Day Sixteen: Monday October Fifteen
The Bad Salads
Certain words have too many uses associated with them. I have no problem with “can” meaning able, a container for delicious goods, or somewhere grandpa deposits the back end of some formerly delicious goods. However, when someone uses the word “salad” to describe something yellowish-white in color and containing no lettuce, I have a problem. Salads, by rule, should not contain any of the following: noodles, potatoes, beans (unless as a topping to lettuce), and most importantly, mayonnaise. Something more disgusting should be used to describe the goopy mess that noodle, bean, potato and other salads truly are.
Day Fifteen: Sunday October Fourteen
"Our house . . . in the middle of out street"
My first post-college residence has been an interesting experience for me. Besides having neighbors who all have serious jobs, I have also realized some irreversible changes have taken place in my living arrangements. For one, I am actually concerned about the appearance of my furniture. Before, I was glad to have anything to sit on, and my last apartment did not have anything larger than a single lay-z-boy to rest upon. However, no longer being able to use a poker table and camping chairs as a dinette set has its drawbacks. I went looking for furniture throughout the summer at retailers, discount stores, and consignment stores. At each place my reaction was the same, “you want that much for this?”
Luckily, my parents live in a decent neighborhood, and so people’s standards for furniture are far above mine. That is to say, whenever anyone got a new couch, they just put their old one out to pasture by the curb until trash day. Luckily for me, the garbage truck came early in the form of the trunk of my family sedan. So, eight one-block trips later I had a sectional couch in storage at my parents house until I could find a truck.
Besides the furniture transition, certain social norms have changed. As recent as five months ago, it was perfectly acceptable to share an 8 x 10 room with a roommate. Now, I told people I may share my one-bedroom place to save some rent money and people look at me astounded. One individual went as far as to double check my orientation, “Wait, don’t both of you (my future roommate and I) have girlfriends?” For the record, yes.
Freeze Frames
I just moved into a new place, and amongst the useless things which I felt compelled to move were empty picture frames. Most were benign frames that I simply hadn’t used because I had no relevant 2” x 14” pictures to fill them. Others however, I felt the need to leave empty because they used to be a gift containing pictures of someone else, usually the gifter. In this case, I wonder the proper protocol. Can I re-gift a frame to myself? That is, say I received a picture frame from a neighbor I knew in grade school, what is the proper amount of time I have to wait before I can take their picture out, replace it with a current friend, and not feel guilty? Is there a statute of limitations on what picture belongs in which frame? Every time I see that frame, regardless of what picture is in it, I feel like I’ll remember who I originally received it from. That said, I haven’t thrown out (or re-used) any frame from prior significant others. That seems a little wrong.
Yet I still find myself holding on to five dollar frames I can never use because they used to contain someone else’s pictures. Who am I kidding? The real reason I have all these frames lying around is because pictures really aren’t my thing in the first place. Unless you happen to be one of the gifters, in that case, thank you. I hope we remain friends for a long time so I don’t have to add your frame to my stack.
Day Thirteen: Friday October Twelve
The MD/ID Crisis
I think all medical students have a persistent identity crisis. Besides the fact that scoring well on a test is significantly harder (and thus less common) a universal belief is that most students are continuously being “screwed over” by the “gunners.” Gunner is a fancy name for nerd, or over-studier. However, I am yet to meet someone who actually believes that they or any of their friends are gunners. The term nerd had to be modified because most people at medical school are by default, nerds. So in order to maintain some level of sanity, “the gunners” takes the place of “the nerds” as the root of all evil and reason why I scored in the twelfth percentile on the last exam. However, when I score in the eightieth, it is because I am extraordinarily bright, not because I am a gunner.
The other half of the identity crisis is the amount of time a given medical student considers other careers. As I am sitting here writing this, I am wondering about the possibility of getting paid to be sitting here writing this. Or even, the possibility of being paid to do anything, instead of paying lots of money to be “screwed by the gunners.” Furthermore, because it is mid-day in the middle of the week, and I am at home at my computer, I feel necessarily worthless. That is, while “contributors to society” are out working real jobs, I am sitting at a desk staring at a stack of papers learning about bile. I am years away from service. Every time I run into someone mid-day I feel like I have to say: “I know what it looks like and no I don’t have a job, but I swear I study really hard.” Just not hard enough to consider myself a gunner.
Day Twelve: Thursday October Eleven
Marriage . . . is what brings us (2) together today
I was in a wedding this weekend. I am still uncomfortable with that phrase because to me it sounds like the correct response would be, “Who did you marry?” instead of “who got married?” Technically it seems that only two people are really in the wedding. The rest, including the best man and maid of honor, just get to walk in late and have a really good view of it. So from now on, I might say, “I assisted in the wedding” or “I was the best man at (not in) a wedding” or something of the like. Only two people can be in a wedding. Unless you’re from
Day Eleven: Wednesday October 10
Furniture
A bookshelf could be quite possibly one of the most irrelevant pieces of furniture on the planet. It can only house two types of items. The first type of item is some book you bought ten years ago and will probably never read again. The second type is some book you bought ten years ago and will probably never read. Unless you don’t use your bookshelf for books. Now that would be novel.
On the other hand, you can never question the utility of a chair. I have not once looked at a seat and been like man, I haven't sat there for years and I bet I never will. However, I don't think the size of my chair and number of leather bound books contained on it will ever impress anyone. I suppose functionality is relative.
PS - My goal is to post more frequently (daily) and more briefly.
Day Ten: Sunday August Twenty-six
Can I See Some ID, Please?
The coolest thing about a new job, new home, or any other general novelty in life is usually not the end in and of itself. Instead, I find myself most consumed with the peripheral items involved in the transitions. I like to find something solid and distinct that I can point to as a sign of my transformation from one life stage to the next.
The process begins early in all of this. The first time I took my 1994 beige and wonderfully senior citizen Ford Taurus for a spin parentless, the liberation felt unbelievable. Still, I could show others that I was liberated because I had two tons of pure American produced gas-guzzling machinery beneath me to prove my point. I had absolutely nowhere to go, but I definitely went there and made everyone aware that I did so with the help of no one, except for the late Henry Ford.
When the 21st birthday hits, the most excessive partiers have usually happened upon a fermented beverage before, but the party is a celebration of the fact that they can show the world, “Hey, I can get drunk in public.” They can also usually show the world what they consumed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at some point during the night as well.
A proud first time homeowner has a bit more trouble toting the reason they will be in debt for the next thirty years around with them. Unless of course, that proud homeowner is not so proud as their home is toted around with the words “oversize load” emblazoned on the back of a truck. Yet, the homeowner still manages to send pictures to every last relative just in case Cousin Larry was dying to know what color linoleum the laundry room displayed. The obligatory house party follows.
As I started medical school, I realized that people weren’t going to be too impressed when I told them stories about spending hours in the den of my parents’ house memorizing Latin words for the armpit. Sure, I could tell stories about how I got to dissect a cadaver, but I have yet to figure out a way to do so without seeming far too comfortable with spending time with a dead body. Since a first year nursing student can still do just about anything medically related better than me, I did not have a whole lote to offer. Yet, by the second day of school, I could tell what physical object I could show to pump my ego.
Even if I have had an ID card since late middle school, an ID card with the words “school of medicine” seemed cooler even than the same words I had placed neatly below my undergraduate alma matter’s sticker in the back window of the supra-senior Buick Century. However, my ID card did not say anything about medicine and was the identical card an undergraduate carries. Yet, I had one exception.
Every day when I enter the one building which the medical school holds every class (amazingly the building has no windows wider than my elbow above the first floor, giving it a remarkable prison feel) the security officer demands to see my ID badge. I am not talking about a sign yelling “STOP! PLEASE SHOW YOUR ID CARD TO THE OVER-DITZY WORK STUDY GIRL TALKING ON HER CELL-PHONE WHILE PLAYING FREE CELL AND TAKING YOUR TUITION MONEY.” I am talking about a hard-core, burgundy jacket-wearing, harsh sounding (if gentle looking) security enforcer demanding why six-hundred students are entering the building at precisely ten minutes before class begins.
I was initially put-off by the fact that I had to pull out my wallet, extract my crummy collegiate ID, and show it to a woman who obviously took her job waaaay to seriously. Soon, however, it began to dawn on me that I had someone to show something. I immediately obtained the free plastic ID holder which clips conveniently to the side of my right thigh and placed my ID inside. Even if I only had to show my ID for one second of my eight-hour day, you better believe I have been sporting that ID badge basically non-stop since the day I got it. I have a the perfect excuse that I have to show it to a security guard or I can’t get in the building. Because the point of showing off, is of course to make it look as if you are not showing off. Thanks to Molly McSerious, the enforcer of the Hall of Basic Medical Sciences, I can show her my ID every day and receive the sort of recognition that says “Yes, you do have an undergraduate ID card and because of this, you can enter this dingy, prison-looking structure in which you will slave for the next for years. And if you happen to ‘accidentally’ wear the ID badge on your thigh out later tonight, you can complain about how ‘annoying’ it is to have to wear the ID and you always ‘embarrassingly forget’ to remove it so others can roll their eyes at you.” Thanks Molly.
Day Nine: Monday August Twenty
The Top Ten Reasons You Know You are in Medical School
(all have actually happened)
10. You receive e-mails from peers with the tagline “John Doe, M.D. Candidate”
9. You are in a perpetual state of disbelief that you are paying money for this experience
8. You sit next to people that actually end their e-mails, “John Doe, M.D. Candidate”
7. You constantly smell of formaldehyde and remain in disbelief that you are paying for that smell
6. The realization slowly sets in that you are now a member of the most anal peer group you have ever been a part of
5. You still cannot believe that you received a mass e-mail from a classmate with the tagline “John Doe, M.D. candidate”
4. You actually use the words “Gray’s Anatomy” to refer to something besides random people sleeping with each other in conspicuous places
3. You begin to hate body parts for having such complex names
2. You momentarily actually regret not taking Latin at some juncture in life
1. You begin making top ten lists to distract yourself from studying
Day Eight: Sunday August Five
Life of a Med Student: Day One – Acceptance Letter
A few months ago, I called the Medical School Admissions Office of a University with which I had recently interviewed. The voice on the phone asked me my application number and name and proceeded to tell me “Congratulations, you have been accepted for the entering class of 2007.” So began my medical school journey
Earlier this week, I found myself strolling into the courtyard separating this medical school’s main building and its medical library to meet my new classmates at an ice cream social. Strangely enough, the experience did not feel novel at all. Instead, it was all too old. I filled out the trite nametag, began the ritual conversations and mingled with quite possibly the smartest group of peers I had ever been around.
The first gentleman I introduced myself to recently graduated from Yale. Two of the next three were other Ivy League institutions. I sort of covered my mouth as I mentioned I graduated from a small school in the cornfields in the
Overall the experience was mildly pleasurable. I did not feel like I was embarking on anything new, only a continued experience. The orientation week that followed featured much of the same. We had diversity training, disease safety training, personal safety training, financial aid training, professional training, library training, and internet applications training. By the end of the week I knew nothing about being a doctor and everything about how to kill time by counting ceiling tiles in an auditorium.
However, I did meet and enjoy the time spent with most of my class. The rigorous training schedule was lightened by the fact that medical school organizations sponsored nightly parties at local bars. Which is to say that most of the class went out from eleven to two and showed up for more training at eight in the morning. Of course, I soon went from killing time by counting ceiling tiles to killing time by wiping coagulated droplets of saliva from my chin and bobbing my head enough to make people think I was listening to the Night at the Roxbury soundtrack.
Amazingly, I made it through the week and reached the day of the white coat ceremony. The real training starts Monday in the classroom and I am excited about it and dreading it at the same time. However, this past week I have gotten to know enough great people to realize that it will be a very fun week. Even the anal-pre-medders did not seem to bad just yet, and I have to face the reality that by starting this training I am amongst them.
I hope to provide some frequent insight into the life of a medical student as an outlet for me and a source of entertainment for the reader. Enjoy. Here goes nothing.
Day Seven: Thursday June 21
Is it Rejection Year Again?
I have before me a packet of letters I received from various colleges and universities across the nation spanning a period one day short of four months. Ironically, about seven months prior, I sent an electronic packet of information to these same institutions known as an AMCAS application. This cornucopia of facts and figures summed up, in fairly extensive detail, the last four (or in some cases five-six) years of my academic and extracurricular career. Essentially, everything source of external validation I have ever received was included in this document. I even printed off formal copies of this document and mailed them to the pertinent institutions.
As you may surmise, I waited with intense anticipation for the responses to this query. However, the waiting ends as soon as an envelope arrives in the mail. After the initial we have received your application notices, each letter is extremely predictable. Namely, if an 9 x 12 envelope arrives densely stuffed with materials, you have been accepted. If a measly, paper-thin, one-third of a page sized envelope arrives you have been rejected.
First thing I would do if I were hired as an associate dean for admissions (the title that signs almost every letter I received) is buy random sizes. I couldn’t wait for the day when an anxious pre-medder walks out to the mailbox only to discover a puzzling medium sized triangle. Imagine his neighbors surprise when he pulls out an octagon. Sometimes, I’d send an acceptance letter in a standard envelope with nothing else just to mess with kids. Oh, what a life it must be for Laura R. Ment, Associate Dean for Admissions for Yale University School of Medicine.
Speaking of Ms. Ment, she won my selection for most pretentious associate dean. Nothing she stated in her letter was overly obnoxious (nothing, when not read by an angry reject). She even wished me a “happy and successful career” but left out the “just as long as you stay the heck away from us.” Yet, she signed the letter merely “Ment.” I missed the portion where we moved passed the acquaintance stage to be on a last name basis. Somewhere between when I sent Yale University my life and she politely informed me that I am a grossly inadequate human being, she decided (unilaterally, I may add) that I did not deserve the courtesy of an entire signature. I’d be shocked if the signature was something less than an image pasted at the bottom of an electronic word document.
However, Ms. Ment’s omission of the rest of her name did lead to some pleasure while I made self-gratifying puns with her name. For example: What she “ment” to do was sign the rest of her name.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Dr. (and I do mean doctor) Robert J. Mayer, made sure to add the title MD to the end of his signature. This provided a lovely exclamation point such as to say, I am sorry you cannot find a school to study medicine, but I am a doctor. Funny how that works.
Dr. Mayer unfortunately missed the rejection letter training seminar as his letter was a gross deviation from the norm. To start with, his body was an entire four paragraphs compared to the much more common three. He was not alone in informing me that x number of students applied for y number of spots.
He did however order the just off-white paper that all of the deans, except for the erratic Diann (sic) Rothwell Lapin, tended to use. I am not sure why they feel the need to send a personally addressed memo on colored paper, I’d prefer a simple Xeroxed sheet saying “Please try again” or something else along the lines of the a losing gamepiece in the Pepsi challenge.
However, I think that the most interesting common element is the sorrow full tone. Some associate deans (such as the aforementioned Dr. Robert J., ment an), begin by expressing their regret. Others (such as the spelling-challenged Diann) deliver the blow first, and apologize later. However, Chris G. Welch merely informed me that he would be sharing what he believed “will be disappointing news.” James L. Weiss, on the other hand said I may be disappointed on this action, but luckily, he trusted I wouldn’t be discouraged. Thanks Jim, I am reaffirmed by your simultaneous rejection of my potential ability and affirmation of my ability to be blindly hopeful in the face of rejection.
Besides Jim telling me that I am not discouraged, I appreciated that he sent his letter in the large format. I thought size 14 font was a gross breech in protocol, but Jimbo disagreed. He stated, “I will send you a rejection letter with text so big that you dead great grandmother can read it from her grave . . . in
Ironically, I came across all of these rejection letters while cleaning my room. What I did not come across is my acceptance letter. I do not understand why people, foremost myself, do not remember the affirming acceptances, but only the pricking rejections. Whenever I hear the name of two universities, I remember that they rejected me for their undergraduate programs (one of those universities has the distinction of rejecting me for both undergraduate and graduate school . . . I’m impressed).
Anyhow, I just enjoy the standard courtesies offered in letters and well as the absurdity of associate deans trying to comfort you. They’re just mad they couldn’t be more than “associate” dean.
Day Six: Friday June 16
running log part deux
Note: see below post for the morning
Day Five: Tuesday June 12
A Running log of my day
Note: I realize that “The Daily Doyle” has not been quite so “daily” as of late. To anyone who checks the site regularly (ha!) I apologize sincerely. I plan to update more regularly from now on.
Since I haven’t written anything for a prolonged time period, I decided to write a sort of “retro-active” running log of a typical day. The following is mostly true, even if it may be a composite of multiple days.
Midnight-6:54 a.m. – sweet, sweet, slumber. Dreams usually include some permutation of the following: dogs, hotels, tomatoes, beaches, and skyscrapers. May or may not include any of the following: thieves, baseball, and/or decorative ferns.
12:14 p.m. – I am dumbfounded to discover that all that is left in my lunch bag are two apples, a banana, the remnant of last nights dinner roll, and a washcloth I accidentally grabbed. Dangit.
To be continued . . .
Day Four: Thursday May 24
The Working Man’s Haven
Throughout my tenure working in Home Depot stores, I have explored the various nooks and crannies accessible only to someone who is a non-customer, but also to someone who other employees know little about. When I stumble into the receiving dock, no one there has any concept what I am doing, so they allow me to explore the various parts of the dock as long as I continue to wear a furrowed brow and look as if I am fervently searching for something.
However, most of my explorations come as a result of searching for the Home Depot restrooms. Through roaming about half a dozen Home Depots, I have discovered that the bathrooms are uncannily placed in different locations in the store, but without question always incredibly obscure. In my main store last summer it was located next to the clearanced pieces of wood. In another it is hidden, behind the chandelier department, and in many of the others it is located in some dark alley behind a dumpster somewhere (kidding, sorta).
So whenever I do find the sacred facility in order to extrude the mornings coffee or afternoons hydrating beverage, it is with great relief. Interestingly, I am not alone in this respect. The Home Depot restroom may be the modern day men’s saloon. If their weren’t the constant carol of the bowls, I would half expect to see a bartender and poker games. As it is, there is always a frenzy of activity but an incredible turnover.
The reasons for this “flow” of bathroom traffic are many. First, consider the general Home Depot shopper. In most cases, an individual exploring the store
Generalizing about the nature of these workers, one could say that they carry a bit more heft than the standard white collar worker. As such, they deliver a proportional amount of heft. Point being, the bathroom isn’t always a quiet place. Discounting the watery sound effects, the room could easily be audibly mistaken for a weight room.
A sort of camaraderie exists in this strange context though. Few words are exchanged between strangers in this awkward context, but many a knowing glance and head-nods are extended towards the common fellow. Essentially, one man is saying to another “glad you could enjoy this fine establishment also” or more likely “no good crapper at your place either, huh.” Here, Home Depot staff, customers, vendors, and mere opportunistic restroomers mingle with no prior expectations.
If utopias actually existed, they may be located inside Home Depot restrooms. Now, If we could only get the hot dog vendor to move in . . . .
Day Two: Monday May 21, 2007
"Do You Work Here?
As I gingerly stock the shelves in the Home Depot garden section with black-eyed susans, Day Lilies, and other perennial floral favorites, I usually block out a host of audible noises. All day long I hear the horrible, repeating Home Depot musical selections, customers’ arguments about whether it is perennials or annuals which come back every year (it’s perennials), and the Home Depot employees whining to and at one another. However, the most frequent sound I hear is an inquisitive customer with the query:
“Do you work here?”
Since I am clearly engaged in physical activity, and the likelihood I am hosting floral arrangements for exercise, the answer seems obvious. However, responding to the question is a very difficult task, since I do not actually work for Home Depot. In fact, it is very hard to find anyone inside Home Depot stores who does in fact work for Home Depot. The people you see stocking the shelves and talking to customers not wearing those brightly orange are usually vendors. We are employed by the product manufacturer to ensure the shelves are stocked, organizing, and aesthetically pleasing.
So my response is essentially an eloquent “yeah, but . . . .” I respond accordingly depending on the difficulty of the day, my level of tiredness, and the customers “niceness factor.” Because I do not have time to delineate the nuances of vendor-retailer relationship, I attempt to give the briefest answer which will sufficiently relieve me of any further responsibility.
I explain that I work for a nursery which grows the flowers to be sold here. Without fail, the customer will respond in one of three ways. He or she will (a) ignore whatever I say and proceed as if I instead had said “yes I am an expert please ask me about the nuances of Home Depots mulch selection;” (b) attempt to make me feel guilty for not wanting to help them (which only works if they are above seventy and lacking one or more limbs); (c) immediately apologize for insulting me with such a questing and scurry away to the kitchen shelving department.
All three of the responses function to leave me dumbfounded and unaware of what to do next. Without fail, I tell at least one frail, pleasant old lady that I do not work for Home Depot every day. Then I pretend to be intensely focusing on separating the various varieties of lavender and not to notice the osteoperitic woman attempting to hoist a fifty pound bag of garden soil into her shopping cart.
The situation poses an interesting ethical dilemma for me. For some reason, I feel as if I am “cheating” if I falter and help the elderly woman. The capitalist in me is saying, “your boss isn’t paying you to help old ladies with their frivolties, unless their frivolties are your daisies,” but the general human in me says “if she hurts herself, you are paying for the hip replacement.”
A few times, I have lost my wherewithal to restrain and, after ensuring the coast is clear, quickly chuck a couple bags of Scott’s onto their cart. Inevitably though, at least fifteen customers appear instantaneously when I finish loading the last bag and ask me “do you work here?” At this point I just put my clipboard down and walk away.
The response that is clearly the most pleasurable is when some yuppie thirty something either doesn’t care who I work for or cannot comprehend that I would be working inside a store which doesn’t employ me. In this case, either a woman with at least one set of ornery quintuplets or a man wearing a business suit approaches me and asks me to hoist their garden product for them. The yuppie will inevitable stare at me for a few seconds in disbelief and I can feel their glare through the gallon hostas I am pruning after each thwump of the bag onto the cart.
The third response, apologizing incessantly for disrupting my floral care routine, is the most puzzling. I do not feel as if I come across angry when asked, yet these people feel the need to apologize for taking up my precious time. However, if any Home Depot associate is within hearing distance, I immediately feel sorry for him or her. It as if the customer felt they were insulting me by asking if I worked for the store.
The most refreshing encounter was with a young boy sent to find me by his mother. After I explained the finer points of my working relationship he merely shrugged and said: “You look like you work here” as he walked away.
No comments:
Post a Comment