The World Around You

Overheard, People Watching,

I have a sinus cold, and like most men, the sneezing, congestion, and sore throat has pinned me somewhere between embryo and day-old puppy on the helplessness continuum. Fortunately, I have electricity and heat (despite the recent ice storm), the company of a snoring dog, and enough Sudafed to air my own episode of Breaking Bad: Manayunk.  After a few weeks of neglecting the blog due to school commitments, illness buys couch time, and thus, I have no excuse to miss an opportunity to jot down a few words.

Grad school has revealed that I have difficulty with visual-spatial learning. But despite that short-coming, I am keenly observant. As the blog has grown in both readership and content, I am often asked if the accounts that I author are true. My response is generally, “You can’t make this stuff up.” Quite literally – I can’t make this stuff up, as I am an awful fiction writer. Creative Writing courses sparked as much fear and frustration in my heart as Organic Chemistry. But my strength in writing is certainly a result of my observation skills.

People-watching has become one of my favorite pastimes, and while it is more of a fly-on-the-wall, passive activity, it is never dull. Earlier this week, before I had been weakened by the Plague, I was studying at Starbucks. In strolled a skinny Jewish kid, decked out in a brown Carhartt jacket, Fubu fleece pants, Timerland boots (unlaced, tongue out), and a gold chain around his neck.

To add additional ingredients to this melting pot of identity confusion, dangling from the gold chain was a silver crucifix, thin rimmed Lacoste glasses sat tightly on his nose, and topping off his red carpet ensemble was a Yarmulke. But this was no standard Yarmulke, as it had the Sacramento Kings team logo stitched into the back of it. Just when I thought this scene could not become more bizarre, one of the players from the Philadelphia 76ers came in and towered over this kid in line behind him. Looking down, he locked eyes on the Sacramento Kings Yarmulke, shook his head, and had a quick chuckle to himself.

A few weeks ago, my sister and her boyfriend came to Philadelphia to have dinner in the city. I agreed to drop them off at the restaurant, while I would catch up on some work at a coffee shop. After walking countless blocks in 14-degree weather, the coffee shop was closed. So in an effort to find shelter, I ducked into the first place I saw open – a Ruby Tuesday.

I hate the flair of chain restaurants and it has easily been a decade since I’ve been inside a Ruby Tuesday. But nonetheless, I saddled up at the bar and ordered a drink. I quickly surveyed my surroundings, and realized this was about to be the best decision I had made in a while. To my far right was a young couple having a pre-dinner drink. The guy asked me for a beer suggestion, and then proceeded to order some type of pink drink with a cherry. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, despite an impending 15-block walk in frigid weather. He then took a phone call, told the caller he was out with his boo, and that he would call him back. After the call ended, he turned to said boo and asked, “By the way, what is your last name?”

As the couple was wrapping up, two guys that worked at a neighboring Sprint store sat down next to me. As they continued to discuss everything from their hatred of their “old ladies” to the best new role-playing video games, they exchanged their DUI stories with the bartender. The gentleman with three DUIs to his name turned to me and made an “Assassin’s Creed” joke that involved a plasma gun and excessive use of the word, “boom,” which I did not get. I just smiled.

A few other characters made up the scene. An older, well-dressed man carrying a bag from Barnes and Noble, who, without having to say a word magically summoned a baked potato and a carafe of Merlot within minutes. The restaurant manager, a skinny guy with thinning hair, torso striped by a Walmart button-down, stopped by a table of attractive, thirty-something women behind me, tried out a joke about onion rings, and quickly struck out. The bartender complained about her three kids to another patron.

The icing on the cake, however, was an elderly (present at the birth of Jesus elderly) African American woman seated immediately to my left. She was wearing a winter jacket, wool hat, gloves, and sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun had set hours earlier. She was drinking double vodkas on the rocks and paying for each round in cash and change. She asked me to watch her drink (empty now for the third time) while she went out for a cigarette. In her absence, the bartender returned, and filled her glass with straight Tanqueray, not vodka as I had assumed. Good golly.

Upon her return, she thanked me for watching her newly refueled rocket and then, in reference to the Sprint guys, she said, “Aren’t you tired of hearing these fat-asses talk about their sad video games? ‘Boom, boom, boom! Shut up, chubby!’” As the conversation continued, we talked about my family and her own, the holidays, and life in general. She became oddly more and more endearing, even after referring to her vanishing roofing contractor as a “dirty little cunt.” “I may look old,” she said, “but I’m gonna find that bastard! And then, well then, it’ll be on.”

Shortly after, my sister and her boyfriend had finished dinner, and sadly(?), it was time to depart Ruby Tuesday. I said my goodbyes to my newly found friend, and headed back out into the cold. Upon asking how my night was at Ruby Tuesday, I merely responded, “interesting.”

One of the primary reasons I find writing enjoyable is the simple fact that life provides all of the material. While I will be the first to admit that I do find myself in a lot of weird situations, some of my most entertaining moments have been through observation of the scene unfolding around me. Sometimes I’m an observer and sometimes I am a participant. Stringing the details together with a few words is the easy part. So keep an open eye and an open ear – it might make for a good story later.

“Chlorophyll? More like ‘BOREophyll!'”

Grad School

Had I known that I could pay $23,000 per year to feel genuinely stupid on a daily basis, I would have started graduate school years ago. In fact, I tried. Rejected by every medical school to which I applied in 2010, I had given up hope of ever becoming a physician. I filed it away in the back of my mind, decided not to retake the MCAT, and did the best to talk myself out of a career in medicine. But like most decisions that carry a certain level of gravity and personal conviction, it continued to eat away at me for a few years. So in an effort to quiet the nagging voice, I applied last-minute to a master’s program at Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine, which unofficially acts as a foot-in-the-door for its medical college.

Despite hoping for a fresh start, grad school has been a complete nightmare. Over the years, I have seen friends, colleagues, and coworkers go through school-related breakdowns. Tears were shed, breakups ensued, and mental stability became a fleeting privilege reserved only for weekend nights at the bar. But magically upon graduation, it transformed into a learning experience that came with fond reflections. I thought, “How bad could it really be?”

Here is what I have learned so far: graduate school is a bitch. By design, my strengths are not in science and math, which is probably why I find writing “fun.” (Sick, right?) I got lost in 7th grade when they threw in that second variable to equations. I haven’t recovered since.

Most of my classmates have science backgrounds, are fresher-faced, and have previous exposure to the material we are learning. Through years of practice in undergrad, while I was reading books and writing papers, they mastered the bane of my existence: multiple choice testing. I’m a concepts guy, while science is detail-oriented.

I’ve barely passed most of the exams I’ve taken thus far and I’ve managed to fail a few. I am going to have to repeat a class next year. My professors, while supportive, have also reinforced the fact that I am a bit crazy to undertake a science program with my humanities background. One suggested that my mind just doesn’t function as well as the minds of my younger classmates, and then followed that confidence booster with, “Well, you did manage to get the lowest grade in the class.” Zing! Point to you, Professor Brightside. Repeated poor performance has elicited and worsened anxiety, which has led to stress-related stomach problems. (I’ll spare you those details.) Needless to say, life since August has not been terribly fun.

What I have learned is that at 30-years-old, I have carried bad academic habits from grade-school forward and realized I do not know how to study. Or at least, I didn’t. A few days before my last exam, something clicked and I could see I had been approaching subject material from the wrong angle. I understood the concepts, but was consistently getting burned by the minute details. While a few days weren’t enough time to relearn the massive volume of material, it will hopefully help moving forward.

Perhaps the most positive and surprising part of this entire shit-show venture has been the incredible support of friends and family. I am not one to ask for help. But upon detailing my struggles to my classmates and mentor, there has been an outpouring of help through sharing notes, spending time reviewing, going to the lab together, and offering a kick in the ass when I’m tired. While I won’t call anyone out in a public forum, to those who have gone the extra mile, you have my utmost gratitude.

One person I will call out, however, is my girlfriend, Liz. Without her support, I would probably be living in a cardboard box somewhere along the Schuylkill, likely forced to eat the dog. (Literally, she pays all the bills.) Liz selflessly uprooted her life in DC, came to Philly without a job, and agreed to support me once she landed a new gig. And if that wasn’t enough, she listens to every gripe I have, helps me to look at situations from a different view, and reminds me when I’m being unreasonable, a role I’ve learned to play quite well since school started. And for that patience and love, I can’t say enough.

While graduate school has not been a fun endeavor academically, I do love PCOM, most of the faculty, and especially the friends I have made through the program. Those I know at other institutions have stories of cut-throat environments, awful classmates, and even worse faculty and administration. I feel fortunate to be free of those burdens.

So now I suppose it is up to me. This ship will either float or sink. Perhaps it is a result of this being my first real challenge academically, but I find it disappointing it has taken me twenty-plus years to finally give a hoot about my performance. But better late than never, as my motivation and determination has strengthened with each progressive failure. I commend those who have made it through challenging academic programs, especially with the added hardships of children, financial difficulties, and health problems to name a few. You serve as an inspiration for those of us who have it much easier.

This may be the last blog post for a week or two, as efforts are spent elsewhere. Ideally, the next post will be some “Rudy”-esque success story. And if not, hopefully some of you are hiring…

New Year…Same You

New Year's Resolutions,

As part of my sporadic workout regimen, I pulled into my Planet Fitness parking lot a few days after New Year’s 2013. I grabbed my bag and walked toward the door, at which point I came upon two obese women in workout gear screaming at each other. Like a tiger stalking two Spandex-stuffed water buffalo, I ducked behind a large box van to witness their argument. Turns out, they were fighting over a parking space steps from the front door of the gym. An abundance of parking spots were available 30-yards away, but apparently it would be awful to break a last-minute sweat walking a few extra feet to WORK OUT! The dispute quickly ended as one woman waddled back to her Nissan Armada, leaving the stench of profanity to linger in the air.

Upon entering the gym, not a single piece of cardio equipment was free, as droves of newly resolute exercisers were determined to sweat off the cookies and eggnog that had taken up residence in pudgy stomachs and floppy asses. Two weeks later, however, Planet Fitness had reverted back to its cast of regulars. Empty treadmills lined up in a funeral procession for New Year’s Resolutions.

With each new year, I used to set lofty aspirations to lose weight, work out every day, volunteer more, drink less. But much like the gym-goers, my goals would gradually fall by the wayside, and as the next year approached, nothing had changed. I don’t make promises I can’t keep. Thus, in an effort to avoid disappointment (and the gym), I no longer make New Year’s Resolutions.

But why do even the best intentions not come to fruition?  Not enough time? Not enough self-discipline? Can’t find a parking spot?

Maybe you are setting the bar too high. Perhaps you should drop it down a few rungs and you’ll sail over it with ease at every attempt.

If you resolve to lose weight:

Adhere to a strict beer-to-wing ratio. No more than one beer per 10 chicken wings. Pace yourself.

If you resolve to go to the gym:

Join a budget gym. I’d recommend Planet Fitness. At $10 per month, you don’t even feel guilty about not going. Free pizza on Monday nights, a free cotton t-shirt, and you can proudly display the membership badge on your key ring. Make sure to set the keys on the bar so there is no doubt that you exercise.

If you resolve to drink less:

Switch to vodka and club soda. It works for college girls. You could look that good in yoga pants, too.

If you resolve to spend less time on Facebook:

Don’t have a child. Don’t get a cat. Don’t get engaged. Don’t have bowel movements. There will be less of a demand to update the world on the aforementioned. Consider the brevity of Twitter.

If you resolve to quit smoking:

Only smoke when you drink. It’s fail-proof.

If you resolve to save money:

Marry up?

If you resolve to find love:

Start with a house plant. See if you’re ready for commitment. I’d recommend a cactus. To paraphrase Demetri Martin: Be more nurturing than a desert. Also, see above resolution.

If you had the resolve to read this far:

Choose a reasonable resolution. You know your abilities, your resources, and your limits, so why not choose a goal that you are likely to achieve. Even completing a small feat feels better than failure.

Wishing you a happy, healthy, and accomplished 2014.

Frame of Mind

Christmas, ,

I read a study recently that examined grad student exam performance and alcohol consumption. The authors found that students who consumed more than 30 alcoholic beverages per week significantly outperformed their light-drinking and abstaining peers. The study didn’t offer many ideas as to why this was the case. I’m sure that was a fun research proposal to write. “So let’s take a semester, get drunk most nights, and then compare test scores.” Sounds reasonable.

Welcome to the official unofficial study on how alcohol consumption affects writing. In the interest of full disclosure of research methods, I am slightly drunk. It’s currently 2:21 in the morning and the dog and I are comfortably plopped on the couch. I just returned home from an “Ugly Sweater” open bar event sponsored by my lovely grad school classmates. We just completed our first Anatomy exam a few hours earlier and everyone was in the mood to blow off steam. Best $12 I’ve spent in a while.

A few minutes ago I realized that with all of the exam prep, I forgot to write a blog post for this week. And thus, here we are. So if this auto-publishes tomorrow as some stream-of-consciousness piece of shit, let’s blame it on cheap vodka. Seriously, I don’t think the label was even in English.

As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up. My grandmother, in her infinite wisdom equally matched with her age, always responded, “Michael, don’t wish your life away. Some day you will be old and wonder where time went.” I quickly dismissed her. “You just say that because you’re old, Mommom.” I had all the answers.

At seven-years-old, a single year seems like an eternity. The summer felt as though it would never end, and when the weather finally turned colder, the stretch from Halloween until Christmas moved at a handicapped snail’s pace. Now the pages of the calendar turn like a book in the breeze. My grandmother has been gone for nearly a decade, and yet, many of these memories truly feel like yesterday.

Now as many of my friends and colleagues are whining about the toll of aging on their bodies and minds alike, I don’t feel all that much different. Aside from the newly experienced phenomenon of the two-day hangover, I physically feel the same at 30 as I did when I was in high school. (Ironically, sixteen years later I’m still in school living on a student budget.) Perhaps I’m just lucky or perhaps achy joints, (additional) weight gain, and hair loss are lurking around the corner. For now, I hope to continue to dodge the Age Fairy. I hear she’s a bitch.

Maybe it’s the warmth of the season, or the warmth of the vodka, but as our Christmas tree lights cast a glow on various pictures in the living room, I have to admit that as I’ve gotten older, I am a bit more conscious of the importance of a few core values. I try to spend more time with family and friends and expend less effort worrying about problems, financial stress, and those annoyances outside of my control.

When I was in college, my aunt Gerri was suffering through a battle with ovarian cancer. Most of our extended family had come to visit and after a meal together, she said a few words. She told us to look around the room and remember the faces of those present, and to cherish the time we spent together because as time goes on, new faces will appear and familiar faces will begin to disappear. Her face disappeared the following year. Her advice did not.

It is easy to be consumed by and get lost in the bullshit of everyday life. Complaints run rampant, stresses mount, and even the simplest problems can seem insurmountable at times. I’m guilty of these gripes on a daily basis. But every once in a while it is good to sit back and take stock in what you really have in life. You might be surprised how quickly what is important comes into clear focus.

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas, happy holidays, or whatever occasion it is you celebrate. I hope you get a chance to relax, spend time with family and friends, and find happiness in your day-to-day. And if you get in to the eggnog or holiday cheer, plan accordingly. I hear hangovers when you’re old are awful. In fact, I’ll let you know tomorrow.

Built for Comfort

Exercise,

“The trouble with jogging is that by the time you realize you’re not in shape for it, it’s too far to walk back.”  – Franklin Jones

Do you remember making turkeys in kindergarten out of apples, toothpicks, and gumdrops? You would take an apple, stab a few skinny toothpicks in it for legs, and decorate its face and fan with colorful sugar gumdrops. For whatever cruel reason, my genetic code decided to copy this top-heavy turkey template. All of my weight is in my torso, supported by long and relatively thin legs. As the Howlin’ Wolf blues song whines, “I’m built for comfort, I ain’t built for speed.” True story.

gumdrop

Running has always been a punishment for me. My first exposure to consistent jogging came when I joined the baseball team my freshman year of high school. “White tree, Deldeo!” often barked my coaches. A majestic, white birch tree grew proudly at the edge of campus, about 100-yards from the baseball field. Every time I made an error in the field (which was often), wasn’t putting in full effort, or let profanity fly, I had the distinct pleasure of running a “White Tree.” Not a single practice concluded without frequent visits to the White Tree. Over the course of that season, I lost around 25-pounds as a result of daily running.

Fast forward a decade and some, and I’ve found those missing 25-pounds. And they invited 50 of their closest friends to the adipose gala. An aging metabolism is a bitch. Suddenly, excuses not to exercise rose directly with my cholesterol.

“I’m too tired after work.”

“I’ve got stuff to do for school.”

“This beer isn’t gonna drink itself.”

“But there’s nothing chasing me…”

I could write a blog post full of excuses. But there’s really only one truth: I am lazy.

Carrying a large toolbox up the stairs last summer left me winded and at that moment, I realized that it was time for a change. Knowing that jogging (I can’t call what I do running, yet) was the most efficient way to lose weight, I began a popular mobile-based app called “Couch-to- 5K.” The “couch” part was mildly misleading.

The program guides you through a hybrid of walking and jogging three days per week and gradually builds up your distance, speed, and endurance. After nine weeks, the regimen culminates with running 3.1 miles, the equivalent of the famous 5K runs.

My first few runs were awful; my heart rate was through the roof and I was sucking wind like an asthmatic in a cigar shop. But gradually, with each run, I started to feel a little better. And by the fifth week, I admitted quite sheepishly that I actually enjoyed running. Holy shit! Hallelujah! Even I was shocked.

Sadly, the day after my stunning admission, my ankle decided to shut me down. Nothing was found to be structurally wrong, but my mystery injury led to nearly two months of limping around the hospital, ice baths, elevation, and anti-inflammatories. And Couch-to-5K was put to death.

I quit my job.  Liz and I moved to Philadelphia. We started exploring new bars and restaurants (read: ate and drank our faces off for a month). School started. Fat people melt in the heat. The excuse mill was turning out product at full capacity.

I’m now entering Week 3 of my second attempt at Couch-to-5k. This time around, the rewards surfaced within the first week. My resting and recovery heart rates have already improved quite drastically, I’ve lost some weight, and my ankle is holding up. I am now running every other day, I consistently feel better, less fatigued, and it keeps my anxiety from school and life at bay. I find myself now looking forward to working out, as each session reinforces positive results. I am also less inclined to order that extra drink or annihilate a plate of cookies, as I know I will suffer the next day on my run.

If you want to be active or you want to be sedentary, that is totally up to you. I’m certainly not one to judge, as I’ve been at both ends of the spectrum. But I will say that if I can do this program, anyone with two legs (maybe even one) can do it with just as much success. Don’t be afraid to get out there – the rewards are huge. The most difficult part for me was simply getting started. But I quickly realized that once I ran out of excuses, it was time to just run.

fat people

Coming Up for Air

Emergency,

I’m generally not a fan of fast food, but in an effort to bond with my new coworkers at my first medical job, we went to KFC for lunch. A few tables away, an extremely elderly woman started coughing and crying.

The Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices hadn’t gone down so well.

“OH MY GAWD! She’s choking! Someone call 9-1-1!” some lady screeched, while everyone else just stood around.

“NO! Don’t call 9-1-1!” the lady’s son retorted. “We can’t afford it! She doesn’t have insurance and I can’t pay for it. Do not call 9-1-1! Please!”

“Motherfucka, call 9-1-1!” bellowed a very large Black man who had come running out of the kitchen donning an apron and a kitchen knife. “Bitch, call 9-1-1 before I fuckin’ kill you!”

“Fine, call 9-1-1, call 9-1-1!” whimpered her death-wishing son. “Call 9-1-1!”

As this comic scene was unfolding, everyone began to stare in our direction, as my coworkers and I were wearing scrubs. And despite all of us working in non-clinical roles at the time, scrubs equate to “They must know what to do” in the minds of plain-clothed onlookers.

I knew she wasn’t choking as she was coughing and moving air, but I went over to the table and did a quick finger sweep of her mouth and throat to clear out all of the mushed chicken and a piece of bone that was in there.

Shortly after, the paramedics arrived, gave her some oxygen, and she began to settle down a bit while we went back to eating our lunches. Her son didn’t get his inheritance that day, anyway.

 

“Um…excuse me, sir? Hello? Sir?” squeaked a mousey voice coupled with a tap on my shoulder.

As I turned my head, I was met by a concerned 11-year-old girl.

“I think my friend is choking. Do you know what to do?”

Looking across a few tables at the Whole Foods food court, I spotted an even younger girl clutching her throat, face beet red, eyes panicky wide.

Afraid I would crush her tiny frame if I tried the Heimlich, I gave her a number of hard back blows before a solid chunk of hamburger and bun finally flew out of her mouth.

A crowd of on-lookers had formed during the mini emergency, standing around watching. The only suggestion made was from a woman who kept saying, “Give her some water! She needs water!”

Nice try, but throat clenching is not the universal sign for thirst.

The girl’s mother and aunt thanked me profusely, the Whole Foods manager gave me a free beer, and the now-breathing girl calmed her tears. I later found her hamburger dried to my boot.

 

On my way back to Virginia from the Delaware beaches, two people on a crotch rocket (with more CCs than brain cells) flew by at nearly 100-mph, weaving between cars. They were both wearing helmets, but the driver was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and the female passenger was wearing white sandals, jeans, and a t-shirt.

A few miles ahead, my friend and I came up on brake lights, debris in the road, and stopped traffic. As we were forced to the shoulder, there was a group of people circled around something on the ground. It was the female passenger, unconscious on her back, next to the motorcycle that was in multiple pieces. It had slammed into the back of a minivan that had stopped abruptly. Her sandal was melted to the exhaust, and her feet and hands contained more gravel than skin, bone exposed. So this is what road rash looks like.

Her boyfriend, who had been driving, was clearly in shock, as bones from one wrist protruded through the palm of his hand. He hadn’t even noticed. He was trying to light a cigarette, but couldn’t stop shaking to manage the lighter. He was pacing and kept yelling, “I should have never bought a bike. I should have never bought a bike!”

The motorcycle was only a few feet away and I could smell the gas and see it dripping on the hot exhaust. I yelled for a few of the onlookers to move it, and they picked it up and threw it into the grass on the side of the road.

Her cracked helmet was already off of her head. None of the bystanders would touch her because she was bloody. The woman regained consciousness briefly while my friend and I tried to stabilize her. She quickly became combative and tried to get up but her legs weren’t moving. With her bloodied hands, she grabbed my neck as I was kneeling over her head and wouldn’t let go. She kept begging not to let her die and talked about a child. She then lost consciousness, began to seize, and started to vomit. She never regained consciousness while we were there.

After what seemed like hours, the advanced life support unit arrived, boarded her, and arranged for a helicopter to meet them farther down the highway. The rescue squad asked us a few questions and helped clean her blood off of us. I never found out what happened to her.

 

I’ve had a few other experiences similar to these over the years and one theme remains common throughout: When there is an emergency of any sort, most people do nothing. That is the worst possible option. Even if you have no first-response training, at the very least, pick up a phone and call for help. In the situation with the motorcycle crash, no one had thought to call 9-1-1 until we asked. Hard to believe, but it happens. Keep a set of latex gloves in your aptly named glove box so you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty if the need arises. If you do have training, direct others in the situation. People are generally willing to help if told what to do.

The situation can be scary, for sure. But don’t hesitate to help. It could be you or a loved one on the ground some day.

And don’t feed bone-in chicken to the very elderly…

firstaid

 

Keeping an Open Ear

Overheard

I have an English degree – or so says the expensive piece of computer-generated calligraphy hanging from my wall. And technically, I won’t own this command of language and literature until a few more years of student loan payments have been processed. A job offer (in sales and marketing) whisked me away to Washington, D.C. in 2006, dangling carrots of health insurance and a shitty salary. As the job quickly became unappealing, my lunch breaks grew longer, and I would often find myself wandering around the city.

After gobbling down a meatball sub from Potbelly Sandwiches, I sat at my favorite bench in Farragut Square to observe the daily antics of pigeons and alcoholic panhandlers, both showing an equal stronghold around the statue at the park’s center. A young woman sat down next to me, wrapping up her cell phone conversation. She slammed her flip phone shut and turned to me. Fists clenched, she angrily screeched, “Why does every guy I date always end up fucking my friends?” I had a few ideas, but she angrily stomped off before hearing me out, likely for the best.

While her situation was clearly a misfortune on repeat, it gave me the idea to start recording the weird and often hilarious conversations I frequently overheard in DC Metro. I opened the idea to a few coworkers, and gradually, a list of comments began to grow. My goal was to ultimately start a website where readers could submit their own overheard stories, but I never got around to it. Not long after, someone beat me to the punch with the same idea and created the blog, Overheard in DC.

That said, I have maintained my list of overheard conversations since the idea was born in 2006 and it has been revived now in Philadelphia. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, here are a few of my favorite conversations. Feel free to submit your own stories in the comments section.

A bike messenger next to me while waiting to cross at the 17th and K St, NW DC:

“Hey man, there’s a lot of money in wieners.”

“What?”

“Yeah, my buddy does the taxes for the wiener cart guy. He makes like 70-grand a year.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, so like I said, there’s a shitload of money in wieners.”

Perhaps he’ll trade in his bike for a hotdog cart.

 

A conversation between two George Washington University students at Rumors, a local dive bar:

“Do you think Hitler liked matzah?”

Nien. Final answer.

 

Overheard while exiting the Smithsonian Station of the Metro:

“Mom, where are all the Black people? You said there were lots of Black people in D.C.”

Congratulations. You’ve taken Metro to the least-diverse part of the city.

 

As told by a five-year-old girl in McDonald’s:

“Don’t ever trust a girl. Ever.”

Wise beyond her years.

 

Overheard on the East Potomac Golf Course as a fox ran across the green:

“Honey, look! A Dingo! There’s a dingo on the green.”

“Uh, that’s a fox. Pretty sure they don’t have dingoes in DC.”

“You sure?”

Oh, the elusive urban dingo.

 

Overheard while waiting to board a cruise ship:

“This would be a great time to be a swinger again.”

“Mom, I thought you were done with that.”

Eww.

 

Overheard on the National Mall in DC:

“I would have thought that the mall would at least have a Gap. It is the National Mall.”

No Walmart, either.

 

A warning while walking the dog on a city bike trail:

“I don’t know if I would walk any farther. There’s a BIG deer ahead. He just kept staring at me and he has little antlers. I’ve never seen one in the wild like this. He might attack you and the dog.”

The wildlife is breathtaking in D.C. Metro.

 

Overheard at the University of Pennsylvania while med students discuss their current rotation over lunch:

“Man, I hate this rotation. Every morning I wake up and think, ‘What could possibly make this day better? Oh yeah, my finger in a stranger’s ass.'”

And you’re $200k deep in debt.

 

Wishing you and your family a very Happy Thanksgiving!

Nine to 5-O

Cops,

Whenever a friend is under the weather but feels that he or she must go to work despite the illness, I always pose the simple question: “If you don’t go to work today, is anyone going to die?” For the majority of my friends, the answer is usually a resounding, “No.” (“Tom, if these spreadsheets aren’t done by close of business today, heads are gonna roll!” Really? Are they?) However, for a select few who work in medicine, emergency response, uniformed services, and law enforcement, absence from the normal work shift could very easily result in harm or death. Love em, hate em, or a sweet smattering of both, law enforcement officers have one of the most challenging jobs out there.

Staying out of trouble is not terribly difficult. Blame it on genetics, common sense, or good parenting, but I’ve never had the desire to hotwire a car, sell crack, or solicit a prostitute. (And I was single for a long time.) But even a good egg will crack occasionally.

While in high school, I worked in the telemarketing department of a home remodeling company. The office atmosphere harbored a constant permastank blend of tobacco smoke and ass, as the barely mobile workforce of vending machine connoisseurs waddled in and out from smoke breaks. So when the manager asked for volunteers to canvass a nearby sporting event with fliers, I jumped at the chance to get off the island.

As I placed a “Buy one window, get one 50% off installed!” flier under the 493rd wiper blade of the day, a cop came up behind me. “Sir, what are you doing?” as he pointed up at the “No Solicitation” sign a light post away. Without much discussion, he detained me, and since I clearly looked threatening, asked me politely to sit in the front seat of his running squad car while he phoned my employer. After much dialogue and a visit from the owner, I was allowed to go, only after recollecting all of the fliers. This horrendous offense against society never made it to my record.

Stopped in a snowfall induced back up, I knew an illegal left-hand turn would bypass the delay and get me home to my college apartment much faster. I checked my surroundings, and when all looked clear, shot across the intersection. With the magic of a thousand unicorns, the light bar of a Morgantown police cruiser lit up my review mirror without warning.

Where the hell did he come from? As I rolled down my window, the officer asked for my license and registration. I dug for a minute in my glove box, found the paper work, and when I turned to hand it to him, he had vanished. No car, no cop, no flashing lights. Afraid to leave the scene, I sat in my car for 15-minutes just to make sure he was not planning to return. He did not. Perhaps he had just seen Super Troopers and was laughing at me from afar.

After returning a DVD to Blockbuster, (yes, you once had to leave the house to rent a movie) the refreshing spring air of a Sunday morning captivated me and I peeled out of Blockbuster like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit. (In a Grand Am, not a Trans Am. It felt more cinematic at the time, I swear.) As I approached 75mph in a 30mph zone, the only car I passed happened to be a West Virginia State Trooper. As I watched him make a U-turn in my rear-view mirror, I pulled over and had my license and registration waiting, head hung low.

“Son, just where in the fuck where you in such a hurry to get to on this fine Sunday morning?”

“Well, to be honest officer, it is a really nice day, had my windows down, and just felt like putting it to the floor. Sometimes, it just feels good to go fast.” Honesty is not always the best policy.

He just stared at me, chewing on his gum, hand resting on his gun. Crickets.

Finally, he said, “I don’t think I like that answer, boy. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna ask you again. And you’re gonna tell me, ‘I was on my way to church when you stopped me.’”

More bovine gum chomping.

“Son, just where in the hell where you in such a hurry to get to this morning?”

“Uhh…well, sir, I was, uh, on my way to church when you stopped me.”

“Son, you better get the fuck out of here then. Don’t want you to be late. It’s Sunday.” He stepped back from my car and pointed toward the open lane in front of me. I pulled away, still not sure if I was unknowingly participating in a redneck version of highway cat and mouse. He did not follow, as I headed slowly in the direction of a church.

I have a handful of equally entertaining stories of encounters with law enforcement, mostly involving traffic stops for speeding or a burned out third brake light (didn’t know I had a 3rd brake light until then). About half of the time, through engaging conversation, I’ve managed to get away with just a warning. Being polite, responsive, and friendly can go a long way, as most of my dealings have been entirely positive. Each day, as they strap on the vest and badge, law enforcement officers (and other first-responders, military, and medical personnel) are in constant danger, and we owe them a debt of gratitude for simply showing up to work.

And you thought this post was going to be filled with donut jokes.

Okay, maybe just one.

cop & donut

Worth the Wait in Fur

Dogs

When I write, I sit down to an empty Microsoft Word document and wait. Occasionally I will have a topic brewing, but most of the time, I sit patiently until a few neurons fire and initiate digital movement across the keyboard. Many days, it is a quick process. But occasionally, those neurons find themselves slow to fire, perhaps a bit retarded from a night out on the town. The cursor blinks on.

“Jjkljnnn.” Sometimes, an idea slaps me in the face. Or paws the keyboard. Minus the punctuation, that hodgepodge of letters is courtesy of Odie, my Labrador-mutt mix who is equal shares adorable and deplorable.

I have loved dogs since I could first talk. When my mom was pregnant with my sister, I was often asked by cutesy grown-ups, “What do you want, Michael, a brother or a sister?” My response never wavered. “I want a dog!” (Sorry, Megan. You’re great, too!) After years of begging for a Golden Retriever, a parent-child compromise led to Winston, a supernatural Yorkshire Terrier who lived for almost two decades. While in college, I frequently visited the local animal shelter just to walk the strays around the yard.

In 2009, I moved to a house in need of furnishing and being on a budget, I took to Craigslist in search of end tables for my living room. Lo and behold, nestled between couches and ottomans, was a misplaced ad that merely read, “Free Dog.” The link led to a lovable picture of a mutt wearing a T-shirt and an oddly cheery “smile.”

Against better judgment, I set up a time to meet with Odie and his donors. Like a blind date gone wrong, Odie looked nothing like his picture. His body was shaved (a drunken act of his owner, I was told) with the exception of his mane and tail, his skin was peeling from a summer sunburn, and he was covered in wart-like growths, some as big as a half-dollar. When I asked for a leash to take him for a test drive, the woman looked at her husband and said, “Oh, honey, we don’t have a leash, right?” I had a piece of rope in the car, tied it to his collar, and took the 38-pound lion-leper for a stroll around the block. On our return, Odie stopped at my car and wouldn’t go any farther. At that moment, the donors came out with all of Odie’s belongings packed into a bag. Sad eyes, tail wagging, the little bastard sold me.

Odie and I stopped at Petco on the drive home, and while waiting for the cashier, a young girl pointed at Odie’s shaven and wart-laden body and yelled, “Oh my gosh, Mommy, that dog is so, SO ugly! What is wrong with him?” Suddenly, I was the parent of the “ugly kid.”

Over the next few months, Odie settled in to my routine. But then, as if he was afraid of losing his spot in my home, he became aggressive towards strangers literally overnight. Anyone who entered the house was a threat and Odie would attack if not restrained. Having guests became impossible and Odie even played his part in ending a relationship.

I tried obedience training, hired behavioral and aggression experts, and through the generosity of a coworker, even met with an animal communicator, which proved to be just as weird as it sounds. (Without knowing his background, the medium said that Odie had been beaten frequently and he kept asking, “Is this my forever home?”) And as if my “Free Dog” hadn’t cost enough already, he developed a large anal tumor that required invasive surgery. So my crazy, biting dog now had ass cancer. Does life get any better?

Despite pulling through the surgery, the overwhelming suggestion was that Odie should be euthanized because of his behavior. Even with the toll he had taken on every aspect of my life, I just couldn’t pull the trigger.

As a final effort, I decided that I wanted to try Odie on anti-depressants, as I was confident that his behavior was a result of anxiety. Despite a lack of willingness, I convinced my vet to prescribe Prozac. It didn’t appear to have much effect…until the prescription ran out. Oh my. Within days, Odie was hyper, anxious, and irritable. I put him back on the Prozac, increased his dose, and waited.

Gradually, when visitors came into the house, Odie seemed less fearful. He would initially act aggressively, but then would quickly warm up once he perceived no threat. When my friend, Marisa moved in with me, we suddenly had twice as many guests as before. With each new encounter, Odie became desensitized and began to remember faces.

Odie owes his life to Prozac. It reduced his anxious behavior enough to learn that not all encounters are threatening and allowed for repeat company to reinforce that fact. He is almost entirely rehabilitated from an abusive living situation that undoubtedly led to his aggression, and he seems happy, content, and is quite lovable.

His head on my hand as I type this, I can feel Odie’s rhythmic breathing against me as he snoozes. His hair has grown in, his warts have vanished, and he’s now two years cancer free. His loyalty to me is unrelenting and in some unspeakable way, he seems appreciative of his new life. I look forward to his enthusiastic greeting as soon as I walk through the door.

If you are frustrated with something or someone, I encourage you not to give up. The rewards can be numerous, even if the process takes years. And while Odie continues to nap, I’m going to finish this beer that’s wedged between the couch cushions, as I am still in the market for end tables.

OdieProzac

Happy Shalloween

Halloween

I am not what most people would deem a “planner.” Breakfast is a gamble, my daily wardrobe is decided by the criteria of “dirty” and “clean,” and sometimes, I miss a week or two with the razor. So it may come as no surprise that just hours shy of Halloween, I do not have a costume.

Call it a lack of creativity, a lack of foresight, or both, but even with the promise of copious amounts of chocolate spoils, I just can’t get my ass in gear. I have always found myself slightly jealous of shapely women who can slap on cat ears and tights, insert the word “slutty” in the title, and poof, with the wave of the scantily clad wand, a costume emerges, free drinks in hand. Fortunately, my days of slinking around as a sexy kitten are over, as I meow maintain a physique that demands coverage. So that begs the (age-old?) question – what do fat kids do on Halloween?

Well, if they live in North Dakota, they best not ring “Cheryl’s” doorbell. While she refused to provide her last name, this Fargo resident will be offering something more repugnant than candy this Halloween – her opinion. At the discretion of her trained eye, Cheryl will be handing out letters to young trick-or-treaters that she deems more subcutaneously gifted than their slimmer counterparts.

The thesis of her letter reads, “You (sic) child is, in my opinion, moderately obese and should not be consuming sugar and treats to the extent of some children this Halloween season. My hope is that you will step up as a parent and ration candy this Halloween and not allow your child to continue these unhealthy eating habits.” (It seems all 3rd grade editors were unavailable at the time of publication.) In a follow-up radio interview, Cheryl blamed the parents of the meaty masqueraders, stating, “I think it’s just really irresponsible of parents to send them out looking for free candy just ‘cause all the other kids are doing it.” Eloquent and educated.

Now I am not going to dismiss the consequences of obesity, as I have witnessed negative effects of added pounds on both clinical and personal levels. In the body mass arena, it is fair to say that to some degree, less is more. But Cheryl’s letter begs a much more pertinent question: “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

In an era when body image judgments are a staple of the daily diet, why not inflict additional damage by handing a pudgy princess a “fat letter” in lieu of candy as a reminder that her shape is unacceptable and her parents are doing a poor job? Maybe every “Dora the Explorer” should be given an INS interview in place of Reeses’? Last time I checked, most people who are obese are very well aware of that fact, even at a young age. Unsolicited reminders of a condition are often equally unnecessary and unwelcome.

Being a kid is not easy. And being “different” from your peers is certainly no picnic. At an age when venom is spewed by childhood counterparts from every possible angle, the unwanted opinion of the adult do-gooder down the block only adds insult to injury. While everyone is entitled to an opinion, not all opinions are valid, especially when they convey a misguided message.

So on behalf of Trick or Treaters both thick and thin, Go Fuck Yourself, Cheryl. You have two months to come up with a better idea to ruin Christmas. Perhaps crucify Santa while serving low-fat reindeer jerky? Until then, cancel that print job, switch off your porch light, and leave Halloween to those who appreciate its magic.

Text of the letter borrowed from N.D. woman to hand out “fat letters” to obese kids during Halloween by Michelle Castillo appearing on October 30, 2013 on CBS News.com.