A Natural Comedian Strikes Again

I’m innocently sitting on the livingroom couch checking my e mail, when Kevin strolls in, munching on something.  (I pray he doesn’t read my blog.  I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.  If I had a “facebook” I’d be screwed.)

“I came up with a great way to handle it when I’m mad at you guys,” began Kevin.  Munch.  Munch.  I point out crumbs on couch, and he licks his finger and pokes at them as he speaks.  “Not that I think we get along badly or anything.  I think we get along better than most of my friends and their parents.  Don’t you?”

I murmur encouragingly.  So what if he’s delusional?

“When you guys say something horrible and my blood pressure shoots up from zero to three hundred, I just take a really deep breath and leave.”  (It’s better than the usual whining with a cracking voice in decibels known only to wolves.  He’s 15 years old.  What the heck is he worrying about blood pressure for?  By his medical estimation, first he’s a zombie, and then he’s a car tire.)

“I was with Dad the other day, and he did his usual, “turn to a stranger in the street and say, ‘Trust me, don’t have kids’ “, and I could feel my blood pressure shoot up.  I did the whole take a deep breath thing, but Dad kept talking!  The whole point is that it ends the conversation!  I wasn’t sure what to do.  But I didn’t yell, so I was proud.  So, what do you think about my new technique?”.  Kevin licks crumbs off his fingers, and then proceeds to pick them off the couch.  (My couch is now free of crumbs, yet covered in Kevin slobber.)

“I think it’s great, and will stand you in good stead later in life.”  I take an exaggerated deep breath.

“Yeah, that’s what I think, too,” Kevin bounces off the couch, and gives me a kiss on the head.  “Bye, Mom!”

I love this kid.  He’s a never ending source of material - the gift that keeps on giving.  I’m taking both boys to Boston this weekend to see my family.  Hopefully, my parents will be as amused as I am.  I’ll have to warn Kevin about the “eating on the couch” thing.  My mom is too old for “slobber couch”.

Dessert Should Be Big

We made Kevin and Alex a deal.  (I’m stopping with the “K and A” thing.  The stories aren’t too bad.  Sue me, boys!)  If they got awesome report cards for spring quarter, we’d treat them to a fancy shmancy restaurant in Philly.  The boys love to eat.  Girls, if you want to win an Altman heart easily, take a cooking course.  (Or get breast implants.  They’re only 14 and 15, after all.)

The restaurant we took them to is exquisite.  It is gourmet Italian, with little tiny portions, that taste like a slice of heaven.  The boys split the spinach gnocchi and almond tortellini as an appetizer, and both got the grilled goat as a main dish.  (Kevin’s evil nanny once cooked us goat, and it tasted like grilled gristle, but this dish is over the top.)

When desert came, Kevin was overwhelmed.  He was petrified that he’d make a poor choice, and regret it for the rest of his life.  (Or at least until the next morning.)  He narrowed it down to the first four deserts on the menu.  His top choice was the chocolate risotto mouse with vanilla gelato.

The waiter arrived, and Kevin asked, “Which desert would you choose out of the first four?”

The waiter deliberated, and ranked them all.  The chocolate risotto mouse was fourth on his list.  Kevin’s face clouded with consternation.  He had to reconsider his choices.  “How big is the blueberry tart?”, he asked.

The waiter placed each rather large hand together so that thumbs and forefingers formed a circle.  Kevin was still confused.  “Which one is the biggest?”, he asked.

The waiter thought for five seconds.  (Or he was counting to ten.)  “The blueberry tart is pretty big, but the other three are taller,” he replied.

Kevin took a deep breath to control his frustration.  “Which one has more mass?”, he asked.

No one threw us out!  Kevin ordered the blueberry tart, and was quite pleased with its size.  He tasted my strawberry shortcake with black pepper gelato, and loved the taste, but scoffed at the puny proportions.  He could sleep in peace that night, secure in the knowledge of an ordering well done.

The Dumbest Comic Standing

I had a lovely experience last night.  The lovely Polly Kahl and I went into Philly to have dinner with famous author, Doreen Orion and her also famous by association, husband, Tim.  I got to talk with Polly about her memoir on the way down to Philly in the car.  (You’re going to love this when it is published, folks.  It’s the bomb.)

We then met Doreen and Tim for dinner.  They are just as adorable as you would expect from reading “Queen of the Road”, and Doreen’s blog (see at the right under “blogroll”)  I’d show you pictures, but I was too dumb to remember my camera - which leads to the next story.

I worked up a nice little comedy set for Helium, a very nice comedy club on 20th and Sansom in Philly.  They have open mike nights on Tuesdays.  You arrive at 6pm, and sign up on a sheet.  They choose people to perform, and you come back at 8pm, showtime, to see if your name is on the list.

I performed at this club for the first time a couple of months ago.  My set at that time was about Jews in Reading.  (Having to be really fast to outrun the rednecks.  That sort of thing.)  A comic told me that when I saw the flashing light in front of me, I should quickly wrap up my set.  He was dead serious and warned me that comics who insist on continuing long after they see the light, (so to speak), are not only frowned upon, but blacklisted from further open mike nights at Helium.  I made a mental note to not let this happen to me.

I began my set, and got great laughs from the audience.  Things seemed to be going swimmingly until I suddenly saw a light go on across the room.  I felt that I had barely begun, but they weren’t going to blacklist little old Robin.  I quickly ended with a joke, although I had gone through a small portion of the material.

When Adam asked how it went later that night, I replied, “Three minutes just flies by when you’re up there, Honey.  You wouldn’t believe it.  I guess I didn’t account for all the laughter at my wittiness.”  (I’m very modest, you know.)

Last night my set was about middle aged sex.  Doreen and Tim were nice enough to come to the club with us, and I really wanted to do well, and make a good impression.  Let’s face it - you don’t perform in front of famous authors and their famous by association husbands every day.

It was deja vu.  I got up there and was rolling along, getting good laughs, when that friggin light went on.  I thought, “Crap!  I thought I had edited my material for the perfect amount of time!  What’s going on?”  Yet, I didn’t want to be a bad, blacklisted little comic, so I ended on a joke, and left the stage.  Polly commented, “Gee.  That seemed sort of quick,” and I said, “Yeah.  Three minutes is a really short amount of time.”

After the show a female comic talked with Polly and me, and gave us advice.  Included in her information, was the fact that there are two lights for open mike night at Helium.  The first light is a warning that there is one minute left.  Then there is a blinking light that warns you to wrap up your set.

No wonder three minutes seemed like such a short amount of time.  It was only two minutes.

I’m waiting for a new show - Dumbest Comic Standing.

I Did It!

Yes!  I had my first orgasm!  No, Sillies, I did my first book signing today.  It was really fun.  I really appreciate my friends and family, not to mention patients’ parents.  Everyone was lovely.  If only I knew people in every city in the US.  My book would sell like hotcakes!

Here is a silly pictorial for those interested.  There’s a weird visual illusion going on, that makes me look 20 pounds fatter than I really am.  Just imagine the same me, but much thinner.  That’s what I do.

This is the sign urging people to show up and buy my autographed book.  I also read one of my chapters.  I don’t think it was the sign that attracted people.  I have a feeling it was the 85 invitations I sent out.

This is me kissing my book.  You have to be nice to your book, or it will refuse to sell itself.  Books are stubborn that way.

This is K and A plotting my death.  K is saying, “I’m friggin’ sick of her publicly humiliating me constantly.  And I’m sick of being a good sport all the time.  Let’s kill her.”

Then A asks, “Can we do it without getting caught?”

And K replies, “Sure!  When she stops yapping we’ll go read about the Menendez brothers for a while.”

That’s me, thrilled to be actually  selling my book.  I’d gladly sign my life away.  Just tell me what to write, guys.  I’ll write anything.  You want my car?  Take it.  My kids?  They’re yours.  (We’ve already established that they want to kill me, anyway.)

That’s Carole, my fellow Movie Maven, and her gorgeous daughter, J.  Carole is thinking, “I know she’s my tv partner, but do I have to go to every little appearance she does?  I can’t take it anymore.  Where are K and A?  I’m going to help them kill her.”

That’s all, folks.  Thanks to everyone for their support.  You guys are better than a really good push up bra.

-Robin

Movie Mavens

Tonight is a new Movie Mavens episode.  For those of you who have never seen our illustrious show, my friend Carole Carlson and I have a spoofy movie review show on our local public television network that goes on live the first Wednesday night of the month at 9 pm on BCTV.  That’s channel 13 on Berks County cable.  It’s also supposed to be on the computer, if you go to www.bctv.org, at the proper time.  I don’t think this works, because my parents have tried to watch it from Boston, as have my in-laws.  My father-in-law, Alby, took it one step further by calling the nice station manager, Sean, and asking him to walk him through the process.  It still didn’t work.

“Please don’t hate me,” I told Sean.

Sean waved my plea away into the air.  “Not at all,” he said.  “Your father-in-law’s really nice.  Is he a professor or something?”

You can always tell a professor, for some reason. It’s a combination of voice modulation and the feeling that they’re going to fail you if you don’t pony up.

Tonight’s Movie Mavens will review You Don’t Mess with the Zohan and Get Smart.  There could be fireworks.  Carole and I strongly disagreed about the Adam Sandler flick.  It could come to fisticuffs.

Ha!  You don’t know chicks, do you?  Carole and I are meticulously polite to each other.  We’re like the Disney chipmunks.  “That was entirely my fault.”  “No, no.  I must insist it was my fault.”  There will be no fisticuffs.  We’ll give our opinions, admire each others’ shoes, and go.  But not before we ask cool movie trivia questions and give away fabulous prizes.

So tune in, guys.  We love call-ins.  Particularly my son, A’s, friends, who can’t resist a crank call.  The little buggers even win prizes every so often.

A Few Snippets

I just talked to my father-in-law, who was disappointed in my sad lack of blogs (it’s only been 5 days, Dude), and accused me of giving up.  Well, far be it from me to forego a challenge like that!  I’ve been storing up snippets.  There can’t always be a big story.  Sometimes there’s just snippets.

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The boys are going to tennis camp today.  I spent yesterday doing laundry, buying toiletries, etc.  Boy do they have a lot of laundry.  It’s amazing.  I could clothe a small foreign country with their laundry.

This morning I was gathering up sheets, and told K and A that they would need to grab blankets, because the dorms would be air conditioned this year.  A said, “I never used my blanket last year, Mom.  It was always so hot.  I would wake up covered in sweat.”

“That makes me feel warm and fuzzy about where I put my little darlings over the summer,” I said.

“I used to wake up covered in shit and vomit!” K exclaimed, and we all burst out laughing.  We’re sick.

The boys will be gone for a week.  “How will you get along without us?” asks A.  “I don’t know, Honey,” (movies, sex, romantic dinners, bikerides) “We’ll try to survive.”  I think we’re both being sarcastic.  That’s the problem with living in a sarcastic family.  Sometimes I can’t tell.

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The great Polly Kahl is having me beta read her book.  She dropped it off at my office in a shoebox.  How cute.  I feel really cool.  Perhaps it’s a bit immature that I skip around town saying, “I’m a cool beta reader and you-oo-er no-ot!  Ha-a! Ha-a!”  It might be the sing song voice that makes people look at me funny.

Polly’s book is really interesting, and I sent her an e mail telling her that I was enjoying it.  I think that was a faux pax, because there are disturbing parts in it, (that I won’t give away), and now Polly might think I’m a psycho killer.  I hope she’s not scared to get in the car with me when we drive to Helium for our comedy gig.  I could lighten the mood by bringing a butcher knife, and waving it around periodically.

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I check the Amazon statistics on Shrink Rap every day.  It seems to be holding at 150,000th.  That means that 149,999 books are bought more frequently than mine.  I’m having trouble even grasping that concept. Those tiny books by the register that have sappy quotes about girls and their fathers, dogs and cats, bugs and entomologists - those books sell better than mine.

I have a book reading/book signing at our local Borders on July 6 at 1:00pm.  I even sent out some invitations.  Just a tad.  (About a hundred.)  I made Adam stop by Borders to see my book display.  We asked the woman at the information booth how many they’ve sold thus far.

“You mean in June?”, she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.  Wow.  If it was broken down into months, that had to be a good sign.

“Four,” she said.

I tried not to cry.  Big deal famous child psychiatrists don’t cry.  “Do you think that’s bookstore shorthand for four thousand?”, I whispered to Adam.

“Want some birthday cake?”, he asked.

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I’m going to go read more of Polly’s book, now, and try really hard not to enjoy it.

Talking with a Doofus Makes Me Act Like a Doofus

I received a phone call from a psychiatrist today. His voice sounded old and grandfatherly on the phone. He wanted to talk to me about a patient of mine, a little boy with awful behavioral problems, he was seeing in a partial hospitalization/summer camp program for kids with psychiatric illnesses. I anticipated a pleasant, collegial conversation. I called Dr. X back.

“Hi, Dr. X, I’m Robin Altman, the psychiatrist you called regarding E (the kid).”

“Oh, yes. Please make this brief. I’m busy,” Dr. X said gruffly. The grandfatherly image went “poof”. “Dude, you called me,” I wanted to say. “And I’m not busy? What do you think I’m doing today? Baking cupcakes?”

“Alright,” I said. “What exactly had you wanted to talk with me about?”

Dr. X preceded to blather on about obvious findings regarding E, as if he were Christopher Columbus discovering America. His tone was that of a frustrated professor, bestowing pearls of wisdom on me. My back was up so high I felt like a cat confronted with a barking dog. He didn’t say anything too dumb, and I didn’t think he would hurt E, so I mostly listened. It was tough to interrupt Dr. X anyway. He was a talker, not a listener.

“So,” he concluded. “I’d like to put him on Strattera in the morning, and a mood stabilizer at night.”

“Which mood stabilizer were you thinking of?” I asked.

“Oh, any one would be fine,” he said. “We all have our preferences. Risperdal, Seroquel, or Abilify. They’re relatively the same.”

Here’s where I lost the high road. His annoying, pedantic, opposite-of-collegial attitude wore me down.

“You mean antipsychotics,” I corrected.

“They’re mood stabilizers,” he snapped.

“No,” I replied in a perfect mimicry of his tone, “They’re used as mood stabilizers, but in this field, when someone says ‘mood stabilizer’ you assume they’re referring to depakote, lithium, etc.”

He spluttered, and I thought to myself, “Why the hell are you getting into a pissing match with this troll?” I had morphed into a 12 year old having a silly fight with another child, and saying, “I’m smarter than you!” as Dr. X blew raspberries at me.

The bottom line was that E would get descent care. Dr. X’s ideas were fine, and probably what I would do anyway. I ended the conversation, a bit disgusted with myself (and really disgusted with Dr. X). Why do people act like that? I missed the good old days of residency when I could chat about patients and throw ideas around with friends. Was Dr. X insecure? Was he a misogynist? (I sound like a little girl on the phone.) Was he a well meaning guy trying to help, and I was taking it the wrong way? If so, why?

I sat for a minute and thought about these issues. Then I did what I always do at work when something is upsetting or perplexing me. I went to the kitchen and looked for birthday cake.

Misfortune Cookies

What the heck is happening to fortune cookies these days? They’re supposed to be fortunes, i.e. tell you what is going to happen in your future. They’re supposed to give trite, nonspecific predictions, such as “you will inherit a great deal of money”, or “you will be going on a fabulous vacation”. Do I have to start giving lectures on the fortune cookie factory circuit?

My sons have been complaining about their fortunes at Chinese and Japanese restaurants for years. I consider their complaints to be completely valid. (One of the few times in their puny lifespans where I have found their complaints valid, and not whiny and self serving.) We crack open our cookies to find strips of paper saying, “A wise man knows when words are not needed.” Hello? That is a statement, Fortune Cookie Writer Man. Or, “you are a person whom others respect”. Also a statement, you doofus.

I went out to Japanese food with my friend Carole, and her daughter J (the beautiful prom dress shopper) tonight. These were our fortunes:

Mine - “You will pass a difficult test that will make you happier.” OK. I’ll give them this one. It is actually a fortune. I’m interpreting it to mean that I will pass my 10 year child psychiatry recertification boards in July, though I have to admit that I sort of assume I’ll pass them. I’ve been doing nothing each day for the past 13 years but child psychiatry. If I fail them, it must mean I’m a moron. If I was a moron, it would make me sad. So, conversely, if I pass them, I’ll be happier (than being a moron).

J’s - “The weather is wonderful.” No. Not only is it a statement, it is a stupid statement. What is someone got this as they were eating Kung Pao Chicken during Hurricane Katrina? It would take a big leap of faith to go with this one. If they’re going for a non fortune thing, it has to at least be vague enough to fit any situation. They can’t choose “you have brown eyes”, for example.

Carole’s - “You lead a useful life no matter what riches are coming to you.” Many levels of no. Number one - let’s hear it folks - statement. Number two - it makes no sense. J valiantly tried to interpret this for us by saying it meant that her mom was useful in ways that had nothing to do with money. I believe this is what the fortune cookie thinker upper might have been trying to say. If only he/she had written “Your usefulness transcends riches”, or something to that effect. As it stands, Carole’s fortune is “You will get fortunes that make no sense, so you might as well enjoy the cookie”.

We mutually agreed at dinner that I would post these fortunes and ask for feedback on Carole’s fortune. Does it make sense? Should she have eaten the cookie? If you all agree that it makes no sense, Carole promises to vomit the cookie back up.

A Day in the Life

The following are assorted anecdotes from the day. They are not related, and they barely make sense, but they are amusing non-the-less:

Adam grew a beard this year. He actually looks very handsome in it. He then decided to shave the beard a little at a time. He began by shaving himself a goatee. He’s keeping it for a bit, although I liked the full beard better. He says women compliment the goatee all the time. (He’s an ophthalmologist, guys. Keep that in mind. We’re talking 80 year olds with thick cataracts.) He’s also convinced that it makes his face thinner.

Today, Adam was on the phone with our friend H, and he said, “I’ve got a goatee!” She said, “OK, bye!” and hung up. Adam was confused, because the conversation had sort of been at mid point. He called her back to see if his suspicions were correct. Sure enough, H thought he said, “I’ve got to go pee!”

Poor H. She was probably thinking, “Dude, I like you well enough, but feel free to keep your urinary impulses to yourself.”

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I went to my friend M’s daughter L’s baby shower today. It was lovely. Everyone was so happy for L and she was positively adorable. I felt awash in warm fuzzy feelings for all. As I left I hugged L and whispered in her ear, “I love you!”

I do love L, but we’re not exactly on “whisper in your ear” terms. I’m concerned that she might think I’m insane.

To add more weirdness, as I bent over to silence a scary talking bear that wouldn’t shut up, I flashed L’s 88 year old grandmother, S, who announced, “Robin, I see your underwear.”

My dress was white, but it had a slip, so I wasn’t sure what was happening. I asked, “All the time, or just when I bend over?”

S replied, “Oh, just when you bend over. Don’t bend over anymore.”

How about when I bend over to launch myself into a hole of mortification?

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We took our nitwits, K and A out to dinner tonight. (It so happened that M,L, S and company came to eat at the same place. I was wearing the same white dress, after napping on the couch in it all late afternoon. They must be thinking, “Why does she keep wearing the underwear dress?”)

It was a nice restaurant, and we were feeling happy. K, in a warm fuzzy moment, (like my “whisper I love you in the ear” moment, I suppose), said, “Hey, guys. I know I don’t say this very often, but you are the world’s greatest parents.”

I choked on my lamb kabob in shock, but Adam had his wits together, and replied, “Thanks, K. That’s really nice.”

Then A said, “What about me?”

Adam said, “Well, you didn’t really say anything, A, but we love you.”

A said, “Yes I did. You just didn’t hear me. I agreed with K.”

So Adam said, “Thank you, A, for going along with K.” That seemed to make him happy. I blew kisses at them both, laughing inside at the idea of A trying to hop on the suck up bandwagon. That’s my boy!

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That’s a pretty typical day in Altman World. It’s a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live here.

The Nature of Humor

When I was in college, I wrote a physics book with my father called “Don’t Be a Dodo - Improve Your Physics Grade”. It taught by pointing out the classic mistakes made by students, and used silly examples for problems, such as “cat juggling”. (We are major Steve Martin fans, and this was taken from “The Jerk”.)

The book was well received by most people. Several professors recommended it for students in their physics courses. We got enthusiastic letters from people who never understood physics until reading our book. Yet, we got one angry and offended letter. It was from a college professor in NY, (my father was quick to point out that it was a barely acredited community college), and it started by saying, “Physics is not funny!” It made my dad giggle, and he put it in a folder called “hate mail”.

Today, I got my first “hate comment”. I deleted it. I know that was wimpy, but it is my blog. Apparently, a woman with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, was searching for articles, and came up with my blog. The comment began, “You call yourself a child psychiatrist?!?!” It was not an auspicious beginning. I popped a Tums before reading the rest.

The woman pointed out that it is Body Dysmorphic “Disorder”, not “Syndrome”. (I’ll be sure to remember that for my recertification boards.) She lambasted me for making fun of people with Body Dysmorphic Syndrome. Worse, she told me that I am not funny at all. Now, that hurts.

I reread my previous piece carefully, feeling terrible that I hurt someone’s feelings. Despite my sarcastic bravado, I am a ridiculous softy, who adores my patients. I even suffer from a delusion that “Shrink Rap” (my book) will help people by softening the impact of psychiatric illness, teaching others, and destigmatizing the whole business. I’ve been practicing child psychiatry for 15 years, and I’ve always found humor to be a healing force.

When I looked at my piece again, I saw no mocking (except of Kiera Knightly, and I think she can take it. She needs to gain weight, anyway). I mostly mocked myself. People who commented, saw a simpatico silliness in themselves, and laughed at their peccadilloes.

Humor is tough to pull off. I’m not saying I pull it off gracefully, but I try. Humor is bound to offend some people, who think subjects are “off limits”. For example, take Sasha Cohen. I personally find his brand of humor hilarious. “Borat” might be my favorite comedy of all time, and I’m a Jew! For that matter, so is Cohen! (In fact, he’s pretty religious. No car rides or electricity on Saturdays. That sort of thing.) Yet, I know many people who were horribly offended by his movie. People I love and respect.

Did that make me think twice about adoring Cohen’s movie?  Why, no. I think the best way to eradicate prejudice is to point out its silliness. What could be sillier than Borat thinking the sweet little Jewish elderly couple he was staying with were evil shape changers? I was holding my sides as Borat swatted at cockroaches, (Jewish shape changers), and threw money at them! To me, it was a clever way to get people to laugh at prejudice. When you laugh at something, it loses its power. My friends, who saw the movie with me,  worried that bigoted people would watch the film and say, “Right on!”.  I figured that anyone that dumb wouldn’t change their minds, anyway.

I feel bad about offending the woman with BDD. The lesson I gleaned was not to put tags with the names of disorders I use in my writing, in case anyone else is misled into thinking that a blog meant to be humorous is educational. Will I change my writing style, or stop trying (apparently unsuccessfully) to be funny? Er….no.

As for “Shrink Rap”, a friend of mine said it best, “Sure, some people will be offended. You can’t help that. But most people will love it. Hopefully, someone who is looking for a serious book, won’t pick up a book that calls itself “an irreverent take on Child Psychiatry”. Plus, it has a cartoon cover with a woman being tied to a chair. Dude, chill out.”

OK. I will.