Chick Flick

I saw yet another girlie movie today. And I'm not ashamed to admit it: I liked it.

Okay, out with the bad first. There is no way in hell you can diagnose a tension pneumothorax by just seeing someone fall to the grown, or seeing his chest expanded. And there is NO way a person in a coma for 3 months can look that good, without even a hint of muscle atrophy. There is no way you would leave anyone intubated endotracheally for that long (you'd do a tracheostomy). There is no freakin' way (except in Hollywood) that a person with an ET tube for 3 months can speak that well after an accidental extubation. But, granted, that movie wasn't targeting doctors as viewers.

That aside. It was, simply put, a show about fate, and soulmates, if you believe in such things. About how, if the time for something to happen isn't right yet, somehow someway your paths will converge again.

Hogwash, as some would say. But I'm a dreamer.

The main character is a herpes-positive transvestite who plays croquet profesionally.

Not really. She's a doctor.

The gist of it: workaholic doctor who falls into a coma. Meets the man of her dreams while her spirit's out roaming around. Man-of-dreams saves her.

And though the show was oozing with corny-ness and cliches at parts, the part that hit me at a deeper level, was when she pondered at how she spent so much time working, and neglected to live her life. Said something about how she was busy saving lives, she even saved her own for a tomorrow that never came.

Certainly could relate to the part when she catches 30 min naps after working 22 hours.

Overall, I enjoyed it. Go watch, and let me know what you think. Just don't bring any doctor friends. We'll spoil it for you.