Frontal Lobe

I'm reviewing a book for Pitt Magazine called "Another Day in the Frontal Lobe." It's the memoir of a brain surgeon, a female brain surgeon in a sea of male ones. Very excellent reading. Early in the book she describes the competitive and aggressive nature of brain surgeons. All I can think about as I read is that this woman sounds like a rugby player.

"They're the kids who never lost at musical chairs," writes Katrina Firlik of these ubercompetitors. Heck! Ask any rugby player you see if he or she has ever graciously lost at anything at all. You will open up a floodgate of "I had to win" stories.

At Freya's bridal shower recently, I remembered how I get when I try to participate in silly games. I am not fun to be around. I don't brainstorm my answers for the bride trivia with other guests and I certainly do not let people copy off my word searches. If I don't leave the shower with the nicest door prize, I do not leave happy. Which is why I think Dr. Firlik and I should be friends.

Sure, she has a husband and baby and a rugby-free life in Connecticut. But that's only because she doesn't know she needs to play rugby and be my friend. She's a writer, I'm a writer. She saves people's lives, I teach people how to read. We are clearly compatible.

I just read a chapter where she put her great big foot in her own mouth by assuming one of her patients couldn't speak and asked his parents questions about him as he sat there twiddling his thumbs. I always do crap like that! I think what I will do is knock on her door the next time I am in CT for a rugby game and challenge her to a contest of skill. If I win, she has to hang out with me. If she wins, I'll speak nicely of her book in the magazine.