My own devices

Almost the new year and half-way through the 1st year of my residency. Adios to the Blood Bank and all the privileges it afforded...note my tiny office had window. And I took a total of 3 naps on the floor over the last two months.



Otis and Elle invited me over for a delicious Christmas dinner. Too bad it was interrupted by my pager going off three times. Nothing like having a nurse threaten a specimen processor with an incident report because some courier forgot to pick up a cup of urine. Don't you want to be a lab medicine resident?


I've started doing this thing called CrossFit. My body has been in a constant state of soreness since I started, albeit a different muscle group every few days...the joys of being athletic again.

Vindication and evisceration

A number of things to report:

1) The tide of Scrabble victories has turned. I am now reigning champion, with my lastest win being called 2/2 (in medical jargon that's "secondary to") the slaughter rule, since I had a >100 point lead with no letters left in the bag (and it was almost bed time). Feels good.

2) George and I went to San Jose a few weeks ago to see the Sharks take on the Avalanche. Apparently, the Sharks are his team-away-from home, which in my opinion is much better than rooting for the friggin' Islanders. Boo Islanders. San Jose was a nice and interesting place, as much as I saw of it and its enormous Adobe corporate complex looming in the background. The venue was pretty new, but I was not impressed with the amount of personal space alloted to each fan. I figured that a new arena (i.e., not the 1960's Civic Arena) would have incorporated some design elements that allowed for actual leg room. Yuck. But the Sharks won, and George's man-crush, Patrick Marleau, scored. So all was well. Sitting in parking lot traffic after that game, a complete stranger shouted, "Go Steelers!" (I have a Steeler logo stuck on my bumper.) We're everywhere, Steeler Nation! This nice surprise, however, did not allay my stress level from ridiculous traffic, and I pretty much yelled at a traffic cop who unnecessarily implied that I was an idiot. George was horrified. The full potential repercussions of my behavior didn't hit me until a few minutes later. Oops.

3) Speaking of Steelers and stupid behavior--what is going on? My soul was moderately crushed last week with a wimpy performance against the Pats. Really, guys? Is that all you could bring? One half's worth of football? Three co-residents accompanied me to the bar to watch the game (which was blacked out in SF due to stupid broadcasting company policies), but there was no room in the inn at my favorite Steeler bar. We wound up going to a bar around the corner, full of (ugh) Seattle and Buffalo fans. The Pats fans showed up after we settled in, and man did they suck ass. Without provocation, they started trash-talking, and one skinny old douchebag grabbed my Terrible Towel and waved it around. Thank god for Cascio (the Mike on the left; Mike Bonham is on the right; Kuang is in the middle) for doing the trash-talking retorts for me. And for retrieving my Terrible Towel.

4) And on the visit-from-successful-friends front, Jim was in town this week. You can see him below, taking notes from my "How to take your technical knowledge, business acumen, and personal drive to become a master of the VC universe" lecture. Really.

Sunday's Sunset

George and I stopped in Pacifica on Sunday evening to check out the sunset. It needs no words:

The Juggernaut Stymied

George finally beat me in Scrabble. Twice in row. I confess I threw minor temper tantrums (I have yet to progress beyond my 10-year-old self when it comes to one-on-one competition). The board below illustrates George's second victory. "Pithy" was a 49-point word and really the game-deciding play.


A few weeks ago, Otis' brother Silas was in town for work, and one weekend I accompanied them to Ocean Beach to take in some chilly sunshine while they surfed a bit. The two surfers wading in the distance are the Warren brothers clad in wetsuits.



Another day, the three of us went for a little city bike-ride. This photo is at the Cliff House.


Otis, Elle, George, and I enjoyed a Friday Thanksgiving meal since Otis had to work on Thursday. We played some Scrabble (I won both games--take that, George!), watched some Arrested Development, and generally goofed off. Elle and I cooked. I was responsible for the turkey, which came out quite dry. Bummer. I did, however, make a yummy apple pie.


Elle made a batch of amazing mulled cider, using these lovely spices.


The sunset view that evening from Otis and Elle's apartment was gorgeous.


George actually took Thursday off, and we were guests at two Thanksgiving dinners--one was my work friend's meal and the other was George's project manager's.

Last night, George and I dined with two of my co-residents, Kim and Aras, at the Blue Jay Cafe, an American/Southern home cooking restaurant--tasty. We then met up with Elle, Otis, and Dan at Wazima, our Ethiopian vegetarian restaurant-cum-bar with a jukebox that the boys love (the Phil Collins album gets a lot of play when they're present). I did my civic duty by calling out a bum who tried to steal the bartender's tips left out on the bar. He told me to go f@*k myself, but the bartender/proprieter kicked him out. The rest of the night went smoothly with much laughing, and George and Otis sealed their drunken fates with Irish car bombs. This yielded a very loud and bleary-eyed Otis and a ridiculously sleepy George.

Today we returned to the Frolf course, my first outing with my right hand since my injury/surgery. I averaged a double bogey on each hole. Lovely.

The Steelers are breaking my heart these past weeks. First, a treacherous victory over the Browns. Then an incredibly embarrassing loss to the FRIGGIN' JETS! The Jets? Fo' real? If the men of Black and Gold don't bring it on Monday night against the abysmal Dolphins, I will cry. I watched the Jets game at a non-Steeler bar, and the only other Steeler fans were women who'd brought their boyfriends! George had sneaked off to work (on a Sunday!) and was absent from Steeler Nation-by-girlfriend.

By popular demand

My grandmother has expressed her dismay that I have not posted anything recently. So here goes: not much terribly interesting. I finished off my stint at the SF General and have started a rotation at Moffitt/Long (UCSF) as the (P)resident of the blood bank. It's not as glamorous as it may seem. I'm an information gopher and gatekeeper of the platelets. I hate platelets. And crossmatched platelets are the worst. I spend my days trying to convince clinicians that they shouldn't give platelets for reason X or send out for crossmatched platelets for reason Y. And no one really wants to hear resident putting a kabosh on their plans. So yeah. It's fun. Though today I did successfully convince a young, oh-so-timid intern that giving a patient a unit of platelets before sending her out the door "just to get her counts up" was not good practice. Oh, even the small victories are only semi-sweet, like Nestle Toll House Morsels. Not even. I keep having to remind myself that at least I don't have to hustle around like a real intern or (not) sleep in the hospital overnight. Things could be way worse.

Beyond my (P)residency, I have gotten back on the bike about once a week. It gets dark early now. I can now easily ride 45 or so miles and feel good about dragging myself up moderate hills. I went bowling last weekend and found that using my right hand, post-surgery, is no better that previous left-handed efforts. Still pretty weak--or just subconsciously guarding--in the wrist and shoulder girdle.

The Steelers rock! Go Steeler-men! I am now sporting Big Pappa Hampton's jersey at the Steeler bar. Last week I went by myself, and the tenuous Browns' game was a three-nail biter.

I watched "Friends With Money" the other night. For all its self-absorption, I thought it was really well done.

I apologize for the lack of pictures. I will put my camera back in my bag for on-the-spot candids.

My Buddy

Well, things of late have been pretty lame at work. The General, or San Francisco General Hospital, is a special place. Not only do the nearby sidewalks smell of urine, yesterday I identified what could only be a piece of human dookie behind a car. This morning, it had a footprint in it. Yuck. My "new" job as the Clinical Chemistry resident is boring as hell. I'm a glorified auditor and presentation bitch. Only 3 weeks to go. The other day, as I walked towards the hospital from my car, I saw a pick-up truck with a wonderfully amusing sight, and, of course, I took a picture of it:


The physical therapist has told me that I have graduated--no more paraffin hand treatments. Sadness! My wrist has progressed very nicely. Last weekend I went out for my first long bike ride--about 40 miles--and loved every second of it.

Last week, I spotted George at his worksite, operating his bulldozer, building the #1 green on his current project. All 4-year-old boys would drool in envy.

Scrabble is like sex....

...it's much better by yourself or with another person than it is on-line. I've been competing against myself in Scrabble the past two nights. I won both games. Amazing. You can see the resulting boards. The first game I won 314-304. The second I won 378-359. Granted, I didn't use a timer...


Around 7AM at Castro and Duboce, after getting off the bus to go to hand PT:

My wrist is getting better and better. I have about 60 degrees of flexion and about 70+ degrees of extension. Yay me! I was a bad patient and took a real bike ride with climbing and descending last weekend. My forearm muscles were really sore...

Labor Day weekend, George and I drove north to Bodega Bay to, you guessed it, take pictures of a golf course. I can't wholly complain for several reasons: George let me me march us up and down a big hill hike in a state park beforehand, full of redwoods, horse shit, and spunky little lizards. And afterwards, we went to Occidental and surprised Allison at her restaurant for dinner. Duck--yum. Goat cheese--yum. George sitting with less than a foot between his back and that of Dick Gephardt and his wife. Not kidding here. Allison was their server that night AND the next night at the other restaurant where she works. Pretty crazy!



An incredible Friday evening sunset. There is always something beautiful in the sky here. Yesterday, the Golden Gate looked like a bubbling cauldron of cloud, spitting and frothing vertically with nothing else around.

Too much fun?

I couldn't resist another picture of crazy morning fog formations. This is on my way to work a week or so ago. A dark wall of fog was to the west (right)and some of it was spilling over UCSF and Mt. Sutro towards the east (left). The distinct layer of flowing fog was really impressive.







Last week I went to my first Giants game with George and some of his co-workers. SF played the Cubs in the fastest 9 innings ever. The Giants imploded in the 8th or 9th inning to lose something like 5-1. I would put money on there being an equal number of Chicago fans as Giants fans--there was way more cheering for the Cubbies. The ball park is very nice, but I must say that PNC Park has a much more impressive setting, and the food is WAY better in the 'Burgh. Probably cheaper, too. I got mustard all over my wrist splint. I'm sure there was mustard in my hair, too, but George probably didn't tell me so he could make fun of me later. I am possibly the sloppiest eater when it comes to getting stuff all over my face and hair. Yuck.


Friday night, I went to see Wilco in Berkeley at the Greek Theater. I went with George and Suchita, the Transfusion Medicine fellow. The concert was amazing. They played 2 sets and 2 encores, for a total of about 3 hours of music. They played an even mixture of their latest album, "sky blue sky, " and their last 3 or 4 albums. Listening to "California Stars" lying on a grass slope in an amphitheater with a view across the Bay was almost too much for a girl from Pittsburgh!


Two days later, I went to my first live golf event, the US Amateur Championship (the same tourney Tiger won 3 times in a row) that was held at the Olympic Club in the southwestern part of the city. The final match was a head-to-head points game (not stroke play) between two guys George and I dubbed "Chunky" and "Skinny." Chunky (a.k.a. Colt Knost--I'm not kidding here) pulled it out in the end. It was a pretty tame event and a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon, strolling up and down nicely manicured hills, people watching.

Wiping the slate OR I'm a punk

I've been a major sloth when it comes to posting lately. I'll make it up with a slew of pictures. First, a series representing my walk to work:

The view of Moffitt-Long Hospital as I head south to work through the park.


The Dahlia garden is about the 1/2 way point on my walk. The flowers are insane, but perhaps rational, like Fibonacci.


My little desk in the Hematology lab. Characteristic items include Diet Pepsi bottle, camera case, sleeveless fleece, and pens inside foam tubes that make writing easier with a bum hand.


The view from the Hematology break room. You can just make out the Bay and the Bridge.


The view from the hill in GG Park. You can see both towers of the GG Bridge.



A lone magnolia blossom on Arguello.


One evening, Allison came down to the city and we went for drinks at the Tonga Bar in the Fairmont Hotel---major cheese Tiki bar. In fact, it was so over-the-top kitsch, it was cool. The bar was the old indoor pool. At intervals, it rained from (pipes hanging from) the frond-covered ceiling into the pool. The three-piece lounge act floated around the stage on a raft. And Allison and I shared a large rum drink with the longest straws I've ever seen.


My parents came out to visit me--or to get CLE credits and a free trip to San Francisco and visit me! We explored the city, including lunching at the Beach Chalet. My dad napped in my car as my mom and I hiked along the cliff coast in Lincoln Park. He also napped in my armchair while I watched Daily Show clips and my mom was at the ABA conference. Sunday we drove out to Berkeley and traipsed about the campus, finally heading up the hill for a clear view across the bay. Having driven across the Bay Bridge to get to Berkeley, we returned via the Richmond and Golden Gate Bridges on a ridiculously clear day. I love my mom and dad--they are so cute!


George's birthday was earlier this month. I wanted to sing him happy birthday in Canadian, his native language, but I was too embarrassed about my accent. Still, Birthday cake is the best kind of cake.

Name dropping, animal droppings, but no ball dropping

The past week rounded out pretty well. Competence at work was up 50% with 4th-week expected-performance indicators signaling a significant shift toward independent signing-out of run-of-the-mill smears. Hand surgery fellow admitted to "textbook" placement of scaphoid screw, made jokes at orthopedic resident's expense, and assured the injured that there was no other fracture--just a ligament tear that would heal over time.

I got a new thumb splint and a prescription for physical therapy--first appointment Tuesday at 8AM. I can take off the splint to shower, giving me the opportunity to remove the 1/4 inch of dead skin that has accumulated on my right hand. Ick.

I spent most of Saturday running errands and found that wherever I go, I can find an accident. Riding, seated, on the 38 Geary bus to downtown, I suddenly found myself bruised, thrown into a neighboring seat against a pole. The bus driver had slammed on the brakes to avoid smashing an over-zealous convertible in search of a parallel-parking space. A little old lady got smashed against a wall and filed a complaint, so the rest of the passengers hopped the bus and chased down the next one. Still, it doesn't come close the time I saw an octogenarian stab a septuagenarian on a SEPTA bus in South Philly.

Saturday night, George and headed south to Santa Cruz. Before we left, he gave me a tour of the 18th green, bunkers, and fairway that he's building, and we pushed around a pile of dirt with a bulldozer. He has the job little boys dream of having. Apparently there's an art behind the diesel powered machinery and laser levels--and I believe it--but it's probably most appreciated once the drainage layers, sod, and turf are laid in precision above the sculpted dirt piles.

The drive to Santa Cruz, 20 miles outside of South San Francisco, starts as curving highway that is like Schuylkill Expressway wrapped the around a mountain. We checked into what may be the foulest-smelling hotel room I have ever stayed in. I won't even discuss the pricetag, but it was some event weekend there, and we refused to pay $400 for a nice room. We had dinner at a mexican restaurant in downtown Santa Cruz, a strange little place that mixes California crazies, young and trashy clubbers, and yuppy restaurant-goers. We followed dinner with drinks at a cool bar that lacked the omnipresent neck tattoos George promised me but which possessed cool retro-red lighting and super comfy swivel club chairs in red leather. Hipster quotient was high, but not unpleasant.

The next morning we watched Padraig Harrington blow his 2 stroke lead at the British Open but headed south for Monterey instead of watching the playoff. We drove along the coast through miles of agricultural land with ocean views--avocados and strawberries and lettuce. We checked out the adorable town of Pacific Grove and drove along to Pebble Beach to scope out the course and associated mansions. I learned a lot about good and bad golf course design, to say the least. George dropped some course superintendent's name so we wouldn't have to pay the $8 toll to drive through Pebble Beach.

We continued on to Big Sur, driving along the Pacific Ocean with incredible views of sheer cliff faces, deep blue water, rocks, and kelp. Fog swirled inland and then back out to sea, and we found the luckiest cows on earth. George explained to me at length his preferred use of their pasture--an incredible links course. Words don't really do justice to the precariousness of the depression-era highway and the ridiculous views it affords--pictures are a must.

In the camping region of Big Sur, we stopped for a drink at a bar-restaurant and drank our beverages on the back porch amidst the lovely and fragrant Redwoods. We were surprised there were no other aromas, considering there was a 5 person reggae band getting ready to perform. These white guys must have had over 50 years of serious dreadlock dedication between them. The irony that we were in the whitest place (outside of Iowa) imaginable that is farthest away from Africa was not lost upon us.

We headed back to Monterey and sneaked onto the municipal course at Pacific Grove for George to take some photographs. Apparently the course has remarkable natural sand dunes for hazards, and he is convinced that a "eco-restoration" project will result in their eventual destruction. He wanted this on the photographic record. I concentrated on not stepping in deer, goose, or rabbit shit and kept my eyes out for lost golf balls (recovered 6).

George made a valiant attempt at getting the guard to let us tool around the Naval Postgraduate School: "her brother's on a submarine." Guard: "Do you have military ID?" George: "No." Guard: "You'll have to turn around and leave."

Our dinner at the Fish House was highlighted by a fat man in a Playboy t-shirt interpreting "first-come, first-served" as "I'll sit my fat gut where I want and reserve a seat for someone who's not here yet." But we got a table. My dish had two of the grossest mussels I've ever eaten--they must not have been too rotten since I didn't get sick. We decided to boogie when one of the servers almost flambed half the restaurant when preparing bananas Foster. We said farewell to the Thomas Kincaid National Archive (picture tear-filled sobbing), and headed back north.

Two weeks later

Sorry, sports fans, that I've been AWOL for a bit. My right hand has improved enough to hunt and peck the keyboard effectively, so I have no more excuses. I had surgery on the 9th, which went smoothly and left me with a forearm splint secured by two ACE bandages. I love Versed, but since you can't get that to go and it lacks analgesic properties, I relied on Vicodin for a few days to ease the pain. Elle was kind enough to escort my loopy self back home and do some dishes I'd forgotten. I was back to work on Thursday and struggled to manipulate the scope, write legibly, and type, all without pain. My attendings and co-resident really helped me out, and today was MUCH better, efficiency-wise. I'm reading blood smears and approving and interpreting coagulation testing. I have my first follow-up appointment on Thursday--I hope it looks good, but I'm worried I might have an occult dislocation on the ulnar side of my wrist that was masked by the fracture-related pain. We'll see.

Fun-wise, the past two weeks have been great. The 4th of July was awesome. George and I took a mini-hike along the coast at Lincoln Park. Someone created a cool labyrinth out of stone that I took the time to walk (George lost patience). Afterwards, we procured the equipment and fixings for a small barbecue and got the Smokey Joe started on my back patio. George had his own little brush with disaster while stoking the charcoal without venting it--flames leaped out and singed his hair. And the top blew off the grill! Once that was under control, he served up a great meal (my wrist was pretty bad then to be of much use). My landlord came outside and suggested that we walk up to the Presidio to Inspiration Point to get a panoramic view of the city's fireworks launched from Fisherman's Wharf. We gladly took his advice and watched the fireworks in no warmer than 60F weather with a large number of inquisitive children whose parents indulged them in answering all manner of questions throughout the show: "I know why they're called Fire, but why are they called Works?" Ahhhhhh!

The following weekend, I went bowling with Otis and Elle, Dan and Lisa, and George and two of his co-workers from the golf course project where he works. My left-handed bowling skills weren't completely pathetic, especially when you consider I was using a 6-lb ball with kid-sized finger holes. I was using my fingertips to toss a wiffleball down the alley. And one of the guys only beat me by a few pins! The bowling alley had a karaoke bar, and I am thankful that my selection didn't come up before everyone got bored.

My left-handed frolf game is improving, as evidenced by several bogeys on Sunday morning.

Disaster strikes

Okay, so it's not quite disaster, but I think June 30th is the worst day for me--I tore my ACL on that date in 1996. Saturday, June 30, 2007, some doofus clipped my front wheel, sending me to the pavement and fracturing my right scaphoid bone. So. It was on a great, relatively flat ride north out of SF, and I biked 35 miles home with a bad wrist (it hurt, but I didn't know it was broken). I showed Otis my wrist, and it didn't look or feel terrible, so I waited a day to see how it developed. I spent Sunday testing out my left-handed frolf game--apparently it's only 1-2 strokes per hole worse than my right-handed game! By Sunday night, after leisurely drinks and light dinner at the Beach Chalet with Otis & Elle, George, and Dan & Lisa, I knew something was up, so Otis called ahead to the ED at UCSF and they had me in and out in 2 hours.

Today, the chair of the path department arranged an appointment for me with a hand surgeon for tomorrow afternoon, but the whole insurance debacle is becoming a nuisance. The first day of residency was painless, in the job/academic sense. If only it had been in the physical/bureaucratic sense.

Anyway, last week I spent three lovely days in the Russian River valley with Allison, Karen, and Adam. We hiked, fished, dined, and generally enjoyed each other's company. I wish I had the patience to write more details--maybe when my left-handed typing skills improve.

Mt. Tam took my 4th life

In the spirit of full disclosure and at the risk of terrifying my mom and dad, I will relate to you the day's events. Adam and I left my place around 10AM for a ride up Mt. Tam (Tamalpais). It was a chilly, cloudy, true San Francisco summer day all the way to San Anselmo, where we started the climb (see picture of our ride's elevation profile; note axes scales) in the sunshine. The 15 miles to the summit included some short respites of descent, but knowing that these meant elevation loss made them somewhat bitter. We entered the fog/clouds, and Adam deduced that fog + tree = rain, so we dodged some wet patches, if one can be said to dodge at 5 mph.


We came upon some police cars and an enormous truck with a winch that was towing an errant car up the cliffside. I was really, really tired at this point--I don't think I've ever done such a sustained climb--and was begging for the summit with each pedal stroke. We finally made it, and on the descent, a combination of exhaustion, excitement, inexperience and pure stupidity resulted in my going down on one curve. I will never consciously be that idiotic again...I slid out on a left-hand bend and tore up my left thigh/butt and my left handle bar tape. My bike was otherwise unscathed, my head was fine, and I had some raspberries on my left elbow, ankle, and calf. My $80 shorts were torn up during their third wear--dammit--but a small price to pay for my idiocy.




Adam and I cautiously took the remainder of the descent into Mill Valley (crazy steep parts) and stopped for lunch and my getting-my-shit-together at Cafe Trieste in Sausalito. The ride back across the GG Bridge and to the city was uneventful--tourist dodging on the bridge.

Wheels and Frolf

The past week has been a ton of fun. I took two more rides across the GG Bridge, the most recent being this morning with two guys, Adam and Bobby, who will be medicine interns at USCF starting in July with me. The Sunday morning ride was beautiful as ever, and my two new friends were so pleasant and kind. The previous Marin County ride I took solo, and I turned left at the end of the GGB and climbed about 2 miles up--it was worth it for the picture and the ensuing descent, followed by a trip through the crazy Bunker Road tunnel and the same Tiburon loop I'd done before. I also took a more urban ride through GG Park towards Ocean Beach and south to Lake Merced and back. Not a bad hour-long ride.

Furniture purchases this week were limited to a big leather chair, by the trendy outfit EQ3, from some yuppies who decided that after 1 whole year, they needed new furniture. The chair is great, but there is no coffee table or accompanying loveseat, let alone a TV, so it hasn't been in much use yet. I'm saving up for an LCD HDTV...I figure if I can go without TV until the Steelers start...

Friday I played frisbee golf (AKA frolf) with Otis, his cousin, and two of his friends, at the GG Park course. I bought some used frolf discs off some guy named, no joke, Marcus Aurelius, earlier that day, so I got to test them out. I still sucked. We went for Eritrean/Ethiopean food later that night with Elle and some other folks. Delicious.

Saturday morning, I was at Otis' place at 8:30AM sharp in order to get an early start on a big frolfing outing. Otis gets as excited as a little boy about many things, but none more so than with frolf. We were to head north on US 101 about 45 minutes to an awesome 18 hole course in a state park. Otis and I picked up his cousin Seth in Cole Valley and met his other cousin Caleb (known as "Cubby") and his friends, the brothers Mark ("Thor") and Kevin at the course. We played 18 holes under an amazing blue sky with a gentle breeze. The course had some incredible holes, including a 1000 yarder. The terrain was quite varied, with tree obstacles, downhill and uphill holes, and lots of thigh-high grass. We played team-skins, where each hole was won by the lowest combined score. I played with Otis, Kevin with Cubby, and Seth with Thor. Kevin and Cubby won. I was pretty awful, not reaching par on a single hole, but my drives definitely improved. My putting is fine, seeing as my drives suck so much that it takes me a few "drives" to get on the green, and by then, I'm close enough for a short putt. Seth turned out to be a gifted frolfer, with an amazingly straight and long drive. He birdied one hole, landing his drive just underneath the basket. (see picture I forced him to pose for)

The plan was to hit Cronkhite beach on the way home, but when we got there, it was about 55 degrees outside...ick.