What kind of goober doesn't own an ice scraper?

Being a Transitional Resident essentially means that I'm on loan to various specialties for this entire year. It turns out that you get treated a little differently when you're on loan instead of owned -- kind of a like a rental car that gets driven hard, used recklessly, filled with the cheapest gas possible, then passed along to the next renter. In other words, being a TY is like being the bastard stepchild of every hospital service that I'm on. Currently, that service is Surgery and I'm taking a daily beating of unparalleled proportions. The beatdown starts dark-n-early every morning.

Icing on the cake: This morning, as I went out to my car at 4:15am, realized there was frost on the windshield, subsequently realized I somehow don't own an ice scraper anymore, then frantically used my bare frigid fingertips to scratch a teensy-weensy peephole through the ice on the driver's side at eye level so that I could get to work, I realized that winter still exists. Even in Virginia.

An 80+ hour workweek I can handle. But winter? Again? Seriously? Sigh. Can't we just agree to cancel that this year?

People Math

Mathematics has long been established as the language of science. Venerated nerdy disciplines like physics, chemistry, population genetics, astronomy, physiology, and computing are all modeled on it, and their major discoveries are communicated through it. You know one place where math is lacking? A domain with only rare lukewarm math usage? The domain of human personalities and social interactions. I say the time has come for social math! Let's start with two new mathematic ratios:

1. The Bang to Talk Ratio (BTR). Credit for this first theory goes to my former classmate, Fima. He's smart, educated, and social, with an occasional dash of smarmy. Clearly one of the great sociologic thinkers of our era:

(In all fairness, he doesn't usually wear a purple and teal poly-vinyl track suit. This was at an 80's night party our class had. Normally, the smarm isn't so flagrant. And normally, I'm not wearing a side-ponytail plus a denim jacket from the Lisa Turtle Collection.)

The Bang to Talk Ratio describes how often two people physically interact with each other compared to how often they actually talk to each other. It can describe any social dyad. Every human relationship falls somewhere on the continuum.

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For example, two professional co-workers would have a

BTR of 0:1 = 0 = All talk.

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The two vapid, hormonal, subintellectuals who are always making out on the park bench when I'm walking to the library, who never even come up for air and may as well be mute because they probably don't verbally communicate at all, would have a BTR of 1:0 = infinite = All bang.

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Fima was in a long-distance relationship when he came up with the concept of the BTR. The BTR of two people in a long-distance relationship varies wildly, depending whether you ask them when they're in separate cities (pegged at 0), or visiting each other in the same city (veering toward infinity).

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Simple social math at its finest! Thank you, Fima!

* * * * *

2. The Sportsbra to Lacy Undies Ratio (SLUR). This one arose from a conversation with my sister, Bonnie, as a way of characterizing any post-adolescent female. If you look in any gal's drawer, you will find a varied mixture of inner-wear. Some of the items will be spandex/dri-fit/lycra/Nike/Reebok. Some of the items will be lacy/animal-printed/impossibly tiny. The number of items in the former category compared to the latter category constitutes the Sportsbra to Lacy Undies Ratio.

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A higher SLUR means more sportsbras: practical, sturdy, not maximally flattering but a definite hint at all kinds of fun, sporty, awesome adventures.

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A SLUR nearer to 0 means more stuff that's alluring and pretty but deliberately useless.

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You can tell a lot about a girl by her SLUR. For example, the 1976 East German Women's Swim Team may have had a

SLUR nearing 1:0 = infinite = All sportsbra.

Generations of "Is that a dude?" jokes resulted.

I'll go out on a limb and say Paris Hilton's SLUR = 0 = All senseless fluff.

This lady is anybody's guess, but she's awesome regardless.

Dragon's Tooth

My friend, Michelle, recently mentioned a quote from Marjorie Hinckley:

"How did a nice girl like me get into a mess like this?"

Yesterday I went hiking on part of the Appalachian Trail called Dragon's Tooth. I came across this remarkable tree next to the trail and it made me think of that quote. The base of the tree is twisted and deformed, crushed down sideways along the hillside. It must have gotten knocked down by a storm or another fallen tree, probably about 50 years ago judging by its size. What a mess. But instead of just dying there on the ground, for some reason that nice tree decided to take a 90-degree angle to grow right back up toward the sky and keep on living. That tree officially has my admiration.

The Dragon's Tooth hike itself was great. It's named after a massive spire of rock on top of the final ridge.

The tooth just begged to be climbed. The back side isn't quite as steep, so it was easier than it looks. (No near-death experiences were had!) But since the camera self-timer maxes out at 20 seconds, this is the only photographic evidence of reaching the top: As further proof of reaching the top, you know the archetype of a person seeking knowledge who climbs a sharp mountain peak and counsults with a wise guru? Based on what I found at the top of Dragon's Tooth, apparently the meaning of life involves writing on rock with a Sharpie.

Nothing screams "This relationship has the shelf life of a banana" quite like declaring your love with trail graffiti.

I ate lunch at the tippy-top of the spire, and then the boulders at its base begged to be climbed, too.

It was just a beautiful day to be walking, thinking, and playing outdoors . ...Especially since I discovered the meaning of life.

The Patented Minnesota Ab Workout

This weekend, I went back to the frozen north to visit some of my best friends in the entire world! There's nothing quite like 4 years of shared academic torment to solidify enduring friendships.

After a shift in the ER on Thursday, I flew into Milwaukee and arrived at midnight. Matt picked me up at 1am after he finished his own ER shift. In the morning, we drove to Rochester to meet up with everyone else. We stopped off along the way at a psychadelic, animatronic, seizure-inducingly wickedawesome restaurant in Madison, WI, called Ella's Deli. It has its own carousel out front. Need I say more?

In Rochester, we all hung out, went to the rock climbing gym, had dinner, played games...

Katie, Justin, Di, Zac, Jorge, Val, Matt (Please note that even though it looks like Justin's head could fit about 7 of Zac's heads inside of it, this is due to the magic of panoramic photo distortion, not because Justin is a macrocephalic FLK.) * * *

And then on the last day, for random reasons that none of us fully understand, the visit took a strange tangent. Jorge's back was sore, so his fiancee Val was stretching it.

It turns out that Val is freakishly strong:

And that Jorge is freakishly fearless:

And then we discovered that Matt can make me fly:

And that I'm an epic failure at lifting anything:

Then Jorge wanted us all to try a 4-way push-up. Val was worried we'd accidentally kick a hole through the very nice flat screen TV, so we had to take our amateur enthusiasm outside. But her dog poops like a champion all over the back yard, so we ended up in the front yard.

Then Val found a website chock full of stupid human tricks for us to try. It had a bunch of pictures sort of like this, and we dedicated a good chunk of the morning to attempting them all. Many wipeouts ensued.

Translation: We spent a good chunk of the morning in the front yard convincing the neighbors that we're a bunch of nut jobs.

Justin and Katie recently got engaged. I think this should be their wedding announcement photo, don't you?

The three-person push-up stack wasn't so tough. We decided to try four, but I guess four is the magic threshold for structural collapse. You can see the trouble brewing here:

...wait for it....wait for it...

FAIL!

But with a surprising number of other moves:

SUCCESS!

This isn't an acro-yoga move. Sometimes the guys just like to hum the Superman theme song and make Justin fly around.

The morals to the story:

- Friends are amazing.

- Amateur acro-yoga causes extremely sore abs.

- Jorge's neighbors probably considered calling the cops.

It's been awfully windy lately...