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

A Paucity of Wit. My Ass.

We were discussing profanity in literature. Lunaea was careful to be discreet but I got the message.

"It can show a certain...paucity of wit" was her exact turn of phrase. Followed, of course, by "oh, but I don't mean your writing, Ann. When you use that language, it's..." I don't remember how she finished her sentence. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she let the ellipsis just hang there, gently fanning her reproach at me. No punctuation mark can shame like the ellipsis.  There is literally no end to its judgement. Unlike the coyly critical Question Mark - "You've had quite a lot to drink, haven't you?" - which states its objection and then walks away, the Ellipsis remains a continual reminder of your inadequacies. Fuck that shit.

Now, I don't expect the whole world to work blue. I get it that some people find my extremely liberal attitude towards profanity to be, I guess, distracting. I'm not everyone's cup of tea. I mean, Lunaea spells her blog, BLOGUE, for fuck's sake. I cannot imagine a post that features topics such as my sister's missing hymen or Mother Mary's hemorrhoids in anything called a blogue. And even if there was such a post in her blogue, Lunaea would probably capitalize it, as Victorian writers were wont to do, making it sound erudite and literary.

On the afternoon of the fourth colourful festival of lifts (I am just listing Olde words I know) my sister found herself on holiday at sea, and completely Without Her Hymen. Heavens!

And Lunaea, being A Very Talented Writer, could probably squeeze a pretty kickass story out of that beginning.  Whereas I, being A Very Lazy And Impatient Writer, I'd just shoot out a few "for fuck's sake"s and "FML"s and hit "publish". Because life is short and I want to be in the sun for a few hours before my stories come on.

The common anti-profanity objection of, "when you use those words it just shows that your vocabulary is limited" may be true, although I fully intend to count how many words I know because now my curiosity is piqued. Piqued, I said. You know, piqued:

            annoyance, blowup, conniption, dander, displeasure, flare-up, grudge, huff, hurt, irk, miff, offense, peeve, pet*, provocation, resentment, rise, ruckus*, slow burn, snit, sore*, stew, storm*, tiff, umbrage, vexation

 Still, I maintain that "for fuck's sake" stands on its own merit despite its many alternatives. I mean, when the new external hard drive you just bought is a piece of shit and comes with an ironclad return policy of, basically, "never. Ever. No matter what" even though they clearly misrepresented the product to you, and when you threaten them that it would be a shame if your son - THE LAWYER - would have to take time from his busy schedule to get involved on your behalf to facilitate a refund, and their response is, again, basically, "never. Ever. No matter what", well, a huffy, "By your leave, Sir!" isn't gonna cut it.

Plus, it would show a paucity of balls.

 

Chicken: A Fish Tale

"Hi! Come in, I have chicken. Do you want chicken?"

This is how - after not seeing each other for over three years -  my cousin Lori greeted me when I went to her house last week.

"There's chicken. It's in the fridge," she said. In case I was worried it had been sitting out on the counter for a few days. Lori knows I am paranoid about that. I promised my mom I wouldn't write shit about her in the blog anymore but I just want to say Mom has a VERY liberal attitude towards refrigerating poultry and I am wary.

Disclaimer: everything ever written by Dr. Strangemom about her mom may or may not be exaggerated or even a complete unsubstantiated lie drummed up by an ungrateful daughter with a snarky tongue. Dr. Strangemom's mom (Grandma Strangemom) fully complies with the USDA guidelines for food storage and refrigeration and furthermore, no one has ever spent the night on the toilet, moaning and mainlining Immodium after eating Grandma Strangemom's twelve-hour countertop chicken whereas many people have gone directly from eating chicken at my house to the ER. Also, I take back all that shit I wrote about The Tuna Incident. But in my defense, I never really expected Mom to read this blog.

Oh, also, it is NOT true, not true at all, that when I was in LA last week, EVERY fucking building into which Mom and I went, she turned to me and said, "Oy. It's so cold in here."

No, it is NOT true that she said it to me; she more often said it to the salesperson.

Me: Ah, thank God, it's air-conditioned in here. It's a motherfucker outside.

Mom: Oy. It's so cold.

Mom kept a sweater around her shoulders. I got naked and sprawled across the refrigerated cheeses at Gelson's.

"So, do you want some chicken? We have a ton," Cousin Lori followed me into the den.

"It's really good chicken," she assured me when I hid behind the couch to get away from her.

"Hi everyone!" I whispered from behind the couch. I miss my cousins so much. I have regular Facebook Scrabble games with Lisa and Andrea but it's not the same as actually being with them. You know, to sit together side by side and play Facebook Scrabble on our i-pads.

"What the fuck is up with Lori and damn chicken?" I asked Andrea and Lisa. Lori and her twin sister Lynn are younger than we are so I knew I could get Andrea and Lisa to side with me.

"Oh," said Lisa, it's really good chicken."

"True," said Andrea, who had just announced she is a pescatarian, "I had two wings. You know, because I don't eat chicken anymore. Just the wings."

Pescatarian. I looked it up. Yup. "A person who eats no beef or poultry, only vegetables, fruit, cheese, eggs and fish. And chicken wings, but only if they are really good."

Great Scrabble word.

 

 

 

Never Mind.

I went to Ojai last weekend for the wedding of the daughter of dear friends. You may have recognized me there. I was the one with the Transitions lenses that refused to turn light at night and I walked around in pitch black sunglasses, looking like the third of the Three Blind Mice, knocking down bridesmaids and shaking hands with the umbrella poles. I couldn't see a fucking thing. I can only presume I went back to the motel with Robin after the wedding. I know it was somebody hairy with cake on his breath. Whoever it was, he paid for the room. S'all good.

So, the Father Of The Groom dated my sister in high school, which is an enormously interesting fact to me. If it not interesting to you, you might want to consider skipping this post.

"I'm Karen's sister" I said to the F of the G during cocktails, expecting the response I've come to know, the response a person just cannot hear enough of: YOU'RE Karen's sister? Really???  Which, loosely translated means, your sister is a stone cold fox. You...um, look as if you have a pleasant personality. Which - joke on them - I don't.

"I remember when you went to the prom with my sister," I said to him, thinking that he could have been my brother-in-law and he's in show biz and maybe my life could have taken a more successful turn if Karen had cared at all about my future career when choosing her mate. Although I would never trade Craig in for anyone. I love my BIL and I say that with absolute conviction despite the fact that I have recently seen him post surgery in an immodestly open hospital gown. Vomiting.

The F Of The G shook his head and said something to me but I was distracted because just then I saw Robin at the other end of the lawn and I remembered that I had forgotten to warn him not to tell one of our friends that we were staying in LA for a few days after the wedding because I had told them that we were leaving directly from Ojai. I really have to start briefing Robin on the lies he is going to walk straight into. Or, I suppose, I could stop lying about shit. As if.

"Yup," I said to the FOTG, "I totally remember that prom night."

He says, "I never went to the prom with your sister." Which is weird because I know for a fact he did go to the prom with Karen. I have a photo.

I say brightly, "are you sure? I remember it pretty clearly." Implied in my statement is, don't fuck with me, Rico Suave. I had no social life so I hid in Karen's closet and memorized every detail of hers.

He says, "no, I never went to a prom."

Hunh. This is a puzzlement. And an ethical crossroads. Do I throw down the gauntlet, challenge him, fight to the death his revisionist history? Or, do I respect the fact that this is his only son's wedding day and maybe, just maybe, it is not all about me.

I do the only thing a caring person and courteous guest can do: I trash him to everyone I know at the wedding. The story about his vicious lie and bullshit memory circulates as fast as I can make my way to  the tables during dinner. I have left my body, traveled high in the Ojai skies; I look down and see myself stirring the pot, interrupting conversations, adding a little more detail each time I tell the story until the guy is a Cheney-lovin' reactionary homophobe who organizes Nazi re-enactments in his spare time when he is not running illegal bunny fights in his basement. I can't stop myself from telling everyone, even people I don't know, even people who are suddenly avoiding eye contact with me. Even people who are running to their cars when they see me approaching.

"Wait! You! Stranger!" I call to them as they lock their doors and carelessly speed down the dirt road to the highway, "do you want to hear something outrageous about the father of the groom?"

I am unstoppable, high on my own indignation. My BFF Nina further fuels the fire, mentioning to me during dinner (salmon. Roasted veggies. Delish) that even SHE has a copy of the prom photo. HAH. Game on.

That night in my motel room, I call Karen.

"Unbelievable," she agrees. "How could he not remember that?"

Karen acknowledges that she did break his heart, after all, and perhaps he has waited all these years, since 1968, to get back at her by gaslighting her little sister at his son's wedding. Could happen. Karen was a heartbreaker.

I hear Craig mumbling something to Karen in the background.

"Really?" she asks him. "Hunh." She gets back on the phone with me.

"Craig said I went to the prom with Denny whats-his-name. You know."

Oh, right. Denny. Not the FOG. Shit. Oops. Shit.

So I just checked out Denny on Facebook. Looks like he has a son around marrying age. Good thing I already have a dress.

 

 

 

Let's Twist Again Like We Did Last Summer

I'm having such a hard time writing the blog. I've been so tired. Just writing that now, I am spent. I must take to the couch with a cranberry and tonic, twist of lime, please. See how tired I am? I cannot even twist my own lime. Which is not a euphemism for anything prurient even though it totally sounds like it should be. Twisting my own lime is a capital thing to call it, isn't it?  So...sporty. So refreshing. Like a person would smack their lips afterwards and trot off to, say, clean up the oceans.

I bet more people would masturbate if there were agreeable euphemisms for it like "twisting my own lime".

Although the word "twisting" makes me a little bit nervous. It implies a spinal flexibility that I no longer have. I'd have to tweak it to, I don't know, gently stretching my own lime or something. Which sounds extremely repulsive and not at all like something that could relieve stress after a bad day or enhance a fantasy that Theodore Bikel is sharing my Jacuzzi.

Finding just the right words for things is a full-time job.  Albeit a non-paying one. And one that does make good use of one's precious time on this earth. Or of one's degree in Ethnomusicology. And its quest  causes one to hole up in one's office telling family that she is working on her novel, the novel that is almost done, the novel that will, surely, pay off the Master Card bill when, in fact, she is in there  thinking up clever euphemisms for the word "masturbation" for a blog post.

While the Chinese move ahead of us and take over the world.

A man with whom I am relatively newly-acquainted recently wrote the words, "sticking things up my ass" in an email to me. Rest assured the phrase was was neither his reply to my earlier query that morning  about how he spent his weekend nor was it his suggested  activity should he and his wife ever invite Robin and me over.  So I had no reason to be weirded out. In think, in fact, he used the phrase to make it clear to me how much he did not want to come to a class I teach, as in "I'd rather be at home..."

I mulled over his words. "Sticking things up my ass." Clearly, this is a person who does not while away his days in search of a perfect turn of phrase. Clearly, this man has more important things to do with his time - feeding the poor, perhaps, or recycling, or keeping the Chinese at bay, and thus, he just runs with the first words that come to him so he can get on with living his BEST life, as per Oprah's last wish to us.

Me, I am still here, trying to figure out how to end this post. I'm sorry, America.

 

 

 

 

Still here.

 

People. People who "like" people. Are the luckiest people in the world.

I've recently connected - via Facebook - with a friend I haven't seen in a million years. Such is beauty of Facebook. And now she wants to catch up and know what's new with me and get together for lunch or something. I might have to unfriend her.

I thought the whole point of Facebook is that you don't have to actually have conversations with people. I thought the point of Facebook is that life can now be lived solely in status updates and snarky comments and "likes". I really don't see a need for anything more.

I was hoping, frankly, that life will imitate art soon and we can just go about our daily lives clicking a "like" button on shit that pleases us. Slap a "like" button on every street corner.

And definitely, I see "like" buttons embedded into our foreheads so we can let others know if we are pleased or displeased to see them as we pass by. In fact, we can put "like" buttons on various parts of our bodies. I "like" your boobs and I am happy to see them.  Or, I do not "like" your hair all Brazilian blow-outted and shit. Or, I "like" your left boob but not your right one. And it would totally cut down on all that explaining and negotiation and graphs and crap during sex. Either you "like" it or your don't. 

No need for long conversations with people. No need to catch up - a person can simply peruse your list of "likes" from the past decade and know all she needs to know about you. No need to lose precious solitary  TV watching time at home.

I mean, for fuck's sake, if I had it in me to catch someone up with the past sixteen years of my life, I'd forgo Facebook and meet them for a drink. I'd have a...whatsitcalled....friendship.

Maybe I am part robot or something. Am I dead inside? Can't a person have a healthy, nurturing, supportive, dynamic friendship without having to actually go out and socialize? Can't a person be part of a loving community without actually having to interact with people?  No? Why the fuck not? A person can be, say, a Socialist without going to the meetings. Or you can be a member of Greenpeace and never set foot in a speedboat heading straight into a Japanese whaling ship. And I have personally been a dues paying member of Weight Watchers for years but have I ever, once, followed their eating plan? Or even lost a pound? No, I have not.

I rest my case.