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

Life Without Oprah, Day One

Well, it's over. Oprah's gone. Just an empty studio, a million tear-soaked tissues and the last audience ever to see her show walking together, slowly, arm in arm to the bus stop, crying to each other, "now what the hell good was that? Where's my new car? Where's my trip to Australia? Fuck that stingy bitch."

I didn't watch the whole show, but I did see enough to remind myself why I don't watch it: El Oprah makes me feel bad about myself. And yes, my life motto is, the important thing is that you feel bad, but this is too much.

If I never hear the words "life your BEST life" again, I will die happy. Well, actually, I don't know if that's true. Does anyone really die happy? People like to say if they die during sex, they will die happy with a smile on their face. Me, if I died during sex I would die with more of a, I don't know,  grimace, I guess. Who smiles during sex? And who are they smiling at?

Now I am going to have to test this out. Oh Robin...

I am sitting here thinking about all the various facial expressions my partners have had during sex over the past, oh, million years. And, honestly, I cannot remember one smile. Oh, I've seen shock and horror on their faces, to be sure, particularly when the Spanx comes off, and I've seen disappointment more times than I care to recall and once I think a guy actually gasped in revulsion when I tried to strike a particularly athletic pose that did not include lying perfectly flat so as not to unleash my flab. He tried to cover up his gasp by pretending he was just super turned on but we both knew what was what.

I have seen men smile when the sex with me was over, however. I don't ask why. Some shit you just gotta leave unanswered.

 

A Bathroom Of One's Own

Well, here's something you can't say every day: I'm going out to the driveway to take a dump.

The reason I can say that is that there is a port-a-potty in my driveway. The reason there is a port-a-potty there is that we are remodeling the bathroom. My first thought - negative, of course -  when they delivered the thing was that anyone passing by my house could walk in there and use it. And the thought of stranger pee - albeit neighbor pee - so close to my bedroom window makes me gag just typing the words.

However, upon further consideration, I have decided that it totally rocks to have my own driveway outhouse. Because now, no one ever needs to poop in the toilet in my house ever again.

A toilet in my house that will never be used. A germophobe's wet dream. I feel all warm and fuzzy and happy just typing those words.

I know I come off all tough and shit, but deep down I am a delicate flower.  I have this canine olfactory system that renders me helpless to smells. You could put me in the circus. And at the first whiff of old corn dog oil, I would barf. And then you could take me home and put me to bed with a cold compress on my forehead.

Poor Robin. On the evenings that we have people over to the house, I don't let him poop after 5PM because, frankly, that Febreeze candle in the upstairs bathroom isn't fooling anyone even two hours later. Good thing he grew up with only brothers and didn't have a lot of girlfriends before me because he really has no idea how much more work I am than your average woman.

I am thinking is that the cost of having a port-a-potty in my driveway for the rest of my life can't be all that much. I can give up Starbucks, I suppose, and that will save me, oh, roughly, four bajillion dollars a month. It might be worth it to keep the new toilet in my house completely unused. With a velvet rope around it.

Robin could have the port-a-potty as his very own bathroom forever. Pad down to the driveway in the morning, sit on the toilet and enjoy the sounds of life going by our street. I bet the Oregonian could even deliver the morning paper directly to the outhouse door. Knock, knock. You can reach the door without even getting off the toilet.

I'm pretty sure I can sell this to him. Especially if I set the coffee maker up in there.

 

 

 

Survive Rapture: Check

Are we all still here?

I don't know what I expected to happen on Saturday - I mean, for fuck's sake, I knew there was not going to be a seat for me on that bus, I once (twice) hid behind my couch and pretended I wasn't home when the Rabbi came by - but still, I was a little bit disappointed at 6:01. I just hate being excluded, even if I didn't want to go in the first place. Let me at least reject them before they reject me, you know?

I had my speech all ready: I appreciate the invite, really I do, but I have my own Rapture plans for after The Revolution - the commune, you know. And I just couldn't leave now, what with my four Lexulous games in progress, and also, I defrosted those boneless, skinless chicken breasts two days ago and I really need to use them today or they'll go bad and they were, like, a bazillion dollars a pound because they are organic. And Kosher. Oh, did I mention I am JEWISH?

What is the deal with my people not being invited to the Rapture? I smell a hate crime. I suggest that some hungry young Jewish attorney out there get on the stick with this. Get on the tube. Put on a suit and slick back your hair. DID YOU GET LEFT BEHIND ON MAY 21? ARE YOU SUFFERING FROM LOW SELF ESTEEM BECAUSE OF IT? HAVE YOU EXPERIENCED SLEEPLESSNESS, ANXIETY, LOSS OF LIBIDO, UNUSUALLY THICK FACIAL HAIR, GUILTMONGERING, A DISTASTE FOR ORAL SEX, HAND-WRINGING AND AN INEXPLICABLE DESIRE FOR GROUND FISH BALLS SERVED WITH HORSERADISH? THEN YOU MAY BE JEWISH.

No, wait. THEN YOU MAY BE ELIGIBLE FOR COMPENSATION.

THE LAW NOW PROTECTS YOUR RIGHT TO BE INVITED TO THE RAPTURE. COME SEE ME AT MY LAW OFFICES AND LET'S TALK DAMAGES. ALL YOU NEED IS IRREFUTABLE EVIDENCE OF BEING ONE OF THE CHOSEN PEOPLE - MEN, BRING YOUR DETACHED FORESKIN. WOMEN, BRING ONE DAY'S SHAVINGS FROM YOUR EPILADY.

I really don't get why more people don't take my suggestions seriously. A lawyer could clean up with this class action suit.

So, as I understand, those of us left behind have five months (or seven years. The jury seems to be deadlocked on the time frame) before the end. I am pretty much down with that. I always do better with a deadline when I have a bunch of shit to get done. So, I am making my list:

SHIT TO GET DONE IN THE NEXT FIVE MONTHS OR SEVEN YEARS:

1. Lose seventy pounds.

2. Put new strings on my guitar.

3. Find the lid to my thermal coffee cup from REI.

Oh, and if we are doing the five month plan, add:

4. Stop paying off Master Card bill.

5. Gain seventy pounds.

It's a win/win.

See you in Hell.

 

But There's A Hole In My Bucket List

My friend Theresa gave me this great quote about human nature the other day. Let's sit very quietly while I try to remember it.

Shit. Oh well. (That's not the quote, but it could be, come to think of it).

We were talking about optimists and pessimists, which is one of my three favorite topics in the world (the other two being food, and the dickwads in the Bush administration), and Theresa said...

SHIT. I was sure I was going to be able to trick myself into remembering that way. Clearly, the quote is lost to me forever.

Well, anyway, after Theresa said this great thing, I turned to our friend Amy and said, "You are an optimist, Amy, I bet you wake up to every fucking cloudy morning in May and say, 'soon the weather will be better' instead of seeing another fucking cloudy day in May."

And Amy said, in all sincerity, "But it already is getting warmer."

And oh, how we laughed. But I can barely be friends with Amy now.

What is the benefit of having optimisitic friends, really?  They only make you feel worse about yourself. Which, although, come to think of it, affirms my pessimistic contention that I will never be able to see things in a positive way. I will never feel better about myself. Ever.  Which is the ultimate pessimistic truth. So I win.

Hunh. I win. It all works out in the end. Oh wait, "it all works out" is an optimistic thought. Damn it. I just can't win. Oh wait, "I just can't win" is pessimistic.

Well, I do not see myself getting any other work done today. There is so much to ponder. Pass the bong. And the Wheat Thins.

It's like the adult version of "There's A Hole In My Bucket", a song that used to intrigue me when I was young. I would sing it over and over again, not hoping that the ending would magically change and Willy would find something with which to patch the hole (which is what an optimistic young child would hope, I suppose) but because the moment of, "...but there's a hole in my bucket", the delicious realization that it is never going to change, that the fucking bucket is always going to have a hole in it, that everything bad will always be bad- well, those are the moments that a young Jewish, hand-wringing, nightmare-burdened, pink-glitter framed Coke bottle eyeglass wearing, grammar-rules-loving, eight-year-old Dr. Strangemom lives for.

Yes, I was Dr. Strangemom even back then. Only I was pretty much only known as Strange.

There is some research out there that posits we are capable of changing our outlook on things. This study found that optimistic people have two positive thoughts for every one negative thought. So I thought about any three thoughts in my head, and here's what I came up with:

1. People CAN change.

2. I am hungry again.

3. I hate George Bush.

Which are THREE POSITIVE THOUGHTS! With an exclamation mark! Which is a kind of mark I NEVER used in my old negative life! Unbefuckinglievable. This shit works. I guess I've been wrong my whole life about this. Which means I've probably been wrong about everything.

Which is what I always secretly knew about myself. I will always be wrong.

So, really, I win again.

 

 

 

Last Night's Session

Well, no one emailed me about it so I will have to report on the opening session of Freak Lawn 2 without the benefit of observation, hearsay or fact. I do have at my fingertips, however, the result of my having sat here at my computer for the past, oh, fifteen minutes thinking about what it might have been like.

Well, first, of course, everyone noticed that everyone else looks pretty good for all of us moving up to the big six-oh in the few years. This is something that I feel has been hugely under-reported in the media, the leap frog journey down the time-line of losing our looks. I think I have some important things to say about it, so here goes:

The ten or so years after high school, people pretty much look the same; it's not difficult to recognize someone from your high school class unless they specifically had work to change their identity for, say, the witness protection plan. And even then.

At the twenty year reunion, the men look like they are slipping - thinning hair in place of their Hebros (I went to an 80% Jewish high school - it was the coif of the time), corporate suits on their slightly-paunchy bodies where torn jeans and Che tee shirts used to hang; they kinda all look the same, like one conglomeration of a guy. The women at our 20th reunion, however, were bitchen. We were coming into our own, having accepted the stretch marks and the crow's feet and the power of a good underwire  brassiere.

As the 20th reunion moves into the 30th and 40th ones, the playing field kinda evens again.

The men begin to enjoy that weird ass phenomenon of finally growing into their adult look, and pretty much rockin' it. Women also grow into our adult look, albeit it without the enjoyment. I think at, approximately, age 54, we are even for six hours. Then the men take the lead.

But only for twenty more years because in our 70's, the men will all be dead. So we win. Especially if we have chosen to go the lesbian route.

I don't see myself going there, frankly, because I like being able to lie to men about things like, well, everything. Men, as Other, can never fully be certain that we are lying because they do not have uteri and therefore they are acutely aware that they don't know everything.

I just don't see how lesbians can lie to each other with shit like, "it's hormonal; I need an iced Venti Passion tea and a Pad See Ew - with tofu - STAT. Or my uterus might fall out."

Or, "Women are not allowed to clean kitty litter boxes from the time they get their period to the time they are 93. It's a medical fact. Now please build me a water feature in the backyard before my uterus falls out."

A lesbian lover would be onto my shit before I had finished moving my shoes into her closet.

Which is why my sister and I have decided that we will live together if we outlive our husbands. We have no secrets, no lies and nothing about which we disagree other than my reckless use of aluminum foil, a solitary piece of which she has used for eleven years and plans to bring with her when we move in together and use exclusively until she passes, at which point she will bequeath to her daughter.

Sometimes Karen and I get so excited about the prospect of living together that we forget our plan has, at its genesis, the caveat that Craig and Robin will have to die. At the same time. And then we feel bad.

But then we start imagining which furniture is going to go into which room and we are happy again.

And that's my report on last night's session.

Freak Lawn 2 - This Time It's Lactose Intolerant

Grease up the pole and let your freak flag fly high this weekend. In fact, fly a little high yourself. This is going to be a momentous three days and attention must be paid.

The Grant High School 1970-71 Freak Lawn Reunion is commencing as we speak. Do you hear the thunder of Easy Spirit walking shoes?

I am not there, due to a small shitstorm around my life, but that is not going to stop me from reporting on it. I have been in the loop of the thousands of emails that have circulated among the, oh, fifteen or so of us, from the first, tentative "should we try and get together one of these days?" to the most recent - this morning - which confirms (for the fourth time) the ingredients of the Kosher burrito that seems to be the enduring icon of our high school years (well, that and the war in Viet Nam), and that will - superceding all other activities - be recreated for tonight's inaugural dinner.

The burrito will be recreated, I mean; not the war. Hopefully. Although, frankly, this is a group of determined can-do mofos - we are the badasses who took over the Administration Building with nothing more than a bullhorn and lyric sheets for a Phil Ochs medley - and I really wouldn't count out anything they might choose to do between now and Sunday evening. Except any physical activity. Or buttoning up their jeans. Or achieving a cholesterol count lower than 275. Fuuuuck, the Kosher burrito alone boasts three pounds of pastrami.

Besides the laser precision attention to the weekend's menu, my next favorite thing about the email chatter as been that each of the various gatherings - tonight, tomorrow afternoon, tomorrow night - is being referred to as a "session", as in "the Saturday morning session will start around 10, in front of the Bob's Big Boy statue on Van Nuys Blvd, where we will commence to turn Bob into a Maypole and re-enact the draft lottery in collage and interpretive dance. Please come dressed as your favorite member of the Chicago 7 and, please, let's not have twenty Bobby Seales like we had last time. He was, admittedly, was the best one, being black and scary and  duct-taped and all, but he was the eighth. Also, can we designate the Sunday evening session as a gluten-free session? Some of us have to work on Monday."

Fastidious attention to the details - in history and burritos - is the hallmark of the Freak Lawn Fifteen (or so).

My plan is to Skype in periodically, capture the oeuvre, and then, with my magic recipe of one part actual fact + a gajillion parts shit I just make up, I will blog about the event so you won't miss a thing.

Oh wait. I think Mika said she is an attorney. I better use fake names, just to be safe. Oh shit. I mean, Miko.

Stay tuned for round-the-clock coverage. I know you are as super excited as I am.

I am posting a photo of Debbie's (oh shit. I mean, Dobbie) dad, Sherwin (damn it. Shorwin) engaging in a respectful exchange of opinion about Viet Nam. Just to get you in the mood.