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

Watch For Falling Testicles

God help me. We are getting a puppy.

We almost got one a few months ago but there were some undescended testicle issues that put the brakes on that one. Which turned out to be fortuitous since this next puppy, thankfully, is going to be a girl. One set of testicles - undescended or otherwise - is all I can handle these days. As it is, after 32 years together, Robin still piddles when I come home from work. Well, he does pee in the backyard every day when he comes home from work. I have all the testosterone-driven male impulses I can take around here.

What is it with males and peeing outside? I mean, Robin has his name on the actual deed of our house; he doesn't need to mark his territory anymore. Maybe he worries that the squirrels are trying to buy us out or something.

I don't have anything against boys, per se. I raised two and I adore them. But as an entire gender, let's face it, boys are weird. For one thing, they totally think that their penises make them super hot. I will stand naked in front of the mirror only if I am court ordered (which would be a very effective deterrent to crime. "Mrs. Dr. Strangemom, you have robbed from the workers and given to the Tea Party. You are hereby sentenced to stand naked in front of the mirror for twenty minutes. In harsh light. And WITH your glasses on, Madam. And no squinting.") No thanks. I want to be cremated with my Spanx on.

Robin, on the other hand, will stand naked in front of a mirror just to give himself a extra little  confidence boost before going out into the world. He will pose and turn and do that Vegas shooting-your-finger thing at his reflection.

"Dude," his Penis will say to him, arching up for a High Five, "get a load of us. The girls are gonna be pretttty lucky to be near this." And Robin's brain will nod in agreement, in respect, in awe of Penis. And Penis will say, "let there be testosterone" and a sea of testosterone will coarse throughout Robin's body. And Penis will say, "this is Good." And He will piddle a little bit on the rim of the toilet seat. And He will not wipe it up. Because, you know, he is Penis.

And Robin will look at me looking at him, and he will wonder if I am as turned on as he is. And Penis will tap him on the shoulder and whisper to him, "don't let her harsh your mellow, dude. We are awesome."

And Robin and Penis will prove their awesomeness by going into our suburban back yard and peeing on the hydrangea.

So, yeah. This next puppy is going to be a girl. Which means her issues with be with her weight, finding the right bra and hitting the glass ceiling. I can't wait to teach her about Spanx.

 

A Mother's Day Story About Hemmoirhoids

The thing about being pregnant for the first time is that as far as you know, it's all about labor. The fact that an actual baby arrives at the end of it, and then you have to raise it forever, well, that part is just so unimaginable that it doesn't exist.

Labor. Contractions. Breathing. Hee hee hoo. Hoo hoo hee. Find your focus spot. Yeah, yeah, whatev. I figured I'd get through it or die trying and either way, it was all all cool. Plus, for fuck's sake, the Queen Mum had babies and she seems way detached from her lady parts so if she could do it, I could do it.

So, yeah. Contractions. I didn't obsess too much over them when I was pregnant. For me, it was all about the pushing part of the deal.

Because of, well, you know. Hemorrhoids.

In my family, the word "hemorrhoids" is spoken in the same hushed tones as the words, "Holocaust" or "pork". Hemmorhoids are feared and revered --the ultimate proof that Our People Suffer. And they are the Purple Heart of pregnancy, for sure. How much do you love your baby? Enough to have a prehensile tail of blood vessels hanging out of your ass for the rest of your life, that's how much. Now give Mommy a big kiss and go to grad school.

Years before I got pregnant, years before I got my period, I knew that pregnancy brings hemorrhoids. I might not even have been sure at that point that pregnancy brings a baby, but through generations of ancestral knowledge I knew not to push.

My mom said, "it's a conundrum. They tell you to push the baby out, and you want to, but you have to think about hemorrhoids and be careful."

Sophie's choice.

As my due date drew near and the baby's room was readied and the birth plan was written (my first piece of fiction, come to think of it), I practiced my fakeout pushing. Never mind that no woman in the history of EVER has been able to fake push out a baby; no woman ever had the fear of hemorrhoids put  in her like I did.

Remind me next time you see me to show you my fake, hemorrhoid fooling, ooh ooh I'm pushing the baby out face. All scrunched from the neck up; below the waist I am as loose as a bowl of overcooked linguine. Luckily my years of faking orgasms gave me a strong foundation in this ruse.

So, the big day arrives. I am in the labor room. It's time to push. I know what to do.

But there's an unforeseen problem. No one told me that it's not that you HAVE to push, like someone is forcing you; it's that you MUST push, like your body won't take no for an answer. If you have never had a baby, the only thing I can tell you it's like is when you get a dozen fresh bagels from the bakery and you have to climb into the back seat (where you put them, you know, to discourage eating them before you get home) during a red light and tear open the bag. And eat them all.

Which, coincidentally, was what I had eaten that morning before I realized I was in labor.

And so when I gave in to my primal urge that afternoon and pushed, pushed hard while Robin held my hand and gave me encouraging words that, frankly, aggravated the fuck out of me (" I could care less if you love me right now. Just get this baby out of me or go home and clean the house"), I knew that nothing - not even the dreaded hemorrhoids - could keep me from helping my baby be born. So I pushed with everything I had. I pushed so hard that all it took was, like, three good pushes and it was out.

"Boy or girl?" I asked Robin. Before he could answer me, I added, "and you know what? Pushing is not that hard. I don't know what everyone complains about. I guess I am even more awesome than I realized."

Robin looked at me with that kinda bemused, kinda disgusted at me face, the face he makes when I say shit like, "I actually look thinner when I gain weight because of, you know, the way my clothes fit me." Only this look was less bemused and more disgusted.

"Well? Boy or girl? What is it? And why isn't it crying?"  Uh-oh.

"Well," Robin said, "Because it's a poop."

What?

"You pooped. When you pushed so hard just now, you pooped. That's what's on the delivery table. A  POOP."

Really? Hunh.

"You still have to push the baby out."

Really? Hunh.

So I did. And it was fine. No big whoop. And no you-know-whats.

The gift that does NOT keep on giving. Best Mother's Day gift a child could ever give a mother.

 

There's something that's been bugging me since Passover. It's the whole liberation thing. Don't tell anyone, but.....I am just not all that into liberation.

You know what liberation brings?  Responsibility.

So, um, yeah. No thanks.

As a slave in Egypt, what would I worry about? Nothing, that's what. Room and board: check. Permanent employment: check. Year-long suntan: check. Slaves have all the damn luck. No bills to be paid, no writing deadlines, no having to choose colors for a bathroom remodel, no hours wasted perusing the Internet for vacation houses on Whidbey Island, no asparagus to return to Trader Joe's because it had a super funky smell, no afternoons at the Toyota dealership reading magazines and eating their free popcorn while they detail my car, and no feeling bloated after a huge meal of eggplant parmigiana.

Yeah, slavery. Man, that would be the life. Sun, job security, a dip in the river. Okay, I will just say it: Why did we leave Egypt?

Was there a vote? Because I think I would have to have cast mine with the Hell No, We Won't Go To The Promised Land movement. The drones, the slackers, the lovers of routine - these are my people.

But nooooo, we ALL had to be free, and now look at us. Liberated. Stressed. Looking for work. Texting while we drive. Throwing our underpants into the washing machine and not noticing that the used maxi pad is still stuck to it. 

That would not have happened to me in Egypt.

Someday, my Pharoah will come.

I hoped Robin would be one of those misogynistic, old school chuavenist pigs who didn't want their women to work or worry their pretty little heads about anything. I mean, he was all muscly and macho when I met him, and he dressed like Billy Jack. You hook up with a guy who wears a big black Stetson and carries a sword - you make some assumptions, you know?

Turned out, however, that macho, sword-wielding Robin was all about equality and feelings and scented candles and shit. When I told him that I wanted stay home and be a housewife, he laughed so hard one of his fillings popped out.  Then we had our first major fight. That was 32 years ago. I'll let you know when it's over. He thinks he won because I have a job but joke on him - I go to work for, like, seven minutes a day and then I come home and I just sit up here reading Us Weekly and watching Mob Wives, and every week or so I pump out a blog post and call it a day. So maybe I did okay in the end.

Still, I would totally rock an Egyptian tan.

 

 

 

100 Places Not to Visit Before You Die

Who thought of that stupid Facebook thing, anyway? You know, that app where everyone lists all the places they've been and shares their bucket list and seizes the day and puts pins on the map and shit? What a load.

100 PLACES TO VISIT BEFORE YOU DIE. Fuck that shit. No one needs to go anywhere. Everything you need is here. Plus, when you stay at home, time passes slowly. Which is like you are living longer. And you are not part of the clusterfuck which is the Santa Monica Freeway. On which a person could die on their way to LAX to visit one of the 100 places. Has no one else thought this thing through?

Being an intellectually curious person, however, I decided to check out the list. Let's take a look at the first 10:

1. Los Angeles --oh. Well, that one is okay. Because I've been there so there's no further travel involved on my part.  Also, they have El Pollo Loco in LA. Which, as far as I know, they do not have in actual Mexico.

2. Lake District --I don't even know where or what that is. I have been to a few lakes, however. Not a fan. I don't enjoy swimming in standing water that isn't chlorinated. Or that houses life forms other than human swimming by me. I'm barely okay with humans. Because you totally know they are peeing. Naturally occurring warm current, my ass.

3. Ngorongoro Crater -- Wikipedia advertises it this way: "The main feature of the NCA is the Ngorongoro Crater, a large, unbroken, unflooded volcanic caldera --"  Yawn. I don't even want to finish reading about it. Also, the words "large, unbroken, unflooded volcanic caldera" sound, I don't know, vaguely vaginal. Yuck.

4. Loch Ness -- Another reason to avoid lakes. I do, however, enjoy the gutteral "ch" in the name because it's like Yiddish.  Which would make the monster Jewish. Which would ROCK. A treyf-eating, college-eschewing, rugby-playing, Navy Seal-joining, mother-estranging, hairless back-sporting, tattoo-ed  spendthrift. Run for your lives! Hide your blond daughters!

5. Republic of Seychelles -- I like that its name is also a command - "say SHELLS". Every time someone says the name of the place, I could say, "Okay, SHELLS".  And I'd laugh merrily. I could probably stay there for two weeks on that joke alone. I would kill in the Republic of Seychelles.                           

Seychelles. Okay, SHELLS. Hah.

6. Ibiza --people wear bikinis there. Pass.

7. Patagonia -- A few years ago I ordered moisture-wicking socks from the catalog. They refunded me TWICE. And they never realized it. What a bunch of boobs. Still, I better keep a low profile and stay away. Don't want to wind up in some Patagonian prison getting funky moisture-laden crud on my feet.

8. Great  Barrier Reef --  Again, I suspect that bathing suits are required. Again, pass. As God is my witness, I am never holding my stomach in again. EVER. Unless I meet Theodore Bikel. Or I am interviewed on CONAN. To promote my novel. Which I have to finish writing. Which is why I cannot visit any of these places. I have real work to do.

9. Nine Hells -- Of course I was drawn to this place. I Googled it but the only description of Nine Hells was about Baator, from Dungeons and Dragons. And frankly, I lived through one of my kid's obsession with D & D; I really don't ever need to hear one more thing about it. I imagine this Nine Hells place to be the back room of a huge comic book store where dorks in capes ridicule you with elvish insults. And you have to wear a bikini.

10. Ring of Fire Volcanoes -- Oh for fuck's sake, do the creators of this list even know what a vacation is?  A destination called Ring of Fire Volcanoes does not sound relaxing to me. I bet they don't even have a chlorinated pool there. Also, any place called Ring of Fire Volcanoes makes me worry about hemorrhoids.

I tell you what: I am going to get working on my own list. As soon as I get dressed, run to New Seasons Market and pick up a couple of cranberry panini rolls. They are to die for.