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

Bloody Night At The Oscars

In case I don't make it through the night, I just wanted to say goodbye. You see, I might bleed to death.

You know when you do something, and the second you do it you regret it and stay very still so maybe time will go backwards and you won't have done it? And then you pray a little bit and curse a little bit and then you open your eyes but it's still the present time and you still did that stupid thing, so you go directly to self-loathing and ultimately, to blaming someone else?

So last night, around midnight, I was almost falling asleep when my big toe felt the toenail on my other big toe, and it felt like the nail was too long. I have this thing about long toenails; they creep me out, so you can understand that discovering my long toenail was going to cost me a night's sleep at the very least.

I didn't want to fully wake up because I've been having trouble sleeping lately and I was finally in a good preslumber state, having mentally ironed all my linen shirts and made out with Colin Firth backstage at the Oscars (the two being unrelated), and I made one of those decisions that one can only make in an altered state, you know, like not using a condom or invading Iraq.

With my eyes still closed, I reached over into my nightstand drawer, felt around, and produced a cuticle scissors.

I know. This is the part of the movie where you yell at the screen, "don't do it!"

Feeling around, I plunged my be-scissored finger down into the covers, felt around for the big toenail (I believe in medicalspeak, this is called "appreciating"), and lopped it off.

The tip of my toe, that is.

It wasn't until about 3 minutes later, when I thought I had spilled water or something at the foot of my bed because everything was wet down there, did I realize I was bleeding to death.

Resistant to rousing myself to a complete awake state (Colin's breath still warm on my lips), I made my bloody way to the bathroom to patch me up. But when I got there I realized my glasses were on my nightstand. So I bloodied my way back to get them and then returned. The hallway looked like Gettysburg, bloody sock and slippers and various schmatte tourniquets scattered along the route. The food pantry is in that hallway, as well, so I made a quick stop for sustinance, lest the blood loss proved to weaken me. Tenks to God, I had a snack size bag of baked BBQ chips back there from when I went to Subway last week. I am all about readiness.

Why do I do this kind of shit over and over again? You know, allow myself to think that blind pedicures are a good idea at midnight. Or thinking that cleaning out the Band-Aids from the first aid kit to make room for more Immodium and Monistat won't have its consequences. Although I am prone to nervous Jewish stomach issues and the sight of all my toe blood did, indeed, bring on some cramps and gas, so the Immodium was not without its usefulness.

I am sitting at the computer, my bloody, beschmatted foot elevated on the desk (in a pelvic stretch I will regret in a few hours), looking at a photo of the most beautiful shoes that Nell wore to the VF party last night. Could I be any sadder?

Only if she tells me she made out with Colin Firth.

 

My Sound Mind and Body Are Too Loud.

Okay, what did I miss?

I've been sick in bed. It was horrible. A TV commercial came on for a local production of STOMP and I couldn't tell the difference between when the commercial was on and when it ended. You know, because that's how I felt. Like STOMP was playing in my head. Cause I was sick. So my head was pounding.

Shit, I had really hoped for a stronger opening to this post.

My languishment, however brief, was nonetheless reveletory. Most notably, I realized that STOMP is a really, really bad idea. Maybe I'm just old, maybe it was the fever, but listening to people banging shit on things and jumping on shit and dribbling basketballs isn't what the people are longing to hear nowadays. Maybe back in the early 90's when STOMP first opened we could handle it. It was a quieter time then, what with the Lilliehammer Winter Olympics, the dissolution of Czechoslovakia, Belgium becoming a federal state rather than a kingdom, Mongolia holding its first presidential election, and the Irish sodomy laws being reformed, so settling down for an evening of crashes and booms wasn't such an assault on the senses.

But life today is loud enough. Everyone's cell phone is on speaker, for one thing. This is not a time to bring back "Stomp". Especially with so many of us sick with flu. This is a time to bring back, I don't know, semaphore. And laryngitis. And reading quietly at our seats.

Uh oh. An inability to handle loud sounds was one of the first signs of my dad's dementia.

I am always a little bit terrified that a doctor will ask me to count backwards by 7 (they always tested my dad that way), or even to count forwards by 7, for that matter, and I will be declared incompetent - or dead - because I am unable to do it. 

"Lady, are you okay?" they will yell, poking me in the shoulder like I learned to do in CPR class. "Lady, can you hear me? Count backwards by sevens so we know you are alright."

I'll need a pencil, I swear to God. And even if I somehow could convince them that I am really more of a liberal arts kind of gal as opposed to a math type, what if they switch to asking me questions like, "when is it correct to use 'lay' instead of 'lie'?" or "who are your state representatives?" or "why do you keep buying kefir when you never drink it?"

Well, that one is easy: kefir is gross.

I don't test well. I freeze up. I sweat. I cheat. And then I giggle and incriminate myself.

I practice at home for tests that might spring up when I least expect them. I attempt to walk a straight line every night from my bed to the toilet, imagining that I've been pulled over after drinking. But I can't even do it in the hallway without having to touch the wall every once in a while. I think it's my braless boobs that throw my balance off because I am not drunk every damn night.

If they ask me any math or geography to prove my sanity, I'm as good as locked up. Or any sort of athletics other than sock skating, but even then I'd need my music. The only things I can do pretty reliably under pressure are writing and playing Pathwords on Facebook. Oh, and I can make a nice brisket for the High Holydays in no time flat. Even with a houseful of judgemental relatives and only three hours until the fast begins. I mean, talk about pressure.  And I don't skimp on the garlic like some cooks.

Okay, good. So if I ever lose consciousness or lose my mind or if I am ever pulled over for suspicious driving, I will write a clever little limerick on the spot, connect random letters to form words for points and ask for a piece of beef, flat tip, to stew.

Whew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dr. Strangemom on line one for Scott Walker.....

A round for the Buffalo Beast blogger. It's on me.

I tell you, there is no substitute for comedy classics. Prank call Scott Walker? Pretend to be David Koch, and tape the phone conversation? Right up there with the Chuckles The Clown episode on Mary Tyler Moore. I laughed every time I heard the news today.

You can't buy that kind of pleasure on a cold February day when you are kinda recovering from the flu but still not feeling one hundred percent and yet the world expects you to get outta bed and function and you really thought your jeans were going to be SUPER loose because you didn't eat for three days but instead, they fit exactly the same as before so, really, what is the fucking use of getting the flu?

Anyway, I know for a fact that you cannot buy pleasure because I have in me, right now, about four hundred dollars worth of trying, in the form of Prozac, Xanax, take out Thai and peppermint Schnapps.

Had Governor Walker only heeded my advice about NEVER answering a phone, he could still be known for merely being a nefarious douchebag; now he can add "shitbrain" to his CV. Who's gonna hire you now, Mister Bigshot Nefarious Douchebag Shitbrain? Well??

Oh, right. Koch industries. Halliburton. Carl's Jr. And they'll pay him more money than I could ever imagine. With benefits. And perks. And power. And everything he's ever wanted in life.

That'll show him.

The first prank call I ever made was to my next door neighbors, when I was six. Karen and I were embroiled in a fierce feud with them, the likes of which was not seen until Lindsey and Avril duked it out at the Chateau M last spring . We hated our neighbors, we hated the parents, we hated the kids, we hated everything about them. Our hatred consumed 97% of our years between 1960-1964, with the remaining 1% given over to Barbie dolls and making each other smell our fingers.

The last 2% of our young lives was spent standing outside the bathroom door every night, asking Dad what he really meant by going in there to "see a man about a dog." A dog? We are getting a DOG? Wahoo!

Poor Dad. He and my Mom are/were clearly above average in intelligence. I bet they lay in bed many nights wondering how they had sired such dimwit daughters. Kinda the same way Robin and I sometimes lie in bed wondering how we sired upstanding children who don't do drugs.

Our prank call to the horrible neighbors - the shot heard round the 'hood, as history recalls it - was simple, elegant and fucking awesome. We called them, and when they answered- we HUNG UP. Well, it would have been awesome if we had remembered to actually hang up instead of just pressing down on that hangup button for a nanosecond and then letting it up again, thus continuing our call and allowing our neighbors to hear us laughing, and then hear Mom asking us what we were laughing about.

But really, what can you expect from two girls who are still waiting for their dad (RIP) to carry a puppy out of the bathroom?

 

 

 

(Democratic) Party On.

I am still waiting for the arrival of the Wisconsin Dems. What do I have to do, hang a sign outside my door? I am a little bit offended, truth be told. I have Febreezed my living room, unloaded the dishwasher, taken my bite guard out of the bathroom sink and gone to Trader Joe's in case they want to nosh. In my book, a person cannot do more in terms of being hospitable.  

As you may notice, this is highly unusual behavior for me. I generally put all my efforts into keeping people from visiting me, including not fixing the potholes in my driveway and "forgetting" to take down the signs on the front door that warn we are radioactive inside. I have gone so far once or twice as to pull the electrical wires out of my doorbell with my bare hands when I've heard of a possible visit from a friend.

Once I actually belly-crawled to my bedroom (so as not to be seen through the windows) to tear off my pajamas and jump into real clothes when I saw a particular car pull up to my house, just so I could meet the person at the front door and claim I was late for work.

Which was not a well-thought out lie, since I don't actually have a real office to go to, and in my panic and cluelessness, I chose a ridiculously stereotyped work outfit, complete with nylon stockings, shoulder pads and, I don't remember, a necktie around my forehead, Ninja-style. I also belly-crawled to the bathroom and applied about twelve tons of makeup to my sweaty face (it was August and I was wearing nylons and a suit. And crawling around my house). The end result was that I looked like Divine. On her way to St. Elmo's Fire.

"Um, don't you work, like, in a preschool?" my friend asked when I answered the door, my car keys in hand.

I mumbled vague, distracting keywords like, "conferences" and "epidemic" as I ran away. I'm pretty sure I pulled it off.

So you can imagine how much I want to fuck over Scott Walker. I am willing - no, make that inviting - the Wisconsin Dems to stay at my house. Although I may have to go to "work" one or two of the days they are here. It's just for one or two days, right? Oh fuck, are they going to be hanging around the house all day? Maybe I can send them out to see the sights for a few hours, just so I can get some time alone.

Now I just don't know.

I am writing this post on the morning that I have invited friends to dinner. I know. I am complicated. Deal with it.

I am not regretting the invitation, per se, as much as I am quietly bemoaning the time I will have to devote to preparation and execution. As you know, I am writing a novel and taking an entire day to clean and cook for dinner guests is a day that I will not be able to get serious work done on improving my Pathwords score and staring at the liver spots on my hands, wondering whether or not the Esoterica cream is working.

Am I worried my friends will read this post and feel bad that they are ruining my Saturday night and possibly, my entire life? Well, the first thing is that in our family we always say, "the important thing is that you feel bad." So, no, I am not worried.

Second of all, they don't read the blog. I don't even think they know I have one. You see, they are highly involved, creative, intelligent people who have lives. Freddy runs an organization (Teachers Without Borders, www.teacherswithoutborders.com) that does nothing less than save the world every single day, whereas I have a job that does nothing less than get me through a large, Costco-size bag of Ranch flavored rice cakes every single day. Rosalie heals children.

I know, what the hell are we going to have in common to talk about?

Oh, I know. We can talk about how much Freddy hates fish. He says he's allergic, but he's not fooling anyone. And we can talk about how when Freddy was young, he used to ask his mom to put her elbow in his eye, for comfort. His eye was closed, but it's still weird, right? He called it "Elbow In Eye."

Okay, I've got the conversation topic for appetizers. And if we drink enough during appetizers, dinner conversation will just be the sound of our heads hitting the dining room table. Perfect. I love entertaining.

Shit. Wait. What if the Wisconsin Dems show up tonight? I have carefully meted out the grilled eggplant and cous-cous portions for just the four of us.

Fine. Back to Trader Joe's.  What I won't do for the Revolution.

 

 

 

 

 

Psst, Over Here!

I want to be in Wisconsin. Or hiding out in Illinois. I wanna be a player. Get tear-gassed. Be carried off by the National Guard as I scream, "UNION!" God, that would be awesome.

Of course, it would take the entire National Guard to carry me off. And even then, I bet a few of their backs would go out. I bet it would be on national news. They'd probably even report my weight. You know, to get sympathy for the Guardspeople whose disks I ruptured trying to lift me. Oh, I'd lie, of course. With my last breath I'd be screaming, "I am wearing heavy boots! And sterling silver earrings that weigh at least seven ounces! I have on two Maxi Pads! TWO!"

And some hungry mofo intern at Fox would Watergate his way into my medical records and stick my actual weight on the news crawl. And because I would refuse to go on any of their bullshit news shows to defend myself, they would get revenge by having, say, Ann Coulter standing in front of a, I don't know, computer generated diagram of my naked body and she'd be holding a laser pointer to show the most progressive, repulsive areas of me. And she'd blame my flabby repulsiveness on health care reform or Mexicans or something. God, I hate Ann Coulter.

Wait. Where was I?

Wisconsin. Right. Or maybe Illinois. I'm not telling.

Can you imagine how awesome it would be to hide out somewhere? Oh, I don't mean in a running from Nazis Anne Frank way, although who are we to say that didn't have its own sort of desperate, despairing joie de vivre? One man's freilach.....

I mean, it would be awesome to hide out in a fun, no one's gonna kill you when they find you way. Like Capture The Flag. Capture the State Senators. And when they find you, you just have to march across the baseball diamond and then go sit in the shade and drink some Crystal Lite or something until everyone is found and it's time for the camp talent show.

I think I'd be a pretty good fugitive. Now that I've switched out Diet Coke for iced tea, I defo have the belching down to a low roar, so the enemy can no longer track me by my burps. And I am surprisingly low maintenance during a long haul. Ask Robin. When we were in New York, I was a total trooper. After I woke up at the crack of noon each day, sent Robin down to bring me coffee, run my Kiehl's rosemary oil bath while he ironed my linen sundress for the day, I was pretty much self-sufficient. Except for those three days I had that blister on my foot.

Maybe I should just get up and get myself to Wisconsin. (Or Illinois. You figure it out.)

I can't do it tomorrow because tomorrow I have to wait for the Sears guy to come and look at the dryer. And then I have plans tomorrow night. And I think that blister is acting up again. Plus, I only have four Xanax left on this refill.

I have an idea. All you Wisconsin Senators? Come to Oregon. To my house. They will never think to look  here. Plus, we've got Tonya Harding here. She might be a Republican but I think I can talk her into doing some knee-whacking if Scott Walker shows up looking for you. Tonya seems like a reasonable person. Pro-Union.

Take refuge with Dr. Strangemom, Wisconsin liberals. I will make you matzo ball soup and brisket with carrots and onions. We shall overcome. But first, we shall overeat.

 

Perspective and Gratitude Are At My Front Door. I'm Not Answering.

Doug's private Facebook message to me contained one word with a punctuation mark that struck at the heart:

blog? (it read)

I know that a blogger is supposed to blog often, not just when there's nothing good on TV or while your  Bob's Red Mill cheese biscuit is heating up in the toaster oven.

It will not surprise you, however, that I have an excuse for not posting in a while.

I am writing a novel. And every time I write a blog post I keep thinking, "THIS is why it is going to take me a million years to finish the novel." Which, of course, isn't true. The reason that it is going to take me a million years to finish the novel is Pathwords. But still. A 1940 on Pathwords isn't gonna get me onto Shouts and Murmurs, even I know that.

It's just that every time I set out to write a blog post, my brain goes to the checklist of all the other shit that I should be doing instead. Like memorizing the list of important things Obama has done, so the next time someone says he hasn't done anything, I can have a quick and accurate response. Instead of, you know, "shut up, that's what". Which works, frankly, but I want to be smarter than that. I owe it to the 'Rack.

This morning, for instance, I had every intention of spending the entire day at the computer, writing. I woke up at 8:30, talked on the phone to my sister for an hour (during which I unloaded the dishwasher, made coffee and stared at my face in the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes, coming to the conclusion that YIKES I have gone way the fuck downhill). Karen told me about a house for sale in my neighborhood that would be a good one for me to buy with Mom, since my current house isn't an easy one for an 86 year old to navigate what with all the stairs and all, even though Mom, at 86, is in better physical shape than her 50-something daughters, and she has no intention of moving to Portland until at least two full  months after she's been dead. But still.

So I drove over to look at the house, which made me hate my current house. I really don't know why I bother to look at houses. I never come home feeling grateful; I only come home feeling pissed off. I don't know why I bother looking at anything, really. Even the river. Or a gas station. Or change back from a five dollar bill. It all just makes me hate what I have.

Gratitude, like her cousin, Perspective, do not linger at my front door. They do more of a drive-by thing on my street.

If you are Jewish, you have the inner comparison barometer set to the Holocaust, which you'd think would keep gratitude and perspective close at hand. You know, the coffee maker breaks in your newly-remodeled granite and oak kitchen  and you don't feel like getting into your Highlander to drive all the way to Starbucks to get a cup of joe? So you tell yourself, "if the coffee maker broke in my barracks in the concentration camp, I'd be grateful to get out and drive to Starbucks for fifteen minutes. Grab an artisan breakfast sandwich to take back, I'd be golden until the liberation."

That kind of perspective. You think it would make you a better person.

You'd be wrong.

I bet I'd be the kind of camp prisoner who would complain that the coffee maker in our barracks wasn't working. I bet even my fellow Jews would turn against me, after giving up trying to get me to see the bigger picture. And I'd hold my ground, as I am wont to do when I know I am horribly, terribly wrong. It would be ridiculous.

So, in conclusion. Please go to Facebook, find the Dr. Strangemom fan page and become a fan. To make up for the Holocaust.

Shut Up, That's How

Shit. My coffee cup is empty.

Well, there goes today.

I might be a little low energy lately, in that I just took a little nap between the part of this sentence that came before the comma and this part, after. Fuuuuck, it took me four tries and ten more minutes just to explain that. And now I have to hit "save" so I don't lose this masterpiece.

It's all too much.

And I am not getting up from my chair to walk to the kitchen and make more coffee. What am I, an Olympic athlete?

From my desk I can see out my window to the street in front of my house. In the past twenty minutes, I have witnessed:

A college-age exchange student from Japan walking to the corner, carrying a large briefcase.

A ponytailed woman in a North Face down vest and lycra shorts alternating running steps with a sort of hop-hop thing during which she pumped her fists in the air.

My mail carrier pull up to my curbside mail box and get out of his truck to bring me an oversized package to my door.

Two happy children running to the school bus that awaits them in front of their house.

A Subaru Outback with skis, bicycles and canoe strapped to various parts of its experior, pulling out of my neighbor's driveway, the clickclickclickclick of its snow tires announcing ADVENTURE as it takes off.

Why do I even live in Oregon?

Oh wait, I have to hit "save" again. FML.

When I moved here in 1995, I thought it would be the perfect place for me. All this rain, all this gloom, ice, volcanoes, Powell's bookstore, Voodoo Donuts - a person could assume this entire state stays home in its jammies, reading, eating baked goods, making soup and catching up on TMZ.

A person would be wrong.

Maybe it's just that since Molly passed away last May, I haven't taken my daily hour-long walks to the river. Or even the five minute walk to the entrance of the state park. Or even gotten up from my chair to make a second cup of coffee. And I just figured that it was that way for everyone. You know, since I didn't see anyone in the park or at the river. Or in my kitchen.

Now, as it turns out, I have completely missed an entire wave of fitness.

Claire recently posted a question on FB about P9OX. Instead of a million comments asking what the fuck that is, she got a shitload of testimonials. I commented that my current fitness regime revolves around working on my personality, instead.

Claire wrote: How's that working out for you?

I wrote: Shut up, that's how.

I wonder if being clever burns up calories. Oh. Never mind. I just got on the scale and realized that either answer is bad news for me.

My son turned me on to a new travel show on PBS. Now, I already watch Globe Trekker and Equitrekking all the time. Because I am so cutting edge and fuck the man and shit. And sometimes when I am watching it, I think to myself, "that could be me". I know what you are thinking - how the hell could it be YOU?

Shut up, that's how.

But this new show, the one my kid recommended, is something else. It's called THE SEASONED TRAVELER. Have you seen it? Of course you haven't. Because you aren't a jakillion years old and lobotomized.

This show is a half hour, slow-paced, fast-acting sedative in which endless, shuffling groups of baseball-capped, be-caned, see-through plastic rain bonneted, Lil' Rascal riding tourists strike poses of feigned interest (I think some of them were actual cardboard cutout people. I could see the grips standing behind then, holding them up and moving them along with the crowd) while a leader points to various spots on a wall and they all nod in agreement. Yes, a wall. Very historic. Which country is this, again? Oops, I peed.

This show is, in short, my fountain of youth. I LOVE it. I feel so young and energetic when I watch it. Finally! People so unfit and in need of a nap that even I can make fun of them. Except the incontinent ones. That hits a little too close to home for me.

I have so much more to say about this, but the show is starting right now. I think they are going to actually exhume dead ex- travelers for this episode.