To make the most of my Mother’s Day, I gave the kids warning.  I texted them nightly starting Wednesday, with their Mother’s Day schedule – brunch at 11, then long bike ride with mom, then dinner with family.  I figured if I nagged them enough it would sink into their little pea brains.  It sort of did.  I woke up Alex who was very pleasant, but then went back to sleep as soon as I left the room.  I woke up Kevin who said, “Do I have to?” and I said, “Yes.  You had plenty of warning.” He staggered to our bed and put a pillow over his face and said, “Wake me when you’re ready to go.  I’m all set.”

I put on bike clothes with some Birkenstocks, and yelled, “OK, you two.  Ready!”  Kevin murmured, “Oh, shit,” and got out of bed.  I called upstairs to Alex, who was obviously asleep again, and he groggily called, “Okay!” but I heard him say, “Oh, shit!”

It was a great brunch – no shit involved.  I consented to giving them a 2 hour break to digest their vegan corncakes before the bike ride.  I hope Adam’s enjoying the nice 5 hour round trip to New York.  Sucker!

Can you guess what the boys are going to say when I wake them up for the bike ride?

Happy Mother’s Day, Everyone!

Adam took off the morning to come hear me talk.  That was very sweet, except that he sat in the second row.  Adam has a really bad habit of not laughing at my jokes when I’m practicing a comedy routine.  (Not that this was a comedy routine, but still.)  He stares at me with a really hard look on his face, as he evaluates what I’m saying, and it makes me insane.  He ran into the conference room today right before my turn came and sat next to me.  It was so nice for him to come that I didn’t have the heart to yell, “Sit in the back!  Sit in the back!”  So I just didn’t look at him.  But, actually, I could hear Adam laughing at something I said that I thought was amusing, but no one else laughed at.  What a husband!

I practiced my timing – I had 50 minutes – so that it fit perfectly, and I didn’t have to skip anything.  The other 2 doctors speaking were a well-known couple from Philadelphia who are a bit older.  They are wonderful and very sweet.  The best part of them was that they repeatedly told me how young I looked.  They said they heard my resume and expected an old woman, and here came a young chick.  I hugged them both when they left and told them I adored them.  I’ve never been told how young I look that many times.  I might have to move into their home.  I could be their maid or something.

Now that I’m done, I’m going for a long run.  Then I’m thinking of doing the bills for Adam.  I used to have that job but he thought I was letting them build up too much, and asked to take over.  I warned him that in the past his bill paying was even crappier than mine.  He rewrote the past in his head, or he might be senile.  When he took over the job, he was really good at first, but has reverted to true form, and now the bill basket in the living room is overflowing.  I think he’s waiting for the electricity to get turned off.  I’m a free woman who just finished her talk.  I can throw him a bone.

OK.  This could be fun.  Maybe.  What’s the topic?  Self mutilation?  How un-fun can you get?  Dr. B  said he picked a topic for me that would have the least possibility for TMI.  How does he know that I don’t scratch my retina on a regular basis?  But, he’s right.  The topic doesn’t lend itself to TMI or humor.  What sort of a crappy topic is that?  It’s just mean, I tell you.  I’ve been working on it for a week and have made it my goal in life to make the talk funny.  At least a little funny.  What if I offend people, you ask?  Well, you have to break a couple of eggs to make a good cake.

Here’s my first slide:

Self-Injurious Behavior

by Robin Altman, MD

            (not that I do it, I’m just talking about it)

I ran it by a patient of mine who cuts herself, today.  “Corny,” she said, but I saw her lips twitch.  “You almost smiled!” I said.  “Did not,” she said.  “Did so!  See!  Another lip twitch!” I said.  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said.  “Maybe you have Tourette’s,” I told her.  “Nice bedside manner,” she said.  Then she really did smile.

Here are some self-injury cartoons I found.  Thank goodness for Google.

This one is my favorite:

It would help, wouldn’t it?  And then there’s this terrible malady:

I promise to give some good information, too.   I just wanted you guys to know – you don’t get this offensive without a lot of hard work.

It’s that time of year again.  The birds are singing, the daffodils peek their sweet little faces out of the ground, and high school students everywhere are getting their acceptances.  Or rejections.  From the school their mother went to.  The school where their grandfather got his pHD.  The school where their great-uncle played soccer and wrote plays.

No, really, it’s perfectly understandable that I got into Penn.  They told us to write the application in pen, so I wrote it in pencil and then traced over the letters in pen.  I tried to erase the pencil underneath, but it got sort of smudgy, so I just left it.  For hobbies I wrote, “I like to read, jog, and babysit.  I also like to play the guitar.”  I can just see the Penn admissions committee:  “Joe!  Look at this application!  This girl is incredible.  She babysits!  Do we have any good babysitters in the class of ’85, yet?  No?  Damn!  We’d better hop on this one lest Princeton grab her first!”

Listen up, Penn.  It’s one thing to insult me, but you didn’t even insult me.  You accepted me!  What the heck were you thinking?  Were those cannabis fumes I saw billowing out of the Furness Building?  It’s another thing to insult my baby boy.  The most handsome, smart, talented boy in the world.  Talented in what?  Hmmm.  He can sulk like the dickins when he doesn’t get something.  He’s a good tennis player.  No.  Not good enough for you to want him.  Kiss my tuchus, Penn.  You’ve messed with the wrong Robin.  When I am on my death bed, doling out the big bucks to worthy institutions, there will be the Altman House for Autistic Adults, but for you, Penn…..nada.  Niente.  Bubkus.  And it’s all because of this grave day.  March 29.  The day you rejected Alex Altman.  Too bad, Penn.  You could have been something.

What I’m Gonna do to Penn

1) Show your tits.  As you age you get shorter, fatter, and your tits sag.  Lift them up with a push-up bra, unbutton your shirt to your navel, and show those babies off.  At least you’re not dead!  It will take the heat off your aging face.  No one will be looking up, I assure you.

2) Always wear giant platforms, wedges, or heels.  Fashion models are not 4’11″.  Neither should you be.  If you distribute your flab over more vertical space, you look thinner.  So what if you fall off and sprain your ankle?  You’re helping the economy by keeping the medical field going.  The guy who tapes your ankle needs to eat, also.

3) Follow every makeup trend.  Don’t think to yourself, “Where would I wear bright purple eyeliner?” Just buy it.  You can wear it anywhere you wear normal makeup.  You don’t know how many times I have caught parents gazing at my garish eyelids in complete puzzlement.  Did I feel embarrassed?  Heck, no!  I felt proud!  I had taken their mind off their problems without even saying a word.  There are people suffering around you, too.  Be a dear.

4) Wear clothes that are too tight.  It’s very comfortable.  Otherwise your fat will jiggle as you walk.

5) Wear tent-like clothing to mix it up.  Sometimes small animals get cold and need somewhere to go.  You can offer sanctuary under your dress.

6) Wear skinny jeans whenever possible.  Hey!  Those teenagers do it, why can’t you!?  At least you have a job.  Spend your hard earned cash on the most expensive skinny jeans you can find.  They will be even more flattering.

7) Wear mini skirts to work.  People love it when you distract them from their problems!  (see #3 above) When you sit down, they’ll be able to look right up your skirt!  They’ll love it! ( But wear underwear. Even I have my limits.)  If your thighs rub together too much and cause red, excoriated patches, use an inner thigh lubricant stick (available on line at Amazon).

Now, go forth and brighten up the world.  Don’t pay attention to the snickering you hear behind your back!  It means you’ve made someone happy!

_________________________________________________________________________________

“Hello! My name is Julia Carlson. I am a Psychology Major at Towson University and am currently enrolled in Dr. J Mattanah’s Research Design and Statistical Analysis class. I am currently looking for participants for my research study in this class. It will take approximately 10 to 20 minutes of your time, is completely confidential and can be accessed at this link- https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/KJ5K88N. Towson’s Institutional Review Board has approved this study.

You must be 18 years or older to participate. Any questions can be directed to me at jcarls4@student.towson.edu. Thank you for your time!”

If I show you guys really pretty pictures, will you forgive me for being such a crappy, intermittent blogger?  I thought so.

Mount Fitzroy

Iceberg

Adam conquers the waterfall

Glacier - Site of My Future Career

I did it! (I forget what the heck I did, but I did something.)

She's not heavy. She's my friend Diane.

More meat. I haven't eaten enough meat. I need lamb. Cook me up some lamb.

On that last note – don’t go to Argentina if you’re a vegetarian.  You’ll starve and die on a glacier.

“You’ll miss them so much one day,” I told myself.

“I know, I know….shut up and go to sleep!” I answered.

“I don’t think you feel sufficiently chastened,” I replied.

I thought about how grateful I should be for my children’s health, and how I don’t think enough about that, either. I thought about some of my patients whom I love who are really ill, and I imagined what organ I would barter away for them to be healthy.  I was iffy on toes for some reason, (yes, yes, I know they’re not organs), but I was willing to give away a kidney if necessary.

“That makes zero sense,” I told myself.  “The recovery time would be horrible for removing a kidney.  Plus, you get a kidney disease and you’re down one of those babies, and you’re screwed.”

“Yes, but think about your shoes,” I said – always the practical one.  “Many wouldn’t fit anymore.  You might even have to wear…dare I say…flats!”

I shuddered twice.

My body felt achy.  I couldn’t get comfortable in bed.  I tried to listen to Isabel’s clever insights into human nature.  I felt my hip bones digging into the mattress as I lay on my side.  Hey!  Wait!  If I could feel my bones digging into the mattress, did that mean I was thin?  Surely a fat person’s flab would cover their bones.  I got up to look at myself in the mirror.  Nope.  My hip bones were well cushioned. Nary a hip bone in sight.

Adam’s alarm went off at 5:00am.  I pretended I was asleep.  Then, I really did fall asleep.   It was blissful.

“You really need to appreciate a good night’s sleep more,” I told myself as I turned off my alarm at 8:00a.

“Oh, shut up,” I replied.

“They said it was my deodorant!” I complained.  “I’ve been using the same damn deodorant my whole life!  Suddenly it stains armpits?  Then they said I must have been sweating abnormally that day.  WTF?  I wasn’t running a marathon!  I was at work!”

“I know a good cleaners,” said M.

“Will they come to my house?” I asked, fingers crossed.  Arm Pit Stainers came to my house.

“I’ll ask,” said M.  She made a phone call right in front of me.  It was an intense conversation with a lot of gesturing on M’s part.  She hung up, looking exhausted yet triumphant.  “They’ll come!” she exclaimed.

Thus, my relationship with the Nice People was born on a shaky note – a friend of a friend doing me a favor.

Nice Man picks up my laundry on Thursday nights.  He plays with my dogs.  He loves my dogs.  They frolic together on the porch.   He tells me about his sons and their college careers in pretty good Korean accented English.  I love Nice Man.  Every so often Nice Man gives me a receipt.  I don’t know what the hell I’m paying.  I never seem to catch up to the month I’m on.  He tells me that this is because they aren’t used to customers for whom they have to make house calls.  It took a long time to charge me.  Now I’m charged a lot all the time.  I still love nice man.

Sometimes I think I’m missing a piece of clothing.  It is always my mistake.  When I call the Nice Lady to ask, she assures me that all of my clothes were carefully tagged and I got them all.  She nicely implies that I might be delusional.  She sweetly recommends Haldol.  Her English isn’t as good as Nice Man’s at these times.  Except for the word “Haldol”.  That is quite clear.  Occasionally I get the item a couple of deliveries down the road.  When something else does not arrive, and I have to call the cleaners I fantasize about bringing up these past mistakes and using it as an example of Nice Lady’s potential fallibility.  I do not do this. I’m scared of Nice Lady.

I got a sweater last week that I never met before.  A brown sweater with green stains around the neck.  I wonder if the owner had smeared deodorant around their neck.  It was a J Crew wool sweater in size small.  There are no size smalls in my house.  I took it to the Cleaners  on the way to work.

“I swear that I asked everyone in the house, but it isn’t our sweater,” I say.

Nice Woman smiles.  She feels sorry for the torture about to come, think.  “Your sweater.” She is definitive.

“No really.  It’s not.  It must be somebody else’s.  I asked my husband and both boys.

She looks down at the sweater, smile gone.  “Everything recorded and tagged for you and no extra clothes.  That your sweater,” she says.

I’m scared I’m going to lose my door to door service.  “We can’t wear it.  We’re too fat,” I laugh, trying for a little self deprecating humor to save my fat and lazy butt.

She holds the sweater up to her slender, wiry body.  “No problem!  I’ll wear the sweater!”  she says, and goes back to work.

Wonder what she’ll do with the green stain around the collar?

“

This weekend I went to a conference at Mass General and stayed with my parents.  I caught a wicked cold (that’s how we say it in Boston), and I came home on the train sick as a dog.  I called off work today, a rare occurence but one that must happen if I’m too out of it.  Who would even want a feverish nose running doctor caring for them, anyway?  No one with common sense I think.

When I got home Adam told me he missed me, and bought me Italian Wedding soup for dinner.  Then he brought me a mug of chamomile tea with honey.

Everything seems quite fair tonight.

Lots of honey on the bottom.