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

Adventures in Clusterfuckistan, part 3

I officially put my bra on like an old lady this morning.

Sitting on the bed. Hooking the bra. Then stepping into it. Pulling it up. Shaking it all in.

God. I have aged, like, fifty years since the election. I should start calculating my age in trumpyears. Fifty to one. I'm 112 since January. And not a spry 112. 

My current fitness goal is simply to be able to step into my underpants without falling over. I have, so far, achieved very limited success in this endeavor. To see me in silhouette through the curtains - as my neighbors can - it must look as if I am wrestling a lion in my bedroom every morning. And losing.

This administration is going to kill me. Literally, perhaps. Or, at the very least, throw me in jail.

I have a feeling my lifelong dreams of building our commune, Yurtopia, are going to be realized. Only, in GTMO instead of Mendocino. 

I'll need to alter my paradigm a bit. Pass the bong.

Okay, now dig it:

All of us on one big piece of land, sharing communal meals, doing each other's laundry, sitting in the sun out on the big yard, working in the library, showering together like in the old days. And just last summer we all actually discussed taking a trip to Cuba together. We hadn't thought about traveling by  bus, but I'm cool. Not a fan of flying, anyway. I hope we can stop at the National Parks. Badlands, specifically. I want to kiss my heroes.

Oh wait. They'll already be at GTMO. Awesome!

I intend to take advantage of my time in prison to finally commit to a diet and exercise program. Finally, no distractions from my job, political activism, online shopping or freedom. Instead of fighting for justice, I'm going to fight for my abs. I've seen the orange jumpsuits. They nip in at the waist. It's not a good look for us apple-shaped political prisoners. 

And when I get out - thanks to a pardon by President Kamala Harris - I'm going to be all cut and ripped and shit. I'll go home, kiss Robin (who has been taking care of the dogs because he pulled the short straw between one of us going to prison and one of us trying get Louie on a leash), and continue to work for justice. Because even with President Harris and co-VP's Samantha Bee and Justin Trudeau, there will still be work to be done.

But first, I will put on my bra the youthful twist-around way and literally jump into my underpants. 

#resist 

#persisterhood

 

 

 

 

Sleeping With The Enemy For Four Nights

I woke up this morning with a dog butt in my face and dried yak cheese in my hair.

I slept fitfully on a corner of 1/4000th of my King size bed while the dogs mounted imperialistic campaigns throughout the night and finally, took over the rest of the bed. Including the TV remote.

I'm wearing the same leggings I put on twenty-nine hours ago. I cannot remember if I peed today or not. I cry all the time and wipe my nose on my sweatshirt sleeve.

Robin is out of town and I'm a single parent with two dogs. It's been one day.

Seriously, I might kill myself by Monday night. I hate Louie so much. So fucking much.

I slept with the door wide open last night because Louie might not let me know that he needs to go out to poop in the early morning, and since menopause, I have been stricken with a condition in which I barf at everything that has to do with poop. Picking it up. And worrying about picking it up. Hearing stories about it. Blogging about it.

Hold on. I need to take a deep breath.

I decided to take the dogs on a walk this morning. At 7:30 we geared up and set out for the park. At 8:52 I was in the street, still trying to get the leash on Louie, whose PTSD seems to have been activated by Robin's absence. I went through a handful of treats, slipped twice trying to grab his collar, sat on my neighbor's porch and cursed Robin while my neighbor tried to coax the leash on him (Louie. Not Robin). We cajoled with Louie, reasoned with him, offered him cash and squirrels; we were sternloving, aloof, enthusiastic and, ultimately, defeated. My neighbor went back into her house and I went home (Louie followed, confused and unleashed) and promised Phila that I will take her to the park without her stupid brother later today. Which I won't, but hopefully, Phila will understand. She likes cash.

To make my point, I gave Phila a piece of beef jerky and did not give one to Louie. To make his point, Louie stole the jerky from Phila's mouth, gobbled it, choked and barfed it up. Which made me barf.

Did I mention that Robin is out of town for four days? Drove to California in his new car. Alone. He better fucking be having a great time there. This better be the best fucking funeral he's ever attended.

If you follow the blog, you know that I did not want a second dog. I didn't want a first dog. After the kids were grown and gone, and the family dogs went over the Rainbow Bridge, I was done. I love dogs but - to paraphrase Joni Mitchell - not like I love my freedom.

So we wrote out and signed a contract - stating that Robin is in charge of everything, and I can choose to involve myself in the dogs' lives according to my whimsy. I am not involved in baths or vaccinations or expressing anal glands. You know,  pretty much what our marriage contract says.

But the contract doesn't lay out what to do in the case of Robin needing to go to a funeral in California. And I hate to be the kind of wife who makes her husband take two large Poodles to the funeral of a dear friend just because she loves freedom. Also - and you married gals will surely get this - for me to do this for Robin is money in the bank, guilt-wise. I have given Robin a gift. A big gift.

And now he owes me.

I'm gonna sit on this one for a while. Take my time. Consider my options. 

Then, one day, I will come to him with a favor.  And he will not refuse me.

In the meantime, I'm gonna slip Phila a Benjamin. She probably actually hates going on walks and is playing me like I'm playing Robin, pretending to be all put-out and shit at having to stay home.

The student has learned well from the master. Well played, Phila. Well played.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Working For The Man

Dear "Liberals Only" employment agency,

I really hate to bring this up again. I know you are very busy, but things are pretty tight with me right now, too. Four visits a day to Starbucks to tell the barrister to write "He's Not My President" on my cup is taking a big bite out of my budget.

I really need my paycheck.

My hours:

I made two trips to the airport this week to hold up a "You Are Welcome Here" sign for the Muslims who had been sent back last week. True, I waited at the wrong end of the airport and a nice man arriving from Vegas thought the sign was for him and he bought me a fancy cocktail at Beaches, but still. My intention was to protest.

I would never gouge my own political party, but I also drove two other protesters home from the airport and they lived in Sandy, which is the exact opposite of where I live. Just saying. 

Today I called eleven Senators to urge them not to allow Bannon a seat on the NSC. I also signed approximately twelve hundred online petitions. I didn't keep exact tabs on my hours, but I had to recharge my i-phone twice.

As per your original offer that came by secret liberal code, I am owed $599.00 for my protest work this week. 

Also?

And, again, I really do hate to bug you - I never received my paycheck from when I participated in the Women's March On Washington last month. I understand that those of us in Portland worked at a lower hourly rate than the marchers in DC since the president doesn't care what Portland thinks, but you didn't expect us to protest for free, did you? Please. You want free protesters, go non-Union.

I get it that now that the president has found us out, now that he busted you for paying us to protest, you are trying to keep a low profile. But a deal is a deal. Poster board and Sharpies do not come cheap.

Plus, I am saving up as fast as I can so I can fulfill my promise to buy an Audi. They really drove a hard bargain to agree to air that Super Bowl commercial. And I took the deal with Nordstrom that if they'd drop Ivanka's ass, I'd spend a grand there before Easter.

Please send me my money today. I don't want to have to take this to the 9th circuit. 

Thanking you in advance for your prompt remuneration, I remain,

A liberal protester