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lessons from doctors

So I’m editing a ton of video interviews with these hoity-toity Manhattan plastic surgeons. Basically, every plastic surgeon in Manhattan, it would seem. A massive, sort of soul-sucking undertaking — oh, how I hate editing the spoken word — but good money. So I’ll be a little absent until Friday is good and gone.

I’m learning SO much about breasts, though. Weird, because I kind of considered myself an expert since I came with two and have to corral them on a daily basis, but seems I don’t know everything.

For instance, did you know it’s very challenging to make a “breast mound that looks like a breast mound”? It’s true. One doctor looked straight into the camera and said that to me, in a voice a little low and rumbly and inappropriate.

You know what I said to him in response?

“Doc, your teeth are yellow like dried mustard. Do you know NO ONE who does teeth whitening? Aren’t you filthy stinking rich?? Also please stop talking about breast mounds. I’m delicate.”

But he didn’t listen. He just kept droning on and on about breast mounds, those two words slipping through his ochre teeth until I became uncomfy in my own skin and hyper aware of my own breast mounds. And I’m usually fine with them.

Another doctor was very nervous and fat and basically pre-verbal in front of the camera. He broke out in flop sweat. The entire interview, he glistened like an Easter ham and I wanted nothing more than to stick him with cloves. And, you know, I’d say “aww, poor guy,” I would, but he’s clearly not poor. Just ….. socially marginal.

Another doctor went on a rant about doctors who ignore “the human element”:

“So you’re an oncologist and you walk into the examination room and say, ‘You know you’re going to lose your hair, right?’ I mean, those are the first words out of your mouth? Who does that? Who says that? I don’t care what kind of physician you are. Make believe you’re a human first.”

And right there, on the spot, I looked him dead in his pre-recorded eyes and declared my undying love for him, porn ‘stache and all, because honestly, that — THAT — is genius.

Those are words to live by.

I can think of several people at a recent church I attended who really need to hear these life-changing words:

Make believe you’re a human first.

So, thanks, Doc.

But, seriously, shave that thing or name it.

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oh, but i read these too

I didn’t just read that balderdash Shiver in January. No, there were others. Yes, indeedy. And because I feel the need to redeem myself — although if I really wanted to do that, I suppose I’d stop blogging altogether — I list them now.

My other January books:

~ Her Fearful Symmetry, Audrey Niffenegger
Funny, I’ve never read Niffenegger’s first book, The Time Traveler’s Wife. I started with Her Fearful Symmetry. Loved it. A story about identity and ghosts and obsessions.

~ A Reliable Wife, Robert Goolrick
Hypnotic. Redemptive. Obviously needs to be a movie. I’m casting it in my head already — along with my new “book” friend who I see every Saturday now. She works at the bookstore and the last two Saturdays have been ALL about A Reliable Wife. Although the cover with the dress is lame and makes it look like a bodice-ripper, which it’s not. There’s a better cover out there. I’ve seen it.

~ Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
Can’t even talk about this one. I’m still processing. SO different — and so much more amazing, really — than any preconception I’ve ever had about it.

~ Blue Like Jazz (a reread, thank you, Brian!), Donald Miller.
Perspective-changer on issues of faith. I love it.

~ The Sacred Romance, John Eldredge and Brent Curtis
Healing.

I’m still ruminating on much of what I’ve read last month. So much easier to spew something out about a book that didn’t matter to me.

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more of tracey’s church notes

Oh, hurrah! I discovered more notes from our time at Maybe but really Not On Your Life Church.

These are just my notes. MB doesn’t weigh in, which is a real shame. So the pastor’s preaching and I’m talking to myself in this notebook like a weirdo.

I really would NOT have fit in at this cult …. er, church. I mean, I’m a weirdo, but not their kind of weirdo. My brain is just not washable enough.

So here I go, dissecting the church AT church. Probably our second week there.

~ Nearly every man here is wearing a short-sleeved shirt, either a polo or a light cotton, all in pale pale almost non-colors. They don’t tuck them in so their bellies are covered. Ugh. It almost seems like a uniform here. Pale ghosts of people.

~ The sleeves on those cotton things stick out at the elbows like little pup tents. Ick. Come worship the Lord! Sartorial castration — no extra charge! It’s a room full of Homers.

~ If they were all naked, they’d look better.

~ I should rethink that.

~ Basically, they all look kind of pasty and weak in their Easter-egg clothes. I’ve never been more turned off in a room full of men.

~ Oh, the words between the songs at worship: “I believe there are people today struggling with guilt about not getting things done.” Hm. Really, Peaches? Pretty safe bet, isn’t it? Holy Spirit not really swinging out in omniscience with THAT one, is he? Why bother? So you can get up and look godly with a no-brainer? Boo-bye.

~ Every song is a dirge. Am I dead?

~ Ugh, P-Geist! He’s praying and he CANNOT just say “Amen.” He is literally droning, “in the name of the glorious, beautiful, powerful, amazing Father …. Amen.” No need to butter up the Almighty, Crackie. God’s not impressed.

~ TOO MUCH TALKING!! (ed.: Sorry. I was clearly losing it.)

~ The pastor is asking, “What’s the background noise of my heart?” Uh …… Guns ‘n’ Roses?

~ I really don’t see myself hanging out with these people.

~ Also, don’t come up and introduce yourself and let ME hold up the entire conversation.

~ Why does everyone want to know how we found out about the church?? EVERYONE has asked us. WHO CARES?? We’re here. Is this a marketing thing?

~ Why do they all talk about John Piper? “Do you know John Piper?” “Have you read John Piper?” They seem very worshipful about … John Piper! John Piper!! JOHN PIPER!! Calm down, Homers. And roll your sleeves.

~ He’s now talking about joy in a room full of the glummest people I’ve ever seen.

~ “Dripping with mirth.” Oh, I BEG you to please stop saying that.

(Seems I had issues from the get-go, doesn’t it? Well, you could call it issues or, uh, critical thinking skills. Let’s go with the second one, shall we?)

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on the phone with dad

He: So did you have some ice cream on your anniversary?

My dad loves ice cream. He is perpetually slender. I hate him.

Me: Uh, no, Dad.
He: You should have had some ice cream.

*******

He: So I had that treadmill test.
Me: Yeah, how did that go?
He: The doctor told me he’d only had two good tests that week, a 26 year old’s and mine.
Me: Wow, Dad.
He: And I’m 73!
Me: I know!
He: I think the doctor was jealous.
Me: I’m sure he was.

*******

He: So he told me I have only a 1% chance of having a cardiac incident in the next five years.
Me: You are truly amazing.
He: Yep.
Me: Obviously, you should start smoking.
He: Heeheeheeheehee.
Me: And pigging out on ice cream.
He: Heeheeheeheehee.
Me: I mean, why not?
He: Yeah, why not?

He’s just a little kid, that man. I’m glad he’s still around so we can come full circle.

All we do when we talk now ….. is laugh.

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60-second book review

Where I write a book review off the top of my head, all careless and free-form.

Shiver — Maggie Stiefvater

I don’t know what possessed me on this one. I bought it at the bookstore because I liked the cover. I seem to do that a lot. Apparently, Ms. Stiefvater has already sold the movie rights to this werewolf/human romance. It’s no Twilight and I cannot believe I just said “It’s no Twilight.” I mean, Twilight is Twilight; it ain’t Romeo and Juliet. Still, it’s effective, in its way. Here’s part of what makes the vampire work: Vampires can be young but wise, be 18 but 112 or whatever. So they can look forever young, but be grown men emotionally and intellectually, which is nice, and really the only thing that made me feel slightly less icky about devouring the whole Twilight saga.

Sam, the werewolf/hero in Shiver IS 18 and ……. ugh, is he ever. 18 and “emo.” He’s described that way: “Emo.” Everything’s very “OMG” with Sam and his human love interest Grace and, basically, I found them both necrotic and awful (to quote MB). I wanted everyone to wolf out and rip everyone else to shreds.

OMG! I’m a wolf! OMG! What if I STAY a wolf? OMG!!

Ooh, here’s a bonus: Sam the werewolf writes lyrics. At any random moment, a song might come to him because his mind is always “snatching for lyrics” when it might be better used finding a solution to his perpetual wet dog whiff. But no. He’s too emo to be practical, our Sam, so you never know when his mind might simply burst into song. Just whenever he’s swept away, I guess.

For instance, oh, mid make-out session.

Here’s one that came to Wolf Boy while getting hot and sweaty with Grace. But brace yourselves. I’m serious. Clench everything down. Are you clenched?

Okay.

She draws patterns on my face/These lines make shapes that can’t replace/the version of me I hold inside/when lying with you, lying with you, lying with you

Best, I think, to keep these to oneself.

You know, I think I can honestly say that I’ve never started composing an ode to a makeout session in my head whilst engaged in said makeout session. I’ve always been too busy. If you have time to do that, well, I think you’re doing it wrong or you’re not really in the moment which means you need to ask yourself why, because — news flash — maybe you’re kissing the wrong person.

The other thing here: Sam turns into a wolf based on temperature. The colder it gets, the closer he gets to wolfing out. So Grace always has to “keep him warm.” Ahem. He’s the perpetual damsel in distress, constantly needing to sit by the fire or to borrow a sweater or to wait in the car with the heater on. Turn-OFF. This dude would have gotten nowhere with 18-year-old me. Sure, I was naive and Amish, but I wasn’t stupid. Maybe today’s teenage girl finds this version of guy sexy, but not me. He was too needy and too dainty and too emo.

Wolf out forever, Sam. I just don’t care.

Shiver, indeed.

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butterflies do flutter by

We pull up to a stoplight on Sunday, chatting about this and that. As we’re waiting, a guy runs up; he’s working out, but misses the light. I do a double-take because, well, the guy is practically naked. He’s lean, muscled, obviously a regular runner, and wears ….. God help me, I do not know. They’re running shorts, but shorter; they’re boxer shorts but tighter; they’re tighty whiteys but with a flounce. Or something? Whatever they are, they’re very low-riders and a manly aqua. On his feet, these silvery ballet-like slippers.

While he waits for the light, he prances and sashays. Spins and leaps. He doesn’t stay in one spot politely jogging in the typical compact way you see runners do.

Oh, no. He’s a stoplight Nureyev, dahling, and he

uses

his

stage.

It’s mesmerizing. Distracting. Basically, I can’t look away.

MB, on the other hand, sighs in exasperation.

“Oh, for the love of Europe.”

One glance at his furrowed brow and I howl the whole way home.

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the outsiders

Random Thoughts has a touching post about her new church experience.

So many people seem to be feeling similar things about “The Church” these days.

Not Jesus.

“The Church.”

We all long to feel a part of something, but when that something beats you down and just doesn’t care, what do you do? Where do you go?