In no particular order, since June:
Received a one-year rural medicine scholarship.
Did my first Arterial Blood Gas ‘Stab’ – Easy as.
Still suck at plain old cannulation.
Attended an arrest call and kept out of the way.
Told by patient “You look like kd lang… not in a bad way.”
Got my hair cut on the back porch for $10. Trauma-free.
Started Bootcamp and got hooked.
Survived 12 days at home without The Girl and Yellow Dog of Happiness.
Spent a day as interviewer for Med School applicants.
Started interval training for running, again.
Buggered my knees, see above.
Don’t care, not stopping.
Avoided Med Ball.
Ooh, was in Med Revue. Again.
Remain madly in love with Girl.
Flirty guy doctors. Wrong tree.
Random encounters with mothers of two babies I delivered last year.
Delivered one baby.
Attended 21st birthday party (possibly first since own).
Mistaken for Senator Penny Wong. Sense recurring theme.
Stephanie Alexander’s chocolate chip cookie recipe is exceptionally good.
Jointly disposed of 3x large bin bags of oversized clothes.
Mostly just happy.
Tag Archives: Amusing
In no particular order, since June:
I was reading this post and was reminded of my own recent special moment. That awkward moment when the bank manager suggests you have a baby so that you can borrow some money.
No seriously, he did. And helpfully added “…but even that would take nine months…” Ah, buddy, if only it were that simple.
“Well then, could you lend me eight bucks for a turkey baster?”
Ok maybe that last bit didn’t happen.
A couple of days after the end of exams I zipped off to our mortgage lender to see if we could leverage some of our essential renovations into enough of a buffer to keep paying the bills until I graduate. Sadly for us, government study allowances are not considered a secure form of income. Whereas if we were receiving a family allowance, we would apparently be a much safer bet.
It was a good-natured encounter, and I walked away feeling that I had put my argument well. Plan A, not to be. Luckily we had Plans B through D up our sleeves.
I guess we could develop Plan E, in which E stands for Embryo… It just seems a little extreme.
The search terms which have caused people to find this particular patch of internet are a regular source of amusement to me. Sometimes the search term itself amuses me, and sometimes it amuses me that someone would actually click on the link to this site when it pops up in their results.
So to thank these faithful searchers for the hours of amusement they have provided me, I feel it is incumbent upon me to provide some answers from time to time.
Let’s start with something recent, and I admit, not unreasonable, given that I present myself as providing advice on how not to hit a golf ball.
golf ball not going in the air when hit
Keep hitting it the way you are hitting it. See, I’m qualified to tell you how not to hit it. If you want someone to tell you how to hit it, I’m not the best person to ask. However if I were pressed, I would suggest that you hit it somewhat inferiorly to the current point of impact of club on ball. This should give you some loft.
Loft is such a great word.
in which countries is the term “dad joke” used?
I’m curious as to why you need this information. Is it to be used in planning a travel itinerary? More likely you are employed by a pharmaceutical company and are testing market viability of a new cardiac drug you’re considering naming something like “Dadjokesin”. I will help you regardless: You may add Australia to your list. Of countries, not potential drug names.
cell organelle analogy harry potter
It sounds like something I would know about, but I honestly can’t think of one. If Harry Potter were a Golgi Complex… I think I shall come back to this after exams.
soob medical terminology
This is an important abbreviation, and close to my heart. It is used when writing in patients’ notes to record observations. SOOB stands for “Sitting On Own Bottom”. Sometimes you will also see “SOSEB” which stands for “Sitting On Someone Else’s Bottom”, which is indicative of significant improvement in the patient’s condition.
free air underwear
This is a good idea, but I think I should test the market with t-shirts first.
I had another birthday recently, which is always better than the alternative, but as it coincides with the start of semester I tend to get a bit sensitive about how much older I am than the majority of my fellow students.
Yesterday it was a friend’s birthday and – welcome to Medicine -the talk turned to constipation.
This made me think of one of my favourite M-rated jokes, which goes like this:
Q: Did you hear about the constipated butcher?
A: He worked it out with a pencil.
My friend looked at me completely blankly. It was then that I realised my joke had inadvertently highlighted a fairly obvious generation gap. ‘Young folk these days’ get their meat at the supermarket, and if they do go to a butcher, chances are the maths is done by the register or a calculator. Plastic bags have replaced butcher’s paper. Sigh.
This is unfortunate on multiple levels, one of which is the consequent loss of my follow-up joke, which may or may not have been invented by me or a close member of my family (I really don’t know, I don’t remember).
Q. Yeah well, did you hear about the constipated mathematician?
A. He worked it out with logs.
My father is a mathematician and my father-in-law is a butcher.
Vale, ultimate-double-dad-joke. I regret your passing. So to speak.
Once is funny. More than once is still funny, but starts to look oddly deliberate. Thus, my main goal for the first day of 2011 was to not make a New Year’s tradition of getting myself locked outside naked.
In preparation for this challenge, I made sure the laundry was stocked with a clean, dry shirt and a number of towels. Words were spoken with my beloved co-habitant regarding appropriate house-departure procedures. I sourced shorts with pockets for my keys. I left the bathroom window open.
Waking, as usual, at a geriatric New Year’s hour – that is, the time usually reserved for actually going to bed after New Year’s Eve – I resisted all urges to make breakfast and deferred doing any laundry until I could be assured that no-one was home to lock me out. Instead I dressed in my key-holder shorts and a t-shirt, and set out on a merry morning adventure to walk the hound.
While perambulating with the Yellow Dog of Happiness, I encountered many elderly people also walking their dogs. All other folk under the age of sixty-five were either at work already, or snoring, or still on their way to bed, drunk as skunks and reeking of fireworks.
Several of the elderly citizens made conversation with me as we enjoyed the last vestiges of sunrise over the river. Had I been less clothed, I doubt I would have had the pleasure of such conversation.
When I got home, I brought the rabbit inside, made a coffee, and wrote the world’s second-most boring blog post.
I managed to go the whole day without getting locked outside in the nuddy.
However, I am so thoroughly bored with myself that I think I am changing my mind a little about the whole tradition thing.
Maybe just every second year…
I’m sure I’m not the only person to start the new year locked out of the house wearing, well, nothing at all. My point of difference here is sobriety.
I looked at the dog. He looked at me. I tried the door again. Definitely locked from the inside. The car had long left the driveway, bearing the culprit to work.
First things first: back to the laundry, where my recently-removed clothing had indeed already started into the wash cycle. The dog and I took stock. Worst case scenario, we’d be stuck out here for say, five hours. And the dog food was on our side of the door.
Our assets: My brain. His bark. An unlocked window. An unlocked garage. Clean clothes on the line.
Our liabilities: My brain. His bark. My torn calf muscle.
We agreed that a walk to the police station would be our plan of last resort.
We set to work with a ladder and brute force. This failed to fully dislodge the flyscreen from the window. Our retreat to the garage yielded a strange metal spiky thing, which was used to effect a full opening of the window, thus allowing the screen to be removed.
The dog and I looked at the window. So inviting and yet so far from the top of the ladder. Being the taller of the two, I volunteered for the first attempt. Headfirst? Leg first? Our liabilities were working against us.
With some unusual biomechanics, I made it in through the window without getting any part of my body in the litter tray or the toilet. Success!
The dog waited outside the window for me to pull him up the ladder. He’s not dumb, that dog.
I’ve counted back through the years, and so far, this is the best new year’s day ever: French toast, nudity, ingenuity, dexterity, aplomb.
May the rest of 2010 proceed in a similar fashion.