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

Fifty Shades of Off-Grey

I cannot discuss that book with you. Because my MOM read it and then she will call me and want to discuss it with me and then I will have to pour hot tar up my nose and into my brain so I can die. My mom is super open about sex - isn't that GREAT? No.

Also, I can't discuss it because I didn't read the book.

I don't know about you, but I am not in any hurry to get my hands on FIFTY SHADES OF GREY. I mean, I just know it wouldn't work for me. And, frankly, the last thing I need is more evidence that I am dead inside. 

Reading a book about someone having sex is not going to put me in the mood to have sex. It will, however, totally put me in the mood to write a book. Which will make me feel bad for not working on my novel. Which will piss me off at Robin because, you know, it's his fault. And then I will attack the Wheat Thins, which will fill me with self-loathing for being fat and then there is no way in hell I am going to want to get naked and have sex with anyone. 

And there's the whole sado-masochist thing in the book. Which my mom told me about. While I was driving. It was hard not to steer directly into a tree and end the conversation. From what I was forced to hear, I understand that the woman was okay with spanking and the like. Again, I just don't get it. The last time anyone tried to spank me I was two years old. I actually don't remember it but Karen says that she (then age four) and I were gonna get a spanking for some transgression so she told me to put a bunch of hardcover books in my underpants. You'll have to ask Karen why she thought that was a good idea. Karen has always had some weird shit ideas. I bet she probably even read FIFTY SHADES OF GREY. Hey, Karen! Mom's on the phone. You two have a lot to discuss.

My point being, spanking would only make me think about books. Books in my underpants. BLUEBERRIES FOR SAL, most likely, or HAROLD AND THE PURPLE CRAYON, which were our favorites at the time. And that just doesn't seem respectful to literature, you know? To stick books down your pants. Plus, Harold is cute enough and all, but I don't want him down there. 

Note: I suspect that even if I put great literature in my underpants before getting spanked, I would not feel sexy. But I'm willing to give it a try. Maybe my signed copy of KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL.

You know what would turn me on? Fifty shades of white. In a minimalist living room with polished wood floors. In the Room and Board catalog. I could stare at a photo like that for a long time.

Especially if it's tone-on-tone.

 

The Quick Brown Firefox Jumps Over My Lazy Computer

I had, like, five really hot topics for the blog but then something happened that changed everything:

Firefox updated itself last night and my old computer won't accept it anymore. So I had to switch to Safari.

First, the Holocaust and now this. My people are always being persecuted. Plus, my people are not a Safari people. We are a desert people. So we use Firefox.

Opening my computer on a regular weekday morning and suddenly having to use a completely unfamiliar browser, well, that rocks my fragile world. It's like, I don't know, landing in Zimbabwe when I boarded the plane for Palm Desert. I don't speak the language, I don't recognize the landmarks and I have no idea which native foods will give me diarrhea.

I miss Firefox. When will the hurting stop?

Before today, I could wake up in the morning, lumber into my office, log in and start my day all without a cup of coffee or even opening my eyes. Yea, though I walked through the valley of Gmail and Facebook, I was not afraid; Firefox was by my side. Now I must cleave myself unto a new browser. And now I have to figure out how to hack into Robin's email account all over again. 

Yeah, I hack into his account. The way I see it, hacking is like having an intimate conversation with my husband - sharing hopes, dreams and secrets -only he doesn't even have to be there. We can maintain our intimate bond while one of us is sleeping or at work, and then when we are actually together we can pretty much just watch TV in silence during dinner.

Win/win. Going on 32 years this September.

It's a good thing I know Robin in real life because in real life he is hugely interesting. He raises bees, he does Tai Chi, he taught himself to be a salmon fisherman, he plays the clarinet, he can quote Neruda and Karl Marx.  To judge him, however, solely by his emails, FB, private messages and the porn he bookmarks, he is a big ole slice of white bread. With Miracle Whip. 

Only once did I find something juicy in his Comcast account. An unread email from a woman who, evidently, was really pissed off at him. She sent him this laundry list of his transgressions full of very cutting and - in my opinion -  unnecessarily cruel and personal remarks. It was totally out of line. I almost deleted it and sent her an email defending him. But then Robin might know that I had hacked him. Also, the email was from me. That was when I learned that Robin doesn't even bother opening emails from me that have as the subject line: Fuck You And Here's Why. I swear, the man doesn't even want to make our marriage better.

So, farewell Firefox. And farewell hacking, because if I've learned anything from being on Safari for a day, it's that a marriage must be based on trust. And that now when I access Robin's accounts, it shows up on my History.