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

Hand Me A Robe Or Something, Would You?

I am naked in all of my dreams. It's not a "Hey, everyone, check out my smokin' hot bod" kind of thing; in my dreams I am not happy about being naked, not one bit happy, but I ultimately accept it as part of the plot and I go about my business, topless, bottomless or all of the above (and below).

I may choose to be clueless about many things in my life but I am pretty realistic about what I look like naked. Even without my glasses, and only looking at myself through one squinty eye, I can still see that my body takes up more horizontal space in the mirror than, for instance, my twelve-drawer dresser. It's hard to argue with that kind of evidence. So if I had my druthers, I'd be fully clothed in my dreams. With tip-to-toe Spanx. 

Someone back there in my subconscious, however, wants to see me naked every night.

So, in last night's dream, I was naked while hiking out of the forest (and passing by many of the parents I see in my parenting classes) to hurry to town because my passport had expired. This morning, I consulted Google:

Being naked in a dream is a very good symbol and shows that you are being asked to be yourself when it comes to the subject matter of the dream - literally show your true self rather than to dress things up. The disturbing feeling usually associated with this type of dream, indicates the level of discomfort you would have in being yourself in the given situation.

Hunh. So, let me get this right: my dream reveals that I am comfortable with the fact that the people I teach know that my passport has expired? 

Is that really all my subconscious is capable of coming up with? That's the best I can do? Fuuuuck. No wonder it takes me more than a week to come up with a blog post.

Here I was, thinking that my subconscious was a crazy, brilliant, wondrous, creative place, a sort of last-hours-at-Woodstock with tie-dye bandannas and communal mud baths and free medical care to people who dropped one tab too many of windowpane. I've always imagined the inner recesses of my mind to be the kind of place others would envy and long to visit, where counterculture deep thinkers and musicians and artisan bakers sang "Kumbaya" and pooled their money to buy a goat. But had enough money to wear JJill linen separates and Mephisto sandals while working the land. And by "working the land" I mean, lolling about in the sun on chaise lounges.

Turns out, my subconscious is a prefab track split level; an Arbor Home on one of those bullshit, ersatz-evocative named streets, like Oceanbreeze or Blissmeadows, names that are better suited for feminine hygiene products than residential communities.

What the fuck is up with this? Is my inner freak flag actually one of those nauseating holiday flags that punctuate the front entries of suburbia, you know, pastel with bunnies for Easter, jolly Santa for Christmas, Jack O' Lantern illuminating a black cat in October?  Those flags aggravate me. Like we don't already know it's spring, or Halloween or that we are welcome. 

Although, come to think of it, I wouldn't mind having a flag at my front door with a painting of a gas pump, just to remind me that I am on "empty" and need to stop at the gas station on my way out of town. Or an Always Panty Liner flag, because I laugh a lot at work.

Hey, how about flying a Mammogram flag on your front porch? So your neighbors will know where you are and what you are doing that afternoon?  Wouldn't that be fucking fabulous, to walk down your street and just by looking at the little flags, you could know who was constipated (that flag would be a painting of a toilet with a sad face in the bowl) or who was sitting in front of the TV eating Chunky Monkey?

Now, that would be a respectable dream. Even though I'd probably be naked in it.

Pee Ell You. Not.

I am patiently waiting for this whole yoga-compost trend to be over.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against compost or yoga; pitching watermelon rinds straight out the kitchen window into the garden is my idea of a good time, and I have no issue at all with stretchy fold-over yoga pants - what's not to love about an all- elastic waist? but frankly, it bugs me when the counterculture shit that I co-opted for years suddenly becomes mainstream. I don't like it one bit.

In my day, hippies were hippies and The Man was The Man. And nobody fucked with that.

Nowadays, the lines are all hazy and shit and where does it end? Neo-Nazis ending their meetings with a namaste circle? Turning the heat up for super calorie-burning Hot Nazi meetings?

I stood in line next to a guy at the nursery a few weeks ago. He was around my age. He was eating a Kashi bar. It wasn't a big leap for me to presume him to be PLU* - in my world, if you smell like Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Castille Soap and you are wearing Tevas with socks, I feel fully confident that I know more than a few things about you. I struck up a conversation with him, which wasn't easy since I am a total poseur gardener. In fact, I was only at the nursery because I wanted some rubber clogs to wear at the dog park. Not gardening makes me a sort of pariah around these parts so I make sure I can finesse my way through a basic chat. I throw around words like variegated leaves, I spritz a little fish emulsion behind my ears, I flash a little cleavage and I get by. 

People are so outdoorsy here in Oregon; you gotta do what you gotta do to fit in.

So there I was, feeling the love with Kashi man; we were both grooving to the music on the radio behind the counter, sharing an "I'd like to give the world a Coke" moment, and then he pays for his organic mulch (a total PLU thing to buy), he takes a swig from his non-BPA water bottle (check), and....he walks to his car. A Volvo sedan (the quintessential PLU ride). With a bumper sticker that reads: No Fat Chicks.

Unbefuckinglievable, right?  Talk about your tramp stamp on a soccer mom.

This is - in the parlance of parents and preschool teachers everywhere - UNACCEPTABLE. You are either PLU, which means you are cool and know what "420" means, or you are PNLU and think that Bristol Palin getting $15,000 for speaking engagements is not the 9th sign of the Apocalypse.

Here are the new rules:

Drive a Volvo?  Then you have to have a no-flushing pee policy at home. If it's yellow, leave it mellow.

Wear Tevas with socks? Then you had to have breastfed your babies for three years, minimum.

If you know the guitar chords to any Leonard Cohen songs, you better be a Democrat. Or clinically depressed.

Don't be wearing tie-dye or making tofu cheesecake or naming your dog "Che" or smudging sage through your house if the most political thing you've ever done is send in your Yoplait lids for cancer research.

You wanna fly your freak flag fly higher than mine? Get back to me after you've made placenta soup.

Yeah, you heard me. Placenta soup.

*PLU: a term Robin and I use, meaning, People Like Us.  Shorthand for, when these people come over, we don't have to hide the "Lick Dick and Bush" campaign buttons on the coffee table.

I Solemnly Swear......

I am speechless.

This week, a parent in one of my classes said that his high school'er had to sign an "abstinence contract" in his Health class. Were you aware of this?

Surely, this is the 9th sign of The Apocalypse. Well, maybe the 17th or 18th sign.

Contrary to what you may presume I am about to say, my biggest problem with this is that I don't think we should be pressuring young people to sign contracts that they have no intention of fulfilling. It's a legal/ethical thing with me, not a sex thing. It's a gateway situation. It starts with signing an abstinence contract in high school that you know is a sham and then before you know it, you are Dick Cheney, raking in blood money from the war in Iraq and shooting your friends in the face. It's a slippery slope.

Thank God, I went to school in the pre Health/Sex Ed days. We had uneducated sex. Which is pretty much the same as educated sex, except without the pop quizzes and grainy filmstrips.

What we did have in terms of preparation for Real Life, in lieu of Sex Ed, was Home Ec. Which is so stupid because in Real Life, offering your man a homemade gym bag in the back seat of his VW van isn't gonna get a ring on it, you know?

I took Sewing. Yeah, you heard me. Cooking was filled.

Some girls bucked the system and stormed the all-boy's elective, Woodworking but, frankly, I was worried that Woodworking was going to be more actual work than Sewing. I mean, it has the word work right in the name. In the end, however, the joke was on me because the chauvinistic Woodworking teacher expected nothing from the girls in his class and they all got "A"s just for showing up, while the skinny bitch Sewing teacher was hell-bent on turning me into Coco fucking Chanel in that junior high school sweatshop of hers.

I got my first "D" in that class. Not because I couldn't sew for shit (which I can't) but because I got busted for making a deal with a girl in the class that if she'd sew my gym bag for me, I wouldn't tell my friends that she stuffed her bra. Evidently that kind of thinking outside the box was frowned upon in my junior high. Can't blackmail another student.

Which, when you think of it, is really the contract they should have kids sign.

Musing About Shit, Part 1

I've been neglectful of the blog lately, I know. I've been crushed under the trifecta of having a shitload to do, getting none of it done, and feeling guilty about it. You'd be surprised at how quickly a few weeks - or 55 years - fly by that way.

So I turned 56 last week. Nothing much new to report about that. I have a feeling that this is pretty much how it's gonna roll for the next few decades: A few illnesses, a crisis or two, two catastrophes (one false, one real) a couple of great moments, an epiphany, maybe a nice piece of salmon, and in-between it all, waiting for Dansko clogs to go on sale. It's not like the first twenty or so years of life when new milestones appear regularly, unless, come to think of it, you count reverse milestones like, when I stop eating solid foods, lose my driver's license, need a babysitter and, finally, poop in a diaper.

Note to self: is there a reverse to every forward? Mull this over the next time you are pretending to listen to Robin's fishing report.

Okay, well, there was a bit of news around the birthday: a couple of friends gave me some pot. Hidden in a huge pinata of candy. I was thrilled enough when I thought they just gave me candy but then I found the pot and everything changed. I want to tell you, after the years of Barbie doll birthday gifts, then Bonnie Bell Dr. Pepper Lip-smacker birthday gifts, then Pachouli oil, Adopt A Whale, coupons for foot rubs, then jars of homemade pesto, ethnic jewelry, wild yam cream, aromatherapy candles, and - lately - pedometers (yeah, like that is going to motivate me), there is nothing -nothing- that beats a baggie of pot as a birthday present. And if fifty-six is the new thirty, then pot is the new pedometer. Especially because if you smoke some, it is really wild to watch the pedometer not move while you sit on the couch eating candy from a pinata.

Also noteworthy during my birthday week: While getting a haircut, my friend - and salon owner - Vesta  said that she gets sexually aroused while giving her husband a blow job.  Which, fyi, is not something you want to hear while stoned.

Or not stoned.

Or awake. Or alive.

Oh, I am happy for Vesta and all; I mean, blah blah fucking blah yippee for her lucky husband. She had no reason to lie, either, particularly since the other women and I quickly responded that we certainly do NOT get all whipped up over doing it (although, speaking for myself, personally, I appreciate the quiet time with my own thoughts while I am down there). Still, Vesta's comment has stayed with me, causing me to stop suddenly in crowded supermarket aisles or at green lights, just to process. I believe she is telling the truth; I just don't get it.

Oh, and I don't need to hear from all of you about Vesta is normal and the same thing happens with you, and every woman can learn to have an orgasm while doing it, or any shit like that. Really. The rest of us are thrilled for you, honey, just beside ourselves with joy for you, so run along and go sit with the other blowjob- giving- orgasmics and leave us to our wine and snark. Shoo, I say. Shoo!

I choose to believe that it is not normal, nor is it typical.

My theory is that it was one of those zany Freaky Friday switcheroo scenarios involving Vesta being hit by lightning while having her teeth cleaned at the same time her mom was hit by lightning while she was getting a Pap smear that resulted in Vesta's, er, condition.

Now, there's a movie sequel that has Lindsay Lohan's name all over it.