Beating a dead horse

Laurie was out somewhere over the weekend, and I needed to know if she would be home for dinner or not. Hence the following conversation (modified into English from text-speak).

Me: You alive out there?
Laurie: Yep. Am enjoying snooty coffee.
Me: OK, just making sure you didn't run away to be a stripper.
Laurie: If I decide to do that, I promise to leave a note.

You can never be too sure when it comes to your little sister.

Scandalicious

My sister, as you may or may not already know, has recently moved in with the Scholzen to be our nanny for a year. Last weekend she and I were discussing the importance of a father figure as a source of unconditional love and the rather emphatic guidance that often accompanies it.

Laurie: I know. I mean, otherwise, who would there be to care what I did with my life? To tell me not to be a stripper?

Me: I'd tell you not to be a stripper, sissy.

Laurie: Aww, thanks.

Me: Laurie. Don't be a stripper.

Laurie: OK, that's good advice.

A few hours later, we were discussing something completely unrelated...

Me: Laurie. Don't be a stripper.

Laurie: Ok. Jeez. I wasn't really thinking of becoming a stripper, you know. It was just an example.

You can never be too careful with your little sister.

A pain in the bootie

One of the other fellows was in a accident on her way to work earlier this week. She was minding her own business, waiting at a red light, when an uninsured (and unliscensed) motorist rear-ended her. Everyone was very concerned to hear how she (and her car) came out of the situation. Later during clinic, the following transpired...

Attending: Hey, Fellow.

Fellow: Hey, Attending.

Attending: So, how's your rear end?

Fellow: (Eyebrows raise.)

Attending: Oh, wait, uh, that's not what I meant.

All fellows: (hysterical laughter)

Attending: I'm gonna turn around in my chair and not talk anymore.

(Hysterical laughter continues)

 

By the way, she's fine. Do you think I'd tell this story if she were lying in the trauma ward right now?

My Achilles heel

I think I'm a fair cook. A good baker, and a fair cook. I can muddle my way through most recipes, julienning and sauteeing with the best of 'em. The one thing I'm bad at...

Eggs.

No joke. I worry about under cooking them (raw eggs = bad) and end up with the dusty remains of eggs stuck to my pan. In the subsequent round I'll try to compensate for my previous overcooking and find myself with a big ol' runny mess.

I blame my mother.

No joke. She taught me pretty much everything I know about cooking and baking and the kitchen in general. And she can't cook eggs. Well, I remember her scrambled eggs being fine. But there was no such thing as sunny-side-up or over easy, let alone Benedict in the Zarnow household. And it seems the ability to cook eggs is a heritable trait because eggs are the one kitchen battle I never win against myself.

Good thing Nick likes his eggs scrambled.

Booty roll call

My birthday wasn't all bad. In addition to the aforementioned snuggles from Elle, she also gave me a smile. A real one. That was very gratifying. Maybe the best present I got. Maybe. Hard to top the following...
Mom gave me a beautiful (say "bee-youtiful") Le Creuset Dutch oven. Happy sigh. And a David Lebowitz dessert cookbook. Happy sigh for yumminess and sad sigh for my lack of time in which to bake the yumminess. Happy sigh again because I now live with a pastry chef who can bake the yumminess for me.

Nick gave (or rather will give) me the gift of shopping. On an as-yet-to-be-determined date, I will get a free afternoon, completely to myself, to go wherever I want and spend money. On clothes. For me. That don't have elastic panels in front. Oh, the joy!

Laurie gave (or rather will give also) the gift of sleep. She has offered a night (a whole night!) of child care. Oh, can you even imaging? Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep? It's gonna be ah-mazing.

I just don't know how 31 is gonna top that.

Some things never change

And some things do.
I was talking to a resident (we'll call him Resident #1) about a patient this afternoon, when another resident (resident #2) came up to us and interjected.

Me: Blah, blah, boring medical talk.
Resident #1: I see, but blah, blah. More boring medical talk.
Resident #2: Hey, Beth! Good to see you! How's the baby?
Me: Oh, she's good. Super cute! Wanna see a picture? Oh, wait, no choice, I'm gonna make you look.
Resident #2: Oh, wow, she is cute.
Resident #1: Hmmm...
Me: She's getting so big.
Resident #2: Oh yeah? When exactly was she born?
Resident #1: That's it!! That's what's different about you!
Me: Huh?
Resident #1: You're not pregnant anymore! I've been standing here talking to you, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. But that's it.

Just what the doctor ordered

Today is my birthday. The big 3-0 to be exact. It was a bad day. Not necessarily because of the number, although I do prefer to call it "29 + 1." More palatable, don't you think? No, it was bad because of a painfully drama-filled clinic. And a long afternoon on consults.
But I got somethin' to make any bad day better. I recommend some sweet baby girl snuggles and a generous serving of Ruggles' Oreo Overload cake.

Ahh, mucho mejor. Happy birthday to me.

PS Our camera is doing some weird thing where it makes everything look yellow and fuzzy. Nick is gonna get right on fixing that.