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

From The "True Story" Files

                                        THIS MORNING, 6AM

Me (waking up and talking to Robin, still asleep next to me): Are you up? Did you hear your alarm?

Robin: (silence)

Me: Robin! Your alarm is blasting! Can you hear it? Turn it off.

Robin: (silence)

Me: Goddammit, Robin. Turn off your fucking alarm.

Of course, he doesn't. So I reach behind the bed and yank the cord out of the wall. I yank it by the cord which deeply upsets Robin the electrician but I am trying to make a point. The alarm stops.

Robin says nothing. Oh, so that's how he wants to play it? Fine.

I roll over and pull up the covers. If Robin wants to oversleep and be late for work, fine with me. He only has himself to blame. Good night. I am on summer vacation.

I get into my favorite comfortable sleeping position and try to revisit the dream I was having. All I can retrieve, however, is  an image of carrot cake. Was I dreaming about carrot cake? Again? Note to self: what is wrong with me?

Fuck. I can't get back to sleep. If Robin is late for work, it will affect ME because I need his paycheck. Fuck, fuck, fuck my life.

I get out of bed with an audible sigh, making as much commotion as possible. I mutter a few words like, "lazy" and "why should I have to get up? I am on summer vacation" and "guess there's no time for a morning BJ now", which, even in his silence I can hear Robin snorting at my transparent threat. That was never in the cards.

As I sit on the toilet, I think to myself, "maybe I will be a better person today."

I often have these kinds of thoughts during my morning pee. It is my most spiritually open time. I try to make some sort of positive declaration for the day when I pee. You know, like, "I will not flush the wipes down the toilet even though they say 'flushable' right on the box", or "I will not use Robin's razor on the parts of my body that I cannot see."

But this morning I have a chance to be a nice person. Instead of being all bitchy at Robin for ignoring the alarm, I have a chance to be loving, gentle, a soft place - as Dr. Phil likes to say -to land. And, frankly, I got nothing else going today. I suppose I can afford the effort. In fact, I am going to surprise him with a morning BJ. Yes I am. God, I am awesome. And it will make up for that time I started giving him one but then I got distracted by a new mole on my arm that totally looked malignant and I started crying and  Robin had to call the doctor for a same-day appointment while I rocked myself in the fetal position and composed goodbye letters in my head to my kids.

I walk back into the bedroom and climb in next to Robin. I run my fingers lightly along the comforter under which he is hunkered.

"Honey," I say, "do you need to get up or can you sleep in? Should I bring you a cup of coffee?"

He says nothing. He's probably wondering if this is a trick. I can understand that, since I have a bitchy habit of giving Robin decaf and saying it's real when I am pissed at him and want him to have a headache that day.

"REAL coffee," I say, with a nicer person, gentle, loving, soft-place-to-land laugh,"I will make you real coffee."

I can smell the lemon verbena shampoo he uses. My favorite smell. This is nice. I reach over to rub Robin's head.

It's not there. Nor is the rest of his body which, all things considered, is probably a good thing. Finding him headless would be a way worse morning mellow-harsher than finding him missing.

But, what the hell is going on? I finally reach over to my nightstand and fumble around for my glasses. I put them on.

I am hugging a navy blue pillowcase adrift in the all-white sea of our King size bed.

I wonder how long it would have taken me to find THAT out without my glasses. How far would I have gone?

I don't even want to know.

 

Happy Birthday to Robin

Robin's birthday happy ending: check.

I know he'd want you to know.

He'd also want you to know that he was a champ stud. We started the day before his birthday and ended on his birthday. Yeah, well, it was 11:58 last night to 12:13 this morning, but still. So, technically, it was a happy birthday happy beginning.

Wait, shit. Does that mean we have to do it again tonight?

I mean, yay.

No I don't.

It's not that I don't like sex. Or that I don't like sex with Robin. It's just that it's so much work, you know? I'm not all about the herculean effort in life. And I'm not just talking about the isometric stretching beforehand and the victory lap afterwards. I mean, I'm down with that whole deal. I am talking about the work it takes to hold myself in positions that do not highlight my flab. Because even Robin's macular degeneration and calloused fingers can detect an absence of...er...tone in my bod. Having sex with me in unprepared positions is like having sex with a Pillow People person. Not that I'm judging. I mean, it's not my thing but God bless.

It used to be that staying very still on my back did the trick.  Everything settles in when you're on your back. Plus, my plethora of chins virtually disappear in that position. However, holding that pose presents a new problem: sideways runaway boobs. I look like a young boy holding a pair of deflated balloon under my armpits.

And, try as I may to make that a hot fantasy, Robin isn't into it.

You know what does turn Robin on? When I take off my glasses.

I swear to God. He likes me to keep them on for a little while and then take them off. He says it signals that I am really going to go all the way this time.

I guess I have stopped the action at times before, you know, the full launch system has been activated.

You know what Robin hates?

When I surreptitiously keep one leg in my underpants during sex. For quick retrieval afterwards. I like to get dressed after sex in the spirit of the crabbers when they do those timed tests for getting into their survival suits on "Deadliest Catch". My record is 3 seconds. Only my bra was on inside out.

I just don't see how watching me cavort naked is going to strengthen - or even save - our marriage. And frankly, Robin's thyroid levels are still being regulated from the cancer; seeing Dr. Strangemom, Unplugged, in the harsh light of day can fuck with his chemical balance.  And if he actually died from seeing me naked, I'd totally have to lie and tell people he, I don't know, ran into a poison dart or something. I know I come off all fuck you and shit, but my self- esteem is not invulnerable to shame.

Maybe what I need to do during sex is wear a really big hat. You know, for distraction. Maybe with peacock feathers. And a live cheetah. And a full bong.

I'll get working on it right away. I gotta be ready in a year.

 

 

 

 

 

Say What?

Robin's been out of town, won't be home until late tomorrow night, and for reasons too complicated to explain, I needed to get some money. Fast.

I checked all my usual hiding places but - no shock - there were empty. There was a note in my best hiding place, written from me to, I guess, me. It read: REPLACE THIS MONEY YOU ARE TAKING.

Actually, that would be a fun note to leave for burglars. Although, being raised a nice Jewish girl, first I'd have to write, "and please excuse the mess. And help yourself to leftover chicken in the fridge. Honey mustard. Delish."

And, as an afterthought, "are you single? I have a cousin."

And "P.S. Is this just a temporary thing, burglary? You are waiting for your LSAT scores, maybe?"

And finally, "please don't go through my drawers and judge me by the gargantuan size of my underpants. I like a lot of room."

The Oregonian would post a story about a nice, single law student breaking into my house and enjoying my chicken which would - my luck - give him the runs and then my mom would read the story and call me up and say, "see? You are so worried about my chicken not be refrigerated and look what happens when a person eats yours straight from the fridge." And then she'd remind me not to write shit about her anymore on my blog.

And, of course, all the Oregonian would report about me is: the 57-year old victim - who swears she is starting a diet tomorrow -  wears a size XXL maternity brief.

But this is not what my post is about.

I decided to do some online banking and move money into my checking account since I can't wait for Robin to get home tomorrow night to do this for me. I am embarrassed to admit that I have never done online banking. I leave that to Robin because, honestly, if I did everything else I do AND the banking, too, well, I'd just be too fabulous and I'd probably implode or something. Also, because I really don't want to do it. It makes me anxious.

So I get to the bank site and I click "forgot username" and "forgot password".

They tell me they will email me my username and password. I just need to answer a few questions.

No problem. Robin and I have been married for almost 31 years. What he knows, I know.

First question: what is the name of your high school?

Shit. I know this. I know this. I have to know this.

I don't know this.

I go to the next question: what was your favorite childhood pet?

Shit. Robin told me stories about a golden retriever named Cindy. No wait, that was his brother's old girlfriend. Shit. I don't know this, either. Wait. Nola! No, that was the cleaning lady who - clearly having no sense of smell -  folded Robin's funky, worn underwear and put them back in the drawer every Tuesday.

Question #3: In what city were you born?

Are you fucking kidding me? Why don't I know this??? God, I guess what Robin always says is true - I do not listen to him.

Unbefuckinglievable. I cannot answer one question about Robin's life. Can I really be as self-absorbed as this?

I shut down the computer. Gotta wait until tomorrow night to have Robin fix this. Why didn't I pay better attention these past, oh, 31 years when he was talking? Sometimes I don't even mute the TV. And now, because I am such a sucky wife, I am shit outta luck with the money.

Hold on, the phone is ringing. It's Robin!!!

Well, well. He just called to say his plane, which is coming in TONIGHT (oh. Not late tomorrow night? Oops) will be a little bit late. Tonight. Like he had told me.

Which I totally knew.

Hot Pants

I've been worrying about death again.

Months (well, weeks. Well, days) have gone by without my usual daily keening and moaning and hand-wringing that Death is just around the corner. I really don't know why my brain finally took a respite from it, although now that I think about it, maybe it's because Death really is around the corner this time.

Fuck. I'm dead if I worry; dead if I don't.

And yes, I have been taking my Prozac, why do you ask?

What got me going this time was a conversation I had with a few friends after services last night. I was regaling them with the story about Robin's mom almost being buried with no pants (remember that post? "Mama kent fly to Heaven vit no pents!") and soliciting their promises that when I die, someone will check to make sure I am properly dressed before I am on my way to Eternity because I kent fly to Heaven vit no pents, either. Especially since, the way our financial situation is going, I am definitely gonna be flying Coach. And back in the cheap seats I bet they are going to be really strict with a dress code. Isn't that way it always goes? Punish the working class. And I bet we don't even get food, not even that Lilliputian size bag of knock off Chex mix while up in Business and First Class to Heaven, they are running around willy-nilly with no pants, jumping on the seats, eating beluga and watching unaired episodes of "30 Rock".

And you just know it's gonna be the rich Republicans and the banksters who can afford First Class. Well, at least they'll have to watch "30 Rock" and know that Alec Baldwin is a bigass Democrat getting rich on his successful show. HAH.

Oh, for fuck's sake,this is the best I can do in my revenge fantasy against Republicans? Baldwin is getting rich? AAAAIIEEE. I gotta bitch slap someone. Quick! Bring me Bachman. Or Scott Walker. Any of them, really. I got an itchy open palm.

Wait, where was I again? Right. Death.

As you may recall, I relieved Robin of the "making sure I am wearing pants when I die" task the day he spent more than ten minutes wondering if it was worth it to brave the rush hour traffic on the Arroyo Seco Parkway just to run back and get a pair of pants in which to dress his mother in her coffin. This is not a person I want making my fashion decisions when my time has come.

We argued about it for a short while and I finally got Robin to agree to put pants on me. But only if he can leave my top off.

"I am proud of your boobs." He said, as if that would sway me. "I'm gonna stand next to your open casket and when my friends file by to view you, they will high-five me and they will say, "duuuude. Your wife has really big boobs! Way to be, bro!"

It's a little unsettling that this is how Robin imagines my funeral but who am I to judge fantasies? I am obsessed with slapping Republicans.

And anyway, I'm going to be cremated.

 

 

Napa time

We decided to spend an afternoon in Napa on our way up from LA.

Robin's vision: lazily wending our way in and out of wineries, tasting delicious wine and food, sitting under the shade of an oak tree and having sex under a picnic blanket. Preferably with me, but he stressed that the who wasn't necessarily a deal-breaker. Marriage is all about compromise. We learned that in therapy.

The reality: me getting drunk by the time we left the second winery and sleeping all the way to Arcata.

Poor Robin. He tried to rouse me but the harmonic conversion within me of alcohol, sunshine, Prozac and lack of sleep the night before was no match for him. At one point, he just parked the car and left me there to snore while he enjoyed the Malbecs and the company of people who were, well, awake. He later told me that when he got back to the car, it was baking in full sun and I looked slightly dead in there. He said my hair was plastered to my sweaty face and I was clutching my cell phone. He also said that my pants were unzipped and that really freaked him out but I kinda remember trying to take them off myself when I dropped a tangerine section in my underpants. By accident. I presume.

I really need to lay off the hooch in 100 degree weather.

Actually, I was a little bit more fun than just that. For one thing, when we got to the first winery I had to pee really badly, and when the waaay-fucking-too-earnest sommelier asked me if I am most interested in red or white, I answered, "honestly, I just have to use the bathroom. So I have to say I'm most interested in yellow."

And oh, how I laughed merrily at my joke. My laughed echoed in the silence around me. Yeah, well fuck Napa and their paucity of humor, you know?

"Most interested in yellow." Fuck me. That joke kicks ass.

Next time, I am trying my act out in Sonoma. I hear the wineries there are much more open to new comics.