It Was a Long Long Night

I woke up at 3:50 last night, and reached for my i pod to lull myself back to sleep with a bit of Isabel Dalhousie Book #7, but it just didn’t work.  I found my mind wandering to the most distressing thoughts possible.  First, I dreaded the death of my dog, Tiger.  He has congestive heart failure, and as he snored next to his sister, Molly, in the chair by the bed, I imagined his beleaguered heart desperately trying to push blood through his fuzzy little body.  Then, I thought of my parents and Adam’s parents, and how grateful I should be that they’re alive and well, and I berated myself for not appreciating this time of my life more.

“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.

The Cleaners

I go to a really nice Korean cleaners – man and wife team.  My friend, M, who fixes my normal people size clothing into midget sized garments, knows them. She recommended them when I complained that my old cleaners turned my brown dress’ armpits green.

“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?

 

“

 

 

 

Stereotypes

I find myself getting caught up in “fairness’ in my marriage.  Do I have to do all the food shopping, and is that fair?  Is it fair that I do the laundry?  Is it fair that Adam usually picks which shows we watch at night and then rewinds when he wants to see a gory scene again, although I’d prefer not to?

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.

Privacy Issues

Kevin is home from college for the weekend, all happy and glowy.  He gets to see his girlfriend (still in high school), sleep late, bask in our parental pride of having our first child in college.  Hmmmm.  I’m lying on that last one.  We’ve sort of been ignoring him.  We had a bunch of plans, and so did Kevin, so yesterday I saw him for the first time at 2:00 am.  He had a friend over, who wanted to talk to Adam, so Kevin trailed after me as I took off my high heels and headed for the bathroom.

“I haven’t seen you all day,” said Kev.  “Did you have a nice time in Philly?”

“I’m going to poop, Kev.  You might want to head for the hills,” I told him.

“I’m fine with it if you are,” he said, and parked himself on his his butt on the floor outside the bathroom door. (We have one of those bathrooms where the toilet is cordoned off in its own little room-within-the-room.)

“If I turn on the light, the fan goes on and it’ll be tough to hear you,” I warned.

“I’ll talk loud,” Kevin assured me. “It’s a good opportunity to talk.”

“Are you sure about this?  It’s kind of gross,” I said.

“No it’s not,” said Kevin.  “College kids talk while they poop all the time.  What’s the big deal?”

So I heard all about Kevin’s classes and relationship with his girlfriend while pooping.  I heard about chemistry as I washed my hands, and how his new laptop was working while I brushed my teeth.  I have an electric toothbrush.  Kevin has mastered the art of voice loudness manipulation so that he can make himself heard over bodily functions or electronic devices.  It’s impressive.

It made me think back to the times when Kevin and Alex were toddlers, and would follow me everywhere – even into the bathroom.  The “free standing toilet” bathroom.  And I would think to myself, “Can’t I even have privacy while I poop?”

Guess not.

I’ll Certainly Never Hear This Again

The area we live in is a nice suburb riddled with pot and alcohol.  My brother thinks it’s because we live in the boonies, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same everywhere, although I haven’t brought up kids anywhere else.  I find myself to be the proud owner of a breathalyzer, and many CVS home drug screen kits.  Just what I always wanted.  I’m not a saint, and I’ve done my share of experimentation in my youth, but when it’s your kid it’s very different.  And illegal.

Alex had the day off today, and was home doing homework at the dining room table when I got off work.  I brought us home some Indian take-out, because dinner is going to be late tonight.  We sat down for a munch.  Alex was in a nice, chatty, Columbus Day off, sort of mood.

“You guys sort of have the reputation among the kids of being super strict controlling scary nut jobs,” said Alex, while dipping a piece of fried cauliflower in onion chutney.

“That’s really sweet,” I said.

“No.  I mean, I always take up for you guys and all,” said Alex.

“Gee.  You’re too kind.”

Alex sighed.  “I’m trying to be nice, here,” he said.

“Yes.  I can see that.” I said.

Alex took a big bite of a tandoori chicken leg and sighed with happiness.  “You never let me get to the good parts,” he said.

“OK.  I’ll shut up,” I promised, crossing my fingers under the table.

“Well,” said Alex.  “The other day my friends and I were talking about parents.  We laughed about how kooky everyone thinks you guys are.”  (Hardy, har, har.) “And we decided that in point of fact, you guys are only trying to be good parents.  Actually, you’re probably the normal ones.”

I almost choked on a piece of Jasmine rice.  I kept my face carefully blank as Alex finished his plate and let out a happy belch.  “Thanks, Mom!” he said, and went back to the dining room.

I spent a silent moment looking at my plate and feeling a rare moment of parental satisfaction.  Really rare.  Rare as in never heard before and probably never will hear again.  Where are tape recorders when you need them?  I guess there are always blogs.

I’ve Been a Bad, Bad Blogger But … I’m Ba-a-ack!

(What do you mean, “Who cares!”?  I heard that!)

Have you guys ever experienced the phenomenon of “Blogger’s Block”?  I think I had it.  Plus, I’ve been crazy busy with work and home, so I’ve neglected this poor blog.  I miss it.  I miss you guys.  Here’s a brief recap of the past months so that future posts make sense:

Kevin is in college.

Alex is applying to college.

I wrote a movie with my friend, Carole, and we realize we have to totally rewrite it or write another one and the thought totally overwhelms me.  Actually, I think this is what led to Blogger’s Block.  The writer in me rebelled.

I’ve read about a zillion books including the whole Alexander McCall Smith The #1 Ladies Detective Agency series.

A kid at the RTF I work at called me a fool the other day. “Well, that’s calling the kettle black!”, I replied.  “Huh?” he said.  That’ll show him to mess with me.

We went on incredible vacations this summer, the last one being the Czech Republic and Austria.  I could totally see quitting my life and just traveling around the world.  I can’t think of anything cooler than seeing other countries and cultures.  It’s amazing.

OK.  I’m done.  Now, let’s get back to Alexander McCall Smith, shall we?  (Bear with me.  It all ties together.)  This guy is amazing.  I’m totally in love with the main character of his “detective series” – Mma Ramotswe.  I can’t believe a man can do such an unbelievable job writing in a woman’s voice.  I wrote a novel called “Mania” years ago, about a guy with Bipolar Disorder who is accused of killing his ex-wife.  The agent who showed the most interest at the time, suggested I rewrite it with a female main character, because my main character sounded too girly.  It made me appreciate the craft of writers who write in the opposite sex’s voice.   Apparently, I wasn’t that great at it.  This guy is amazing at it.  The female characters feel spot on to me – the intricacies of women’s relationships with themselves and each other are subtly portrayed.  He even has one of the lady detectives loving shoes!  Mma Ramotswe is overweight, refers to herself as “traditionally built” and pities the newer generation of skinny women.  Oh, how I love her.

Listen to McCall Smith’s bio:  The guy has a pH.D. in law, taught law at Queen’s University Belfast, helped to found The University of Botswana, wrote a libretto for Macbeth for the first center for opera training in Botswana which he also helped to found, and has written over thirty books for adults, children, and really smart people (academic tomes).  My mother-in-law told me that his Isabel Dalhousie series is just as good as The #1 Ladies Detective Agency.  How could that even be?  This guy slays me.

I think my fascination with McCall Smith,  frustration with my own writing, and Blogger’s Block are all related.  It’s my version of the midlife crisis.  I could just buy a cool car or something, but nooooo….   I love my job, but I always saw myself as spending a good chunk of my time being a writer one day.  I figured I’d have a career I loved, and write on the side, one day basking in my success and signing autographs while drinking lattes at Starbucks.  Then life got in the way, the years went by, and I’m approaching 50 with the realization that time is passing, and those goals probably ain’t gonna happen.  Even though the goals weren’t incredibly realistic to begin with, I sort of mourn their passing.  It’s a strange feeling.  I didn’t even make it in stand up comedy.  No HBO special.  Never headlined in a big New York club.  Never climbed K2.  Never won a Nobel Prize.  Never ran a marathon.  Never ate a live animal.  Except for oysters.  They’re live right before you eat them.

How did McCall Smith do all that?  Is it just superior intelligence and raw talent?  Show off.  “I play the bass!  I’m so cool!  I write librettos!  I get pH.D’s!”

I think I’ve worked through my slump and confronted the silliness of my self expectations.  For now.  Is it too late to be a piano virtuoso?  Just wondering.

 

 

 

Wow

I’m sitting here in the living room catching up on blogs, and it’s dark outside.  I just heard  tapping on the glass doors, and Alex came into the room followed by three gorgeous laughing girls. One of the girls’ mom drove up to give them a ride home.  Alex said “goodbye” and went to the kitchen to get something to eat.

“Where were you guys?” I called to him.

“In the hammock,” said Alex, very bland faced.

If I were a guy in a hammock with three gorgeous girls, I think I’d look happier than that.  Hugh Hefner is always smiling.

Hugh seems happier than Alex

My Kids Learn Stuff

We just picked Alex up from his business program at Lehigh University (PSGE).  I missed the bugger.  Who would have thunk it?  I took him out driving today, and he regaled me with stories of the program.  It was fun.  I tried to think of stupid destinations to drive to so it wouldn’t make us totally bored and car sick.  Beginning drivers are a little bit lead footed on the ol’ brake pedal.  The abrupt stops and starts were playing havoc on my tummy.

It was really hot outside, so I suggested we drive to Rita’s.  (I got a giant sugar-free Pineapple Ice.  It was revolting.  Learn from my mistakes.)  Alex scarfed down a Gelato and then informed me that he was going to get water.

“That was supposed to quench your thirst,” I said.

“Yeah, but I learned at PSGE that stores are legally obligated to give you water if you ask for it,” said Alex.

“That’s dumb,” I said.  (I’m a really supportive mother.)

“No,” Alex said patiently, as though talking to a pet, “When we went to Dorney Park, Trish (the head of the program) told us that if we got thirsty we could just ask for water, and in Pennsylvania, stores are legally obligated to give it to you.”

“So you’re telling me that stores have to waste money on cups to give random idiots water whenever they ask for it?” I asked.

“Yep,” said Alex.

“What if they just say, ‘No’ ?” I asked.

“Then I would say, ‘You’re legally obligated to give me water’,” said Alex.

“What if they then say, ‘Get away from me you entitled Moron’ ?” I asked.

“I’d go to another place to ask for water,” said Alex, and then went to stand in line again to force the Rita’s girl to give him water.

He walked triumphantly back to me with a cup of water.  “Ta da!” said Alex.

Maybe we should have just made him get a summer job like everyone else.

 

 

Brainwashed or Just Crabby?

I was woken from an uncomfortable sleep (urinary tract infection combined with old expired Cipro.  Really bad combination.  Don’t try it.)  a half hour early today by Adam saying, “The water’s not working.  I’m late.  Gotta go!”, in what I thought was an annoying “ta! ta!” sort of voice.

“It’s probably just breaker 13 again…” I mumbled, really meaning “couldn’t you go to the basement and push the damn thing in so I can catch another 30 crappy minutes of shut eye?”

“Nope.  Gotta go!” said Adam, and skipped out of the door.  To me it sounded like the “ta! ta!” voice again, combined with a jolly sort of trot.

I got my sweaty self up, stumbled downstairs, and saw that the breaker was fine.  Drat it all!  We’ve been having trouble with our water pump, well, and electrical connections lately and it’s very complicated.  If it wasn’t fixed today there would be no water all weekend.

I called the plumber and left a message, begging him to come over.  Then I cancelled my RTF hours.  I felt sorry for the boys, but they could be seen on Monday.  There were no emergencies brewing that I knew of.  However, making up the visits will make next week a horror.  I lay in bed waiting for the plumber to call me back, thinking about Adam skipping out the door, and getting madder and madder.  It got to the point where, in my mind, he was prancing happily about, like Tinkerbell and blowing raspberries at me.

I grabbed my cell phone and whipped out a snarky text:

I’m really angry.  I don’t appreciate the way you blew blithely out the door, saying you’re late, and dumping the water problem in my lap.  I’m a physician (I’m just being honest, here.  Yes, I really said that. How embarrassing.) yet I had to cancel my job this morning to deal with this.  You act as though I’m your serf.

This attitude about my job drives me insane and has to stop.  The realities are that a pych patient can be rearranged easier than a surgical patient.  Especially in an RTF where they’re there anyway.  But your attitude is flippant, aggressive and condescending.  You need to change it.“

I stewed some more, called Kevin at a sleep over to yell at him a bit, and received a text from Adam:

I didn’t say you had to fix the problem or cancel work.  I said you might want to get up early because it would take you longer than normal to get ready.  I had to be in surgery 15 minutes after I noticed the problem. 

There was then a bunch of whining about my “immediate and hostile response”, but I’ll spare you that.  I stewed some more, took some Tylenol and washed them down with Diet Coke, and thought about it.

In fairness, Adam had never asked me to fix the problem, but I’m the problem fixer, and knew that if I didn’t get the plumber early, I wouldn’t get him at all.  I couldn’t envision a weekend of no toilet function – ew – no showers, no baths, more Tylenol with Diet Coke.  I assumed I had to fix it, and resented it.  Yet, I gave myself this role.  I buy toilet paper, paper towels, deodorant and tooth paste.  If it magically appears on Adam and the boys’ counters, why should they think about it?

Do I want Adam to stay home with plumbers?  Uh, yeah.  But the truth is that he works longer hours than me, and I guess I do see his job as more stressful.  I try to help people, but I don’t really blame myself if things go awry.  I do my best, and I love them.  If I made a mistake that hurt someone I’d feel awful, but I’m not sticking sharp instruments in their eye and moving them about. As my kids would say, “That’s gotta suck.”

In honor of full disclosure – Adam isn’t a slouch around the house.  He cooks really well.  He does a lot of stuff.  I can’t think of the stuff right now, but he does (don’t worry – if you read the comments, I fully expect Adam to check in and give a list of his contributions.  You won’t be in the dark for long.)

Am I brainwashed by societal expectations to do the lion’s share of household chores?  I  did a ton when the kids were little, but I also only worked 4 days a week until they went to Kindergarten.  Is it just a logical division of labor?  How do you guys handle these sorts of things?  Is Adam a weenie?  Am I a bitch?  Should I do a better job of throwing away expired medicine?  (Okay.  That’s an obvious one.)  Should I send Alex to plumbing school?

I’m left with a lot of questions, as you can see.

 

Never Return From Vacation

It’s my new plan after today.  I’m not going to go on vacation anymore.  I’m just going to move.  I’ll go somewhere, learn the language, build a practice, and then when I get tired and burnt out – move somewhere else.  Why did I never think of this before?

Okay.  Maybe I’m being a big whiny baby.  It was a really fun vacation.  We went to Barcelona and London.  Just Adam and me.  And I have great news!  I’m pregnant with a Barcelona love child!  Kidding.  That struck me as twisted and funny for a short, jet lagged moment.

Adam did his Church Lady imitation the whole time we were in London.  I’m not sure how that came about, but it makes me laugh every time.  While we were walking through Windsor castle with out headset tour, Adam would  do a Church Lady translation.  For example,  the headset explained, “Here is a golden tiger head trophy that adorned the throne of an 18th century Indian sultan.”  Adam gestured for me to turn off my headset, so he could give an explanation in “Church Lady voice” doing a bad English accent.

“What happened is, we stole a lot of shit.  Then we charge you to see the shit we stole!  Tee hee!  It’s so fun to fill the royal coffers!”

“They’re going to throw us out of England,” I warned him.

“Then we’ll just pop off to somewhere else!  Tee hee!” Adam tittered.

I can’t take him anywhere.

In Barcelona we toured La Sagrada Familia – the cathedral Gaudi designed.  This was the most amazing cathedral I’ve ever seen.  I almost started crying when the headset played choir music as someone recited the Lord’s Prayer, etched into stone at the cathedral’s entrance.  It was so moving.  Then they talked about how the cathedral was partially destroyed during the Spanish Civil War.  Adam did a quick calculation in his head.

“You know, some of the guys involved in the war are in their 90′s now.  I’ll bet there’s 15 guys alive in this city who took part in vandalizing the cathedral.  Now that’s a tour I’d like to see.  I’d like to listen to those guys talk.”  He put on Billy Crystal’s 2000 Year Old Man voice.  “We sure did a number on that church.  Guillermo, bless his heart.  They called him the Human Torch…”

I’m not sure Barcelona wants us back any more than England.

For my U.S. brethren – the dollar is really weak.  Weaker than Adam’s brain.  Consider packing sandwiches and bringing hunting gear, so that you can catch your own dinner.  And don’t be late for the bus when you’re on a tour.  A couple was left behind at Windsor Castle.  Not us, thank goodness.  If we miss a bus it’s because we’re thrown off, damn it.