Sunday, September 30, 2012

Weekend off, mommy-style.

Dude.  I still think it's weird that I'm a mom.  Essentially, I feel like I have the maturity of a seventeen year old.  I act like one too, just ask my precious hubby.  The only difference is that I have a job and when I'm talking to people about all-things-medical, I sound like a real, honest-to-goodness-grown-up (which I'm not...yet...).  Last week, I started in on my pancreatitis schpeal with a woman who's husband had been feeding her dachshund vienna sausages and bacon when she exclaimed, "Wait!  You're a doctor?  You can't be!  You're just a baby!"

I immediately regretted not putting make-up and my "Dr. Tompkins" scrub top on that morning. 

At any rate.  In between working and playing times, I'm trying to be a responsible adult and mother.  For instance, I made a list of resolutions several weeks ago (remember these?) and for the most part, I'm doing very well.  The only struggle I'm having is meal-planning.  I've successfully avoided going to the grocery store, mostly because I want to race home and be with my little bean, but considering that when I'm home, ARay's usually still working, and when ARay's home, I'm on call, very little cooking gets done.  It's not that I don't want to cook, because I really do enjoy it, but its hard to make a concrete plan happen day-to-day.  As such, I am impotently staring at my wal-mart list right now trying to figure out what I can buy that will keep so that I can cook whenever the stars align and both ARay and I are at home at the same time.  Any suggestions?

I was pondering this meal-planning conundrum last Saturday while I was working our morning office hours, when suddenly, I realized I might get a great, super-fresh meal for that night without having to go anywhere.

I got a check-in sheet that said "Chicken with wound on head."

This man was holding said chicken bundled up in a t-shirt, and as I was leading him back to an exam room, I said, "You know what I call a chicken with a wound on its head?"

"No," He replied.

"Dinner!" I responded with a laugh a gleeful look on my face.

No response.

Nothing.

And then..."Um, actually, I'm a vegetarian." Says the client.

Crap.  I felt like a stand-up comic who is failing dismally.  Crickets could be heard chirping for the silence in the room.  I very awkwardly scrambled back into my "doctor" mode and examined the chicken who had been basically scalped and was in shock.  I explained to the man that the prognosis for the chicken was bleak and that it probably needed to be on IV's, antibiotics, and it's head sewn back together.

"Ok.  How much will that cost?"  He responded.

I have never, ever, heard of someone willing to invest hundreds of dollars in a chicken that you could buy for $2.50 at the market.  But oh well.  I sewed up the chicken.  He opted to take it home and give it electrolytes orally.  I'm fairly certain it died.  A little part of me died knowing that I wouldn't be having roast chicken for dinner.

Ok, I wasn't really that devastated.  Actually, I'm pretty proud of the suturing job I did; I wish I had taken a picture.

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I did, however, remember to take pictures of the wee one this weekend!  The dearest hubby took us pumpkin picking and made my LIFE (I'm immeasurably fond of the pumpkin picking.  I used to name my pumpkins when I was a kid.  No lie.  Ok, maybe I still name them...).  I was so excited.  Homegirl was excited too.



And, we've started on some solid foods this week - Reagan didn't think much of the peaches, but for some reason, enjoyed gumming and sucking on this sour green apple.  She must be having memories of the millions of granny smiths I ate while I was preggers.


Have a great week, everyone!  Send me recipe suggestions!

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Saturdays are for babies...

So, I re-adjusted to going back to work full time this past month, and now I've been spending my three day weekend off work re-adjusting to being a stay-at-home mommy.  It's a good thing.

As such, I've been busy snapping pictures of the wee one, and spoiling her with new toys.  I bought her a jumper gym today - which, I'm not sure if she's old enough for yet, but boy oh boy does she love it - and, since she's just a couple inches too short for said jumper, I finally found a use for that nasty organic chemistry book that I didn't spend enough time reading in college and for some reason never re-sold at the end of the semester...and I took it with me across two state lines and through 4 moves...what was I thinking? 

Anyway, without further ado...


everybody loves baby toes...

I'm a terrible photographer...don't ask me why I couldn't get a good photo without the crazy flash...

Friday, September 7, 2012

Ok. Tell me how to get there.

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 Here's the thing.  I am so far beyond directionally challenged, they need to make up a new term for me.  Actually, I think the phrase "hopelessly lost" very much describes how I feel most of the time.  The irony is that I ended up in a profession where I have to make my way to people's farms/houses/fields-in-the-middle-of-nowhere in a "this is an emergency" time frame.  Pathetic.

My co-workers know this.  They also know that even when they give me to-the-mile directions, I will still call back to the office in a panic asking for clarification.  ARay understands my lack of navigational skills too - when I'm supposed to be meeting him someplace I've never been before, he will tell me that the event starts thirty minutes before it actually does, just so I will have plenty of time to get turned around and right myself again.

The problem is, after hours, I am the one directly communicating with the client and trying to get directions that I can actually follow.  Not only that, but around here, people give directions in a manner that I am quite unfamiliar with.  See, in the city, someone would say something like this:

"Ok, just mapquest my address and that's the quickest way to get to my place."

Or, if someone is feeling generous enough to give me a shortcut, they'll say something like:

"Let's see, coming from Friendly Center, just go down Friendly until you hit the light at Holden.  Turn right, onto Holden, then at the next light which is Cornwallis, turn right again.  My house is 2.7 miles on the left."  


Here's a typical "directions" conversation from an Alleghany or Ashe Co. resident:

Client on the phone:  "Well do you know where Alan Wagoner lives?  Because my place is just a couple miles up the road from there."

Dr. T:  "Hmm.  No, why don't you give me directions like I have no idea where I'm going."

Client on the phone:  "Shoot.  Let's see.  Where will you be coming from?"

Dr. T:  "Ennice."

Client on the phone:  "Well, do you know where Paul Evans' store is on 18?"

Dr. T:  "Um, no."

Client on the phone:  "You know, that brick place that Paul Evans ran?  I guess it's been closed about 5 years or so..."

Dr. T:  "Oh yeah, that little abandoned brick building?  I know it."

Client on the phone: "Turn right on the road just before it.  The name of the road is Ridge Glen but someone stole the road sign so don't be looking for one.

Dr. T:  "Oook..."
 
Client on the phone:  "Then you'll go a little ways.  You'll pass Anita Garbon's place - she passed away about 20 years ago, I think her granddaughter lives there now - and there will be a gate there on your left.  I'll be waiting for you in the pickup."

Dr. T:  "Is there an address I can put in my GPS, just in case I get lost somewhere?"

Client on the phone:  "No, I don't guess so.  That thing will get you turned around worser than lookin' up the directions on the dang internet.  No, you'd better just foller my directions...and you won't have no cell phone service out here neither, so, just keep goin' until you see my truck or a bleeding horse tied to a post."


This is what it sounds like when I admit defeat and call the client back because I'm lost.  Here's a conversation I had recently with a farmer's wife at midnight:

Client on the phone:  "Honey, where are you?  We thought you'd be here fifteen minutes ago!"

Dr. T.  "Well I'm a little lost.  I know where the funeral home is that you were telling me about, and I turned left at the road before it, like you said..."

Client on the phone:  "Oh!  No, dear, you were supposed to turn in at the funeral home!  Come back to 221 and I'll talk you through it."

Dr. T:  "Ok, I just turned in here at the graveyard at the left side of the funeral home, now where am I supposed to go?"

Client on the phone:  "Go straight until you get to the place where they put the cremated people.  Oh! I see your headlights - now turn right.  That's right dear, keep coming...no, don't turn down the drive, you have drive off the road to get to the fence where the cow is tied."

Dr. T:  "Wait, are you sure it's ok for me to..."

Client on the phone:  "Well you're going to have to drive through the headstones there, yes, keep coming, I promise Mrs. Henderson wouldn't have minded - haha! good thing the ground isn't wet! - Ok, keep coming up the hill, do you see the light from the 4 wheeler there?  Yes!  Now get everything you need and pass it over to Frank; there's no gate.  You'll have to climb back over the fence if you forgot something."

It's a good thing I'm not superstitious.  I also had to take a potty break that evening - I couldn't see much by the light of the moon, but I'm fairly certain the tree I peed under didn't have a grave next to it.

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