Three things annoy me when I'm reading a blog: (1) a dearth of updates, (2) a plethora of apologies for the dearth of updates, and (3) the inevitable "identity crisis" posting in which the blogger ruminates on why he/she writes a blog in the first place (which is usually promptly followed by a permanent signoff). So since I'm guilty of offense #1, I'm going to do my best to avoid #2 and #3.

That said, I realize that my entries are often just about me chastising myself for being fat and chastising myself for being lazy. But it's hard, when I sit down to write something about myself or my life, not to slip from description to prescription. I don't know if that annoys people or not, but I've decided that in order to avoid #3 above, I should just accept it as fact and invite you to pass on the prescriptive, self-help lectures I give myself.

Today's self-flagellation: lazy fatness (a two-for-one). Last night, as I sat up watching television at 10:30 drinking my third glass of red wine and dipping rolled up pieces of provolone into a jar of Nutella, I started thinking that maybe I wasn't taking very good care of myself. So today I've decided that for the next two weeks I will...

Not drink alcohol of any kind

Eat five small meals a day

Avoid sweets

Drink the recommended amount of water every day

Start my marathon training

I figure that two weeks of this kind of boot camp treatment will make it easier to transition into a less rigid, but still healthy lifestyle. It's much easier for me to go cold-turkey from Nutella than it is to phase it out.

 

She was a bit disapproving at first, but she got used to it.

 

 

I'm concerned about myself. Low energy, little curiosity.

I feel tired, but from what? From volunteering at the homeless shelter this morning and then running to the bank, running home and taking flu clinic supplies back to work and then going to County Hospital to volunteer and running home on a break and watching Bill O'Reilly on Oprah and begging Wells Fargo customer service to forgive some overdraft fees and then driving back to the hospital in rush hour traffic.

It's a lot, I suppose... but why does driving around have to be so tiring? Where was my enthusiasm as I walked back into County Hospital at dusk and saw the setting sun's glow over downtown L.A.? Where was my excitement over hearing a second-year med school student talk about her love for medical school? Why did I just feel tired?

Because I was running around all day. Perhaps. Maybe. But maybe also because I'm chasing after my schedule instead of dominating it. I'm not being thoughtful anymore. I used to be more thoughtful, didn't I?

Again, perhaps.

I don't feel happy at the moment, but why put a premium on constant happiness? I'm living through a stressful part of the process of becoming a doctor. I should embrace it. I should let myself feel stressed and down. I still work hard not to be a brooder or a complainer. I smiled at the med school student's descriptions of her classes and faked my way through several moderately-intelligent questions. Then when she stopped talking to me I turned and slipped out the door. I called Drew at work and asked him what would make him happy tonight, and didn't tell him that I was feeilng worried and tired -- because he's currently in his ninth hour in the office and must be exhausted by now. And because I need to parcel out my whining. A boyfriend's well of sympathy is only so deep.

And anyway no one can relieve this stress. Excepting those who sit on the admissions committees of BU, Tufts, Drexel, Penn, Jefferson, Temple, SUNY Downstate, Columbia, NYU, Einstein, UCI, UCLA, UCSF or Keck.

Still, the "low curiosity level" charge stands. Guilty. I must go make dinner now, and read something. And avoid the damnable television.

 

My dog is currently having her period and bleeding all over the apartment. We've had her in diapers, but she can't stay in a diaper 24/7; every once in a while she has do other bathroom business best accomplished sans Huggies.

Most of my day has been eaten up dealing with a negative checking account balance. I didn't find out that my account was overdrawn until two days ago (six days after it went into the red) and by the time I got money in there I had accrued $287 in overdraft fees.

Searching out old friends on myspace was less rewarding than I'd hoped. It seems everyone has the same account Drew and I have: the bare bones profile that you created just so you could look at other people's photos. Disappointing.

I don't like having a greasy face and sticky hands. And, unfortunately, they commonly occur as a pair in my life.

All that whining aside... I must say that Lynne Cheney's frustration on CNN was a pick-me-up.

 

I check my Friendster page every day. Usually more than once. Why? I don't update my profile, I don't try to coax people into joining my network, and I rarely look at other people's pages. The only reason I have to go there is to see if someone has looked at my page. That happens about once a month, usually after I've checked out their page and they've seen my photo under the "Who's Viewed Me" tab. I guess this could be considered a companion compulsion for my constant email-checking. Hotmail -- Hotmail - Hotmail -- Friendster -- Hotmail. Both are bordering on obsessive and both are clearly some weird gauge I've created for my own popularity. (Also they're a sign of my boredom and my lack of interest in completing medical school applications.)

I have improved myself in one department, though: I no longer watch 2+hours of Everybody Loves Raymond every day. And I've started showering and dressing before I watch The View. I told Drew on Tuesday night that I was going to take a break from television altogether, so the next day I only watched The View, The Daily Show, CBS Evening News, Project Runway, Oprah, and Nip/Tuck. No joke. Sadly, that is about an hour less than my usual.

In addition to wasting all that time, I also worked for six hours yesterday. I've started doing patient intake for mobile flu-shot clinics around the city. Along with one or two nurses, I go into retirement homes, drug stores, and other places frequented by the elderly and help clients fill out Medicare and insurance forms so that they can get flu and pneumonia shots. It only pays $10/hour, but watching reruns of Roseanne isn't exactly profitable so I'm not complaining. I'll have to write more about it later, because the nurses and many of the patients have been pretty damn amusing.

My favorite client yesterday was an 80-something woman who likes to be called "Pee-Wee". Pee-Wee's insurance wouldn't cover the flu shot so I had to tell her a shot would cost her $25 at our clinic. She amused herself the rest of the afternoon by telling every patient who would listen that they were in danger of being charged for their immunizations. That caused widespread panic. When one of the home's administrators assured one such patient that Pee-Wee's was a special case, Pee-Wee changed her story and started telling everyone that only she was being singled out and forced to pay. "Why?" "I don't know. They just said 'Pee-Wee, you have to pay twenty-five dollars or we won't give it to you.' I don't know why."

Also highly entertaining: one of Pee-Wee's friends called me stupid when I asked her what her name was: "Are you kidding me?" She rolled her eyes. "You're so stupid." And the day before that a nonagernarian called me an asshole.