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

ISO Old Jewish Man

If Robin ever leaves me, I am going to have to rely on you to get me a date because I've been kicked off the online dating sites. And, frankly, it isn't going to be easy to pimp me out. I've been letting myself go for the past, oh, fifty-five years or so. Recently, I thought I'd better get to work on my personality since, clearly, the wiles are running thin but, God, working on my personality is so much....well, work. Plus, my flaws define me. Who am I, if not this basket case wrapped in a couple of spare tires inside a smart-ass remark?

I've buried the lead, however, haven't I? What am I, happily married for almost thirty years, doing trolling online dating sites?

I went online to pimp out my 85 year old mom. I went to JDates, the Jewish online dating site. And got my ass flagged. It's such horseshit, really. I merely responded to the gentleman who listed his age as "in my mid- 70's", and under the category of the women he is interested in meeting, he wrote, "beautiful, active women between 50 and 64".

REALLY? 

I checked out your photo, sir. First of all, you are not in your 70's unless there is such an age as seventy-nineteen or maybe you spent the past twenty years lying in a vat of cocoa butter on the surface of the sun. And, dude, you are wearing Velcro sneakers so I guess your activity level does not include tying shoelaces. Is that why you want an active woman? Be honest, asshole. Say, "I want a woman who can bend down and reach my feet." That's what I'd put in my ad: I am looking for an intelligent, attractive, financially stable man to do a monthly examination of the weird mole between my second and third toe because I cannot hold the position long enough to do it myself without pulling a groin muscle and falling over.

I really hate liars.

So I felt it was my duty to contact this guy directly. Just to share my feelings with him and hopefully, get him back on track, see the light, date women his own age, you know,  as a sort of public service. I am all about public service.

Well, I might have used some offensive language in my email. And I might have insulted the guy. I may have Google'd him, made a few phone calls to his home and, oh, I don't know, egg'ed his Buick Electra and threatened his life; it's not important. The important thing is that suddenly I am persona non grata to the Jewish online dating world. Excommunicated.

This makes me nervous because someday Robin might just decide I am too much work and split. I see him looking at me sometimes, in that inscrutable way he has. And then he lets out an almost imperceptible moan and rubs his temples in circles for a few seconds. The other day I swear I heard him whisper, "God, just leave already" when I had told him - for the third time - that I was going to Safeway to get the good Braeburn apples I like.  Plus, his blood pressure is already kinda high and he's no spring chicken. Things can happen. I'm just saying.

So one of you is going to have to find me a new man if I find myself alone in the next, oh, forty years.

For your files: I am 55, I enjoy taking walks in the park with my dog, ironing, making excuses to get out of shit I don't want to do, a glass of water with lemon after meals, Caller ID, revisionist personal history and fine wine.

And I am interested in meeting men between the ages of 19-28.

See you after the new year.

You Can't Judge A Penis By A Grande On Christmas Morning

The line at Starbucks on Christmas morning was long. The talk was lively. And the topic was  hysterectomies. At least, that's what I talked about with the nice lady in front of me.

Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, or the bonhomie of a crowded Starbucks on a winter's day, or the power of sisterhood but the conversation skirted the small talk and moved along quickly. It went something like this:

Me: (smiling benignly) Wow, long line.

She: I have to have a hysterectomy.

Awkward silence. I attempted to normalize the conversation once more.

Me: Wow, really long line.

She: If they take your cervix out, you can't have orgasms during intercourse anymore.

I was at a loss for a response. Another stab at "wow, long line" just wasn't gonna cut it after that intriguing fact. 

But was it a fact? Here is where I am suddenly remorseful that I made fun of my sister a few blog posts back because she only recently learned where the hymen is located. Because although I am quite familiar with the general whereabouts of my cervix, and I can say, with more than a modicum of gratuitous pride, that I have dilated mine - twice - to the size where an actual person's head squeezed through, I was surprised that a cervix is involved in an orgasm. I mean, isn't the cervix waaay up there? Like, in Canada?

Wow. My first thought was to congratulate my new friend on the length of her husband's weener.

"Good for you, honey!" I wanted to say.

But then I worried that I'd be casting aspersions on the length of my husband's weener. And even though Robin wasn't there, even though he was innocently waiting for me in the car listening to NPR, even though his weener is perfectly fine, what if when Cervix Woman walked out of Starbucks and saw me get into the car with Robin, she smirked or made a "oh, poor you, with the short penis" gesture at him? How would I explain that to Robin? It's bad enough that he lives with the paranoia that I talk about him all the time in parenting group, now I am telling perfect strangers in line at Starbucks, ON CHRISTMAS DAY, the day Jesus was born, that I could go with or without a cervix because, uh (and I'd lean in closer here), well, my husband's weener doesn't reach there. What if she thought I was complaining, that I was trying to tell her that Robin is alarmingly unendowed, what if she goes home thinking that he and I just bump flat surfaces around down there for fifteen minutes or so and then call it a night?

Robin would totally not be down with that. He might even begin reading my blog, just to check. And that would definitely affect my writing mojo. (In my defense, I did show him the first few posts when I started out a few months ago, just to make sure he was cool with what I was writing but he perused about three sentences, said to me, "are there ever going to be any car chases or anything in this?" and when I told him no, he deleted "drstrangemom" from his Favorites.)

Still, there were questions to be asked about the cervix/orgasm issue.

Unfortunately, however, they will remain forever unanswered because at that very moment my new friend's lattes (nonfat with two Splendas for her husband, cocoa for her; I heard her order) were ready and she high-tailed it outta there. Rushing home to her foot-long man, no doubt, to get the most use out of her cervix while she still had it. And maybe have him clean out her sinuses and wax her eyebrows while he was up there.

I climbed back into the car and handed Robin his grande double bold drip.

Double bold.

Yeah. You heard me.

The Holidays, Part 3: This Time It's Personal

I've been thinking a lot about the Virgin Mary.  

Probably because I discovered recently that, despite menopause, I am still not completely out of the woods, fertility-speaking.

No, I am not pregnant. But I am not taking any chances now, either. I am not even going to stand downwind of Robin after he's watched anything on Showtime. And as for letting him see me writhe on the bed while trying to pull up my support tights? Fohgeddaboddit. A guy could get ideas. I am going to make myself as undesirable as possible until I am 100% barren. I am pretty much almost there, anyway. My personality alone can be a powerful anti-aphrodisiac if I use it correctly. Or so I am told.

When my son was in Kindergarten he came home one day and said to me, "we learned all about menopause today!"  I kinda believed him because he went to this groovy alternative Waldorf school and maybe I hadn't really researched the curriculum well enough, having based my decision to send him there solely on the fact that my friend Mary Ford sent her kids there and I wanted Mary to like me.

So, being the highly trained parenting instructor that I am, I knew to give a neutral response. Feigning  only a casual interest I screamed, "Say, what the FUCK?"

He nodded. "Yes! Menopause. My teacher told me. It's a very very beautiful story."

I made mental note to actually read the brochure of the next school to which I was going to send my child.

Again, relying on my years of parenting educator training, I said, "Hunh." God, I am hopeless when it comes to parenting my own kids.

My son continued. "Well, when it's time for menopause and very very winter, you eat and eat."

Okaaay. So far, he's right on. Maybe this Waldorf education isn't such a sham.

"And then you crawl into a cocoon. Then you are a butterfly."

I was stunned. And intrigued. And more than a little concerned because I was still at the "and then you eat and eat" stage and I am highly claustrophobic. There aren't enough legal refills of my Xanax to get me to crawl into a cocoon. I freaked in my "open" MRI and made them stop it halfway through.

Oh. Wait.

"Do you mean 'metamorphosis'?" I asked my kid.

He paused. "Yes!" he said. "I keep getting those two words mixed up."

Damn. I liked the first version better. Especially the eating and eating part. So I am going to eschew science and go with the cocoon theory of menopause. Who knows, the kid could be wrong. I mean, this is a child who used to mix up the words "nun" and "mummy" and once told his class that God is married to paper-wrapped dead people. 

Yeah, definitely, I am going with his first theory. And I intend to be a gorgeous butterfly at the end of menopause.

Now, pass the cookies over here. I've got work to do.

Do our kids really need to know us?

Now Smile At the Microphone

Talking Histories is all the rage, did you hear? It's the new Yogilates.

So my sister and I set out to make a DVD of Mom. Just in case, you know, she dies.

Of course, the fact is that Mom is going to outlive all of us because that's the pact she made with the Devil. I mean, how else do you explain a woman in her mid-eighties who -on her way home from a full day's work- stops at Trader Joe's, stands in line for student rush tickets to the Mark Taper Theater, simultaneously attends two meetings to save the Yiddish language from extinction, and still has time to get the eggplant in the oven for dinner? There has got to be some shady deal going on; nobody lives life to the fullest that much.

And then, she calls me and says, "hi honey, what did you do today?" The truthful answer to which is, I almost found the apple core that's been under my bed for a month. And I feel pretty psyched about it, too.

So, really, making a DVD of my mother is moot because, clearly, she is going to be around to tell her life story in person to my great-children while I will have died years earlier, stuck under my bed, having followed the scent of rotting fruit in pursuit of that fucking elusive apple core. 

But, a trend is a trend, and NPR is really pushing this storytelling thing, so Karen and I put Mom in front of the camera and  - after forty minutes, five phone calls to our children for tech support, two batteries and a nap - we began to document.

As soon as Mom began talking, my mind wandered. I have the attention span of a baby gnat if a sentence does not begin with, "Ann Brown, this is going to elevate your position in life..."   or "Here. I have fresh bagels."

I remembered when I interviewed my grandma for some sociology class I took in college. My niece was about 3 years old then and she sat with me while Grandma talked into the cassette player. Well, first, Grandma talked into the phone answering machine and then directly to the kitchen table but that just isn't as funny now as it was then in light of the fact that my kids recently witnessed me trying to remotely open the door of my car with an i-pod. But what I remember most about that interview was that when Grandma, talking about the Cossacks and the pogroms in Russia, said, "it vas a terrible, terrible period in history...a terrible period" and my niece exclaimed, "Oh! My mom gots her period right now!"

It makes me wonder if my sons know enough about my life. I mean, they've heard most of my stories, and what are our lives if not the sum total of our stories?  But is knowing that I walked next to Stephen Stills at the 1968 San Francisco peace march or that I paid a friend to take my one science requirement in college or that I once had to sing Jewish folk songs in a maximum security prison in Tracy, California, really enough to give my kids the essence of who their mother was?  Shouldn't I sit down with them in honest, intimate dialog and share my life experiences with them, perhaps forging the way to a deeper understanding of who they are and surely strengthening our family bonds for generations to come? Isn't that a parent's responsibility? Isn't that the greatest gift a parent can give a child? Isn't that what the holidays are really about?

Or, I could just forward them my year of Facebook statuses. With a $25.00 i-tunes gift card. You know, to open the car door.

The Holidays, Part Two: My Big Idea

Last post, I theorized that Mother Mary got more than the baby Jesus that miraculous Christmas eve; she also probably got her first hemorrhoid. And I think that even the most devout woman who has ever pushed a watermelon through a turtleneck would not be offended by my ramblings. So I feel fairly safe that that post isn't going to keep me out of Heaven.

But this one will.

I've been seeing commercials for the Disney Holiday on Ice shows lately and it's got me thinking. I imagine when Disney runs out of ways to suck our money into every merchandising crime possible, they turn to each other, rub their palms together and mouth the magic words, " On Ice".

And they high-five each other and the skies open forth and rain money on their hair plugs.

Well, I could use some money right about now so I am going to play their game. A Hanukkah on Ice show? Too cloying. I can just see it now -Dick Button carrying nine skaters on his arms, each with a candle on their head while Neil Diamond sings something vaguely Jewish-sounding. No thanks.

I'm going new school with this idea.

Dr. Strangemom presents:

Anne Frank On Ice.

Can't you just see it? The brown-shirted SS goose-stepping and double Lutz-ing their way around the rink ghetto (Brian Boitano will be the show-off standout lead Nazi because he can triple-Lutz). Sascha Cohen or that other Jewish skater will play Anne (yeah, it's typecasting but that's how I roll) and Michelle Kwan will steal the show as Miep (the real hero. And I worship Michelle Kwan. I wanted to name my beloved dog, Molly, Michelle Kwan because I adopted her - the dog - on the day MK dropped out of the Olympics. Plus, I thought it would be such a trip to be able to say to people, "hey, I gotta go crack open a window. I got Michelle Kwan in the back of my car"  or " Dammit, Michelle Kwan peed on the living room rug again so I hit her on the snoot with a newspaper").

Johnny Wier will be Peter but when it's time for Anne and Peter to kiss, he can step back and Elvis Stojko will take over because Stojko kissing Kwan is money in the bank.

That Canadian couple - Whatsername and Whatshisname -will play the Van Daams, the couple who lived with the Franks up in the attic. Although Whatshername is gonna have to gain a few pounds but I can give her some pointers in that. 

Evan Lysacek (isn't he that dark-haired tall drink of water?) can be the Nazi who discovers the Jews in the attic. Evan placed only second in the Grand Prix final this year so can use his anger to be more believable in the role.

I feel bad that I have no part for Scott Hamilton because he's been through so much.

Hitler, natch', will be played by Katarina Witt. I love her, but let's be fair.  She owes it to my people. 

Okay, then.

See you in Hell.

The Holidays, Part One

Hanukkah. One night down.

I was kinda a slacker Jewish mom at Hanukkah when my kids were young. I was so tired all the time. My weakest effort was the year that I let the kids nap in the back of the station wagon while I drove through McDonald's for french fries for dinner (hey! It's potatoes fried in oil, isn't it?) and then bought them each a Happy Meal toy for their gift that night. Oh, how I love our people and their beautiful traditions.

Since catching up on my sleep in the past twenty or so years, I've tried to be a better person. Or at least a person who makes traditional potato latkes at Hanukkah. But I've got confess - it's a lot of work. And a lot of oil. And a lot of fried shit sitting in your gut for eight nights. Like our people haven't suffered enough.

Stomach problems can really harsh your holiday mellow.

If Mary's labor with Jesus was anything like my labors, I bet she has her own version of the Christmas story. When I was in labor with one of my sons, I secretly ate a couple of leftover latkes before leaving for the hospital and then I actually pooped on the delivery table when the doctor said "push". (And I thought the whole thing was over and said, "That was easy. Now show me my baby!"  God, I am a boob.)

Mary probably ate a lot of fried food that winter, as well, since there is a dearth of fruits and veggies in the season. And it probably sat heavy in her colon that cold Christmas eve while the animals coached her in Lamaze breathing. And after the baby was born, while the Wise Men ooh-ed and ahhh-ed and the little drummer boy played his solo, poor Mary was probably crouching behind a bale of hay trying to get her hemorrhoid back in. Bet that would have totally freaked the Wise Men if they saw her. Bet they'd take back their gifts and hotfoot it outta there and probably would have needed a shitload of therapy just to get near a woman ever again.

And back at Hanukkah, the Maccabees were farting their way through eight nights of fried potatoes. I'm certain they would have gladly surrendered and traded their religious freedom for just one night of fiber had help not come to them at the last minute. I imagine when reinforcements  finally arrived, the Maccabees pretended to be all grateful for more oil and rocks and shit but whispered to each other, "Oil, schmoil. What I could really go for is a nice, big fruit compote, am I right or am I right?"

There's the real story waiting to be told.

I'll be in the bathroom if you need me.

Read My Butt

This is a true story, and as soon as I find my digital camera I will prove it.

Some of you already know that I spent a few hours at a local shopping center with a big sticker on my butt, which I had taken off my new Oreck vacuum cleaner, that read: Pick Me Up - I'm Light! I knew the sticker was there; I had put it on my butt, in fact, when I opened the box because I thought it was so hilarious. What I didn't do, unfortunately, was remember that it was still there when I left the house.

"Pick Me Up - I'm LIght!" my butt called to shoppers. And, surprisingly, no one did. No one even tried. Now, I don't know about you but if I saw someone with that kind of invitation/challenge on their person, I would totally give it a whirl. Maybe I could win a prize or something, who knows? But no one approached me. I mean, it's not like my butt said, "Smell Me - I'm Funky!" or anything. No one even signaled to me that I might want to look backwards in a mirror (with the International Sign Language for, "hey, Clueless, check out your butt"). I don't get it.

But then, there's a lot of shit I don't get. I once came home from an entire day in the recording studio and looked in the mirror to see a big ass streak of ketchup on my face. And no one had said a word about it. What the hell did they think, I put it there on purpose? So I can be prepared should there be a random gust of french fries?

Can't we make a pact that if we see something potentially mortifying - toilet paper out of the top of our tights, pesto on our front tooth, booger on the back of our head, panicked fruit fly stuck to our super-glossed lips, maxi-pad on the outside of our jeans, baby in the shopping cart & baguette in the Snugly, anything that will cause us apoplexy when we get home and see it - we will tell each other? Can we just do that?  Anyone who doesn't want to know, step forward. Anyone? Oh, you, okay. You, with the green plastic grass from your sushi container in your cleavage and sticky rice on your shirt. Okay. Never mind.

But I am signing up. Tell me what I need to know.

And while you are at it, pick me up. I'm light!

Repeat After Me

I need a couple of volunteers. I have a few theories I want to test.

I have a tendency towards the letters "f" and "s" and "asshole" in conversation and I did not clean up my language when I had kids. Oh, I tried but, honestly, when you walk by your four year old's bedroom and see him with the dog's tail in one hand and a greased up thermometer in the other, the only suitable response is, "what the FUCK is going on in here????"  And when your four year old says to you, "the dog has a little fever but she still has to go to school today", which means that - for one thing - you are never, ever, ever going to use that thermometer again, any response other than, "are you fucking SHITTING me?" is not going to cut it. And when he tells you that he's been taking the dog's temperature every day for the past week and you know for a fact that you put that thermometer in your mouth, IN YOUR MOUTH, only yesterday because you wanted to find out just how hot, exactly, a menopausal hot flash was, well, there aren't enough "fuck"s and "goddamn"s and "holy shit"s in the dictionary to express your concern.

So my kids were raised in an "R" rated home, language-wise. Well, also nudity-wise, I guess, since we are not a bathrobe kind of family but that worked itself out once my sons were old enough to realize that they'd rather poke their eyeballs out with blunt ice picks than catch a glimpse of me darting nekked from the bathroom to the bedroom.

I averaged about two dozen bad words a day when my kids were little. They were mortified by the descriptive language I used. One year, when my older son was in college he brought a girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner and after hearing me tell a story that was basically a Mad Libs of bad words with the occasional verb and noun thrown in, he said to his girlfriend, "so, judging by their language, guess which parent is the construction worker and which one is the preschool teacher?"

My children preferred the King's English to potty talk. That cannot be coincidence.

So here's my theory:

If one raises children in a home full of naughty words, the children will grow up to avoid that kind of language. I believe the reverse corollary is true, as well, because I have this one anecdote to support me.

The harshest thing my friend Alicia says in front of her kids is, "Holy Crackers!" and her three-year-old came up with "oh, for fuck's sake" when faced with a particularly challenging puzzle at preschool last year. I rest my case.

My theory worked with my own two kids but I need more data. So if any of you have children under the age of, say, two, I could use a favor. Please use at least two dozen bad words a day with them. Begin today and get back to me in twenty years.

I have a really good feeling about this.