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

Aging In The Age of Aging, Part One

 

In just a few more months, I will be getting Social Security money! Every month! For free! For doing nothing!

America, amirite? 

God, I hate Republicans so fucking much. We'll get back to that in a moment.

When I was young and I thought about social security, I envisioned an ancient, arthritic, gnarled, ill-tempered old lady with her bra around her waist and stockings rolled to her knees.

Well, say hello to me.

Two of my arthritic fingers cannot straighten up without assistance from the other fingers (I tell people it's because I've played guitar for fifty years but it's probs from the decades of overuse, showing the bartender how much tequila to pour). 

The ill-tempered thing? Got it covered. My secret is that my jeans are too tight.

And as for the bra around my waist, well, that's not from being too lazy to pull it up to my boobs. It's that my waist is WHERE MY BOOBS ARE NOW. You know, the mountain(s) went to....you get the idea.

If you follow me on FB, you are aware that I have given up underwire bras until we have a Democratic president. We each have to do our part in the Resistance. Life is too painful under this Mofo regime as it is, and anyway, I was certain that imma going to die of bra underwire. One sharp gasp and clutch to my breast at reading the latest headline about babies in ICE jail or killing the forests and POP! The wire breaks through the bra and ...Wacoal stake to the heart. 

The only way my newfangled no-wire bralette is gonna kill me is the cost.

Which brings me back to social security. There are a few things about getting old that are just plain old awesome. If you are financially solvent. And healthy. And white. 

I have aged out of Pap smears. Did you know this is a thing? Evidently, I'm now mature enough to be in charge of the welfare of my own cervix. It feels a little bit premature, truth be told. I don't feel ready. I've never taken care of a cervix before. When I was five, I kept forgetting to replenish the water for the little turtles we got on Olvera Street and they all died horrible deaths. How can I be trusted with my cervix? (Does it need to be watered?) Honestly, if the medical community is listening, what I'd prefer is that you guys keep a watch on my cervix and I will monitor my weight gain.

The other day, Robin and I had the dogs at the park. Louie and Phila present very well - they are attractive and well-groomed and not too Poodle-y, you know what I mean? Anyway, people complimented us on them (as if we had designed the Poodle) and then asked the inevitable question: "what do they weigh?"

Dudes.

That is SUCH a rude question. 

I thought they were asking it about me, at first. Like, "Hey, that's a good looking wife you got there. What does she weigh?" Or, "She's a big girl, isn't she? What does it cost to feed her?"

And Robin could answer, "Well, she eats a lot of table scraps in addition to her meals. She's such a beggar."

And then I would fart.

And they would laugh and shake their heads because everyone knows that 65 year old women cannot digest chicken skin.

What was my point?

Oh, right. Republicans.

I really hate them.

 

 

 

 

Choose Your Own (Feelings) Adventure - Claire and I Explain It All

Claire and I talk every day. Well, not talk, per se, because we both hate phone calls. We will avoid them at almost any cost.

It's really the defining quality of our enduring professional and personal relationship. That, and our love of salt over sugar.

Our conversation this morning was about anger. Not at each other, of course, we would NEVER be angry at each other; it was about how sick we both are of people calling for niceness. And understanding. And, God help us, compassion.

Yeah. 

Fuck that shit.

If you can read about children being separated from their families, kept in cages, and not feel anger, if you can watch Mitch McConnell and his minions shit on the Constitution, if you can listen to Donald Trump say, well, pretty much say anything, and not feel angry, then fuck you. You have lost the ability to know when anger is appropriate.

My therapist assures me that anger is a completely normal and rational response to some situations. I'm pretty sure she would assure me of it, anyway,  if I had stayed in therapy.

It is not wrong or unladylike or “just like them” to be pissed off. REALLY pissed off. But in a sea of “If You Can Be Anything, Be Kind” tee-shirts, a person can get confused. 

 

Claire and I have, therefore, written a handy cheat-sheet for you. 

 

                                                      LET IT OUT, OR LET IT GO? 

                             ~ A primer of appropriate responses in the time of Trump, by Claire LaZebnik and Ann Brown

 

Your child spills their milk all over the table and even into your purse which wasn’t supposed to be lying on the table but you thought it would be fine there for THREE MINUTES. 

DON’T GET ANGRY

Your kid is just a kid and we’ve all spilled stuff. It happens. Be a good sport. Send a donation to CASA.

 

A presidential candidate openly mocks someone with special needs in front of the entire country and people laugh with him. 

GET ANGRY

This is indecent and wrong and disgusting. It’s despicable. Send a

generous donation to whomever is going to run against Trump in November.

 

Old white state senators decide women shouldn’t be allowed to get abortions in their state, and insist that women who’ve been raped should have to go through with an ensuing pregnancy

GET HEADBANGING LOSE YOUR SHIT ANGRY

If men could get pregnant, there’d be an abortion clinic on every block. They have no right to dictate a woman’s choices. Send a donation to Planned Parenthood.

 

Your husband leaves his socks on the floor even though you’ve asked him not to

GET PEEVED, NOT ANGRY

It’s annoying but it’s no biggie. Still, you are welcome to put the dirty socks inside his pillowcase. Or quietly pin them to the back of his shirt before he leaves the house. And send a donation to a homeless shelter.

 

POTUS doesn’t even know which state is which and tweets congratulations to the wrong state after the Super Bowl.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO GET ANGRY ABOUT THIS UNLESS YOU’RE FROM MISSOURI OR KANSAS. OR UNLESS YOU CARE THAT THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES IS A MORON WHO DOESN’T FUCKING KNOW THE CITIES AND STATES OF THE COUNTRY OF WHICH HE IS PRESIDENT. Donate some more money to the Democratic candidate for next November.

Your invited guest brought their dog with them to your house without asking first.

DON’T GET ANGRY

Come on, it’s just a dog. Give it a scritch. But the next time they’re coming over, say, “Don’t bring your dog.” And send a donation to the Humane Society.

 

 

Mitch McConnell ignores the rule of law and any ideas of compromise or fairness and takes advantage of a slight majority to ignore bills from the Congress, acquit a president of crimes he clearly committed by refusing to let witnesses speak, and put very partial judges in power positions

GET SO FUCKING ANGRY YOU VOMIT UP YOUR LUNGS  

He’s destroying our country in front of our eyes. Send more money to Amy. And maybe a nice Edible Arrangements fruit bouquet. We want her to stay nourished.

 

People in power vilify those who are already marginalized--anyone who isn’t white, Christian, cis-gender or straight. They try to turn these vulnerable Americans into scapegoats and blame any issues in the country on them.

GET ANGRIER THAN YOU’VE EVER BEEN BEFORE

Fight the bastards. Donate to the ACLU.

 

Kids are put in cages and treated like prisoners

GET SO CRAZY FUCKING REDHOT ANGRY YOU REFUSE TO BE FRIENDS WITH ANYONE WHO SUPPORTS THIS BARBARIC FASCIST REGIME 

Take to the streets. Fight. Resist. Donate to RAICES.

 

Your book club group picks a book you didn’t want to read and SAID you didn’t want to read

GET ANNOYED 

Quit book club and use the time to get out the vote for the Dems. Then go home and read a book YOU want to read. Discuss the book with yourself. Agree to disagree.

 

Someone says, “If we could all just stop being so angry at each other . . .”

RIP THEM TO FUCKING SHREDS AND EAT THEIR BONES FOR DINNER. And,um, donate, don’t donate, it’s okay. Just please don’t hurt us.

 

You read an announcement that - thanks to Trump and his minions -  all the environmental regulations that were put in place over the last few decades to keep our water and earth safe and clean have been overturned and businesses can pour their poisons wherever the hell they want.

If you don’t know the answer by this point, you are pissing us off.

GET ANGRY. And donate to all the environmental protection organizations.

 

Your writing partner refuses to use the tab button no matter how many times you tell her to.

DON’T GET ANGRY. I’m trying my best, Claire. Remember I’m old. And I have cataracts. And send a donation to me, because you were just mean to me. I think fifty bucks should unruffle my feathers.

. 

Your writing partner passively aggressively shames you about forgetting to use the tab button.

 DON’T GET ANGRY. BUT PRETEND YOU ARE SO SHE WILL FEEL BAD.

And then buy one of Claire’s books. She’s not a charity but she could use the support, especially with Ann making her feel bad about everything.

(But we digress...)

You should be angry right now. Really really angry. 

And not just at those in power--also at those who don’t look past their own bubbles to see how many people are suffering because of this administration and how much injustice is being allowed and how many dangerous people have been given power . . . anger can be fuel for doing good.

So get angry at anyone who isn’t fighting for basic human rights in this country. And turn all that red hot anger into donations, canvassing, marching, phoning, volunteering, and fighting for sanity and decency.

Or stay calm and sit on your ass. We can’t stop you. 

But we are going to be so mad at you . . . 

    

I

It's All Over But For The Hat

Well. Here we are.

 

History has been written. Republicans have betrayed justice, betrayed truth and betrayed the Constitution. 

 

When the House voted to impeach, I posted an old joke on FB about a grandma who takes her grandson to the beach and he is swept away by a wave. The grandma pleads with God to return the child to safety.

She says, "Please God, I will never ask for anything else. This is all I want - my baby grandson to be safe. Please, I'll never ask for anything more!"

A big wave returns the child to shore, safe and happy.

The grandma hugs and kisses the boy and then looks into the Heavens and speaks to God.

"Thank you, God. How can I ever thank you--oh, wait. He had a hat."

 

Yeah, that. 

 

All I wanted, I said, was that history would record the travesty that is the Trump administration. Even though I knew the Republicans would never vote to impeach. Or allow witnesses. Or pay attention to what the managers were saying. Or not sneak in their phones, or eat or chat with each other. I knew that justice would not prevail but that didn't matter, I said; all I wanted was to get it on record that Trump is a criminal and his cronies are dirty.

 

And now, it's on the record. I'm thankful for that.

 

(Beat)

 

But wait, God. He had a hat.

 

Turns out, I want more. I want a Senate vote for impeachment.

 

I cannot believe that at age sixty-five I still secretly hope the good guys win. How embarrassing for me. You'd think I'd have aged out of that kind of magical thinking by now. Evidently the dark cloak of cynicism I wear has fairy dust and pink tulle sewn into the lining.

 

Hope and optimism don't fit well on me. I'm big boned. I prefer the comfortable elastic waist of unmeasured snark. 

 

But despite my best efforts to the contrary, I still harbored hope for our country. When Jerry and Val spoke, I felt strong. When Sylvia spoke, I felt heard. And Zoe - oh, Zoe Lofgren, her name alone is a fluffy blanket, a cup of tomato soup and two Xanax - Zoe made me feel we're in good hands.

 

And when Adam Schiff took the mic? My God. I had to change my underpants. Truth to power is hot.

 

Those Democratic impeachment managers brought intelligence, reason and strength. There were some really great moments of good and light. 

 

I will most likely survive this, even if - Heaven forbid, spit three times and spin to the East - Trump wins the next election. I'm not as vulnerable as many in this country which is why I will scream loudly and point fingers. Lucy Van Pelt is going to be my spirit animal. 

 

So.

A fresh pair of Dr. Scholl's gel pads for the marching, new glitter pens for writing postcards to Virginia, and a double refill of Prozac. The Resistance is regrouping.

 

We leave at the crack of noon.

Bring a hat.