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!

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.

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!