my private ramblings

Well, the impossible has occurred.  I am finally dating someone who is well on the path to becoming a successful member of society  (pause for applause).  She is a surgical resident at a hospital here in New York, and yes, I honestly do believe that this increases my value to society by mere association.   

My new favorite hobbies have thus become 1) measuring her ring finger while she sleeps and 2) feigning interest in her career.  The latter actually involves a fair amount of hard work on my part– she spits out medical terms with the cold efficiency of an AK-47 and her work literature looks like scenes from  SAW.  The whole experience has really made me appreciate the writing on Grey’s Anatomy.  If they based those episodes on real life, you’d sit there listening to “She needs an anesthetic injections into the origin of the extensor carpi radialis brevis muscle” and then end up watching various procedures that would cause you to regurgitate your TV dinner.  Not my idea of a suicide-preventing Thursday.  But instead courtesy of those talented individuals over at ABC, we’re treated to an hour chock full of romance, lies, hot surgeons and of course, the ten minute orgy in the doctors-only waiting room.  As someone who is dating a resident, I now consider it my right to accumulate fantasies involving said room and have done so to the count of 89.  If there’s a head of a hospital out there with low ethical standards and a desire to facilitate my humble dream, please email me.

In the meantime, I am working on become the perfect doctor’s wife.  I’m not exactly sure what this entails but my image is firmly rooted in the 1950’s, complete with a pillbox hat, white gloves, and the ability to pop out picture perfect children.  Unfortunately, in reality, I’m probably more the ”Honey, will you sneak me a few Oxycodone?.  I  have a hell of a hangover from last night and from totaling the Beamer” 2008 type wife.  I imagine the whole gay thing adds another interesting dimension as well. 

Unfortunately for me, she has, to date, proven to be a bit of a commitment phobe (or at least she is now).  I’ve thus developed a 6 step process to address this problem.  Step 1 involves sneaking my toothbrush into her medicine cabinet and hiding my pjs under her pilow and step 6 involves drugging her & dragging her to the altar.  Ever seen a comatose bride?  Look for the “Save The Date” refrigerator magnet in the mail, but remember, it’s a surprise!