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

The Very Hungry Menopausal Woman

Once upon a time, there was a very hungry post-menopausal woman.

She drank two cups of coffee, but she was still hungry.

Then she ate a two-egg-white omelet with avocado and salsa, but she was still hungry.

So she ate a big piece of wheat toast with organic clover honey on it, but she was still hungry.

So she squeezed herself a large glass of orange juice. And put some EmergenC in it because she still kinda had a sore throat and also because EmergenC can sometimes dull her appetite, but this time it didn't work and she was still hungry.

So she ate another piece of toast, but just the heel of the bread because, you know, that doesn't count.

So then she thought she'd try some "scared straight" motivation and she went to the bedroom to try on a pair of jeans that she knew would be too tight, and they were, they were so fucking tight she had to lie down on the floor just to get them over her knees. And while she was on the floor, she noticed a bag of pistachio nuts under her bed so she did a few calorie-burning arm lunges and after six tries, she got the bag. But it was empty, so she was still hungry.

So she went into the bathroom and cut her own bangs, which can shave a few ounces off one's weight and that justified her being able to eat a few handfuls of Pirate Booty, but she was still hungry.

So she thought about the fact that maybe she wasn't really hungry as much as she was avoiding work, and perhaps feeling down because everyone in the fucking universe is more successful than she is and maybe she should be more of a Tiger and less of a, I don't know, Sloth, lolling about, spending days on end thinking up clever little bon mot comments for her Facebook friends' statuses when she could be saving the world or recycling. But all that thinking gave her a stress headache and, remembering that caffeine helps relieve headaches, she hit the dark chocolate Dove Bliss bars in the freezer, just for medicinal purposes, not for enjoyment, but her mouth didn't know the difference and suddenly, she was still hungry again.

So she went back to bed and pulled her white hypoallergenic down comforter tightly around her and, snug as a Caterpillar in a cocoon, she took a nap.

She dreamed that she emerged from her bed thirty-five pounds lighter and without that damn kinky, pubic hair transplant she's had on her head since perimenopause. Also, without eighteen new messages on her voice mail. And without the sharp pain in her right molar every time she bites down on a carrot.

When she woke up, she realized it was all a dream. And her house was still dirty. And there was a funky smell coming from the kitchen. And The New Yorker had rejected her essay. And Claire still had, like, a hundred more Facebook fans than she did. And Jennifer Hudson was on her TV, singing that fucking song about a new day, a new dawn, feeling good, and I swear, what the very hungry post-menopausal woman wouldn't give to get Jennifer and Valerie Bertinelli and Jared in a room together and just bitch slap the fuck outta them.

Oh, and the washing machine overflowed onto the den carpet.

Now the woman wasn't hungry anymore; she was just really bummed out.

So she went to the fridge and she ate the whole container of leftover Japanese noodles from The Noodle Company, and she felt better.

Until she realized that the noodles were, like, three weeks old and that was probably the funky smell.

And then she barfed. And then she barfed some more.

The next day, the post menopausal woman weighed herself and - thanks to all the barfing - she lost a quarter of a pound!

And she was so happy.

 

Louie. Lou. I. Oh No. I Say He Gotta Go.

Oh my fucking God. This new puppy is going to kill me.

I thought I was too old to get Phila four years ago. Now I am four years older, fatter, more exhausted and less motivated to put effort into doing the right thing with Louie. I am even too tired to do the wrong thing. Louie knows I'm weak. He probably thinks I'm just another omega, a damaged rescue living in the house.  Which isn't completely wrong.

Louie is currently into vibing me when I am eating, and stealing my bras. Is this what life is like in women's prison? He steals my bras while I am at work, chews holes in them, and then buries them in the backyard with his other assorted treasures such as petrified corn cobs, squirrel bones and, I don't know, cigarettes that he bummed off of the guards at his old puppy mill in Iowa before he was rescued. I can only hope this behavior is meaningful to him in some primal way. A sort of vision board, perhaps, as part of his PTSD recovery from his hard beginnings. Maybe it was on doggie Pintrest.

Maybe Phila suggested it, even showed him where my bras are. She is always trying to get him in trouble. I recognize the look on Phila's face when Louie is barking at, say, NOTHING. Phila's look reminds me of when I brought my youngest son home from the hospital, crying (the both of us), and my five year old whispered gently, "Mom, do you really think this was a good idea to get the baby?"

My buried bras are endlessly amusing to the gardeners who find them around the yard and - from what I can decipher listening to them while hiding under my bedroom window - discuss the various items that my D cup could hold. If high school Spanish still serves, my bras can be repurposed for: grass clippings from the lawnmower, salsa and chips, car keys and - the suggestion that sends them into gales of laughter and pantomime - a double-headed rain hat.

 Sometimes Phila goes outside and joins in on the laughter. So much for sisterhood.

What can I do? I cannot do my best at raising a new puppy and do my best at work and home and writing and campaigning and volunteering and all the other shit I pretend I do while I am actually on Facebook. This is an election year. I have to save my strength for pretending to love everyone. And for not allowing Louie to pee on Trump lawn signs.

When anyone is looking. Because that boy has a powerful stream that can reduce a Trump sign to mush.

Good boy, Louie.

 

 

The Adventures of Phila and Louie, part one.

Phila: Bark! Bark! Bark! Where is Robin?

Me:  Well, I need to tell you something...Robin went to Iowa--

Phila: --Bark! where is Robin?

Me: I'm trying to tell you. Robin went to Iowa to get you a doggiebrother.

Phila: Bark! Can I have a treat?

Me: Later. So, listen, this is important. Your new doggiebrother has been kept in a cage for seven months and we are rescuing him from bad people--

Phila: --do you have any treats?

Me: What????

Phila: Did you even buy treats when you went shopping? (rolls her eyes at me) FML.

Me: Phila. Listen. We are going to have a new dog live with us. Do you understand? He has been treated very badly and we need to heal him. Can you help us do that?

Phila: (Mutters to herself) Funny how you never forget to buy wine or Wheat Thins. I've seen you go to the store at midnight to stock up. How hard is it to remember to buy TREATS????? Bark! Why do your hands smell like fish?

Me: I had tuna for lunch. So, Robin and the new dog are coming home in a few days. We need to prepare for them. He's been in a cage his whole life. That's really sad, don't you think?

(Phila cocks her head at me and stares)

Me: I know, right? It's sad. 

Phila: (Whispers) Did you hear a squirrel?

Me: For fuck's sake, Phila. Pay attention.

Phila: (mocks my tone) For fuck's sake, Ann, I AM paying attention. Which is why I heard the squirrel. (Aside, as if to an audience) Which you, btw, missed.

Me: You have been a very lucky dog to live the way you do. This rescue dog needs some luck in his life. Can you think about that?

Phila: Sushi or sandwich?

Me: What?

Phila: Did you have tuna sushi or a sandwich? I can't tell by the smell. God, do you ever think of saving some for ME? I am so mistreated.

Me: You are hardly mistreated. Sp when Robin comes back with Louie--

Phila:--Bark! Hey, where's Robin?

Me: In Iowa, asshole. Are you even listening?

Phila: Does he have treats? 

Me: I hate you.

Phila: I smell tuna.

Me: I hate you.

Phila: A squirrel!

(curtain)