Friday, June 29, 2012

Juicing {Part 2}

This is Part 2 of my Juicing Post

This weekend my Doc H made us our first juice consisting of beets, kale, carrots, and apples, along with the promise of health and fitness.  It tasted okay as long as you didn't smell it, drank it through a straw in an effort to bypass all your taste buds, and finished with a Godiva chocolate chaser.
Doc H's concoction
In truth, I only gagged once. I would have stopped at first gag, but how could I not participate in Doc H's new quest for healthy living, when he boyishly smiles and pleads with me, "C'mon...I want you to get healthy with meeeeee!" Had it not been for that, the juice would've seen the drain. What can I say? He loves me... he really loves me!
I'm only juicing to get us healthy so we can grown old together.
I drank the darn thing in the name of promised health, fitness, and longevity. Imagine my shock and disbelief when later that evening I re-fractured my foot.

What was I doing you wonder? Hiking? Running? Yoga? Pilates? Gardening? Dog-walking? Sex, maybe? No, as I heard a crack, I felt a searing, sharp, pain radiate through my foot and up my leg as I stood... folding laundry.

What the hay-hay-hay?! I thought juicing would take me to a superhuman place? Instantly, right?? Well, just to drive home that fact that juicing is not a immediate fix to all, the very next day I sprained my lower back.

Don't mind me as I hobble around... drinking my juice and calling my doctor.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Hairband, The Toilet, & The Toothbrush

I was in a sleepy, Sunday morning, slumber when Doc H stumbled from bed towards the bathroom. I laid in my warm little cocoon trying to find my way back to the sandman.

The door to the bathroom shut (loudly) and just as quickly as he entered, the door re-opened.

"Emma! Why is you hairband in the toilet?!"

I tried to open my eyes, but all I could muster was a squint as I was bombarded with Sunday morning sunshine.

I wrestled within sleepy myself to find my voice "Ugh! I don't know!" How in the hell am I supposed to know anything at this early hour?

Doc H was already fumbling down the hall to the kids bathroom. "Well, you need to fish it out!"

{Good Morning to you, too, my love. Sleep bully. Sleep bully. Sleep bully!}

The door to the hall bath shuts (loudly).

{Hey, man! I'm trying to sleep! Don't you worry, I'll fish it out. I'll fish it out alright! I know exactly how I'll do it, too!}

Just then I hear the bathroom door open and Doc H yells, "And don't use my toothbrush, either!"

Plan foiled.


Where's his hairbrush?

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Granny Camp is Over

Sadly, Granny Camp is over. Even the kids wish they had another week at Granny Camp.

The past week was lovely. The house was so quiet all I could hear is the quiet electrical hum throughout the house and I loved every second of it.

There is nothing better than Granny Camp. Once the kids are in Granny's capable hands, it's a worry free week for us. And, yes, Doc H and I took advantage of our child free home this past week. {You know what I mean.}

At Granny Camp, we know the kids will eat well. They will be entertained. They will camp, ride jet skis, make s'mores, get everything they ask for.

We sent them with money, but they will not be allowed to use any of it. They will try to use the money for purchases, but will be told to save it....and they will.

The kids will enjoy a week free of chores, free of nagging. The will stay up late, sleep late, eat dessert first if that's their heart's desire.

Begrudgingly, Granny will send them home. They will walk off the the plane happy, content and full of stories and laughter.

As if sending your children home to you all smiles is not good enough, Granny sends home a fabulous gift. This gift is not for the kids, but for mom. A special gift, a gift only moms would and could appreciate. A gift above and beyond sending your children home happy, healthy, and well-cared for. A gift you could not, would not EVER receive from any other camp.

Yes, my mother-in-law sent all the kids home with their luggage filled with laundry... CLEAN laundry!

God Bless Granny Camp!

Monday, June 25, 2012


The first time it came up in conversation, I thought Doc H was referring to steroids. We were in the car and he just blurted out of nowhere, "I think you should start juicing." Huh? I realize it's been a few months since I've been to the gym, but my muscles are just fine, thank you, and I don't particularly find the female body builder's physique sexy.
The expression on my face must have glowed a huge, neon warning sign, because Doc H quickly explained himself.

After watching several food documentaries {Food Inc., Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead}, and studying up on nutrition, Doc H had decided enough was enough. He noted in all his years of medical training, he never had one nutrition class.  He felt it was a disservice to his patients. It was time to get knowledgable and healthy. No, he didn't want his wife to start injected herself with steroids. He wanted to invest in a juicer and start drinking fruits and vegetables he, up to this point, wouldn't even eat unless prepared by a culinary genius.
I'll admit, I thought (and hoped) this desire to juice would pass. However, a month passed and Doc H spent most of his free time either at the computer or on his iPad studying this country's food supply and it's nutritional value. I tell you, it's dismal. Doc H would regurgitate the highlights of his nutritional research of the day to me as we readied for bed. It sent me to bed grasping my pillow desperately in an effort to clear my mind and find some sleep.
As Father's Day approached, I decided the gift of juice would be just what the doctor would order if asked. So, LB and I went on a trek. What a trek it was! Apparently, we are not the only ones who want to juice. Store after store, mall after mall... sold out, sold out, sold out. With the soles of our feet emanating intense heat and pain, we went home exhausted and defeated, settling for online shopping to gift him with a printout of what he would be doing in his near future.
We waited a week for the juicer's arrival. During the week, Doc H began reading up on the different foods and their nutritional values and what ailments each food can aid. Turns out, you need to drink lots of different fruits, veggies, and herbs to keep everything healthy. Now our fridge resembles the organic produce section of Whole Foods.
This weekend my Doc H made us our first juice consisting of beets, kale, carrots, and apples, along with the promise of health and fitness. Sounds exquisitely yummy, doesn't it?  It tasted okay as long as you didn't smell it, drank it through a straw in an effort to bypass all your taste buds, and finished with a Godiva chocolate chaser.
Doc H's concoction

This week I'm again taking part in Yeah Write, a writing competition for bloggers. If you're looking for a wonderfully supportive group of writers and fun forum to share your work, be sure to check out Yeah Write. If you're looking for a place to find some great blogs, Yeah Write is the place to do it. Check it all out! Voting takes place on Thursday. Please vote!

read to be read at

I've also linked up at Talk To Us Tuesday; another great place to find some bloggy reads!

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Spousal Chatter {In the Garden}

Bigger than a bridal bouquet
I was out front watering my flowers in the garden, when Doc H came home from the hospital and pulled into the driveway.

After parking the car in the garage, he came back out to say hello and make a close inspection of my and our gardner's work.

He approved of the work, complimenting my green thumb. As he was heading back inside the house, he paused at our juniper...

"Oh, look! He shaved your bush."

Friday, June 22, 2012

College: A Horrendous First Year

D1 is finishing up a horrendous first year away at college.

It's frustrating. You pay through the nose for your kids to "grow" through education. Instead, all the grows this the size of your daughter's a** (hey- mine did, too!), her social circle, and her deep appreciation for the damned Red Solo Cup.

You remember Spring Break, don't you? Well, after a stern talk we thought she'd do an about face. Not so. {sigh}

While she's not flunking out, her grades are nothing to write home about. She is capable of so much more. Her grades are definitely not good enough to keep her in the special program she's been enrolled in. She told us not to worry. She had been quite ill during the Spring semester and she was going to pull it around during summer session.

Fine, we believe in her. We support her. We pay the big bucks to keep her at her out-of-state university for the summer.

One week into summer session and she is sick. Very sick. Antibiotics needed and prescribed. Great! No, not great. She phones. She's itchy. She phones again. She's red. She emails Doc H a photo of herself. She's having an allergic reaction to the antibiotic.

She is all alone, incredibly sick and without help. Her recovery will not be quick. I'm thinking she will have to withdraw from Summer session classes. Part of me just wants to go, pack her up, and bring her home.

Let's just call it a year and file this under "life experiences".

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Medical Malpractice: Advice to Other Doctor's Spouses

Source - Not an endorsement or referral
I've been wanting to write about this dreaded, dreary topic for ages. However, my fear for jinxing myself and Doc H has served as a buffer between these thoughts and the keyboard. Jinxing your luck is  very real around these parts, especially when it involves the pager and emergencies at the most inopportune time...yes, even during marital relations. What is the dreaded topic you wonder? Medical Malpractice.

I won't bore you by ranting about the crazy threats by emotionally overwrought family members, because that is just what they are, nothing more. No, instead I really want to address the spouses of docs.

DO YOURSELF, YOUR DOC H, YOUR FAMILY A FAVOR: Every time you move, as soon as you unpack, scope out the best medical malpractice defense attorney in the area.

You want the pit bull, the barracuda. Money is no object. This is your husband's (or wife's) reputation. Your livelihood. You'll want and need the best.

We can't saunter through this good life the profession provides us thinking that will never happen to us. I'm not saying all our spouses will end up in the witness chair of a courtroom, but I am willing to put good money on a strongly, worded letter from a barracuda to help calm the squally waters will be needed at some point in one's career.

Surgeons almost certainly will face a malpractice claim sometime during their career.  Neurosurgeons, for instance, have a 19.1% chance of being sued in a given year, while that number is 18.9% for thoracic and cardiovascular surgeons and 15.3% for general surgeons.              ~
So, ask around, get names, get numbers and file them away for that rainy day. There's nothing sadder than being asked for medical malpractice defense attorney referrals from a distraught spouse. It's better to get those referrals during good times when you are sailing calm waters.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012


I thought Doc H was overworked, but then I read this...

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

The Mumma Worries

3am. Wake up to lay in bed and conjure up every single disastrous thought I could regarding our decision allowing the three younger kids to fly solo to visit the grandparents.

4:15am. Physically get up and despite my trepidations, I wake the kids to get ready to go to the airport.

4:30am. Yell at the kids to wake up, Wake Up, WAKE UP!!!!

4:45am. Show LB his passport. Try to give it to him. Tell him not to lose it. He tells me, "You better give it to someone else, then." Hand the passport to D2.

5am. All five of us are in the Pimp Mobile Minivan. No coffee. Basically comatose. We begin the hour trek to the airport.

5:10am. Doc H grabs my hand and wishes me a happy anniversary.

5:40am. Airport parking.

6am. Luggage checked.

6:10am. Watching the kids go through security

6:15am. Hijack some stranger's latte (by accident- I swear).

6:25am: Accidentally text "Did you make it through security without a pat down?" to a client.

Obviously, I needed more sleep. The kids were all gone, Doc H was at work, the house was blissfully quiet. Nap time.

Big fail. No sleep. So, what's a tired and worried mother to do?

I tex-arrassed the kids until they landed. Shot off texts every couple of minutes.

Where are you?
Did you get something to eat?
Use the bathrooms.
Are you at the gate?
The right gate?
Don't fall asleep and miss boarding?
No, I didn't see your earphones in the car.
Did you remember your toothbrush?
You can put away your ID's now. You won't need them anymore.
Is the plane nice?
Did they let you on first?
Was there room for your carry on?
Are you still on-time?
Be sure you don't bother the other passengers around you.
Don't forget your please and thank you's.
Help your grandmother.
Dress appropriately around your grandfather.
Don't get lost on the way to baggage claim.
Read the signs.
Do you see them?
Are they there?

They hate me.

They landed safely and found the grandparents. I think I may try taking that nap again.

Monday, June 18, 2012

It is a short, concise word.
It easily rolls of the tongue,
yet I seem to choke over it.

Toddlers verbalize it...


To my kids?

...I don't think so.
...Absolutely not.
...way, Jose!
...what part of "N" "O" did you not understand?
...not now
...not ever
...I'm tired
...I'm sleepy
...I'm exhausted
...when you can pay for it yourself
...over my dead body what?!
...because I said so better not
...what did you just say to me?!
And, I cannot forget
the one and only time
"NO" comes last..


Yet, I can't belt it out to others. 

Unless it's followed by...'s okay
...don't worry about it's no problem worries
...I'll take care of it.

It's a short list, 
but it's the list that consumes.


I've linked up at Yeah Write, a fantastic writing community. 
Don't miss out! Stop by and read on!

read to be read at

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Play It Again, Sam, Sunday: How My Father Became a Doctor at 65

In honor of Father's Day, I'm re-posting this story highlighting my father.

My father became a doctor after retiring from high tech at the age of 65. Incredible, right? Well, let me tell you how he did it.

As retirement was approaching, my father had to make some decisions with regards to healthcare and insurance. He researched and completed his due diligence in choosing the right Medicare program for himself, but decided it would be wise to have additional medical coverage.

He questioned me about our coverage. Working for a hospital, Doc H has excellent medical benefits. It even covers parents and in-laws. Upon hearing this news, I swear I saw my father float up off the floor and reach a nirvana I had never quite seen in him before.  He signed up for coverage under Doc H's policy faster than you can say "ganglioneuroma".

A few weeks later, he received his insurance card and immediately made an appointment. He was actually giddy to go to Doc H's hospital for his appointments. He  calls me every time he has an appointment to ask if Doc H will be in the OR or clinic. He wants to know if there is any possibility he will bump into him in the hospital corridors. The hospital is a busy place with tons of people walking, running, wheeling around. The likelihood he will ever run into him is slim. I've told my father this time and time again, but he still calls and asks every. single. time.

Now would be a good time to paint a picture in your mind of my father. My father is a kind, family man with an incredibly naive sensibility about him. He (legally) immigrated to this country in the sixties from South America and somehow, despite the foreign land and foreign tongue, together with my mother, managed to raise a family and send us kids to private school. Sometimes, I have to think his naivete worked to his advantage in life. Sometimes it's better not to realize what's going on around you. You know, the "ignorance is bliss" mentality.

Physically, my father is a man of smaller stature. Maybe 5'9" in height and a slim build. He actually looks something like this.... 

He called me after his first appointment.
DAD: Tell Doc Eche to call me when e can, okay? I, uhhh, have some questions dat I nee to as'.
Me: What about?
DAD: Aiyyyyyy.... nat'in really. I jus ave question bout dese papers da doctor gava to me.
Me: Dad, didn't the doctor explain everything to you?
DAD: Aiyyyy...ja, but steel, I wan' to talk to Doc Eche. I come to da house when e is done operatin' with dese papers I ave. I wan show em so e can splain dem to me.

When my father's  insurance card arrived in the mail it looked just like ours. Now, you may think all insurance cards are the same (with the exception of the name and account number, of course). Not true. Our cards are the equivalent of an American Express Centurion (formerly the "Black") Card. When we check in with the receptionists for our appointments, they immediately know we are either a doctor or the family of a doctor. I guess I don't look like a doctor, because every time I show up for an appointment, I am questioned by the receptionist. I politely confirm her (or his) suspicion is true; I'm not the doctor in the family. I'm merely the doctor's wife.

Later that night, Doc H came home to find my father waiting for him at the dining room table, with all the papers his doctor sent him home with. Doc H looked them over and assured him everything looked pretty good and further explained the test results, what they meant, and how his meds have been adjusted based on these new figures.

Doc H is perplexed and somewhat disappointed the doctor didn't take the time to better explain the tests and medication changes to my father.

DocH: Didn't Doc X go over these with you?
DAD: aiyyyyy.....jes, but, well....juo kno, e use all dese big words, dat I don rehconize, jou know?
DocH: (knowing full well my father understands english almost perfectly, he is a little annoyed and in disbelief a colleague would not make sure his test results and instructions were completely understood) Really?
DAD: E uszed lotta worz I donna kno. I nee a medacine di-shon-airy.
Me: (smelling something funny and getting REALLY annoyed) Maybe you need to switch doctors Dad.
DAD:, no, no, hijita. I jus nea Doc Eche to splain.
Me: Dad, why would the doctor not take the time to explain this all you and make sure you understand?
DAD: (waving me off) No, is ok. Don worry. Is ok.
Me: No Dad, you need a doctor who will explain this to you. It's not really that difficult.
DAD: No, is ok. Is my herror.
Me and Doc H: What? How?
DAD: Wen da nurse call me in, she call for Dr. Sal Sanchez. So, jou kno, I juss go wit her. Aiyeee, but den she tell de utters I'm a doctor! (he slaps his forehead and holds it there as if he has a headache)...Wat can I do?

That's my Dad...."Dr." Sal Sanchez.

Happy Father's Day!

Friday, June 15, 2012

Hospital Politics: A Letter to the Hospital Administrators

I've noticed that several bloggers write Friday Letters. Today I'm jumping on the bandwagon because this is weighing on my bust line and gravity is doing it's job gloriously, there's no help needed.

This, not that.
Dear Hospital Administrators,

Being that you sent my Doc H home to me in a foul mood last night, I feel entitled to share my thoughts with you.

WTF. Really? Blatant, obvious internal politics is grotesque and does not endear you to anyone. Last time I checked, there is a pecking order within the hospital and laying down an "executive" decision to rearrange that order is demeaning.

Here is a guideline for expected behavior. I think you need one.

  • Never lie or go back on your word.
  • Lay the expectations down in the beginning, this will eliminate any misunderstandings in the future.
  • Don't call a meeting to "discuss" a topic, then begin said meeting with "a final decision has been made".
  • What happened to working together towards better patient care? Pitting departments against each other is not a foundation which will foster such philosophy.
Didn't anyone ever tell you? While it may be in differing degrees, doctors have egos. Their reputation is directly linked to their ego. {Unless, we're talking documented and proven medical malpractice}Don't mess with either. It is the ego which feeds the confidence. This confidence enables these men and woman to stretch beyond their comfort zone to save a life. While it may not mean much to you, I assure you it means the world to that patient laying on the table and his or her family.

Remember this: ultimately, your hospital is only as good as the physicians and surgeons you have employed. How will this decision be helpful in recruiting future physicians? Not well. I am willing to bet this type of admin behavior will be the talk of med town, not only at the hospital, but at every hospital & medical conference around. I can absolutely guarantee all the doc wives will be gossiping and bitching about this.

Today is a new day. I hope you send home my husband in a better mood by making your wrongs right. {don't worry, I'm not holding my breath}

Disgusted, Disgruntled, and in Disbelief,

Mrs. Doc H

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Spousal Chatter: My Homecoming

You really must read I Effed My Husband Real Good for the background story to this post.

After spending all night wrestling with a restless dog (really, the dog-- not Doc H) in my bed, waking up at 5:30 am, cleaning the vacation home all day until 3pm, and driving home in the pimp mobile (a 1997 minivan with gold rims, the most stylish black bra you've ever seen, and a tear the size of Texas in the leather of the driver's side seat) with two dogs, two kids, a box of Red Vines and a frozen, organic, free range ham (don't ask), we finally arrived home to an empty house at 7:30 pm. Doc H was still at the hospital. We hadn't seen him since Sunday morning and have hardly spoken on the phone.

I put the dogs out in the yard and notice all my flowers and plants have fainted from lack of a clear liquid simply called water. I open the hose and start quenching their thirst.

Twenty minutes roll by and a tasmanian devil spins through and out the back door to our yard only stopping his wreckless spinning to utter in disbelief...

"AGH!!! I just got called to ANOTHER emergency! Hrmpffffff."

Me: "Ummmmm....... hi?"

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Marriage- Take 2

Originally written as a Guest Post for Rebecca at Iridescent Indigo.
Rebecca asked I write about the most romantic moment Doc H and I have shared. 
This is what poured out and onto the keyboard...

I was so honored when Rebecca approached me about writing for her new series. I must admit, I have given this post an extreme amount of thought... maybe too much thought because paralysis via analysis set in. You see, the notion of romance in my thirties and forties is very different from the romance of my twenties.

Photo Credit
In my twenties and in my first marriage, romance was a grand gesture. I was proposed to in front of 325 people. In my thirties, with Doc H, there really was no proposal. This was "Marriage- Take 2" for each of us. We both had children we had to put first and our relationship was second behind their well-being. Instead of a proposal, in the office bedroom of his house with the door closed and our children screaming like monkeys at the zoo just outside the closed door, we made an agreement. 

We agreed to marry, to create a stable environment for our young children, to build a life together, to build a relationship which would withstand life's hardships, to care for each other, nurture each other, forgive each other, support one another, appreciate each other, love each other, and be each other's best friend... and indeed, Doc H IS MY BEST FRIEND.

Having both experienced the feeling of a disintegrating marital relationship, we recognize the easy pitfalls spouses fall into. Even though he's never said as much, he realizes he spends much more of his time on the job than the majority of husbands and he actively works to make up for his absence. Simply put, he spoils me rotten.

I can't name any of my friends who receive weekly flowers, dinners out, and the same level of support from their husbands as I do. Very rarely, do I get any grief from Doc H for any of my decisions.  Who else receives such gorgeous gifts for every gifting occasion? And my ultimate favorite... who else writes such wonderful cards, expressing his love for me, our children, our family, and displays such a sense of gratitude for any and all my efforts? I don't think I will ever find a husband who would send his M-I-L a card on Mother's Day expressing his gratitude to her for birthing his wife and raising her to be the perfect fit for him.

I suppose I could write of the romantic trips we've experienced together, trips to the beach, concerts, breakfasts in bed, or other events in our life, but I really think it's the little things which he does for me time and time again... the cup of coffee he brings up to me while I'm just getting up or in the shower, laughing at my stupid jokes, allowing me to laugh at him, allowing me the freedom to just be me.

While I sometimes wrinkle my nose at the hours Doc H works, or the phone calls and emails he fields in our presence, I honor and support his work. It is his passion, and makes him happy and I want him to be happy, I want  him to laugh. I can only hope Doc H feels my love, just as much as I feel his.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Blog Star: I'm Your Doctor's Wife

Today I'm participating in Mrs. Monologues 
Blog Star LinkUp
Don't be shy! Join in and introduce yourself!

Hi Everyone!

I'm Emma, mother and step-mother to four, ages nineteen to twelve. I am married to my Doc Hubby and we live a sordid life filled with the drama only 3 teenage girls (D1, D2, and D3) could bestow on a family. We find ourselves apologizing to our 12 year old, LB (Little Buddy) for having to live in a household worthy of its own telenovela...all the time.

If you ask me, my husband's first responsibility is to the hospital and his patients. If you ask him, he'll say we are his first responsibility, therefore, he works diligently at his profession of slicing and dicing human beings to provide us a nice life. I'll let you be the judge of that.

Emma is not my real name. Since Doc H is the Chief, he made me swear to anonymity. You see, I like to dish it out. Big time. I don't hold back. I dish on patients. I dish on his collegues. I dish on Doc H, himself. I dish on myself for Pete's sake. Some good. Some not so good, but funny... and that's always worthy of a blog post in my book. Moreover, there is this little law called HIPAA and while I do make sure I change names and try to keep some details vague, he's concerned his wife may just cross the line. What can I say?

He knows me. He gets me. I hope you'll poke around my blog and get to know me, and follow along!

Monday, June 11, 2012

I Effed My Husband Real Good

I try to be forthcoming and truthful on this blog. I have never been one to exaggerate or contort the facts to the benefit of myself... or others.

I blog as if I am a journalist. I'm not a puff ball like Laura Spencer from Good Morning America. I think I'm more along the lines of a Lisa Ling. I get dirty. I sweat bullets over my ground-breaking, earth-shattering, monumentally popular blog. After all, my blog is the must read of all blogs ever written. 

So, it should come to no one's surprise that I am always quick to deliver hard-hitting news of Doc H's missteps, faults if you will, in our marriage. If you remember, I was very quick to point out his forgetfulness which led to a Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear splurge at Rite-Aid. His driving has always been questionable at best. His home repairs always require surgical tape. And lastly, let us not forget the times he has left me high and dry in the name of his scalpel.

In the name of fairness, transparency, and balance,  I feel I must share this tidbit with you, dear Reader.  I preface this admission by reminding you how we wives live a righteous life... one filled with piety, purity, and an overall sanctitude, sacrificing ourselves for our spouses and children. We are last to sit at the dining table. We eat the burnt toast, the bread loaf heels and any other neglected food pieces, all to pleasure and benefit our family. Our sacrificial actions and intentions are always a demonstration of love in its most genuine form. I found myself reminding Doc H of this numerous times this evening.

My intentions and actions were for the benefit of the children... and our dog. All good. All wholesome.

We spent the week at our vacation home. D3 brought a lovely friend and our dog. Said friend had to be home on Friday afternoon. Doc H had time off until Monday. We travelled in two cars, so Doc H could relax and vacation over the weekend by himself. 

While there last week and we traded cars one afternoon, so he could take the children and the dog out and about while I lunched with a friend. 

The next day, I left for home with the girls.

He called four hours into my drive home. 

"Where are my keys?"

"I dunno. I'm driving."

"Where are my keys? In your purse? You drove the car last."


"Hum, en, a...I'm driving. Lots of traffic. Look in house. Must be there somewhere. Bad connection. No can hear you."

CLICK. {sweat. bullets.} SCHEISSE.

I know I have them. I know he's looking. I know I put them in my purse and never put them back. Ohhhh, he's a gonna be mad atta meeeeee........

Yes. Here it is. Here it goes. Brace yourself...

Here are your keys, Honey.
You still love me, right?


Hard-hitting, truthful journalism. 

I will be making the four+ hour drive up tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn with two kids and another dog that doesn't even technically belong to us (step-dog, if you will) in our thirteen year old minivan nicknamed "The Pimp-Mobile".


Doc H should be okay for 24 hours. The house is properly stocked. I know there's no food in the house, but there is wine. Plenty of wine. I think he'll survive.

Wait. What's that? The wine cabinet key is on your keychain, too? And it's locked?

Oh, Honey, I  f*@#ed you real good.

Yeah Write is a wonderfully supportive and fantastic group of bloggers.  
Voting takes place on Thursday. Join in on the fun!

read to be read at

Thursday, June 7, 2012

The Hippie Chic Wearing Abercrombie and Fitch

One of D3's fantastic personality traits is her need for peace and harmony. She is a hippie chic in Abercrombie and Fitch clothing. Whenever there is sibling discord, it is D3 who works behind the scenes to restore and mend the sibling love. She cannot stand what she considers to be the stupidity of sibling rivalry.

D3 (15 years old) is an open and loving person. She sees the good in all, despite the visible and clearly notable faults and flaws. She is quick to give the benefit of the doubt to those who most would judge and render questionable. D3's arms are open and she is ready and willing to love all no matter their color, beliefs, or any other trait which others may find disagreeable.

So, it came as no surprise as she and a friend happily explored an old dark church in a nearby, quaint and sleepy, little downtown area.

Me: I've never been in the church. What did you find?
D3: Inside was a really organic store.
Me: What do you mean organic? They sell organic foods or items?
D3: Lots of foods. And granolas...
Me: Granolas?
D3: Yeah, raw oat granolas and they even have hemp granola.
Me: Ha! Are you serious?
D3: Totally! And you know what? Everyone knew everyone by name in that store!
Me: What made you go in there?
D3: Well, it's an old church covered with rainbow stain glass windows. We thought it was a gay-pride church. We wanted to check it out!

Yup. That's my hippie chick in Abercrombie and Fitch. 
Make love, not war.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Sleep Squandered

This was to be my night. My night of uninterrupted sleep. Due to scheduling conflicts, Doc H left for vacation a day ahead of me. I'll admit, I was a little down in the mouth about him heading out before us, but I saw my silver lining. One night of sound sleep. It sounded so heavenly, I was actually looking forward to it!

You see, I have insomnia. But it's not really insomnia. It's just that I cannot go back to sleep after Doc H wakes me up in the middle of the night. If he's not waking me up, it's, you already know, the pager. If it wasn't for him or the ramifications of his profession, I would have no problems sleeping... at all. I promise you, this is 100% true. My sleep issues are all Doc H's fault.

Last night was going to be a magical night. No pagers, no one tossing and turning, no one getting up to use the bathroom, no one snoring, no one accidentally hitting me or kicking me. No one waking me up to pass the phone. No hospital phone calls in the middle of the night. No one getting up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water. No one sprawling out over the majority of the bed. No one hogging the covers. 

I was going to be able to spread beyond my little 18 inch sliver of the bed which is "mine".  I was actually going to be able to sleep with both my legs on the mattress. Like I said, it was to be a magical night.

And it gets even better...Doc H took the dog! Yes, that meant I wouldn't have to get up to move the dog over to stretch my legs, no nighttime barking, no mutt scratching herself or grooming herself at 1am as she lays against me. 

I was sharing the bed with NO ONE or NO ANIMAL! The bed was mine, all mine. Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!

I went to bed all smiles, looking forward to waking up with the sun streaming into my bedroom all fresh and energized for my fun day of road tripping with the girls. 

And then I woke up... at 4:30am. 

Now I have to drive a van load of girls on a four-hour, long and windy road trip. All by myself. Through rush hour traffic. 

My eyes are red and watery. They burn. All I can think is I blew my opportunity.... my sleep was squandered. 

I hate when I can't blame things on Doc H.  I'm sure I'll find a way to make my sleep deprived, cranky state his fault by the time we arrive. I have to. 

It couldn't possibly my fault, right?

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

I'm Thinking Doc H Doesn't Read This Blog

Doc H has a snarky sense of humor... which I LOVE!

I'm thinking Doc H doesn't read this blog. 
Or, at the very least, understand the premise of this blog.
What do you think?

... And for the record, he drove. 
And we ended up at the wrong place. 

If you ask him, we were given the wrong address.
If you ask me, the outcome would've been the same,
no matter what address we were given.

Monday, June 4, 2012

The Road to Snobbery

It was hot today. I believe it was the hottest day of the year, at least the hottest day I've experienced here in our hometown. We've been doing a bit of back and forth from here to our retirement vacation home. Plus, we had a heat wave while Doc H and I were in Hawaii in April. Regardless, today was a scortcher.

As I opened my car door this afternoon, heat visibly wafted from the car. In a rush, I plopped myself in the drivers seat, turned the engine on, rolled all the windows down, cranked up the a/c, and touched the little button on my touch screen to turn on the driver's seat a/c.

Yes, my nifty car blows the coldest, crispest, a/c air right up my ass and I like it. As the air cooled my peaches all I could think was, "Thank God!" as I comfortably sunk in my seat and drove on to the grocery store to buy our organics.

Suddenly, my spine stiffened. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I thought to myself, "Wholly crap. What was that? Thanking God for coochie air conditioning? Really? Who am I? Oh, my...I  sound. Snobby."

I decided right there and then I wouldn't tell a soul.

But, let me tell you, it doesn't take long for people to become accustomed to such absurdities. I'm not the only one.

Here, let me throw Doc H under the bus, too.

Let me remind you, Doc H was on a diet of powdered Hostess donuts, Yoplait yogurt, and frozen TV dinners when we met. He was a culinary misfit and deviant. His scientific mind believed in "calories in, calories out". Nutrition meant nothing to the Doc. Insane, I know.

When we met, we would happily frequent eateries such as Boston Market and Chili's. Then our finances began to stabilize and we began dining at more upscale restaurants to mark special occassions. We liked it. The food was yummy, fresh, and organic. Our finances continued to improve. If we weren't eating at home, we would eat out. We began scouring our area for fantastic restaurants. Our palates were shifting towards refined. We became "foodies".

We shifted from our diet coke and iced tea to glasses of house wine. That grew into glasses of specific bottles of wine. Then came bottles of wine by winery, type, and year. Yes, we're far down that road.

But here's when I knew Doc H was well down the road to snobbery:

We found ourselves at the local Applebee's with all the kids. All six of us were seated reviewing our menus. Doc H and I were seated directly across from one another. While the four kids were chatting and/or bickering away, Doc H quietly called to me from over our brightly illustrated, laminated, and easy-to-wipe-clean menus:

Doc H: Honey?
Me: (still reviewing the menu and not looking up) Um-hmmm?
Doc H: You know... I really don't want to eat at restaurants with pictures on the menu anymore.

So we don't, or at least, I try not to when we are out with Doc H.

It's a slippery road. One I'm not particularly proud of...

read to be read at

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Play It Again Sam, Sundays: Co-Pays, Complaints, and Class

On more than one occasion, Doc H has come home sporting a 'tude (our teens' vernacular for "attitude").  More so than often, he comes home too tired to sport the 'tude, but every now and then it's there. For the most part, I understand why he comes home in such a funk once he let's me in and I hear about his day.

One particular day he came home overwhelmed with his patients' complaints.  When I heard him begin with, "All day long, patients came into clinic and just complained about..." my mind raced ahead of the discussion and started swimming with all sorts of possible scenarios.

What would patients be complaining to Doc H about?
Exam room waiting time?
Patient access (how long they had to wait for an appointment)?
The MAs?
The PAs?
The NAs?
The RNs?
The NPs?
Were they unhappy with him?
Were they unhappy with one of his colleagues?
Oh, Dear God, please don't use the dreaded and most feared "M" word...I don't want to hear it...
What could it be?

Co-Pays. Complaints about co-pays.


Dear Whinny Patients,

First off, my husband has nothing to do with your co-pay.  You chose your insurance, you chose your insurance plan, you decided on your deductible. Your co-pay is not in any way shape or form decided or dictated by my husband.

Secondly, complaining to him will serve you no better. He will not take it up with the powers that be. He simply does not have the time. He is too busy serving your needs and sixteen other patients he will be seeing in clinic today. If your goal is to ensure better physician care by reminding him how much your your visit to Doc H cost you today (a whopping $20), you're barking up the wrong tree. Everyone receives the same service. Doc H will always do his best for you and every one of his patients.

Lastly, here's something to chew on, whinny patient. While this is not a scientific poll, it is an observation from one doctor's personal experience - those of you who whine are NOT those who pay their co-pay with single dollar bills, or those who charge their co-pay and stand at the receptionists desk nervously as they wait to hear if their charge was authorized or declined. No, Whinny is well dressed, well educated, definitely higher on the class scale than the non-whinnies.

The non-whinnies have a higher co-pay ($45+) due to their inability to pay a higher monthly premiums, yet there is a sense of gratitude. The lower classes seem to have a better appreciation for their medical care. They are grateful for their doctor's time, ability, attention, and care.

You, Whinny, have one of the lowest co-pays available, perhaps even the lowest. You come in late, and proceed to complain about your wait. You are upset you had to pay a total of $60 for an operation to resect your life threatening tumor two years ago. You have a clean bill of health, yet still want to dwell on your co-pay.

What is that? A feeling of entitlement? I would love to understand. Enlighten me.

Your Doctor's Wife


To my readers,

Sorry for the cranky rant today. My furnace is not working. I am very cold. I am waiting for a repairman. Doc H couldn't fix it with surgical tape.


Saturday, June 2, 2012

Week in Review

This week began with the Memorial Day holiday on Monday.

On Tuesday, I shared a Tween Tale of gangs, their colors and how LB would keep himself safe in a gang riddled neighborhood.

On Wednesday, I began a 3 part series of a Doctor's Retirement Dinner we attended. The night didn't go too smoothly for me.

On Thursday, I continued the story by reminding every one why Social Calendars and Choosing a Dinner Partner should never be left to the man. Again, the night didn't go too smoothly for me.

I wrapped it all up of Friday, sharing my conversation with another surgeons wife who told me we were Single Moms Who Can't Date. Again, the night didn't go too smoothly for me.

Be sure to stop by tomorrow for Play It Again, Sam, Sunday!

Enjoy your weekend!

Friday, June 1, 2012

A Doctor's Wife: A Single Mom Who Can't Date

This is Part 3 of my Doctor's Retirement Dinner Story
To catch up click here to read Part 1 
And here to read Part 2

I was in a room filled with doc wives and we had just met. Just nearly a minute into our conversation, she (a surgeon's wife), very neatly and succinctly, described our lives in less than fifteen seconds...

"People always say, 'Oh, wow! Your husband's a doctor!' and they think we have this glamorous life. But really we live the life of a single mom who can't date. Don't we? Where's the glamour in that?"

The glam life- blogging from a yachtSource

I felt like she had just slapped me across the face or poured cold water over me to wake me up. 

She was a few years old than I. Her children older than ours. While her youngest just finished his first year of college, our oldest has just done the same. She had had more years to ponder and reflect on what it was like to be a doctor's wife. 

And she was right, because here are the facts about being a doctor's wife:

  • You will find yourself alone. A LOT.
  • You will need to list someone else as your child's ICE contact.
  • You will need to call someone else when your car breaks down.
  • You will take the garbage out.
  • You will have to learn how to fix the toilet from leaking.
  • You will have to learn how to fix the wireless internet/printer connection.
  • You will go to school meetings... alone
  • You will go to your kids' games... alone.
  • You will go to your kids' school functions...alone.
  • You will make a double date with friends and go... alone.
  • You go to bed... alone
  • You wake up... alone

In reality- I'm probably doing thisSource
You get the idea, right? Glam life, for sure.

What could I say to her? She was absolutely right.  My eyes fell to the ground as I internalized and silently wrangled with her personal philosophy of our doc wife lives. And there on the ground, I found the answer to her question. It was the only upbeat answer I could come up with to such a pallid and unsavory reality...

"I think it's in our shoes."

This is the final installment of A Doctor's Retirement Dinner. The rest of the night was rather uneventful and would make for a boring post. I lived it and don't care to revive it through writing about it. Thank you for hanging in there with me!
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...