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

My Inner Maccabee

My Inner Maccabee

 

The best Chanukah gift I ever got was when I was twenty three years old: I was sprung from prison.

I was on tour to promote my first record album.  It was an album of Jewish folk music and that winter we were booked to do Chanukah concerts up and down the California coast. I was the girl singer, a last minute replacement for the original singer, who, as I see it now, got out just in the nick of time.

Our band, Serenade, sang in synagogues and Jewish Community Centers, places where the audiences were thrilled to see anyone under the age of ninety singing Jewish music, and they showered us with appreciation and, occasionally, payment. 

One evening, as we were finishing up a rehearsal, the violin player called me over.

“Don’t say no right off the bat. Just hear me out.”  He said.

I waited.

“We have a gig next week.”  He said slowly. “It’s at a prison – but wait! I spoke to the chaplain, and he assured me that this is one of those places that’s like a summer camp for businessmen.”

I said yes. I was young and hungry and gigs were very exciting to me in those days. I think of myself now, jaded and bitter, cutting right to the chase about fees and perks and travel time. Each new gig now elicits my long suffering sigh, as if I had been asked to scrub someone’s toilet with my spit and toothbrush instead of having been offered good money to sing for them. But back then, back in the beginning, I would have agreed to anything. Which is how I wound up in prison.

Monday morning, the first day of Chanukah, Rick and Ron, the other band members, came to my house to pick me up for the concert.  They were dressed in their finest gig outfits: matching blue and silver vests and berets.  Ron added a pair of suspenders to complete his ensemble. I was wearing huge cloisonné dreidle earrings.  We looked about as sharp as a trio of  weenie Jewish folksingers ever did.  I climbed into the back of Ron’s ’64 VW Bug and settled into the folding lawn chair that served as a back seat.  Ron handed me a cowbell on a rope.

“Here. You’re horn monitor.” He said.  I didn’t even bother to ask about a seat belt. 

We set out on our journey.  I was a little bit nervous but I am always a little bit nervous.  I am a hand wringer by nature, living on bravado and Pepto Bismol.  This gig was definitely outside my comfort zone.  I pulled out a bag of trail mix and a bottle of Martinelli’s apple juice.  Ron unwrapped three ham sandwiches.

“Eat up!”   He said. Eating pork? Treyf! Wow. Serenade was one badass band. I felt giddy, naughty, like Johnny Cash, as I bit into the forbidden sandwich.

Three hours later, we came to a sign that read “State Prison. Lock Your Doors.” Then, another sign:  “Do Not Stop For Hitchhikers.”  That seemed a tad foreboding. And why were there three rows of barbed wire if this was a minimum-security summer camp prison? I got very quiet as we turned onto the long road that led to a guard tower.  I held tightly to the cowbell horn, ready to ring it in an emergency.

A guard stopped our car, and motioned for us to roll down the window. This took the collective effort of all four of us, as the car had no interior handles.

Surely we were at the wrong place.  The prison we were looking for had chaise lounges and picnic tables and, in my fantasies, a couple of William Morris agents who would offer us a record deal right on the spot.

We came to another barbed- wired gate. It was surrounded by uniformed, gun-toting guards who took one look at Rick’s carrot-orange frizzy hair, Ron’s rainbow suspenders and my terrified face, and they nearly cracked a smile. I reached in my pocket and fondled my last two Pepto Bismol tablets nervously. A man in a blue work shirt and jeans, the scariest man I had ever seen in my life, took a step towards me. The guards did nothing. Oh sweet Jesus, what was this?

Scary Guy checked us out.  I stared at the ground.  Ron asked him, “So, are you a guard?”

Scary Guy laughed as hard as a guy with two lit cigarettes in his mouth could laugh. Even one of the guards snorted.

“Yeah, right.”

I nodded as if I understood what the hell he was laughing about. He spit out one of his cigarettes and continued.

“I’m gonna be paroled next week so I gotta work the gate.  See if I can be trusted.”  He said this last thing to the guards, who – this time – actually laughed out loud.  I just didn’t get prison humor, I guessed.  I watched Mary Tyler Moore.

Scary Guy picked up his clipboard and read my name off his list.

 

“Ann Brown” he said. Yikes, how did he know that?  For once, I thanked my parents for giving me such a common name. It would take him years to find me in the phone book when he got out.

He looked at the clipboard again. “ Address is 2757 Sycamore, right?”

Thank God. He had the address wrong. I nodded quickly.

Ron pointed to the clipboard. “Huh, Ann. I thought your address was 2787 Sycamore…”  He smiled at his new best friend, Scary Guy. “You’ve got her address wrong, buddy.”

I’d move out of my house as soon as we got home.

We were led to a small, glassed-in room.  A guard pointed to the sign above him and read it out loud to us.  Do not move unless instructed to do so.

“Welcome to maximum security” he said.

I turned to Rick, ready to scream, but he seemed preoccupied, calming the many facial tics he had suddenly developed.

No one instructed us to move so I just stood there, sweating. An electric door opened and Don Knotts walked towards us. Well, maybe not Don Knotts, but definitely his parallel universe twin.

“Hello!”  He yelled.  “Chag sameach!”  This was too surreal.   “Happy Chanukah! Welcome, welcome.”  You would have thought he was the head of the membership committee at Temple Beth Israel.. He ushered us down a wide hallway, chatting merrily about the do’s and don’ts of prison visits. I barely paid attention, since I was not going to be doing anything other than staying alive and then, quitting Serenade forever.

“Just never let yourself be out of arm’s range from a guard and you’ll be okay!”  He handed each of us a pin that said, “Happy Hanukah from your neighborhood Rabbi”. 

“On the house!”  He laughed. “The Big House!”

We were led to the gymnasium, where the concert was to be held.  A makeshift stage, consisting of three large platforms and a white sheet for a curtain, had been set up for us. A ring of armed guards standing shoulder to shoulder circled our stage. I was starting to hyperventilate.

Chaplain Don Knotts introduced us to an extremely intense looking man named Teejay, a prisoner who had been assigned to help us backstage.

“What are you going to sing?”  Teejay asked me.

“Uh, some Hanukah songs” I said. I felt it was best to leave out the hard “ch” on Chanukah.  Teejay just squinted at me.

The gym door suddenly buzzed open, and endless rows of blue work -shirted prisoners filed in. I was supposed to open with “Hevenu Shalom Aleichem” to this crowd?  I prayed for a miracle, anything that would save me from having to do this.  Please, please, please.

“I can’t do it,” I whispered to Rick. “I really can’t.”

“Sure you can.”  He picked up his violin and nodded to Ron.

They began the introduction to “Hevenu Shalom Aleichem”.  The booing and hissing started before the first guitar chord was even played.  We were going to die there, I just knew it.  Ron played my entrance cue on the guitar.  My legs grew down into the stage and held me there, paralyzed.  I looked at Ron and shook my head no.  He played the intro again, this time a longer version, to give me a few extra minutes. I took some deep breaths.

I want to do this, I told myself.  Rick shot me a look of desperation. His facial tics were out of control, like he had stuck his wet finger into an electrical socket. I couldn’t keep him there playing that same violin line forever. He needed me. I walked to the front of the stage and took the microphone in my hand. The prisoners grew quiet for a moment.  I heard guitar and violins playing somewhere above my head, as if the angels were calling to me.

I started to sing in a very shaky, almost inaudible voice. “Hevenu shalom aleichem, hevenu shalom aleichem….. –” And then I stopped. I felt dizzy, like I was going to faint. I put my hand on the microphone stand to steady myself, but I knocked the microphone to the floor.  I bent down to pick it up and instantly, wild clapping and hooting filled the gym.  As I stood up I heard a low chant rising up from the bleachers. I tried to make out what they were saying but all I could hear was Rick’s violin playing in my ear, signaling the beginning of our next song. The chanting settled to a low roar.

“Chanukah oh Chanukah come light the menorah….”  I struggled to find my voice.  I looked around the gym and I thought about all the protests I had been to in my life, all the petitions I had signed to improve prison conditions.  Of course, I had never actually been in a prison before this but I had imagined myself quite the activist, having stood outside the courthouse one warm summer Santa Cruz evening holding my hand-lettered sign that read build people not prisons. I had brought my guitar that evening and led the twenty or so people there in chorus after chorus of “I Shall Be Released” and everyone had cheered. Why weren’t these men cheering?  Or even listening? And why were they booing me again?

I stopped because I couldn’t even hear myself singing.  What was that chant? I turned to Ron.

“Bend over.” He mouthed the words to me. What?

“They’re saying ‘bend over”, he repeated.  My heart froze in fear and I broke out in a cold sweat.

Suddenly, an alarm went off and the doors buzzed open.  A voice came over the loudspeaker.  “Concert’s over. Units A and B proceed to roll call.”  The prisoners filed out of the gym as quickly as they had come in. They chanted, “bend over”, as they passed in front of me - very softly, very creepy.

The concert, which was supposed to have lasted one hour, had lasted only eight minutes.  It was a Chanukah miracle. 

We stood on the stage and watched the enormous room empty out. Chaplain Don Knotts assured us that we were a big hit and offered us gigs the following Chanukah at Soledad or Folsom.  He told us not to answer right away, just to think about it, and then he left.

Rick and Ron went behind the sheet to pack up their instruments and I was alone with Teejay.

“What just happened?” I asked him.

“Nothing. The usual. We don’t go for this shit much.  Except they liked it when you bent down.”

I accepted the compliment.

“What was that first song you sang?” he asked.

“Um, it’s called Hevenu Shalom Aleichem” I told him.

“I like it.”  He said as he jumped off the stage.  “It sounds like it’s about Heaven.”

 

Clouds filled the sky and rain pounded on Ron’s little VW Beetle as we drove home that night.  The car had no windshield wipers so we had to roll the windows down and hand-wipe the windshield every few minutes.  I sat in the back, holding on to my lawn chair, bundled up in my down jacket.  I was freezing and exhausted. But I was victorious. I had stood on that stage and faced my fear, faced death; as sure as Judah Maccabee had faced the army of Antiochus Epiphanes.  I turned to the open window, letting the rain soak my sweaty face, and threw my last two Pepto Bismol tablets out into the dark night.

 

 

 

 

 

The Very Over It Caterpillar NYE2022

                               The Very Over It Caterpillar

Once there was a caterpillar who just... couldn't.

Well, she could, but she just didn't want to.

On the first day, she had an extra cup of coffee, with hazelnut creamer.

But she still just... couldn't.

The next day she had two spoonfuls of organic manuka honey in her yogurt

But she still just... couldn't.

On the third day she took three elderberry tablets and crushed them into her organic manuka yogurt and honey,

But she still just... couldn't.

The next day was Chanukah, and she eschewed the heavy fried latkes that might bring her down, and she ate four baked zucchini latkes instead because zucchini is an upbeat vegetable.

But she still just... couldn't.

On the fifth day, she smoked a little weed.

And then she could, but she couldn't remember what, exactly, it was that she could.

On the sixth day, she had a headache, so she didn't need to. That was a good day.

On the seventh day, she sat quietly. She looked at her dogs, napping by the fire.

She found the lemon verbena moisturizing cream she had been saving for - she didn't know for what - and slathered it on her hands. And then on her elbows, which had been bugging her because they were so scratchy and rough that they got caught on the sleeves of her organic cotton Pact tee shirts and pulled at the threads.

She finished off the zucchini latkes and the weed, only not in that order. And she fell asleep next to the dogs.

And when she woke up, she expected she'd be a butterfly, but she was still a caterpillar. Still a Very Over It Caterpillar.

And that was totally cool with her.

Because, after thinking about it, she decided she wanted to be a caterpillar for a while longer. Just doing her thing, moving slowly, keeping low to the ground. Earth-tone hoody and comfy slippers.

And who knows, maybe next year, or at some point later, she'll emerge as a butterfly and show the world her beautiful colors. But for now, no.

Because sometimes it's just been that kind of year. Which is cool.

Here's to 2023.

 

 

 

 

The Difference Between Tragedy and Bummer

                               The Difference Between Bummer and Tragedy

The last time I wrote a parenting article here was, I think, at least two years ago. Or three. Or a million. Or a week ago. I really have no idea. There is pre-pandemic and there is now; I have no other grasp of time.

We could talk about what it’s been like trying to raise kids in a world gone mad but pretty much everything has been said about that already. And you know what it’s like. You’re living it. I see the empty booze bottles in your recycling cans.

It’s been rough.

You knew when you signed up to be a parent that you’d have to be a better person, a smarter person, a more courageous person, an indefatigable person, an inspiring role model for your kids and their generations to come.

But if you are anything like me, you didn’t actually believe it. You figured you’d slide by on your youth and sense of humor and – if necessary – your ability to stand your ground until you wear down the enemy even when you know for sure that you are wrong.

So it’s a kinda rough landing when real life requires you to not only raise your kids to be stellar human beings, but to do it when suddenly, the world around you is in deep disequilibrium and you don’t have any – much less, all – answers as to how to foster in your children the qualities of compassion, mindfulness, critical thinking skills,  and perspective.

There was no handbook for a pandemic. There wasn’t even toilet paper.

But I do have something uncharacteristically optimistic to say about all this:

Your kids have the opportunity to learn what entitlement – and the sudden absence of it – means. And that gives them the opportunity to see the world with eyes that are more keen than if they had grown up in the relatively easy-going bubble that was life five years ago.

The first lesson for your kids is, of course, that our lives were easy and entitled before the pandemic, and that our lives are still relatively easy and entitled. And that many people’s lives have always been threatened by hatred, poverty, marginalization and much more.  Understanding how fortunate we are  - feeling gratitude, perspective, all the qualities Oprah wants us to have – is not something little kids really get, but experiencing even the privileged small, bougie hardships of not being able to go to a friend’s house or not going Trick or Treating because of the pandemic sews the seeds of perspective.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is that they aren’t going to be happy about it. And the other bad news is that  they aren’t going to use the experience to make them better people until they are older. You know, when you are long dead.

Oh, and also?

It requires us – the parents – to show them the way. It requires us to meet the challenges of these times with a balance of validating our kids’ disappointments with modeling a sort of, “this is life” loving steadfastness.

Yeah, you having the attitude now that you hope to see in your kids when they are adults.

Sorry, but it’s true.

But wait. Good news returns!

This doesn’t mean you have to be happy about everything. In fact, if you are the kind of person who is happy about everything, well, frankly, you will have stopped reading this already because it doesn’t speak to you. Which is cool. Go, go be happy. Personally, I find unfailingly happy people to be insufferable, but, you know, God bless everyone.

When things are crappy, when the pandemic world sucks, we have to be honest and authentic about it. We can say to our kids, “You’re right, it really is disappointing that we can’t do this because of the pandemic” and…leave it at that. Just validate. Just listen. Just - as my generation is wont to say - Just be here now. Breathe out your nose. Make soft Yoga eyes at your child. Do 25 Kegels and enjoy a toned pelvic floor. Don’t fill the space with any helpful advice because there’s nothing more to said after validating.

If you have been in my parenting classes or groups, if you have spent any time at all with me, you know that I march under a few banners, and one of them is: Compassionate Detachment. I like to think of it as Love and Logic, but for actual humans with human feelings. (Cue the hate mail. You’ve got my email address).

Finding the true balance of compassion and detachment is a skill.  Compassion is the genuine validation that things are different and hard and scary and disappointing; Detachment is still putting one foot in front of the other and doing what needs to be done. Whether it’s not being able to go on a vacation or it’s having to clean the house or anything in-between, we feel our feelings and, still feeling them, we carry on. Maybe whining. Maybe pouting. Maybe squeezing out a few tears, even. But we carry on.

It is very tempting, as a parent, to want to have our kids do everything with a positive attitude. And in the next months, I am going to write about this whole unrealistic idea of  expecting them to never complain or pout, but for now I want to point out that when ramifications of the pandemic create disappointment for your kids, let them feel the disappointment. The feeling is authentic, and it’s normal and I bet you wouldn’t want anyone telling you to cheer up and turn that frown upside-down when you are feeling your feelings. In fact, if someone said that to me when I was upset, I’d probably feel even more upset. And misunderstood. And suddenly hungry for a LOT of bread and cheese.

Being able to tell your kids, without gratuitous sympathy, that it is, indeed, disappointing that because of the pandemic we can’t do what we used to do, is a really good way to model coping skills. Not denial or pretending skills. Not fake happy skills. Not over-the-top dramatic commiseration skills. Just accepting that what it is, is what it is. With true compassion.

I need to mention here that we are talking about the privileged stuff that disappoints our kids. When they encounter or learn about real problems that others may have, real hardships, a real lacking, compassionate detachment takes a very big back seat to action. And I could (and will) talk about how to create appropriate actions for your kids that both give them a sense of hope, a sense of purpose and does good in the world. But this piece is getting a little bit long, and I believe the assignment I was given was, “…can you write us a short article on parenting during the pandemic?”

So I’ll wrap it up.

Raising kids in strange times, in times of unrest, in times of unknown futures is a gift, albeit one that you didn’t order, don’t want and wish didn’t exist. Guiding our kids through these strange times can strengthen their coping skills, their compassion and, eventually, their ability to keep perspective. To really understand the difference between bummer and tragedy.

We can learn it together with our kids.

The Very Angry Caterpillar (Goodbye to 2020)

                                      (sequel to The Very Hungry Post Menopausal Caterpillar)

 

 

Once there was a caterpillar who was very angry.

 

She hadn't always been angry, but four years of Trump Republican fuckery had taken its toll.

 

She was grateful to be awakened to action after too many years of complacency, of course, but being even a bit more woke now, she was so, so angry.

 

So, the first year, she went to the Women's March, and she marched and sang and held her sign and she was buoyed and heartened by the sight of the protests around the world. She came home from the march exhilarated and she thrilled to the photos of world-wide resistance and solidarity.

 

But she was still angry.

 

The next year, she ranted on Facebook about selling off national parks and bringing prayer back to public schools and closing our borders to immigrants and putting babies in cages. She sent emails and letters to everyone, demanding justice for those most vulnerable.

 

But she was still angry.

 

The next year, she joined dozens of organizations and sent a shitload of money to RAICES and ACLU and Planned Parenthood. She posted a weekly activism checklist on FB so people could see how they could help fight the damage being done to democracy and decency.

 

But she was still angry.

 

So she organized post card writing parties and attended protests and even made daily phone calls to legislators -  which was totally out of her comfort zone -  but she persisted. She also quietly unfriended her 17 Trump-supporting FB friends.

 

But she was still angry.

 

Leading up to the presidential election, she gave even more money to Democratic candidates, wrote more postcards to voters, made new like-minded FB friends who became community, and got the CALM app on her phone.

 

But she was not only still angry, she was also a little panicky about the future. She renewed her prescriptions for Xanax and Prozac.

 

When the pandemic came and Trump Republican fuckery turned the virus into political weaponry and, for a while, eclipsed all the other devastating clusterfucks the Republicans had created, her anger became volcanic.  She felt as if she was going to burst.

 

She went into her cocoon to socially distance and isolate and order groceries from Instacart. All throughout the spring, summer, autumn and winter, she isolated at home. She thought about learning to bake bread, to raise a kitchen counter-full of sourdough babies in matching Ball jars but it was so trendy already and she liked to think that she was all about subverting the dominant paradigm. 

 

Her cocoon was beginning to feel a little bit suffocating. She knew there was great transformation in the future, she knew that meaningful change takes time, she knew that there was much work still to be done,  but it was taking so fucking long.

 

So fucking long.

 

And then, on New Year's Eve, heralding 2021 when Joe Biden and Kamala Harris would take the wheel (albeit after Trump fuckery had stripped the car and sold it for parts to their mofo cronies), The Very Angry Caterpillar took stock of the past four years.

 

They had sucked.

 

She was one of the fortunate, privileged ones who, so far, had made it through unscathed. She had paid work, she had a home, a loving family, a community and health insurance. She had social security. She was able to help others.

 

She knew that she could never ever ever again become complacent the way she had during the Obama years. She realized that Trump might be leaving the White House, but racism, classism, homophobia, greed, cruelty and fascism weren't going anywhere.

 

And maybe, just maybe, staying angry wasn't such a bad thing. If it keeps her involved.

 

One day, after she will get the vaccine, she will emerge from her cocoon and she will be a beautiful new...well, she'll still be a caterpillar. 

 

And an angry one.

 

And she will get back to work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5780 In The Books

I don't know how I am supposed to do Yom Kippur this year.

Oh, I'm evaluating my deeds, as we are instructed to do; I'm looking at where I've fallen down on the job, asking forgiveness from those I have wronged.

Except this: I am not going to ask forgiveness for hating. And even worse: I don't even want to stop hating.

Yeah, I know that hate only diminishes me and love is the answer and blah blah blah, but to everything (turn turn turn) there is a season. And this season of Republican fascism, religious fanaticism and cruel injustice foments hate in me. 

I don't feel like praying; I feel like fighting. I feel like fighting dirty.

Who by fire, who by water...Leonard Cohen's song, taken from the High Holydays liturgy. This week is the time of reckoning; all our deeds of the past year are examined and written on our permanent records. We have until sundown at Yom Kippur to make things right -there are no extensions or hall passes. We can't say we had cramps. Can't say we were at a funeral. We can't even say that we were in temple for a Jewish holiday (this, an excuse so beautifully bulletproof in a gentile world that it absolutely proves we are The Chosen People.)

This week I am called to search my soul. And so I am doing it, but not because I want to make sure I will not die by fire or water or smoke or pandemic or a knee on my throat; I'm doing it because it's a worthy endeavor. I got some transgressions I could clean up. God sees all, and Robin is going to get hip to my shit sooner or later. 

So I've been searching. I've been poking around in there, moving around the boxes of guilt and photographs and shoulder pads and my old Mary McCaslin albums and painful memories, and hope and joy so I can see into most abandoned cobwebby corners. Looking for forgiveness. Looking for love for all humankind.

And I have come to the the conclusion that this year, I'm going down with a lot of F's and "needs to improve"s on my report card. I might not even pass 5780. Oh dear Lord, please don't make me repeat this year.

 I do not have love in my heart for all humankind. I just can't muster it. I have enormous love in my heart for some of humankind. I love every single person who is going to vote the Democratic ticket. I love almost everyone who wears a mask when they go out. I love critical thinkers and scientists, and I have nothing but love for all animals. Except nutria. Nutria weird the fuck out of me and if I had to chose between saving the life of a baby nutria or saving the life of baby Mitch McConnell, well, of course I would save the nutria. But I'd probably throw up afterwards.

I could be wrong, but I am going to let myself hate for now. If my hate feeds my awareness and my awareness feeds my actions and deeds, then, you know, bless the fuel.

The last line to that Leonard Cohen song is, "...and who is calling..."

Maybe it doesn't matter who is calling. 
As long as I answer.

 

 

 

 

If The Smoke Clears

The air quality in Portland is 502 today.

I have no idea what that means scientifically, but I can tell you that it feels apocalyptic.

I am in a state of mind somewhere between heartland stoicism, urban investigative curiosity and coastal denial. I follow the air quality numbers like a day trader on coke, yet I do not look out the window. 

Not that I could see anything if I did look out the window. No visibility. All smoke. Fire. Covid. Racism. 

That night, a million years ago, when Trump won, my son Zach said to me on the phone, "Well, democracy is over." And I told him that he was being an alarmist.

If he was, he comes by it honestly. Alarmism runs in the veins of a few of our family tree's leaves. During the pogroms in Russia, it worked for us because it got us the hell outta there. In the 21st century, however, with no pogroms from which to flee, the alarmist siren in me tends to go off at somewhat less urgencies. Like when I run out of vanilla coffee creamer. Or I lose my phone.

Until now.

Yesterday, I was talking to Zach on the phone and I apologized for calling him an alarmist that election night. I said, "but, fuuuuuck, did you ever think it would be this bad?"

He answered, "Yes. What do you think fascism looks like?"

And I looked out the window.

Fascism is not just a word or an insult or an easy way to describe authoritarianism. Fascism, I see now, is a breakdown of everything. No safety net. No one answering phones in federal offices. No prisoners to fight the California fires because the prisons are Covid incubators because the Republicans in power aren't doing a damn thing about the pandemic. Fascism is no response from the motherfucking president when the Oregon governor calls him over and over again, needing relief for our state. Which is unlivable right now. We are choking over here.

I have never felt so expendable in my life as I do today.

Fascism is not orderly like a parade of goose-stepping brownshirts; it's chaotic. It's right-wing vigilantes stopping evacuees in their cars because they believe that antifa is starting the fires here and they - ignorant, crazed, armed - have given themselves the power to search us for suspicious items in our cars.

So, no, Zach was not being an alarmist. He had read history. 

And it breaks my fucking heart that my child, my children, your children, all of us are seeing it all play out in 2020. I hope we understand that the unraveling didn't start in 2020, however. Or in 2016. Or before that. Unraveling is a slow process, requiring patience and strategy. It can fly under the radar until it's nearly complete.

November is around the corner and now, so many displaced West coast residents from the fires, I worry how those people will vote. How will they get their mail-in ballots? This just adds to the plethora of voter suppression tactics going on in the country.

Fascism.

And I am against it.

I am ANTI fascism, you ugly knuckle-dragging, uneducated, spittle-spewing, unAmerican, puffed up, wanna-be action figures with accessories sold separately.

Being against fascism is the most American thing a person can be.

So when the smoke clears - if the smoke ever clears - and I can return to being terrified and enraged by the fact that there is a runaway pandemic over us, that babies are still in ICE jail, that black lives still do not matter, that our natural resources are still in peril, that education is still being Betsy'ed to death, that our social infrastructure is still cracking under the federal leadership of hate and greed, well, then I am going to go outside (wearing my mask. Because God is not going to protect me from Covid. God is so over all the asinine declarations about Her works. The one where the MAGAs credit Her for bringing Trump to them has really pissed Her the fuck off), and start screaming again.

Louder this time.

 

 

Notes From The Joint

Well.

I've just been sprung from Facebook jail. Gimme a minute to take a shower, change outta the orange jumpsuit and pull the cigs I stashed in my vagina.

It wasn't my first time in the joint. The first time it happened I was so sad, but that was many incarcerations ago. Facebook jail doesn't scare me anymore. I'm practically a Preferred Visitor. This time I demanded a Kosher meal. Just to fuck with them. I asked for a nice piece fresh fish. And then I sent it back because the smell was iffy.

HAH. Zuckerberg can throw me in the slammer but once I'm there, he is my bitch.

Anyway.

Why was I in FB jail this time, you might ask?

Well, it is some moist and stinky bullshit going on over on FB with determining hate speech. Because, as it turns out, hate speech is in the eye of the beholder of the power.

Dig this: everyone I know who has been put in FB jail, all my incarcerated brothers and sisters, we have one thing in common: we all posted something critical of our country, our president, or our race. None of us posted against people of color, of immigrants, LGBTQ or any religions. None of us had used profanity in the post that got us busted. Which, come to think of it, might have been what triggered FB to notice me: the glaring lack of profanity. Unprecedented.

The last time I was in FB jail, the time before this time, I had posted: God, I hate white people. 

It was kinda a joke. Kinda. Because, frankly, we are a horrible people.

Anyway, before you could say, Flu Klux Klan, I was disappeared from FB.

The time before that, I had posted: Americans are the worst.

Boom. Jail.

When I was sprung after that time, just to test my emerging theory, I posted this: Italians are the worst.

Nothing.

So I tried: Green people are the worst.

Nothing.

You know what came next, right? 

"Jews are the worst." And then I hit, "Post".

Nothing from FB. Not even a warning. Guess it's fine to post that kind of shit.

But just try to post, "White America sucks," and all of a sudden, it's hate speech. 

And you wind up behind bars, with no one to hear what you have to say except your imaginary fellow inmates.

Good thing I've been workshopping my new prison material this year in the high school pool shower after water aerobics. You know those jokes about not bending over to pick up the soap, the ones that caused my fellow communal showerers to finish up quickly and scurry outta there, sometimes with conditioner on their hair and soap in their eyes?

Yeah, well, I killed with those jokes in jail. 

 

 

 

 

 

Aging In The Age of Aging, Part One

 

In just a few more months, I will be getting Social Security money! Every month! For free! For doing nothing!

America, amirite? 

God, I hate Republicans so fucking much. We'll get back to that in a moment.

When I was young and I thought about social security, I envisioned an ancient, arthritic, gnarled, ill-tempered old lady with her bra around her waist and stockings rolled to her knees.

Well, say hello to me.

Two of my arthritic fingers cannot straighten up without assistance from the other fingers (I tell people it's because I've played guitar for fifty years but it's probs from the decades of overuse, showing the bartender how much tequila to pour). 

The ill-tempered thing? Got it covered. My secret is that my jeans are too tight.

And as for the bra around my waist, well, that's not from being too lazy to pull it up to my boobs. It's that my waist is WHERE MY BOOBS ARE NOW. You know, the mountain(s) went to....you get the idea.

If you follow me on FB, you are aware that I have given up underwire bras until we have a Democratic president. We each have to do our part in the Resistance. Life is too painful under this Mofo regime as it is, and anyway, I was certain that imma going to die of bra underwire. One sharp gasp and clutch to my breast at reading the latest headline about babies in ICE jail or killing the forests and POP! The wire breaks through the bra and ...Wacoal stake to the heart. 

The only way my newfangled no-wire bralette is gonna kill me is the cost.

Which brings me back to social security. There are a few things about getting old that are just plain old awesome. If you are financially solvent. And healthy. And white. 

I have aged out of Pap smears. Did you know this is a thing? Evidently, I'm now mature enough to be in charge of the welfare of my own cervix. It feels a little bit premature, truth be told. I don't feel ready. I've never taken care of a cervix before. When I was five, I kept forgetting to replenish the water for the little turtles we got on Olvera Street and they all died horrible deaths. How can I be trusted with my cervix? (Does it need to be watered?) Honestly, if the medical community is listening, what I'd prefer is that you guys keep a watch on my cervix and I will monitor my weight gain.

The other day, Robin and I had the dogs at the park. Louie and Phila present very well - they are attractive and well-groomed and not too Poodle-y, you know what I mean? Anyway, people complimented us on them (as if we had designed the Poodle) and then asked the inevitable question: "what do they weigh?"

Dudes.

That is SUCH a rude question. 

I thought they were asking it about me, at first. Like, "Hey, that's a good looking wife you got there. What does she weigh?" Or, "She's a big girl, isn't she? What does it cost to feed her?"

And Robin could answer, "Well, she eats a lot of table scraps in addition to her meals. She's such a beggar."

And then I would fart.

And they would laugh and shake their heads because everyone knows that 65 year old women cannot digest chicken skin.

What was my point?

Oh, right. Republicans.

I really hate them.

 

 

 

 

Choose Your Own (Feelings) Adventure - Claire and I Explain It All

Claire and I talk every day. Well, not talk, per se, because we both hate phone calls. We will avoid them at almost any cost.

It's really the defining quality of our enduring professional and personal relationship. That, and our love of salt over sugar.

Our conversation this morning was about anger. Not at each other, of course, we would NEVER be angry at each other; it was about how sick we both are of people calling for niceness. And understanding. And, God help us, compassion.

Yeah. 

Fuck that shit.

If you can read about children being separated from their families, kept in cages, and not feel anger, if you can watch Mitch McConnell and his minions shit on the Constitution, if you can listen to Donald Trump say, well, pretty much say anything, and not feel angry, then fuck you. You have lost the ability to know when anger is appropriate.

My therapist assures me that anger is a completely normal and rational response to some situations. I'm pretty sure she would assure me of it, anyway,  if I had stayed in therapy.

It is not wrong or unladylike or “just like them” to be pissed off. REALLY pissed off. But in a sea of “If You Can Be Anything, Be Kind” tee-shirts, a person can get confused. 

 

Claire and I have, therefore, written a handy cheat-sheet for you. 

 

                                                      LET IT OUT, OR LET IT GO? 

                             ~ A primer of appropriate responses in the time of Trump, by Claire LaZebnik and Ann Brown

 

Your child spills their milk all over the table and even into your purse which wasn’t supposed to be lying on the table but you thought it would be fine there for THREE MINUTES. 

DON’T GET ANGRY

Your kid is just a kid and we’ve all spilled stuff. It happens. Be a good sport. Send a donation to CASA.

 

A presidential candidate openly mocks someone with special needs in front of the entire country and people laugh with him. 

GET ANGRY

This is indecent and wrong and disgusting. It’s despicable. Send a

generous donation to whomever is going to run against Trump in November.

 

Old white state senators decide women shouldn’t be allowed to get abortions in their state, and insist that women who’ve been raped should have to go through with an ensuing pregnancy

GET HEADBANGING LOSE YOUR SHIT ANGRY

If men could get pregnant, there’d be an abortion clinic on every block. They have no right to dictate a woman’s choices. Send a donation to Planned Parenthood.

 

Your husband leaves his socks on the floor even though you’ve asked him not to

GET PEEVED, NOT ANGRY

It’s annoying but it’s no biggie. Still, you are welcome to put the dirty socks inside his pillowcase. Or quietly pin them to the back of his shirt before he leaves the house. And send a donation to a homeless shelter.

 

POTUS doesn’t even know which state is which and tweets congratulations to the wrong state after the Super Bowl.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO GET ANGRY ABOUT THIS UNLESS YOU’RE FROM MISSOURI OR KANSAS. OR UNLESS YOU CARE THAT THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES IS A MORON WHO DOESN’T FUCKING KNOW THE CITIES AND STATES OF THE COUNTRY OF WHICH HE IS PRESIDENT. Donate some more money to the Democratic candidate for next November.

Your invited guest brought their dog with them to your house without asking first.

DON’T GET ANGRY

Come on, it’s just a dog. Give it a scritch. But the next time they’re coming over, say, “Don’t bring your dog.” And send a donation to the Humane Society.

 

 

Mitch McConnell ignores the rule of law and any ideas of compromise or fairness and takes advantage of a slight majority to ignore bills from the Congress, acquit a president of crimes he clearly committed by refusing to let witnesses speak, and put very partial judges in power positions

GET SO FUCKING ANGRY YOU VOMIT UP YOUR LUNGS  

He’s destroying our country in front of our eyes. Send more money to Amy. And maybe a nice Edible Arrangements fruit bouquet. We want her to stay nourished.

 

People in power vilify those who are already marginalized--anyone who isn’t white, Christian, cis-gender or straight. They try to turn these vulnerable Americans into scapegoats and blame any issues in the country on them.

GET ANGRIER THAN YOU’VE EVER BEEN BEFORE

Fight the bastards. Donate to the ACLU.

 

Kids are put in cages and treated like prisoners

GET SO CRAZY FUCKING REDHOT ANGRY YOU REFUSE TO BE FRIENDS WITH ANYONE WHO SUPPORTS THIS BARBARIC FASCIST REGIME 

Take to the streets. Fight. Resist. Donate to RAICES.

 

Your book club group picks a book you didn’t want to read and SAID you didn’t want to read

GET ANNOYED 

Quit book club and use the time to get out the vote for the Dems. Then go home and read a book YOU want to read. Discuss the book with yourself. Agree to disagree.

 

Someone says, “If we could all just stop being so angry at each other . . .”

RIP THEM TO FUCKING SHREDS AND EAT THEIR BONES FOR DINNER. And,um, donate, don’t donate, it’s okay. Just please don’t hurt us.

 

You read an announcement that - thanks to Trump and his minions -  all the environmental regulations that were put in place over the last few decades to keep our water and earth safe and clean have been overturned and businesses can pour their poisons wherever the hell they want.

If you don’t know the answer by this point, you are pissing us off.

GET ANGRY. And donate to all the environmental protection organizations.

 

Your writing partner refuses to use the tab button no matter how many times you tell her to.

DON’T GET ANGRY. I’m trying my best, Claire. Remember I’m old. And I have cataracts. And send a donation to me, because you were just mean to me. I think fifty bucks should unruffle my feathers.

. 

Your writing partner passively aggressively shames you about forgetting to use the tab button.

 DON’T GET ANGRY. BUT PRETEND YOU ARE SO SHE WILL FEEL BAD.

And then buy one of Claire’s books. She’s not a charity but she could use the support, especially with Ann making her feel bad about everything.

(But we digress...)

You should be angry right now. Really really angry. 

And not just at those in power--also at those who don’t look past their own bubbles to see how many people are suffering because of this administration and how much injustice is being allowed and how many dangerous people have been given power . . . anger can be fuel for doing good.

So get angry at anyone who isn’t fighting for basic human rights in this country. And turn all that red hot anger into donations, canvassing, marching, phoning, volunteering, and fighting for sanity and decency.

Or stay calm and sit on your ass. We can’t stop you. 

But we are going to be so mad at you . . . 

    

I

It's All Over But For The Hat

Well. Here we are.

 

History has been written. Republicans have betrayed justice, betrayed truth and betrayed the Constitution. 

 

When the House voted to impeach, I posted an old joke on FB about a grandma who takes her grandson to the beach and he is swept away by a wave. The grandma pleads with God to return the child to safety.

She says, "Please God, I will never ask for anything else. This is all I want - my baby grandson to be safe. Please, I'll never ask for anything more!"

A big wave returns the child to shore, safe and happy.

The grandma hugs and kisses the boy and then looks into the Heavens and speaks to God.

"Thank you, God. How can I ever thank you--oh, wait. He had a hat."

 

Yeah, that. 

 

All I wanted, I said, was that history would record the travesty that is the Trump administration. Even though I knew the Republicans would never vote to impeach. Or allow witnesses. Or pay attention to what the managers were saying. Or not sneak in their phones, or eat or chat with each other. I knew that justice would not prevail but that didn't matter, I said; all I wanted was to get it on record that Trump is a criminal and his cronies are dirty.

 

And now, it's on the record. I'm thankful for that.

 

(Beat)

 

But wait, God. He had a hat.

 

Turns out, I want more. I want a Senate vote for impeachment.

 

I cannot believe that at age sixty-five I still secretly hope the good guys win. How embarrassing for me. You'd think I'd have aged out of that kind of magical thinking by now. Evidently the dark cloak of cynicism I wear has fairy dust and pink tulle sewn into the lining.

 

Hope and optimism don't fit well on me. I'm big boned. I prefer the comfortable elastic waist of unmeasured snark. 

 

But despite my best efforts to the contrary, I still harbored hope for our country. When Jerry and Val spoke, I felt strong. When Sylvia spoke, I felt heard. And Zoe - oh, Zoe Lofgren, her name alone is a fluffy blanket, a cup of tomato soup and two Xanax - Zoe made me feel we're in good hands.

 

And when Adam Schiff took the mic? My God. I had to change my underpants. Truth to power is hot.

 

Those Democratic impeachment managers brought intelligence, reason and strength. There were some really great moments of good and light. 

 

I will most likely survive this, even if - Heaven forbid, spit three times and spin to the East - Trump wins the next election. I'm not as vulnerable as many in this country which is why I will scream loudly and point fingers. Lucy Van Pelt is going to be my spirit animal. 

 

So.

A fresh pair of Dr. Scholl's gel pads for the marching, new glitter pens for writing postcards to Virginia, and a double refill of Prozac. The Resistance is regrouping.

 

We leave at the crack of noon.

Bring a hat.