Happiness is.
Feb 8, 2012
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 24, 2011
Oct 28, 2011
A mini farm to call my own. . .the produce.
Imagine with me, if you will, a sea of raised beds cultivated with love. . . and giggling with glee!
Baby corn!
Cherry tomatoes!
Mini pumpkins!
Tiny gherkins!
Wild strawberries!
Maine blueberries!
Mini cabbages (otherwise known as brussel sprouts)!
Baby greens!
Pearl onions!
Mini peppers!
Baby carrots!
Crab apples!
*sigh* I love my imaginary mini-farm.
Oct 26, 2011
Our story.
Brendan climbs rocks.
Elizabeth climbs rocks.
One day, they climbed rocks together.
Brendan likes Planet Earth.
Elizabeth likes Planet Earth.
One day, they watched Planet Earth together.
Brendan drew Elizabeth a picture of a blind salamander with external gills.
Elizabeth made Brendan a flip book of clouds, balloons, hearts, and wing suit flights.
They were the strangest people they'd ever met, and decided they'd know each other for a long time.
The tale of the bloody head.
Brendan and I often climb together after dark and in the off season at a gym called 'Momentum' in Sandy, Utah. We climbed there together on October 8th 2008 (our first date, you could say). A few days later, we returned for another flirtation filled evening... Brendan was trying to impress me with his powerfully agile climbing, and decided not to clip the last bolt before making an impressive move to the top of the wall. Unfortunately, I was paying more attention to his backside than the belay. Brendan took a hard fall, whacked his head on a hold, and blood started to well up between his fingers as he held his head. I felt terrible, and used the first aid kit to fashion a dressing reminiscent of the Civil War. I dragged him through the back door of the ER (after filling out the accident report at the gym without mentioning the absent minded bum looking) where one of my work homies stapled up Brendan's laceration. It was only a flesh wound, but his green face and sweating made me cry a little bit because I knew his suffering was a direct result of my excessive oogling. I vowed then never to let it happen again! At least the flesh wound part.
The End.
Oct 16, 2011
Miss Representation 8 min. Trailer 8/23/11 from Miss Representation on Vimeo.
Taking a stand.
I was the first born child in my family, and it never occurred to me that there were people who thought I was incapable of certain intellectual tasks because of my gender. My parents made sure of it. When I was in medical school, my male classmates told me the only reason I got to scrub in on surgical cases was because I was sleeping with the male surgical residents. That must have been it *pause* NOT. The reason couldn't have possibly been that I was staying in the hospital overnight on weekend nights trolling the ER for interesting patients while they were busy bar hopping, playing golf, and attempting to pick up local ladies with promises of a doctor's salary. I'm not joking. I wish I was, because they were playing into stupid stereotypes as well. They weren't bad people, just misguided.
I got to do surgical cases because I WORKED HARD. And I am a doctor because I WORKED HARD. And I hope that little girls (and little boys) that see me while I'm working are never accused of trading sex for advancement, and never feel that their worth is dictated by the size of their breasts.
Oct 15, 2011
Geriatric Superheroes.
When I get old, I'm going to dress like this all the time. All. The. Time. Brendan and I will be a superteam, like the Wondertwins, and I will have a monkey as a sidekick. Or a mini horse. Or a monkey riding a mini horse. Any-hoo, I'm pretty sure old age is going to be AWESOME.
Photographer: Sacha Goldberger
For more amazing photos of Super Mamika, click this link!
A mini farm to call my own. . .the livestock.
When I win the lotto or find a wealthy anonymous benefactor, I plan to quit my job and start a miniature farm. I'm serious, people.
Mini horse.
Teacup pigs.
Pygmy goats.
Tiny cattle.
Bantam chickens.
Just imagine. . .a little barn with tiny stalls, a pigpen with cute piles of stinky mud, a wee chicken coop with wee little eggs, and an extra-small silver pail and short stool for milking short cows and goats. Even the farm accidents would be adorable. . .a tiny stampede?! Oooh, heee haaa, how all the tiny hooves tickle when they trample my body! And being gored by a tiny bull? How could anyone say no?!
See you at the Farm!
PS. This is not me. Sadly.