Everyone calls me a signer-upper. I’ve always been one. I was the kid who’d read through the community center and church bulletins to look for all the classes offered for children each session. It’s even how I learned to break-dance (totally true).
That probably makes me a “good” homeschooler, since I’m pretty adept at scouring every possible publication for every possible kid-friendly activity and class in town. I present these to the kids as options and we end up horribly overscheduled most of the time.
That is just part of my personality, I suppose. The brain surgeon suffers from the same malady.
I’m sort of a vicarious signer-upper at the moment, because as most mothers will tell you, there is little time for pursuing one’s non-familial interests when the kiddies are under 5. So I’ve just became a signer-upper in another way.
Oh, Master Cleanse.
I really haven’t even figured out why I’ve decided to do this. One of my best friends mentioned she was doing it. I said, “have fun” and tried to forget about it. Of course, the “me too!” in me just couldn’t resist thinking about it. I don’t even really “believe” in the Master Cleanse. I do think fasting is great, though I’ve never done it for more than a day. I have been meaning to read Joel Fuhrman’s book on it (Fuhrman is not a fan of the Master Cleanse, by the way).
Anyway, to do this, you mix 14 tablespoons of fresh squeezed lemon juice (I squeeze it every morning), 14 tablespoons of maple syrup and ¼ teaspoon of cayenne pepper into 2 liters of water and drink that all day.
Some people also drink a cup of Senna tea in the morning and at night or drink (chug, gag down, whatever) a saltwater solution (2 teaspoons of saltwater in 32 ounces of warm water) in place of one cup of the tea.
Sounds a little bulimic to me.
DAY ZERO: I didn’t do the ease in thing, since I eat a mostly vegan diet, but I did the saltwater thing the night before I started the drink thing. The brain surgeon – with all of his surgical concerns about sodium balance – probably would have freaked out on me if he knew I ingested a bunch of salt for no real reason. Plus, I usually try to eat a low sodium diet (we don’t cook with it and we buy low sodium tomato sauce, etc.), so it’s really out of character. And salty!
I’ll skip the details (I’m not a girl who discusses such things), but you can check out what it says about the saltwater thing here. Trust me, it works. I’m not doing that again.
DAY ONE: I made the maple syrup concoction, which I found surprisingly tasty. It was true that I was never hungry throughout the day, but WHOA, I have NEVER EVER thought about food so much. I would have eaten the elevator I rode in if someone put chocolate sauce on it. Seriously. It seemed like everyone talked about nothing but food, everything smelled of food and food was just created to torture me.
At night, I had to do the grocery shopping for the family and that was even more difficult. Trader Joe’s is always cooking sample things. Sometimes they are meaty smelling and don’t appeal to me, but last night it was Eggplant Parmesan. Oh, the temptation. I’m usually good at avoiding cheese, but woman, did that smell good.
Then I went to Whole Foods to get the Senna Tea, since I found out one brand, aptly named Smooth Move, came in chocolate and decided it was important after all.
When I got home, the kids were still up (the brain surgeon rarely has success with bedtime, though you’ll never hear him admit it), so in the process of putting them to bed, I crashed and slept quite well.
DAY TWO: Today was much easier. I had my Senna tea this morning while driving my children to the soccer field for the first day of my eldest daughter’s soccer camp. She had her new pink and black cleats with her shin guards and her David Beckham (um, is that a shoe in there?)soccer uniform from the L.A. Galaxy charity game we went to a while back and I have to say…she was definitely the cutest kid on the field.
On the way to the next activity, it hit me: I’m breastfeeding. Should I be drinking the tea? (I had already checked on the cleanse itself, which is fine, especially since my daughter is 20 months old). An online search of several sites tonight confirmed my greatest fears…If I keep drinking the tea, my daughter might just be on the fast track to diarrhea-ville. No more chocolate tea for me.
It wasn’t really that satisfying anyway.
Plus, I’m not really obsessing about food anymore. It's weird.
More about day three (and what IS satisfying) tomorrow.
Toodles!
Showing posts with label Women's Issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Women's Issues. Show all posts
Monday, July 21, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
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:
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:
- Dinner (I try to clean kitchen as I go)
- Baths (I try to clean bathroom while they're in the tub)
- Pajamas
- Brush teeth
- Brush hair
- Floss
- Read stories
- Lights out
- “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!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, April 21, 2008
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!
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!
Saturday, April 19, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, April 18, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, April 11, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, April 7, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Valentine’s Blog: Teenage pregnancy and Juno
I love the movie Juno. The writing was brilliant and the script was well acted. I’m not in total agreement that Ellen Page is a fabulous actress yet…I saw a snippet of a Barbara Walters' interview and she seemed to be playing to her personality…but she was fully entertaining and depicted teenage pregnancy well.
Diablo Cody: Well I'm just fascinated with her.
I love the Juno soundtrack, too.
But that isn’t why I love the movie Juno.
Juno was more personal to me. The reason is that my sister is a poster child for teenage pregnancy. And when I say “for teenage pregnancy,” I mean “for” teenage pregnancy.
The other reason I love the movie Juno is that my sister is opinionated and mouthy like Juno (albeit a bit more silly), but that’s another post. Here's a trailer for Juno.
When responsible adults hear the story of my sister, they all say, “Well don’t tell me daughter that one!”
And the funny thing is, I don’t think my mother or I would be so vocal about how proud we are of her if it weren’t for all the crappy, awful, nasty, ignorant, judgmental and just plain ridiculous commentary everyone feels obliged to offer about teenage pregnancy.
And there is something really entertaining about proving rude people wrong.
My sister first encountered her now husband when she was 14. He was two years older and dating a babysitter of ours. He was a surfer on a skateboard and lived next door. She fell in love with his longish blond locks and shirtless tanned boychest. She announced she would marry him. Then we moved away.
She kept tabs on him, though, and invited him to her 15th birthday party. Love bloomed and somehow (okay, we all know how) in the midst of it all, my then 15-year-old sister became pregnant. I was barely 10 and she was going to be a mother.
Everyone wanted someone to blame, so of course the burden of blame fell upon our mom. Certainly, if she was doing things the right way, this wouldn’t have happened. No one considered that the two loved each other or that it might end up okay. Everyone was sure they were doomed.
They talked abortion. They talked adoption. Then they talked marriage.
All through the movie, I wondered what Juno would do and I have to say, I was a little disappointed. No spoilers here for those who haven’t seen it, but I was a bit sad.
My sister, a stubborn gal, refused a wedding proposal. “I’m not letting anyone marry me just because I’m pregnant,” she swore. Whether it was ultimately the pressure of the families or her mushy feelings for her man, she relented – eight months pregnant and looking quite eggalicious! I, the 10-year-old maiden of honor, could not stop laughing during the ceremony and neither could my sister. We laughed as tears streamed down our faces in front of over 200 guests in a reception hall. We were probably the least composed bride and bridesmaid duet in history.
This Valentine’s Day marks my sister’s 26th wedding anniversary. Two children, a house, a business and many adventures together, the love she shares with her husband is still going strong. In fact – dearly departed grandparents aside – they now have the longest running marriage in our family.
That isn’t to say they didn’t struggle. As two teenagers with a little baby, I’m sure there were many times they both wanted to give up or just walk away, but they persevered. They’ve got a beautiful family to show for it and are a tale of teenage pregnancy that most don’t want their daughters to hear.
But I still think it's a lovely tale.
Toodles.
Diablo Cody: Well I'm just fascinated with her.
I love the Juno soundtrack, too.
But that isn’t why I love the movie Juno.
Juno was more personal to me. The reason is that my sister is a poster child for teenage pregnancy. And when I say “for teenage pregnancy,” I mean “for” teenage pregnancy.
The other reason I love the movie Juno is that my sister is opinionated and mouthy like Juno (albeit a bit more silly), but that’s another post. Here's a trailer for Juno.
When responsible adults hear the story of my sister, they all say, “Well don’t tell me daughter that one!”
And the funny thing is, I don’t think my mother or I would be so vocal about how proud we are of her if it weren’t for all the crappy, awful, nasty, ignorant, judgmental and just plain ridiculous commentary everyone feels obliged to offer about teenage pregnancy.
And there is something really entertaining about proving rude people wrong.
My sister first encountered her now husband when she was 14. He was two years older and dating a babysitter of ours. He was a surfer on a skateboard and lived next door. She fell in love with his longish blond locks and shirtless tanned boychest. She announced she would marry him. Then we moved away.
She kept tabs on him, though, and invited him to her 15th birthday party. Love bloomed and somehow (okay, we all know how) in the midst of it all, my then 15-year-old sister became pregnant. I was barely 10 and she was going to be a mother.
Everyone wanted someone to blame, so of course the burden of blame fell upon our mom. Certainly, if she was doing things the right way, this wouldn’t have happened. No one considered that the two loved each other or that it might end up okay. Everyone was sure they were doomed.
They talked abortion. They talked adoption. Then they talked marriage.
All through the movie, I wondered what Juno would do and I have to say, I was a little disappointed. No spoilers here for those who haven’t seen it, but I was a bit sad.
My sister, a stubborn gal, refused a wedding proposal. “I’m not letting anyone marry me just because I’m pregnant,” she swore. Whether it was ultimately the pressure of the families or her mushy feelings for her man, she relented – eight months pregnant and looking quite eggalicious! I, the 10-year-old maiden of honor, could not stop laughing during the ceremony and neither could my sister. We laughed as tears streamed down our faces in front of over 200 guests in a reception hall. We were probably the least composed bride and bridesmaid duet in history.
This Valentine’s Day marks my sister’s 26th wedding anniversary. Two children, a house, a business and many adventures together, the love she shares with her husband is still going strong. In fact – dearly departed grandparents aside – they now have the longest running marriage in our family.
That isn’t to say they didn’t struggle. As two teenagers with a little baby, I’m sure there were many times they both wanted to give up or just walk away, but they persevered. They’ve got a beautiful family to show for it and are a tale of teenage pregnancy that most don’t want their daughters to hear.
But I still think it's a lovely tale.
Toodles.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Taking his name...
Okay, so I still consider myself a feminist. There are so many definitions of the word "feminist" and the topic of "feminism" that it is hard to fit into any one box (pun intended), but I'm basically for me being able to do whatever the hell I want, despite the fact that I don't have an (attached) penis.
I didn't take the brain surgeon's last name, but that doesn't really make me a feminist.
We had a discussion at dinner about that the other night. Some of the men (more brain surgeons) in attendance said that not taking the man's name was equal to castration. WHAT? Are some people really that insecure? What does taking a man's name (and thus giving up your own) have to do with castration?
My question is, why do people care at all? I mean, take his name if you like it or want to or whatever and don't take his name if you are opposed to the tradition, prefer your own name for whatever reason, and so on. Unless you are a woman from a long matriarchal line in a matriarchal society, you probably have some man's name anyway...In fact, I'm hyphenated with my two dads' last names.
But my name was my name and I didn't really feel like getting a new one and my husband didn't care either way. We also didn't think it mattered if our family all had the same last name as we don't believe we are defined by our last name. Our family is a family either way.
In fact, my sister and I had different last names (and different fathers, but that is its own LONG post) growing up and it didn't change how we felt about each other at all...We are as close as close can be.
Back in the day (well maybe not "the" day), women were betrothed and the name was a property thing. I'm not really up to holding up that tradition, but again, I really don't see how it matters much.
I just know I would never marry a man who equated it to "castration" or one who didn't have the self-esteem to handle a woman who makes her own decisions on such things.
Thank goodness the brain surgeon I married is cool.
Toodles.
I didn't take the brain surgeon's last name, but that doesn't really make me a feminist.
We had a discussion at dinner about that the other night. Some of the men (more brain surgeons) in attendance said that not taking the man's name was equal to castration. WHAT? Are some people really that insecure? What does taking a man's name (and thus giving up your own) have to do with castration?
My question is, why do people care at all? I mean, take his name if you like it or want to or whatever and don't take his name if you are opposed to the tradition, prefer your own name for whatever reason, and so on. Unless you are a woman from a long matriarchal line in a matriarchal society, you probably have some man's name anyway...In fact, I'm hyphenated with my two dads' last names.
But my name was my name and I didn't really feel like getting a new one and my husband didn't care either way. We also didn't think it mattered if our family all had the same last name as we don't believe we are defined by our last name. Our family is a family either way.
In fact, my sister and I had different last names (and different fathers, but that is its own LONG post) growing up and it didn't change how we felt about each other at all...We are as close as close can be.
Back in the day (well maybe not "the" day), women were betrothed and the name was a property thing. I'm not really up to holding up that tradition, but again, I really don't see how it matters much.
I just know I would never marry a man who equated it to "castration" or one who didn't have the self-esteem to handle a woman who makes her own decisions on such things.
Thank goodness the brain surgeon I married is cool.
Toodles.
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