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

Winning Canadian Wood

Well, it's all over but for hockey. And downhill. And short track. Oh, and the closing ceremony. But women's figure skating is finished so there's really nothing left for me. I feel pretty sure that my exit from televised Olympic coverage won't be noticed; I mean, I get it - I get it - that life does go on without me although when I stopped watching "Deadliest Catch", Captain Phil died. I'm just saying.        

All in all, I was underwhelmed by Olympic figure skating this year. My mind wandered during most of the event. Oh, I started out glued to the tube, of course, but after a few seconds it suddenly seemed extremely important that I get a tangerine. Or check my emails. During the short programs I even hand stitched a hem in my beige pants, so unglued to the television was I.

I did perk up, however, when a Canadian won anything because I got to sing along with their national anthem. I know all the lyrics, you know, having spent a summer in the wilds of Quebec.

It was the summer of, approximately, 1972 and I took off to be a counselor for a Outward Bound kind of deal in Canada. If you know me at all, you would know that if given the choice between leading a camping trip and pouring hot tar up my nose, I'd reach for the tar and start snorting - and doin' it, as they say in Quebec, TOOT SWEET. It would take a court order to force me to camp for an entire summer but I was following something stronger than the law: I was following a boyfriend. I am an outdoorsy sort of person in only the loosest definition of the term: I like being tan. I love the whole back-to-nature, outdoorsy experience of getting tan - the comfy chaise lounge, the paperback novel, mango iced tea, the way my silver bangles look against my sun-kissed arms as I dip my chip into guacamole and reach for another mojito. You know, nature.

Clearly, I was a natural for the counselor gig. Heaven help the kids whose survival was to depend on moi that summer. Thank God my boyfriend, Chris, and my friends, Donny and Joanie, were waaay more skilled in camping than I, in that Donny could play all of Jessie Colin Young's songs on his guitar, Joanie knew how to batik and Chris brought pot. It was going to be fine.

As it turned out, the campers didn't need us for their survival. Or much else. They were pretty much a self-sufficient group, many of them, ironically, having actually been court-ordered to the program. My job, basically, was to wake them up at the crack of o' dark hundred and get them gathering and chopping firewood for breakfast, and even at that small task I was not a stellar success with those kids. They ignored me, they mocked me, one young man responded to my daily request that he get up and find the  wood for the morning, by showing me his penis and saying, "hey, Ann, I got your morning wood right here." I only recently got the joke.

But we could sing. And sing we did every morning upon arising.

"Oh Canada, our home and native land...."

I sang loudly, feeling a rush of militant activism. Those were challenging years for the two of us - America and me- those Nixon/Agnew years, and I was pissed off most of the time. It felt good to cheat on "The Star Spangled Banner" and climb into bed, musically speaking, with "Oh  Canada." Every morning, when that  big red maple leaf flag was raised, I was stickin' it to Tricky Dick. 

These days, at least since the presidential election of 2008, I am feeling better about my country but I still love to sing, "Oh Canada". And that is the song I sang during the medals ceremony for women's figure skating last Thursday night, even though the Korean flag was being raised. It wasn't just that I was not wowed by Gold Medalist Kim Ju-Na; she's perfectly fine, but let's just be honest, her mother did not die of a heart attack two days before she had to skate the short program so fuck her. Points, shmoints, give the gold to Joannie Rochette. The girl with the saddest story wins.

Kim Ju-Na did cry a little on the podium, however, and that warmed me a bit to her. But I wonder if she was faking, squeezing out a tear or two so she'd be more likable. Tying to think about a cat she once loved that was run over, perhaps, or about the fact that she clearly did not know the lyrics to her own national anthem and she was gonna catch shit when she got home. And I really don't mean to sound bitchy but it's not like trying to memorize the fucking Periodic Table.

The pine tree atop fore mountain

stands firmly unchanged under wind and frost as if wrapped in armor

As is our resilient spirit.

I mean, shit, I remembered it by heart just after looking it up on Wikipedia. I think that girl needs some more fat in her diet.

Oh, and little silver-medaled Mao Asada. She cried as she watched the Japanese flag wave. But I bet she was crying because she was afraid to go back to Japan without the gold. I am a little bit worried for her.  I think I saw her coach pinch her when she came off the ice.

Snow White and the Three Figure Skaters: Sad. Glad. Scared. I smell a Disney hit.

So, my Olympic coverage has come to an end. It's time for me to put my socks back in the drawer and hang up my costume until 2014.

I hope by then I'll be able to zip it all the way up.

(I have no idea what the fuck this is. It showed up and it. will. not. be. erased. It's like the Fatal Attraction of graphics. Help me. Help.....me.......)

I Am Sleeping With One Eye Open

This is our four-year anniversary, Molly and me. As you know, I adopted her from the animal shelter on the day Michelle Kwan dropped out of the Olympics so the Winter Olympics will always remind me of my dog. 

Speaking of which, where IS Michelle K? I haven't seen her in the stands at the Pacific Coliseum, so unless she is being hidden from the camera by the obscuring presence of that ridiculous bong-totin' galoot, Michael Phelps, I guess she's not in Vancouver. I hope she is okay. I hope she is doing better - four years later - than Molly is right now.

Poor Molly. She is not doing great. She's old, lame and incapable of sleeping for more than two hours at a time. I am back to living the life of a new mommy - up every hour, stumbling and lurching my way towards the back door to let Molly out and then falling asleep on the kitchen counter while I wait for her to come back. Not that I put my newborns out in the back yard to pee while I slept on the kitchen counter, no sireeee. I stayed awake back then. And had headaches all the time. And I was very bitchy. Very bitchy. In fact, Robin once said to me, "I guess the beauty of you being a bitch every day is that no one will ever accuse you of having PMS." 

And now, almost thirty years later, here I am back in the world of the sleep-deprived, only without a baby. In fact, come to think of it, I am the one who sleeps like a baby these days, not Molly:  I wake up every two hours, cry, and then eat until I fall asleep again. All night long. If my pants get any tighter, I am going to have to take to wearing those stretchy Onesies with the snaps on the crotch.

It's totally fucked up that at the two stages of life when everyone around us most needs their rest - babyhood and infirm old age - we are the worst sleepers. And exhausting the people who are in charge of our very survival is probably not the smartest thing to do. Robin once put that red-hued, gum-numbing medicine in our son's nose because he was too tired to keep his eyes open while taking his turn soothing our teething baby.  He did it, like, four times during the night and when I saw the poor kid in the morning, he looked like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler.  My friend Julie once got her baby's toe fungus medicine mixed up with the pink-eye medicine.  You'd think that squirting toe fungus ointment into your baby's eyes would sober one into paying closer attention, but it just so happens that a few years later, Julie ignored her daughter's complaints about boogers bothering her nose -ignored her for days - before realizing that the booger in there was actually one of Julie's pearl earrings.  Oh, and my friend Wade once left his newborn baby in the car after dropping off his wife at a restaurant before he went searching for a free parking place. Which was five blocks away. Which was where he left the car - and the baby - and sprinted to the restaurant, ready to enjoy a nice dinner. Until his wife asked him where the baby was. I bet after that, it wasn't such a nice dinner with the wife.

I was halfway through a vitamin C tablet at four o'clock this morning while waiting for Molly to finish peeing outside before I realized that it wasn't a vitamin C tablet at all; it was seven Wheat Thins with Laughing Cow cheese on them. Okay, well, I guess I knew about that, but who can blame me? When you are tired, you do not make good decisions.

I've been through this before. Blacky was an old cat, and for most of her life she needed nothing from us. The kids found her when we lived in LA - she was a stray; self-sufficient and completely independent. It was a relationship that knew no demands. When we moved to Oregon, Blacky came with us and adjusted to her new life by settling herself in the upstairs of our new house and never setting foot outside - or downstairs - again.

By the end of her life, I hated Blacky.  I loved her, too, because sometimes even after she'd shit on my carpet and  barfed up a bloody hairball in my bed, and even after we had to have all her teeth extracted  (to the tune of a thousand dollars) so all she could eat was baby food, I could still look at that dainty cat face of hers and feel my heart stretch out and soften. But I was exhausted all the time and she cried all night long. She needed a spoonful of food at 3 AM, and then another spoonful at 3:30 and then she pooped and then she meowed that mournful, primal meow for about a half hour.

I used to lie in bed and listen to her calls. Murr-ahow it began, in a soft guttural clearing of her throat. Murr-OHWHW  it crescendo-ed, louder and more alien, but I pretended not to hear her. Once, I swear, she jumped on my bed and over-articulated her meows right into my ear, the way we speak loudly and slowly to non-English speakers. Me-ow. Do-you-understand-this, you idiot American human? ME-OW.

A few years ago I complained to my mom about how Blacky was taking over my life.“It's not worth it, you're exhausted" she said. "Put her to sleep. You need your sleep."

I was aghast. My mom just laughed.  “Oh, come on. Stick a little poison in some brisket and give it to her. She’ll eat it right up.”  I didn’t know if she was joking or not.  

But either way, I still make sure my mom eats the first bite of her brisket at Passover. I mean, I used to keep Mom up a lot when I was a baby. She might be holding a grudge.

Dance My Name And Tell The Steam You Love Me

Valentine's Day is almost here. I wonder what fresh Hell this year will bring.

I get dicked around by Valentine's Day every year. I hate that it worms its saccharine way through my impenetrable leathery, smartass exterior and leaves its little heart-shaped droppings, forcing me to secretly anticipate some bullshit token of undying love from Robin.

I do not heart being sentimental.

My favorite inner persona is my political firebrand contrarian Self. My inner firebrand does not give a shit about shit like Valentine's Day. She drinks alone on February 14, maybe bringing candy to the homeless or picketing Walmart or overthrowing a fascist regime. I've named my firebrand persona "Anna Nitrovsky " because that name seems so much more....I don't know, Socialist.... than "Ann Brown". I mean, let's be honest, "Ann Brown" doesn't exactly conjure up a clash of cymbals and the sound of a thousand eagles in flight. My name conjures up more of an image of oatmeal. Placed gently against a beige wall. Dripping onto a dark cream colored carpet. Quietly.

In college, I had a modern dance teacher who had us "dance" our names and then lead the class in the name dance. One by one, we lined up in our long-sleeved black leotards and footless tights and waltzed our way around the mirrored room to the chants of, "Ev-e-lyn Hop-pen-feld, Ev-e-lyn Hop-pen-feld ", or polka-ed our way to "E-lis-sa Ford, E-lis-sa Ford..." or as in the case of one poor girl with the dance-challenged name of "Moll Rumen C. Carter" we just kinda shuffled along, making Martha Graham-like hand gestures and low grunts.

And then it was my turn.

"Ann Brown" I said. Nobody made a move.

"Well, this could be a march, I suppose." The teacher looked dubious.  Then she had a bright idea.

"Do you have a middle name?" Sure do. Ruth.

Ann Ruth Brown.

Go dance that motherfucker. Go ahead, I'll wait here while you try.

See?  It can only be a march. A slow march. A march to certain death, perhaps, or down dark, dank steps to live out one's life in a Medieval prison. A dead man walking march.

The class lined up and off we marched around the room. "Ann Brown. Ann Brown. Ann Brown." It was pretty depressing. One girl dropped out of the line and went to the barre to do some cheering-up second position plies. Another went outside for a cig. Someone might have hung themselves that night.

A few months later, I switched my major to Ethnology of Non-Western Music and Dance. Yeah, you heard me. NON-Western. Global, baby. Where names like Mreeeioneu8 Fokwwwwwnig, and Vm Fl, and Ann Brown can be danced long into the night needing only the accompaniment of a drum and, perhaps, a slide whistle for comic relief.

So you can clearly see why I hate Valentine's Day.

No? Well, maybe this will help:

One year, long after Robin should have known that I am full of shit when I tell him to do nothing for Valentine's Day because it is a hateful, corporate-driven sham, I waited all of February 14 for something, anything, from him. A card. Flowers. Earrings. But tasteful ones, maybe hammered sterling silver. You know, because I don't believe in the holiday.

Nothing. All through dinner, nothing. After dinner, nothing.

Finally, I said to him, "really? NOTHING at all for Valentine's Day?" I felt so fucking stupid for feeling sorry for myself, teary and shit. (Anna, where are you????? Clearly, Anna had abandoned me and in her stead was, I don't know, Eloise Angelica, my thin, romantic, quietly suffering, sentimental persona.) 

Robin looked at me with a victorious grin. "Did you even go downstairs today at all?"

Shit. I hadn't gone downstairs that day. Because, you know, that would mean having to walk back upstairs.

I smiled sheepishly and descended the stairs. "I'll wait here for you" Robin called out. Smugly, I noticed. Oh well, I probably deserved that.

I looked in the family room. No, nothing there. Guest bedroom - nope.  The family room again. Nothing. I called up to Robin.

"You'll see, keep looking" he said. I swear, I think I heard him giggle with delight.

Finally, I came back up and told Robin I was so sorry, so very sorry, not only because I had doubted him but because I couldn't find the present. He was indignant, so very indignant.

"Did you even look in the bathroom?" he asked. "I wrote 'Happy Valentine's Day' in the steam on the mirror so every time you take a shower you'll see it."

He wasn't kidding; he really thought that was a totally bitchen gift. He waited for my apology.

I had no one to blame but myself. I was the one who told Robin not to do anything for the stupid day. I revel in telling Robin that I am too evolved, too radical for that kind of consumerism; why is that the ONE fucking thing he listens to me say?

I summoned Anna, my inner contrarian who would enjoy Robin's creative, ironic present, but that damn lily-liveried Eloise kept elbowing her way in, making me feel sorry for myself, telling me if Robin really loved me he would have bought me a diamond tennis bracelet.

I smiled at Robin. "Thank you" I said, and we both laughed merrily in a mutual fuck you to convention. A Valentine's Day message in steam on the mirror! Brill! We toasted our radical selves. Only I was totally faking it.

And then, with the sound of the dirge of the hypocritical firebrand, the unloved, the un-gifted at Valentine's Day playing in my head, I trudged to my room. I reached for my black tights, my Che tee-shirt and my ratty old leg warmers. It was time to dance away my sorrow.

Anna Nitrovsky...Anna Nitrovsky.....Anna Nitrovsky....

Now, that's a name you can dance to.

Olympic Crisis - Anklewatch 2010

Man down! Man down!

And by "man", I mean, me.

And by "down", I mean I hit my ankle against the metal frame of my bed during elimination trials last night and I am injured. INJURED, I tell you.

I had to take Advil this morning, just to be able to sit down and write this post. TWO Advil. And a bagel and a half since I was getting up anyway to get the Advil. Light schmear. I am in training, after all.

If that sentence doesn't make sense to you, go back and read my previous post. I don't have time to catch you up - Vancouver is just around the corner and I have serious rehabilitation to do. I am going up against some strong figure skaters this year and I have to be in tip top shape to compete. It's a cutthroat world out there for overweight 55 year old sock skaters performing in their bedrooms while watching the Olympics on TV. Just Bedazzling my pajama top is a part-time job this week. I'm thinking of calling in some Disney cartoon mice to help me sew. And maybe do a little light cleaning and water the plants while they're at it. It's okay to exploit cartoon mice, right? Oh, and perhaps they can give me a discreet little wax, if they are girl mice. Those skate skirts can ride up pretty high.

My ankle is so sore to the touch. This could prove to be exceedingly distracting. It's hard enough to keep my mind on my routine, what with having to sidestep Molly's dog bed, Robin's dirty laundry on the floor, old issues of Cooking Light and Molly's collection - updated hourly - of hairballs and drool. Did I tell you that I slipped in her barf a few weeks ago? Oh God, it was horrible. I was skating around my room and I suddenly slipped in one of those slo-mo kind of falls, you know? Well, I got up and I was so fixated on the fact that I didn't hurt myself, it didn't occur to me to wonder why I fell. It wasn't until, I swear, like fifteen minutes later that I absent-mindedly ran my hand across my legging and felt something wet, and then I went to more closely investigate the floor. You know, there were times in my life when I've gone a little bit wild but I really never thought I'd end up being the kind of person who falls into dog barf and doesn't even realize it. Hunh.

I am working on endurance during these final weeks before the opening ceremony. My short program requires more energy than I am used to exerting in the three years between Olympics when I sort of let myself go, in the sense that I mostly lay around, overeat, and catch up with my stories. My long program requires energy to the point of my not being able to breathe, resulting in my becoming light-headed and laying down on Molly's dog bed until I am fairly certain that I am not going to die right then and there in my ratty old cotton briefs, Bedazzled flannel pajama top and socks. Oy. There'd be no amount of PTS therapy long enough to help the young paramedics expunge that image from their impressionable minds. I bet at least one of them would go gay on the spot.

Certain members of my family are prone to fainting, myself included, so I am taking no chances on my hard bedroom floor. I have strewn pillows throughout the room so I can grab one or two when the vapors hit me and I know I am going down. I've actually been thinking about working that into my choreography (double spin, thrust arms to grab pillow, smile, pass out, come to, lean up on elbows, pose, smile) just in case. Best not to make a whole deal over it, right? My son started to pass out in court the other day and he just said, "excuse me, Your Honor, I have to lie down now". And then he stretched out on the floor of the courtroom, asked his client to hand him his file and conducted the rest of the hearing from under his table. This is a true story. And he won his case. As he told me on the phone after-wards (this is truly the kind of story a parent only wants to hear after-wards), "Guess I'll be a kind of David E. Kelly character around this town from now on." That's what I call not making a whole deal about it.

But back to Anklewatch 2010.  This is serious. If I cannot sockskate, if I am doomed to merely watch the figure skating competition from my couch, like the rest of the global hoi polloi, well, I may as well just coat my head in olive oil, sprinkle it with salt and pepper and stick it in the oven at 350. My Olympic fantasy life defines me.  What else would I think about on the toilet or while waiting the excruciating two-and-a-half minutes for my microwave popcorn?

So, it's heat and ice, ice and heat on my ankle for the next few days. Do you mind getting that for me?

Oh, and while you're up, maybe a bagel. I feel weak.