Dr. Strangemom (or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the blog)

See G Spot Run

What ever happened to the G-spot? Was it merely a passing fancy, a lark, the artichoke pesto of sexual pleasure? No one ever talks about it anymore.

Maybe it's been replaced by the new and improved H-spot. Or the low- carb G spot or something. Or HARRY'S LAW on Wednesday nights at 10.

Frankly, I'm happy to see it go. It was a lot of work. Rooting around looking for it, pretending to have found it, thinking up superlatives to describe it - I don't have time for that kind of nonsense. I have a job and kids. And a serious Facebook habit.

Anyway, I do not abide the whole "take responsibility for your own orgasm" movement. I have enough responsibility as it is, thank you very much, what with taking out the recycling and keeping up with tweezing. As far as I am concerned, responsibility for my orgasm was implied in the agreement Robin made almost 32 years ago when we invited 300 people for carrot cake and later returned all the La Creuset cookware they gave us so we could pay our rent and buy pot. I promised to make his lunch every day and he promised to do all the driving and always be wrong about everything. And then we went to Hawaii for a week.

And furthermore, if I am going to have to take responsibility for my own orgasm, then it's only fair that I get to delegate out some other responsibility to Robin, right? I mean, it's hardly like his "to do" list is full these days. For fuck's sake, the man fishes every weekend and plays twenty hours of online poker a day.

You know what? Let my orgasm take responsibility for its own damn self. If me and my G-spot are, say, walking around the mall and we see a beautiful, muscled man slowly eating a pomegranate, well, godspeed to my O, you know? It can do its thang all by itself. While I try on new Dansko clogs and get a Jamba Juice. Win win.

On the other hand, what if O goes all to hell and starts wigging out during, I don't know, silent meditation at Shabbat services. Oy. Can't take that kind of risk.

So, here's the deal:

I will take responsibility for my own orgasm. And Robin will keep up with the laundry.

Perfect. Because neither one of us is gonna do it.

 

 

 

In Which I Regret Not Sleeping With Andy and Freddy When I Had The Chance

You think YOU feel like a loser? You have no idea.

I am close personal friends with not one but two heroes.  Andy Lipkis (http://www.treepeople.org) and Freddy Mednick (http://teacherswithoutborders.org) are doing nothing less than saving the world every day. And, as you can imagine, this makes it very difficult to feel good about myself when, after hearing about their disease-resistant, union-run, eldercare, fat-free watershed project in Ethiopia or something (I have no idea), all I can add is that I spent Christmas break working on my abs. Which, of course, I didn't even.

Is close, personal proximity to greatness enough to get me into Heaven? I really should have slept with them when I had the chance forty years ago. Maybe they could have thrown me a karma bone. As far as I can recall, no one I ever slept with is now in a position to elevate my karmic, professional or financial station in life. God, I was so young and stupid.

Now Robin, however, once slept with a woman who we think is pretty wealthy now but I don't think she is going to give us any money because, well, she blocked our calls.

I am pretty much the good deeds version of being the fat girl hanging out with super models. Sadly, I am also pretty much the original version, as well. Odd man in, that's me.

I need to do something. Something meaningful. And I need to do it this weekend.  And it's already Sunday. Late afternoon Sunday. AND I want to watch MOB WIVES at 9, so there really isn't much time to get this together. Honestly, I have no idea how Andy and Freddy do it. Maybe they have TIVO so they can record MOB WIVES or something. Freddy and Andy have all the damn luck. I don't have TIVO so it really isn't fair.

So far, all I have is a list of all the broken shit on my stove that needs to be replaced. Well, not the whole list, exactly; I have a piece of paper right here and a pen that isn't leaking.

I also have a lot of meaningful ideas.

Okay, you got me. No I don't.

Fuck.

Wait! I DID do something meaningful today. Oh. Wait. No, I didn't. That was yesterday. And it wasn't meaningful. And I didn't do it.

Okay, I've got it! You know what I am going to do? I am going to get some less awesome friends.

Really fat ones.

Where I'm @

Now that we are out of Iraq, I can focus on the rest of the shit going wrong in America.

Specifically, how everyone is using the @ sign on keyboards. It will be our country's next downfall.

Granted, @ carries with it some interesting global factitude  (it's called "the snail" in French, "the strudel" in Hebrew, "the dog" in Russian, "the cat" in  Finnish and "the spider monkey" in German because I imagine that "the hook nosed money grubbing rabid infectious Jew dog" was too long to say in German) but a soupcon of interest isn't gonna save its ass from my crosshairs.

It just seems....I don't know, bullshit and entitled.... to type @ when all you have to do to type the actual word, "at", is add one fucking letter. In fact, if you count having to hit the "shift" button before hitting the "2", it is the same effort as writing "at". So using "@" isn't even a time-saver. It's such an American fat cat thing to do. Just tweaking shit just to make it different, to make it ours.  Spraying our stinky urine @ everyone. No wonder the terrorists hate us. I can barely look at us.

There is, however and happily, an antidote to our bullshit.  We can reduce our language footprint and regain our humility.

The antidote is eliminating "ness" from all words. Any child can do it.

I am a new convert to this revolution, having been recently inducted by my friend Elizabeth, who must be right because she was An English Major In College. (I, an ethnology of non western music and dance major in college, and a writer, stand in awe and reverence of English Majors In College so I capitalize Them whenever I see Them.)

Happiness. Restlessness. Horniness. The 'ness' is unnecessary; Elizabeth is right.  In fact, ness is actually quite annoying, as well, now that I see the light and have embraced the downsized, simple abundance, way of life. "Ness" is a leech, a slacker; it catches a free ride on the back of the truly hardworking words, leaving less room for words like "justice" and "solidarity" and "bite my fat ass, you hypocritical piece of shit, Newt Gringrich". "Ness" is the @ of words.  And Newt is the "ness" of the universe.

Ness is the obsequious friend that echoes everything you say and tries to make it his own statement. You know, you say to someone at a party, "Trini Lopez? He sang, 'Lemon Tree', right?" and the friend chimes in on the "opez" of "Lopez"  and vigorously agrees with the fact the he sang "Lemon Tree", like he was the one all along who said it.

Or, someone asks you about your major in college and when you answer, "Ethnology of Non-Western Music and Dance Performance", the friend says, "Oh, I was going to be an Ethnology of Non-Western Music And Dance Performance major, too, but I already knew everything about it."

And you silently scream, oh, shut the fuck up, you unnecessary passive repeater.

So let's just pitch it into the pile of useless shit with, I don't know, emoticons, St. John's Wort, Sara Lee bagels,  Moroccan Hair Oil, people who say "no problemo", scrapbookers, Nazi memorabilia collectors, suburban track mansion dwellers, the whole lot of those fucking Kardashians and all other superfluous ephemera that takes up space in the world.

Space that could be used for hating Newt, fighting Communism and storing all my Dansko clogs.

 

Targeting The Revolution

Don't despair, there is hope for the world.  I met her. She is two and a half years old, and we can expect  great things from her in the future.

The little girl, whom we will call The Little Girl, made her stand at Target last Wednesday. After an hour of "I want that!"  "No, we are not buying that today!"  "But I WANT THAT!"  what her parents wanted was  to leave the damn store. She, however, wanted to stay, finding a screaming match with her parents at Target on a rainy Wednesday afternoon to be a capital idea.

Negotiations proved unfruitful. Cajoling proved embarrassing (if you've ever had a two year old roll his eyes at your desperate high-pitched, smiley-faced declaration that it is FUN to leave the toy aisle at a store and SUPER FUN to get back into the car and go home for a nap - as I experienced many times with my kids - you know how embarrassing cajoling can be. Your kid looks at you with the same pity disgust that the salesgirls at Forever 21 look at me when I take a pair of size 6 jeans into the dressing room. No one is fooling anyone. My ass cannot Occupy those jeans.) Bribes were laughable. Threats were pathetic. Tension was palpable.

So, The Little Girl, taking her cue from Zuccotti Park, Rosa Parks and Trey Arrow, strapped herself into the cart. She Occupied that fucking cart.

Remember that moment, all of you parents out there, when the light comes into your child's eyes with the sudden realization that "you can't make me" is actually true? For me, that was the moment I discovered that my children were growing up. Also, that mixing alcohol and painkillers - for all of us - nicely takes the sting out of raising kids. Also, that there is a direct correlation between your kids defying you and the sudden loss of libido for your own husband. As well as the sudden desire to eat a large hot dog while doing naked jumping jacks in front of Armand Assante.

Where was I? Oh, Target. Right.

What happened next doesn't matter. Well, at least, not to me. It wasn't my kid, so the relevant part of the story is over. I imagine the parents worked it out. I will be at Target next week, however, and if they are still there I'll blog more about it.

What does matter, what the relevant part of the story is, is that we keep the spirit of unreasonable, contrarian protest alive. We are all way too compliant.

Okay, well, not all of us are too compliant. There are courageous people out there who are Occupying their corner of the world (shout-out to Karin Lightstone), refusing to be marginalized. And I suppose I could join them. But in my defense, so many of them are unattractive.

(PS to Karin: Bubbele, you are gorgous. So gorgeous that what the hell are you doing protesting in a park when you could totally bag yourself a rich man?)

But the middle aged woman without a brassiere? Occupy your boobs, honey. Occupy them right now.  With strong underwire.

In addition to being unattractive, the Occupiers misuse grammar on their placards, which is the real dealbreaker for me. I mean, for fuck's sake, WERE NOT GOING ANYWHERE is not gonna get you a ticket into my revolution. But add an apostrophe (and a sturdy bra) and maybe I'm listening.

Now, let's strap ourselves into our carts and get going.

 

 

 

 

 

Shit That Doesn't Count, part 2

There are certain things that I know for sure, too. Sister Oprah isn't the only one who can make that claim.

And here is one of the things I know for sure: in this world, some shit counts and some doesn't. It's not all fair and square in the universe.

Do you know what I mean? Like when the bagger at Safeway accidentally puts a party size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in your bag instead of the bag of the person in front of you in line and you weren't planning to eat Cool Ranch Doritos, you'd never in a million years actually buy Cool Ranch Doritos, but there they are in your bag and the other person has already left the store - well, not so much left the store as that she has taken four steps towards the door - so, really, what else can you do but sit in your car in the parking lot and eat the entire bag?

You know, like that. You gotta surrender to the universe and eat the chips because They Were Meant To Be. And calories do not count if you didn't actually intend to buy the food you wound up eating.

Yes, it is so true. It's one of the immutable facts of life. Like, whatever you eat on an airplane doesn't count as calories. Unless it's during take-off or landing. Because of the altitude, I believe.

Or, eating two oversize bagels in the morning does not count as calories if you eat them only because you might have the nervous stomach runs later in the day when you have to go to the doctor to get that suspicious mole checked. Those bagels are proactive medicine. Ergo, no calories.

Or, if you are tasting food for, say, clinical research, you know, to correct the seasoning or decide if you want to eat an entire bowl of it, those calories do not count. 

And this immutable law is not just about calories, either.

Sex at Jewish summer camp in the mountains does not count as sex. A person re-virginizes upon re-entry to the city. Again, it has something to do with altitude. And getting the bends.

Also, sex with an old boyfriend does not count as cheating on a spouse. It's just, I don't know, like finishing up, but a lot of years later.

Conversely, sex with your spouse does count as sex even if you are asleep during the entire thing and dreaming that you are a Habitat For Humanity townhouse and Jimmy Carter is nailing your floorboards to your foundation.

Sex with your spouse also counts even if you fake your orgasm and you practice finger crocheting on his back hair during his orgasm.

And sex with your spouse while visiting the Jewish summer camp in the mountains where you lost your virginity will result in a great story later. Especially if your spouse threatens to take your old boyfriend to the exact spot where it happened, put your old boyfriend's nose in the spot, hit him on snout and say, "no! Bad!"

In parenting, there are a couple of "Don't Count"s that you may want to note:

Saying "motherfucker cocksucking goddamn me in a pile of shit" does not count as swearing in front of your kids if one of them ate the last Skinny Cow chocolate mint ice cream sandwich and all that's left are the gross peanut butter ones.

Telling your kid, "Your teacher sucks" doesn't count as bad parenting if his teacher did not let you cut in line in front of her the previous week to get tickets for James Taylor. Or if she can wear a belly shirt.

And,

Giving your kids Nyquil even though they haven't been sick in over a year, but you really need them to take a nap because Carrie Fisher is on The View and you want to see if she's gained the weight back yet, does not count as bad parenting. It's just good sense.

What does count, and I cannot stress this enough, is taking six and a half hours to finish a post on your blog when you told your husband that you had very very very important PAID work to do in your office today and he needs to totally clean the house, make dinner and leave you alone.

 

 

 

When In Peloponnesia...

I just started reading what I think is going to be an odd little book. THE UNCOUPLING, by Meg Wolitzer, so far, appears to be a story about a town where the women all lose their desire to have sex as a result of attending the local high school's production of LYSISTRATA. I could be all wrong, of course; the book could turn out to be about, I don't know, Matt Damon buying a zoo, or shoes, but I don't think so.

Now it seems completely plausible to me that seeing a play about women withholding sex could influence the females in the audience to give the idea a whirl. I mean, since time immemorial, I have used sex as currency in my relationships. Sexual favors once got me a tune-up on my Chevy Nova. And a ride from Santa Cruz to Berkeley in a VW bug that had two untethered  lawn chairs as its back seat. Which, at the time, seemed to me to be a major score but as I recount the tale tonight, I wonder if I might have set my sights higher. Like, for a real back seat.

Although, granted, the older and fatter I get, it would probably carry more cache if I'd promise to not have sex with a person from whom I wanted a favor these days.

Judge: Madam, you have stolen from the poor and mistreated baby animals. I sentence you to ten years in prison.

Me: How about if I sleep with you?

Judge: Oh. Well, then, following your ten year sentence, you will be hanged. And then, shot.

I am trying to remember the last time I withheld sex from Robin to get something I wanted. Well, there was that one time, from 1986 to 1995, but that was really mostly because I was just so damn tired and pissy from raising kids. I was a sex camel in those days - one night of humping and I was good for a year or two. Our sexual hiatus was also due to Robin and I being stuck in a birth control method standoff that only ended with the onset of my menopause a few years ago. Which did take care of the pesky little problem of fertility but brought with it the new ones of sprouting walrus whiskers on my chin and growing into a silhouette that implies I am pregnant with a hydrocephalic bison or two.

I don't know of anyone else who is reading THE UNCOUPLING. I hate it when my friends don't read the same book I am reading because then I have no idea if I like the book or not. I count on my friends to keep me sounding smart and erudite, and how can I pull that off if I can't parrot their opinions?

I especially hate it when my super smart and erudite friends all LOVE a book that I didn't love. Or worse, a book that I could barely get through without falling into various distracting and prurient reveries which might feature myself in a foursome with Stanley Tucci, Oliver Platt and Tony Shalhoub. Sometimes my reveries are so vivid that they mix with the book's plot and I wind up saying shit to people like, "I was totally into the part where Dorothea and Celia were sitting naked on the potter's wheel and Mr. Monk was the wet clay."  That's usually when I have to feign a stroke or crash into something to cover up my blunder.

And even then, I know people are whispering about me as I limp away.

 

 

The Other Bucket List

Mom broke her pelvis in October. Yeah, I guess there wasn't enough shit flying around our family this year so the universe pushed her down while she was gardening and broke her. Which means that now they have to buy her.

A friend with a mother my mom's age assured me, however, that strong people in their 80's can do just fine despite these kinds of injuries. She said, "last year, my mom broke her arm in two places and she could still work at her loom for hours and hours."  So that's encouraging, right? I guess it means that even with a broken pelvis, my mom will be able to....oh, wait. I do not want to even think about what my mom does with her pelvis, much less for hours and hours.

It's too weird to think about your parents and sex and stuff. In fact, just writing the word "pelvis" makes me feel a little woozy.

Plus, it's not a very audially pleasing word is it?  Pelvis. It sounds so...dry and creaky. Like what's left after a windstorm or something. The storm left in its wake a pelvis of rubble. Or it could be Eastern European currency. In world news, the pelvis dropped sixteen points today; a new low. And post menopausal women everywhere would shake their heads in knowing commiseration.

Pelvis. It has no business being the term for the area of...er...business.

The derivation of the word is "empty basin or bucket", for fuck's sake. That image does not put a person in a sexy mood. "I feel a tingling in my empty bucket when I see your penis". I'll try that on Robin tonight, see where it takes us.

Although, it does add some interest to the term, "kick the bucket."

I rarely talk about my own pelvis and I like it that way just fine.  But since the accident, I have to say the word "pelvis" all the fucking time. And it always accompanies the words "my mom's".

My mom's pelvis.  

My mom's pelvis. My mom's pelvis. My mom's pelvis. Say it three times to summon the devil.  And then the rivers flow backwards and your spleen catches fire.

Thankfully, Mom is healing quickly so her pelvis won't have to be on my mind for much longer.

But she also broke her clavicle. Which sounds a little nasty, too.

 

 

 

 

 

I Am Not A Control Freak - Exhibit A

I just don't know if I am ready to get a dog again.

For one thing, I am finally okay with the way my house smells. Most times. Not after Robin has just come home from a long day on the boat, of course, but I suppose I can't fault the man for digesting his meals. What I can fault him for, however, is that after all these years of my training him, he still does everything wrong, post poop speaking. Everyone knows the proper order is:

1. Poop

2. Flush

3. Wash hands

4. OPEN the bathroom window

5. Light the candle

6. Spray the spray

7. Uncork the aromatic oils

8. Bleach everything

9. Buy all new towels, shower curtain, window shades, toothbrushes and light bulbs

10. Move to a new house.

Robin, however, likes to kick it bachelor style:

1. Announce the impending arrival of a poop while kissing me hello

2. Take off his pants in the hallway

3. Not notice that we have dinner guests in the living room

4. Go into the bathroom and not shut the door completely while doing his business, so he can tell me about his day

5. Flush (optional)

6. Wash and dry hands

7. Shut the bathroom window

8. Open the bathroom door

9. Sit down at the dinner table.

We don't get a lot of dinner guests anymore.

Then there's the fight:

Me: God. It stinks in here. Close the fucking door.

Him: My poop does not stink.

Me: You don't get to decide if it stinks. Other people get to decide if it stinks. And it stinks.

Him: Why are you in a bad mood?

Me: I'm not in a bad mood. Well, now I am because it stinks and you didn't close the fucking bathroom door.

Him: I remembered to close the window. But do I even get credit for that?

Me: You are supposed to OPEN the window. And CLOSE the door. God.

Him: Are you getting your period? Because you are really uptight.

Me: I went through menopause nine years ago.

Him: What's for dinner? It smells really good in here.

And then my head explodes and I die.

 

 

 

 

Doin' This And That

Did you hear the story on NPR the other morning about men and women and multi-tasking? No? Well, then, stop whatever you are doing so you can focus on this.

Evidently, according to the research, when women multi-task we feel put-upon and angry. Whereas, when men multi-task they feel happy. It has to do with....well, I don't really know what it has to do with because I was listening to the story in the car on my way to work and I was also thinking about where I might have left my phone. Also, I was wondering what ever happened to Surya Bonaly and I had to remind myself to get a flu shot that afternoon. Oh, and my underpants were too tight, so there was that, too. A lot on my mind for a nine-minute drive to work.

According to the story, women multi-task about ten times more often than men, and when we do, it almost always involves unexciting, even unpleasant, chores. You know, like, cleaning out the kitty litter box while stirring the peanut butter while determining if the booger on your shirt is repulsive enough to warrant actually changing your clothes before you go into public. And then, while changing your shirt, you remember that you have a dissertation due for your Ph.D in, I don't know, structural engineering. And also, you have to remember to do your daily 25 Kegels. You know, so you can open that fucking jar of peanut butter without the surprise of exertion incontinence all over the kitchen floor.

Whereas to a man, multi-tasking means watching football on TV while masturbating.

The older I get, the less I am able to multi-task. So MORE magazine helpfully told me to do my Kegels each time I stop at a red light. I would try that, but my time is pretty tightly scheduled during red lights, what with spilling coffee down my blouse, hiding my phone from the cops and looking in my rear view mirror to try out smiles that don't make my recessed eyes completely disappear and me look like a low-thyroid Sharpei puppy. 

Frankly, it's hard enough to  remember to do Kegels even as a single task unto itself. I mean, a person can remember to, say, brush their teeth because when your teeth get funky, you can see it. And feel it. And smell it. But when your pelvic floor gets funky, the only time you are aware of it is when someone else smells it. And then, I have to say, it's probably too late. I know my pelvic floor is getting funky  when a person tells me a hilarious joke about a bear and a hunter and, well, I can insist that I just spilled lemonade on my crotch while laughing hysterically, but I'm not fooling anyone. Although, technically, it was lemonade. At least, when it was going in. 

I am, however, multi-tasking right now, as a matter of fact. I am writing this post while ignoring that Robin is waiting for me in bed.

Which is probably for the best. I haven't been doing my Kegels and I just had a big glass of lemonade.

 

 

 

 

Food For Thought

It was a Very Dry Thanksgiving. The turkey had no moisture at all -it actually crumbled in my hands, like freeze dried; I tore a cuticle on the stuffing and my apple pie was so dry that my sister thought it was more stuffing. It is a holiday miracle that none of us choked and died.

I shouldn't be surprised, however. I have made the most disgusting food lately.

I don't set out to make it disgusting, of course; I start off pretty well and then, inevitably, I fuck it up. So after our Very Dry Thanksgiving, followed by A Very Dry Leftover Thanksgiving, followed by A Very Dry Poop, I decided to really give this some thought.

And, happily, I have a theory.

My theory is that my cooking is not about cooking. It is about avoiding getting any writing done.

Exhibit A: In the past four days, I have put four trays of disgusting homemade turkey enchiladas in the freezer, three containers of disgusting homemade Pho broth in the freezer and a shitload of homemade  inedible breads and cakes all neatly wrapped in foil and labeled. Chili - homemade. And disgusting - is simmering on the stove as I sit here.

Exhibit B: Um, this half-written blog post. And no new pages for the novel. And this large, purring, squishy cat on my lap that turns out to be my stomach.  All to avoid writing. What's wrong with me?

Well, I know the answer. I have an alarming dearth of ambition. If you took all the ambition I don't have and put it in a big jar, you could...well, I have no idea. Because I don't care. I like watching TV.

The fact is this:

There is nothing - no job, no opportunity, no event - that I would pursue over staying at home in my pajamas. Nothing.

So I pretend I have cooking to do, you know, to justify not getting things done. Honestly, I don't even really like cooking all that much. Especially when the shit I make is not worth the time or calories put into it. I just like the activity of cooking. Because then, you know, then I don't have to go do something  productive.

How proud my parents must be to read this. All the piano lessons, the museums, trip. College.

My ideal day:

Invite people over for dinner. Spend the entire day grocery shopping and cooking. Take a shower.

Get an email that says my guests are canceling.

And then:

Throw out the dinner I made. Order in Thai. Get in my pajamas. I have the warm fuzzies just imagining it. All the credit for inviting people over. None of the hassle of actual human interaction. And Pad Se Ewe.

When my oldest child left for college, I decided that after 19 years, I was through making dinner. And despite the cries of my younger son ("What do you mean, 'empty nest'? Look at me - I STILL LIVE AT HOME!"  and "Where is my bed? Why is there a bidet in my room?"), I threw in the kitchen towel. I decided that if I had to make one more chicken, I was going to oil and salt my own head and stick it into the oven. Dinner from then on was take out. Or leftover take out. Or my avocado and papaya facial masque. I was done.

But after a few months, I realized that without the late afternoon tether of chopping and sauteing, I really had no excuse for not writing. So I brought dinner back. With a vengeance. I cook dinner every night. I cook the fuck outta dinner every night.

You're welcome to join us. Only please cancel at the last minute.