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

My First Seven Jobs, part one

My First Seven Jobs:

1. blah blah blah
2. blah blah blah
3. blah blah blah
4. Counselor at an outdoor wilderness program in Quebec.

Let's pause here.

If you know me - if you know me at all, if you've read my blog, if you've ever run into me at the market or in my backyard (the only two places I go), you will think this story is a lie.

You will be wrong.

There are only two words necessary to explain how I wound up being a counselor in Quebec at an outdoor wilderness program that featured juvenile delinquents and untamed nature:

A boyfriend.

Those words also explain how in my life I came to join the Communist Party, failed 8th grade algebra on purpose, and why I went to San Francisco State College for, like, twenty minutes after graduating high school.

My boyfriend at the time (we'll call him Chris Craven. Because that's his name) said yes when our friend (we'll call him Donny Becker. Because that's his name) suggested the idea. We were all living in (we'll call it Santa Cruz. Because that's where we were living) hippie bliss, composting our gardens, henna-ing our hair and eating homemade (possibly poisonous) tofu when Donny said, "let's lead a wilderness program this summer in Canada."

There might have been pot involved in that idea.

Chris said, "why not?"

And Donny's girlfriend at the time said, "I'm in."

I am not a wilderness sort of gal. I'm a chaise lounge by the pool sort of gal. But Chris was so wonderful. And Donny is a great friend. And I always wanted to be the type of person about whom people would say, "she led an outdoor wilderness program in Quebec."

The fly in that ointment is that I would have to actually do it to earn the reputation.

This is the part of life that aggravates me the most: you have to actually do things to get credit for having done them. Fuck me.

It was gorgeous in the wilds of Quebec. The kind of rugged, untamed nature that I would normally have to have been court-ordered to spend the summer in. Which, ironically, was why the teenagers in the program were  there.

They were about three years younger than I was. But even if they had been a hundred and three years younger, there was no way they were going to see me as an authority figure.

For one thing, they needed to show me how to do everything. I forgot to learn survival skills before coming to this experience. My bad.

For another thing, I cried a lot. 

I can only imagine what kind of role model I was for these hoodlums. Between the life they knew and the life they saw me living (whimpering, screaming at the sight of bugs, tripping and falling my way up and down mountains, flipping over canoes and not being able to climb back in, and did I already say crying?), I think it was prudent of them to choose to return to shooting up and hooking on the streets of Montreal.

They are probably quite successful today. I really should try to get in touch. Maybe one of them is a literary agent.I have a manuscript. About a summer in Quebec.

One hoodlum in particular sticks in my memory.

Every morning we rustled the kids' sleeping bags and banged pots and pans to wake them up because they needed to collect wood for a fire to make breakfast.

I would say to this particular hoodlum, "get up! You need to get wood for the morning fire."

And he would open his sleeping bag, show me his nakedness, and say, "I got your morning wood right here."

It was a great joke.

It only took me about ten years to get it. 

What I Said (In My Head) To Claire's Article

So, you know that Claire and I are great friends, right? We talk (and by "talk" I mean, Facebook or email. We don't talk) almost every day. We've co-written a novel and we're working on a really cool compilation of stories by some kickass awesome women, stories about food. We love each other's families. We talk (don't talk) about everything. We are connected in our heads and our hearts. We are practically the same person, we like to say to each other.

 

Except this happened.

Claire wrote an article today for Babymama magazine about walking. Well, it's about more than walking, of course; it's about life and anxiety and hope and walking. It's a great article. You should read it. I did. I really liked it. And while I was reading and liking it, a little voice - it may have been mine - kept saying, "It's over. Claire's gone to the sunny side."

 

And I died a little inside.

 

Claire and I have a friendship rooted in anxiety, pessimism and mild agoraphobia. It was something I could count on. And now I find out that she has been leaving her house. On purpose. And loving it. What the fuck.

 

 

(Claire writes:) 1. Nothing, and I mean nothing calms you down when you’re anxious, depressed, or upset as much as a good fast walk. You leave the house a raging bull, and come back a placid cow. (Uh . . . now that I think about it . . . feel free to substitute a more appealing metaphor.) 

(I think to myself:) Okay, first of all, if I had to go out and take a walk every time I was anxious, depressed or upset, I would never be able to stop walking. I don't have any states other than anxious, depressed or upset.

Oh wait. I also have "hungry". Do you still have hungry, Claire? Or is your next article going to be about the joys of eating in moderation? Sigh.


(Claire writes:) 2. When you walk somewhere instead of driving, you don’t have to deal with traffic or look for a parking place. This one is huge for me. Huge. I live on the west side of Los Angeles. There is always traffic and there is never enough parking, which means anyone who drives to a social event shows up late and tense. But we walkers? We’re on time and mellow. Possibly a bit sweaty. Maybe don’t hug us 

(I think to myself:) Well, I do like the "don't hug us" part. I'm not big on hugging. It's a gateway to socializing. Or sex. Either way, I'm going to have to put on, or take off, my bra. And that is a lot of work.

But Claire? Guess when else you are always on time? When you are home. 

3. It’s the perfect excuse never to wear grown-up clothing. Look, we all know that soft cotton sweatpants and t-shirts are a hell of a lot cozier than shirts and pants with zippers, collars, buttons and all that fancy folderol. But it feels wrong to go about your daily business dressed like a toddler . . . unless, that is, you’re exercising. If you walk everywhere, you’re technically always exercising or about to exercise and can wear sneakers and elastic waists without apology. 

Well, I rarely apologize for my elastic waist clothing.

I do, however, occasionally apologize TO my elastic waist clothing. For saying they are cheaply made and shrank in the dryer which is why they are so tight and I have to wear them unbuttoned. When my clothes and I both know that they came into this world preshrunk. Like me. 

 

4. So many podcasts. I started listening to podcasts during my walks a couple of years ago, and trust me when I tell you that I am way more interesting to sit next to at a dinner party than I used to be (that bar was, admittedly, pretty low). Thanks to podcasts, I have tons of interesting anecdotes and bits of information about almost any subject under the sun — even sports (if you knew me, you’d know how amazing that is and if you knew me, I’d have already talked your ear off about how basketball players make more free throws if they throw underhanded than the usual way, but they won’t do it because they think it’s uncool, a fact I learned from—you guessed it—a podcast).

 You know when you don't need to prepare for scintillating conversation? When you are home.

Also? If you do have something brill to share that you've learned from a podcast, cats and dogs are waiting to listen to you. Phila and I have never been closer. I think she finally respects me.

5. You have an excuse to buy an expensive sun hat. Sun hats make you look like Ingrid Bergman. Crap. You’ve never even heard of Ingrid Bergman, have you? God, I’m old.

When I wear a sun hat I look like Bella Abzug. (And that's how you make a topical reference, Claire. Am I right, kids? Kids?)

6. You start to get recognized. Before I was walking miles every day, I didn’t know any of my neighbors and they didn’t know me. But lately people have been hailing me as I walk by their houses and saying stuff like, “Hey, I keep seeing you out here–you walk a lot.” It’s nice to be recognized, even though I suspect the reason they notice me now is because I look like a total lunatic in my big Ingrid Bergman sunhat. They’re probably all warning their kids to stay away from ol’ lady LaZebnik. (Or, more realistically, ol’ lady LaBeznick—no one gets our name right.) 

Well now, this one is tricky. It presumes that you want to be recognized. Once you are recognized, people want to say hi to you. And chit-chat. And then they want you to come to dinner at their house. They keep asking you. So you have to move from the neighborhood. 
I want to be liked, respected and financially supported. But not recognized. Unless I need you to identify my body. And even then, I hope you will keep the chit-chat to a minimum.

 

7. You know how sometimes you go out with your family and everyone’s in a pissy mood and you just want to get away from them but you all came in one car so there’s no escape? You have no idea how delightful it is at these moments to just wave your hand and say, “You guys go ahead. I’m walking.” Let them battle it out in the cramped backseat of the Prius—you’ll be floating home on your own peaceful island, listening to the soothing tones of Phoebe Judge or Nate DiMeo. Walk slowly. Enjoy the sights and the cool breeze. Linger under a tree. No need to rush back to those soul-sucking maniacs–also known as the people you love most in the world. 

You lost me at "you go out with your family". 

And anyway, when the family does go out, we're all usually in a pretty okay mood. A really good mood, actually. You know why?

Because I stayed home.

8. You will rule on FitBit. I’ve been steadily beating the pants off my FitBit friends for the last year or so by walking everywhere I can. It drives some of these competitive, athletic types crazy–they’re out there playing tennis and going to the gym and entering 5Ks, and all I’m doing is walking to Starbucks, but I’m still coming out on top of the weekly step count. I’ve never won at anything my whole life but I totally rule at FitBit steps.

May you rule with a firm hand. And buttocks.

 

9. Did I mention the whole “long walks will calm you down and restore your sanity” thing? Yeah, I did, at the beginning of this list. But it bears repeating because it is the real reason I plaster myself with a gallon of sunscreen every day and walk and walk and walk. I’m a wildly anxious person and pretty much the only thing that tamps the anxiety down to a manageable level is a walk that’s so long and brisk it leaves the demons far behind. Well, the only healthful thing that tamps down the anxiety . . . Which reminds me–

10. If you walk to a bar or restaurant, you never have to worry about driving home drunk. This one is self-explanatory. Yes, but if you only have to walk from your kitchen to your bedroom after drinking, you have less chance of getting lost. Or pulled over. Or mugged. Although Robin once pulled a twenty out of my bra as I was stumbling from the bathroom to bed.

 

So, farewell, Claire. I hope you find what you are looking for out in the world. And when you do, I hope you will write about it. I'll read it. Because I am running out of things to talk about with Phila. She keeps looking longingly towards the front door.

 

Claire's actual article:

http://www.babymama.com/2016/08/10-reasons-i-walk-everywhere-i-can-and-you-should-too/