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

I Did.

Thirty two years ago (this Friday), Robin and I had a huge fucking fight about something stupid. And by "stupid", I mean it was possibly my fault. At the core of the fight was an issue that continues to plague us to this day: I think it is hilarious when I fuck shit up, and Robin prefers to arrive at our wedding destination and not be informed that I have forgotten his shirt. And when I helpfully point out the humor in the situation (by way of telling him, "oh, lighten up, you big baby. You are harshing my wedding day mellow") he refuses to let it go and just wear the three-piece wool suit sans shirt in the 103 degree September LA weather. I mean, it's not like I forgot his pants. For fuck's sake.

He can be so uptight. Sometimes I have no idea why I married him. He really doesn't share my upbeat outlook on life. I might have to start sneaking my happy pills into his morning granola. Be like me!

If only I could marry myself. I am an ideal spouse. Ask anyone but Robin.

We didn't speak, or even make eye contact, all that afternoon. Not even when we were walking down the aisle. Not even when we were assembled under the wedding chuppah, not even when we put the rings on each others fingers. My noble attempt to make detente by complimenting him on his very manly hair shirt during our vows was met with staunch resistance. Really, what's a bride to do?

Our freeze began to thaw only when we both laughed during the ceremony because - having our wedding on a hill overlooking a golf course on a Sunday afternoon - a voice on the loudspeaker announcing that "Stevenson, your golf cart is ready" obscured all other sounds and finally, someone at our wedding yelled down the hill, "Stevenson, go get your fucking cart already!"

Which is why I maintain that yelling the word "fuck" at a formal event is never NOT funny. You can take that to the bank.

Anyway, Robin and I managed to get - and stay - married thus far. I have a tiny "To Do" list for him, however, which he must complete if he wants another thirty-two years out of me. The list includes "empty the trash in your bathroom." And, "change everything you do and are, and recreate yourself in my image".  

To celebrate our 32nd anniversary, we are driving up to Seattle for the memorial of a dear friend's mother. This will be perfect because Robin and I will have three hours together in the car with no distractions. Or, as Robin is calling it, "Captive." He is concerned that the drive will pretty much be a three-hour verbal intervention on him. Which is ridiculous, of course.

I have a written list.

 

 

 

 

Atonement 5.0

After 5773 years, I have finally figured out how to improve upon Yom Kippur:

You see, here's the deal: If I follow God's instruction to fast on Yom Kippur, I will feel virtuous and my clothes will feel nice and loose all that long prayerful day. Which will make me feel disinclined to atone for anything because I will feel so great. When I feel good, I tend to get cocky with my awesomeness. 

Instead of atoning, I will sit in temple and think about all the non-maternity clothes I can buy now that I have fasted for 24 hours. I will be filled with joy and optimism and energy and love for my fellow sentient beings.

This, surely, is not the attitude God wants from me. 

So, really, what I should actually do is grossly over-eat on Yom Kippur. Starting at sundown the night before, I should gorge myself, maybe sneaking in a few scallops wrapped in bacon, and eat myself sick. So the next day, sitting in temple for ten hours will be HELL. Pants cutting into my stomach, zipper jabbing the flesh, holding in my farts until they feel like a heart attack. Now THAT overfed, bloated feeling is guaranteed to put one in a despairing, self-loathing, beating-your-breast kind of mood. 

You know, the way God wants us to feel. Hopeless. Overwhelmed. Dyspeptic. Chosen.

AND I am certain I'll be able to take the weight off by Succoth. Because of this:

My son's friend Marissa told me about a phone app where you put money on the line for going to the gym. You say to your phone, "I am going to go to the gym for one hour every day for the rest of my life or else I will have to pay a million dollars to people I do not even know, maybe even Nazis or Romney supporters."

And if you don't do it, They (the Apps. Or Mitt's kids) take actual money out of your actual bank account and give it to random people who, I guess, have bet against you. No, maybe not. I stopped listening to Marissa at that point because all I could think about was her doctoral work with fruit flies and it concerned me to hear her say that fruit flies have brains because I don't know about you, but I do not want to live in a world where a fat person has to give money to Nazis or Republicans AND fruit flies have brains. 

But it did get me thinking about an Atonement & Fasting App and how I could make a buttload of money off it during the High Holydays. 

Any takers?

 

Eating. Fasting. Gaining. Losing.  Self-loathing. Self-medicating. I love the beautiful traditions of my people.