Is it too much to ask?

Because stereotypes.

Is it too much to ask that you put down the new edition of vogue and pick up a real book (I know Hugo will be gibberish to you but I think we can start with Austen)

Maybe Marilyn is your hero, but is it too much to ask for you to give She Hulk a chance? (Green and smart what’s not to like?)

Yes we know she is wearing an ugly dress and slept with a dozen guys in a week. But is it too much to ask that you don’t judge and let her be? (Then again, gossip feeds your size 0 body. I wouldn’t want you to starve.)

I admire your confidence and your sense of style. But is it too much to ask for you to stop asking me if I want a makeover? (Bitch please. My sweater vest is vintage)

If your boyfriend physically abuses you is it too much to ask that you find your voice and make a stand? (Because if you can’t get a happy ending there sure is no hope for me)

When you are 40 and single is it too much to ask that you stop throwing yourself at every man you meet? (And in case you are in that place and wondering what to do with your life; I am always low on perpetually horny study subjects)

Is it too much to ask that you understand the real difference between a Ursula and Ariel is not in appearance but in spirit. (Although you have one on me. You figured out good girl gone bad makes the frat boys drool)

The brain is not an ornament on display. Is it too much to ask that you use it? (But then again, You would if you could)

There are so many questions unanswered. So many ideas. So many thoughts. Is it too much to ask that you find some answers? (No! How skinny you can get without dying is not what I meant!)

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The limbo called 23

Well obviously this my kind of 23.

Tea is what you love in the morning but that occasional coffee helps you get over nasty hangovers.

You are will-spill/drop-anything-you-are-holding-when-you-see-an-attractive-guy kind of awkward.

You guffaw or groan and roll eyes every time people talk of love. While secretly wishing you had a fairy godmother.

You have Beethoven on the gramophone and a glass of wine kind of evenings. But the ones you love most are when you dance in your pajamas, singing(in a voice that puts the coyotes to shame) into your hairbrush.

You binge watch tv series when you are depressed (that is most of the time) and knit cat clothes. But when you are happy they will find you at the local bar trying to drown yourself in alcohol.

People you grew up with have spouses-kids-RingsThatWillPutSauronToShame. You have scrabble with the computer and a basement bedroom.

Well sometimes you go and order that Long Island and do the walk of shame. But more often than not weekends are reading Shakespeare to your cat.

High school stereotypes don’t apply anymore. You were the geek-with-glasses-and-ugly-sweaters now you are called a sociopath (suck it miss-prom-queen-who-is-with-her-fifth-husband-at-tiffanys). Yeah….No, high school never ends soccer mom/ miss pretty in Prada will always be the Bellatrix Lestrange to your Hermione.

You know you will end up socialising with balding men in tweed suits and women who make you wish feminism never happened.

And the closest thing to sex is watching rat EEGs while they are at it. But there is that thesis on a gene in the drosophila fly that controls its desire to copulate (does that counts as foreplay?)

Twenty three is when you unravel the mysteries of life. It is that time when you finally accept that there are no mermaids or Loch Ness monsters or Yetis. You will never find Asgard and Thor will never find you. You know the mysteries are those of loneliness, love, companionship, loss and what helps you unravel all that. You gain true wisdom and enlightenment from those moments with your head in a toilet seat because you still can’t hold your drink. That is what 23 is all about.

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Ways to mend a broken heart!

What every self help blog ever written should say,

Have a broken heart?

1. Find the ETIOLOGY:

You got dumped: there are a billion reasons, you are fugly, you are clingy, you want to get married on your 2nd date, you are a lousy kisser, you cheat on him with his best friend and are a horrible liar.

Very rarely you have a genetic condition called the curse of the black heart.

2. The PATHOPHYSIOLOGY of a broken heart:

just when you think your life is a Jenifer Aniston movie(no the guy is not Ashton Kutcher and at your best you look like Nikki Minaj without make up) the break up catches you off guard(obviously you couldn’t see the signs like him never calling you back or slamming the door in your face when you go over to find out why).

You cry. In your head you think you look like a helpless mongrel, but all everyone sees is a zombie from Resident Evil.

Your friends try to help but they have a life(boyfriends/girlfriends) even the tramps have their friday nights. And you? The TV the couch and that tub of Chocolate ice cream(non fat? You think?!) All you can think of is dying alone. You wait for him to come back. Sometimes you stalk the poor thing, and get a restraining order.

You forget to feed your cat(of course you are a cat person) she runs away and finds a new home(a sex life).

Your waistline is growing and your apartment looks like a crime scene.

3. INVESIGATIONS:
look at yourself in the mirror, if it cracks your condition is serious you will need surgery.

check your weight anything above 80 pounds could be fatal.

If you are anything under a 36 D(no wonder you are reading self help blogs)

4. DIAGNOSIS: a broken heart.

5. COMPLICATIONS:
being single for life(very real threat if condition not treated immediately)

Ending up as one of the step sisters when all your life you thought you were cinderella.

Oprah asking you how you managed to be so repulsive in an exclusive.

6.TREATMENT:

If Bridget Jones could find Mark Dassy, you can at least find a new cat.

Get plastic surgery and those *will make you a super model overnight* loubs(who needs a BRAIN?!)

Keep doing the walk of shame it might just work! One night stands=
True love.

And always remember the way to a man’s heart IS through your vagina. Don’t let anyone(your mom) tell you otherwise.

The REEL love story

For me love stories are forever. Some of them are from Jane Austen novels and some from the movies. This post is about my favorite actor who reminds me of the magic in romance, and why it will never work for me!
When I watch Audrey Hepburn movies, I want to…..

Find the right english gentleman
ME: I washed me face and hands before I come I did.
HE(slouches): where the devil are my slippers?
(If only there was a man who loved me even after I promptly threw ‘them slippers’ at him in an estrogen fueled rage!)

Go to the bar just to use the best pickup line ever “I don’t bite you know … unless it’s called for,”(how would I know it worked? If I woke up alone next morning in a strange apartment with a nasty hangover)

Write a diary and start the first entry with
“When I finally say I love you to any man and really mean it, it will be like a defeated general who’s lost all his troops, surrendering and handing his sword to the enemy.” (And follow that up with pages of conquests that will put my ‘oh-so-slutty’ girlfriends to shame)

Go to a ball and look disdainful so no one would know its my first! And end up dancing with my Prince Andre. (But Mom!! So what if he is a widower and old enough to be my dad? He is a very hot Russian)

Be a real phony. Own a cat just so I could call her “cat you poor no name slob” (all that just so I could fall in love with a ‘can barely earn enough to get a cracker-jack ring engraved at Tiffany’s’ writer)

Get high on phonetics(who needs weed?!) and dance to ‘the rain in spain stays mainly in the plain’ in the middle of the night!

Sing ‘I can do without you’ in the shower without it sounding like something Miley Cyrus would twerk to.

Sneak out in the middle of the night and pretend I am Princess Ann from the Roman Holiday! Fall in love with a beautiful stranger. Look at those who don’t approve(Mom) and say, “Were I not entirely aware of my duty to my family and my country, I would not have come back tonight… or indeed ever again!”(Yeah you heard me! Wait a minute, did I give up on my perfect love story just to see the look on my Mom’s face? How damaged am I?)

And yes…. dream in black and white (because to say I dream in color is like saying I dream I am in bed with Justin Bieber every single night)

A medical student

You know you are a med student when,

When you see patients that move and talk, you are dreaming, or your text book somehow turned into Tom Riddle’s diary.

There are some who say they don’t have time for serious relationships. But they secretly loathe their colleagues who go through more relationships than all the years of med school.

You are the only people who are knee deep in debt before you get your first paycheck.

When you sing in the bathroom more often than not it is some silly mnemonic that’s stuck in your head.

You have been through severe depression at least once during all those years in med school.

If medicine were a religion, you would be a fanatic.

You have watched all the tv medical shows ever aired(yes including days of our lives) rolled your eyes at the ridiculous notion of hot doctors, tried figuring out the cases(you are either clueless or wrong!).

Doctors by Erich Segal is not just a book. It is your life.

If you have read ‘the doctor on the boil/ doctor in the nude/ doctor on the brain or any other doctor book by Richard Gordon, you what I am talking about when I say I have never laughed harder!

You can’t remember the last time you were out partying on a friday night. And even if you pretend like you have a life(deep down inside you know you are a nerd, now and evermore)

Your worst nightmare is graduating and having to treat real patients. That said, you want to get out of med school as desperately as you wanted to get in!

The dating heirarchy in the medical world

Walking through the hospital hallways, scenes from Grey’s Anatomy play in my head in slow motion.
Maybe surgeons in real life aren’t insanely hot but they sure do spend a lot of time in the on call room!(Even Shonda Rhimes needs inspiration!)

1. The hot female interns sleep with their attending on the very first day, and pretend they didn’t know who he was(even if it is the truth, no one wants to look desperate)

2.What of the not so hot female interns? They get cats, mostly!

3. The lower the neckline of a scrub nurse the more marriages she has ended.

4. What if you are married to a surgeon and getting old (like a scalpel)? Might as well find your self a new person(or a cat) because your husband/wife have to upgrade to a skinny resident(a cryoprobe!). Nothing personal.

5. Paramedics!! Universal rule: they are ALWAYS hot! More like the firemen of the medical world!

6. Med students? They are invisible to almost everyone in the hospital. They are those poor grubs who spend their time fantasizing about the resident they occasionally get a glimpse of through the zillion backs blocking their view.

7. Patients! I don’t know where all those ‘even a doctor can’t keep his hands off’ kind of patients come from?!

8. A ring clipped to the scrubs means ‘I am available, that’s just a fashion choice!’

9. Even the ones who are cursed(never to find love) find that person they want to spend eternity with(of course only after failed marriages, wired relationships with patients/nurses/residents, and more often than not questioning their sexual orientation!)

10. So a hospital is like a jungle, there are rules, but they are mostly ignored!

A childhood under OR lights

Born to a family of surgeons. Growing up was different,

Girls in preschool dressed as disney princesses(mostly cinderella) with their ball gowns with ruffles and lace, I used to wear my moms coat, white and over sized. The sleeves covering all of my hands, the coat-tail on the floor like a wedding dress train!!
And the scrub cap was my tiara.

Favorite barbie: doctor barbie
Favorite game: operation

Bed time stories for normal kids are Red Riding Hood or Snow White and the seven dwarfs, mine were more like how you/your sister/ mom/ granny/grandpa/great grandma were born! Breech, cephal, post dated were stories in my head long before I read about them in textbooks!
When I was little obstetrics histories were what put me to sleep!

Puberty is a dreaded time for any girl with a mom who is a gynecologist! Hour long talks about reproduction and the changes your body will go through; not to forget all the modes of contraception! But that wasn’t necessary because on your thirteenth birthday you peek into the labor room looking for mom amidst those screaming women, fumes of liquor and crowning heads you find your sexual orientation: asexual for life. All we asked for is a normal talk about love, relationships and growing up.

Your gran must have told you about how she met your grandpa at a fair and they fell in love one summer, or how she was married by her parents and how now she adores that man she barely knew when she got married. About those summer evenings when he would sing to her. How he would bring her roses every time he got home from his business trips. How she loved watching him when he was about the house fixing stuff with a toolbox in his hand.
Mine told me how she met the greatest surgeon she knew, married him, and then how he helped her with those arrested deliveries, because she needed strong hands to apply traction to the forceps(a hand on a shaft of steel pulling the head of a fetus through a vagina is anything but romantic to a normal person but if you have a family like mine you know it is better than a thousand candlelight dinners) or assisting hysterectomies even though he was tired from a 7 hour gastric surgery, just so he could spend more time with her.

Sometimes when I wanted a school test(I scored bad on) signed, I would go looking for dad at the hospital just before he had to scrub in for a major surgery. He would sign without a second look(worked every single time!). But there is a price to pay, sometimes I would come across a mangled limb, a crushed face or an indiscernible mass of blood and muscle on my way out. A little girl of twelve knew what death looked like.

The smell of freshly baked cake or the strong aroma of indian curry reminds my friends of home.
The only smell that feels like home to me is that of powdered gloves and betadine.

Most teens rebel by doing drugs or getting inked and joining street gangs. All I did was say I will NEVER go to med school. And hell broke lose.

5 years later when I am almost done with my final year in medical school(I couldn’t fight my destiny(parents) for long) every time I step into an OR I know I belong.