Happy Mother’s Day!

When I was a kid, my father would never get my mom a Mother’s Day present.  (He was very nice at Valentine’s Day, though.  He’s get a heart-shaped box of chocolates for her – very cute.)  We’d yell at him and he’d protest, “She’s not my mother!”  This Mother’s Day I grabbed a page out of my Dad’s playbook.  My husband made plans to go into New York to have brunch with his mother and brother.  He asked me to come, and I replied, “Sorry.  Not my mother.”  I thought he’d reply, “Bitch!”, but he didn’t make a peep.  In fact, before he left this morning he kissed me and asked, “Are you sure you don’t mind that I’m going?”  Wow.  I generously  waved him off – the queen giving her benediction to the lowly serf husband.  It felt awesome.

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!

It’s Over

I love doing stuff like that once it’s over.  It’s like taking a really great big poop.  Now I just have to build up for my next big poop.

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.

Mean Old Department Heads

I’ve been really lucky as far as call goes.  I take call for my own patients, who are lovely and only call me at night or weekends for true emergencies.  I want to be called for those reasons!  So everything is awesome, except for vacations.  It’s tough to get coverage for vacations that I can pay back, since I’m not on staff at a hospital.  (If you’re not on staff, you can’t see patients in a hospital.)  I usually get my friend from fellowship to cover me for vacations, but she was busy during my Argentina trip.  I didn’t know what to do, so I asked Dr. B, the head of child psychiatry at a nearby hospital.  He was really nice.  I thanked him profusely and vowed to pay him back some way, but didn’t really mean it.  Maybe I could take him and his wife out to dinner or something.  But maybe they don’t like me and wouldn’t want to go to dinner.  That would be awesome.  I was happy and fuzzy until Dr. B e -mailed me to tell me there was something I could do for him.  I could give a lecture and participate in a half day adolescent psychiatry program this Friday.

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.

Poopy Penn

I was going to entitle this, “Penn can suck my…” but I thought my mother would be upset.

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

Important Advice on What to Wear

In honor of my bloggy friend, FringeGirl, I thought I should write this post.  If FringeGirl had her way, you would all be running around looking cute and fashionable, yet semi respectable.  This would solidify my position as Queen of Questionable Taste, but that’s just not me.  Could I happily maintain my crown when so many others were suffering?  No.  I could not.  Read these quickly, before your mind has been warped by good advice:

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!

Julia Needs Help

This title is misleading, especially coming from a child psychiatrist.  Julia, the lovely girl for whom I helped shop for a junior prom dress, is now a lovely young lady in college. (I read the Julia post (see link) from 4 years ago.  It’s weird to read stuff I wrote in the past.  I sound sort of snotty in it.  It’s mildly embarrassing, which, paradoxically, makes me want to post it even more.  I thrive on humiliation.) Julia is a psychology major, and totally brilliant.  I would have expected no less.  She takes after her mom.  She asked that I post a request so that she can get guinea pigs subjects for a psychology project.  Go, Julia!

_________________________________________________________________________________

“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!”

Argentina is Really Pretty

We went on a hiking trip to Patagonia in Argentina in January.  It was amazing.  The scenery was just incredible.  I found my ultimate sport there – walking on glaciers.  I’m short, heavy, and have incredible thigh muscles from the 50 billion hours at the gym I put in.  Thus, I have a nice, low center of gravity that is perfect for glacier walking.  I wish there were glaciers in Pennsylvania.  I’d be a glacier tour guide in my spare 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.