"That's just what every man wants... to start his dinner with half a grapefruit."

The benefit of being ill and couch-ridden in your parents' cable-deprived house, is that you only have access to channels that you ordinarily would not deign to watch. While some may view this deprivation as a fate worse than ulcerative colitis, it is, in fact, a valuable opportunity to examine prior generations. I have learned many valuable lessons over the past three days, and I feel compelled to share them with you.

From "I Dream of Jeannie" I learned...



It is perfectly acceptable to paint your living room wall sherbet orange.

Even if you give him ulcers, he'll still want to keep you-- in a pink, bejewelled bottle, maybe, but he'll keep you nonetheless.

And the way to a man's heart is by serving him half a grapefruit for dinner.

From "Beverly Hillbillies" I learned...



If you're over the age of fourteen, you're "past your prime," and it's time to employ a little love-voodoo.

Rope belts are totally in vogue.

And from "Bewitched" I learned...



One should interview live-in maids, and ones named "Agatha" (or "Amelia" or something...) are the ones that are most likely to be trusted.

Also, your mother-in-law will always sabotage your hollandaise sauce. Even if you have magical powers.



What can I say? Maybe I should stay home more often...

Blessings of a day on the couch

Today, curled up under multiple blankets...

Paula Dean(my Food Network icon) just made deviled eggs with goat cheese. It looked amazing, and I promptly boiled some eggs, despite my very obvious lack of goat cheese.

The sun was streaming through the windows, and the clean blue sky reflecting in my living room windows, and I curled up a little closer under my blankets and hummed a happy Easter song to myself.

My dad left me a funny message on my voicemail, and in the background I could hear Julie giggling.

Nothing can rival the comfiness of my brother's old, faded, soft sweatshirt.

As I curl up, napping amid comfy, down pillows, I reveled in my blessings.



Collecting blessings is my Easter hunt, and searching for tidbits of happiness is far more rewarding than any chocolate bunny and jelly beans.

Introvert at lunch time

When everyone else crowds into the breakroom, ready to munch their hard boiled eggs and moist sandwiches, while discussing the drama of their morning...

I just want to go outside and soak up the sun. Alone. In the silence.

I feel constantly overwhelmed these days, and alone time... silence... peace... They serve to rejuvenate me in a way that hilarious patient stories fail to do.

Perhaps someday, when I'm less stressed and... new, I'll hard boil some eggs and chuckle over the little old lady who thought an allergy test was like surgery, but for right now:

Just give me the sun and a breeze... peace...

Good doesn't always equal "good"

Today was the crappiest of all crappy days.

And I'm not even supposed to say the word "crappy." I view it as crass and jr. high-ish. Especially when it slips out in front of patients who are triple my age.

But it really was crappy. I cried almost the entire way home, which can't be good because:
a) bawling while driving 77 mph on the highway is hardly safe, and
b) It's a pretty long drive, and that much crying is sure to dehydrate my already feeble mucous membranes.

I just kept saying, over and over and over, "I will never stop doing good to them..." (Jeremiah 32:38-41 is this week's memory verse). But it took 55 miles of highway before I began to breathe normally again.

Today I...

recorded all of one patient's information into another patient's chart and had to spend half of my lunch break correcting my error.

I successfully gagged a patient while conducting an exam of their larynx. I went into this woman's mouth FIFTEEN TIMES and was unable to obtain a clear picture of her vocal cords. FIFTEEN TIMES. And it wasn't my first strobe. Oh, no. I had practiced. Rigorously. And I still failed.

I sat. On edge. Grinding my teeth through a two-hour patient session in which I couldn't help thinking, "Could these people get more abrasive, stupid, and illogical?" You have barely completed high school, and you're sitting in my office chair and telling me that doctors-- DOCTORS: aka "forever students"-- are stupid? Why are you incapable of giving me an accurate, organized medical history? Just answer my questions. Can you do that? Apparently not. And no, the drug DOESN'T just do what the ad on TV says it does. It helps with additional problems. You are not a freakin' pharmacist, stop medicating yourself. And for crying out loud, please stop railing everyone as a complete idiot when you can't even correctly pronounce your own diagnosis. And God help me, if you start developing some sort of superiority complex because, "No one can figure out what's wrong with me... Aren't I special?" I will hurt you.

My day in conclusion: blinded by a light, horizontal in a dentist's chair, I had to defend my "no dental insurance" policy to a man who clearly wanted to rip my gums to shreds at the happy tune of $1714.

I'm sick. Tired. Incompetent. Poor. The proud possessor of two "inoperable wisdom teeth." And I'm anemic. (Which is why I'm sipping orange juice. Supposedly it will speed the absorption of my multiple iron pills.)

This week I've been seeking to revel in God's grace. Sobbing my way down I-65, I repeated my "verse of the week" over and over...

"They will be my people, and I will be their God. I will give them singleness of heart and action, so that they will always fear me for their own good and the good of their children after them. I will make an everlasting covenant with them: I will never stop doing good to them, and I will inspire them to fear me, so that they will never turn away from me. I will rejoice in doing them good and will assuredly plant them in this land with all my heart and soul." (Jeremiah 32:38-41)

God's definition of "good" and my definition of "good" are radically different.

My definition of good is flawless performance, beautifully executed exams, healthy teeth, and orange juice for pleasure, rather than medical necessity.

But God's definition of good is so much deeper. Richer. More complex.

In Jeremiah 32, prior to my "special" verses, the outlook is anything but pleasant. The people are depraved. Sacrificing their sons and daughters in violent rituals. Saturated evil. God has sent plague, sword, and famine while handing them over to their enemies. "They turned their backs to me and not their faces." Despite the face that the Lord had "performed miraculous signs and wonders in Egypt and [had] continued them to this day," the children of Israel had "done nothing but evil in my sight from their youth." They are obliterated by their enemies. Handed over for 70 years of torturous exile.

And yet God said, "I will never stop doing good to them." During those 70 years, God's goodness did not stop. Esther saved her people. The Jews integrated into the society. Developed homes. Freedom to worship. Eventually (after the promised 70 years) they received royal blessing and funds to rebuild their kingdom. Nehemiah and Daniel are stunning examples of the fact that God's punishment served to turn the people back to Him. God's definition of "good" is not what will make us happy, but rather what will make us holy.

If my debilitating health, impossible patients, repeated failures, and cantankerous teeth cause me to become more like Christ, to cling closer to my God, to remain broken and dependent on Him, then God has "never stop doing good" to me!

"But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (II Cor. 12:9)

A guest blogspot for my little bro...

**The following was written for my little bro's "Man Blog" per his request. The blog is witty observations and advice, and I was delighted to appear as a guest columnist. Check the blog out for yourself at: http://thingsifoundinjasonstathamsgarbage.blogspot.com/**

**********************

From The Enemy Camp
Words of pseudo-wisdom from a lady on the other side


Dear Sirs, Noble Gentlemen, and Knights in Shining Armor,

It is my pleasure to address you on this exceptional day. Disclaimer: although I am addressing you from the “enemy camp” and can, after many years of experience (i.e. late-night ice cream talks) provide an accurate view of the female mind, I cannot claim insight to every female mind. Such ability would require divine intervention.

So… the question hovering before all your eyes is: “Why?”

“Why on earth does she like that shlub?” “Why do they care about mascara?” “Why doesn’t she realize that I like her?” “Why is door-holding such a big deal?” “Why is chocolate like a drug?”

Yes. We women come with quite a few question marks—some perplexing, some obvious, some as of yet hidden and unknown to man. Let’s address the first one, shall we? What are we looking for when it comes to men? What do we want? To touch the tip of that iceberg today, I will address several misconceptions. Possible further conversations are at the mercy of these fine gentlemen.

Women want a man who is tall,
False. Tallness is completely arbitrary. If you are a midget—rally. Women don’t care if you’ve touched six feet, or gone toe-to-toe with Shaq. We care whether or not we can wear our favorite shoes when we are with you, and not look like the gorilla Homo-sapien of the duo.

dark,
False. Darkness is unnecessary. If you are a purebred albino, you still have a chance at truelove. (Maybe with a sunscreen rep, but still… you have a chance). The average woman cares more for your eye/hair combo than your swarthy appearance. Should you be freckle-y and redheaded, but have shockingly green eyes—bemoan not your freckles. They only serve to make us love your eyes more.

and handsome.
This one is true. Every woman wants a handsome man. But don’t bury your pug nose into your misshapen hands and moan. Women are not like men in their definition of “handsome.” You can be a complete dog (true!), but still have a drop-dead gorgeous woman claim you as a “hottie.”

Let me explain. The details of your appearance are not the determiners of our attraction. This explains the couples you see in every town, city, state, and nation. Next time you sip a cup o’ joe in your favorite java spot, take a look at the couples around you. How many are equal in attractiveness? How many adoring women are hanging on the arms of men, far inferior in appearance? Lots, right? How many Pierce Brosnan men are sweet-talking completely dog-faced women? Not so many.

It’s because the first thing we, as women, are attracted to is your general demeanor. Should you be intelligent—cite your most interesting facts. Witty—break out your banter. Quiet—listen intensely. Focus on her. Not yourself. Never forget that your service and thoughtfulness will serve you far better than six feet of solid manhood, dark swarthy skin, and ruggedly proportioned features. Remember her favorite latte (skim milk, no foam, extra hot, added shot, caramel macchiato) and you have an in. Listen to yet another “horrible hair cut” story, and you’re golden. Maximize your character’s best assets. And you will find a lady who finds you very handsome… despite your midget height and albino complexion.

Best of luck from the enemy camp,

Lady C.

Sometimes I feel as though my life has been paused.

I'm going no where.


But it seems so fast.




Sorry for the lack of posting. As soon as I figure out my life, I'll be back in the swing of literary endeavors. Thanks for your patience!

I just had an amazing evening, a fabulous talk with God, and then I make the mistake of opening my e-mail inbox.

Arrgh!

I am so frustrated that all my holiness flies right out the window when confronted with (what I perceive to be) rude, petty behavior.



Changing this simmering anger to a gracious, loving firmness is not something I want to tackle at 11:24 p.m.

Tonight, instead of pouring over voice notes, starching my beautiful GAP shirt, and obsessing about shoe choices for my first day of my internship:

I drank chocolate soy milk and watched "The Little Mermaid."








Longer, more in-depth posts to follow my drug-induced haze. Tomorrow's going to be crazy!

No one had better tape-record my Tylenol P.M. ramblings...

Last night I was convinced that I was getting married in a drainage ditch.

I got trapped in a MacDonald's play-scape. It was slowly filling up with water.

I wandered up and down Target aisles for hours.

I was turning into a giant tortoise.

I was in Hawaii. A tsunami came. But somehow lava saved me.




Fact and fiction meld into one cohesive mess when I'm drugged...

Where I'm Supposed To Be...

I'm not supposed to be here.

I'm supposed to be cruising down 5th Avenue, avoiding the allure of Saks. I'm supposed to have basked in the musical, theatrical grandeur of "The Lion King" with my little brother beside me. I was supposed to be exploring Central Park, meeting all his amazing friends, and wearing my golden heels out, trekking from one end of Manhattan to the other.

Instead I'm here.

Curled up on a couch, sipping tea, sucking on sherbet, anything to soothe my persistently painful throat. I'm curled up under massive amounts of blankets, alternately shivering and then shaking them off. I can barely read. My grasp of words has flown. I'm sick. Very sick. More sick than I've been in years.

The only thing I can assume is that this is where I'm supposed to be.

And I have no idea why.