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.

Parking Lot Rage

My son, Alex, wanted to have friends over tonight, so I stopped at Wal Mart to pick up soda and snacks.  The parking lot was crowded, (like always), and I cruised the lot until I saw someone backing out on my left.  I waited with my blinker on.  When the person backed out, someone in a white van zoomed up, but their blinker on, and started to turn into the space.  I bore down on my horn.  Warning.  My spot.  I was waiting.  You must go away.

The white van stopped pulling in, drove up to my car, the driver side window lowered, and a woman started screaming at me.  She was a 30 something-ish blond woman who looked a little like the Jon and Kate chick, but without the freaky hairdo.  I didn’t put down my window.  Who wants to hear someone yelling at you?  I just made a “move it along” gesture.  You know.  Thumb out, hitch hiking style.  She gave me the finger as I pulled into the spot.  She waited in her van until I got out of the car.

“I didn’t see you waiting!” she screamed.  “Did I pull into the spot?  No!  I didn’t!  You didn’t have to wave your finger!”

“It was my thumb,” I explained.  “Thumbs aren’t bad.  It just meant, ‘Move on and stop yelling’.  You’re the one with the middle finger action.”

“I didn’t know you were waiting, you bitch!” she yelled.

“It’s OK,” I said.  “That’s why I beeped.  There’s no problem here.”

Two Hispanic teens leaned out of the passenger window of the car next to me.  They had been listening gleefully to the entire exchange.  (Hey!  So would I!  Who wouldn’t?)

“You should hit her!” one of the girls advised me.

“She disrespected you,” the other one said.

“She’s just an annoying person,” I said.  “It’s not worth hitting her.  If I hit every annoying person, I’d hurt my hand.”

“That’s true,” the first girl said.

I could end this post here, and make it look like I took the high road, but I feel compelled to tell the truth.  I went into Walmart and got my stuff, and on the way to the cash register, the blond woman came towards me down my aisle, looking stonily straight ahead, trying to avoid me.

As I passed her I said, “One day someone’s going to pop you one in the face.”

I couldn’t help myself.  Deep down I’m a baaaaad girl.  My only regret is that I used the word “one” twice in the sentence.

Ode to Mrs. E

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness month, and her blogaversary, FringeGirl has asked her readers to blog about someone they know who had breast cancer.  I am incredibly lucky not to have anyone in my family develop breast cancer.  They simply develop insanity and excessive farting.  So I’m writing about Mrs. E.

Mrs. E is the mom of D, a 20-year-old young man with autism who I’ve known since he was about 9.  Mrs. E is adorable, smart, bubbly, and nurturing.  She absolutely never loses her temper or patience with D, no matter how trying things get.  Best of all, she keeps her sense of humor.

Sometimes D will obsess over violent themes, although he is a sweet guy who would never hurt a fly.  D will say things like, “If someone attacked me, I would have the right to kill them, right?  And it wouldn’t be fair to put me in jail, right?  If the police came after me I’d have the right to defend myself. . .”

Mrs. E always responds gently to D.  She says things like, “Now, D, no one’s going to attack you.  Let’s talk about something else, shall we?  No more ‘killing talk’.  If you talk like that, no one will like you.”

Suffice it to say, I love Mrs. E.  Years ago Mrs. E had breast cancer.  During her treatment she lost her hair, but never her patience.  She wore groovy bandanas on her head, and forged on.  Honestly, if it weren’t for the bandanas, you wouldn’t have known anything was amiss.  Mrs. E never complained, and always looked bright and cheerful.  She felt that she had to be, for D.

Mrs. E is cancer free, and has been for years.  Her hair has grown back, and she is as beautiful as ever.  But to me, she was at her loveliness when she was laughing  while wearing a bandana.

I just inspired myself.  I’m going to go get a mammogram.  It’s 11:00 pm.  I hope they’re still open.

Missing

Missing: 1 button from Robin’s birthday jacket (bought with a gift certificate from beloved mother-in-law, Lynda)

Last seen:  On Robin’s bed while she was threading a needle to sew it back on

Known Associates: Robin, Milla (who shortened the jacket), the department store where it lived before being bought

Description:  Like this but gray:

Reward:  For Adam, one home cooked meal.  For Kevin or Alex, 5 bucks.  For anyone else, I’m not sure, but I’ll think of something

Possible Whereabouts:  Robin’s bedroom, alternative dimension with singular socks, on invisible alien’s jacket

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Write in if you find this button.  I fear that the longer it is missing, the more likely the button-nappers are to kill it.