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

Sticks and Stoned

Nina and David are coming up to visit next week. And may I just say, YAHOO.

We have begun planning. Nina emailed this morning to say that all she wants to do is lie around on the back deck chaise lounges and eat sushi. I am exceedingly relieved to hear that because last year, she and David started each morning at 7AM by going to the nearest gym for a workout. Then they wanted to get out and experience all that the Pacific Northwest - and life -  offers. That was a long weekend for me.

I am, however, in a water aerobics class this summer so I don't have to feel like such a workout loser in front of them. But I've only had two classes and frankly, the pounds and inches are not dropping off as quickly as I had hoped. Nina and David might not even notice that I have worked out for two hours already this summer. Unless they are reading this post. Which I don't think they do. Being so busy experiencing life and being at the gym and all.  I really don't know what I see in them.

Last year when they visited, we instituted a new tradition: Morning Fire and Truth Circle. It was mostly just sitting around the back deck, hungover, in the morning, staring at the still-burning embers in the outdoor fireplace and finishing up the hooch from the night before, but I like to give things Capitalized Titles. And calling our new tradition Fell Asleep Drunk In My Own Vomit Last Night On The Back Deck lacks a certain, I don't know, heft.

Truth Circle needs its fake, weenie, wannabe Native American props. So I found a twig, which we christened The Talking Stick, and reminded everyone of The Rules: One may speak only when one is holding the talking stick. I suppose Native American babies are born understanding this but middle aged Jewish adults needs remediation. Our people is not a patiently waiting for our turn to talk kind of people. We are more of a pretending we are listening to the other person but really just formulating our next comment in our heads sort of folk. 

My family had tried using The Talking Stick a few years ago when we were embroiled in a heated argument about using the term, "gypped" (from "Gypsy". Which is derived from "Egyptian". So it's twice offensive). My family tends to interrupt and yell and bang our shoes on the table during polite discussion, so my sister grabbed the kitchen broom and declared it The Talking Stick, hoping to restore Native American grace, order and courtesy to our brawl.

It worked for about three seconds. Then one of my kids realized we have TWO kitchen brooms. And Alia grabbed a spatula. You can see where this is going. In the end, all seven of us were screaming at each other, making our points, arguing everyone else's points and holding on to our person Talking Sticks - mop, Swiffer, you name it. My Talking Stick was a colander. Which I used to cover the face of the person who tried to talk when I had something to say. Ah, the gentle traditions of the Native Americans.

I know it sounds odd that we would have been arguing over the topic of using an offensive term. I mean, it's not like any of us was in favor of being culturally insensitive; it's not like when we had a family fight over whether or not it's appropriate to interrupt someone in order to correct their grammar. Which it totally is. Because people should know. Yes, they should. Shut up. No, you shut up.

Where was I? Oh, right. Nina and David.

We will probably have to institute The Talking Stick when Nina, David, Robin and I make our daily plans, as there are issues such as which winery to visit and whether or not we'll use low-sodium soy sauce on the sushi, and the four of us are pretty opinionated. David suggested in his email that we allow filibustering this time but I told him that I am not certain I can stand for eleven hours without leaning against or holding onto something. And then David suggested that I could hold on to his, um, Talking Stick. His exact words were: I've got something you can hold onto.

I generally scoff when David works blue, but I have to admit I laughed at his offer. And then I pointed out that he ended his sentence with a preposition.

 

 

The Old Ladies And The Sea

Sometimes - coming out of the shower and catching a glimpse of my naked self, for instance - a great notion is born. Like, to get rid of mirrors in the bathroom. Or blind myself with an ice pick. 

Last week, however, I had a new notion:

A water aerobics class at my friend Andrea's pool! By invitation only! Members hand-picked by me!

The requirement to join was that each invitee had to prove self-loathing in a bathing suit. And I had to believe them. None of that ersatz self-deprecation hiding some, "I love my big, beautiful body" crap. Self-acceptance bugs the shit outta me. Life is too short to hang with people who are happy with themselves. Or with others. Or pretty much anyone, really.

I told Andrea, "I am going to invite a bunch of old fat women to your pool. You may not come out of your house.  Your children will have to be blindfolded. And your husband better not get near any windows or I will kick his ass."

Now, Andrea's husband is about as buff as they come. I couldn't kick his ass even if he were already dead. But Rich is Jewish and Korean. I knew he'd stay away. He knows better than to fuck with a strong woman. 

And so it began.

Three of us descended into the shallow end of Andrea's pool last Tuesday. Two of us came out an hour later, as I was still stuck in the deep end, wrapped around my styrofoam noodle, desperately flutter-kicking my way back, trying to hold onto the fucking useless "shelf bra" that had disengaged itself from the blouson top of my bathing suit when I was showing off by attempting to stand on the submerged noodle so it would pop itself - and me - up in a spectacular Esther Williams-esque finale to the first class. I sort of have a problem with showing off when I am feeling insecure. It never ends well for me but I never seem to learn.

We did a lot of laughing, the three of us that first morning. We did a little less laughing this morning because One Of Us made a careless comment last Tuesday that the workout wasn't so difficult, so our teacher amped up the aerobics part of the experience this morning and we didn't have much extraneous breath for laughter. Last Tuesday, the only time things got serious was when Roberta told Helene about the pork won tons at a new Chinese restaurant downtown. I have never seen such a serious look on Roberta's face. And we've discussed the Holocaust together.

I have no idea what the instructor thinks of us. She is a cute young thing; we are, perhaps, the first Jews she's ever met and we are certainly the least athletic students she has ever had. I would like to believe, however, that we are the most willing students she had ever had, being as she tells us to get on our noodles and start kicking and, by God, we do it. For a few seconds. Until we get tired. Or I think of something funny to say. Or Roberta has to pee. Roberta is the Bad Girl in class. She's our Pinky Tuscadero, pretty much doing whatever the hell she feels like doing in the pool (I can only hope it's not peeing). Helene is vying to be Teacher's Pet, I think. She got all giggly and shit this morning when the teacher told her that she was keeping her elbows tucked in nicely during the arm exercises. She turned around to make sure we all heard that she had been singled out for commendation. Yes, Helene. You are the best student in the class.But watch your back. Roberta could fuck with your noodle.

Shit gets real in old lady water aerobics class.

 

 

Taking/Buying Stock

I recently heard that an old boyfriend of mine is getting divorced after twenty-two years of marriage, and he is going to be paying his wife in excess of many, many, many thousands of dollars per month in alimony. I am heartbroken over this news.

I could use many thousands of dollars a month. I shoulda married him. Not that he asked, but still.

I would have made an awesome rich divorcee. I've planned for it my whole life. I mean, what young  Jewish girl doesn't stand in front of her mirror wearing a tiara and dream of divorcing a wealthy man some day? 

As it is, I married for love. And money. Robin was the wealthiest person I knew in Santa Cruz in 1977. He made ten dollars an hour.  I know, right? I slept with him as soon as I could, to get my hooks in him and stake my claim to that ten bucks an hour. I don't want to brag, but I totally gave him ten dollars worth of sex that first night.

Last night, thirty-three years later, Robin informed me that we need to review his life insurance plan. We are old enough now that a life insurance cost-effectiveness review is in order. Robin took it like a real man as I talked out my options concerning his death and concluded that, financially speaking, I married badly. And Robin agreed.

We considered my ability to woo and marry the ex now, divorce him, get the moolah and remarry Robin. Robin played along like the gentleman he is, but we both knew it was a sham. I am simply in no shape to woo a man anymore. A blind man, perhaps. Who cannot determine shape from touch? I might have a fighting chance. Still, there is that pesky issue of my personality. Ain't no Spanx for an out of control personality.

I didn't want to harsh Robin's mellow but, frankly, what he is worth to me dead is not going to get me far. By my calculations, I am going to need to marry a rich man within a year of Robin's death. And to get myself in wooing shape? Fuuuuck. The fat farm alone is gonna be at least thirty grand. Not to mention the constant waxing. My undercarriage is a hot mess.

Being married rocks. You never have to shave your legs above the knee ever again. And you can let your weird skin rashes air out instead of covering them up.  And you can wear Crest White Strips on your teeth during sex because there's no kissing anymore. Honestly, I do not understand why anyone stays single.

But if I am going to have to go out on the market again, I won't be able to let that kind of shit slide. Even to go to the market. Oh my God, it's gonna be exhausting. I will never be able to catch a rich husband. I'll be lucky to get a blind hippie with no hands. Who needs a green card. Wealthy men are so picky.

Question to self: are lesbians more accepting of women who are no longer willing to wax or kiss? Are there any super wealthy lesbians in Oregon? I don't want to have to travel. Am I even in the running to nab me a super wealthy, hippie, non-waxing, no-kissing Pacific Northwest lesbian or am I just kidding myself?

Clearly, the only solution is to up the amount of Robin's life insurance. But he is onto my game and now he wants to cancel it altogether. He wants to make Alive Robin as attractive to me as Dead Robin. Bless his heart.

As if.