Part of me didn’t want to post anything new because then that would push down the pictures of my baby cousins (best feature of this blog so far), but then the other more narcissistic part of me thought about bringing the attention back to me… and so here I am.
But I come bearing socks!So while I was in Paris a couple months ago, between locking my family out of our Airbnb and double fisting croissants, I stumbled upon a yarn store at one of the flea markets. It was actually more of a sewing shop, but in a corner they had a few trays of this yarny type of stuff that looked knittable, and as a life goal (starting today) I try to get yarn from every place I visit (though i will always have an imagiknit shaped hole in my heart), so I bought a couple skeins (or toupets?) and packed them in my bag, right next to my contraband flax seeds, which I accidentally brought home with me and started planting and by doing so probably broke about a dozen international laws (treeson).
Anyway, after thinking about what other knit forms of love I could shower onto my baby cousins, I found this pattern for baby socks on Ravelry and adapted it (anchors have been out since like, 2005) to include stripes, because stripes are slimming and I know how babies get about their breadroll-esque legs (#thighgapstruggles).Other than the colors (i know: ronald mcdonald), are these not your favorite pair of socks ever?! Mother. Fudging. Adorable. I’m almost afraid of sending these (one each, of course) to my cousins for fear of outshining their cuteness (just kidding i would never say that please forgive me, m&z).Here’s the where’s waldo version of my socks (which i also posted ON MY NEW MASCULIKNSTAGRAM! check out all my four pics @masculiknity) as well as evidence that my apartment is now overflowing with plants. Most of them are my new roommate’s (i kicked chester out when i saw him texting during jed bartlet’s 20 hours in america speech. rude.), but I personally am growing (against all odds) two Trader Joe bell peppers and the aforementioned probably invasive species of French flax. I also had a succulent, but a squirrel ate it.
Other than my burgeoning illegal flax farm, a lot of things have changed for me since we last spoke. I am a year older, a year wiser, and forty days away from having my insurance ripped out of my soul (kaiser permanente is a misnomer). I started working in the hospital and having weird medical dreams where my parents are my residents and my friends are our patients. I watched all of Harmonquest in two days. I have also been writing.
I don’t share what I write very often, since 1) I’m much more comfortable filling these posts with as many outrageous parentheticals (JESSICA CHASTAIN MARRY ME PLZ) and pithy self-realizations as I can muster and 2) I’m afraid it will turn masculiknity into an ‘I’m a medical student and here are my encounters with the modern day healthcare system’ kind of blog that people will roll their eyes at because it’s expected and clichéd (ugggh thanks a lot, atul gawande). It’s true that ever since I’ve started spending six days a week in a hospital, I’ve seen and experienced a wide variety of things–things that I struggle articulating into words. And every time I sit down to write about them, alone in my room (more accurately alone on the couch eating fig bars in my underwear), even then I’m terrified of peoples’ thoughts, what they’ll presume about me or say about me based on what I choose to put up here. But if my 3 weeks experience of being a 26 year old has taught me anything, it’s that 1) I probably never stood a chance with her and 2) Atul Gawande doesn’t even read my blog.
***PRN stands for pro re nata, which, in Latin, translates to ‘as the circumstances arise’
Her name is Ruthie.
Not R. Not R.C. Ruthie. Ruthie Crowley if you want specifics. Ruthie Ann Crowley if you already know a Ruthie Crowley and are wondering if we’re talking about the same woman. She eats at the McDonalds on Cottage Grove at least once a week and she wet the bed until she was seven, but her mom made her wear diapers to bed until she was eight just to be safe. Her parents are divorced, she’s allergic to penicillin, and her first kiss was in the seventh grade on a dare with a boy named Ganner. She thinks he’s an auto mechanic out in Atlanta now, but she isn’t sure.
Ruthie has a bad heart. Literally. Read the full post »