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

Smartish

 The other night, after Thanksgiving dinner, my son suggested we all watch a movie.

"Great idea," I said. It's been wonderful having he and his wife here.

And now, so cozy, watching a movie together on a rainy night, full with pie, a roaring fire in the fireplace.

"It's called, 'The Death of Stalin' ", he said.

Wait, what?

"It's a really good movie," he said. 

God, it's exhausting having to pretend to be intellectually curious when my kids come to visit. I really want them to respect me. We read the political articles in The New Yorker, we discuss complicated and erudite issues, I pay attention to the entire Rachel Maddow show.

I have a lot of "Flipping Out" catching up to do when they leave.

"Sure!" I said brightly. "A movie about the death of Stalin? Sounds festive!" 

"It's actually a pretty funny movie," he said.

Okay. Sold. We went downstairs to watch it.

And I loved it. I really did.

But as it turns out, I am a tad under-informed when it comes to things like history. 

More than once, while watching the nefarious deeds of The Committee - particularly when Rykov and Malenkov and Krushchev calmly execute Beria -  I finally said, "Oh, come ON!  No one's gonna believe this crap!"

My son looked at me and sighed, the way one might look at an old tortoise who was stuck on its back. A tortoise you know that once you turn it right-side up, will just tumble over again.

 "This is actual history, Mom," he said gently. He really is kind to me. Remind me to slip him some cash before he leaves this afternoon.

I like to talk about the important things in the world. I like to post my political opinions. I am considered somewhat of an expert political pundit in certain circles. Small circles. Of Facebook friends. Whom I've never met. 

The actual facts of an issue are really more of a garnish, I say. The parsley around my opinion.

My passion for an issue and the dearth of facts I possess about it are probably, roughly, equal. Or quadrilateral. Or intersectional. Or biblioteca. I really have no idea how to graph it. 

My cousin Adam likes to say that our family suffers from Authoritative Voice Syndrome. AVS. We can pontificate about pretty much anything with certainty and conviction that we just pull out of our asses.
And I like to say that we don't suffer from it; we enjoy it.

Hahahah. Adam thinks that is hilarious. Trust me.

It was much easier to be a radical activist in the old days, before I had smart kids, before Google. I could just make up shit and no one corrected me. I was kickass on a soapbox, condemning the war in Vietnam. I was all moxie and Body Shop strawberry shampoo. Not so much with the facts.

Although, thanks to all the soapboxing, we did pull out of Vietnam. Just saying. And you're welcome.

(Note to self: Did we pull out of Vietnam? Are we still there? Ask the kids.)

My point is, I totally get why Trump lies all the time. It's very emboldening. You start to believe you are super smart.

If only Trump had smart and kind kids like I do, to keep him honest. 

You know, like if Vassily had been less like Joseph and a little more like Svetlana.

(Aaron and Zach, was Svetlana a good person? Please get back to me before I post this.)
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello From Clusterfuckistan, Part 3

Hi, remember me?

I haven't blogged much since The Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Election. I've mostly been eating. You know, doing my part. 

But the other day, after mailing in my ballot for the midterms, I decided I'd check in with you. Because when everything goes to shit and people are so much worse than you could ever believe and the mean fuck in the White House is only the face of the problem, just the tip of the iceberg, and your vote isn't even going to count because of gerrymandering and voter suppression, well, it's time to circle the wagons and say howdy to your old friends.

So. Hi. How are you?

Yeah, me too. Sorry.

Nothing much new has happened other than, you know. Life in Clusterfuckistan.

Well, I turned 64 since our country fell to the GOP. I hardly celebrated my birthday because shit is so fucked up. Plus, I pretty much eat cake and look Death in the eye every day of the year so what's the point. 

I'm older than everyone else now. That's so weird. I'm the oldest person everywhere I go.

Wait, that's not true. I was the youngest person in the recovery room after my cataract surgery. The nurses came down the row of beds to check on us and asked us our names and dates of birth.  I was the only one with a birth date later than 1935. When I called out my answer - "1954" - the lady in the next bed whispered, "So young."

That was nice. 

And get this: I am now bumped down from "once a year" to "every 3-5 year" on the Pap smear guideline, which means my cervix isn't on anyone's front burner anymore. Can't even get a Pap and a shmear these days. 

Oh, and I am finally over wearing bras. Well, ha ha, not so much "over" them. "Under" them is more accurate. My poor boobs. These days I think of them as the sweet old couple who lives downstairs from my neck. They're quiet, keep to themselves. No loud parties. They smell kinda musty, but nice. They're all  squished and cattywampus by mid afternoon like they've been napping on the couch watching their stories.

I now wear those newfangled bralettes that are all the rage. It's about as effective as walking around wearing my old bras around my knees, but I am all about comfort in the Age Of Trump. Because just waking up and remembering that the GOP is still in power makes it hard to breathe. Add a snug underwire bra to the mix and I'd be dead in under an hour. Every morning.

The thing that I wanted to say is, I have no Plan B if the midterms fuck us. Maybe Big Pharma should get on that pill before Tuesday. Midterm Plan B. Erase all trace of the election and minimal cramping. Not, of course, covered by insurance. 

Okay, so, see you after Tuesday.

Or in 3 years. 

Or in 7 years.

Fuck.