Prostitutes

Now, I've never understood why the world's oldest profession is illegal. If I give it up for free, no problem. But if a guy or gal charges for it? Horrifying! Is sex for money really that bad? If regulated, wouldn't the government make money hand over fist? Wouldn't both the johns and the whores enjoy a safer environment? It's just sex. Not coke or heroin or pedophilia - just sex between consenting adults with a pre-existing cash contract. Sounds kinda like a premarital agreement if ya ask me. A very short term marital agreement, but hey, some folks just aren't that into commitment....

And if prostitution was legal, my biggest pet peeve about my 'hood would go away: the transvestite hookers. Why would they go away? These 'gals' would have some regulated indoor space in which to work... NOT the street in front of my townhouse! I have slowly started to hate these 'ladies'. They bring thoroughly unsavory johns into my area, decrease my property value and worst of all make me feel unsafe. I just got off of a 6p - 2a shift after driving our third car to work. Why does the fact that I drove the 'third' car matter? 'Cause it is the car we park on the street.

Dumb move.

I had two 'lovely ladies' try to proposition me as I parked my car. I was just PARKING not angling for a blow job. (Or whatever the female equivalent would be.) But nooooo, the 'ladies' had to saunter over and make me wanna crawl outta my skin. Luckily (?) they both got picked up before I was ready to get out of the car.

Yeah, I felt real safe. Then again, I'm the dumbass who drove the car that needed to be parked on the street at 2am.

Note to self: next time drive the car that gets parked in the gated garage. Duh!

The ceiling cat is watching...

Go here. Trust me. Especially you, Clee.

Birthday manners

I am very proud of myself. I was confronted with blatant rudeness, immaturity and poor manners and I didn't point them out.

Now those of you who know me understand how rate it is that I keep a handle on my tounge. I lack 'the filter.' You know, the one that catches all the crap that the ID really wants to say before it gets out of the mouth. Since I don't have said filter all sorts of detrious comes flying out of my mouth when I'm perterbed.

But for once, I reinforced that filter with titanium wire and the bitch held. Why, might you ask? Because I was at a birthday dinner. A birthday dinner for a woman that I really like, but don't know all that well.

And she doesn't know me all that well. She knows that I'm loud, that I can burp better than 90% of the college fraternity population, that occationally I'm a mean drunk and that I suck at karaoke. But she's never seen me truly mad.

Fortunately for her.

So I couldn't very well unleash a can of well deserved whoop-ass on her professed best friend. 'Cause after all, this was A's birthday freaking dinner.

But hot damn, the BFF so deserved it. (For those of you not versed in pre-adolescent girl lore, BFF stand for best friend forever, biatches.) My friend A had warned me that BFF was, "loud and opinionated." Um, no. She's a f*cking brat. Here's why:

1) She shows up to her best friend's dinner 55 minutes late.
2) She immediately starts texting at the table... the traditional Japanese tatami, butt firmly on the floor, special 'cause we planned it that way table.
3) She starts yelling about how bad the service at the restaurant is, despite the fact that prior to her arrival, the staff had been doing an admirable job handling a party of 15. After her arrival and loud disparaging comments, service mysteriously slowed. What a twist!
4) Because the service is 'slow', she declares that she is not buying any of her own drinks. Oh, and did I mention that this was A's twenty first birthday? Uh, exactly who should be getting the free booze?
5) She then complains about the long hours she puts in at architecture school. Now, architecture students do put in crazy hours. But please, BFF needs to remember to check her attitude at the door when she's talking to a bunch of people who, on average, are at least five years her senior. Why? 'Cause us old fogies have realized that, well, college only kinda matters. Don't get me wrong, be cool, stay in school! But until the quality of your work determines your income, the safety of a building or, um, life or death for some poor kiddo... just cool it. We've all been there, we'll sympathise some, but not if BFF is yelling about her woes at 10 million decibels and clearly believing that she is clearly working harder than anyone else at the table.

Just to remind you, all of this was at her best friend's birthday party.

Now, kind viewers, did I smack her down? No. For once in my life, I didn't. Only because I respect A. And I like her boyfriend.

But people, realize that I'm NOT going to keep a lid on my mouth next time. Screw it, the immature bitch needs a little smack around.

And I'm just the docta to do it.

Six degrees of Kevin Bacon...

Or in my case, four. Ya'll remember, I assume, the craze of yester-year - how everyone in Hollywood could be associated with Kevin Bacon within six degrees of separation - AKA Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. This means that everyone I know is connected to Kevin Bacon within five degrees. Of course, those of us who know me AND my brother-in-law remain separated by only four degrees.

There have been arguments in the literature that the world is really just 'small world' or a series of small worlds contained in the larger geographic world. Multiple studies have been done, and really, the research isn't all that bulletproof. But six degrees of separation did emerge as the mean value between people within related communities.

But anyway, I have ties to Hollywood! Here it is:

- my brother-in-law went to high school with Jamie Foxx
- Jamie Foxx was in Collateral with Tom Cruise
- Tom Cruise was in A Few Good Men with Kevin Bacon

And just to make your reading pleasure greater, I've hooked each celebrity name up with a different link. That way, you can research all aspects of Baconhood, Foxxhood or Cruisedom!

Will the excitement never end?!?

Oddest baseball viewing experience ever

So my hubby and I went to the Nine Inch Nails concert on 10/19 - the day of game 6 in the Astros/Cards NLCS. Needless to say, we were quite torn. But hey, we bought the tickets and paid our money, so off we went to the Toyota Center.

After milling around and checking out the (not so stellar) opening band we decided to try to find a TV. And we did. We proceded to watch the Astros kick Redbird booty surrounded by fishnet clad goths - all of whom were screaming their heads off. And not just one kind of goth, but many flavors. We had catholic schoolgirl goths*, raver goths, old-school goths, punk-rock goths and industro- goths**. The ringleader of all the screaming was a classic - tall skinny dude with a plain black t-shirt over fishnet, black leather wrist cuffs, ringed collar, tight black bondage pants, black shit-kickers, heavy eye make-up and dyed, spiked black hair.

His favorite chant was, "Fuck the Redbirds!"

I have never seen a group of goths that animated about anything. Including front row seats at a NIN concert (which I had the privledge of obtaining twice in my life). Pretty freaking amazing.

But don't worry, hubby and I left the bar in time to see Trent. Mmmmm... Trent.

*Bible toting goths? What the fuck?!?
** Yah gotta wait for the second and third picture to come up on the slideshow to see the examples of indstro-goths. Sorry about that.

Goddamn it all to hell

JJ (the kiddo who died) not only herniated (ie pushed his brain out of his skull), not only had eye findings consistent with abuse but also had relatives who had fucking reported abuse to CPS days prior to the injuries leading to his death. Apparently, these relatives had seen him covered in bruises.

Goddamnitalltohell.

Not only did he die, his death was preventable.

Not that it helps any, but the step-Dad has been arrested for homicide. I hope he roasts.

Update

So the kid I talked about in my last entery died. His pupils became fixed and dilated yesterday at about 8:30 pm.

To fight child abuse, you can donate money here. If you suspect child abuse, you can call 1-800-252-5400 in the state of Texas. For more information on Texas Child Protective Services, you can check out their website.

Remember, some folks shouldn't have kids. It is up to the rest of us to make sure those kids eventually have someplace better to go.

N'awlins

Yay! So this weekend I get to go to New Orleans with my bestest friend, her boyfriend/sex buddy and my husband. Happy happy day.

I like N'awlins. It's such a vibrant city; opulence and poverty mixing willy-nilly with high culture that's stumbling over the bodies of sloshed drunks. My first trip to New Orleans was probably the best. I conned my parents into thinking that I was going to spend spring break down in the Crescent City with some friends from college. Instead, I spent a week in decadent sin with my boyfriend. He was 6 years older than I, and my underage status put a serious crimp in his drinking style. I had finally made the advanced age of 19 - just over the legal drinking age in Orleans county. So we spent the week drinking in public and just generally mooning around the city in luuuuuuuv.

My best New Orleans story starts with my second or third trip. The American Academy of Pediatrics held the national meeting in N'awlins last year and my residency program was nice enough to send me, free of charge. A whole passel of us went. On our first night there, some of the other residents and I met up with some of the attendings (senior faculty doctors) and proceded to go out drinking. Toward the end of the night, after several large drinks called hand-grenades, one of the other interns and I decided to go to Larry Flint's strip club. First of all, you would think a freaking group of doctors would know better than have drinks named after a device designed to maim and destroy. Secondly, we were with our bosses. People who would be trying to teach us the art of keeping people alive and sane. Does that sound like the kind of crowd receptive to ladies of the night? Even though the ladies did dance vertically instead of horizontally, come on! The strip club idea? Not so bright. But, it seemed like fun at the time. So we went. Not only did the two of us go, we dragged one of the most innocent, sweet, and damn near demure interns with us. The good news is that the attendings don't hold our misbehavior against us. The bad news is that at least three of the most prominent attendings in our pediatric program associate three of us with stripping and two of us with corrupting the innocent.

Not the reputation a respectable professional usually wants.

Oh well, the hell with respectable.

Party On, Wayne...

Over the last several days, I've had bunches of good ideas to write about. Also over the last several days, I've been partying my patootie off. It seems that I've effectively partied the ideas right out of my head.

So maybe I'll just write about the parties.

The first shindig was thrown by a friend who usually matches the description of a hermit. Under normal circumstances, he can't be pried out of his house with a crow-bar, even when offered booze, women and music. But for some reason, the dude can host mind-blowing parties. We had karaoke, Jell-o shots and gay men shaking their asses. I sang.

Yes, read that again people, I sang.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm a former smoker with a deep voice for a woman. You're thinking, this could be good. It could have been, except I'm totally tone deaf. I wouldn't know the proper key if it bit my ass while smacking me upside the head.

So when I sing, people should run. It's just that bad.

Despite my best attempts, the party Saturday night was good. Then came Sunday morning. I was relatively okay, but damn I didn't want to work. Screaming child + hangover (however mild) = bad day. After a nap, however, I was good to host my own party. My own party wasn't nearly as good as the hermit's - but then I didn't have dancing gay men.

We threw a BBQ and cooked beercan chicken. For those of you not familiar with the concept, beercan chicken is a food prepared by shoving a 3/4 full beercan up a chicken's ass and propping said bird on a grill for 1 1/4 hours (or until the temperature of the breast meat is 170F). The resulting chicken is ever-so moist and fine. Unfortunately, our beer-stuffed chickens met with multiple calamities - they fell over, the coals died, the chickens were dropped during a move designed to stoke the fire, etc.

Luckily there was enough beer that no one really cared.

Welcome

I'm a doctor, I write a lot.

But not really. What I scribble on a daily basis looks more like a bowel of alphabet soup than writing. Before medical school, I could string words together into a narrative understandable to normal humans. Now the symbols emerging from the end of my pen look like something produced by a monkey on crack.

I'm starting this blog to improve my own writing. I also hope that someday I'll make a stranger laugh, and maybe improve my spelling. We'll see.

~~~

Have you ever noticed that when a public computer breaks, it stays broken? Then someone complains about the broken computer, but doesn't actually do anything about it. Has anyone actually witnessed one of these complainers on the phone with information services? And if not, why is everyone suprised that the computer stays broken? If I was the computer-fixer-upper I'd want to kick the complainers' asses.

There should be a rule - one can only complain if one has attempted to fix whatever has gone haywire. Examples:
- No one who didn't vote can complain about an elected official. (Incidentally, I voted and I complain a LOT.)
- No one can complain about the commute to work unless s/he has actually tried public transportation.

There would be, of course, exceptions to the rule. I complain about the transvestite hookers having sex on the hood of my car, but I'm not going to interrupt in the middle of coitus. Trust me, those johns are scarrrry!