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

Hell No, We Won't Go. Unless we can drive there.

I miss the Vietnam War.

Well, I miss the protests, I mean.

I miss the anger and the energy I had and also I miss the embroidered Mexican peasant blouses I used to wear to the protests. Man, Protest Couture was rippin' in the 60's. Embroidered jeans, embroidered blouses, sandals, braids, leather purse with fringes and a pocketful of joints. No wonder we were all sleeping with each other. We were all so damn cute. And stoned.

Being part of a protest march these days just isn't the same as it used to for me because my feet can't walk in sandals all day anymore. I tried that in New York this summer when Robin and I walked from midtown to Chelsea and back which was not so much a protest or political statement as it was that we were looking for this really good Italian restaurant someone told us about.  But still.

And putting on Easy Spirit walking shoes, support socks and Spanx to go out and protest is so depressing. Plus, there is the whole humidity on hair issue.

The fact is, a person really doesn't feel like helping other people when she doesn't feel good about what she's wearing. When a person doesn't look good, she pretty much just wants to be left alone to soak her blisters in the Crock Pot and watch "The Amazing Race".

Which is why - due to having nothing to wear to protest marches - I can take no credit for anything good that has come to be in the past, oh, twenty five or so years. Except my kids. I take full credit for them, save for the years they ate their boogers.

Oh, I mean I do my part, albeit in the most minimal fashion. I vote, I compost, I rocked an Obama lawn sign, I scream at the TV whenever I see Meg Whitman or Palin or Heidi Klum saying for the gazillionth fucking time, "one day you're in and the next day you're out." Really, Heidi, do you think that's a unique observation? You think no one has ever realized that's true about life, much less about fashion? I mean, God love you, Heidi - I can forgive whatever your grandfather may or may not have done during the war (even though they ALL swear that THEIR grandparents were part of the Resistance. Right. EVERYONE's grandparents were part of the Resistance. I guess there were only, like, eleven actual Nazis during the war) - you seem like good people, Heidele, but for God's sake, shut up already with the "one day you're in and the next day you're out." And between you and me, you look as if you are really enjoying saying it each time. Which, again just between you and me, is kinda Nazi-like behavior. I'm just saying.

I think if I could find some really comfortable, really youthful shoes I could get back into protest marching. And maybe a terry cloth sweat band with, like, a hammer and sickle embroidered on it. Under the swoosh.

And I could protest march three times a week, for about 45 minutes, for heart health.

Wait. The weather here in Oregon sucks. My hair would be all Roseanne Roseannadanna and shit in about five minutes. Never mind. No protest marching.

AHA! I will march around a shopping mall! I will bring back the revolutionary spirit of the 60's. Maybe carry a few placards. You know, as arm weights.

Who's with me? Okay, then. We meet next week at o'dark hundred in front of Cinnabons.

(Cinnabons Recipe

1 1/4 oz. pkg. active dry yeast (I used 2 1/2 tsp.),1 cup warm water (105 to 110°F) ,1/2 cup granulated sugar ,1/3 cup margarine, mel
1 tsp salt ,2 eggs ,4 cups all-purpose flour
Filling:
1 cup packed brown sugar, 2 1/2 tbsp. cinnamon , 1/3 cup margarine, softened
Icing:
1 stick margarine, softened
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
2 oz. cream cheese
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/8 tsp. salt
For the rolls, dissolve the yeast in the warm water in a large bowl. Mix together the sugar, margarine, salt and eggs. Add flour and yeast mixture and mix well.
Knead the dough into a large bowl, using your hands dusted lightly with flour. Put in a bowl, cover, and let rise in a warm place about 1 hour or until the dough has doubled in size.
Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface. Roll the dough flat until it is approx. 21" long and 16" wide. It should be about 1/4" thick.
Preheat the oven to 400°F
For the filling, combine the brown sugar and cinnamon in a bowl. Spread the softened margarine evenly over the surface of the dough, and then sprinkle the cinnamon and sugar evenly over the surface.
Working carefully from the top (a 21" side) roll the dough down to the bottom edge.
Cut the rolled dough into 1 3/4" slices and place 6 at a time evenly spaced, in a lightly greased baking pan. Let the rolls rise again until double in size (about 30 minutes). Bake for 10-15 minutes or until light brown on top.
While the rolls bake, combine the icing ingredients. Beat well with an electric mixer until fluffy.
When the rolls come out of the oven, coat each generously with icing.
Makes 12 rolls )

These can be frozen after baking. Just pop one into the microwave for 20-30 seconds to reheat.

See? Exposing the corporate secret recipe of Cinnabons is already subverting the dominant paradigm. The 60's are back, baby.

See you at the mall.

 

 

 

Everything I Need To Know I Learned From Ginny Thomas

Do we know, exactly, what Anita Hill said back to Ginny?

Man, I wish I could've been on the extension phone, listening in. Or better yet, sitting next to Anita that morning, feeding her kickass shit to say to Ginny, writing it out on cue cards and laughing so hard that Anita and I pee in our pants.

Ginny would totally be, like, "um, who's there with you? Is someone listening in? That's mean, you know."

And Anita and I would be, all, "no, YOU'RE the mean one."

And Ginny would be, all, "nuh-uh, YOU'RE mean."

And we'd be, like, "whatev, bee-yatch. C-ya"

And we'd hang up the phone really hard. And go to Baja Fresh for lunch.

And Ginny would sit there, still holding the phone in her hand and give Clarence a really dirty look, like, "I hate this chore wheel idea. Next time, I'll clean the litter box."

And Clarence would shrug and say, "Well, it was worth a try. Now call Christine O'Donnell and demand an apology. For being such a stone cold fox." And he'd laugh and laugh until he brought up a hairball.

And Ginny would pour herself another Supreme Court Justini and prepare to face another day of warning Americans about the tyranny of government. Maybe two Justinis. It's noon somewhere in America.

Yeah, fuck those two but, frankly, I think Ginny was on to something. I am going to ride this new trend of demanding apologies from people I've fucked over. I'm gonna ride it until the battery in my cell phone dies. Or I run out of gin, whichever comes first.

Now, let's see...who owes me a long-overdue apology?

Oh, I know. Orbachs Department store.

When I was thirteen, I stole a pair of earrings there. My friends and I, fresh from Bat Mitzvah class, had my mom drop us off and we hit the jewelry counter. We hit it hard. And we hit it stupid, evidently, because we were caught. Orbachs totally owes me an apology for that. What is their phone number. What, they went out of business? Okay, then. I guess we're even.

And you know who else should apologize to me? Janice L (not her real last name initial) from seventh grade. I started a rumor about her, said her father was in jail and she sucked her thumb. In my defense, she was running against me for class secretary and I was not popular and I needed an edge. So, Janice, any time you want to call.....or send me a muffin basket or something....

It kinda reminds me of once when I was in the middle of a terrifying, life-threatening coughing episode, gasping for breath, Robin came into the room and said to me, "why don't you ever remember that I have VERY sensitive ears? That coughing is really loud."

Robin, I am sorry that my painful brush with death hurt your sensitive ears.

Was that too loud just now? Come closer, I'll whisper it.

SORRY!

I know. You're right. That was shitty of me. You owe me an apology for it.

 

Read My Lips

I've been remiss in doing my Kegel exercises, have you noticed?

Each new school year I make a commitment to doing 25 of those pelvic toners at least four times a week. I know that they are very important in keeping everything where it is supposed to be, pelvically speaking, and I do not want to be one of those women whose unsupported bladder simply ups and falls out into her underpants one day while she is giving a speech to the Garden Club. It was embarrassing enough that time my shoulder pad inched its way down my chest, resulting in a large squarish third boob during a conference with my kid's very very very good looking history teacher.

The beginning of the school year fills me with resolution. The beginning of the school year also coincides with the Jewish Holidays which gives me an added incentive to tone up down there since, as a Cantor sitting up on the dais all day, I have to go long periods without being able to leave and go to the bathroom to pee. This is especially dangerous to the lazy menopausal female sporting a lax pelvis if the unexpected, errant remark is made by the Temple president in his attempt to announce the ritual where we go together to the river to cast our sins and demons into the water and, in an unfortunate twist of the tongue, tells the entire congregation that we will now adjourn to Willamette Park to "cast our semen into the river".

It is entirely possible that one cannot do enough Kegels to avoid urinating all over the dais chair at a moment such as that one.

You'd think that experience would be motivation enough to squeeze and relax, squeeze and relax, squeeze and relax every day, but - you have to agree with me - it's really hard to remember to do those Kegels. For one thing, I guess I don't pay much attention to my pelvis unless there's something noteworthy or alarming happening down there, like a brush fire or an orgasm. Plus, I tend to make a little grimace - scrunching up an eye and sticking out my bottom teeth and shit - while Kegeling so I can't really do it in public. And even if I could keep a poker face at the same time I was squeezing my kegel maker, I'll tell you what I absolutely cannot do: maintain a conversation at the same time.

I was at Safeway a few weeks ago, at the end of a long checkout line, when I suddenly realized it has been weeks since I've done my kegels so I figured why not, and proceeded to do it right then and there. I started off doing pretty well, got up to 11, 12, 13....and then someone from my parenting class got in line behind me and wanted to chat.

Thinking about it now, I should have just stopped squeezing but I was on a roll and wanted to make it to 25. Plus, if you stop squeezing your pelvis every time someone tries to chat with you in line at the supermarket, you will never get the job done. So I smiled and schmoozed with this nice mom, trying to maintain and isolate, but after a few seconds, something had to give. I finally just stopped talking altogether and fully devoted myself to the  grunts and facial tics that complemented the work I was doing inside my pants until I got to 25. I probably looked like some wild animal trapped inside Safeway, pacing in circles, lifting its tail, grunting, desperately looking for a place to poop. 

So, here's the new plan: every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, from 10-11AM we will text each other and remind one another to do 25 Kegels. Tweet it to your friends. Fill the airwaves with our chatter and our grunting. Join me, Pelvic America, in keeping our (pelvic) borders strong and secure.

I am Dr. Strangemom and I approved this message.

 

 

 

 

Why I Will Go To Hell

I am in the worst mood today and I took it out on the nice barrista at Starbucks.

Remind me to be nice to him next time I go there. Or at least, remind me to feel bad every time I drive by. Because, as I've always told my children, "the important thing is that you feel bad."

I know he didn't deserve my bitchiness this morning but he was just bugging me. He had this ridiculous smile where his jaw kinda jutted out a little bit. How can you not hate a person like that? And I think his name was Brian or Sheldon or something upbeat. So fuck him.

Robin and I were in there getting coffee. I was already in kind of a shitty mood because it was a gorgeous autumn day and Robin was being so sweet to me. You see my point.

So this barrista person greets us with his stupid jutted-out jaw smile and says,  "are you folks enjoying this beautiful day?" God, I almost bitch slapped him right there and then. First of all, fucking George W Bush ruined the word "folks" for me in the same way that Palin poisoned the word "maverick", which was one of my top ten favorite words before that douchebag came on the scene. This is a constant source of aggravation for me because there are so many times I want to use the word "maverick" to describe, well, me, and now I can't.

AAAAIIEEE, God, now hate that barrista even more. I have no idea why that is, but it's true. Such is the vitriolic power of the reactionary right to me. Robin gave me his order and went to wait in the car. He knows when to bail.

"Do you have anything FANTASTIC planned for this beautiful afternoon?" says Happy Barrista, presenting his smiley jaw to me as if it were a red hot monkey's butt in estrous.

I attempted to mold my mouth into a facsimile of a smile, averted his gaze, and nodded no.

Now, if someone gave me that social cue, I would totally get that they wanted space. So would you. There are some primal rules of the jungle that is Sunday morning at Starbucks, and Mr. Isn't-It-A-Beautiful-Day better just fucking well get to learning them.

"Really?" he exclaims, "Nothing fun AT ALL? That's not good!"

Oh my God. What the hell are they teaching them over at Starbucks University? Wasn't there even one day when the supervisor spent time talking about how to talk to customers? Although, come to think of it, I've never been assaulted with that kind of shock and awe cheer by any other barristas so I'm thinking that maybe the problem wasn't in the training. Maybe BrianSheldon's mother took a few too many Paxils in her first trimester.

"Nuthin' much planned," I managed to mumble. Suddenly, the pastries were beginning to look really good. Suddenly, I needed either a pumpkin scone or a cig or I was gonna blow.  There was a whiny toddler behind me. I considered pushing him, just to take the edge off.

"No way! You gotta do something GREAT today!"

I didn't even look at him. I made myself very busy studying the zipper on my wallet.

"Tell you what," he says, "how about a coffee on the house?"

A conundrum. Take the freebie and be responsible for a change of attitude or reject the freebie and possibly draw more attention to myself when all I wanted to do was get my fucking coffee, get back into the car and enjoy my shitty mood? Sophie's Choice, to be sure.

"Sure. Thanks." I said.

"And how about a muffin? On the house!"

I was beginning to feel a bit more kindly towards him. Maybe the jaw thing was a birth defect. Unfixable.

"OKAY, then! Let's get our HAPPY on!"

Never mind. He must die.

I slunk into a corner and waited for my drink. All around me, Starbucks life went on, oblivious to my pissy melancholia. Lattes were made, espressos were returned because they were not hot enough, muffins were chosen and reconsidered, sugar free hazelnut syrup was added, refills were given. The after-church crowd arrived brimming with fellowship, the neighborhood skaters left for the skatepark, the serious runners took the outside tables and stretched their calves in the sun, the young dads with their backpacked babies ordered sugar free nonfat mochas - to bring home to their wives, no doubt, in the hopes of earning points for afternoon sex while the baby napped - and climbed manfully into their minivans. Sons of Anarchy, suburb style. Born to be mild.

I added a splash of half and half to my coffee and walked to the door. A young kid held it open for me. I decided to try to be a better person, at least to not be such a bitch to Robin.

"Look," I said to him, when I got to the car, "I got a freebie coffee for being in a shitty mood. And a muffin."

Robin checked out my lucre. "Where's my coffee?" he asked.

He went back into Starbucks while I ate my muffin in the car. I know I should have gone in, but I just didn't want to.

The important thing is that I feel bad about it.

Where I Did Not Like His Penis

I often scribble ideas for the blog on backs of envelopes and odd scraps of paper. I rarely remember where I put them or even that I have them. Still, I can't stop. I am addicted to lists; making lists is my number three hobby, third only to looking for them and not finding them.

So you can imagine my delight the other day when an old, scribbled-on envelope fell out of my wallet at the dry cleaners, upon which were written scads of hilarious ideas. How lucky was that to find it at my local dry cleaners because I had a built-in audience on whom to try out my potential new material.

In big, black Sharpie marker I had written the title, "WHERE I DID NOT LIKE HIS PENIS".

Two customers immediately left the place without their dry cleaning.

Now, personally, I think this might be the greatest title EVER for ANYTHING. The problem is, I have no recollection of what I intended to do with it. My notes are copious and in ink, which tells me I put a lot of time into writing them, and they are written in Dr. Seuss form, which tells me that I had been drinking.

Oh, wait. Drinking. Drinking....I've got it! I was at my sister's place and all she had to offer us in way of beverages was pink lemonade and rum. Karen and her husband live about an hour from the nearest grocery store so, in the pioneer spirit that blazed the Oregon trails, we made do, and Old Rumaids became the cocktail of the weekend.

I think it was on a hike around their land one afternoon that the whole concept of "Where I Did Not Like His Penis" came to me. I'm pretty sure of that, come to think of it, because it was such a damn funny title that I had to hold on to an old Madrone tree just to keep from tipping over and spilling my drink. Luckily, I had Karen with me to confirm that, indeed, this was the most awesome, most hilarious title ever. She was on her third Old Rumaid.

Robin and Craig had sprinted off ahead of us, on the lookout for elk, ready to protect their women from the frequently-spotted beasts resting in the tall grasses. Robin and Craig, who had also been drinking, were seriously into their mission, noses high in the air to catch the scent of the elks (who, I imagine, had their own noses high in the air, saying to each other, "what the fuck are they drinking NOW, lemonade and rum? Great. Can't wait to smell that again when the old guys pee off the balcony tonight"), moving steathfully (save for the burping and farting) along the path and pointing out elk tracks by way of wild gesticulating to us to stop laughing so loudly lest we disturb the delicate harmonic convergence of the forest with our screaming such bon mots as, "I did not like it in my anus; Lord, I found that really heinous" and high-fiving each other on our collective sisterly comedic brilliance.

Really, once you've experienced drunk hiking, there is no reason to hike any other way. No reason at all.

So, I am going to study these notes and see what I intended to say about where I did not like his penis. With a title as awesome as this one, the plot can really go pretty much anywhere.

 

 

 

Fiscal Report, 1954 - present

I really should have more money than I do. I have no idea where it all went.

When I was in third grade, our entire class opened a bank account. Every Monday we had to bring 50 cents to school in one of those envelopes with the wraparound string closure and we'd all walk down the block to the bank to make our deposits. I think that was a stellar idea, emblematic of the many stellar ideas of the 1960's, none of which, in my opinion - save for the Epilady and Caller ID, have been improved upon by much of anything in the ensuing decades although, granted, a lot of the late 60's to the the 80's is pretty much a blur to me. Especially the 80's. What the fuck was with the 80's, anyway? I wasn't even smoking pot anymore by then and it's still all hazy and rainbow trails in my mind. What the hell was I doing in the 80's?

Oh right. I was having babies. And it was the Reagan years. And GHW Bush for a year there, at the end. Fuck. I shoulda just hit myself over the head with a hammer until that decade was over.

Anyway, back to my first bank account.

Even back then it was hard for me to give up my 50 cents to the bank. I can't really remember what I would have preferred to spend my allowance on, but I do recall that when I had to put it in the stupid envelope from school, I knew I was being screwed.

And I was right. I never saw that money again. On the other hand, I heard my third grade teacher moved out of the San Fernando Valley and to the beach.

I have never been money savvy. Even today, as I write this blog entry, I have a nagging bad feeling that I left my debit card in the ATM again this morning.

When I was three years old, my five year old sisterpimp paid me good money to stand out in the middle of our street and pull my pants down. Her original start-up money came from the neighborhood boys from whom she collected a nickel a piece to watch me. Now Karen, there's a girl with money savvy. She had probably been planning this scheme since the day I was born; fattening me up with extra French toast, making sure Mom kept Desitin on my diaper rash, talking me up to the boys in the hood. That my horrible eyesight rendered me practically unable to see anything past my nose, keeping me oblivious to an audience hiding behind their garages was, I bet, just icing on Karen's cake.

This thing went on for, oh, an entire summer and ended only when I discovered she had been paying me by stealing the previous day's money from my piggy bank and using it over and over again. I confronted her about it and she explained that the boys were no longer willing to ante up to see me strip anymore so she had to offer it for free, and even then only one of them still bothered to come outside to watch.

It was only recently that I realized the full insult of that situation. They didn't even want to see my naked butt for free????  Fuuuck. No wonder I have body issues.

It was at that point in my life that I decided a life of stripping was probably not going to pay my rent. So I chose, instead, to attend UC Santa Cruz and major in Ethnomusicology of the Balkans,  a slam dunk major leading to a profession guaranteed to rake in the big bucks, especially in the trickle-down Reaganomics years.

After the Revolution, when I rule the universe and we all live in next door yurts on the commune, I will make Balkan musicians the highest paid people in the world. Next will be strippers. Then bloggers. And then sisterpimps. Although Karen has done alright for herself.

Last I heard, she was taking a Mediterranean cruise with a friend who looked suspiciously like my third grade teacher.

 

 

 

 

In Which I Take On Self Help. And Forfeit.

People say it's time I think about getting a new dog.

But what I am thinking about is whether or not I should get one of those Brazilian blowouts for my hair.

One of those things will cost me nothing and the other will take me seven months to pay off if I give up Xanax and live on government cheese. One of those things will fill my life with joy, reminding me with each new sunrise that we are on this earth to love, and the other thing is a dog.

I used to have bitchen hair; long, thick, straight, black. Now, as a result of my menopausal dye-resistant pubic hair transplant, those days are long gone. And since the old boobs are not capable of sitting up on their own anymore, much less able to distract from my stupid hair without, I don't know, setting themselves afire, the entirety of my appeal has been placed on the drooping shoulders of my personality.

Yup. My personality.

Well. This is an awkward silence.

It's such unfortunate timing. Just when my looks are dangerously waning, I have very little energy or motivation to work on my personality anymore. I just don't have the joie de vivre for it. Or the shoes.

I saw a photo of a pair of shoes Claire wore to her birthday cocktail party. Just looking at them gave me a bone spur. Claire, clearly, is making the most of her life- sparkling personality, come hither shoes, cocktail parties. Oh, and she got the Brazilian blowout. It is a miracle she and I are even friends, what with her will to live and all.

I am just not cut out for a sparkling personality anymore. Even cultivating a bad personality seems like a lot of work, doesn't it? Think about the people you know who have really awful personalities. They are always running around. Going to Cabo. Elbowing their way to the front of the line at Kohl's. Shooting their best friend in the face on a hunting trip. They are busy busy busy. That sort of lifestyle is not for me.

And, frankly, I am tired of working on my shit. I don't even know if I've made any leeway. I mean, I still wring my hands when everyone I know is not within my eyesight; I still only pretend to eat food that other people make and bring to my house; I still have to keep making new plane reservations until the six-letter code they give me forms an anagram of good harbinger; and my issue with gagging and barfing has only gotten worse.

In fact, just typing the word "gagging" is making me nauseous.

This is progress? What the hell am I paying a therapist for? Better I should get the hair thing.

I feel relatively certain that having good hair will take me a long way towards cultivating a better personality. With good hair, one feels a sort of noblesse oblige to be a good person, don't you think? I bet you can't even be a bad person if you have the Dorothy Hamil wedge. Did you ever see a Nazi with the wedge (or even a wedgie)? I rest my case.

When I met Robin in college he was rockin' the Hebro - you know, the Jewish Afro. His hair probably stretched out about a foot and a half all around his head, and then it met his beard for the other half, making a perfect lion's mane. He could hide joints in his coif. Fuck, he could hide an entire plant and grow light system in there, if he wanted to. I actually did find a Corn Nut in there once.

In the ensuing thirty years, Robin's hair has only gotten more and more awesome. Salt and pepper, thick, shiny and a shitload of it, while my hair has reclaimed its pubic heritage and sits atop my head scaring babies and fucking with the pull of the tides. Robin's allure and cache can ride on his headful of hair for a few more years at least. For me, it's slim pickin's.

I suppose I could craft a new, low maintenance personality around my 1820 Pathwords score.

 

Pants On Fire, part two

I hear that Margaret Cho was kicked off Dancing With The Stars this week. I wouldn't know; I do not watch that show.

If you detected a bit of smug superiority in my last statement, it's because I am totally feeling it. I eschew DWTS; I watch MSNBC. And I eat tofu. Oh, and I compost.

Being awesome is Job One for me.

It's a burden to be fabulous, let me tell you. You have to lie a lot, and you have to keep track of your lies even when you have been mixing your Xanax with brandy and people are asking you a lot of confusing questions at parties.

See, there's a lie right there: I don't even drink brandy. I don't go to parties. I drink at home, alone.  Sangria and rum. Or is it cranberry, tonic and vodka?

Now I can't remember. Damn. I knew a lifetime of lying was going to catch up with me sooner or later.

No, that's not true. I didn't know it.

Fuck. I can't stop.

What I really hate, however, is when I am NOT lying but it sounds as if I am. You spend, oh, 56 years lying about everything and all of a sudden people don't believe you when you tell them that you have a sore throat and you feel a little cankar sore coming on and that's why you are not attending their wedding. Or visiting them in Paris. Or answering your phone ever.

A few days ago, I opened my son's mail by mistake. It was addressed to my oldest son, the one who lives in another town, but the envelope came to our house and it looked just like the envelopes I get my paycheck in and my reading glasses were nowhere to be found (hanging on the neck of my blouse, I later discovered, just inches from my face) and I was about to leave the house to go to the bank anyway and, well, I opened it. So sue me, I say. Which is kinda ironic because my son is a lawyer.

I called him to tell him that I accidently opened a piece of his mail. Because he is sweet, he accepted my explanation but even through the telephone lines, I saw the look of doubt in his eyes. He's had to play Ethel to my Lucy in too many of my hairbrained capers, had to hit the lights and hide behind the couch too many times when the doorbell rings and I don't want to have to put on a bra and see anyone, he's had to stand right smack dab in front of me and say into the phone, "no, my mom's not here. She's left and no one knows when she'll be back"; he knows what I am capable of.

But here's what he doesn't know:

He doesn't know that when he was in third grade, I was nervous about sending him on a class trip to the beach and I was too lazy to be one of the parent chaperones, so on the morning of the trip I told him he had a fever of 102 and spots on his tonsils. And at 5:00 that afternoon, I told him that he had a miraculous recovery because I wanted to go to Sizzler for dinner that night.

He doesn't know that when he was almost two years old and still not walking, I used to make up all kinds of excuses to people about it, including thinly-veiled references (cue lightening bolt) to polio. Yeah, you don't have to tell me that Jonas Salk brought us the vaccine in 1952; what matters is no one bothered to fact check my lies. Buyer beware.

He doesn't know that I used his Bar Mitzvah money as my personal ATM for years. Frugal and trusting as he is, that cash just sat in the second-to-the-top drawer of his dresser calling my name. I always repaid the kitty and when I didn't, I always left a little IOU note. Yes I did. Signed, Robin. My second son, watching and learning, kept moving his Bar Mitzvah money around, laundering it, planting counterfeit bills in his desk drawer and keeping a pack of rabid Doberman Pinschers at his bedroom door.

My oldest doesn't know that when he was really young, I would rewrap his Hanukah gifts from the first three nights and give them back to him on the last three nights. My younger son got the discarded  wrapping paper and ribbon for the first two Hanukahs of his life.

And once, while the oldest was napping in the car, I drove through McDonalds and got him some drek plastic Happy Meal toy for a dollar and wrapped it up that night for his Hanukah present. And I ate the fries on the drive home.

Miraculously, he didn't turn out to be a mother-hating anti-Semite. Just a lawyer. Ha ha ha, see how I used humor to diffuse a snarky statement? This is the cornerstone of my awesome parenting.

Robin never lies. And my kids never lie. So it ocurrs to me that perhaps my lying - as it was with my incorrigible potty mouth - has served as a powerful cautionary tale for my family, resulting in my unwittingly raising fine, upstanding, truth-telling men who speak the King's English even when they step in dog poop.

Hunh.

Hunh.

What a totally, unbefuckinglievably awesome way for me to be.

 

 

 

 

Adventures in Clusterfuckistan, Part Two

Greetings from Clusterfuckistan! Where everything is not only fucked, it's clusterfucked. Where you come home from the worst day of your life and notice that your Maxi-pad has inched its way out of your underpants and onto the outside of your skirt.

I won't be staying long -  I just dropped in to visit a friend and bring her bring her a casserole. The official casserole of Clusterfuckistan is tuna mushroom noodle casserole. Nobody wants it, nobody likes it, nobody eats it but all visitors are compelled - Stepford like - to make and deliver it. And if you do happen to eat it (because the person who brought it insists on sitting with you, forcing you to take a few bites, "to keep up your strength") you can actually feel yourself giving up, surrendering your passport and settling in for a nice, long stay in the Fuckistans. God help you.

The only known antidote to the TMNC is an Edible Arrangement bouquet of chocolate covered fruit, extra pineapple, STAT. I know this from personal experience.

Why is it that people want you to eat a casserole when you are miserable? What is it about mixing shit with other shit and then baking the shit out of it that makes us feel as if we are helping? Personally, when I am a resident of Clusterfuckistan, I want my food separated into categories. I mean, the whole point of Clusterfuckistan is that all your fucked is in a cluster, one shitty thing morphing into another without pause for a chance to breathe. When that is my life, at least let me see the distinct ingredients in my meal separated by breathing space. The space on the plate between the chicken and the asparagus - that's breathing room, you know? That's freedom. That's the ticket out.

When I went to college in Santa Cruz in the 70's, I had a brief stay in Clusterfuckistan when my boyfriend of four years suddenly dumped me. Yes, well, I had been secretly planning to dump him as soon as I graduated and yes, well, I had already met Robin and begun to design his entrapment, but no matter. Getting dumped - even if it's just that you got dumped first - warrants a trip to the Fuckistans. And even in the 70's, casseroles were required.  In Santa Cruz, birth of vegan windchime compost earthpeace (I just randomly selected words there), the key ingredient in casserole offerings was tofu.

Now, I love tofu; I really do.  And not just because it is the emblematic food of my generation, a culinary fuck you to Spiro Agnew's bloody rare steaks. I love it because it makes me feel superior to people who don't have it in their shopping carts. You sit at a Thai place, you order your Pad Se Ew with tofu and damn if the others at your table don't sound almost sheepish when they order theirs with chicken. Priceless.

But 1970's tofu, even casserolized, was rough. Nobody really knew what to do with it back then. It mostly swam around in its watery container growing whiskers and scaring the shit out of the other food in the fridge. The well-meaning casseroles of tofu and bark and windchimes and compost and earthpeace were pretty damn funky and didn't offer much solace or distraction from the existential despair of the person recieving them. And the tuna mushroom noodle deal is worse. It's like, oh, honey, your life is clusterfucked so I opened a can of cream of mushroom soup and dumped it onto a can of tuna that contains mercury and might have killed a dolphin. And then I put it in the oven until it smelled like wet Tevas and now I am going to force you to eat it.

You know what, I am dumping this pan of crap in my pot-holdered hands. No more casseroles in Clusterfuckistan. No se pasaran.

There's a new smell of revolution in the air.