10 Things I Hate About You – Part II

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Well, when I wrote the original ’10 Things I Hate About You’, I actually had no intentions in writing a Part II. However, as hubby pointed out, it was totally unfair that I got to vent all his less-than-appealing traits to the public without any input on his part. He felt that since he didn’t get to defend himself, everyone should know about the things he hated about me; our’s being an equal relationship and all.

Hang on a minute. As far as I was concerned, he loves everything about me. Absolutely everything. I am flawless, perfection itself, and can do no wrong.

Well, wasn’t it a reality check when he unceremoniously handed me this list.

1. You are permanently attached to your phone.

Ok, I need to be contactable at all times for my patients. You should understand that, you are a surgeon yourself. So what if I occasionally use it to check my Facebook, Instagram, WordPress, email and maybe crush some candies. I can’t NOT have it on me! What if a patient desperately needed my advice after surgery? And what if I missed out on my best friend posting her latest hot date on Instagram? I may need to give a life urgently on Candy Crush. It’s life-saving stuff, this little phone and all that it conveys.

2. You don’t know how to say ‘No’ except to me.

That’s a bit harsh. I can’t always say yes to you, otherwise we would permanently be stuck in bed. You know you might actually have an issue, the number of times you ask for it, maybe you should seek counselling or something like Mr X-files in Californication. Oh, what? Oh, you didn’t mean that? *Blush* Oh, ok. Yeah, you are right, I just can’t say no to people. It’s just one more patient to add to the list, one more favour to do for a colleague, one more committee to join or one more meeting to organise. I know it takes up too much of my ‘spare-time’ *insert sarcastic laughter here*, but I am just trying to help out. I don’t always say ‘no’ to you. I mean, you don’t really need me to cook dinner for you, do you? There’s Lite’n Lazy in the freezer that you can pop in the microwave if you are hungry. You do know how to operate the microwave on your own, right? How about some take-away? Just look it up on google and dial it on your iPhone. I am sure you will be able to find a present for your mother’s birthday – you don’t really need me, it’s not as if she’s liked anything I’ve given her in the past. It’s just that other people really need me, and you are so capable, darling.

3. You are always rushing me

Well, if you don’t always drag your feet whenever we are heading out, or take so damn long getting ready, I wouldn’t be rushing you at all, would I? If you would just spend one minute less admiring yourself in the mirror, and stop practising your Blue Steel, I wouldn’t have to scream at you to hurry up.

4. You don’t like my friends

You don’t like my friends. So we are even. You think my friends are opinionated, loud, and coo-coo. Well, let me tell you, your friends are narcissistic, chauvinistic and appreciate the wrong things about women. Yes, I know all about the tits and bum scoring system that you and the boys whip out on your nights out. And I don’t even want to know where they take you during those escapades.

5. You don’t find my jokes funny

I know, I am sorry I may have misled you. I used to laugh at your jokes when we were dating. I was being polite, and I wanted you to like me. Then, when we were past the dating stage, I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Now, I really just don’t find male stupidity funny. And you have to admit, the quality of your jokes have deteriorated from our dating days. You weren’t exactly telling me the types of jokes you are relaying to me now. No, I definitely don’t remember the words ‘boob’ or any references to the male genitalia in any of the jokes you told me all those years ago.

6. You don’t listen to me when I am talking to you

Sweetheart, let me know tell you something about women. We multi-task. Yes, it may seem as if I am not listening to you when I am texting on my phone, reading a post on Facebook, watching TV or ‘working’ on my computer, but in actual fact, I have been listening to you. I may not respond – usually because I don’t really like what you are telling me, but trust me, I heard you. I may make sympathetic noises, which I know annoys the crap out of you, but that just means you are ranting and raving about something totally inconsequential again. You do realise that you talk at me and not to me sometimes, especially when you start a tirade about some political issues in the paper. You would raise your voice, get all hot and bothered, and then you look at me as if I was the culprit causing all the trouble. What do you want me to say? I am sorry for everything that the Australian Labour Party has done?! Trust me, Hon, I am listening. I heard you the first time, as well as the second, third, fourth and fifth time.

7. You can’t sleep in and that means I am not allowed to sleep in either

You always complain that we don’t spend enough quality time together. Well, having breakfast together is quality time, right? I mean, if you want to spend as much of my waking moments with me, then you need to get up when I do. There is no point me eating on my own at 5am on a Sunday morning, if you ate with me, you could talk and I promise to listen.

8. You fall asleep at the dinner table

Trust me, this takes talent. It’s not easy to snatch speed naps in between courses. You should know better than to book an 8-course degustation menu at the 8.30pm sitting. By the time the dessert arrived, it was midnight. I am getting old, if you haven’t noticed; I am usually passed out with my glasses around my nostrils by 9pm. So if you want me to stay awake for dinner, you better feed me at nanna time by 6pm. Or clear my schedule for a nanna nap in the afternoon so that I can be prepared for a big night out.

9. You count my drinks

Ok, this is easy. There are a multitude of reasons I don’t like you drinking. You have a strong family history of alcoholism. You use it as an excuse to get out of driving (and you know I hate driving in the dark). You have very posh taste in alcohol – you would have nothing but Moet, Grange and 18 year plus single malt whiskey. You can tolerate such a huge amount of alcohol (thanks to your Eastern European genes), it gets rather expensive when we go out. You are a terrible drunk. You go straight from sober to the funny drunk with no warning. And you know exactly how I feel about your jokes when you are trying to be ‘funny’. The funny drunk stage only lasts for 10 minutes before you become the sleepy drunk, or rather, the unconscious loud-snoring drunk who obviously has issues with his own airway, because the snores are regularly punctuated by convulsive thunderous snorting when your addled brain reminds you to breathe. And you wonder why you find yourself sleeping on the couch the morning after.

10. You break the Fart Trust

Just give me a minute to explain the Fart Trust. The Fart Trust is the ultimate form of trust in a marriage. The problem lies in the fact that you and I have very different definition of the Fart Trust. To me, it means that you own up to your fart. To you, it means that you warn your spouse before you fart. Now, I understand you have issues with my ‘silent killers’, but I am a lady after all, and I don’t go around letting it rip loud and clear like you blokes do. If you asked me, I would gladly own up to my own farts but I don’t see why I have to verbally announce them.

 

So there, I do hope you feel better now that you have exposed my unappealing side to the public. Maybe it’s not fair that I get to defend myself with your list, but Hon, this is my blog. Get your own if you think your views have been poorly represented.

Oh, and of course,I love you too.

Watch out girls, Dr McDreamy is in Town

A few nights ago, I attended a dinner gala event held for a surgical conference. I sat at a table with a group of surgeons I knew very well, many of whom I have either gone to med school with, or gone through training with. We are a miscellaneous group, with each of us in different surgical specialities. When I went through surgical training, there were very few females, so my table was filled with men, except for two other women who were the wives. Two of my closest friends, Daniel* and Rohan*, sat on each side of me. My husband also sat at the same table, and he knew that back in the days before I met him, Rohan and I had a very brief relationship. Dan was Rohan’s best friend, so he treated me like his baby sister – that was, until he and I started dating when Rohan left me to chase someone else in skirts (yes, yes, it was all a bit complicated). Fortunately, for our friendship, Dan and I realised it was a mistake before it got untidy. My relationships with them made me the envy of other girls in med school. If Grey’s Anatomy was around at the time, these two would have been the epitome of Dr McDreamy and Dr McSteamy.

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Now, most people would have considered our current dinner seating to be an awkward situation, but this is the funny thing about the medical fraternity. A lot of doctors have relationships with each other, some turned out well, some not so well. At some point in our careers, all of us will end up having to work or deal with each other in our profession. And that is the price you pay for having a relationship with another colleague – apart from the wagging tongues of nurses, other doctors and whoever else thinks it’s their business. You learn very quickly, if you are dating colleagues, to separate personal life from working life. Majority of break-ups between doctors end amicably, and being fairly intelligent people, we get over it pretty quickly, because the only way to be professional at work is to clear the air and get on with what’s important.

I have been lucky. Rohan and Daniel patched up their friendship after Dan and I went our separate ways. Although there were some awkwardness moments for couple of months, we all became very close friends, especially after I entered surgical training. When my husband entered the scene as my boyfriend, they also became good friends, so it was not unusual for the boys to hang around our place to watch a football together or for all three of them to go out for a drink after work. Daniel got married four years ago, and his wife is expecting a second baby.

Rohan, on the other hand, is another story altogether.

Rohan was a new cardiothoracic surgical trainee at the time when I was an easily impressionable naïve 2nd year med student. Tall, dark and handsome with startling turquoise eyes, he was pretty much irresistible to women. And he knew it. I was flattered that he paid me any attention, but I was forewarned by the nurses on the ward of his predatory ways. They said he targeted young medical students and interns, and there was not a single young female surgical intern who had been able to resist his charm. He left a trail of broken hearts in every department.

I was determined that I wasn’t to be his next victim. I kept my distance and laughed his invitations off. I pretended not to be affected by his flattery, and concentrated on being diligent with my studies. I tried to impress the seniors on the team with my hard work and knowledge. I stayed in the operating room later than others to watch procedures. One night after a long case, he invited me to share a burger with him downstairs at MacDonald’s. Thinking it was just a casual ‘lets-grab-a-bite’, I agreed. I don’t know whether it was the fatigue or just plain stupidity, the rest was history after that.

The relationship lasted 3 months. Two weeks after I changed from a surgical rotation to a medical one, and left Rohan’s team, he announced that he wanted to date other people. It was a statement, not an invitation for a discussion. Even though I had always known it was coming. I was hurt. I cried on Dan’s shoulder. They were nice broad shoulders and Dan, a neurosurgical trainee, was also tall dark and handsome. And so the story went.

Anyway, back to the dinner. While we were walking towards our table earlier in the evening, my husband commented on the increasing number of female doctors in surgery and how young they looked. He got a jab in the rib from me for his efforts. He teased Rohan that there’ll be plenty of girls for him to chose from during the conference. Dan commented on how short and tight the mini dresses were these days, and I joked that he was not supposed to notice these things now that he was married with 2nd baby on the way. Rohan then mourned the fact that the majority of the girls in short tight sheaths are not of the correct BMI to wear those outfits. My husband chuckled and shook his head as another one in tight short dress wobbled by in her platform heels or ‘stripper heels’ as he fondly called them.

Once we sat down for dinner, we did our usual catch up of what each of us has been up to. Rohan couldn’t resist firing a few digs about Dan’s marital status, as he had always viewed Dan’s marriage as the ultimate betrayal of his loyal wingman. In the meantime, Dan made a few comments about Rohan’s womanising ways, which he now viewed as a one-way dead end to self-destruction. Then both them started launching an avalanche of abuse at my husband across the table for taking the best woman off the ‘meat-market’. (Yes, that would be me preening at the compliment and attention). He returned fire with a friendly retort, ‘hey, you guys had your chance and screwed it up.’

It wasn’t long after we had our entrees before various young female doctors started to approach our table. They stopped by ‘just to say hi’ to Rohan. He, of course, lapped it up like a cat with a bowl of fresh cream. Daniel was getting his share, but he knew better than to misbehave since his wife (who was back at hotel with the baby) is an anaesthetist. For those who are unfamiliar with the socialisation of the surgical fraternity, anaesthetists have nothing to do during the operation except talk, or surf the net (apart from keeping the patients alive, of course), so they are like the accelerators on the gossip grapevine. The best source of juicy updates on any surgeon’s personal life came from the anaesthetists; they often work with several surgeons, so the sources are usually reliable.  Dan knew if he was up to no good, she would be the first to know. Meanwhile, I was busy watching these young nubile things walk around the table to stop by my husband’s seat and his oh-so-friendly smile at their sweet-talking.

‘Stop snarling, Tiff.’ Dan chuckled next me. He only laughed harder when I denied it. ‘If looks can burn, those girls would be needing skin grafts by now.’ I reluctant looked away and tried to stop grinding my teeth. To distract myself, I started watching Rohan’s interactions with his swarm of admirers. Dan and I started a commentary on each.

‘Nah, too short,’ I said. ‘Look at how high those heels are.’ I really was just jealous at the fact that she could actually walk in them.

‘He doesn’t mind the short ones.’ Dan said, ‘Not one of his rules.’

Oh Yes. Rohan’s rules. We knew them well.

Rule Number One: Don’t sleep with nurses. According to Rohan, sleeping with nurses is like sleeping with the enemy. Once you do it, you will fall under their influence and rule. It was not to be done.

Rule Number Two: Don’t sleep with anyone in your own department. This is pretty self-explanatory, according to Rohan, it’s like shitting in your own backyard. Break-ups can make your life hell and one should never mix business with pleasure.

Rule Number Three: The size of her butt must fit the bum scale. So, he is discriminating against large girls. The bum scale is basically the width of two hand-spans (his hands of course). Sometimes I catch him holding up his hands – spreaded to check the width of some random girl’s butt size. Luckily, he has very big hands that wear size 8 gloves, so there was a good deal of girls who fit the bill.

Rule Number Four: No older women and anyone within 5 years of his age. Mature women want relationships, marriages and babies. It wasn’t for him, and he hated expectations. He wasn’t into mature women (which I pointed out meant he wasn’t mature enough to handle them.) He blithely agreed and continued on.

Rule Number Five: The younger the better. I asked him once if there was a limit (apart from the legal one of course). He said that the youngest ethically acceptable age would be his age divided by 2 plus 7. So basically (he’s 40), the youngest for him would be 27. I have no idea where he got that from, but I shudder to think that when he is 60, he’ll be chatting up 37 year olds! His response to my skepticism was ‘You are only as old as the woman you feel.’

I know he sounds despicable and is obviously an incorrigible womaniser, but Rohan is not a bad person. He has a good heart and goes out of his way for others. He is always clear to the girls he dated that he was not into relationships of any sort. He never lies, and doesn’t mistreat women. He always lavishes affection and attention on the girl of the moment. He is loving and generous, and never holds a grudge. He is kind and loyal to his friends. He makes people laugh, and is surprisingly dependable in times of need. I have watched him stand up for a bullied upset junior doctor against another surgeon once. The junior doctor was one of his many past conquests.

I once asked him why he asked me out when I was a med student, since I didn’t fit all the rules. I had always suspected it was because I turned him down so many times. He said that truthfully, he didn’t know, but he was in awe of my work ethic and intrigued by the fact that he enjoyed having long conversations with me. I guess he had never dated girls for their conversation skills before me. He told me: ‘You were my one exception.’ Awwww.

‘Oh Shit,’ Dan tapped me on the shoulder. ‘He is going in for the kill.’

I realised suddenly that Rohan had his head bent down way too close to a young lady crouched beside his chair. His hand had moved up to her shoulder. He complimented her on her outfit, a tight sheath which enhanced her perfectly athletic BMI. I sighed in resignation. Dan leaned over me, trying to catch their conversation.

‘If you are not doing anything after the dinner, can I take you out for a drink?’

Dan and I burst into laughter. At the confused look on the young girl’s face and Rohan’s warning growl, we both put on our most innocent butter-won’t-melt-in-our-mouth smiles on, and directed our attention back to the baked red grouper in lemon sauce and mango salsa.

Watch out girls, Dr McDreamy is in town.

Just a bit more eye candy for my readers.

Just a bit more eye candy for my readers.

* names have been changed to protect privacy of individuals

A Letter of Apology

This is probably going to be one of the most un-feminist blog I will ever write, but this is one letter that I need to wite.

This is a letter of apology. A letter of apology to my husband.

Dear M,

Every night when I come home from work, I look at your face, and I constantly search for signs of disappointment, resentment and regret in your eyes. I wait for the day when you realise that you have made the wrong decision, or got the raw end of the wife-deal. I count down to the day that you realise you have married a neurotic, anal-retentive female surgeon who is a useless housewife.

Instead, you greet me every evening as if you haven’t seen me for weeks. You hug me as if you have missed me every moment of the day and you kiss me as if it will erase every bad moment I have had during the day.

So I feel that I owe you an apology. Well, several apologies to be exact.

I am sorry for all the last minute cancellations, of romantic dinners, first-time outings, long-awaited concerts, thoughtfully prepared picnics and all other events that we were supposed to have attended.  For the outings we have managed to attend, I am sorry for each and every time we have had to leave early because I have had calls from the hospital.

I am sorry for every date that I have stood you up for, because I got ‘caught up’ at work. I am sorry for when I have kept you waiting, sitting alone at restaurants because I couldn’t just leave an anxious patient ruminating on their fears.

I am just really very sorry that it seems you are not the number one priority in my life.  I give up any enjoyment with you at the drop of a hat because I think someone else needs me more than you,  and they need me more urgently.

I am sorry for all the hours I spend doing paperwork at home when I could be spending it with you. And for bringing them home in the first place because I didn’t have time to attend to them at work – I have been too busy spending time with patient.

I am sorry for the long days and evenings I spend with my colleagues, in clinical work and in meetings; the nights and weekends when I should be having lazy late brunches instead of lecturing, teaching and demonstrating in tutorials for the junior doctors and students; the weekends when I travel to attend conferences instead of walking on the local beach with you.

In fact, I am just plain sorry that I spend more time with my patients, students and colleagues than I do with you.

I am sorry that  when I get home I am so tired that I can’t carry on a decent conversation with you over dinner, or the number of times I have actually fallen asleep in my chair during dinner.  This includes evenings on the sofa when you are telling me about your day and I respond with loud snores. I am sorry for the times when I am not listening to you because I am thinking through an operation, or figuring out diffiult clinical dilemmas in my head. I am sorry for answering my text messages from patients and colleagues while we are talking. And yet, you listen to my constant whinging about my work, hanging on every word and providing advice to help me think clearly.

So I want to say sorry. Sorry that most of the time when I am with you, I don’t give you my 100% undivided attention.

I am sorry that you have not married a Domestic Goddess, that I don’t cook, clean, or pack your lunch for you. I don’t see you off to work every morning with a kiss and a wave in the driveway. I am sorry that you have to do the groceries, drop off the dry cleaning, hang out the laundry and cook me dinners at all hours of the night when I come home from work. Despite all this, I am ashamed that I still begrudge the times you lie on the couch watching sports, stay up all night bingeing on your favourite TV shows and the Saturday nights you spend drinking at the football match with your mates.

I am sorry that I get so busy, I forget our wedding anniversaries and your birthdays.

I am sorry that sometimes I haven’t been able to be with you when you needed me. I am also sorry that sometimes when I get so upset at work, I lash out at you. I am also sorry that I cause you to worry, when I indulge in frustrated tears.

But most of all, I am sorry for each and every day that I forget to thank you for loving me, the way I am.

Smoked Salmon

It was after a very long day at work.  A complex operation that took me ten hours, standing on my feet, without a break.

I was so tired I was almost asleep by the time my car rolled to a stop in the garage.

Dinner was served to me at the table, lamb racks, fresh boccoccini, tomato and basil salad. My husband and I ate silently. I was too tired to evening lift the fork to my mouth, let alone make any intellectual conversation.

‘Is dinner ok?’ He looked at me in concern.

‘Yeah.’ was my half-hearted reply, pushing a piece of cheese around.

‘Don’t you like the salad?’ he asked, almost defensively. ‘I thought you like it, that’s why I made it.’

‘No, no, I like it.’ I said, too tired to argue. Which obviously came out pretty unconvincingly.  In actual fact, I did, and I do. It is one of the salads he makes which I love. I was just too tired.

He looked at me suspiciously.  ‘Are you just saying that or do you actual like it?

A pause, then he asked in a slow, deliberate tone, ‘Is it a smoked salmon?’

Ever since the ‘smoked salmon incident’, I have lost my husband’s trust in my ability to tell him the truth of what I like and what I don’t like.

It happened two years ago. At the time, he was working in the UK, and I was visiting him. He was working night shifts, and because he needed to take the car to work and was living quite far out of town, he made sure there was plenty of food in the fridge for me before he left for work each evening. A week down the track, he was cleaning out the fridge and noticed there were packets of smoked salmon sitting on the top shelf in the fridge.

‘Why aren’t you eating the smoked salmon? They are nearly out of date.’ he asked me. ‘I bought them for you.’

I walked over to the fridge door and looked at him in confusion, ‘but I don’t like smoked salmon.’

He looked me incredulously in return. ‘Are you telling me,’ he said in a dangerously quiet tone, ‘that after 18 years, I am just finding out that you don’t actually like smoked salmon?’ A deep breath. I could almost see the pressure increasing behind those grey eyes. ‘Why haven’t you told me before? Whenever we are at the supermarket, you just let me buy packets of salmon!’

‘Because I thought you liked it.’ And I did.

‘So what did you do with all the packets of smoked salmon we used to buy?’

‘I had to keep throwing them out because they were out of date. I was wondering why you kept buying them and not eating them.’

‘Because I was buying them for you. I thought you liked them.’ By now, I was sure the neighbours in the next apartment has their heads under their pillows.

And so there it is. Smoked Salmon. I had to tell him, after 18 years of being soul-mates, that….. I. Don’t. Like. Smoked Salmon.

The truth is. I don’t hate smoked salmon. I will eat it if Í have to, or if there’s nothing else to eat. But I don’t deliberately go look for it, or seek it out. If there was a choice on the menu, it will not be my choice.

It took me a while to realise why I have never bothered to tell him I don’t like it. It was simply because I thought he liked it. And similar to most couples (who, like us, have obviously been together for too long), I sometimes end up doing things or making decisions to please him, because what makes him happy, makes me happy, and most of the time, it wasn’t worth the effort to debate about it.

Unless it’s something I really hate. Like Golf. I drew the line at Golf. He was on his own for that one.

So when he refers to a ‘smoked salmon’, he is basically referring to his lack of trust in me to tell him the truth about my preferences. He is now constantly suspicius that I do things or make decisions to placate him. I am working on regaining that trust – which I did have for the last 18 years until that sudden moment of enlightment at the fridge door.

But most importantly, for me, a ‘smoked salmon’ is a reminder that I need to be truthful to myself, and trust that even if I don’t like what he likes, he still loves me.