Obscure Chronic Illnesses

By now, there has been a spread of awareness, acceptance, and support groups for a not-uncommon condition known as R.B.F.  (For more information, see this public service announcement, or this educational video.)

While I'm fortunate to not suffer from that terrible affliction, with alarming frequency I'm reminded that I suffer from a less offensive but more insidious malady of the facial mimetic muscles:  Resting Generic Face (R.G.F.)

On a regular basis, total strangers on the street wave at me enthusiastically

 

 

...only to do a double take when they get closer, then uncomfortably mumble apologies like "Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

Earlier this Spring, a small child spontaneously pointed out that I look like her American Girl Dolls. That's plural. I apparently look like all of them.

I assume it's because my elbows don't bend?  Total resemblance.

Virtually every woman over age 70 believes that I'm the absolute spitting image of her niece, granddaughter, home health nurse, bartender, in-law, or that nice young lady from church who sells the raffle tickets at the Christmas fundraiser every year.

I'll take two of those tickets. I feel lucky.

It's not harmful in any way. It's not nearly as distressing as RBF must be. Nonetheless, it has me thinking about whether I should take aggressive measures to look more distinctive.

Mohawk?
 

One of Life's Great Mysteries

I have a roommate.

The roommate has a cat.

Jaguar. Miss Jaggles. Cat Face. Kittypuff. Meow meow.

She is out of town.

...The roommate. 

Not the cat.

The roommate is out of town.

Roommate's vacation photo taken while running for her life
after provoking a Colorado mountain squirrel
into a carnivorous rage.

The cat has decided that the roommates' absence is her cue to go full-on
Kamikaze Vomit Rampage all over the place.

 

I still like this animal anyway, but can anyone explain why Miss Feline DemonSpawn has the need to kittybarf her feelings?
If she's lonely, can't she just come cuddle like a normal cat?

Sinister Children's Books, Part 2

From a book of old nursery rhymes.
The words and illustrations speak for themselves.

"Mommy, will you read me a bedtime story?"
"Of course, my darling innocent child. Let's read the one about murdering a Robin while a voyeuristic Fly watches and a Fish catches his blood on a platter!"
"Yaaaaaaayyyy!!!!!"
Sweet dreams.

Sinister Children's Books

While visiting friends recently, I got sucked into the wonderful vortex of reading stories to their nearly-2-year-old daughter. We read this book a lot. A whole lot.

 

 

At about the 4th (or 40th) read-through, a realization began to dawn on me. I'm not sure if I'm cynical or the book is secretly sinister, or both. I should let you read it for yourself so you can form your own opinion before I weigh in, though:

 

 Okay, sorry, I know I promised to let you read it independently. But I have to cut in here. Why are all these predators inviting the sweet edible forest animals to a party?! WHAT KIND OF "PARTY" IS THIS?!  It's like when a python invites a mouse to come cuddle. It's like when I smile tenderly at a Chipotle burrito and invite it home with me for dinner. 

 

Read on:

 

 

 

At this point, I started to think, "Aww. Maybe I was wrong. It's just a sweet little book about all the forest animals living in peace and harmony. After all, in these 3 scenes, the vulnerable succulent prey animals are the ones inviting the carnivores to the party."

 

But then on the final page, I realized:

  

Everybody's got an angle. The bear, fox, badger, owl, and hawk are all just aiming to gather as many edible targets as they possibly can in one place. The beaver, skunk, squirrel, and conniving little rabbit are all just hoping the predators will eat that defenseless baby deer instead.

Moral: Children's books get exponentially more disturbing the more you think about them. So read to your children, but read on autopilot!

Biomagnification

I met my friend Jeremy in med school, back when he and I were both the type of people who sit in the center of the front row, studiously taking notes, marinating in all the glorious nerdery.
Jeremy loves grammar. He despises poor punctuation. Where most of us have bad dreams about failure and monsters and our own untimely demise, I believe typos and inadequate syntax may actually be what haunts Jeremy's nightmares.

One day, I came across a meme and sent it to him. He liked it so much, he made it the backdrop on his computer:

A few weeks later, he left his laptop unattended during a break between lectures, so I hacked in, did a bit of Photoshop mischief, and replaced his desktop with this while he wasn't looking:

The break ended. Lectures resumed.
Minutes passed.
Hours passed.
Days went by.
I wondered if he would ever notice the switch.
The following week, suddenly in the middle of a class he looked at his desktop as though seeing it for the first time and physically recoiled in horror and disgust. It still cracks me up to think about that moment. Simply beautiful, really.

I'm currently stuck at home with pinkeye. Since I can't go anywhere for fear of contagion, the only rational approach to the situation has been to sit on the couch with a box of tissues, wiping my goopy eye and watching my favorite movies. Follow me on a tangential train of thought triggered by the movie marathon:
Watching My Fair Lady got me thinking about language and grammar, which reminded me of Jeremy, but in the larger scheme of things it made me think about the way speech patterns get entrained and passed along from generation to generation.

A parent with atrocious grammar passes it along by example to the child, who then grows up to be a parent with atrocious grammar who passes it along to the child, etc.

But!...
 - it goes beyond mere grammar. Beliefs and behaviors function this way, too.
 - it doesn't just operate at the low end of the socioeconomic spectrum. A fascinating study found that the more expensive the car, the less likely its driver is to stop for a pedestrian in a crosswalk. It's not hard to envision how a parent who is too self-important to bother stopping the BMW for a mere pedestrian passes that self-importance along by example to the child, who then grows up to be a parent too self-important to bother stopping the BMW for a mere pedestrian, etc.
 - I'd be willing to bet it magnifies from one generation to the next, because we tend to partner with people similar to ourselves. (An elitist marries an elitist, they insulate themselves from anything and anyone they consider beneath them, so their children get an even more concentrated version of their elitist example.  ...and/or they inherit hemophilia.)

Gasp!  Clutch your pearls!  Who let in the commoner?!

In a way, the amplification of traits from one generation to the next reminds me of the conservation ecology phenomena of bioaccumulation and biomagnification.  Take the pesticide DDT, for example. It's got a 15 year half life so it hangs out in the environment a long time, and it's fat-soluble so it goes straight into tissue storage instead of being excreted back out after an animal ingests it. Thus, over time, a bottom-feeder accumulates a lot of stored DDT in its body (bioaccumulation).

Then, a fish eats a bunch of those bottom-feeders and all that ingested DDT gets stored in the fish (biomagnification).

A bird of prey eats several of those DDT-loaded fish over time, ultimately ending up with a whopping load of DDT (further biomagnification), which causes the bird's eggs to have thin, calcium-deficient shells that break before the chicks have a chance to hatch, thereby endangering the bird species.

My point in this bio-geek tangent:  Eventually, like DDT, if it goes unchecked by parents and external points of reference, so much ego has accumulated in the family lineage that they inevitably produce offspring who are oblivious to the realities most people face, and a disappointment to the human species in general.

 

With that, I think we finally have a biological explanation for how this happened:

The Awkward Phase

Have you ever been new at something?  New to a job, new to a hobby, new to parenthood, new to driving, new to pet ownership -- doesn't matter; just new at something. 
When you're brand spankin' new, everything's exciting. Every step is a first step, and if that step is wobbly we all understand that it's just part of being new.

 

But then, oh then, a little time passes and you reach the inevitable awkward phase.

 

Not new anymore.

Not adorable anymore.

Not exciting anymore.

But clearly not full-fledged yet.

Gangly and weird, still making mistakes

     but without the galvanized excuse of Newness.

Struggling through the Halfway-There-ness,

     wishing you could just skip ahead to There instead. 

 

Here's to dreaming of someday:

 

Life on the Edge

Another joy of the fellowship interview season has been crashing at a variety of hotels, which brings about the inevitable process of figuring out all the quirks and idiosyncrasies of an unfamiliar shower. 

Here's the actual shower knob

from my latest hotel stopover:

Clean. Simple. Intuitive.

It lulls you into the belief that

the water temperature control will be like this:

In reality, it's like this:

Near-lethal shower knob, I solute you! Because life's too short to settle for boring predictable water temperatures.

Science strikes again

As part of the interview season for fellowship programs, I've been seeing a lot of the St Louis airport for the past few months. In that time, they've finished a tile mosaic mural near the main terminal.

It's very nice.

I think.

Maybe.

Except that every time I see it, all I can think is

"Herpes virus corneal infection."

So in other words, Bonnie wins again.

Science ruins pretty things, indeed.

The Proper Care and Feeding of the Sarah

Speaking of personality tests (tangentially related to the Ok Cupid thing), have you ever taken a Myers-Briggs inventory?
There's a free mini-version of it here.
Go! Take it! Tell me what you are!
Seriously, please tell me. I'm curious.

This is going to sound like an overstatement but I mean it as sincerely as possible, without exaggeration or agenda:  I think I gained more insight to myself from reading the results of this test than from virtually any other 15 minutes I've spent on anything in the last 5 years.
(Yes, even more than the "Which Muppet Are You" quiz. Albeit narrowly.)

If you ever need a spot-on instruction manual for what makes me tick, this is a better description than what I could have ever written for myself:

by Marina Margaret Heiss and Joe Butt

"INFJs are distinguished by both their complexity of character and the unusual range and depth of their talents. Strongly humanitarian in outlook, INFJs tend to be idealists, and because of their preference for closure and completion, they are generally "doers" as well as dreamers. This rare combination of vision and practicality often results in INFJs taking a disproportionate amount of responsibility in the various causes to which so many of them seem to be drawn.

"INFJs are deeply concerned about their relations with individuals as well as the state of humanity at large. They are, in fact, sometimes mistaken for extroverts because they appear so outgoing and are so genuinely interested in people. On the contrary, INFJs are true introverts, who can only be emotionally intimate and fulfilled with a chosen few from among their long-term friends, family, or obvious "soul mates." While instinctively courting the personal and organizational demands continually made upon them by others, at intervals INFJs will suddenly withdraw into themselves, sometimes shutting out even their intimates. This apparent paradox is a necessary escape valve for them, providing both time to rebuild their depleted resources and a filter to prevent the emotional overload to which they are so susceptible as inherent "givers." As a pattern of behavior, it is perhaps the most confusing aspect of the enigmatic INFJ character to outsiders, and hence the most often misunderstood -- particularly by those who have little experience with this rare type.

"Due in part to the unique perspective produced by this alternation between detachment and involvement in the lives of the people around them, INFJs may well have the clearest insights of all the types into the motivations of others, for good and for evil. The most important contributing factor to this uncanny gift, however, are the empathic abilities which seem to be especially heightened in the INFJ type (possibly because it is coupled with introversion).
This empathy can serve as a classic example of the two-edged nature of certain INFJ talents, as it can be strong enough to cause discomfort or pain in negative or stressful situations. More explicit inner conflicts are also not uncommon in INFJs; it is possible to speculate that the causes for some of these may lie in the specific combinations of preferences which define this complex type. For instance, there can sometimes be a "tug-of-war" between vision and idealism (NF) and practicality (J) that urges compromise for the sake of achieving the highest priority goals. And although they have enhanced self-awareness, their introversion may make it difficult for INFJs to articulate their deepest and most convoluted feelings.

"Usually self-expression comes more easily to INFJs on paper, as they tend to have strong writing skills. Since in addition they often possess a strong personal charisma, INFJs are generally well-suited to the "inspirational" professions such as teaching (especially in higher education) and religious leadership. Psychology and counseling are other obvious choices, but overall, INFJs can be exceptionally difficult to pigeonhole by their career paths. Perhaps the best example of this occurs in the technical fields. Many INFJs perceive themselves at a disadvantage when dealing with the mystique and formality of "hard logic", and in academic terms this may cause a tendency to gravitate towards the liberal arts rather than the sciences. However, the significant minority of INFJs who do pursue studies and careers in the latter areas tend to be successful, as their intuition helps provide the ability to understand abstract theory and implement it creatively.

"In their own way, INFJs are just as much "systems builders" as are INTJs; the difference lies in that most INFJ "systems" are founded on human beings and human values, rather than information and technology. Their systems may for these reasons be conceptually blurrier than analogous NT systems, harder to measure in strict numerical terms, and easier to take for granted -- yet it is these same underlying reasons which make the resulting contributions to society so vital and profound.

"Beneath the quiet exterior, INFJs hold deep convictions about the weightier matters of life. Those who are activists - INFJs gravitate toward such a role - are there for the cause, not for personal glory or political power.

"INFJs are champions of the oppressed and downtrodden. They often are found in the wake of an emergency, rescuing those who are in acute distress. INFJs may fantasize about getting revenge on those who victimize the defenseless. The concept of 'poetic justice' is appealing to the INFJ.

"Accurately suspicious about others' motives, INFJs are not easily led. These are the people that you can rarely fool any of the time. Though affable and sympathetic to most, INFJs are selective about their friends. Such a friendship is a symbiotic bond that transcends mere words.
INFJs have a knack for fluency in language and facility in communication. In addition, nonverbal sensitivity enables the INFJ to know and be known by others intimately."
 

Yes or No? No, No, Yes?

Currently, I'm applying for fellowship programs in Oculoplastics. I'm a little past the halfway point of the interview season, and can't help thinking how much it feels like a surreal series of first dates. Behold:
 - I'm interested in them. They're interested in me.
 - We arrange a place and time to meet.
 - I dress up and try to smell nice.
 - We have conversations with varying degrees of awkwardness.
 - They gaze at me intensely.
 - They buy me lunch.
 - I wonder what they think of me.
 - I proceed to wonder if we'd be compatible and happy together. Are they The One?
 - I go home hoping they will ask me out again.  Or, more accurately, hoping they will ask me to move to their town and spend 70 hours a week with them for two solid years.

So, while I was thinking about the weird parallel to dating, a segment came on NPR about analysts who look for useful correlations within massive data sets. They talked to a guy who used to crunch data for an online dating site called Ok Cupid. Apparently, Ok Cupid gives each user a huge personality quiz when the user first registers with the website, then feeds their responses into an algorithm that matches them with compatible users.

According to the analyst, one interesting finding that shook out from the Ok Cupid data was that a couple is a whopping 8 times more likely to be compatible if they both gave the same responses to the following three questions. (It doesn't matter whether their answers are yes or no, it just matters that they both answer all three questions the same way as each other):

1.  Would you ever leave it all behind and go live on a boat instead?

 

2. Do you like horror movies?

 

3. Have you ever traveled abroad alone?

For my remaining fellowship interviews, I wonder if we could just skip the small talk about research and clinical skills in order to just cut to the chase about the important stuff like how we feel about houseboats and slasher flicks. At the very least, it would make the interview conversations way more zesty.


 

The Journal of Gambling Behavior

Early this morning I was right on track for a direct flight out to an interview in West Virginia, then the whole day was changed by a series of brief moments. 

First, I was waiting for a west-bound Red Line train to the airport. The train pulled in with a Red Line sign so I stepped on board with my luggage in tow, but then realized its listed destination was the east-bound endpoint. In a split second of panic, I realized I was on the wrong train, hit the “door open” button, and stepped off before it pulled out of the station. Whew! But standing on the platform, I then watched with horror as the train headed west after all. It had been the right train, just with the wrong sign, and I had managed to miss it.  A split second.

After a nail-biting 30 minute wait for the next west-bound Red Line train, and an inconceivably slow ride to the airport, I jumped off the train as soon as its doors opened and literally ran to the US Airways counter, reaching it at 9:12am which would give me just enough time to clear security and catch my plane. Whew! But they informed me that the cut-off time for check-in was 9:09 am, so they could not give me a boarding pass for the flight.  3 minutes.

The desk agent searched far and wide within her system then issued me standby tickets for a convoluted series of flights that, with a bit of luck, would get me there eventually. She also told me “Off the record, if you happened to run, and happened to reach the gate on time for your original flight, they might happen to let you on, even though I can’t issue you tickets for it.” I ran. More accurately, I sprinted. I arrived to gate C16 out of breath and frazzled at the very moment that the gate agent clicked the jetway door closed. 60 seconds earlier and they would have smiled me through an open door. I was looking through a window at the plane I should be on. All they had to do was turn a doorknob to let me through onto that plane. Nope. All door closures are final.  1 minute.

Why is it that narrowly missing something is so much more agonizing than missing it by a long shot? Regardless of whether I missed it by seconds or missed it by hours, the flight is equally missed, so why did the near miss feel so different; so compelling? 
And why is it that in the wake of a near miss, my next instinct was to look for the Hand of Fate, the deeper significance, the Grand Planned Reason why things went how they did?

Gwyneth Paltrow, for whom the alternate realities of life

hinge on missing vs catching a subway train.

In one reality, she finds her soul mate and exquisite happiness,

while in the other she ends up with a flattering haircut.

I should specify: I do not expect a soul mate or a good haircut to result from this morning's chain of events. My point is that the near miss triggered a reflexive search for meaning that a far miss wouldn't have. As all lost souls tend to do on a quest for meaning, I did a Google search.  (Full disclosure: I searched for "the psychology of near misses," not for "the meaning of life and love and good haircuts." I promise.)

Here's the gem it came up with. It's not exactly on target for my situation, but it's a fabulously good read! I recommend you ditch this blog post and go read the article instead. Highlights:

 - It's from the Journal of Gambling Behavior.  That exists? Yes, that exists.

 - In the short term, near misses (of the nearly-won variety, not the nearly-lost variety) tend to lure people into gambling longer and spending more.

 - In the long term, a person who experiences near miss after near miss stops feeling as stimulated by it. Instead, cognitive restructuring occurs, such that they stop expecting that a near-win this time is any prediction of an actual win next time. This element of it fascinates me. By extension outside the gambling realm, does it mean that exposing people to a long series of near-wins without a real win can extinguish their sense of hope? Conversely, would exposing someone to a long series of near-losses without a real loss extinguish their fear of failure? Can this be leveraged to make the timid more brave?

Winter Crimes

Oh my gosh! Yukigassen! The Winter Olympics need this event!

 

It's organized snowball fighting, set up as a 7-against-7 sport that's a combination between Dodgeball and Capture the Flag, made all the more awesome by several features:

 - The snowballs are pre-made before the competition starts. They require very precise, spherical, perfectly-sized snowballs; 90 for each team to use per minute. That means somewhere, someone gets paid for designing the snowball-making equipment, declaring what constitutes a "valid snowball," and guarding the secrets of artisan snowballery passed down through the ages. I clearly chose the wrong career.

 - They have World Championships. Just picture 100 teams of hardened ultra-athletes traveling to Japan every year during the Sapporo Snow Festival to put on matching thermal jumpsuits and chuck snowballs for glory! Sapporo is home of snowstorms heavy enough to bury people. Based on the ad campaign, it's also apparently the home of a species of smiling mythical flying anime snowmen. Everyone needs more of those in their lives.

- Throwing snowballs is a wild, primal, and possibly criminal activity.  In parts of Colorado and Kansas, snowballs are considered to be a type of missile and are thus illegal. That means that if you feel the need to live on the edge, having a snowball fight in Topeka can make you an outlaw. Training there for Yukigassen would be like living as Bonnie & Clyde. Exciting, right? 

Sounds from Within the Asylum Walls

Prepare to live vicariously through me, experiencing all the glamour of a visit back to Arizona to see my parents!

 

Upon arriving last Saturday evening, I realized the saying "You can never go home" has never been more true. What used to be my bedroom has become a combination office, sewing room, tool storage area, and the place where an odd assortment of funky furniture goes to die. My luxury sleeping accommodations involved an army surplus stretcher on the floor. As an added touch, they upgraded the room to 5-star by removing the cat's litter box. 

 

 

On Sunday morning, I woke up to the sound of my mom's voice outside my door saying "Sarah, do you know how to work your sister's boom box? I want it to play a song again."

My sister, Beth, used to have a boom box. A legitimate gigantic gray plastic boom box with a double cassette tape deck and probably some Depeche Mode stickers, last seen circa 1989. It was her pride and joy...25 years ago.

I was confused. I was pretty sure that boom box was long gone, maybe ritualistically burned in a shrine to Flock of Seagulls or something. I went out to inspect the alleged boom box and found this:  

Beth's iPhone hooked up to a little portable speaker playing a stream of Johnny Cash songs.

I explained the evolution from the boom box to the newfangled invention of the cell phone, and welcomed my mom to the 21st century.

A few minutes later, the phone's alarm clock went off. Mom jumped.

"Sarah! There's an alarm clock ringing! I think it's coming from inside that record player!"

Sigh. One step forward, two steps back. Maybe I should have tried welcoming her to the 20th century instead. 

 



Meanwhile...


I can't even begin to explain this.
I know it's made from the hood of a car,
a piece of lumber painted orange,
the rubber foot nubbin from the bottom of a cane,
a stainless steel turnbuckle,
and a very long single piece of blue twine.
I know my dad thinks it's world's greatest home-made musical instrument.
What I don't know is why.