Social Calendars and Choosing a Dinner Partner

This is Part 2 of my Retirement Dinner Story

To catch up click here to read Part 1 

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There's a reason why women take charge of the social calendar in married life. We are genetically programmed to take care of these matters. We are able to look ahead of the now to foresee any potential downers at our social event and work to remedy such situations before they ever have an opportunity to come to fruition. Case in point...open dinner seating.

There were over a hundred people attending this retirement dinner. If you were not a doctor, or a doctor's wife, you either worked directly with Doc C or were a member of his family.

At the announcement inviting (or rather herding) us into the dining room for dinner, we all picked up our name card and shuffled through the doors to find ourselves a table. I think most wives would agree, by this time, we would have already conversed, chosen a table and made arrangements as to who we were sitting with, who was in charge of grabbing a table, saving seats, etc.

Men don't do this.

Instead, I found myself aimlessly following (and perhaps wobbling a bit-- the stilettos--those damn shoes!)  Doc H around the dining room (this was his gig, not mine) as he tried to locate someone he would like to sit with.

Here's a classic example of a fundamental difference between men and women. Doc H is searching for someone specific in a dining partner. Someone he can rub elbows with. Someone he can network with. Someone who he would like to pass ideas by or perhaps informally screen for a potential job. If he has his way, he won't sit by a random person. He'll be gathering information, gathering data. He will be working this dinner.

We, ladies, will go straight to our friends and sit together to have a gab fest, drink free wine and cocktails, and have a great time. Work can wait until Monday morning. This is a social occasion, after all... a party, for the love of Jiminy Crickets! Did I mention the drinks are free? The drinks ARE FREEEEEEEE!

Despite all this, and regardless of the fact we happened to be one of the first couples in the dining room, we ended up being one of the last to sit down due to the circular dance we performed as Doc H tried to find a suitable dining partner. We ended up much like Baby, and found ourselves seated in the corner among the ficus trees...with only one other doctor seated at our table. No wife, no girlfriend, not even a  stinking date for me to occupy my time with. At this point, I would've been happy had he brought along a paid escort.  No such luck. Just me and two blood and guts guys. Me and two guys who wield a scalpel for a living. Me and two guys who slice and dice. Human beings.

It was at this point, I realized I left my iPhone at home. No Twitter, no Facebook, no Pinterest, no Instagram, no texting, no apps, no games, no blogging, no nothing. No. Nada. Zilch. 

This was going to be a long night.

S-O-B.

So much happened at this dinner, I've decided to write a few installments so I don't overwhelm you or take up too much of your day. Please be sure to follow via GFC, Linky, email, Twitter, or Facebook to make sure you don't miss out on the rest of the story. 

A Doctor's Retirement Dinner

When Doc Hubby first came to {insert name of a prestigious hospital here}, he took a strong liking to his Chief.  Doc Chief was a kind and open-hearted soul who was capable of demanding the best of his fellows and collegues without being an overbearing, ego-centric, a**-grinding, a**hole we all know some docs can be. His collegues and coworkers found him to be gentle, yet firm. They all enjoyed working with him and this was clearly evident as everyone celebrated his retirement with loving, sincere, and genuine tributes at Doc C's swanky retirement soiree.

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I'll admit, I really don't enjoy going to these things. Well, let me rephrase... I don't like getting ready for these things. Once I get there, find someone I can talk to and relate to, (and have a glass of wine--or two) I can enjoy the evening. If any one of those three factors is missing...it's a dud of a night and I'm left asking why in the hell did I even considering stuffing myself into a pair of Spanx for the evening?! I hate feeling all my fat squeezed up and under my armpits! It creates chaffing. Yes. I chaff at these events.

S-O-B {read that as tears or an acronym, your choice}

And, yes, I do love my Badgley Mischka's, but in all honesty, my feet (or any other woman's for that matter) were not meant to be at such an excruiating angle for so long. If God had made us with this intention, girls would be born with ballet pointe slippers strapped to their feet. Yet, I stood through cocktail hour like a warrior. The wine flowed freely and seemed to settle down in my feet. I blame the numbness for my wobbles, it was never the alcohol or the stilettos.

Before I leave shoes, I have to tell you, I've never seen so many red soled shoes in my life. Not even in the Bloomingdales shoe department. I'll admit, I had alterior motives to dropping my napkin on the floor and putting my face as close to the floor as possible. I was taking stock of Louboutin inventory for the event just as any self-repecting, card carrying Nordstrom member would do. 

Why must lipgloss be so damn sticky? I was trying to look as elegant and sophisticated as possible as I was having a conversation with a Doc who has devices named after him. Big Honcho in the world of medicine and mentor to my Doc H. It was still wine and appetizer hour when we were standing, chatting away. I found myself having to peel my bottom lip off my pinot wine glass... while he spoke...and watched. He dismissed himself immediately thereafter.

I can't really blame him.

S-O-B.

So much happened at this dinner, I've decided to write a few installments so I don't overwhelm you or take up too much of your day. Please be sure to follow via GFC, Linky, email, Twitter, or Facebook to make sure you don't miss out on the rest of the story. 

Click here for Part 2: Social Calendars and Choosing a Dinner Partner

Tween Tales: Colors

Our youngest, LB, is a twelve year old middle schooler. He is a cute kid and I say this using the number of little girls who have called our home asking for him as my gauge, not the biased mommy meter.

Last night we were on our way home from dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant and decided to stop at a popular frozen yogurt shop for dessert. This shop is a little out of our neighborhood and we had to drive through a section of town we don't usually frequent.

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It was dark, and at one particular intersection we came upon a parked police cruiser with its siren lights on alerting motorist to a closed portion of the roadway. Pedestrians were gathered around.

LB sees the commotion and declares, "LOOK! Crime scene, ahead! Are we in an area known for gang activity?"

I assured him we were not and continue, "LB, all those people are holding candles. They must be holding a candlelight vigil for someone who died right there. The police car is just there to make sure no one gets hit by a car."

"Oh, welllllllll... did you know you could get shot for accidentally wearing the wrong color in a gang neighborhood? One gang is blue and the other red."

"Yeah, that's crazy and very scary."

"Yeah, so if I ever have to go to {City known for prolific gang violence and daily gang shootings} I'm going to make sure I'm wearing pink.... or purple."

As I look out the window at the other cars, I envision LB in sticking out like a sore thumb in such an environment, with his Justin Bieber hair cut, vans and pink outfit. I smile to myself and tell him, "Great idea, LB, that's good."

...Yeah, pink would most definitely keep him safe.

Happy Memorial Day

Taking time today to honor those who have served and remember those who have fallen...

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Enjoy your holiday!

My Week in Review

The week in review:

Monday: Your Doctor's Wife: Saddled With the Pager
Tuesday: Spousal Chatter
Wednesday: Thanks, Food Inc.
Thursday: Pigs vs Chickens vs Me
Friday: My Day With the Pager
Saturday: Google Search Keywords for Your Enjoyment

Google Search Keywords for Your Enjoyment

These are my one-day, Google Search Keywords:

They all seem to align themselves nicely today, don't you think?

CYBER-PERVS.

My Day With the Pager

Remember the day I was saddled with the pager? Everyone left the kindest comments hoping my day went ok. I'm so traumatized I can't string together words in any eloquent or clever fashion which depict or give that day it's justice or you a laugh. Ellen, from Sisterhood of Sensible Moms commented her pager gave her PSTD. I think I'm suffering the same fate, my friends. Please forgive me, but all I can manage is a listing of the day's events and a few things I learned.

Do they come with a
pager holster?
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People don't become emergently sick at any random hour. No, even though their symptoms and pain have been lurking around for days, they always decide to beckon wildly at the most inconvenient times. It all seems to begin at 3pm as everyone else is beginning to wind down their work day.

My morning wasn't bad. I just carried that sucker in my bra cup like it was a pacemaker outside my body. The box squawked just a couple pages which I forwarded as instructed, via text message to his cell phone.

There are only four buttons on Doc H's pager. Those were enough to thoroughly confuse Your Doctor's Wife. I was panicked. Would I/could I accidentally delete a page? Then what? They'll have to page again, but how many minutes will that waste? I prayed that if I had deleted any it was just a page from a nurse asking for discharge orders or another elementary question which did not demand immediate attention.

Then came a page from a doc from an affiliate hospital. I text. A couple minutes later another page from the same doc.         Uh.        Oh.

While I did make it through my shower without a page, my cup squealed while I was in the hover position over a public commode. I began to fish it out of its holding place, but was having a bit of trouble which evoked premonitions of the sucker swimming in the toilet. I decided I should let it wait until I could wash my hands. I put those kegel exercises to the test.

I pick up D3 from school. I'm driving on a busy and congested highway...and BEEP! BEEP BEEP! I wish it was a cute little VW bug vying for my attention. I can't text and drive. I can't pull over. I ask D3 to text the page. She does as told.

Before we reach home, my car rings (yes, my whole car. I can't figure out how to turn down the ringer on the hands free blutooth.) It's Doc H. His voice is muffled. Another "uh-oh" moment. He's calling from inside the OR. Normally, he'll break scrub to call when he needs to talk to me. Now, he has a nurse holding his cell phone up to his scrub cap and he's talking to me through his mask. More emergencies, more unscheduled cases equal late night. He hasn't had time to eat and doesn't see any break in the day. Bad day. 

My bra beeped while I was in a busy, noisy restaurant. Everyone turned to look as I was fishing it out of my left cup. I was mortified...

And that's exactly how it went and how it continued to go. He came home at 12:30am that night when I handed the pager over to him. He was able to sleep until 2:30am when the pager went off again and he sprinted back to the OR. But this time, the pager beckoned from his side of the bed... so much better than my side.

Now, do you want me to tell you how he couldn't leave the hospital until noon the next day even though he was officially on vacation at 5pm the previous day? 

I didn't think so. 

Pigs vs Chickens vs Me

I hurriedly busted through the garage door which leads into our laundry room and into our home huffing and puffing, but with steadfast focus on the task at hand. 

Get through the door carrying eleven overfilled reusable grocery bags, don't let the dog out, shut the door, step over dirty, stinky laundry piles, don't get tripped up on any bra straps or jock straps, don't drop the keys, don't lose the mail which is crammed in my armpit and fighting for breathing room with my purse. 

I see the finish line. The kitchen is just....right....there. Just make it before both my shoulders separate. That is goal. Eye it. Visualize it. You can do it.  Blast past the in-laws, their friends, Doc H, a couple of the kids, the dog. Ignore those around you and their offers to help. Don't they understand this is a fragile balancing act? One simple shift and it all blows. I have eggs here people! Make way!

I barely make it to the counter, only pausing to get enough backswing on my loot to heave-ho it onto the countertop.

"What have you got there?" Doc H asks as I jut my lower jaw out to blow air up to dislodge the hair that's stuck to the sweat which has beaded up all over my face. My in-laws and their friends are rummaging through the bags now...

"That there is your free-range, grain fed, organic, $15 whole chicken." I huffed.

"WHAT! 15 bucks for a chicken?!"

"It didn't live in a cage. You said you wanted farm-raised." (read here for proof)

"I didn't say that!"

I'm still catching my breath, "Yes, you did! You said you only wanted farm raised pork."

"Exactly! Pork!"

"So you care about the pigs, but not the chickens?" My hands are now free, so I'm wiping my matted down hair away and off my face.

"Well, at 15 bucks a chicken, we should get some chickens and put them in the yard."

"Wait, what? Are you saying you want me to kill the chickens we eat now?" I am in disbelief as I adjust the girls back into place. {Note to self: never were demi-cups on shopping day again}

"Sure, it's easy. All you have to do is pick them up and wring their neck." 

At this point, I quickly glance at my MIL and we make eye contact. I see I have her blessing. "I'm going to be wringing your neck in just a second."

I can only do so much for love.

This will NOT be me.
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Thanks, Food Inc.

Last night Doc H watched the documentary "Food Inc" while I was sleeping. Because of this, he has shared his desire to consume only farm raised meat.

I'll admit, it's not going to be that much of a stretch for us. We already have fairly healthy eating habits. I don't purchase anything from the freezer section unless it's veggies or all-natural ice cream, and even the veggies are for emergency situations only.

I switched from ground beef to ground bison years ago. By the time the kids realized it, I had already been serving it up to them for over a year and a half.

So, yesterday we were ordering at a fast food drive thru and today we're here:



Should you need me, try looking for me at our local ranches and farms (I'm sure I'll be able to find some within a 200 mile radius from home) where I'll be throwing a half a cow, 4 pigs, and 24 chickens in the trunk of my car.

The things we do for love.

Spousal Chatter

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Running three hours behind on our road trip, Doc H and I decide to run through a drive-thru. We don't do fast food often, so we really don't know how or what to order. Since Doc H had only slept about 10 hours out of the last 72 hours, I was driving.

Obesity Pusher (OP): Welcome to "We Feed You Pink Slime and Fill Your Arteries with Plaque Build UP". May I take your order?
Me: I'll have a mini-meal.
OP: Which one?
Me: Cheeseburger.
OP: We only have a double cheeseburger mini-meal.
Me: Uhhh, okay, but no mayo. With an iced tea, please.
OP: Will you be ordering anything else today?
Me: (to Doc H) What do you want?
Doc H: (half asleep in passenger seat) Get me a #11.
Me: (to OP) I need a #11.
OP: Would you like to up that to a large?
Doc H: (to me, very emphatically and disgusted) NO! That's a heart stopper! (he's awake now)
OP: Excuse me?
Me: (to OP) No, no. No large.
OP: What would you like to drink?

I turn to Doc H and he quickly answers, "I'll have an M&M McFlurry!"

Your Doctor's Wife: Saddled With the Pager

This morning began routinely: wake up, get dressed, coffee, a few daily scheduling remarks and reminders shared with Doc H, school drop-offs, return home to the dog. All normal. Nothing new. Then the phone rang... It was Doc H asking me to search his robe pockets for his pager. I did and I found it. My husband saddled me with the pager for the day.

This has happened before. It doesn't happened frequently, but when it does, it runs my day. I become obsessed and unnerved by the little, archaic technological relic. I don't think drug dealers even use beepers anymore, right? Yet, here I am; saddled and strapped to the beast all day long. When the beast screams for Doc H, it's my call to action. I must immediately text Doc H with the call back number.

This bastard (the pager, not Doc H- just wanted to make sure that was clear) stresses me out. What if I read the numbers wrong? What if I text a typo? Transpose numbers? What if someone is on the other end bleeding...bad.

I know if I get in the shower it will scream at me mid-shampoo. I have errands to run. I don't want it screaming at me, drawing attention to me in Safeway. I don't want to clog up the Metamucil aisle like I did last time as I text the page. The busload of seniors from the independent living facility in my neighborhood are not patient grannies and grampies. One even mumbled I should learn to drive my buggy as she squeezed by me. Didn't she noticed I was traumatized? I was texting as fast as possible, my eyes darting back and forth between pager and IPhone, double checking the number, correcting the number all while whispering obscenities to myself? Didn't they notice the stress sweat forming on my upper lip? Cut me some slack lady!

Woman's clothes were not designed to carry pagers. Even if Doc H's pager had a clip, which it does not, women's clothing does support such devices. So I have to carry it...in a pocket. Women's clothes don't have those either... especially functioning pockets. We have small decorative pockets which may be large enough to carry a lipstick, not a pager.

My purse is not a viable option. Like most mom purses, my purse is a black hole. I'm afraid I would never find it in a timely manner.

So what's a Doc wife to do? I carry it like every other self-respecting woman who has something of value on her person... I stick it in my cup. I've got two cups, but you'll usually find it in the left cup.  My silhouette is a little deformed as I push the buggy down around the store, but at least I know it's there, it's safe, and it's easily retrievable.

Now, if I could just figure out how to turn it on vibrate.


Click here if you're curious how my day went.

My Week in Review

This week, I shared my

Mother's Day with you,

an other Beau Hunk chapter,

I explained why I shared my Mother's Day post,

I shared my excitement as my daughter came home,

and my gripe about putting time and effort into doctor referral for someone with 3 degrees of separation.

Tomorrow a new week of new posts...

Enjoy the rest of your weekend!

Asking Your Doctor's Wife for a Physician Recommendation

It happens all too often; I am asked for a physician recommendation. People learn you have a Doc Hubby and before you know it, they think you're as knowledgeable as a Stedman's Medical Dictionary and a Who's Who in Medicine.

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I received this message via Facebook messenger today:

Hi Emma how are you? Hope all is well. I'm sitting here with my friend talking about her moms [sic] heart condition and how they want to get a second opinion at ________. Isn't Doc H at ________? Is he a cardiologist? Can they request he review her chart? It's my friend's mom.

I haven't heard a peep from this friend in over a year. Last time we lunched, I extended the invitation. She never reciprocated. Now she wants medical advice/help so she's popped back in my life via FB messenger. At this point, I'm thinking a phone call would have gone over better.

I immediately reply stating Doc H is not the doctor they're looking for. Unfortunately, I don't know of any doctors at that hospital. I tell her sorry I can't be of any help in this matter, and I send my best wishes to her, her friend, and her friend's mother.

Here's my gripe with this request... She takes it a step further by replying, "Do you think your hubby can recommend anyone at that hospital?" Here's where I roll my eyes and the words "are you sh*^ting me" scroll through my brain.

She was a great friend in high school... decades ago. I absolutely adored her and her family. If she were asking for herself or a family member, I would spend the time to research a doctor for her. I would want to help her. I'd be happy to help her. But she's asking for someone twice removed.  

If I knew of someone off the top of my head...no problem. I'm happy to share the information and help out.   However, in this instance I do not and here's what she's asking me to do. She's asking me to spend 30 minutes of my time with my husband after he gets home from the hospital researching the right doctor for that particular case. I wouldn't want to just pull a name out of a hat. It's a recommendation that both Doc H and I will be linked to. I wouldn't send a friend to just anyone; it has to be a doc I would refer  my family to. We'd most likely have to sit at the computer to pull up the hospital website and review the department docs and their bios. If we are lucky, Doc H might know one or know of someone's reputation (good or bad) to help in our search.

I realize 30 minutes does not sound like a long time. In normal time, it's not. However, when your husband comes home to find you half asleep in bed, you're tired, he's exhausted, and you have many other family matters to discuss, it bears on you. We have such little time together as it is. If I'm lucky we might share 15 to 20 minutes talking in the morning before he leaves for the hospital. Most likely he'll be gone before the rest of the household wakes up.

Perhaps, it's also just bad timing. As it stands now, Doc H is 3 hours behind his self-proclaimed ETA. We had an errand to run together. I'm guessing I'll be taking care of it on my own tomorrow.

Besides...I am fiercely hangry. That's hungry+angry in case you were wondering.



Today, you'll find me Co-Hosting over at Fun Friday Bloghop! Come link up!

And if you're eligible, join me at Follow Friday 40 and Over!

A Divorce Tale: When Your Teen Daughter Modifies Her Custody Agreement

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Once again, we're in transition. My daughter, D3, has decided to modify her custody agreement by moving home for good. I am over-joyed to say the very, very least! Up to this point, she has lived a shared custody agreement. On paper, it's been 50/50. In reality, it's something else. If you're divorced or a step-parent, you know what I'm talking about.

I am proud of D3. She has found her voice. She has found her strength. I understand all too well how difficult her father can be and how scary it must have been for her to broach the subject with her father. Apparently, after the short conversation, he said nothing. She could tell he was mad (most likely hurt). He immediately dropped her off at my home. That was it.

Years ago, my girlfriends who grew up in divorced families all predicted this would happen. They have lived D3's life and collectively agreed one home in high school was best for both them and the custodial parent. They only had to check in with one parent, and didn't have to consult a custody schedule to make social plans with friends. Moreover, they confessed it was harder to get away with teen nonsense. They found they couldn't play each parent off one another or find a way to "slip through the cracks" to go out with friends when one parent said "no". In hindsight, all my girlfriends agreed one home in high school was for the best. 

According to D3, nothing specific has lead to her decision. She simply want all her "stuff" under one roof. She has been living the life a nomad...packing and unpacking...constantly. Who can blame her for wanting to live in one place? 

I'm so excited to have her home...all the time!!!


Come join in on the fun and meet some new bloggers...

The Mother's Day Backlash - For My Med School Wives

I received some backlash from my mother's day post and I want to clarify why I decided to write said post.  Normally, I wouldn't feel any sort of clarification is necessary for anything posted on this blog, but this is a little different. I specifically wrote of my mother's day gift for all those med school and residents' spouses and SOs whom I hear from all the time. I am asked for advice and asked to share and showcase the light at the end of the tunnel.

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These ladies (and men) are living on shoestring budgets. They live under immense, dark clouds of debt. In many parts of the country, their total debt amount could purchase two or three homes. Such debt is scary. Such debt is just crazy!  Sometimes they just need a little reminder of what life could be once they make it through training. Sue me for dangling a carrot in hopes they would enjoy a glimpse of what future mother's days could be like.  I'm willing to bet many of them spent the day without their husbands and alone with just their children... just like every other day.

These ladies live a fragmented family life. Most of them have moved (several times) and find themselves living long distances from any family and their own mothers. They are on their own. Resident fathers are not coaching soccer or even able to attend holiday celebrations. Medical school mamas aren't home to see their toddlers very first step. They live all the same family dramas as you and me, yet med school students and residents must remain focused on their study of medicine. Family comes second.

Someday, these students will be there for you when you need critical medical care. It doesn't matter what time of the night, whether or not it is during their kid's parent-teacher conference, their kid's championship game, or during their Christmas dinner. YOU, the patient, will hold their full attention, and it will be their wives and husbands alone at home who will be left to create a harmonious family life.

Would you want your surgeon stressing and focusing on a nagging wife as he slices into your aorta? Your mother's skull? Your father's carotid? Your spouse's kidney? Your child's anything?

I didn't think so.

So, I threw the medical mothers a tiny lifesaver as they try to stay afloat in rough waters. I feel they deserve any little, happy glimpse of their future life when the budget is lifted and their Doc H's have a little more time (and money) to recognize their work and sacrifices for their family and children.

I can't b*tch, moan, and groan all the time about Doc H's job. After all, it is a good life!

The Beau Hunk Has Left the Building

....Well, actually the state. Even better.

Our Sunday Mother's Day brunch was fabulous. Fifteen family members and family friends gathered at a large table, eating a lovely brunch, drinking champagne, talking and laughing. Three of our kids were with us (D1 is still at school) and life was almost perfect. Almost.

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D2 sat at the end of the table with her phone in her lap, just hoping and praying the Beau Hunk would call her one last time before he left for the military. She went to prom with someone else. Apparently, he escorted another girl to a prom as well. The promise ring has been returned. The phone did not ring.

It should be a peaceful summer. The Beau Hunk has left.  D2 has just landed her first job. I hope by the end of the summer the Beau Hunk will be a distant memory... for all of us.



{Click here too continue reading the Beau Hunk Saga...Oye vey... there's more.}

Mother's Day

I sincerely hope all my mama readers out there had a nice Mother's Day. I had a wonderful Mother's Day! For the first time, we had both my mother and Doc H's mother here with us to celebrate. Thanks to my SIL, we celebrated by going out to brunch...a fantastic idea! I was not cooking and cleaning for 20+ family members as usual. HEAVEN!

After Doc H and I were married, we spent one evening at home drinking margaritas...many margaritas. In fact, I drank so many margaritas I threw my humble inhibitions to the wind and confessed I secretly dreamt of receiving that special teal blue box with a white satin ribbon bow someday on a special occasion. I had never seen the elusive box in person, but I knew what it was and I explained myself to Doc H...

Years ago, when their store opened in our mall, I would slow down my pace and shorten my gait to peer inside and look at the male shoppers hunched over the glass cases. I would concoct stories in my head as to who they were and what they were doing there. One would be a husband buying his wife a beautiful bobble for their 25th wedding anniversary. Another... a young attorney searching for the perfect stone to propose marriage. And another... buying a his wife a bracelet to commemorate the birth of their first child. A special box, a special color, for a special occasion. I would admire those woman whom I never met or even knew what they looked like. I envied them for having such wonderful husbands, SO's or boyfriends who would spoil them with such a lavish gift. To me, it was just dreamy.

In short, I had been brain washed by this company and their marketing campaigns as many others. I know this. I acknowledge it and own it. But, oh, how I still get a thrill each and every time Doc H has put one of these little bags in front of me...

A Wife's Lessons Learned (The Hard Way)

Lessons Learned:

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Never trust your husband's memory (no matter how smart he truly is) when it comes to itineraries. You may find yourself circling the airport terminal waiting for your in-laws to get through baggage claim... a whole 24 hours in advance of their actual arrival.

Upon arriving at your destination, never walk away from the car until you are completely certain your husband (and driver) has locked the car... and turned of the engine.


{...to my Doc Husband, if you're reading this, I understand these things happen because your mind is at the hospital with your patients. I'm so happy I have a sense of humor about these types of things. Aren't you?...}

Teen Texts

When your home is filled with teens, texting is bound to become your main means of communication. Our older girls indoctrinated us into this new reality and I must say, it is a successful method of communication. They can easily reply to us without alerting their friends and peers that they're talking to mommy and daddy. You remember how uncool that was, right? Yet, when push comes to shove they will relent and dial to make an old fashioned phone call.

This afternoon D3 took teen texting to a whole new (lower?)level. After arriving home from school and a couple of errands, she went upstairs to her room to start homework. I was downstairs furiously cleaning in anticipation of the in-laws' arrival when my heard my phone vibrating. I answered...

D3: Mumma??
Me: Where are you??
D3: (shy giggle) Upstairs...
Me: Really?! You're calling me on your phone??
D3: Can you please bring up some toilet paper?

Apparently, I missed her text...

The In-Laws Are Coming! The In-Laws Are Coming!

..With friends! Oh, my holy cow...I'm freaking out! So much to do and just hours left before they arrive.

I love my in-laws. They are wonderful people with open hearts and open minds. They readily accepted both me and my daughter into their family. They are truly lovely people.

If it were just them coming I wouldn't feel the need to impress. They are simple, go with the flow, no judgement passed, happy go lucky, let's laugh at everything type of people. It doesn't get any better than them. Growing up, I thought I lived a Beaver Cleaver life with my family. Then I met my in-laws and realized they make my family look like the Bundy's.

It's the friends they're flying out with... I must impress them {I know...it's a pressure I'm putting upon myself}. The petunias are in the ground. The impatients are in the baskets. The strawberries are in their jar, the duvets have been washed and (crap! I forgot to call the carpet cleaners) the inside of my refrigerator has been cleaned out.

I have one more day to pull it all together. Paperwork needs to be filed away, minivan needs to get washed, closets organized, bed linens changed, and then the whole house will get a good scrubbing from my cleaning ladies. Why must we clean before the cleaning ladies come over? Why?

Photo Credit

While they scrub, I will shop. Grocery shop, that is. Stock up on foods and drinks....and toilet paper. Who wants to run out of TP with guests in the house. Embarrassing. That reminds me...remove embarrassing medications from medicine cabinet. Oh! And hide any gadgets which have the potential to embarrass.

Crappy-dappy, I don't think I'll get it all done.

Did I forget anything?

Spousal Chatter

We spent the weekend at our vacation home (really future retirement home, but we're in denial... "vacation" sounds more palatable). We have already completed the bulk of the remodel, but we still have a few little odds and ends which need to be completed. Since we have family coming, we drove out for a quick weekend trip hoping we could cross a few items of the "to do" list.


Our new place is located is a somewhat rural area. The closest mall is two hours away. The town's economy is primarily driven by tourism, so we do have some hoi-ty toi-ty boutique-style shops, but certainly no department stores...we do have a RiteAid, though.

These are not Calvin Klein's
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(...driving in the car)
Doc H: I forgot to pack underwear. I have to buy some.
Me: We're here for one more night. Can't you just turn them inside out?
Doc H: No! Where can I find some?
Me: I don't think you're going to find any.
Doc H: There's an apparel store! (Brakes, squeal, pulls over, ouch, whip lash...we go inside)

Doc H: Hello, Ms. Saleslady. Do you carry men's underwear?
Saleslady: (frowning) Nooooooo, we don't. Saw-reeeee....
Doc H: Do you know where I can buy some?
Saleslady: Umm... did you try RiteAid???

(back in the car)
Doc H: (despondent and defeated) RiteAid?!!! I'm not wearing under from RITEAID!
Me: Where do all the locals buy their underwear?
Doc H: They must all go commando.

*******************************

(...trying to mount a bathroom mirror)
Doc H: (getting tired of holding up the heavy mirror and frustrated with my slow mechanical abilities) Did you get it?!!
Me: I can't get it in the hole!
Doc H: Thank God you're not a man.

The Med Student Spouse's FAQ Answered

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If you've happily skipped on over to my blog today in hopes of getting a chuckle, I'm sorry, but today's post probably won't do that for you (unless you enjoy listening to the realities of other,s lives- then maybe).

Being the wife of an attending who is settled in his job, I find my inbox filled with emails from the spouses and SOs of pre-med and medical students who are just embarking on the medical family life journey. All seek advice on various topics and issues. These ladies (if you're a med school husband please email and represent!) seek guidance, support, and want to know the truth. In a nutshell, they want a glimpse of what their family life will resemble given their husband decides to go the surgery route.

Here's a sample email:

Hi! I follow your blog and wondered if I could ask you for some advice: Do you know of any kind of surgery specialties that are family friendly? I ask in regards to time with family (the doctor's that is) my husband is a premed student and we are still deciding on whether a medical career is best for us. We have a daughter that is only a year old and she barely sees her father as it is. I just want to know what I'm in for. Thanks.

And my reply:

Hi Future Medical Wife!

Well, you ask a loaded question and it's one which deserves lots of discussion and forethought. According to Doc H, Cardiovascular and Vascular are the most time consuming specialties. However, if you ask the wives, they will also add all the other surgery specialties to the list. The bottom line is this: critical is CRITICAL. Patients cannot wait and they seem to need emergent care at night and on holidays. I've even been in the ER with on kid getting stitches and Doc H was tied up in the OR in the same hospital. That's life as a surgeon's wife.

None of our kids want to be surgeons. If anything, they might be toying with the idea of becoming an allergist, dermatologist, physical therapist, etc if they opt for a medical career. However, I think you will set the tone of how your kids either appreciate or resent his work. Doc H's first wife hated his job and verbalized it. She was just the kind of wife who expected her husband to be home at 5 for dinner. That idealistic family portrait is not conducive with a surgeon's work demands.

You and your kids have to be in it for the bigger picture and appreciate that in order to find that "happy" place. I am very supportive of his career. I am proud of what he is able to do. However, I will also say I enjoy time to myself and am okay alone with the kids. We (me and the kids) have our schedule and make things work for us. Unfortunately, we cannot depend on Doc H for anything. If he makes a school function, recital, family party, etc, it is just icing on the cake. If you go in with low expectations of his participation, you won't be disappointed.

But, keep in mind there are very many variables at to what his work load will demand. Such as: where will he practice? In a hospital? Private practice? How many other docs will he be working with? Share call with? etc...

I hope this helps. It's important to know the realities of the profession so you can both make decisions that fit your particular family and needs best.

I hope I don't put a damper on things for you. I just want to be honest. It's a tough life for the doc, spouse and kids, unless you all see the bigger picture and go into it with open eyes and an accepting heart.

If you need me...I'm here for you!

Big Hug,

Emma (Your Doctor's Wife)

Weekend Doctor Humor

An oldie, but goodie from my high school days....



YouTube via alyancovicVEVO

Tell Me About Yourself Award!

I was a little hesitant to participate in this fun award in order to preserve my anonymity, but I have had some time (okay, more like two months) to ponder it and decided I should just do it!

A BIG thank you to Brandi over at Yee Wittle Things for the nomination. If you haven't visited her blog you really should. She offers a mix of personal stories, photos, and reviews. Given that I have been trying to make a more conscience effort to support eco-friendly companies, I especially appreciate her reviews of green products. What's that you say? You love give aways? Then Brandi's your gal! Like I said, she's got it all going on! Go check her out!

The rules are simple.  Tell 7 things about yourself that would be found interesting.  Then send this to 7 bloggers that you nominated.  Remember, only participate if you like, it's all in good fun :)

7 things about me that I haven't already posted on here before....(this will be easy!)

1.  English is not my first language. Yet, I cannot speak my native language. I understand it fluently. When I went to pre-school, assimilation (not diversity) was embraced. If I must speak my native tongue, I sound like I'm speaking underwater. It's embarrassing. 

2.  If I could, I'd be a life long college student, because I love being in the classroom...not for the parties...really...I swear on my uncle's cock fighting chickens back in the home country.  

3.  In case you're wondering, I am American. My parents immigrated here legally. I don't think I could ever move to another country away from my family (well, they each had at least one family member here. That's how they had sponsorship). I am still bewildered over how they survived the journey and actually stayed. 

4.  I was a cheerleader in junior high and high school. It still comes out at the kids' games. Sometimes I just can't help myself and I blame it on my parents. They'll both yell and scream during their games, too. Once, after a game, D3 told my brother she could hear her grandparents cheering while she was on the field and it was sort of embarrassing. His reply? "What? Hey, at least now they're cheering in English. When I was playing, they'd be cheering in Spanish! THAT'S embarrassing!"

5.  My Doc Hubby makes the best darn margaritas in the WORLD! For that reason alone, I would never leave him.

6.  I was asked to prom by a classmate. I declined his invitation. He went on to win a super-large, national modeling competition and national campaign for a large chain of stores. Everywhere I went for a year, I would look up and see him staring down at me from a large billboard.

7.  My very first car was a Honda. One day I was driving to school in the morning and noticed smoke emanating out the back of the car. I pulled over to a pay phone and used my emergency dime to call Dad. He asked when was the last time I put oil in the car. Oil? Who ever said anything about oil? Gas, yes. Oil, no. Per his instructions, I immediately drove to a auto supply store. Even though I was dressed all cute in my cheer uniform, none of the male employees would help put the oil in the car. I asked for a funnel. The gave me a huge funnel; one which would never fit my oil hole. Never mind! I went to another pay phone and called my high school sweetheart who was a year ahead of me and in college playing ball... so he was home asleep. I told him I couldn't find a funnel small enough to get the oil into my car without spilling it all over the engine. Sleepily, he told me to come over. I did. He walked out in a thin robe and crossed the crunchy, frozen lawn in bare feet. I popped the hood. I showed him the funnel. He couldn't believe I couldn't get that to fit the oil hole. I said I couldn't. We bickered. He said, "show me". I pulled out the dipstick and showed him how small my oil hole was. I couldn't understand why he was doubled over in a fit of laughter. As I watched him remove the large and clearly marked oil cap, I knew it was a moment I would never live down.  

Here are some great blogs that I'm nominating:

1. The One With the Red Stethoscope

2. No Drama Step Mama

3. Natural Blonde

4. Life with Twins & a Drama Queen

5. Flats to Flip Flops

6. Just Another Tired Mommy

7. This Little Light

I enjoy so many blogs and these are just 7 of them.  Thank you again Brandi!!!

I hope you all have a fabulous weekend!

Pavlov, Toddlers and Goodbyes

I would like to know if there is any other profession which is capable of bringing about a Pavlovian response in a toddler.

That's where we found ourselves nine years ago. While Doc H's call schedule is much lighter now (he worked hard over the years building his department, hiring more partners and developing a cross-coverage call program), back then it was just him and one other doc. Before that, he was flying solo. Yes, that translates to on-call 24/7. Every day. Every month. Sounds enticing, doesn't it? Night after night after night...he was responsible for every urgent case (within your specialty) that came through the door on a gurney.

By the tender age of three, our Little Buddy had learned a Pavlovian-esque response to Doc H's pager. The first time I noticed it we were all sitting around the breakfast table on a bright, sunny, late summer, weekend morning. The kids were in their pj's slurping away on pancakes drowned in syrup and Doc H and I were pounding the coffee as we usually do. Then it happened. The ear piercing beeps broke up our nice little family breakfast. As Doc H stood up from the table to grab the phone, it happened. The cutest little toddler hand - still plump with baby fat - knuckles are still just dimples - immediately shot up in the air as Little Guy enthusiastically opened and closed his hand (his version of a wave), smiled, and said, "Bye-bye, Daddy! Bye-bye, Daddy!"

It was bittersweet. Little Buddy was (and still is!) such a cutie and just full of love. He held no resentment that Daddy had to go (that came from his older sisters who had refined the art of Daddy guilt trips). For Little Buddy, it was just a matter of fact and he was going to send Daddy off to work with a smile.

I tried to explain to Little Buddy the beeps did not always mean that Daddy had to go, but the news fell on deaf ears. To Little Buddy beeps were the stimulus which brought about his conditioned happy and loving goodbye response.

Pavlov. Toddlers. Pagers. Goodbyes. *sigh*

A Surgeon's Mantra: "I Hope I Don't Kill Him"

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"I hope I don't kill him."

The first time I heard my husband utter this sentence, we were dating. Hearing it was a jolt to my system. Such a thought was preposterous. He was a doctor; a surgeon! He was not a killer. Killer equates murderer, and that was not the kind, gentle, intelligent man I was dating and in love with. This deeply concerned man standing in front of me captures spiders and releases them outside. I kill spiders right along with snails, slugs, and ants.

When he, and other surgeons, take ahold of the scalpel they cut into the human body with good intentions. {After hearing the "k" word, I'll admit, I was a little freaked out.  I verified Doc H's intentions by taking a sneak peak in his freezer for body parts. None found.} They cut to either improve a patient's quality of life, or extend his or her life. Where in the hippocratic oath does it mention a intent to kill? The oath reads:

Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty.

Perhaps if Grey's Anatomy aired prior to our dating days, I would have been more prepared for the thought of killing someone on the OR table. They like to throw that phrase in there every now and then.

Over a lifespan of a surgical career, it is inevitable a number of patients will never make it off the table. As a surgeon's wife, you hope that number is as close to zero as possible. When it happens, it affects our husbands. It rocks us and the "I killed my patient" wave reverberates through the household to our children.

Yet, I find it hard to accept it as "killing" especially when a number of patients lie on the table against the advice of their surgeon. Having gone through the loss of a loved one at a hospital, I understand the emotions and desperation a family feels. Hope is a powerful emotion and one which is easily embraced to when the only other option is impending death.

Here is a composite snapshot of the type of scenario my husband frets about: Eighty year old (and sometimes older!) patient, bad arterial disease, smoker, diabetic, comes in with a ruptured aneurysm. Against Doc H's recommendation, family wants surgery to repair damage with major surgery. Doc H has warned there is minimal chance she will make it off the table. Most likely she will die on the table. If nothing is done, she will die a natural death. The devastated family opts, presses, even demands surgery. It's their only hope.

I ask you, if she doesn't make it to the recovery room, is that "killing" someone?



I realize this isn't a "Fun" topic, but, nonetheless, you can find me and others here today:

Meet & Tweet Twitter HOP!

It's the official Meet & Tweet Twitter HOP!

Follow your host:

Laura @ Our Reflection
 

Tweet

This week's co-hosts are:

Katie @ Little Becky Homecky

Tiffany @ Blabbering Thoughts

Leigh-Ellen @ Little Waterlily in a Big Pond

Jen @ Our Love and Our Blessing

Emma @ Your Doctors Wife

Robin @ Garage Sales R Us

The Rules

1. Follow your hosts

{They are the first 7 in the linky.}

2. Follow at least 5 new people via Twitter

{Or more! Introduce yourself... Its a great way to make new friends!}

3. Spread the word!

{The more the merrier! Grab a button and add it to your blog, 

Tweet or Facebook about the link up.}

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One lucky link up person will WIN a FREE

solo guest post on Our Reflection blog!

Drum roll please....

Last weeks Meet & Tweet winner is Jordan from Makin Memories of Us!

Congratulations! You have 48-hours to claim your prize.

Please link up your Twitter account, not your blog.

Want to be a future co-host? Email me at momsgonnasnap@gmail.com.

My Thoughts on Romance

Today I have the pleasure of guest posting for Rebecca over at Iridescent Indigo.

I was extremely honored to have been asked to share my thoughts on Romance for her Wednesday series on this subject. Please hop on over to read and comment!

I Confess...

I do my best to be a good person. I try in earnest to keep bad thoughts out of my head; especially when they are about other people. I try to be polite. I try to be nice and make nice. My mother taught me to bite my tongue anytime I felt the need to say something mean about others. She also worked to instill a sense of class and decorum within me. For the most part, I think I'm successful. However, there are split second moments when such bad moments make brief appearances in my life...

• I ordered my first Pina Colada of the day at the resort. The bartender, simply smiled and said, "Oh, already? You're my first alcoholic beverage of the day." A veil of shame fell over me.
• Under the Hawaiian sun and beneath the cloudy judgement of pina coladas, I ranted a little too long to other Doc wives. (However, I will say this ultimately worked to my benefit.)
• I gave all the other Doc wives holy hell (again, while under the influence, thanks to another Doc Wife who introduced me to Smirnoff Pineapple vodka) for not showing up to a reception and leaving me there with their husbands and dry conversation. As if I'm really interested in how the equipment in the OR should be reorganized or how this hospital or that hospital has an extra three feet in their OR and we don't.  I was the only spouse there. The other Doc Wives informed me it was not open to spouses, but "Thanks for representing." Thanks, Doc H.
• I spewed at beach boy, Rico, "Maui really needs to repeal its 'no alcohol on the beach' ordinance!"
• As I slipped on my brand new Prada's, I could only think,  "the devil wears Prada- take THAT, you haters!"

Thank you! I feel lighter, better. I feel as if I'm just emerging from the confessional booth at church. Maybe I should grab my beads...