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

O, Mole-o Mio

Robin has been really sick this week. It's either a chest cold or cholera. I have no idea. He won't go to the doctor.

I've reached the sixth Kubler-Ross stage of his illness: Pretending I Don't Hear Him When He Calls For Me From Downstairs.

As far as I'm concerned, if a person is sick and won't go to the doctor for antibiotics because he wants to heal naturally and holistically, which means his wife makes him soup and cleans up, and disinfects the Neti pot a hundred times a day and makes more soup and runs out to get lemons at midnight, keeping up her strength by gorging on the leftover candy from the piñata at her husband's birthday party last  week - and not the good candy; the rejected candy, the shit left lying on the ground, the Mike And Ike's and Nerds - then that person can just goddamn get Cholera. 

Oh, the first couple of days of his illness I was so attentive to Robin. I emptied the wastebaskets filled with his disgusting detritus, I brought ice chips to him, I checked the expiration date on the Advil before giving it to him. But the week dragged on and he's still sick. Still home. 

I hate when Robin is home during the day.

He can see things. Things like, that I'm lying when I say I'm busy. I'm never busy. He can see that I'm on Facebook when I say I'm writing and can't be disturbed. He can see that I don't accidentally pour an entire bottle of wine down the drain at lunch every day and that's why we are always out of wine.

This kind of transparency is not good for a marriage. I save my secrets for my dermatologist.

I went for my annual Full Body Mole Patrol yesterday. Have you done this? You can prepare by going outside right now, taking off all your clothes and standing naked in front of your house for twenty minutes. Invite passers-by to examine every inch of you. Illuminate your naked body with those huge Hollywood rotating lights that advertise movie premiers. Bend over. Encourage the passers-by to use a magnifying glass so as not to miss a mole, tag, scar or stretch mark. Point out your Psoraisis areas. Explain that the discolored patch "down there" is just a DIY wax job gone wrong and doesn't need a biopsy. Oh, and make sure everyone, EVERYONE, knows how much you weigh. Write the number down and show it to at least four people. 

Now I'm no stranger to being naked in front of strangers- I lived on a commune in Santa Cruz - but without the dulcimer music and the redwood trees and the magic brownies and the anonymous sex, yesterday just wasn't the fun it used to be.

Oh I tried to bring my usual bon homie to the exam table but my dermatologist was having none of it. The low point - at least, for me -  was when he asked me to lift my flab so he could measure a mole that was hopelessly trapped, screaming, suffocating, evidently, between my manifold stomachs. If ever there was a clever bon mot to bring mirth and distraction to that moment, it eluded me.

We completed the deed in our mutual silence and red hot burning shame. 

On the way home, I stopped off to get more lemons for Robin's tea. I picked up a few cases of wine, as well. I have a feeling I'm going to be accidentally pouring a lot of it down the drain.

 

Phila Culpa

Dear Natasha, Helene, Gaye, Barbara, Andrea, Rich and the neighbor whose name I didn't catch,

I am writing this letter on my own volition, although there have been threats of withholding treats and canceling a trip to the coast this weekend. Just saying.

I am writing to apologize to all of you at water aerobics today. I know you were tired after a hard class, and you were wet and anxious to get home to your lives. (What do you all do all day, anyway, though? You seem to do a lot of laughing and talking about food.)

But you hadn't planned on staying late after class to help Ann find me. Frankly, I would have preferred if you had just minded your own damn business, gone on home and let me run free, but it appears as though I don't get a vote around here. Ann's all for equality and shit when it comes to everyfuckingoneelse, but give the Poodle a voice? Non.

I'm sorry I didn't come when you all called my name for a very long time. Hand to God, I didn't hear you. I've had a little issue with my ears recently. It's Robin's fault, truth be told, he's pretty lax with my hygiene - what? WHAT? Hold on, Ann is motioning to me.

Okay, that was a lie. My ears are fine. Suddenly, Ann is stickler for the truth. Hah. Have you read her blog? Lies. LIES. She doesn't even like wine.

Anyway, it was wrong of me to cause you all so much worry. Not that anyone cares, but I was fine. In fact, I was finally happy. Roaming free, as God intended. Enjoying nature. And trying to kill it.

Still, I could hear in your voices that you were concerned for my well-being. Especially in Ann's voice when she called out, "FUCK YOU, Phila, I'm leaving without you."

I have to confess something: when Ann threatened to leave without me last week and I raced through nine acres to get to the road when I heard the car, I was pissed. I mean, she's a parenting instructor, for fuck's sake. She should know better than to threaten abandonment. But fool me once. So today, when she pulled that same shit again, I just ran further away. To teach her a lesson. She gets so fucking full of herself. You know I'm right, right?

And my plan would have worked but for one of you catching a glimpse of me meandering towards the neighbor's chicken coop. I thought you were old. Macular degeneration, my ass. (And Barbara, I know it was you who honked and told Ann where I was. You broke my heart, Fredo.)

I want to thank you all for helping me get out of the neighbor's barbed wire fence when I was ready to get into Ann's car. I'm sorry you cut yourselves a few times trying to hold the wires open for me. I'm also sorry I didn't show you the a big hole in the fence where I got in. 

I might have been a little bit angry at you. I have issues with being infantalized. I am three years old. Stop helicoptering already.

The good news is that you won't have Phila to kick around anymore. Ann has decided I am no longer welcome at water aerobics. Evidently, I'm not trustworthy.

Please. She should talk. She doesn't even actually do the warm-ups in the shallow. She just counts and waves her arms around. Thought you should know.

Yours truly,

Phila

The Very Hungry Post Menopausal Woman, revisited

Once upon a time, there was a Very Hungry Post Menopausal Woman.

On Monday, she ate through one enormous bag of crudite.

But she was still hungry.

On Tuesday, she ate through two lasagne-sized Tupperware containers of cut-up fruit.

But she was still hungry.

On Wednesday, she chewed four sticks of gum instead of eating the leftover pizza in her fridge. And she cracked a filling. And had to have a crown put in. Which was not covered by her dental insurance. Which bummed her out, so that night she drank four glasses of wine (but two of them were for medicinal pain-killing purposes so they didn't count.) She fell asleep with her head on the kitchen counter.

On Thursday, she woke up with a headache. So she smoked a little weed.

And then she was really hungry. Fucking weed.

The Very Hungry Post Menopausal Woman drove to Trader Joe's and bought five different kinds of pretzels because she couldn't decide.

On Friday, she ate three sensible meals and then she ate six almonds because she was still hungry, and nuts are good for you and six of them fill you right up. Only, six almonds would not fill anyone up except, maybe, a newborn baby. Which is ridiculous because newborns can't afford to buy almonds.

On Saturday, she went to Jazzercise. A woman there told her that she lost weight by giving up wine. The Very Hungry Post Menopausal Woman laughed and laughed and laughed until her new dental crown fell out. 

On Sunday, she noticed a red mark around her waist because her underpants were too tight. So she went to Macy's to buy a bigger pair of underpants. 

That night, she ate a healthy dinner. She ground up the almonds and used them as a facial scrub. She felt good about herself. She got into her new, comfortable XL underpants and picked up her new library book. After an hour or so, she rolled a joint.

Two hits off the joint she suddenly felt really, really hungry.

"Oh shit," said the Very Hungry Post Menopausal Woman. Fucking weed.

Keeping Down Appearances

So, if a person gets up in the morning, puts her bathing suit on backwards with the giant underwire bra cups all bunched up in the back, and goes to water aerobics that way and and then after class she goes to the bank, and it isn't until she catches a glimpse of herself in the security camera and thinks to herself, who is that floppy four-breasted homunculus standing in line behind me, that she realizes what she's done, should that person be worried that she's kinda slacking, upkeep-wise? I'm asking for a friend. 

I've been thinking that I should put a little more effort into my grooming. 

I think my problem is that I still believe I can just jump out of bed, run my fingers through my hair and be gorgeous. Not that I ever could. When Robin and I were first sleeping together, I used to sneak out of bed before he woke up, and brush my teeth. And - I am ashamed to admit this - I'd put on makeup. Blush, eyeliner, lip stain. And then sneak back into bed and pretend to be asleep. I'm pretty sure that's how I trapped him. Bait and switch.

And then we got married and then thirty-six years passed and now I don't even always bother to get out of bed before I pee in the early morning. Being with the same person forever tends to encourage a sort of laxness in me, effort-wise. 

I pretty much look the same all the time. I look the same at the dog park as I did at my son's wedding. Oh, I was less sweaty at the wedding. And I didn't have plastic dog poop bags tied to my belt. But I didn't look like I had really elevated the category, you know?

I'm not sure I even know how to do that anymore. How do people gussy up these days? I suppose I could curl my hair or something. Put some Neosporin on those infected mosquito bites on my chin. Shave a leg or two.

Or I could just aim for getting my boobs into the bathing suit cups on the first try. Baby steps.