Stand Back!

Anonymous mentioned that I seemed a little blue last week, and the truth is that I was a little down. Maybe the slush on the sidewalk (there shouldn't be slush on the sidewalk), maybe the quiet of the house, maybe the stress of practice. Add to that the general aches and pains a person notices when they fall down skiing, or should we say, walking on skis in a flat city.

But then something wonderful happened. I think I told you, in a very long-winded fashion, that my paper had been accepted in a social science journal, one that I really respected. But that was over a year ago, and no word from the journal since. Supposedly it can take well over a year, sometimes two years from acceptance to publication.

In general I don't nag, but was thinking about giving the editor a call.

Asserting.

Nu? I would ask.

For those of you who don't know Yiddish, Nu means, So tell me? (You have to have a question mark after everything in Yiddish.)

I've published before, the dissertation, an article in a journalistic family therapy 'zine that appeared again in a book of best essays, letters to the editor. And have presented papers in conferences, a few of those. But I've never before published in one of those dry scientific journals that appeal to maybe 200 people in the world. Okay, maybe 300. It's not that the writing is so different, although it is. It's rigorous, is all, and the competition is fierce.

And then I got it! I got the email. The article is coming out in the next edition! Wow, so sudden. From nothing to something within a matter of moments. Pretty exciting. All you have to do is. . .reread, check for mistakes. Make corrections. And it's a CEU course, too. All very cool. They even showed me how the article looks in print. All set to go.

So for sure that picked me up (as good news will) until Friday I received this email. We would appreciate a picture, a jpeg, preferably. And would you please smile?

Sure.

This morning as we're getting ready for work I mention it to FD. "Let's do it right now!" he cries. He whips out his camera-phone. "No, wait, let's use YOUR phone so you can beam it over, you know, how you do all that stuff."

No dear. I need some make-up.

I get ready and he takes the shot. I groan. He says, "It's fine."

Try again, I say. But this time, stand back a couple of feet.

He takes the picture.

Much better.

therapydoc