Dr. Strangemom's Open Salon Blog

Man vs Woman vs Dog

Mon, 13 May 2013 16:05:22 -0400

Today is Phila's one year birthday. And we are gonna have to work out some shit because we have issues.

For one, Phila believes that when Robin leaves for work at 5:15 every morning, it is her job to alert me every four minutes that he is gone, and to ask me what we intend to do about it. I have explained to her that the most sensible thing to do about it is to go back to sleep but it turns out that Poodles are quite judgmental about people sleeping in. Is that a French thing? I always imagined that the French are the kind of people who sleep late, what with the effort they put out during the day not gaining weight and bringing up their bebes to be superior to ours. I never thought of them as an "early to bed, early to rise" nation, like I imagine the Swedes to be. I bet all Swedes are up by 6AM. It's probably the law over there. Remind me to research this. After my nap. And a snack. Oh, you know what? Never mind. I don't care anymore.

Anyway, my Poodle must have some Swedish in her. Or Nazi. She barks in my ear as soon as Robin drives away. She looks at me with disgust, as if I had just suggested we, I don't know, sleep until 7.

Phila, shut up! I say. She probably thinks that's her name: Philashutup. Or, Philagolaydown. Or,goddamn fucking Robin.

I lay there in bed, hours before I have to get up, bemoaning my wretched life and wondering what I will eat for dinner that night. Then I give up and, laying all the Jewish guilt I have on her, I get out of bed. My guilt-mongering, however, has no effect on Phila, what with her French background of ill-hidden disgust of Jews and overweight women.

"Eet wouldn't keel you, Madame," she mutters to herself but loud enough for me to hear, "to rise with zee sun and take some exercise with me. I have noticed ow your grande shadow all but obscures zee sunlight on my slim body."

I've asked Robin to train her not to wake me when he leaves for work, but Robin's mornings are full enough with showering, making coffee and reading the morning tome I've written him the night before which lists and explains all the reasons I am mad at him. I've found that leaving vitriolic notes are much healthier than having face-to-face fights in a marriage. In a face-to-face, you have to listen to the other person. Well, actually, no you don't but you have to wait until they are done talking. And even if you spend all the waiting time formulating your next cutting remark, it's pretty much a lost few minutes. Whereas a letter allows one to say everything she needs to say. Plus a recap. Plus questions at the end of the chapter to make sure her husband was reading carefully and understands exactly why his remark four years ago that he's not a fan of cumin in the guacamole was so hurtful that she cannot let go even now. Sometimes I even add a little quiz at the end of the letter.

The other morning, I summoned all my compassionate/stern parenting skills and made Phila get up on my bed with me when Robin left. To my surprise, she actually stopped barking and jumped up. I fell back asleep. When my alarm went off at 7:30, I opened my eyes and realized I didn't have a pounding headache. I also realized that my bed and I were covered in white fluff. Because Phila had chewed open a small hole in the corner of my pillow and taken out all the stuffing. Right from under my face while I slept on the pillow. Which, by the time I woke up, was nothing more than a flat pillowcase.

"Fuck you, Phila," I said to her by way of a morning greeting.

She just smiled. I have a feeling I am going to be getting a morning letter from her tomorrow.

Driving Miss Robin

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 18:04:02 -0400

So, what's new? Not much.

Oh wait. Right. Robin got his driver's license suspended.

It's not what you think, and I know that you are thinking DUI.

Robin was nabbed for speeding. And running a red light. And for totally being a dick to me when I was in a bad mood a few months ago and just needed to be left alone. Well, okay, he wasn't pulled over for that, specifically, but I felt the police officer who gave him the speeding ticket should know what I go through. So I told him.

You'd think that a person who had his license taken away would be the contrite one in the car, right? And you'd think that person would refrain from giving helpful driving tips to the person who is giving up her valuable time to schlep him around town, and who has pretty much made her way in the driving world for, oh, forty years without his helpful tips and suggestions such as, "when you accelerate, you want to blah blah blah...".

I can't tell you how his sentences end because by then I am usually looking for the closest bridge from which to launch us both into the Willamette. The man cannot shut the fuck up about my driving.

The other week, after I did not accept his helpful suggestions on parallel parking, and after he pointed out that he is pretty much an expert in parallel parking and really, in all aspects of driving, possibly all aspects of life, and I pointed out that one of us who is not an expert still has a valid driver's license and one of us who is an expert needs to have me drive him to Safeway because he is out of Preparation H wipes, and he pointed out that speeding and running red lights are not evidence of being a bad driver whereas my acceleration technique is a major red flag about my road skills, and, really, about my ability to navigate the world at all, and then I pointed out that I hate him and I have been faking my orgasms, he said indignantly to me, "I am going to get a new driver!"

And he looked at me as though he had just told me he was going to get a new wife. Which shook me about as much as if he said he was going to get a new driver.

And then I slammed on the brakes because I was about to run a red light and we both stopped fighting due to our instantaneous commitment to whiplashes while saving the Trenta iced tea I had just gotten from Starbucks, which was the topic of the helpful tip Robin had been giving me ("TWO dollars? For iced tea??? This is why we have no retirement savings") right before the parallel parking thing happened.

Only there wasn't really a red light. I just wanted to slam on the brakes. I like to fuck with him.

My Current APGAR

Wed, 3 Apr 2013 19:04:18 -0400

I hate this kind of shit. As if I don't have enough to worry about already.

According to an article in Huffpo, by the age of 50, women should know how to do all the things listed below. This, of course, is complete bullshit; all a woman needs to know by age 50 is the adage, "you choose your face or your ass", which means you can be thin (i.e. choose your ass) but your face will look gaunt and creepy and small children will run from you, or you can choose your face (eat all your want and grow your ass the size of Texas) and be gorgeous.

And by 59 (in a few weeks), all a woman needs to know is that even if she cannot see it, there is a whisker growing out of her face somewhere that is, like, four feet long and thick as a Sequoia. A whisker that was not there yesterday but is most certainly there today.

Huffpo, however, has a different list.

And therefore, below, my rebuttal:

Say "no" without feeling guilty - Yeah, um, unless you are Jewish. I even feel guilty when I say "yes".

Book their own travel - do they mean make dozens of reservations on Alaska Airlines until the code letters you get spell out something that is a good harbinger and means the plane won't go down? Then, yes. I do that.

Say "I'm sorry" and mean it - I totally mean it. On the surface. Where it counts.

Get around in a foreign country - Well that's just stupid. Nobody needs to go to a foreign country anymore. Not when there is the Travel Channel. And legalized weed.

Mix at least a few classic cocktails - and by "classic", do they mean drink tequila straight from the bottle while looking at photos of themselves when they were young and happy? Then, yes.

Make themselves and their own needs a priority - I feel I excel at this. I asked Robin if he thought I was too much of a martyr, always thinking of others, and if I need to make myself more of a priority and he laughed so hard he coughed up a tooth.

Defend themselves against an attacker with at least one signature self-defense move - I have one signature move. It's a kind of pelvis sway and shimmy thing I learned in the 70's at Disco Disco. You should see how fast men run away when I do it now.

Perform CPR
Carve a turkey - I only carve it if the CPR didn't work.

Choose their own wine - Easy. The one that's open. And closest to me so I don't have to sit up. Or roll over.

Examine their own breasts - Well, now, this can be problematic. What with my fifty-nine year old eyes being so near-sighted and my breasts being so much further away from my face than they used to be, a lot of visual acuity is lost. So I generally just ask random strangers to examine them for me. Sometimes I add my signature move.

Graciously accept a compliment - Yeah, okay. When I fucking GET one, I'll let you know how graciously I will accept it.

Flip their own breaker - if that is a euphemism for masturbating, I am not going to answer.

Plunge a toilet - Hah. That would be a really gross euphemism for masturbating.

Walk away from a situation or relationship when it's not working - No problem. Ask the myriad personal trainers, nutritionists, therapists and leg-waxers in my wake.

Say what they really want in bed - Easy: SLEEP. And, every once in a while, some privacy to, um, flip my breaker.

Apply makeup without a mirror - I can do better than that. I can apply make up WITH a mirror but make it look as if I applied it WITHOUT a mirror.

Ask for a raise - Yes. Wait, without offering sex first? Then, no.

Unclog a drain - yet another euphemism? Well, that one kinda makes sense.

Tell which direction they are facing - Don't need a compass to tell me I am going to Hell. In a handbasket.

Make small talk with just about anyone
Know when to reveal personal information -- and when not to - I consider revealing personal information and small talk to be indistinguishable from each other and essential at cocktails parites. You open a conversation with, "yikes. I did not expect to be faking orgasms this late into my marriage", and you are pretty much guaranteed to be left alone. Score.

Paint a room - Please. I did that at five. Only without my parent's permission. And with crayons.

Buy the right-sized bra -I am still saving up to buy the right size boobs.

Beautifully wrap a present - see above, about the bra.

Reach out to an old friend - who is falling? Yes, I would totally do that.

Show love with actions and not just words - Eeeeew. WORDS? Yuck.

Put together a real retirement strategy - You're reading it.

Look good in a photo - Fuck you.

There's A Hole In My Bucket, part 2

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 02:03:49 -0400

Yeah, I know. I haven't blogged in a while. It's not just that I've been busy; it's that it takes so much effort to just get one thing done, you know? The universe puts out one obstacle after another.

One morning, for instance, I wake up and say to myself, "I am going to blog today".

But first I have to brush my teeth because I heard on Dr. Oz a few months ago that nighttime tooth bacteria can cause heart attacks. I think. Or world war. I'm not sure but either way, I'm not taking chances. So I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and I see that my Sonicare toothbrush hasn't been recharged because I threw out the charger thing last week when I saw how funky it was all crusted with old toothpaste and shit and I didn't have time to clean it because I was already late for my physical therapy appointment. Which I canceled on my way there, anyway, because the air pressure tire light came on in my car and I got nervous. So I went straight to the Toyota place, rolled down my window and handed them four hundred dollars. So I wouldn't feel nervous anymore.

I still need a toothbrush. I go to the downstairs bathroom to look for one and I pause momentarily to enjoy the colorful tile work that I first thought made it look like the bathrooms at Baja Fresh, but now I love it. Which reminds me, I have a coupon for Baja Fresh. Unless I threw it out. Maybe I threw it out. I walk into the den and check out the den trash. It's not there, but the den trash is pretty full of tangerine peels which smell fabu at first but super funky after a few days. I decide to collect the downstairs trash to take out on my way back upstairs. AFter I find a toothbrush. So I can brush my teeth. So I don't have a heart attack. Or start a world war. I'm not sure. And then, so I can sit down and blog.

In the den, I see Robin's computer is open to Facebook.

And I remember that I probably should send Robin a Facebook friend request. Because I unfriended him during the last fight we had. Which, btw, is just about the greatest thing you can do when your husband pisses you the fuck off. UNFRIEND! Click. I wanted to show him just how pissed off I was. Also, I was worried he would write something unflattering on my wall like, "I can fit my entire body into your underpants. And Phila, too. And also my boat." And he'd post a photo of it or something.

I was so fucking mad at Robin.

Frankly, I wish there had been an UNMARRY button to click. There's something Zuckerberg didn't think of. Although he's only been married about a year, right? Give him another decade, he'll be staying up nights inventing ways to piss off his spouse.

You know what would be amazing? An UN-BLOW JOB button. Perfect, right? For those times when you regret having given your husband a blow job the night before because this morning he is such an asshole. Hah! I UNblow job you. Click!

My exhilaration at having unfriended Robin was decreased only slightly by the fact that he hasn't even noticed.

And now the fight is over and we are real life friends again so I should probably take back my unfriending him. Only - and here's the drag - I have to send him a new friend request in order to do so.

Uh-oh. I didn't think about that when I cavalierly knocked him off my wall. I don't want to have toask him to friend me again. I would lose all my power if I had to do that. And then I wouldn't be the winner. It would be a tie. Damn.

And, what if he rejects my request? Then HE would win. Ack. That won't do.

I sit down on the den couch to consider my options. I fall asleep.

I wake up and say to myself, "I am going to blog today."

But first, I better brush my teeth.

Bang Bang

Mon, 21 Jan 2013 19:01:46 -0500

As I watch the inauguration today, I am proud to be an American woman with bangs.

I have been waiting for this day for a long time. Fifty-eight years.

I have never been without bangs, due to my forehead being approximately three inches high due to my, evidently, skipping the entire family epoch in Poland and going back directly to The Missing Link. And as women knuckle-draggers have known since the invention of foreheads, a short one (forehead, not woman) must be disguised with bangs.

When I was young and Mom was in charge of my bangs, I suffered the humiliation of the one-and-a-half inch micro bang. I still can't get Mom to explain her thought process with that. Maybe it was a Cold War thing, you know, confuse and repel the Commies with my coif. Or maybe it was a Mom-liked-her gin thing back in the 1950's. What I don't want to believe is that it was a Mom-liked-Karen-more-than-she-liked-me thing although there is a preponderance of evidence to the contrary.

For one thing, Karen got a forehead. If giving one daughter and forehead and the other daughter two inches of fur between her eyebrow and her scalp isn't Exhibit A of Mom Loved You Best, well, I don't know what is.

Oh wait. Yes I do.

Mom stopped smoking when she was pregnant with me.

And if you think that is a good thing, consider this: my big sister is, like, 5' 2'' and very petite. She can fit her entire body in my underpants, I bet. I spent most of Kingergarten being mistaken for her bodyguard. I was heads taller than Karen. With a mustache and unibrow. I didn't date a lot in Kindergarten.

Karen and Mom are pretty much alike. Blonde and small. Fit and active. I am more like my dad. Who is dead.

Still, now that the First Lady's bangs are all out and proud, it just seems, well, American to be sporting bangs. So I will not grow out my bangs. Ever. Even if my forehead grows five inches, I will not grow out my bangs.

Because then the Commies will have won.