of moment) strikes again. Who was that masked man who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men...yes, I know I do get carried away.

But I have no complaints at all about seeing all my lovely friends and my lovely city. And because I am thinking of them, and I told my friend who henceforth shall be called "Goatcheese" (believe me, his idea, NOT mine) about this blog, and he noticed my penchant for the parathetical and suggested a format which will require me to have a website which I'm not quite ready for but considering, I decided to post the charming example he put up for me here. I have another dear friend who many years ago started her own tarot deck, a project I secretly thought was doomed to atrophy into disinterest, but it turns out it didn't, and I mention this because I was blown away by how beautiful they are. See for yourself. Hooray for homey cities peopled with funny quirky friends.

today, we honor the cows

2005-05-18T18:33:00.000-05:00

Today, I helped deliver a calf. He was a big boy, and his mom was having some trouble. So we helped. Doesn't make me want to give birth, I must say. But he made it out OK. So in the grand scheme of things, if we were all utilitarians at philosophical heart (a pure utilitarian weighs all factors that they can think of in terms of "good" or "bad" and takes the direction which leads to the most "good," much like a nice long pro/con list for any perplexing dilemma. This is, naturally, an oversimplification, since we are supposed to be in a parathetical aside, and not in some huge overblown discussion about philosophy. You might imagine utilitarians get into a bit of trouble--good for you only? Good for all but you? Unforeseen consequences? How much does lying to someone about their new haircut, for example, weigh in regards to the possible ass-whupping you might get if you tell the truth? Etc.), I have added a plus sign to the universe. Take that, universe. So, in honor of you, the cow, a poem. (Whooboy, this blog is sure taking a turn for the verse! Sorry...No, you know what? Not sorry.)

Afternoon With Irish Cows
Billy Collins

There were a few dozen who occupied the field
across the road from where we lived,
stepping all day from tuft to tuft,
their big heads down in the soft grass,
though I would sometimes pass a window
and look out to see the field suddenly empty
as if they had taken wing, flown off to another country.

Then later, I would open the blue front door,
and again the field would be full of their munching,
or they would be lying down
on the black and white maps of their sides,
facing in all directions, waiting for rain.
How mysterious, how patient and dumbfounded
they appeared in the long quiet afternoons.

But every once in a while, one of them
would let out a sound so phenomenal
that I would put down the paper
or the knife I was cutting an apple with
and walk across the road to the stone wall
to see which one of them was being torched
or pierced through the side with a long spear.

Yes, it sounded like pain until I could see
the noisy one, anchored their on all fours,
he neck outstretched, her bellowing head
laboring upward as she gave voice
to the rising, full-bodied cry
that began in the darkness of her belly
and echoed up through her bowed ribs into her gaping mouth.

Then I knew that she was only announcing
the large, unadulterated cowness of herself,
pouring out the ancient apologia of her kind
to all the green fields and the gray clouds,
to the limestone hills and the inlet of the blue bay,
while she regarded my head and shoulders
above the wall with one wild, shocking eye.

it's time for not me

2005-05-17T21:28:00.000-05:00

I can't quite drag myself off to bed without dutifully putting something up here. You know, it's awfully hard to keep in touch with that inner you when she's asleep. I have a case of the humdrums, so it's time for a bit of inspiration (I had a large dose of stupid talk radio today: I think to truly enjoy call-in shows you have to be bitter enough to like listening to fragile misguided people get crushed by their icons. No wonder it's a nasty aftertaste).

Advice to a Prophet
Richard Wilbur

When you come, as soon you must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God’s name to have self-pity,

Spare us all word of weapons, their force and range,
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,
Unable to fear what is too strange.

Nor shall you scare us with talk of death of the race.
How should we dream of this place without us?—
The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us,
A stone look on the stone’s face?

Speak of the world’s own change. Though we cannot conceive
Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost
How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost,
How the view alters. We could believe,

If you told us so, that the white tailed deer will slip
Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy,
The lark avoid the reaches of our eye,
The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip

On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn
As Xanthus once, its gliding trout
Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without
The dolphin’s arc, the dove’s return,

These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken?
Ask us prophet, how we shall call
Our natures forth when that live tongue is all
Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken

In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean
Horse of our courage, in which we beheld
The singing locust of the soul unshelled,
And all we mean or wish to mean.

Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose
Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding
Whether there shall be lofty or long standing
When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.

baby photo steps

2005-05-11T21:12:00.000-05:00

Ahh the stapes, incus and malleus. Taken by some enterprising folks on a real 'Fantastic Voyage"

Green

2005-05-11T20:20:00.000-05:00

First of all, I'm upset with the lack of photo-ness on my blog. I got as far as the downloading of the photo-doohicky that allows you to upload pics from your computer. But I still haven't installed my scanner software into my new frankensteinian computer. (My old computer, Edith* was euthanized and then reborn into new form. Nice trick. She is now split into neat Freudian categories: the Superego, affectionately known as "Mutt," the id, "Edith Jr." and the ego, "Jeff." This brings me to a brief but hopefully pithy aside about my own love of naming inanimate objects. I'm the embarassing type of person who searches for just the right name for a car. I mean it--it might take days to hit just the right name. Now, you can argue that it's related to some squishy feminine trait, as in, real men would never name a mere machine. I'll ignore you, but you can argue, if you like. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do like quiche, you must be right. Or we can get metaphysical about the attempt to humanize the increasingly mechanized and isolating technological world. Hard to beat that theory. I guess sometimes I'd just call it whimsy. A superstitious but {mostly}amusing whimsy. And sometimes I think it's because it's hard to curse well at something without a name. But there's something decidedly satisfying about finding just the right name. Something about the power of names, maybe, as in the old wizardry of true naming begetting power over a thing; something about the richness that comes with charactering our lives with certain personalities we ourselves create; something about the power of belief. I mean, have you ever named something by accident? That name just stuck. And it comes to mean something to you, the way Jennifer will always mean that girl you hated in elementary school, or how you always find yourself attracted to men named "Chris" {which stinks for you, since that name's awfully common}. Woe betide you if the personality you've accidently created comes to mean inconsistency, or maliganancy--that lemon of a car, or that evil computer--for in these cases you are making your own destiny. That is, if you are the type of person to name inanimate objects.)

Anyway, I was going to say that I'm green with envy over my dear friend's recent travels and housey projects. Recently I have begun longing for a more settled sort of spot, without projected life upheaveals. I can't say I'm unhappy with school. Today, for example, was a great day. And yet...and yet. I have felt so unfinished for so long. I know this desire for "finish" for the compelling illusion it is, but the definition of compelling illustrates the problem. Maybe it's only the Mass disatisfaction kicking in harder. Maybe only the ticking of that infamous bioligical clock (talk about the power of naming--what might we look like as a nation without that cultural mythos?). Maybe it's related to ice cream for lunch (yesterday) and chocolate pecan pie for dinner (today). Maybe spring fever? Are all of these on your current rule-out list? Treatment: supportive care, make-up to conceal that fresh grass cast to the skin, a bolus of see-how-much-fun-vet school can be? We'll have to wait and see how she does...

*I swear to you, the first day I started my computer, the computer icon or some welcome screen said something about my computer, Edith. No, I don't partake of the things you suggest, nor have I ever been hospitalized. For anything. Her name was just Edith. Why do you find this hard to believe?

other things I'd rather

2005-05-04T21:24:00.000-05:00

In other words, I'm typing to that infamous muse, the reader, instead of thinking of good probing questions to ask the dairy farmer tomorrow. We have a herd project (heard of what?) for this rotation, where we look at different aspects of a dairy and try to figure out areas of improvement. And because I imagine that one of the edifying thing about reading blogs is that you get a glimpse of a truly different daily life, here's a doozy for you. You are running a dairy, milking about 300 head, mostly Holsteins (what most people picture when you say "cow"). This means you get up pretty early, milk for 4 to 5 hours, take an hour break to clean the parlour, and then start up all over again. Not to mention that you need to feed the cows, watch them for signs of heat, lameness, general badness, and scrape the barn (a true necessity, if you know cows). The coolest thing about dairymen is that they can tell you what cow it is by looking at them, often only looking from the feet and udder perspective (most parlors being sunk low in the floor). I wish I was as good at names, only I guess most people'd look at you a bit sidelong if you stared at their feet and crotch before you said hello ("Oh, HI Madge, didn't recognize you at first--sitting behind that desk and all."). But to prove a point that was long ago proven, all specialties have their lingo, and dairy farming is no exception. So I'm trying to look cool, here (can't help it, you would too---do you like to look like an idiot? I didn't think so), and come up with some real professional questions. OK, you internet dairyman/woman you, so tell me: TMR or component feeding? How's your average calving interval? What's your cull rate, and from what? LDAs/RDAs common? Ketosis/milk fever/fat cow syndrome (you heard me, fat cow syndrome)? See, you hadn't ever really thought about it, have you? Every subject only becomes infinitely more complicated when you delve into it--could you run a dairy farm? Maybe you already do. But I bet most of you couldn't. This infinite complication fractal-like theory is why I'm a splitter, not a lumper, but that's a different blog. Later.

The other thing I wanted to mention is that I was stuck with talk radio again today, and I could barely stand it. (Do you think I'd fail the rotation if I accidentally pulled out a few crucial wires?) So in self-defense, and to rid my brain of that nasty talk radio aftertaste, I thought it was poem time. And this time I was kind to any poetry haters out there, 'cause I waited till the end. This is one of my favorites, but it really should be read aloud. Don't be shy, unless you're in one of those internet cafe things, in which case, go ahead and be shy. This is why I despair of modern vocabulary. We just don't get to roll our tongue about words the way we used to. I'll admit, for some this one may need an intro: it's about a lovely wet spot, somewhere wild, with a brook ripping through it. Would that today's environmentalists could be so eloquent.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

33. Inversnaid


THIS darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth	5
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,	10
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;	15
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

You go, Gerard.

am-bu-la-to-ry

2005-05-03T20:59:00.000-05:00

Am' bye le tor i adj., n, pl. -ries. --adj 1. pertaining to or capable of walking. 2. adapted for walking, as in the limbs of many animals. 3. moving about; not stationary. 4. Med. not confined to bed: ambulatory patient. 5. Law. not fixed; alterable or revocable: ambulatory will. --n. 6. Archit. a place for walking: a. the side aisle suurounding the choir or chancel of a church. b. the arcaded walk around a cloister.

Which may mean only that I love my father's old American College Dictionary from 1956 (beat that, you stupid definition websites, who seem to think that ambulatory only means "able to walk" --of course it's simple for your immediate needs, but who can beat the feeling of that thin, fragile paper as it slips between your fingers, and those delicious indentations as your fingers search the alphabet!), and it does indeed have fun illustrations (one of these days I'll scan in the illustration I just passed, the alpaca, which seems more relevant to my life than it used to), but if you're getting the hang of this, you'll guess there's another reason for the definition. You are so smart, my dear. But first, I must still praise the multitudes of definitions provided by my dear dictionary. Can't you imagine? The silent monks thoughtfully contemplating their way around the ambulatory? And I'm afraid I will not be able to go through tomorrow without thinking, "where there's an ambulatory will, there's a way." This is sort of a bad joke, as you will see.

Anyhoo, I've currently just started my ambulatory rotation (A-HA), meaning I drive an hour south every day to ride with many vets to go see many cows, horses, sheep, goats and alpacas (and mules and so forth). And we do some ambulating, but mostly we drive. It has been refreshing to see the back pockets of CT looking so lovely (though I have NO idea what the point of having a small model light house in your yard is, or why this is a common lawn ornament here--do you worry about driving your lawnmower into the rocks while you cut your grass in those stormy CT waters?). And really, this ambulatory thing was only a big lead in to the fact that I am in the car a lot and one of the vets listens to a little talk radio now and again (for me, an awful lot like the mysterious light house lawn ornament question, but hey, at least in this case I know the person in question has a pretty good sense of the ridiculous during these times) and I got to thinking about how the country, and maybe even the world is a lot like vet school social life.

Let me explain. You see, in vet school you are sitting in a classroom with about 80 other people. Not once in a while, but all day. Every day. And when you go home, well, most of the time you can't go run about with your non-vet school friends who might give you some refreshing sense of reality. So it gets pretty incestuously small town gossip around there. As in, the person who you aren't mad at but thought perhaps you needed to discuss something with is pretty sure you're mad five minutes before you mention to another completely different person that you need to talk to the original someone. It's not just the smallness of the fishbowl, it's the twisting of the intent. And hey, unfortunately, people have a little nasty side that loves to speculate and talk. And lately I think that TV news and talk radio are simply big, bored vet students, who are sitting next to you in class, or on your couch, and saying "hey, didja hear about so and so? I hear she/he..." I listened to one radio jock decide that, on pure speculation, that there must be another man involved in some romance scandal. And then everyone who called in was equally convinced. Quite astonishing, in a crap-I-can't believe-the-power-of suggestion-really-works way. But man, are we nosey creatures in this country. And any silence is simply something hidden that we're pretty sure we know about. And you people think your teenage girls are bad, the way they talk about boys!

Slippery words, how we twist you and claim ignorance. And that dictionary seemed so innocent about 20 minutes ago...

bring back the sing along

2005-04-30T22:22:00.000-05:00

The dog chewed up my passport. It actually happened last week, but it was only today that that fact became relevant. What fascinates me is how there really is no physical person I can blame for my morning, and yet, three reasonable human beings (I'm making assumptions, probably even about myself) could not actually follow the dictates of common logic. Let me backtrack. First of all, I'm nearing the end of my third year of vet school. Trust me, it's relevant. These days I've finally been allowed out of the classroom and around some honest to goodness animals, clients and diagnostics. But what things like post offices don't know is that, well, all day, every weekday (and some weekends), I'm really not going to be allowed to jaunt off to the PO for a visit. So today I get the opportunity to go get my passport renewed, which is good because it expired in January, and I'm off to the Dominican Republic in November, which is also good. The fact that my passport was in a plastic sandwich baggie to keep all the pieces together was...hmmmm...not so good.

Now. It's one thing, I suppose, if the dog had made it through that laminated page with my photo and relevant stats. But those things are nice and tough, made to withstand the rigors of sweaty tourist next-to-your-skin paranoia wallets. So you can clearly tell, yes, this is a US passport, yes, that's me, yes, yes, probably a good chance it used to be legal before the mistaken dog toy identity thing. But because of the dog damage, it's no longer legal proof of my citizenship.

OK. First of all, chances are good that because I've had two passports issued to me in my lifetime, I haven't fooled anyone into thinking I might be from Swaziland. But, alright, they don't know that I haven't been over to the consulate and demanded citizenship from that country over my own, I guess I can give them that. But I'm really having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that in one form, a little blue booklet with my photo has great meaning and import, and voila, it becomes--becomes, mind you, as in your seat cushion becomes a water floatation device--something altogether other, magically devoid of meaning, somehow inactivated, but still with my photo on it. And people scoff at the notion of amulets. And you can't yell at the post office guy (well, you could, but you would be an asshole), he's just doing his job. You can even tell he thinks it's stupid. And you can't yell at the lady at the passport offfice, because for one, you can't reach the phone, and for two, she even would probably agree. And yet, no passport for me, until my mother unearths my birth certificate from some drawer many states away from here.

The truth is, I've angered some postal god(ess?) somewhere, proabably for parking in front of my mailbox and making my postal guy get out of his truck to deliver my mail, or by sending something bookrate that wasn't actually books (you've all done it), or maybe for even greater messaging infractions for which I am unaware. Because the insult to my injury (and do you have any idea when I can predict my next opportunity for the post office will be? Guess. Don't pick any date in the month of May.) is the fact that I was given the webaddress for some website who wanted me to pay 30 dollars for the birth certificate, and then 25 dollars for the Fed Ex shipping. And the drop down menu implying all the while that maybe I'll get some other shipping option. Let's see--what delusional mind headlock do they think I'm in? Last time I checked, the post office was still doing its other job OK. I get it. Time to burn expensive stamps and buy one of those stupid framed commemorative coin things, and light candles under it. Or just wait for my mother to unearth the thing--right.

Anyway, this story has nothing to do with the title of the post, because that was from the end of the day. Tonight was the every-so-often coffee house at school, where some of us prove that once we had other lives besides veterinary texts and exams. And traditionally, we end with a good old fashioned sing along, campfire style (though campus police really put the stop to the campfire idea). But tonight everyone scattered to the winds. I don't know, I guess I'm one of those isn't this egalitarian what-a-shame-people-don't-feel-free-enough-to-add- their-voice-even-if-it-sucks-because-you-know-in-a-sing-along-you'll-
be-drowned-out-nicely-but-end-up- having-fun-without-punishing-others people. Next time--NO break before the sing along, people. We're wise to your tricks.

one of us, one of us, ooh goo ga ga...*

2005-04-29T10:37:00.000-05:00

I'm surprised to find myself here. I have a few friends that post regularly (by few I mean, well, two) on their own eblog sites, and I'd never have guessed that I was going to join them. Some inner prompting sent me here, at my computer when I should be in bed, writing to some vaporous and hypothetical electric audience. I was always the type to start a journal and then find it a year later, with several dutiful dated pages and then nothing. This could easily be the latest version. But I have found some comfort in checking in with my friends while they weren't actually looking--like some window onto their daily life distinctly different than one I might glimpse on the phone.

I don't go out and read random blogs, or spend time browsing the weird or wacky (and then emailing them to others--do we all have friends that do that? I'm not complaining, mind you, I just don't do it myself), for me the internet is functional with a few frills. I'm sure I have some mistaken unreal notion of what it means to identify one's self as a "blogger," brought on by NPR stories of the new "is it journalism" debate. And I don't really feel like that "blogger" thing has anything to do with me. Yet here I am, typing away, and I bet anything that the first thing most people do is write a nice little blog about blogging, whatever that gerund means to them. Perhaps it's tedious to my imagined jaded and experienced blogophiles--"not metablog," they sigh, "again?" (This begins to sound like Monty Python--I'll have blog, blog, blog, blog, blog and eggs and blog.) Tough. I like meta. In small doses. Which is why I forsee copious use of parentheses in future posts, if I ever get that far. Be warned.

Did I also mention the wandering train of thought? Right. I guess I've been busy enough for three years straight (more on that later, I'm sure), to give my inner voice pause. It says--"right, and where are you again exactly? Perhaps you ought to be checking on that a bit more frequently." So maybe a little technological journaling is in order. As well as forcing poems on the unsuspecting populace (warned again), because of all the poetry books on my shelves which grow dusty and wan (OK, maybe not wan) from disuse. And besides, besides meta, I like poetry. So when I get tired of myself and my own unique mundanity, I'll post poems instead. And if you've read this far you are obviously not simply the 5 second American I thought you might be. In that case, welcome. *