Risky Boobness

I have high-risk breasts.

No, there will not be photos posted here.

Perv.

My mother had breast cancer almost five years ago, her mother died from breast cancer, my sister had precancerous breast lesions and I’ve got at least two cases of female organ cancer on my paternal side.

Bummer.

But the good news is I think my lifestyle – healthy diet, lots of activity and trying to keep stress low – helps.

I also firmly (pun?!) believe that breastfeeding helps reduce breast cancer risk and the studies show that each year of breastfeeding lowers your breast cancer risk. I’ve been breastfeeding for almost six straight years (three kids, but not all at once!), so I’m hoping that’s cut my odds to nothing.

Anyway, I took the L-man with me today to the Revlon High Risk Breast Center. More unschooling activities! You have to be special to go there and I’m special. They examined my breasts, said there was nothing to worry about, but then upped my visits from twice a year to three times a year and threw in an MRI in addition to my mammograms.

Even though there’s nothing, it is a bit freaky that they think my risk is so high. Oh well.

The L-man was hilarious, interviewing me about my life between clinicians. "So, tell me, have you ever broken anything? Was there blood? Did you cry?"

I can hardly believe he was 2 just two months ago.

Before we left, I had a client call for that CME poster I’m writing. Usually I take Miss M when I’m working, since at five years, she can keep herself occupied if I have a call, etc. But L-man was so excited to join me today that he completely freaked out and started kicking the door when I was on my call. It was very loud. I had to run to the bathroom.

If I had a dollar for every call I’ve done in that bathroom. I swear.

Anyway, after my breast cancer evaluation, I found out I got the editor gig (remote, of course!) at FiercePharma and then the L-man and I had lunch with the brain surgeon’s sister. The brain surgeon wasn’t there today. He was down at the county hospital doing – you guessed it – brain surgery to cover for a colleague who had a baby today.

This particular brain surgeon and his wife couldn’t be nicer and we are so happy for them.

We are also happy that we are now not the ONLY couple in the neurosurgery residency program with kids. Seriously. All this time, it’s just been me and the brain surgeon with the kiddies.

Today was also a miracle day. I’ll tell you about this particular miracle.

The L-man crashed on the way back from the hospital. I carried him up the stairs, through the gate, into the house and laid him on the bed AND HE STAYED ASLEEP. I noted that BooBoo was also asleep.

For other mothers of three, I'm not lying. The aforementioned and what follows are absolutely true.

I took Miss M to her afternoon class.

Would they both be sleeping when I returned?

That NEVER happens. It's impossible.

But they were! They slept for almost 2 hours.

And Carmen helped hang up the laundry today.

Bless her! Oh holy day!

I’m really weird about hanging the clothes in outfits, so I cringed at what was on a few hangers, but beggers can’t be choosers and I’m focusing on the gratitude!

Two hours of naptime. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I should've watched the evil television or read a book, but I didn't. I'm just stupid.

After the little ones woke, I took them to pick up Miss M and we went to the park. We stayed about an hour and then I hit the wall of exhaustion, so I packed them up and we went home.

Then we did our bedtime routine:

1. Dinner (I try to clean kitchen as I go)
2. Baths (I try to clean bathroom while they're in the tub)
3. Pajamas
4. Brush teeth
5. Brush hair
6. Floss
7. Read stories
8. Lights out
9. “Dark stories”

I also like to pick out their clothes the night before, but I’ve been forgetting to do that a lot lately. I does help the mornings go more smoothly.

If I was really on my game, I’d pack tomorrow’s lunches since it’s home school park day.

I'd also pick out my clothes.

I'm not on my game.

I also was accepted to write for Demand Studios today. But they pay crap. Truly crap. I didn’t know this when I sent them my info or I wouldn’t have bothered.

Then I wrote a couple of super easy articles for them based on stuff already in my head, so it's fine. I want to do some consumer writing in certain areas where I’ve been mostly in the trade press or not at all, and this is a surefire way to get clips. It certainly isn't a way to get money. I earned more babysitting when I was 12.

But, it was pretty easy. My articles will be up on eHow, which by the looks of some of the site's content and writing quality, I'll likely rename, "eHow embarassing." That's why they hire professional writers on the side, I guess.

Toodles!

Back in Babysitter Hell

Today was hectic. Back to the office with Miss M. There were way too many people there. I was desk and computer hopping. We didn’t have enough Ethernet cords or parking spaces.

It was ridiculous. Truly.

I had one interview (that IVD Technology news story) one meeting, two conference calls and one brainstorming session. In between, I ran Miss M to her afternoon program. By this, I mean I literally ran.

I had 10 minutes between meetings. I rush that poor kid. Out of the office. Down the stairs. Into the car seat. Out of the car seat. Run across the park. Sign in.

Kiss Kiss. Here’s your snack. Here's your sweater. Bye!!!

She was an hour late and would have to leave an hour early and she wasn’t at all happy about it.

I jogged back to my car, sped back to the office, did the brainstorm, then ran back to my car, back to the park, picked up Miss M – who was not eager to go to ballet and who wanted to play on the monkey bars – but…

I sped to the house so the brain surgeon could throw me the ballet gear, which I had forgotten, and so I could nurse BooBoo, which I had not forgotten, but which I literally had not a moment to do earlier. Then Miss M and I headed off to the next park for ballet with the harsh-looking-but-actually-quite-warm Russian ballet teacher.

Miss M isn’t quite up to the intense new ballet hours or the change from British to Russian ballet. She enjoys going usually, though. I did have to promise we would play on the monkey bars after class today. Also, the ballet training is getting more intense and she gets tired before the hour-and-a-half is up.

Then I came home and put the three little lovelies to bed and desperately wanted to go to sleep with them.

I thought today that I had a potential new backup babysitter. I have a friend – one of BooBoo’s friends’ mothers – who’s in entertainment and her show is done, so she only needs her nanny part time. Perfecto! I trust this family and this woman has been with them a year, so I figured it would just be a matter of a background and reference check and a few test days.

BUT, she apparently has a dog phobia. At least that’s what she said.

Or maybe she just doesn’t want to work here. She knows Carmen, so I’m sure she’s seen my crew. I admit, I’m a tough gig. I’m usually working from home (babysitters hate that) AND I have three relatively young children.

Even though I usually bring Miss M if I leave, it’s still a hard job. I know this. I do.

But really, I just don’t have the dang energy to go on the nanny hunt. I just don’t. So, I talked to the brain surgeon tonight about a plan for just toughing it out.

Since he’s on research and mostly not on call, I can work nights and he’ll handle dinner, baths and bedtime. If I’m not getting enough sleep, he’ll give me a sleep day on Saturday. When I have conference calls, I’ll head to the hospital and he (or his sister) will watch them for the duration of the calls.

If I end up with an offsite meeting, who knows what I’ll do.

As I type this, I’m remembering I already have two – maybe May 5th and 6th?

Uh oh.

As for tonight, I'm tired. I've got four news stories to finish editing and I need to finish draft 1 of a poster by tomorrow. I just want to sleep.

Overall, though, I’m really grateful.

Even with these challenges, I know I'm very lucky that I have the flexibility I do and that I can support the troops without being away from them for more than about 15 hours a week.

That means a lot of conference calls in the bathroom or out in front of the house, with a fair amount of muting and shushing, but a mama’s gotta do what a mama’s gotta do.

And really, it's a hectic life. It's a chaotic life. But it's a good life.

BooBoo's up for her nightly feeding!


Ciao!

Date Night

I really have very little recollection of what happened today. I went into the office. I know that. Did I do anything useful? I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I did scramble to pull interviews together for the IVD Technology news story I’m writing about the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services’ competitive bidding demonstration project.

Maybe that’s all I did. I can’t be sure.

I do know that Carmen announced that her two weeks off in May for her trip to Mexico might really be three or four or even five or six.

K. Thanks for that.

Last time it was five months before she returned.

I will not panic. I will not panic. I will not panic.

I asked if her daughter-in-law would help (she has a baby BooBoo’s age and a daughter Miss M’s age), and she said, probably not, because she naps when her baby does, and then what would happen to my children?

Um, yah, that’s not an option.

The best part of today is that the brain surgeon and I actually had a date night. Whoa. It almost never happens and we ruined the last two almost-date-nights with miscommunications about time and misinterpretations about each other’s interest in each date. (FYI, that’s all code for “fighting.")

But last night was really nice. Our lovely 80-plus-year-old neighbor joined us for dinner at Trilussa Ristorante in Beverly Hills on Brighton Way. Yummy. I had a carb-fest, which is atypical for me. I ate lots of bread dipped in pesto plus an endive and radicchio salad followed by their incredible mushroom ravioli. Yes, I can put down the chow.

Or should I say, “ciao”? la la la la

My sister speaks Italian. Very cool. My sister-in-law pronounces it Eye-talian.

We also had a decent bottle of wine. I believe it was called Intensio.

How intense.

Then the brain surgeon and I went to a movie alone.

Oooooh. Ahhhhh.

We saw “Smart People,” which could have been titled, “Smart People, Slow Movie.” It was, in fact, quite slow. Not horribly bad or anything, but definitely sloooooooooooooow.

We popped in on "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" first, since we were early. I thought it would be stupid (okay, it is), but the 10 minutes we watched were definitely funny and we were both laughing out loud. This movie had one of the better marketing schemes I've seen, too.

I also got all excited during the previews about the release of the "Sex and the City" movie!!! Even if it’s bad and even if the trailer showed the whole damned thing, I don’t care. I need my Carrie fix.

Anyway, we got home after midnight. BooBoo needed to have her midnight snack (aka ME!) and that was that.

Toodles!

An Ad Agency and an Acting Debut

I didn’t blog yesterday, so already I don’t get to be OCD about this blogging business. Not that it’s a business.

Yesterday was another open house day. My realtor was out of town again, but instead of me, he had this guy sit my house. He was somewhat annoying. Oh well.

Overall, the day was dull and unproductive for me. I cleaned and staged. I edited a few papers. I prepped for my meeting today.

The brain surgeon took the children to the Page Museum and to the Boone Children’s Museum at LACMA.

Today was weirdly fun. I worked from home this morning, had a brainstorming session at Carat in the afternoon and my writing class (AKA “social hour”) in the evening.

Miss M went to work with the brain surgeon today in the brain research lab. He’s studying a hideous type of brain tumor called glioblastoma multiforme. She was so excited to go, she couldn’t sleep last night.

The brainstorming sesh was fun. I sometimes enjoy ad execs and that kind of creative atmosphere, especially when it surrounds a product I can stand behind.

Plus they had sandwiches.

I had about 15 minutes at home before it was time to go to class. The brain surgeon had already taken the kids to the YMCA for me. I walked the Vizsla .



Then I realized this was the longest time I’d been without seeing BooBoo since her birth. I realized this because my boobs were huge, as well as a tad achy and lumpy.

So, in full corporate mom mode, I ran back into the kitchen to grab my breast pump. Then I remembered I had given it away. Now someone else was enjoying the fun of electronic milking.

You, too, can moo. Woo!

Oh well, I know how to do the manual expression thing, even if it’s been a while.

It’s at moments like these when I see what a turn my life has taken. I’m wearing my corporate mom clothes and writer bag for class over one arm, and I'm leaning over the kitchen sink squeezing milk out of my boobs into a sippy cup.

If you’d forgotten how glamorous my life is, I’ve just reminded you.

Then I put the milk in the fridge and went to class, WHERE…

I made my first acting debut since high school (unless you count Pi Beta Phi rush week)!!!

It’s true. I read not one, but two parts tonight.

In one, I read the part of a 28-year-old wife of a philandering husband for a sitcom. In another, I played a dominatrix in an action adventure.

I actually read this line aloud:

"Do you want me to take off my panties?"

Then I finished my dialogue, which involved me nearly peeing on an undercover cop for a fee of $300.

I waited with bated breath for that slow rumble of applause all actors live for. Although no one has clapped for a writer or actor before in our class, surely this was because they hadn't yet discovered the hidden gem amongst them.

It never came, but I remain hopeful.

Perhaps they were all just jealous of my obvious and enormous talent despite my lack of formal training.

A girl’s gotta start somewhere.

I’m off to Hollywood!!!


Toodles!

I Have Fake Nails and My Children Swear so I had a Brain Surgeon Dinner Party

The brain surgeon and I were still a little discordant today and had not fully recovered from the food incident. Two days, I know.

Lame.

But we had worked through it by this evening. We had to. We were having a few resident brain surgeons over for dinner.

I miss when I was the dinner party queen in med school. I loved cooking elaborate vegetarian meals (easier than vegan) that pleased the carnivores. I loved bring out the decorations, the candles, the crystal.

Tonight’s dinner was more me running in the door, sweaty, with groceries well after the guests had arrived. Then we (well me and my brain surgeon) threw together a vegan taco dinner that was okay, but that was also clearly an I-have-three-kids-5-and-under meal.

Still, I enjoyed myself.

But let’s start at the beginning.

I was up too late last night and I got up too early this morning. Cranky and still dealing with post-fight residuals from the scorned brain surgeon.

I took Miss M to the nail salon. She chose blue for her fingernails and pink for her toenails. I had acrylic nails put on, which was just plain dumb for a variety of reasons. One reason is that I'm a writer (shameless plug) and it takes me like three days to relearn to type with my tacky fake-o-la nails. Another is that I so rarely have time to get my nails done, and it is so sporadic, that I can’t really get these things filled.

There should be a market for temporary acrylic nails.

Because really I think they’re a little cheesy and a lot tacky, yet then there are moments where I’ve just gotta have them. And SOMETIMES (rare, but it happens) people get a nice set of fake nails that don’t make them look like a chick in a Girls Gone Wild video.

The last time I went to a nail salon, I had the same ridiculous urge. The lady said to come back every two weeks for a fill. They were gone by then (both my nails and the salon), but didn’t have time to go anyway.

If I’m a brain surgeon’s babe, shouldn’t I be living a life of leisure? Shouldn’t I have time to get my nails done?

Anyway, I bit them off. I’m not a nail biter (though sometimes I’m a finger sucker) UNLESS I get fake nails. There’s something delightfully crunchy about them.

Don’t worry. I don’t swallow.

Nails, that is. I don’t swallow nails.

That’d just be F*d up.

Speaking of the F word, my children swear. I just admit it now.

Usually it’s just my 3-year-old and usually it’s just around us, but he does drop the F bomb in the car sometimes and actually said, “Damn it!” in proper context last week.

Maybe I should punish them, but I’d feel wrong about that since they likely learned it from me and the brain surgeon.

Plus, truth be told, swearing has its place. Rather than abuse them by shoving soap in their mouths, I prefer to teach my children the ins and outs of swearing.

Some might call this bad parenting. I call it honesty.

If you have your own kids, you can handle the nuances of swearing however you want. If you don’t have kids, you don’t know what you’re talking about when it comes to parenting, no matter how much you think you do, but feel free to continue boring parents with your cluelessness.

Sorry. Maybe I’m PMSing.

Anyway, I thought I’d share my (unique, I hear) philosophy on swearing and what I tell my children.

First of all, words are words. I’m a writer (plug for me, oh wait, I already did that) and I believe words are powerful, BUT really, they only have as much power as you give them.

For example, take the “See U Next Tuesday” word. Many women cannot stand that word, so if men or other women call them it, they become super offended, giving said word so much more power than they need to. Just own the word. Demystify it. Who really cares?

Okay, people care. Some people. My job as facilitator of my children’s journey through life is to help them navigate these tricky waters, because, be honest, sometimes a good F word is all you need to get you through the day.

Miss M is very rules oriented and very analytical, so the night she said “f*** it” in front of her grandmother (on the brain surgeon side) I just explained its use to her (despite the brain surgeon’s mom preference for the soap method and obvious disapproval for my method). Here’s about what I said:

“Some words are strong words. Sometimes they feel good to say. But, most people don’t like to hear kids say those words. Grandmas and grandpas and other adults might think you aren’t as nice. We know that’s not true, because words are just words, but I’m simply telling you what other people might think. Also, some mommies and daddies won’t let their kids play with kids who use those words. Even as an adult, I am careful not to use some words around my grandparents or parents, some people I work with and around kids. And we shouldn’t say those words around babies, because they can’t quite make decisions yet about if it is okay to use the words. You have to know how and when to use those words.”

Miss M indicated understanding and I haven’t heard her swear since. No soap required.

Now, what’s really funny was that the brain surgeon’s sister was the object d’venting of the brain surgeon’s mom, who was sharing that she disagreed with my method and thought the mouth laundering method would be more effective.

To which the brain surgeon’s sister said, “Yah, Mom, that f*ing worked. I did not f*ing sneak and swear with my friends then, and I do not f*ing swear now. That REALLY f*ing worked.”

Total poetry.

That’s not to say Miss M hasn’t sworn again. I just haven’t heard it.

My poor mother, though, nearly peed her pants one day at my house. I was in the room with BooBoo, who was tiny then, and the L-man. My mom was playing with Miss M and came to check on me. When she returned to the living room, she heard Miss M whisper while reaching under the couch for an unreachable toy, “This is so f*ing frustrating!”

Okay, how she did not urinate in the hall, I will never know.

Later, Miss M had a straightforward talk with me about the F word, without saying it. She said, “You know that word that starts with the ‘fuh’ sound, Mommy?”

She was in her car seat and had clearly contemplated our talk.

“Yes, M, what is it?”

“Well I can’t really say it around adults, my friends or babies, so I don’t really have anyone I can say it around, huh?”

Dang. She figured me out.

“Yah, M, it’s tricky. But you can say it when you’re alone if you need to, like when you’re in the bathroom.”

Then she said, “Well, can I say it in front of you, then?”

I thought about that and said, yes, if she felt she needed to, she could.

We drove in silence for a while. Then she said, “Mom?”

“Yes, M?”

“You can say it in front of me if you need to, too.”


Damn, I have a cool kid.


Toodles!

Homeschool Playgroup Day

So, I’m over my psychotic food police moment. I’m crazy. I know it. The brain surgeon knows it, but loves me anyway. Can we just move on now?

Good.

Now yesterday, my friend, D, who has been in home-buying hell, came to spend the night with her two little ones. They recently moved about two hours away and have been homeless, basically, while the banks and realtors made one idiotic mistake after another. I keep saying buy Tupperware from D, and I mean it: colbyandbingo@yahoo.com. You know you need something.

D’s eldest and Miss M are absolutely positively best friends. Miss M, one night when their impending move was upon us, cried her eyes out and said, “I love her so much, I just can’t let go.” No idea where she got the scorned lover speech, so I just held her, brokenhearted for my baby and stifling a giggle at the same time.

Parenthood is like that.

Anyway, today is one of the four days I try REALLY hard not to have scheduled work during the day. Of course, a new client scheduled a call for today at 1:00 pm. This is that new client with the less-toxic cleaners that I’m quite excited about. So for this one hour, I needed to figure out what to do with my three little ones. Four options:

1. Hire Carmen

2. Drop them with the brain surgeon and have said conference call in car

3. Go to homeschool park day with D and have her watch them while I have said conference call in car

4. Put movie on in car, hope and pray BooBoo sleeps rather than screams (still facing backwards; can’t see movie), and ruin environment by running car/air conditioner for duration of call

#1 wasn’t a great option. She has a 6-hour minimum and then I’d feel guilty hiring her and not getting more work done. #2 and #3 were both okay options, but I went with #3 because D was here and we all miss each other.

#4 was one of those conference-calling-while-hiding-in-the-bathroom options. Desperate measures like these are only okay in the absence of all other options.

Plus, D has been bugging me to try this group. Neither of us clicked with the other two groups we’ve been to (too far, no real bonding, etc.), but D swore I’d like this one. I’ve been hesitant, though, because there have been a few stories she’s told me that set off my “judgmental mom” alarm.

I go crazy when I hear mothers being hard on other mothers about whatever, though I’m quite judgmental myself.

(I should just call this the hypocrite blog, because it is what I am. I do try to be consistent, but life is confusing!)

Anyway, so I went. After a hectic morning getting there and a successful conference call that I literally choked my way through.

Do you ever just randomly choke on your own spit? I occasionally do. No idea why. It’s inconvenient when you’re sharing PR capabilities with an ad agency that you’re working with on a new cleaning product.

But I digress. (Oh, and I like digressing, so you’ll see a lot of that).

Shortly before leaving, D introduces me to another mom, Tricia, who is also a writer and who is also a mother of three kids (mine are 1, 3 and 5; hers are 3, 5 and 7; I have one boy; she has three).

We chat about writing and blogging. I tell her I’m just coming out of the closet with my blog (you’ll see the irony of this later). We exchange LinkedIn, MySpace, iFreelance and blog info.

I liked Tricia immediately. She’s now the third person I’ve told the actual name of my blog to and the first stranger. She mentioned briefly that she’s had some rough experiences online and that she’s “complex.” She said she pulled down blogs that resulted in a lot of crying.

Before I started writing this, I checked my email and noticed an invite to connect with her on LinkedIn. I accepted and sent her a MySpace invitation in return. Then I browsed through her stuff.

I have to say, she could be the most “complex” person I’ve ever met.

She’s a lesbian, she says. Maybe she's a nonpracticing lesbian. She’s happily married to the father of her children. She writes very dry technical stuff for organizations like NASA. I relate to that. Best part, she’s a comic, like the guy in my mean girls clique.

What are the chances of meeting two comics in one month?

She’s been lamented online for being homophobic (more irony!), anti-fertility treatment (we might agree there) and anti-adoption (and I'm learning about why).

She’s clearly controversial. I like that. Clearly she’s judgmental, which I can’t stand, but again, I’m that, too, and a hypocrite, so who am I to judge?

Damn I’m witty.

I haven’t read much about her views and her personal controversy yet, but I’ve read enough to tell so far is that she’s brilliant, regardless of viewpoints, and very, very brave. That makes her interesting.

Plus, she was just plain nice.

Toodles.

Food Fiend

I have serious issues with food. I don’t really know why this is. I’ve tried quite hard to let go of being a controlling perfectionist when it comes to many things, but I am still stuck on the food thing.

I used to be obsessed with schedules and planning. An organized and clean house were inordinately important to me. This is one area (of many) where kids (and FlyLady) have been very good for me. Schedules are thrown out of whack in a moment’s notice. The best-laid plans are overturned in an instant. Even though I’m an expert housecleaner, I’m so outnumbered that cleanliness only happens when everyone is out of the house, but then I’m out of the house, too.

And what’s the point of the house, then?

In all honesty, every single day of the weak, several major catastrophes happen, even when I’m organized and running ahead of schedule. Someone barfs or pours a blueberry smoothie over their head or spills it on the couch, or the dog dumps over the recycling bin, or BooBoo gets glue in her hair, or the L-man puts lotion in his eye or Miss M stubs her toe and if there’s none of that, there’s always time for an unexpected blowout Poop-o-rama.

It’s the glamorous life I’m living.

But back to the food.

So, tonight the brain surgeon had a craving for some childhood concoction called kraut runtz. I cannot find this no matter how hard I Google, but, the researcher in me did find this, which appears to be about the same recipe.

Now, I know I should be grateful. The brain surgeon used veggie meat (salty and processed, but a major step up) and probably more veggies than most would. But then he bought these, which have listed as the top three ingredients:
- Enriched flour (ugh)
- Sugar (ugh)
- Partially hydrogenated vegetable oil (soybean or cottonseed)

…and pretty much nothing else.

It’s like a heart attack in a box. The brain surgeon, like most Americans, was like, “So, it has a little fat in it. It’s not that bad.”



Um, okay.

Anyway, to make the concoction, you take the dough, fill it with some hamburger and cabbage mixture and bake it.

So gross I could barely look at it – basically Hamburger Helper (I can’t even stand to link that) in a cheap roll.

But what’s worse, he bought – I dunno – 4 or 5 boxes of that crappy roll mix and then used corn oil to mix it with. He thought that might be a step up from butter or margarine and he was right there. Although corn oil has a bit more saturated fat than the better oils, it does have a decent amount of omega 6 fatty acids. Nonetheless, if you’re trying to eat a nutrient rich diet or like Dr. Fuhrman does, it doesn’t really fit in.

Okay, but when I think about it, so what? Why do I care what he eats? Really?

Part is because, as the father of my children, he has a profound influence on them. Although he is WAY WAY healthier than most people are I know, he still maintains a steady intake of processed foods.

I almost never see the brain surgeon eat raw fruits and veggies. Salads are small when they happen. He prefers his fruit canned. He drinks processed orange juice. Processed. Processed. Processed.

But his peers eat much worse than he does, so he’s ahead of the crowd and doesn’t understand why I complain.

Anyway, tonight I caused a fight because I just could not shut up. Looking at 8 huge mounds of that trash food was making my blood boil. I don’t want the kids eating that stuff. I just don’t. And they did.

But I also don’t want to fight about food. Most people do not care. Obesity, cancer, diabetes and heart disease are skyrocketing because people don’t worry about what they eat – except to lose weight.

I rather wish I didn’t care either. But when I see my precious children filling the limited space in their tiny tummies with better-than-most-crap-but-still-crap on a Thursday night, I get a little nutty.

Because it’s really hard. When he brings cookies in the house, we all want them. When he brings soft, squishy (processed beyond any shred of fiber remnants), we all have a slice.

AND I'm a hypocrite. I had Del Taco last week, no matter how I justify it.

It's just that we agreed we wouldn’t say anything at parties and support guilt-free enjoyment of cake. We agreed to limit eating out and to try to pick healthful restaurants when we do. We agreed to keep the processed crap out of the house. We agreed to set an example for the kids.

So I’m annoyed when I stand alone for his and the children’s health.

I’m such a food fiend.

Toodles.

Pictures

I'm inspired. I need to add photos!!!

So here I am with the L-man on my lap at a birthday party. Note the artificially flavored and colored lollypop in carcinogenic red. We throw caution to the wind (or attempt to) at birthday parties. Miss M is wearing the crown and is sitting next to one of her very best friends, Ava Lane.

Here's one of BooBoo and the brain surgeon. We should have named her Pinky. Then I'd have Pinky and the Brain. Both pictures are a few months old. We are uploading them all to the brain surgeon's computer now and he takes it to work.

Anyway, that's a start. Back to interviewing people for my news story on competitive bidding.

Tax Day

Tally Ho.

The last two months were tight financially. I’ll just put that out there before I even get started.

Part of that is because I’m a classaholic and I spend a ridiculous amount of money on classes for my children to attend. It's not very unschooly, but that’s fodder for another post.

So today it was time to pay Uncle Sam. Oh boy.

I’m usually pretty adept at keeping track of expenses, saving receipts and guesstimating how much our family will owe the government come tax season. Usually the brain surgeon doesn’t mark down any deductions, so we have a hefty amount from his paycheck going to the IRS. This plan doesn’t leave the brain surgeon any spending money, but that’s what his babe is for.

The babe's bringing home the (vegan) bacon.

I make some estimated payments so by the end of the year, we’re usually pretty good to go. I usually even overpay, so I can roll the amounts over each year for extra insurance.

But I really screwed up this year.

Somehow I owe almost $6,000 more than what we’ve paid. That’s fun. I’m a freelance writer. I'm supposed to have more writeoffs than income. Clearly I’m doing something wrong.

It’s the self-employment tax that got me. The total was over twelve grand and, obviously, I paid only about half that. Yikes.

That got me thinking about what projects I have in the pipeline and things are looking up.

At the moment, I’m working on three articles for a hospital alliance that I’ve been working with for about four years: one for Health Affairs, one for HFM magazine and one for Critical Care Medicine.

All of these publications are peer-reviewed in a sense, but I’m most interested in publishing the Critical Care Medicine piece. It's a manuscript about Rapid Response Teams and has a lot going for it as far as topic and data, and I swear this manuscript has been with me for years. Really.

Anyway, it's medspeak, but trust me, Rapid Response Teams matter if you're the person lying in the hospital bed.

I’m also working on a peer-reviewed manuscript on adrenoleukodystrophy. This one is for a physician who’s wife works with the brain surgeon when the brain surgeon works trauma at the county ER. Good stories from that place. Anyway, adrenoleukodystrophy is the disease that is the focus of the movie Lorenzo’s Oil.

Great flick. Horrible disease.

I’m ghostwriting two books for addiction specialists this spring. This one is two separate projects. The authors know each other, but are not working together. These are newer projects and are quite juicy, but I'm not sure how much I can disclose.

I’m writing a poster for a CME provider, writing a news story for IVD Technology magazine, and doing my usual copyediting and occasional writing for the Center for the Advancement of Health: that’s my current nonprofit gig with Health Behavior News Service. I think I’m well into the hundreds of articles edited for them, but only write about one a month. Still, if you see proofing errors, they are likely my fault. I’m starting to really like writing those stories, though, especially the more controversial ones.

I’m doing some PR work this month on a product launch for a line of greener cleaners. More on that as it unfolds.

Oooohhh.

Ahhhhh.

What is this mystery cleaner?

Stay tuned...

Oh, and Thursday I’m writing an edition of FiercePharma to as a mutual test to see if I will write and edit for them, as I’m on the West Coast and they want their news to the copyeditor by 11 a.m. EST. Not sure that gig’s gonna work, but we’ll see.

So that’s it on the writing front at the moment.

Today was hectic (like that’s unusual). We had a broker caravan parade through our condo at 11:00 a.m. With client calls – which I try to pack in on Tuesdays and Thursdays – and three kids, imagine how NOT FUN it was to try to scramble and get the place spic and span by 11. It sucked.

It especially on tax day and especially when I had nowhere to actually put the kids during the caravan.

My office space on the strip was packed full and the caravan was, of course, right during lunchtime and naptime. Urgh.

After the logistical caravan hell was over, the kids finally had a brief (and late) car nap. Then we had dinner (vegan spaghetti and mushroom meatballs from Trader Joe's) cooked by the brain surgeon.

I'm going to miss him when he starts operating again.

Then the brain surgeon put the kids to bed while I finished up everything with urgent deadlines. Mainly, I copyedited one news story on mistletoe and another on exercise and cognition.

The brain surgeon ordered “Alien vs. Hunter” from Netflix, so I made fun of him all night. He was hoping it was like “Alien vs. Preditor,” so I made even more fun of him.

He apparently thought a sequel to a bad movie would be entertaining. The brain surgeon sometimes (usually) enjoys movies that allow him to be brain dead, but even had to laugh at himself on this one.

Toodles!

School Night

Except for my writing class, I spent the day playing with my fabulous children.

The L-man has his mommy-and-me class in the mid-morning (10-12), but it’s really mommy-and-all-three on Mondays, since I take them all. Today, BooBoo crashed right when it was time to leave. I let her sleep, so we missed all but the last 10 minutes of the two-hour class.

I packed a picnic, though, so we stayed at the park until 1:30, which is when Miss M’s afternoon class (no mommy) is. While we ate, a nice woman approached me and asked if I was homeschooling the kids.

I felt so crunchy.

And sort of itchy.

Do I look granola? I wondered. Or like a born-again? How does she know?

But then she clued me in. “I noticed you have an older one not in school.”

I felt better when I realized I hadn’t developed the universal homeschooler sign on my forehead, but sad when I realized Miss M had grown up so much.

It really goes by much faster than people say. Just seconds ago, it seems, I wasn’t yet a mother. Now, my oldest is over five-and-a-half. Whoa.

After dropping Miss M off, I took the younger two to the library. We read stories until they started to melt down and began YELLING in the library. I dropped the books and headed out through the annoyed stares. L-man then threw himself on the sidewalk in front of the car and had a crying fit because he wanted to go to the sand park. I hugged my tired muffin and let him know I felt his pain.

That's when I realized I had POOP on my arm from carrying BooBoo. How had I missed that?

So I changed her, head to toe, wiped my hands and the affected arm, doused myself in sanitizer and strapped the babes in their carseats.

We headed home for naptime, but they both were out cold before I left the parking lot.

I didn’t know what to do, so I went to Del Taco. I’m not vegan at Del Taco - or even health conscious. I had cheese on my bean burrito. Yummy Del Taco, artery clogging, unhealthy cheese. Ummmmmmmmmm…

Did you know you can add Del Taco as a friend on MySpace? I did and now I have two friends, including Tom.

The embarrassing thing about this trip to Del Taco, though, wasn’t my flagrant disregard for my commitment to veganism or good eating habits in general. Nooooooooooooooooo. What was embarrassing was the fact that I had no cash and had given my debit card to the brain surgeon so he could pop by the bank for me. As a result, I had to charge the Del Taco run on the credit card.

Suze Orman would so disapprove.

And I’m a-double-whammy-shamed. Del Taco and using plastic in one day?

Okay, the guilt has passed.

Soon the brain surgeon came and met me back where Miss M was so I could go to class, but I couldn’t pay much attention because I had to finish a draft for the HFM paper. I worked on it while the, um, star of itsallaboutmetv read his stuff.

I did finally learn about screenplay formatting, though.

My mean girl (if you don't count that most are boys) clique became official when the ringleader emailed the five of us after class. Since the other four are showbiz types, I feel pretty special to be included. They’re more than just the pretty people…they’re pretty ACTOR people.

Since they’re aching to be famous, I think I’ll direct to you them here, especially since Tom Kiesche made it so easy with his email last night:

Tom is here, here, here, here and here. No, I did not surf for all of those.

The comedian is here and here.

I had to Google Shannon and Seth.

Really, I’ve been surfing the four of them when I need a writing break and they’re all quite entertaining. I laugh all through that class and it's usually because of something one of the mean girls said. They're witty, I tell you.

Plus they all want to be famous.

So, I'm adding that to my task list.

1. Hug a brain surgeon.

2. Help actor types in the mean girls clique become famous.

I went to class to bring some creativity back to my writing. I stay in class cuz I like my new posse.

Toodles!

Open House and Salary.com

Today we had our first open house. We’re selling our little slice of Los Angeles. Despite the fairly crappy real estate market, our neighborhood is a nice one and values are holding pretty well.

We could be deluding ourselves thinking we will get our price, but I believe we’ll do great.

Our place is small. It’s just about 1,000 square feet. That’s right…just 200 feet per person, if you don’t count the dog or the brain surgeon’s sister.

Plug for the sister…she’s hot and single.

Anyway, having an open house when you have three kids crammed into two bedrooms is a Herculean effort, to say the least. We spent the early part of the morning moving toys and boxes of things that normally belong in our bathrooms and such into our very-accommodating neighbor’s condo.

Then I cleaned like never before, did some amateur real estate staging, baked cookies and chilled lemonade.

And then I pretended to be my realtor, since he was out of town.

This was challenging. And not just because I’m not a studly gay male as my realtor is. It’s also tough to watch people open all the cabinets and closets while suppressing the urge to apologize profusely for the mess.

Sometimes I admitted the condominium was mine. Other times I didn’t. One time when I didn’t, the couple went on and on about how neat and organized it was for a couple with two kids. Yea me!

For this, FlyLady deserves a plug. I owe it all to her. Attention all crazed housewives: Sign up for those FlyLady emails!

I didn’t tell them what a HUGE effort it took or that there were really THREE kids. They did wonder aloud where everyone slept – I guess because the kids have a queen bed in their room. We are such co-sleepers that I honestly don’t realize it anymore.

I felt horribly dishonest about the whole thing, though. I almost want to call them and come clean. What if we meet again? What if they make an offer?

It happened by accident – as lies sometimes do – and then grew enormous – as lies often do. They asked a question about the owners and I answered in the third person. That might have been fine, but then they stayed a half hour, asking and commenting about everything under the sun. Whew.

All this while the brain surgeon and the kidlets ran around and went down to the pool.

Did I mention it was SO HOT today? I think our combo of air conditioning and cold lemonade was a hit. Now we just need some offers to prove that theory.

I do love our little place, but I must now have a yard and my own laundry facilities or I will simply perish.

On the money front, I just read this article entitled, “Brain Surgeon: Dream Job.”

Now, some of you might know that residency training is highway robbery. During the brain surgeon’s first two years of residency, I calculated his hourly earnings and he made a whopping

HOLD

YER

BREATH

(and don’t be envious now)

FIVE dollars an HOUR.

Yes, folks, you heard that right. The brain surgeon was operating on human brains for 5 bucks an hour.

Now that he’s chief, he’s almost doubled that hefty wage, but still makes less than our nanny does, and we aren’t rich so she isn’t paid as well as she deserves. All this for 4 years as a pre-med plus 4 years of med school plus over 5 years of residency thus far.

And people ask me why I work. Um, yah, the brain surgeon can support a family of 5 on this. In Los Angeles. Yah.

The only reason I don’t slap people who say doctors make too much money is because I used to BE one of those people. Really, if you are out there, you are so clueless.

Now, the only major flub in the "Dream Job: Brain Surgeon" article is that it says you have to have a minimum of 14 years of training before being legally qualified to poke inside somebody’s head, but the brain surgeon has been performing brain surgery – albeit attended – since his first year of medical school – so gifted a surgeon and social schmoozer is he.

But here’s a clue for those who don’t know better: That’s was residency is. The surgeons in training OPERATE.

My particular brain surgeon, for example, has performed over 1,000 surgeries as a neurosurgeon, and many more as a medical student.

Even I, lowly writer, had my days in the operating room back when I was a lowly medical student.

Anyway, the article on the dream job, if anything, had a touch of inspiration that I’ll share with my own beloved brain surgeon.

Because it’s tough to be a brain surgeon. Intuitively, everyone knows that, but living it – especially during residency – is another thing entirely.

The next time you have a chance, hug a brain surgeon. They need hugs. They really do.

I'm having visions of T-shirts, mugs and bumper stickers...

Toodles!

Art Star

It’s dang hot in LA today. The brain surgeon took the kiddies to the pool and my mom is here. I’m taking a break to blog and to edit a few news stories – one on baldness, one on cord clamping, one on children taking antihistamines and one on dopamine agonists.

It’s Saturday and usually BooBoo has mommy-or-daddy-and-me swimming lessons at the YMCA in the morning, but we skipped it because of her little cough. In the afternoon, there was a first birthday party for one of BooBoo’s friends, which we almost forgot after the chaos of the swim-tap-dance-art-contest-fair day. Instead, we were just very, very late.

Miss M had a serious scheduling conflict today. She had a tap dance performance at the YMCA’s Healthy Kids Day. I have no idea why they call it “Healthy Kids Day” and then serve hotdogs, hamburgers, chips, pseudo-juice drinks and candy. Are they insane? It’s a total junk food fest.

Really, it is hard going to many of the events in LA that supply food, because it is always just crap. We bring our own, though we do get the occasional crap, but when every table we go check out offers candy, it makes my day challenging.

Anyway, Miss M had to miss her tap performance, which is a bummer, because she loves Teacher Michelle and her friends in tap. Today was also West Hollywood Kids Fair, and little Miss M won FIRST PLACE and a blue ribbon. We tried to race between both events, but they ended up delaying the art contest and Miss M had to choose. She chose to collect her prize.


Now, I hate to brag, but I must say I was shocked when I saw the sheer number of entries. This was the 20th anniversary of the art contest and my daughter beat out over 50 other kids. (Somehow it was the 20th annual art contest at the 13th annual Kids Fair, but whatever). Seriously! Could I be more proud?

AND...(could there be more to this fascinating story???)...it was her second time winning an art contest. I swear. I think the first one was rigged, but still...What are the odds?

More bragging: I can see why she won. Every other entrant, even the 6th-graders, used one medium for their project – crayon, colored pencils or colored pen. But not little Miss M. She used pencil, crayon, markers, glitter glue, pipe cleaners, pom-poms, craft sticks and more. She’s a flipping creative genius.

The theme was “What I Want to be When I Grow Up.” My daughter chose to be a cheerleader. Yes, Heroes fans, Save the Cheerleader, Save the World! But, she didn’t want to be a lily-white cheerleader to match her own fair skin. No. My daughter wants to grow up to be a black cheerleader.

Now there is irony in this. I grew up during the Cabbage Patch doll frenzy. My dear mother waited in long lines and spent way-too-much money getting me the coveted dolls. And I just had to have a black Cabbage Patch doll. Much like my daughter, I was somewhat oblivious to race or genes or how it all worked. I told my mother that when I grew up, I was definitely having a black baby and my mother said that would be great.

I didn’t. I married a man who is German and Italian – and quite pale at that, although he tans better than I. But if my daughter’s wish comes true (they often do), I’ll apparently have my black child someday – and she’ll be cheering for her favorite team.

Miss M did recently ask about skin tones and I explained melanin to her. She loves science (should I call her “Brain Surgeon’s Baby”?), and so she found the explanation of melanin fascinating.

Mostly, I love the innocence that is still in her at 5 years old. She has no concept of race or racial differences. Her friend Ava has a little more melanin than her; her friend Emma has a lot more; her friend Tabitha has less. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less. They love each other for who they are, and when they fight, it’s over whose turn it is or who is first or who gets to sit where.

It’s a beautiful thing.

Toodles.

PC Hell

Today started uneventfully. BooBoo was feeling better and I was feeling a little worse. I tried to get some work done since the MIL is still here and the brain surgeon stayed home until about 8 a.m. because he had a dentist appointment this morning.

On the writing front, one of my favorite editors assigned me a news story for this month and I had another ghostwriting offer. It’s my second in the self-help psychology arena. It’s about sex. Writing a self-help book is like getting to play psychologist in a way. Since it’s about sex, it’s also like being a voyeur in a way. I also fixed the references and sent off the edits on a peer-reviewed medical manuscript for Critical Care Medicine. Am I boring enough yet?

Mostly, today was a day I planned to take off with the kids. And mostly, that didn’t happen. The brain surgeon had to take his mother a follow-up appointment with the cataract surgeon and decided to take the kids along. I took my evil laptop (PC) to my office to switch out the keyboard with a different one.

Oh, and when I say, “my office,” it really is one of my client’s offices. Annually, they have been one of my largest clients for the last few years. I use one of their laptops for work with their clients, so they service it when there is a problem. My beloved Sprint card (also provided by said client) works only in the PC, so it tends to get a lot of use.

Anyhow, the POC has been freezing and the “A” key came off in my hand the other day. IT had a spare for me to switch the keyboard out with, but of course, after 20 minutes toiling as a wannabe-IT guy, when I finally had both keyboards off and tried to do the switch, it didn’t work – there was a tiny connection difference despite both computers being R51s. Then my dear colleague, V, attempted to pull the “A” off the one we were supposed to switch with, but that too broke. Oops!

By the time we put it all back together, my laptop had clearly had it with me and we clearly f*d something up, because it kept freezing even before it would boot. So, we packed both up and called FedEx. Too late for a pickup.

So, I get in my husband’s car – which would be even more embarrassing than hopping in my minivan if I cared about cars, which I don't – and I head to the FedEx at Sunset and Doheney, next to BlowFish (I’m now linking to everything, just for fun, but this is actually a pretty cool sushi place – even though I only eat vegan sushi, which might just be an oxymoron) and, of course, there’s no parking and nowhere to turn around. On the second round, I get a meter, but there is no change to be had. I always throw mine in my car, but apparently the brain surgeon does not.

So I played meter roulette, dropped the two laptops in one box on the FedEx counter, ran back to the care and beat the meter maid. Whew.

But when I got home, the FedEx guy called to tell me anything insured for over $500 is subject to inspection. What? By the time that conversation was over, I purchased two laptop shipping boxes for 10 bucks each and paid 10 more bucks each to have the guy pack them.

I tried the “I have three small kids and can’t bear the thought of coming back there” sob story, but it didn’t work at all.

Now I’m on my Mac, which I prefer anyway. But what a pain.

I asked the brain surgeon to take Miss M to ballet, which is near a park where BooBoo and L-man could play. I don’t know why it is, but Miss M, who loves ballet and her other classes (since I try not to enroll her in anything she doesn’t love) has meltdowns and doesn’t want to go to class when the brain surgeon takes her. I think she is just trying to see what her daddy is made of. I coach him through what to do and say. He usually succeeds.

I need an editor. I write too much and I bore myself.

Toodles.

Dear Diary

Well, I think I’ve finally found my direction for this, my umpteenth attempt at blogging for me. I think I’ll just make it a journal of my day and forget it.

So, today here is what happened:

I woke up this morning with two out of three kids in bed with me. The brain surgeon was headed to the lab to research brain tumors. It was somewhere around 6 a.m.

I’m a night owl, so I hate 6 a.m.

Since I have a crazy toddler, I had to get up. There was no choice.

I dragged myself out of bed. I just couldn’t be peppy yet, so I did what any self-respecting-wannabe-anti-TV-but-not-really mom would do…I turned on Noggin.

Oh wait, no I didn’t. Because it was already on.

I forgot that my mother-in-law was (is!) here. She came in last night unannounced, as usual, from Kuna, ID (where?). Not that I mind. I don’t. It’s just that I’d like a little warning. A little mental preparation.

And the brain surgeon is VERY patient about my mother, too.

It's how I met her, too. The brain surgeon and I had begun cohabiting (yes, in sin), only then he was a a mere medical student. It was my first time cohabiting and he hadn’t told his parents much about me yet, including that we lived together. I’m on my way home from the hospital en route to the gym when he announces, “By the way, I’m picking my mother up from the airport on the way home, so you get to meet her.” WHAT?

She used to be a flight attendant for United, so the woman just hops on a plane whenever the hell she feels like it. SURPRISE!

The night she met me, I was stinky and sweaty and I promptly hopped in her son’s shower.

I’m not the ho, you da ho, Idaho.

Anyway, so the truth is I left the TV on this morning. I admit it. I watched whatever was on – Jack’s Big Music Show or some kid video segment. It was so unschool cool of me, except all I know was they were bouncing around singing something about having a party for no reason and I wanted to throw the remote at the screen.

But instead, I dragged my lazy ass to the kitchen and started assembling breakfast. Fruit, cereal. Too tired to make their usual green smoothie. Yes, my little children love green smoothies.

Then, I had to get everything ready for Carmen to arrive, because well I just had to. (My friend, a former high-end nanny, says I should fire Carmen over the fact that I have to prep things for her, but whatever).

In case you’re wondering, Carmen is legal, but she didn’t used to be. Everyone in L.A. asks that question. Is she legal? Would they ask that if she was from Canada? nnnnoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Oh, also for the record, she has helped our family for almost three years and works about 20 hours a week.

Carmen arrived at 8. I spent the next hour trying to dress my eldest, Miss M., and myself, while my two younger children clung mercilessly to my legs. I know what you're thinking: "Where was Carmen?" It's complex.

Anyway, I load my crap (computer bag for me, computer bag for Miss M, lunch for us both, big bag of recycling) and drag my daughter to my office to work (I go in about two or three times a week for half a day and I bring Miss M with me). I arrived at 10 a.m. Only four hours after getting out of bed to get to my office less than six blocks away. Not bad!!!

Geeze.

Today was busy. I squeezed in two new client calls (one marketing gig for a low-toxicity cleaner and one book ghostwriting gig) between finishing two news stories (one on antioxidants and one on physician advice about smoking) and reviewing my edits on four more news stories that other people wrote (good writers, so not too tough). Plus, I reformatted a peer-reviewed journal article.

My daughter did her Time4Learning home school curriculum and made presents for me including pictures of princesses and one of me from a recent new business presentation pasted on Snow White. Oooooh, the symbolism.

She also does Kumon, as does L-man, but it's like pulling teeth to get them to do it, so we are transitioning away from it.

Then, the brain surgeon left the lab to bring his mother back from her cataract surgery (also news to me!) and picked up Miss M at my office for lunch. Then they went home and picked up BooBoo and the L-Man and took them all to story time at the Beverly Hills Public Library (which is a pain to sign up for, but really nice). Carmen left at 1. Go Hubby! I love that you’re on research.

So, in a nutshell, I worked uninterrupted for several hours today. I felt productive. Usually I don't feel productive at all. And I didn't even have to feel guilty most of the day, because the children were with their father (who happens to be the best young father on the planet. He's handy with brains, too!). Oh holy sanity!

Then, at 5, the brain surgeon called to tell me the baby was feverish and barfing, so I raced home, gave her a bath, nursed her, got barfed upon, took a bath with her, nursed her some more, got barfed upon some more (repeat cycle over and over), shoveled down vegan Pad Thai while nursing some more, and finally got my sick BooBoo to sleep in my bed.

Then the brain surgeon came in to lay with sick baby while I handled the BBR (before-bed routine) with Miss M and L-Man and put them to bed.

I was then really excited (um) to get this peer-reviewed article back to my client, but realized that the movement of some paragraphs means I’ve got to reorder the references. Sigh. I couldn't face it and thus I blog.

Bliggy blog blog.

Anyway, this is fun. The diary I haven’t had time to do. We’ll see how it goes.

It’s 5 minutes shy of 1 a.m. Time to attempt to shut the brain down (totally not what happens, but you know that) and get my 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 hours of sleep. 1, 2, 3, 4, Hi-5!

Toodles!

Sophomore English

Okay, this is going to sound really bitchy at first (or maybe throughout), but at class the other night, five of us were standing around bonding, joking, perhaps being a little catty (actually, doggy and catty, as three of “us” were men) when I realized that high school just repeats itself and we were forming our clique.

Now, of course, it is because the week before, we had actually gone back to high school. It was Caesar Chavez day and our normal room was closed, so we went to Fairfax High School, which was much more depressing a place than my high school ever was.

Anyway, we all sat there in our high school desks. Several people I spoke to admitted it made them feel rebellious just sitting there. Everyone was less engaged, sighed more and seemed genuinely bored.

Of course, it might have more than just the setting that caused the boredom, but anyhoo…

I definitely have already figured out with whom I’d choose to break bread – or in reality share nachos with – because if I’m gonna break code and eat something processed, it may as well be a gastronomical joy.

I’m just going to say it. Some of these people are really quirky. I’m quirky. I know this. But I’m quirky in a nondescript, mainstream kind of way. I’m pretty vanilla.

But SOME OF THESE PEOPLE. Well, a lot of them are actors and we all know how actors are. At those of us in Los Angeles do.

See? There you go already forming opinions about my opinions before you even know what I’m going to say.

I love actors. Some of my best friends and favorite family members dabble in the sport. Actors are the people who will go out on a limb in my writing class. I love this.

In my class, we have:

• People who can write, but cannot act. They read well, but they don’t get all into it.

• People who write well and read well, adding an appropriate level of oomph.

• People who write not-so-well, but read and act so well, you start to think, "maybe this guy's writing is not so bad after all."

But then, there are my absolute favorites:

• People who cannot write to save their lives and cannot act either, but read as if they are putting on an academy award-winning performance of the best screenplay ever written.

And then there’s this guy, who wears a shirt advertising his public assess TV show each week and seems a bit too peppy.

I honestly don’t know why I haven’t wet myself a few times. So damned funny.

Toodles.

Adventures in Homeschooling

We are really starting our adventures in homeschooling. I’ve read voraciously about everything from radical unschooling to more traditional (and definitely more rigid) routes. I’m unquestionably an eclectic homeschooler, but I suppose our children will help define how it all turns out. Plus, my eldest is only 5, so I’m still enjoying my time exploring the options.

I don’t know why I sometimes act like I’m still on the fence. Really, I’m now fully convinced that homeschooling is the best option for us. Besides, we never really get the strange looks I hear others suffer from when we say we are homeschooling.

Since my dear husband is a brain surgeon and I’ve got a decent education, people don’t worry about if we’re “smart enough.” Plus, he taught Kindergarten before med school and I’ve done some teaching myself, so we can pull out those cards.

I do think the idea that you have to have an education to facilitate your child’s learning is a farce, though. My sister quit school very young. The fact is, she’s friggen brilliant and school bored her. She learned everything she needed to know without the drudgery and she’s a successful (and not just moderately) business co-owner with her husband today.

Many have documented successful homeschooling students regardless of the education levels attained by the homeschooling parents.

However, now that homeschooling is potentially in jeopardy in California, I realize it is time for me to take an official position on homeschooling. No more “we’re probably going to homeschool for a while” comments for me. Now that a judge in the 2nd Appellate Court in Los Angeles decided that public school is a good solution for the problem of child abuse (huh?), all of our rights are in jeopardy (see court docs here).

Most homeschooling organizations (e.g. CHN and HSLDA) are saying not to panic, but I do find myself watching the news about homeschooling with fervor I haven’t had since I first started entertaining the idea.

On the other hand, I think the worry is a bit silly and the logic flawed. If we expect those who teach children in California to have a teaching credential, for example, that would practically shut down most of the private schools – and even many of the expensive, chi-chi schools in L.A. have non-credentialed teachers.

Like having a credential guarantees you can teach kids? Then why are so many kids in public schools failing?

And honestly, from watching my children thus far, I’m not sure anyone needs to teach them anything, although out of paranoia or instinct or habit or all three.

I do think there is a place for public school. I’m just not sure what it is. Some kids do need an escape from the home, I suppose, but then shouldn’t we just call a spade a spade in that circumstance?

Some parents don’t have the patience, resources or desire to homeschool. Institutionalized education is certainly an alternative for those families. Alas, some parents don’t want to be around their children all day. Let’s be honest: Many folks can barely contain themselves until kindergarten – and thus free daycare until adulthood – kicks in.

Scoff if you will, but I hear parents say it all the time. “Once they’re in school, I’ll….” It’s sad, really, but it is so universal in our culture that it sounds almost normal to say that we are essentially so sick of children that we can’t wait until all we have to handle is before school, bedtime and weekend duty.

There are agendas, there, as well. What are some possible motives to pull all children away from their families at young ages? Per the precedent court case, is the teaching of “patriotism” to nation and state (that line is just too reminiscent of little children saying “Heil Hitler”) to mass quantities of little Americans necessary to assure enough volunteers for the military (who would have signed up for the Iraq war without a little brainwashing!). What about the economy? Kids in school means more mothers in the workforce. The bureaucracy behind public schools and the public schools themselves, create jobs.

So obvious. More later.


Toodles.

Blogging Me for Real

Okay, so I honestly started this blog just to have a sample blog I could show clients. Cuz I’m a righter. Yee Haw. No, seriously. I’ve never blogged publicly as “me” before. Does this make me a coward?

But now, looking at the stats, people are actually reading this thing. Okay, not many people, it’s true. Still, I feel like I have an obligation to my 67 new fans. I’ve gotta blog.

For fun.

A lot.

And I’ve also realized that I’m at the point in my writing career where I don’t really need to worry about what potential clients think of me or my personal life. That realization gives me a whole new feeling of freedom. Blog publicly. Fear ye!

I’ll leave the medical/science/journalism stuff on this blog for now, because I don’t really know what else to do with it. The epilepsy stuff I wrote for the brain surgeon, but then he never used it, so here it sits. In case you’re like, “What the hell is this epilepsy stuff?”

Anyway, I’m taking my first class since becoming a mom. When I think about it, I’ve been in class my whole life until procreating…and then I went to Mommy and Me classes (or Nanny and Me here in L.A.)….but this is my first class for me for like five years.

It is a screenwriting class. I have no idea why I’m taking it. Partially because it is only 45 bucks, the brain surgeon is on research and it is just down the street from my house. Partially it’s because a lot of what I write for pay is BORING. No offense, my dear clients, but you know it’s true.

If you look at my partial portfolio, you'll see what I mean. I do find ways to keep myself amused and luckily the people who hire me are often pretty cool, but really, few want to read what I write.

Enter my screenwriting class. I think I’m learning much more than many of my classmates, because I really have NO CLUE how to write a screenplay. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write more about that.

But my classmates are the most interesting parts of my class so far. Seriously, I just laugh through the whole class (seriously…or not seriously? Whatever.)

Toodles.