Arrivaderci

That’s “Until We Meet Again” in Italian.  When I was younger I was like that kid in “Breaking Away”.  I spoke Italian, all my friends were Italian, and I lived in “Italian House” in college.  We were supposed to speak Italian all day, but it was too hard, so we only spoke Italian when the RA came to our table during dinner and we’d say things like, “Questi spaghetti sono squisiti!”

This time I’m going to China!  My sister-in-law’s name is Inna Dukach, and she’s a world famous opera star.  Yes, you heard me. The coolness of it is blowing you away, isn’t it?  Yeah, if you think it’s so f-ing cool, try hanging around a gorgeous talented thirty-something-year-old at family gatherings.  Oh – and she’s nice and funny, too.  Ridiculous.  I wouldn’t have married Adam if I had known this would happen.  Here’s my gorgeous sister-in-law and family:

And it gets worse.  She’s tall and thin.  Why me?  It’s like I’m a female Job.

I’m beyond excited.  I put a pad on my shoulder when I got the Typhoid vaccine, because I heard Typhoid is a great way to lose weight.  Squee!  If worse comes to worse I can always drink water from a rural pond.

We’re going to Beijing, where Inna will be performing in the Beijing Opera.  I get to help with squooshy baby.  I’ll squoosh her all day.  Chinese people will call Child Protective Services on me.  I’ll rot in jail – hopefully with a good case of Giardia.

We’ll stay in Beijing the whole time, except for a trip to Xi’an to see the terra-cotta soldiers.  Like the food obsessed people we are, we bought tourist books, but only noted the best duck restaurants.   I’m sure the terra-cotta soldiers will be amazing, but I’m really looking forward to the world’s best dumpling restaurant in Xi’an.  You’ve seen hundreds of thousands of terra-cotta soldiers, all completely different, you’ve seen them all.

Z will be staying with the boys.  Z is tough.  He will keep them from smoking crack.  He won’t buy dog food if it runs out, but they’ll be no crack smoking.  I hope the dogs are OK.

See you soon, bloggy friends!

Food Festival Fun

Sunday, Alex and I volunteered at our Temple’s Food Festival.  I thought I’d be making liverwurst sandwiches, but we were placed at the Middle Eastern Platter table, which was in the deli room.  It was sort of tough to find.  Vegetarians wandered the halls weeping.

The Middle Eastern platters contained falafel.  What is falafel, you ask?  It’s ground up chick peas and spices, which are smooshed into balls and deep fried.  We served it in a styrofoam box which contained 4 falafel balls, pita bread, hummus, tahini sauce, hot sauce (optional), cabbage salad, and regular salad.  The concept was that you stuffed the pita with falafel, hummus, salad and sauce and made a big, drippy sandwich.

Alex sampling the goods:

OK.  I lie. He’s eating a tongue sandwich.   He tasted a falafel ball and thought it was gross.  In fairness, they weren’t that great without the other accoutrements.

Alex was impressed with my work ethic.  I learned what to do and started selling immediately.  Alex filled up some styrofoam containers with salad and hummus, and then left to wander around and eat.  When he came back I was blathering about the health benefits of falafel and selling platters like crazy.

“How do you catch on so fast?” he asked.

“I guess it’s experience, maturity, and wisdom,” I said.

“Pretty cool,” said Alex.

“Plus, I worked at McDonald’s in high school,” I confessed.  “I have a strong urge to ask people if they’d like to supersize their falafel.”

Here is me with the Falafel Crew:

If I didn’t look mildly psychotic, I might have sold more falafel.

 

Screenwriting

My latest writing project is writing an indie film with 2 friends.  I won’t out them because being associated with me can put you on a top-secret CIA hit list.  Let’s just call them K and C.  How about KFC?  That’s sort of catchy.

Anyhoo – I love our movie, and it’s very fun collaborating.  I’m a born collaborator.  I collaborate my head off all day long, and I find that I like it when I write, also.  It fits my personality.  When I wrote “Shrink Rap”, I sent chapters to my friends each time I finished them.  I loved the feedback.  I didn’t want to write in a vacuum.

(For my writing friends, you can skip this paragraph.)  When writers write novels, or non fiction, they get “beta readers” to read their work and give observations and helpful suggestions.  I beta read one book for a friend.  (I sucked, but that’s beside the point.)  Beta readers are usually writer colleagues and friends who do this out of the kindness of their hearts.  Plus, it’s sort of helpful for one’s own work to critique other projects, I would think.  And, it’s nice to pay back the love one day to your friends.

That being said, I’m completely petrified about asking someone to beta read.  It seems like such an imposition.  Just thinking about it makes my guiltometer zoom to 100.  We’re a third of the way through the movie and I’m already sweating it.  I asked a lovely, bloggy writer friend if she knew of any script writers that might beta read.  Being the sweetie she is, she volunteered to do it herself.

Yet here is the problem – movie scripts are really weird.  When you read the script for “The Wizard of Oz”, you think “Huh?”.  (At least I did.)  It’s just so sparse.  You’re supposed to leave lots of space for the director’s interpretation, so a lot of  groovy description gets left out.  I still can’t resist putting in a couple of “camera goes to his brown teeth mouthing the words” sorts of directions, even though I know it’s wrong.

Do I impose on my writer friends to beta read?  Will they think I’m a pain?  Do I need a screenwriter specifically?  Should I lose weight?  Should I move to a warmer climate?  Should I put my kids up for adoption?

Just wondering.

 

Robots are Taking Over Pennsylvania

Coochie

I saw an adorable 14-year-old boy yesterday.  J was tall, spindly and awkward with a direct gaze and dazzling smile.  He politely came into my office, smiled and batted his big brown eyes at me in a charming manner.

“Where were you before you came here, J?” I asked.

“Detention,” said J.

I was surprised.  J didn’t seem like the detention type.  He seemed like the “Robin needs to adopt him and get rid of her own stinky boys” type.

“Wow.  I’m sort of surprised,” I said.  “What did you do?”

“Parole violation,” J said.  (That’s what they all say.  Technically it’s the parole violation that gets you eventually thrown in the slammer, but I’m pretty sure kids know what I’m asking.  They’re little jailhouse lawyers.)

“Yes, but what were your original charges?” I asked.

“Well,” said J, looking as sincere as Thumper telling Bambi about snow, “They said I hit someone, but I didn’t.  I took the blame for my friend.  He didn’t like this girl, so he hit her.  I tried to break it up.”

Hmmmmm. . . “Why would you take responsibility for something you didn’t do?” I asked.  “And wouldn’t the girl explain that you were innocent?”

“Her mother lives in my neighborhood, and said it was me,” J said.  He seemed to think this story made sense.  I was afraid I’d lose him if I challenged the ludicrousness of his stupid story, so I dropped it and moved on to other subjects.  When J left my office, I perused his records.  Ta da!  There were legal  records in his chart.

Here’s what J really did – J and 3 friends approached a 12 year old girl and demanded a blow job.  She refused and tried to run away.  J told her that if she didn’t comply he’d “cut her coochie”.  Who uses the word “coochie”?  What is the world coming to?  Angelic looking boys are secretly psycho rapists with weird vocabularies.

I went home and told my family this bizarre story during dinner.  They were all as fascinated as me by the word “coochie”.

“What a weird word”, said Kevin.

“He’s a sociopath,” said Alex.  “There’s no hope.”

“I’d advise you not to go into psychiatry,” I told Alex.

“Shut up or I’ll cut your coochie,” said Alex.

“Don’t talk about your mother’s coochie,” said Adam.  “Only I can talk about her coochie.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” I said.

The world is a scary and weird place, both in and outside the Altman abode.

I Should Have Nagged and Nagged

Kevin and Alex are now 16 and 15 years old.  They’re nice, funny, smart boys, and in general I’m really proud of them.  I enjoy hanging out with them.  I love their burgeoning minds and senses of humor.  The only problem is, they’ve become refractory to nagging.

I’m not sure where I went wrong.  Did I nag too much in their early years, so that the nag receptors in their brains became super saturated?  Or, did I nag in supersonic spurts that literally blew the nag receptive parts of their brains to bits?  Could they have developed antibodies to my nagging?

All I know is that my nagging is not working.  The simplest example is taking out the garbage.  It’s Kevin’s turn this month.  On Saturday morning I noticed that the garbage was overflowing, and there were pizza boxes on the kitchen counter.  I asked Kevin to take out the trash.

“Sure, Mom!” he said, in what I can only categorize as a cheerful, helpful way.  There was almost a subtext of, “Why, I’d be glad to!  It’s the least I could do for such a wonderful Mom!”  (OK.  Maybe that part was my imagination.)

Later in the day, we were about to drive into Philly, and on my way through the kitchen I spotted the overflowing trash can, the pizza box, and now empty yogurt containers stacked on the pizza box.

“Kevin!” I yelled upstairs.  “You were supposed to empty the trash!  Do it now!”

“Oh my God!” he called down.  “I’m so sorry.  I’ll do it, Mom!  Don’t worry!”

We got home from Philly at midnight, the trash was still overflowing, and now there was a modern sculpture on the kitchen counter of a pizza box, empty yogurt containers, and two more pizza boxes stacked on top.   Empty frozen food containers lay strewn by the microwave.

Kevin was asleep upstairs.  I did not stab him in his sleep.  I’m so nice.

Then there’s my nice, sweet Alex.  He is not doing as well as usual this year.  It’s a real mystery.  Hmmmm…  Sherlock Holmes?  Could you come here?

“Well, Robin, when there are no books cracked open for studying, and no note cards for memorizing things, there’s a high probability that he’s not working hard enough.”

“Oh, thanks, Mr. Holmes.”

Yes, I fear this is the case, yet when I ask Alex if he understands his chemistry, he says, “Mom!  I’m great in chemistry!  I got the best grade in the class on the pre-test.  I rock!”  He looks at me reproachfully.How could I doubt him?

He got a C on the test only because his D on the problem part was brought up by his C on the multiple choice section.

I told Alex 5 times to study for History today.  He looked at me reproachfully 6 times.  I think there was one to grow on.  It is an essay test.  He is “great at essays”, and his teacher never worries about silly little things like grammar.  How could I doubt Alex?

I’m buying stock in Maalox.  I might as well profit from this experience.

 

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Temple Torture

I am not the most religious person in the world.  I consider myself very moral and spiritual, but religious, er, no.  But I try to be a good doobie, and I joined our local temple in a “support my fellow Jews” type of spirit.  I made sure my kids went to Hebrew school and Sunday school, and that they were bar-mitzvahed.  Maybe when I’m old and bored I’ll be more active in my temple.  Or not.  But despite my obvious disinterest and apathy, my temple bugs calls me.

They’re tricky, these temple people.  They use little stubborn Jewish ladies to get you to do stuff.  Before I left for my conference, they sicced Shirl on me.

Shirl:  Hello?  I’d like to speak with Robin Altman.

Me:  This is Robin.

Shirl:  We need people to volunteer for the temple Food Fair on Nov. 1.

Me:  I think I’m going away that weekend.

Shirl:  Where are you going?

Me:  To Boston to see my family.

Shirl:  Are you sure?

Me:  Why don’t you ask my husband about volunteering?  I bet he’d love to work at the Food Fair.

Shirl:  We want you.

Alex was listening to me try to worm my way out of volunteering on the phone with Shirl.  He poked me on the shoulder.  “Tell her I’ll volunteer, Mom,” he said.

Me:  My son, Alex, said he’ll volunteer.

Shirl:  What does he want to do?

Me:  What do you want to do, Alex?

Alex: (shrugs)

Me:  He’ll work in the deli.  Oh, heck.  I’ll work in the deli with him.  Put us both down for working in the deli, Shirl.

Shirl:  I thought you were going to Boston.

Me:  I changed my mind.

I will be making liverwurst sandwiches with Alex at the Food Fair on Nov 1.  Gee, I can’t wait.  Today I got my 3rd e mail urging me to order my blintzes ahead of time.  I ignored the first two.  I’m scared that Shirl is going to call again, so I’m going to order some tomorrow.  They should sic Shirl on Bin Laden.  He’d beg for mercy.

You’d better order your blintzes ahead of time, also.  If you don’t Shirl will get you.  She’ll nag you to smithereens.  (I hope Shirl doesn’t know about blogs.  But if I’m wrong, it was nice knowing you guys.)

Stuff I Learned in Boston

I’m back from an amazing conference at Mass General Hospital on psychopharmacology.  I stayed with my parents and saw my brother Artie, my sister-in-law Debbie, and their kids.  I learned all sorts of things and my head is stuffed with knowledge.

Important Things:

1)  Artie buys cookies that are secretly made with crack.  You can’t stop eating them.  Once you stop eating them, you suffer from withdrawal and need more.  The guy who owns the bakery that makes these cookies is an evil crack dealer.  I hate him.  The butterscotch cookies have the most crack, but the rum balls covered in dark chocolate are a close second.

2)  If you eat a dozen crack filled cookies, you’ll gain approximately 2 pounds.

3) My parents secretly hate me.  They only bought me half a corned beef with cole slaw and Russian dressing sandwich for dinner.  Luckily Artie loves me, and gave me a quarter of his.

My parents each had a quarter of a sandwich for their dinner.  This is why they are shrinking.

4)  It’s not giant Altman poops that clog up my parent’s toilet.  It’s the bizarrely fluffy toilet paper they buy.  Two swipes and the toilet is clogged.  Scott Tissue is the only true toilet paper, even if it makes your ass bleed.

5)  My nephew cheats at Bakugon.

6)  My niece’s teacher is a sadistic nutjob.  Who gives extra handwriting homework on weekends?  I think she trained as a guard instructor at Treblinka.

7)  Psychiatrists are weird.  Compared to the average psychiatrist, I’m flagrantly normal.

8)  People are becoming psychotic about germs.  A woman next to me at the conference was coughing, and sneezed a couple of times, and I thought I’d have to save her from a lynching.  People from the row in front of us turned around to glare at her.

I stayed next to her as an act of solidarity, but I did buy some Airborne during the lunch break.

9)  The word “robust” is way overused at psychiatry conferences.  It takes the place of “strong” or “large”.  Example:  It was a robust effect from a robust sampling of patients.

It sounds jarring to me.  I get distracted by counting the number of “robusts” people use.  Something should be done about this problem.

10)  Neurogenesis continues throughout life.  We used to think the brain stopped making new neurons at about age 12.  Well, that’s not true, and some guy is going to win the Nobel Prize for the discovery.  I don’t know about you guys, but this fact really comforts me.  I used to worry that a glass of wine would kill my already diminishing brain cells.  Now I’m going to become an alcoholic.  What the heck?  I can always make more cells.

11)  I didn’t learn anything about distinguishing between ovaries and breasts.  I’m screwed.

Good-bye Cruel PA

Bye, guys!  I’m going to a conference in Boston for the rest of the week.  Maybe they’ll teach me the difference between breasts and ovaries.  Here’s hoping.

Amusing Follow Up For Y’all

Last week I wrote “An Ode to Mrs. E” as part of Breast Cancer Awareness month, inspired by the always awesome FringeGirl.  I sort of choked myself up with that post, and thought that it would be a nice thing to show to Mrs. E, to let her know her courage was appreciated and that she was admired.  I called Mrs. E and left a message on her answering machine giving the address of my blog.

The always adorable Mrs. E left a message on my machine at work today.  This is the message, pretty much verbatim:

“Hi, Dr. Altman!  Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but last week was sort of crazy.  I found your blog, and that was so nice of you!  It was so sweet!  Thank you so much for saying all of those nice things!  But, er, I didn’t actually have breast cancer.  I had ovarian cancer.  It’s been gone for 6 years, and that’s really good!  Anyway, thanks again.  D has an appointment in December.  See you then!”

Can you believe I am this dumb?  It’s impressive.  I’m considering changing my name and hiding in another country.