Interrorogated

Yay! It's over! I did an interview! So why don't I feel all chilled out and relieved it's over? Eh... who knows?

I looked way spiffy. I was the only person not dressed in black or gray. Who knew brown could be so revolutionary? The morning started at an unspeakable hour with a perky little info session. It was, uh, too hilarious for words to come in to the mini-conference room spectacle of 30 freaked-out pre-meds. Everyone did that thing where they leave a space between every two people in the seats and eye their neighbors before trying to make awkward conversation. I made one buddy with a cheery dude from San Diego who I quickly discovered was an incessant question-asking kindred spirit. Also there was a kid named Ricky Martin. I mean, his name tag said "Richard" so he could have been a "Rich" or "Rick" or even "Chard," but no, he introduced himself as Ricky. By Choice.

Then came the actual interview part. Now, I like talking about myself. Kind of too much. So much that I spent the four hour drive from home to my Grum's house north of Boston talking out loud to myself about myself. Really, I was practicing. Which was a little stupid because I nearly practiced myself hoarse. This led to some awkward coughing during today's actual time designated for talking about myself. The Old White Guy Doctor from The South was my interviewer, and boy did we bond. I mean, kind of. He gave a little pat on the shoulder as I left, which I think is an excellent sign. Our chat went well, but not amazingly so. I answered his questions well, elaborated some, gave him a bit o' my charm and wit. But, I think he was kind of not so adept at interviewing. There were just a whole lot of things I would have wanted to ask if I was the interviewer.

The plus side of the whole day was the amazing discovery that their med school is a very cool place. Like one I really would like to go to! Much in the way that I eschewed medicine for much of my life because my independent childness made me eschew it, I have somewhat eschewed her alma mater. Until Now.

FUN FACTS:
Almost 40,000 individuals are applying to med school right now!
There are about 18,000 spots in next year's med school classes!

Sexist? Jealous of my Infinity MPG?

I am very proud of the fact that I bike to work almost every day. It's about 18 minutes to the SMLC from my lovely home in Terebithia, and about 12 to get back (more downhill). There have been post-work errands that necessitate busting out Meriweather, my trusty Subaru.

Yes, I drive a Subaru. Yes I'm a big giant dyke stereotype. Rugby? Check. Softball? Check. Men's clothing? Check. Cats? Check. Serial Monogamist? Check. Best Friends are Exes? Check. Primarily listen to acoustic folk music with female vocalists? Well, you get the idea. I blame the last one on my dad, by the way. He would have done well as a lesbian, but I'm really just as glad that he, uh, was a dude. (Thanks for the genes!)

Anyway. I am very much in love with my ride to and from work. I get to ride up Main Street from our home in the heart of downtown until I hit the residential neighborhood that bumps up against the college. I always see the same older woman, who wears lots of sweaters and eats beans straight from the can. Last week she tickled me a bit by saying "Hey, you're the bike girl" when she ran into me walking by the bank. I always see the same crowd of Hispanic men lingering around the corner with the Citgo station waiting for a construction job.

Oh, Re: Citgo Stations, Love this shirt at threadless:

This is, by no means, a biking town. The DOT folks think a VERY occasional "Share The Road" sign and the suggestion that you "just get off and walk across the crosswalk" are sufficient bicycle infrastructure. " Sigh. For the most part, motorists deal just fine with me in the road. Often, they're so freaked out if I'm making a left at an intersection that they all just freeze and motion for me to go.

Some of the best bike-car interactions I've had:
A woman followed close behind me for a couple of blocks until there was enough room for her to pull all the way into the other lane get around me and yelled "SIDEWALK!" as she passed. Ten seconds later, I caught up to her car at a traffic light. Since her windows were down, I took the opportunity to do a little public education.
"Actually, it's illegal to ride your bike on the sidewalk."
"Really? "
"Yeah."
*Woman scowls and glares* "Well, it's still better than riding in the road."
The next day I had the EXACT same experience with a different person, but her reaction was better:
"Actually, it's illegal."
"REALLY!!?? To ride your bike on the sidewalk!??"
"Yeah."
"REALLY? Shit.." *Woman shakes head in wonder and disbelief*

Then there was the guy who pulled up next to me at a traffic light, revved his engines and looked over all like "Wanna Race?" I, of course, took him up on his challenge. Which, I maintain that I won. That is, if the finish line was the other side of the intersection.

Then there was the scary time that a car, for no reason, swerved in front of me and slowed down as I came up behind them. And stayed there. And then did it again a while later after they sped up and then came up to a light.

Those were all pretty funny, but a couple of days ago I had a less good experience. I passed a black pick-up pulled over on the other side of the road. The scruffy man in the front seat, who must have been about 60, stuck his head and shoulders all the way out the window to make friggin kissy noises at me. My first reaction was to flip him the bird, but my inner "nice Minnesota girl" politely pointed out that the car coming toward me might misread my gesture. And then she noted that I could have misinterpreted his expression. I looked back again and learned that I was in no way mistaken, but his light changed and he cruised off. Though part of me is impressed that he recognized my gender under my manly garb and focused bikin' posture, I am so friggin pissed off. I hate that so many men think this shit is ok. That somehow we are here for them to look. That most of society tells them it's ok. Hate it. Dang that patriarchy!

Of course, I have to consider rising gas prices, his crappy miles per gallon and consequential sinking financial resources and male ego. This was probably his way of coping with overwhelming jealousy of my infinity MPG.

Into the NEXT STEPS

Well, shuck-ee. I have passed another med-school torture, scratch that, application hurdle and some has actually asked me to interview.

What I should be worried about: Why exactly do am I interested in Boston University? "It's in Boston...." is probably not a good answer.

What I'm actually worried about: What the hell am I going to wear?

Full Disclosure: This is, amusingly, where my mother attended med school. And where my father attended engineering school. And where my aunt went to dental school. I don't think they have any way of knowing that. Or rather, I don't think they'd waste time running my parents' names through their magic system. But still. It doesn't help with the whole wanting to be accepted on my own merits thing.

Regarding the second concern: I'm not one to be hung up on clothing. I'm really super not. But I haven't gotten any clothing in more than a year from anywhere besides Salvation Army or Goodwill and, uh, none of it exactly fits me correctly and none of it is exactly formal. My mother has graciously offered to buy for me the interview suit,* or what I hope will become my mad hardcore powerlesbian suit. Think Bette. Ok, I'll never be that hott. Or that femme. Hrm. "Suit" Doesn't exactly answer my question. I mean, I have the suit I got from Target a while back. And it looks rather hott on me, but, uh, it is noticeably too big. It's too big because I intended to be able to use it for all manner of cross-dressing purposes and it need to be big enough to hide my gazingas. (Thank you to Dad for that particular brestical slang term). Sigh, anyway, now I'm in the how do I find a suit that actually fits, like, um, one made for women, that doesn't debutchify? Maybe I just wear it with a tie.

*Ok, technically I asked for that as my birthday present. But it was such a cute way to tell her I got an interview, right? "Hey mom, I thought of something you can get me for my birthday!"

Done!

The very very last piece of mail that I needed to send for med school apps is USPS priority mailed (with delivery confirmation!). Did I go to all of that trouble for the rest of the apps? No, but these last ones seemed more urgent. Besides I didn't have envelopes so they're wrapped in pages from my HSCESMLC alum magazine. And they seemed safer put inside of those special priority window envelopes. And then maybe they'll get closer to the top of the stack when they come through the admissions office doors. You just never know.

Nude Yoga, Hot Corners, and Casper

Whew! My last two weeks of frequent early mornings to scramble a few hours of work before 8 or 9 am meetings are officially over. Tonight was the official public forum to discuss the state of Poor Casper with the local watershed residents and some folks from other watershed groups in the county. Five of us spoke, with me playing MC and "save the whales" promoter. Making a PowerPoint with five people who refuse to get together all in one room at one time until the day before the presentation blows goats. That's all I have to say about that.

It's over, it went well. I've already gotten email from some folks who want to jump on board.

There were really just a couple of hang ups. Due to PowerPoint and every other dern product that microsoft produces, we decided to use my computer to make the presentation and to present it. This would have been a good idea if, well, if I hadn't left my laptop charger in Seattle last January. DHM has the same Mac that I do, and she is too gracious for words, so sharing has been pretty much fine for the general evening and weekend use that my laptop experiences.

But the really overly-wonderful DHM gave me free use of the charger this evening, so that wasn't really the hang up. The first problem arose about five minutes in when I discovered that gmail notifier is so very determined to notify you that you have a new message that it's ghostly ten second window appears even in front of an ongoing slide show. So the audience got to read the subject and first lines of any and all email I received during the presentation. Ooops.

The second hang-up revolved around my dear colleagues inability to keep away from the corners of my screen with the mouse. Granted I should have warned them, because I do have the corners set to do all sorts of wooshy things with application windows. Maybe the wooshing helped folks stay awake through the darkened room/comfy chair shebang.

About half-way through, the hang-ups had happened and they weren't much of a big deal. Two emails had shown up. One from The Nation, confirming my change of address and the other from MoveOn. Seeing as how it was an environmental science presentation, I doubt there was much shock at the revelation of my political tendencies.

And then I remembered that for the last few days Turtle and I had been exchanging emails with the subject heading "Nude Yoga?" And we have been known to exchange several emails in a day. I became convinced that at any second the next email that popped up on the screen would not only obscurey dramatic photos of raw sewage spewing into the stream, but also would scream "NUDE YOGA!!" It was a slow thirty minutes that followed, I assure you. Turtle came through, and did not send any ill-timed emails.

Well, it's off to sleep with me. I'm waiting impatiently for my darlin to return from an exciting excursion to see "Roller Derby: the Musical." Yeah. Read that again. I can't wait for the report.

Contentment

I'm always thinking that what I really want out of life is to acheive something or make the world a better place or inspiration or or or, something.

My new friend Turtle told me that he neither believes in nor understands ambition last week. I met him a couple of months ago and am gluing our lives together as best as possible because our bubbling friendship is feeling like the kind that pop up few times in life. This little comment of his, which was attached to why he dislikes DC, really gave me pause. I think that in many ways the last five years or so of life have been a big process of detaching myself from the confused ambition that I mistakenly picked out of family encouragement toward academic pursuits, which was amplified by the three years at snotty prep school.

That time in college when I went abroad and wrote hundreds of pages in my journal, I thought I learned the important lesson related to this. At the time, it was "it doesn't matter how long things take in life" and "make sure you enjoy life now, dude." But I never framed it in terms of questioning long term ambitions.

Enter med school applications. I am afraid that I might not have stopped to make myself really confront how much of this doctorly driven desire is based in 1. fear of financial difficulties, 2. ambition toward respectability, 3. it makes my mother happy.

Anyway, what I said to Turtle today is that I keep realizing that what I'm really after is contentment. All those other things are just what I do because I think it will get me there. As much as 1, 2, and 3 play some part in me wanting to be a doctor, so do a whole heap of other things. I do have to work hard to become a doctor. I don't have to be miserable I don't have to get the best grades or be the most cutting edge. I want to take care of people. I want to help them be healthier. I want to be good at it and I want to work hard at it. But I also want to do other things and this doctoring path doesn't have to consume me.

These thoughts are jumbled, I apologize. Well, back to Casper. Connections are the thing. Casper=Health.

Of Chaos

So who knew I would start off as such a hiccoughing blogger? Well, I'll try to be better, I swear. This is a mighty whirlwind of a week. Every time I think that I'm finally starting to be on top of things at work, I discover that, no, actually, I'm not at all. My laundry list of what I want to do is so long!

Poor Casper is being neglected. The BMIzz are so far from being counted and some of the time dependent lab work is far from finished. Egad!

This would all be easier if professors were easier to find. They could do this in several ways:
1. Move into their offices.
2. Respond to my emails immediately, ignoring others if necessary.
3. Carry a pager to which only I have the number, or a cell phone.
4. Rearrange their schedules to attend meetings that I call.

Not so hard, eh? On the up side, they are hard to find because they are all working very hard to educate the future and other vaguely important work.

With one exception, ahem, Chemistry who up and disappeared to Cape Cod on me. To be fair, he is on leave this semester....

They are quite fabulous as a bunch, and I'm lucky to have them. Just difficult to coordinate. Well, all that said, and I'm just going to leave you haning for actual content and head home for dinner.