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

Musings at 57. Day One.

Yesterday I turned fifty-seven. No big whoop.

I mean, I'm happy to have made it through another year, especially after the clusterfuck year our family has had. But a birthday is just another day, you know? I mean, in a world where you can get a slice of layer cake any day at Starbucks and Toyota washes and vacuums your car every time you bring it in for a tune-up, what's left to make a birthday special?

Is there any indulgence left that I deny myself until my birthday? Nope. I already get a Venti iced tea almost every afternoon. And in Oregon, you aren't even allowed to pump your own gas. I am living the dream every day. A birthday is practically denouement.

Well, I did take an extra fifteen minutes on Facebook yesterday morning even though it meant I'd be late for work. Still, I do that every morning so I can't really say I was celebrating my birthday.  Ditto for leaving work early.  And not answering my phone all day. And ignoring my family.  It's all pretty much an every day routine for me.

Yesterday, someone said to me, "well, birthdays are all about great food and great sex." And that got me to thinking.

I don't think  a lot about sex although I tend to describe food with a sort of lascivious innuendo, you know, like, "oooh, this just melts in my mouth" or "I can't stop eating this" which could indicate a tiny sublimation issue. During actual sex, however, I tend to be less  loquacious, keeping my sex talk to a minimum: "Yes, please."  "No thank you."  "Please remove the crusts."  And "sift twice to get out the lumps".

For me, birthdays are not all about sex and food. They are all about gratitude that I did not wake up dead on any given morning that year. And they are about not answering the phone. Oh, and they are a little about food. Which is a little about sex.

God, I am exhausted and I've only been 57 for one day. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It Beeing Passover And All

You may recall a post of mine from a few months ago in which I told you about my African American friend, Wade. My point back then was that having an African American friend makes me, well, better than other white people who don't have an African American friend.

And the barre has been raised yet again. You may want to take a few steps back to make way.

Because, get this: We are raising honey bees. Bees. Because they are disappearing from the earth. So you might say that we are saving the world. You just can't wash the stink of cool off of me now.

Bees. And a black friend. I win.

If only I drove a Prius. And didn't have psoraisis.

I have to confess, however, that I haven't seen Wade in a while. Could he be ducking me? I don't think he was offended when I first offered him up as proof that I am awesome, because I ran into Wade and Christine at Safeway a few weeks ago and they seemed happy to see me. Although, come to think of it, Wade was a tad standoffish. Especially when I tried to tongue kiss him in the produce aisle. You know, to fuck with any bigoted shoppers. I am all about challenging the dominant paradigm when it comes to making out with hot black men. I do my part, can you say the same?

Robin just read this and he wants any hot women out there who believe they may be anti-Semitic to make out with him. You know, to end prejudice and make this world a better place for our children.

But Wade? Are we cool, bro? No hard feelings that I used you in my blog to make me look good and all, right? Because Wade, and I say this with love, think of it this way: it's possible that the fact that you have a middle-aged, Jewish woman WHO RAISES BEES, as your friend elevates YOUR station in life, as well. Can any other of your African American friends boast that same claim? Will they be getting a surprise package of chocolate covered matzo at their door this week?

Okay, well, neither are you but that's not the point. I already ate all the chocolate covered matzo. Sorry, but I was feeling a hankering to experience what my people experienced wandering the desert for forty years with nothing to eat but chocolate covered matzos and nothing to read but Highlights magazine with the hidden objects already circled. Not to mention the one deoderant crystal they all had to share. I mean, those fuckers don't even work in sub-zero temperatures. Forty years in the desert? Hoo-boy.

Are you listening, Wade? Do you hear how our people's struggles are so similar? Why won't you make out with me, then?

And now, in the spirit of the season of liberation from slavery, I am going outside to let the bees out of the hive.

Tastes Like Oppression

Okay, so dig this:

There you are, just about to take a bite of your 420 calorie - only 420!- teriyaki turkey burger from Carl's Jr and you hear a voice (perhaps it's your own) saying, "Carl Karcher is a right wing reactionary who gives zillions of dollars to support everything you find abhorrent."

And you say, "I know. He is the devil. And as soon as I finish this teriyaki turkey burger which is 420 calories - only 420!- I am going to write a check to Planned Parenthood. For $420.00."

And the voice says, "oh please. The fuck you are."

And you hang your head in shame because you know the voice speaks the truth.

Or this:

You float out on marshmallow clouds from Anthropologie because you found something that fits you in that world of size zero and minus zero and you text your friends the good news. Before you even get to your car, you get eleven texts telling you that Anthropologie is owned by right wing reactionaries who support everything you find abhorrent.

And you say, "but...but...it fits me. And I will wear it any gay weddings I am ever invited to, should gay people ever be given the right to marry, which they won't if the owners of Anthropologie have anything to do about it."

And they say, "is cream colored linen with an ecru lace placket and banded waist really worth denial of civil rights?"

And you tell them of course, it isn't worth it. It is a homophobic blouse. It will burst into flames as soon as you put it on. Although, you think to yourself, ironically, it is just the kind of blouse gay people would admire.

And you think to yourself, "the only reason it fits is because of those fabulous 420 calorie teriyaki turkey burgers I've been living on for a month."

Question:

If you boycott the turkey burgers and eat the high caloric shit that liberals make, and you eschew the to die for merchandise of homophobes in favor of free trade, shade grown hemp muu-muu's; and if, subsequently, the world is going to be divided into poorly dressed, overweight liberals and chic, fit, reactionary douchebags, haven't the terrorists won? And then, won't the Iraq war have been in vain?

Everybody knows that it is easier to hate an ugly person than it is to hate an attractive one, the exception, of course, being the Gosselin kids. So isn't it almost our responsibility as radical frontliners to look as hot as we possibly can? You know, to bring people over to our side? I mean, look at what Giada's cleavage and overabundance of teeth has done for pasta.

Which, coming around full circle, brings me to this little fact: Giada's husband designs for Anthropologie.

I know, right?

Hakuna matata, dudes. Hakuna matata.

 

 

 

Robbing PETA to pay Carl

Kim Kardashian, please report to my office. You are in big trouble, Missy.

Oh, this not about your stupid life or your stupid show or your stupid family or even about that stupid, desperate "come hither" face you make for the cameras when you pretend to eat a turkey burger. I mean, sure, those are completely valid reasons you should never ever have achieved any measure of celebrity, but as long as you use your earnings from Carl's Jr to fund GLBT issues, well, God bless. Although, just between you and me, it wouldn't kill you to stop wearing fur. With your dark, swarthy looks, I bet you'd have enough of your own fur but for the weekly waxing, am I right? Why should mink have to die because you refuse to be warmed by the insulating back hair God gave you?

Oh, and I know that mink are mean mofo's in real life and a person would just as soon bitch slap one as have them to dinner, but still. They can't be much meaner than Lohan and I don't see you wearing her leg hair as a scarf.

No, Miss KK, my issue with you is this:

 "People have a lot of misconceptions about California. But none of them are really true."

Sound familiar? You said these words on television. That commercial for California. The one that stars your ponytail and your tan.

Read the sentence out loud, Kim. And really concentrate this time. Think. Think.

Now, perhaps I should tread lightly lest I set myself up as flawless when it comes to the language arts. I've been known to say shit like, "there was mistrust" instead of "there was distrust", and I've pluralized "aquarium" as "aquariums" instead of "aquaria". Oh, and I cannot for the life of me remember if a person lays down on a divan or lies down on a divan, or what the fuck a divan even is (the cousin of a settee?) but even I - a child of the 60's alternative educational system who never took a grammar class because my high school English requirement was fulfilled by writing a fan letter to Letty Cottin Pogrebin - even I know that a MISCONCEPTION is, by definition, NOT TRUE.

None of the misconceptions about California are true, Kim? Not even one?  Hunh. Go figure.

Okay, then. Point made.

Yup. Okaaaaaay then.

Hmm.

Now I feel kinda stupid making such a big deal over that. Especially with the war in Libya and the WalMart class action suit and everything else going on.

But I don't want to delete this. I spent two hours writing it.

So, you know what, Kim? This is my new point: stop wearing fur.

But way to go on supporting LGBT causes.

But no fur.