It’s sad, but true, that popping a pill is so much easier than actually dealing with the fact that you just might need therapy to work through issues that you’ve ignored and that are now biting you in the ass. And that it’s also easier to suggest to someone you know who just might need therapy to pop a pill instead. I’m guilty of it myself with my mother-in-law, who probably has some depression mixed in with an anxiety disorder. There is absolutely no way in hell I will ever be able to convince her that she just might have these problems, let alone get her into therapy. And I’d rather not even try because the evil manipulator in her is just waiting for the chance to suck my husband and me back into her guilt-web by giving her more reason to play the victim. I can just see it now, “Poor me. I need to see the therapist 3 times a week. Which means you have to drop everything and drive 4 hours roundtrip to pick my sorry ass up and take me to the therapist (even though I’m perfectly capable of driving myself but would rather use any excuse no matter how lame it is to make you my servants). And you’ll have to do this for me until I get better (which I never will because I’m just pretending that I’m trying to change so that you’ll serve me).” No, thank you! Even the pill-popping idea will be lost on her because it won’t get her what she wants. Since she can’t use it to suck us into her guilt-web, she simply will refuse to admit that she has a problem. Which she does. Because if she doesn’t, then that means that she’s just a mean grumpy lady with control issues. And I can’t stand mean grumpy ladies with control issues. I just avoid them. And I’m trying not to permanently cut mother-in-law out of our lives for my husband’s sake. So she has an anxiety disorder and depression.

I also think my siblings-in-law could also stand to benefit from a little Prozac. Hell, I feel like I need Prozac just to deal with that woman. And that’s the sad part about people with such disorders. In refusing to deal with their problems themselves, they just suck everybody in with their guilt and manipulation, making as many people suffer as possible with them. They make these innocent bystanders suffer so much that they need Prozac just to deal with them. So because of all of these people who refuse to help themselves, we have a whole I-have-a-psychiatric-disorder-by-proxy group of people who need/take Prozac when, in reality, only one person really needs it (but of course, refuses to take it).

And until these people learn to admit that they have issues and deal with these issues in a constructive manner, that’s why we need to add Prozac to the drinking water supply. To keep the rest of us sane. Which was probably the pharmaceutical companies’ evil master plan. They’re laughing all the way to the bank now.

This article describes a study that found that scientific productivity decreases with age, but less severely in never-married men.

“The productivity of male scientists tends to drop right after marriage,” says Kanazawa in an e-mail interview from his current office at the London School of Economics and Political Science in the United Kingdom. “Scientists tend to ‘desist’ from scientific research upon marriage, just like criminals desist from crime upon marriage.”

Kanazawa’s perhaps controversial perspective is that of an evolutionary psychologist. “Men conduct scientific research (or do anything else) in order to attract women and get married (albeit unconsciously),” he says. “What’s the point of doing science (or anything else) if one is already married? Marriage (or, more accurately reproductive success, which men can usually attain only through marriage) is the goal; science or anything else men do is but a means.”

Huh. Interesting. So being a scientist is like buying that red hot Ferrari? It’s all in the name of nabbing a mate? And here I had always thought that being a nerd wasn’t exactly the way to get women. But then again, maybe being a nerd is the way to a brainy woman’s heart, because of course, if you’re nerdy, you really have no need or desire for a hot not-so-brainy wife…

So what about women? Yep, we’re not immune to this decline either. And we actually have it even worse since there is never a good time to take time off to have and raise children without significantly setting back our careers. I myself have noticed that I’ve become more mediocre/sand-people-like in my academics ever since getting married—not so much numbers-wise since I still have that 4.0, but in that I don’t devote as much time to my professional development (attending seminars, studying, lab) as I did when I was single/in a not-so-good-would-rather-avoid-it-by-staying-at-lab relationship. All of a sudden, I’ve decided that pursuing my career and being the best aren’t nearly as important as being married and spending time with my husband. But I still have that drive inside of me that surfaces from time to time (more often now that I’ve been so rudely knocked out of that whole blissful newlywed thing by my in-laws) that reminds me that I will never be able to live with myself if I just half-ass my way through my career. It’s my ego telling me that I can’t possibly be okay with not being the best at what I do. Two years ago, I was willing to stay forever single and childless to achieve my career goals. Now I’m married and willing to give the whole having kids thing a chance (if only so that I pass on my highly-evolved-super-smart-yet-still-good-looking genes). I just don’t know when. And I still don’t really know if I ever will even have kids because of the blow it would deal to my career—not only due to the fact that I’ll have to take time off but also because my priorities just might change and I won’t be so intent on being the best anymore. Which I suppose isn’t so bad, but try telling that to someone who’s spent her whole entire life being (or at least trying to be) the best. I don’t know if I can make that sacrifice for little rugrats who just might ultimately hate me anyway. So all I can do is find some sort of balance for now and eventually decide (sometime before my biological clock stops ticking) whether or not I want to torture myself some more by procreating.

But of course, some say that marriage just might be good for a scientific career. In my case, marriage sure helps with financial stability. Not in that I needed someone else to pay my bills or to eat well since my stipends cover them quite well (one of the few perks of being in an MD/PhD program) but for my frivolous purchases—like this blog and my binge-shopping adventures among other things.

However, I have to disagree with this argument for how marriage is good for a career:

He was sitting against his pillow in bed with his laptop in hand. His busy, multitasking wife (a management consultant and mother of twin toddlers) was also working on a laptop, seated right beside him. The two were tending electronically to their demanding jobs, but they were also instant messaging each other, obviously on the same emotional “bandwidth” in their devotion to both career and marriage.

Uh. You’re sitting next to each other and you’re instant messaging each other?! How is that any different from sitting in your respective offices and instant messaging each other? Why can’t you just speak? Is speaking reallythat much more distracting than instant messaging?! So do you do instant messaging foreplay too? And those laptops must really get in the way during sex—not to mention dirty… Okay, I’ll stop there.

Then there are the marriages that don’t survive a scientific career. No big surprise there. Can I add medical career too? Lawyer? Any highly specialized field that requires long hours and lots of work? The big issue here is having a spouse who is not in the same field as you. I always thought that I would end up with another doctor or at least someone in the sciences (Oh who am I kidding? A dentist is not a doctor…and neither is an optometrist or pharmacist—it was physician or bust.) because of the difficulties in talking meaningfully with someone not in the same field about my experiences. And I’ve been in a (obviously failed) relationship with a fellow med student and found that it was really much easier to talk to him since we were going through and learning the same things. But it still didn’t work out. Enter my future husband whose career has absolutely nothing to do with medicine or research. I never thought that it would work because he knew absolutely nothing about my life or my career. But I was wrong. All that really matters is that he is intelligent enough to follow my crazy INTP rants—understanding the substance of the rants down to the atomic level is not necessary as long as he gets the general idea. But I can see how this difference in careers can backfire on other couples. It is frustrating sometimes to explain things that we take for granted as obvious, which in fact are not. And I guess that the patience (on both sides) eventually wears thin when steps are not taken to better the situation.

And finally, there’s the issue of not being able to meet someone to marry in the first place. Being in lab all day and studying all night isn’t really conducive to meeting potential mates. And besides, there’s the bigger issue of whether someone is willing to commit to someone who may move across the country in a few months/years and who may very well spend a large part of their life moving as they are recruited to different positions. Who will actually put up with having to uproot their family every so many years? Or with delaying (or never) starting a family to wait for you to establish your career? These are issues that any potential mate needs to be made well aware of before things get serious. And even so, it will still be hard for your mate to come to terms with moving to Middle of Nowhere, USA when the time comes.

Ah…the life of a scientist—a complex-not-so-fun-at-times balancing act. So I guess we are human after all.

Me: “We’re not coming to visit you this weekend.” [We’re not wasting our time to come see your sorry ass bitch at us all weekend long.]
Her: “What, why?” [And this after my husband had already told her we weren’t coming.]
Me: “Because we’re busy.” [Yeah. Busy avoiding you.]
Her: “Why?” [What can possibly be so important that you can’t come worship my sorry ass because I think I’m the center of the universe?]
Me: “That’s none of your business.” [Duh. We simply don’t want to see you.]
Her: “What do you mean it’s none of my business? I can’t ask you what you’re doing?” [You mean I can’t pry and guilt you into coming? That just goes against everything I’ve been doing to my kids ever since they were born.]
Me: “No, you can’t. You need to respect our privacy. Besides, it’s because I’m planning to have wild monkey sex with your son all weekend long.” [Here’s hoping Mother-in-law understands the definition of wild monkey sex.]
Her: “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Why are you yelling at me?” [Damnit. She got me.]
Me: [wtf]

Her: “What? You mean I can’t even ask for a little help? I’m old.” [You mean I can’t be a baby and get you to do all the stupid shit I don’t feel like doing because I really like acting like a baby?]
Me: “You’re 50 years old. That’s not old. I’ll call you old when you’re 80.” [Which I hope I’ll never have to do because someone as negative as you just has to have a big nasty plaque in your coronary artery just waiting to rupture. Maybe I can help it along by having wild monkey sex with your son in front of you.]
Her: “But I’m sick.” [I purposely swallowed a rock just to get your attention.]
Me: “No, you’re not. You just want to be to get sympathy. Besides, you don’t ask for help. You demand it. And that’s not what we’re here for. Where’s your husband, huh?” [Oh shut up with your ploys for sympathy. I never have and never will fall for that act. I may just be a med student, but I’m not that dumb.]
Her: “I just need a little help. That’s all.” [By that I mean you must submit to my every demand. That’s all.]
Me: “It’s not a little help when you ruin our entire evening by making us do things you can do but just don’t want to do. That’s not asking for help. That’s being a baby.” [You fucked up yet another one of our evenings. I’m not going to forget it. Ever.]
Her: “Why are you yelling at me?” [Damnit. She got me again. Hurry, play dumb.]
Me: [wtf]

Her: “Because he’s my son.” [And because he’s my son, he owes me for life. He has to wait on me hand and foot. Forever.]
Me: “Just because he’s your son doesn’t give you the right to torture him. Besides, he’s my husband.” [I’ve never heard of such a sick reason for having kids before.]
Her: “But he’s my son.” [He’s mine, damnit. He’s my slave, not yours!]
Me: “But he’s my husband. Which means I get to talk to him. I get to lean on him. And I get to have sex with him. Get your own husband.” [Of course, she does have one. But he knows better than to go anywhere near her crazy shit.]
Her: Why are you yelling at me? [Damnit. Not again. I gotta think of better ways to play dumb.]
Me: [wtf]

So that’s basically how it went. Some of the meaning may have been lost in translation because this conversation did not happen in English. But I think you get the idea. Every single time I got her on something, she would simply accuse me of yelling at her. It was great. But at least I got to say my piece, even if it was to a brick wall. Only time will tell if anything will change (which I highly doubt).

Enter my dear (said with extreme sarcasm) mother-in-law. She is throwing a hissy-fit (to put it quite mildly) that we are not worshipping her because this Sunday is Mother’s Day. Yes, that’s right, I said worshipping. A card just won’t do. Nor will a gift (which she will gladly take even though nothing is ever good enough for her and it sure as hell won’t shut her up). We have to worship her. I’m not kidding here. She wants us to drop everything and visit her, which usually involves spending way too much money to indulge her in addition to that whole worshipping part. And that whole being nagged at until I’m-thisclose-to-going-on-a-murderous-rampage-starting-with-you-dear-mother-in-law part. And that whole not being appreciated part. And that whole being criticized part. The list goes on. The sad part is that maybe, just maybe, if she weren’t so busy being such a whiny…ahem…witch…I would have maybe actually visited her (Yeah, maybe when hell freezes over. But hey, I can pretend.). Doesn’t she realize that the more she whines like a 2-year-old, the less likely we are going to cave in and actually the madder it makes us? Apparently not. Of course not. Because she’s got several other kids to bend at her insane will. Well, then, why do you need us? I don’t recall ever agreeing to be her servant when I got married. I swear, this woman thought, “Whoo-hoo! New daughter-in-law = one more “child” for me to push around and extract money from (And she’s going to be a doctor, which means more money for me!) because I’m too lazy to get off my sorry ass and earn a real living.” Well, she never in her wildest dreams imagined that her new daughter-in-law was me, who bristles at the mere thought of being ordered around, let alone by such a woman as her. I’m sure she’s kicking herself everyday because she didn’t push her dear son to marry his psycho-ex, who was psycho, but much, much, much more submissive to her craziness. And we all know that submissive trumps pretty much anything else to these people. I think she only approved of me because psycho-ex was sure as hell not going to be making big bucks and she thought she could put up with me so long as she got her free money out of it. What a big mistake that turned out to be for her. I’m sure I could be an axe-murderer and she would love (If this woman is even capable of love, which I highly doubt. I think it’s more like tolerate and that’s already a stretch for her.) me as long as I submitted to her will. But here I am: a doctor-to-be and she can’t stand me. Well, I can’t stand her either, thank you.

Well, back to the story at hand. I have a strange personality quirk. When someone I have no respect for and who I don’t fear because they are in no position of power tries to make me do something, guess what happens. I do the opposite. I just can’t help it. And if there’s such a thing as less than no respect, that would be what I have for my mother-in-law. So how dare she try to order me to visit her? Not to mention that it is not a trivial trip for us. Besides, who wants to make such a trip, sacrificing valuable peaceful weekend time and money, to see the likes of her? We’re already paying more than enough in taxes to fund her (quite undeserved) Medicaid and welfare and the like. She wants us to waste precious gas money to see her only so she can grab us and shake us by the ankles until all our money falls out? And she wants us to put up with her bitching and give her money? Yeah, right, Lady. Who died and made you the center of the universe?

Now if only my husband were just a fraction as feisty as me (read: if only my husband weren’t brainwashed into being a big mama’s boy), we just might have a peaceful weekend. Well, I guess I can dream. And then watch House. We’ll be snarky together. And then I’ll use the snark on my husband when he tries to guilt me into going to visit his queen-of-the-guilt-trip mom. Yes, what a fun weekend it’ll be. I might as well go get a root canal while I’m at it. Make that two.