Archive for the 'niblet' Category

Don’t worry, I’ve got a neti pot for that

My brother is visiting from Boston, briefly, for a job interview out here. And seeing him in my bathroom, grooming himself in preparation for his interview, reminded me of a conversation we had over the last Christmas Holiday.

* * *

I walked in to the bathroom to encounter my brother trimming his nose hairs with the small scissors that normally live in The Brit’s bathroom drawer.

Me: [giggle]

Bro: What?

Me: I think ignorance is bliss on this one.

Bro: WHAT?

Me: Nothing! Don’t worry about it!!

Bro: It’s the scissors isn’t it?

Me: Yep.

Bro: Shit.

Me: Yeah…The Brit uses those for manscaping.

Bro: So…what you’re telling me…is that I’ve essentially just put The Brit’s dick in my nose?

Me: Pretty much.

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Local, organic, delicious, AND capable of adding an hour to each day?

Shit, I’ll take all the bunches you have left and I’ll be back to this farmers market again next week.

Actually, do you carry anything in business casual?

In the very least, I’d settle for some pine nuts that don’t require the procurement of a sugar daddy and the fulfillment of regrettable sexual favors.

If you kill or maim anyone seriously, though, you just get the heritage lamp WITHOUT the seal

My Standard Chair was delivered yesterday.  It’s a gift each surgical resident gets from the university as recognition for the seven years of dedicated service towards improving the lives of others while astonishingly sleep deprived.

It’s as if, after seven years spent on my feet for 80 hours a week, my university is saying to me, “NOW you can have a seat.”

I love that the website promises “generations of delighted recipients.”  I don’t know about my future offspring but I’m certainly delighted at the chance to finally sit down.  When I have children, I’ll be sure to instill in them an earnest and deep-seated (zing!) appreciation for taking a load off.

In the name of the father, the son, and the Holy Pita

In an effort to lead as healthy a life as possible, The Love Muscle is giving up glutens and sugar, leaving the dirty work of wheat & sweet-eating to the rest of us.  It’s a hard job.  But somebody’s going to have to eat The Carbs.  Fully embracing my role, I began by attacking the bag of Kettle Corn in Mamacusa & TLM’s pantry this past weekend.  Across the kitchen counter from me, The Brit snacked on a stash of their Pita Chips. 

“You know, kettle corn’s not exactly healthy for you,” The Brit judged.

“Oh?  And those Pita Chips?”

“Well, I figure if they’re good enough for Jesus, they’re good enough for me.”

“Jesus ate Pita Chips?”

“Ok.  Maybe not Pita chips, but definitely Pita.”

“Not loaves and fishes?”

“Nope.  Pita.”

Someone should let the Pita People know about the marketing opportunity they’ve been missing.

That might explain a few of the 8 year old bruises on his body…

Wow.  I really last wrote in August?   Funny how that happens…one night you’re minding your own business, taking out someone’s cancerous colon at 3 AM and next thing you know, a few months have gone by and you wake up with a wedding band on your finger, with skin that’s peeling from head to toe, a piece of salmon strapped to your back, and an African American President Elect (f*ck yeah, by the way!).   

I know that doesn’t exactly make much sense but it will…for I shall write about it.  Before all the fine details of perhaps the best month of my life get replaced with sodium deficit calculations and cancer staging criteria…I promise I’ll be back soon, with details about the wedding…with pics and all, cuz f*ck it, what’s a wedding story without pictures, am I right?   Can I get a witness? 

In the meantime, though, please excuse the fishy smell…and please accept this little funny tidbit from work the other night as a filler until I get my shit together.  I’d be seriously lamenting being back at work if it weren’t just so damn funny sometimes:

The other night, I was treating a man who’d been hit by a car while he was celebrating Obama’s victory out in the streets.  When asked about the details of the incident (ie. the car, the driver, etc.) his response?  “I don’t know, man, musta been a republican!”

And because fudgesicles taste better when you’re near naked

Dude!  San Francisco’s such a tease! He plays all cool, calm, collected, and coy with his fog and his near constant 50 degree weather.  But really, underneath it all, he’s just a hot and sticky slut…just as I suspected he was all along!  97 degrees F today!  Just knowing he’s capable of weather like this makes me love him even more.  To think he ALMOST made me reconsider my No Shorts EVER1 rule!?!  But I quickly came to my senses and, instead, decided to just forego the shorts and sit out on the balcony in my underwear eating icecream. Because that’s what you do on the one day of summer in San Francisco. 

1. Seriously.  My thighs do not enjoy The Shorts.  Never wear em. 
2. Those of you who are astute may suggest that the icecream might have something to do with the thighs.  To you I say:  Blow me. 

 


Hark!

The madness featured here is mine and mine alone. It does not, in any way, reflect the madness of my employers, colleagues, patients, nutty family, or my colorful friends. The privacy of my employers, colleagues, patients, nutty family and colorful friends is sacred & deeply respected, so no names. All words Copyright © la cubana gringa, no method, just madness 2006-2010. All comments © their authors. Don't steal; it's not nice. (And my Grandfather knows people.)

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