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

Me And My (Red) Arrow

There's this intersection I drive through, like, a billion times a week and every single time I drive through it I remember that I do not know if it's okay to make a right turn on the red arrow or not.

I've been wondering about it for almost seventeen years, since the first time I was at the front of a long line of cars and the signal turned to the red arrow. Cars started honking at me, which spurred me on to immediately step on the gas and GO because, you know, I didn't want them to think I was a pussy or something. It's crucial to me that people do not see me as a pussy driver. Or as a pussy anything. Or see me as I truly am.

It's very difficult to maintain my hard-ass image while I nervously wait out the red arrows in life.

Oh, I know I look all tough and shit, running out onto my front lawn in my housecoat, giving the finger to the world, shaking my fists and railing at the gods and all, but I am actually quite mellow and "whatev" deep down inside. Under all the vitriol. And the Wheat Thins. And all the wine.

There are, however, a few things that bring out the inner ass-kicker in me:

1. People who forget to eat because they are busy. Really? Fuck you.

2. People who believe that America's middle class is going to do better with Romney as our president. I am going to send my brilliant wonky sons out to each of your homes and make you listen to them. I would go to your home myself but I tend to get fuzzy on the numbers and facts, plus I have a thing about eating food from other people's kitchens. Presuming you would offer me food. Unless you are too busy to remember to eat. In which case, double fuck you.

3. White people who think they are all that. Actually, I am against white people in general these days. I am sick of us. We are just so...weenie. So....white. 

4. Exceptions to the rules of the road, including the dreaded red arrow. I mean, it should either mean STOP or GO. None of this "well, under the following circumstances, a person might choose to..." bullshit. How much thinking can a person do while driving and texting and spreading wasabi on her sushi and trying to remember if it is Brawny or Bounty that is owned by the evil Koch brothers?

I am just one person, for fuck's sake. I can't do everything.

Maybe the laws are different in California where I learned to drive. I think that in California a person can make a right hand turn on a red arrow. Or on a blinking red arrow. Or if a classic Lionel Richie song comes on the radio. Or if you really, really want to.

On the other hand, maybe it should be a personal choice. Some folks go on the red arrow, some stay put. Whatev.  Just don't buy Bounty. Or is it Brawny? Ask my  kids.

 

 

The Call Is Coming From Inside My House.

I am pretty worried about some shit.

I am worried that the dull ache in my upper left molar means I am going to need yet another root canal. 

I am worried that I will never learn to use my i-phone and I will spend the rest of my life accidentally taking videos of my body parts when I meant to lower the volume on my phone, and saying "hello? Hello??" into the wall phone jack.

And I am worried about the election, of course. I just don't think I have it in me to cope if Romney wins. I might have to repeatedly hit myself on the head with a cast iron frying pan and put myself in a coma for four years. To deal with my worrying, however, I volunteered to do phone banking for Obama.

Here's how you do it:

You call the numbers they give you and you say (into the phone jack), Hello (fill in name). My name is (fill in name) and I am calling from the Obama campaign. Then you ask questions from a prescribed list and thank them for their answers. Then, before they hang up, you ask them if they know of any publishers who would like to make a book out of your blog posts.

Now, I am a pretty good schmoozer despite the fact that I hate talking on the phone. I guess I just hate talking on the phone to people I actually know; talking to faceless names around the country doesn't really bother me. Especially when I get to talk to them about myself. 

I mean, Obama.

No I don't. 

One lady in Cleveland felt that the dull ache in my molars was something I should definitely ask my dentist about. A man in Dayton suggested Sensodyne. I left a long message on the voice mail of a guy in Columbus about finding a publisher for my blog, but I am still waiting for a call back on that one.

Yep, I think Obama has a good chance.

You're welcome.

Frankly, I don't know how effective phone calling is, even when done correctly by people who are not self-absorbed and hoping to get free dental advice from registered Democrats around the country. I am trying to remember if getting a phone call about something has ever actually spurred me on to do the thing. I am also trying to remember if anything has ever spurred me on to do anything.

Nope. It's really a miracle I get out of bed every morning. But I digress...

Here's how I fantasized the calls would go:

Me: Hello, Ohio Democrat, my name is Dr. Strangemom and I am calling from the Obama campaign.

Ohio D:  Dr. Strangemom? The blogger? OMG, I want to publish you.

Me: Thank you. But I am calling about President Obama.

Ohio D: Right. I'm so confused. Tell me what to do, Dr. Strangemom.

Me: Vote for him. Vote in all Democratic senators and congresspeople, as well. And give a lot of money         to NORML. And to the David Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage in Kenya.  And to me.

O.D: Will do.

(End scene)

In reality, however, it goes this way:

Me: Hello, Ohio Democrat.

Then I get an incoming call on my i-phone and I start pushing random buttons and wind up recording a video of my stomach. Which I send to the Ohio Democrat.

And Obama wins by a landslide.

 

Why It Isn't Worth It To Do Anything. First in a series.

I am in that awkward in-between stage of life: too young to totally let myself go, and too lazy to improve myself.

Maybe I will just end this post at that last sentence. I mean, really, what more can I say about the topic that is going to matter?

Dr. Oz says that all we have to do is focus on one thing and work on that. Which is bullshit, of course. Because you can't improve upon only one thing without having to up your game on the rest of your shit. It's all connected.

It's like when you are just about to take a shower but all the towels are in the washing machine so you have to use, like, ten clean kitchen towels to dry yourself and while you are naked in the kitchen getting the towels, you smell something funky.  Which, upon investigation, is the kitchen trash. And you decide to take out the kitchen trash now, you know, so you don't have to do it after your shower when you are all clean and shiny and all great smelling of Burt's Bees Sugar and Honey Scrub.

So you throw on a schmatte and tie up the trash bag but some garbage falls out the top and leaves a funky viscous drool on the kitchen floor. So you put the bag back into the kitchen trash can and get a paper towel to wipe up the floor so the new puppy doesn't eat the funky drool and vomit while you are taking out the trash.

But shit. You are out of paper towels. And the new package of them is downstairs because Robin insists on shopping at fucking Costco even though there are only TWO of you left in the house and he brings home the, I don't know, four hundred roll package of Brawny, which doesn't fit anywhere except downstairs in the guest bedroom. Which reminds you that Mom is coming next week. And that we aren't even supposed to buy Brawny paper towels because they are owned by the evil Koch brothers, so you drop everything to write Robin a note that says, "Mom is coming next week. Please remove your porn from the guest bedroom. Also, we are boycotting Brawny. And stop fucking shopping at Costco. The Persian cucumbers always go bad before we can finish them, and let's be honest - we NEVER actually cut a maple muffin in half and freeze the other half. We eat the whole fucking muffin. Which is why I have to let the seams out of my maternity underpants."

It will be a stellar note: Robin's fault that we are poor AND I am fat. I love being a writer.

But all the pens are dry and the only thing you see on which to write Robin a note is the envelope from the library reminding you that you owe approximately eighty two million dollars in overdue fines.  Which reminds you - those books you thought you lost were actually in the back of the Toyota! So you run down to the car to bring them into the house. And then you think, "I should really keep them in the car so I don't forget to return them" which, of course, is exactly the reasoning that put them in the car eleven months ago.

And while you are out in the driveway, you see that the garbage can is already filled to the top so when you bring the kitchen trash bag out, it is going to make it impossible to close the lid. And then everyone on your street will judge you for being a household of two and having so much garbage like, I don't know, maybe they will think you don't recycle or compost - which you do - or that you throw entire contents of linen closets into the kitchen trash - also which you do - when you don't feel like folding towels and stuffing them into the shelf.

And then you totally forget why you are standing in the driveway.

And then you notice the color of your hair in your car's side mirror and you decide that - broke or not - you are springing for the non-generic hair color next time because in the sunlight you look like you are wearing one of those multi-colored clown wigs. And then you remember that this is Oregon and there never is any fucking sunlight.

Which gets you thinking.

Do you want to move? Not back to LA, of course, although you do miss your friends and family. And will you ever realize your dream of the commune on Whidbey Island? And how will you ever convince Cousins Adam and Ken to leave New York? What will it take, dear Lord, to get them here? Maybe my hair will be a cry for help that will bring them running to me.

Oh, and do I want a salmon burger for lunch? I think I do.

And where is the spray starch, because I have a lot of shit to iron. I love my JJill linen tops but it's a lot of ironing. I do love JJill. I wonder when the next catalog is coming...

And - shit! What if Romney wins? I don't think I have it in me to handle that without a major incident.

And why is Phila running outside carrying a large white pillow case? How adorable.

Wait. That is not a pillow case at all. It is the trash bag that I left in the kitchen. And she has torn it open. 

And all the kitchen trash is scattered all over the kitchen and down the stairs and now, on the front lawn. And then it all comes back to you - why you are standing there and what needs to be done.

And you think to yourself, Robin really needs to mow the lawn.