By: Ann Brown
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.
By Ann Brown
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.
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 parties. 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.
By Ann Brown
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 to ask 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.
By Ann Brown
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 a 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.
By Ann Brown
The bloom is off the rose.
Well, more accurately, the, um, grease is off the latke. The flame is off the candle. The wrapper is off the chocolate gelt. No wait, that would be a good thing.
What I am trying to say is that Chanukah is dead to me. At least, Chanukah as I knew it, as the story of the brave Macabees fighting for freedom, blah blah blah. Because my sons educated me about the real story. And now that I know it, and cannot UNknow it, I can barely choke down my second jelly donut.
This is not the first year my sons have brought up the issue of who, exactly, the Maccabees were. I mean, it’s not like they decided to wait until I was fifty-eight years old, ready to hear the truth. They have been talking about it since they were, like, five years old but I don’t really pay full attention to them. Evidently.
When one of my kids was in high school, he said to me one day, “if you are going to Target, will you get me some poster boards?” And I asked why he needed them.
He said, “for my campaign signs.” I asked him what campaign signs.
He said, “For school president.”
“You are running for president? How great. Good luck on the election!”
He looked at me the way I imagine Jesus would look at the Westboro Baptist Church people.
“I am running for RE-election, Mom,” he said. “I have been president all year.”
I may be a wee bit self-absorbed.
And so it has taken me a few years to finally take in The Maccabee Dilemna. Here’s the deal:
The Maccabees were reactionary, fundamentalist Jews. They were the Taliban of the Jews. They considered any Jew that wouldn’t join them to be The Enemy.
Well, you can imagine where I’d be on their list.
Will you join us?
“Oh, I’d love to, but it’s impossible. I have book club Monday nights. And I did not go to college to wind up a cave dweller, you know what I mean? Even though my degree was in Ethnomusicology of The Balkans, yes, I know. But still.
“Also, I notice that you wear belted tunics. And I am an Apple shape; I have to avoid belts or I’d look like, well, Antiochus, wouldn’t I? You men are so lucky, what with your banana shapes. No, that was not a prurient statement. Put that hammer back in your holster, Judah. For fuck’s sake.
“Oh, also? I believe in freedom of religious expression. And gay marriage. So I don’t think I’ll be signing up for your team.”
I bet that Judah Maccabee was a total hothead a-hole, right? The Sonny Corleone of the Macabees, going off apeshit, hitting everyone on the head with his big,long, strong, throbbing hammer. Uh-huh. I swear, if he had been getting laid regularly, I bet he wouldn’t even give a shit about how we chose to express our Judaism. Give a man a blow job and a then a nice bowl of treyf clam chowder and let peace reign on Earth.
By Ann Brown, Parenting Consultant
I went to see “The Life of Pi” during Thanksgiving weekend. It gave me much to think about in terms of what we choose to believe in life. It also gave me a lot to think about in terms of why, even though I do not care about candy at all – I am way more of a wine, bread, and cheese overeater – when I get to a movie theater, I become obsessed with Red Vines. I almost thought about that more than I watched the movie.
Oh great. Now I want Red Vines. Hold on while I run over to the Lake Twin.
The holiday season brings with it a lot of opportunities to bring children into moments of suspended reality and pure wonder. Life, actually, gives us a lot of opportunities to bring children into moments of wonder (although what I paint with a broad stroke as “wonder” is what some people might call “science”. In my defense, I was a music major in college. Science classes? Um, no thank you), but at the holiday season the opportunities are easier to find.
So, me, I am going to weigh in here as PRO wonder. Pro-miracle and pro-magic. (If you happen to have children who can read, you might want to keep the next few paragraphs out of their sight…)
Of course, it’s easy for me to say that I think it’s great that kids believe in Santa. I’m Jewish, and all things Christmas hold a certain unattainable, probably unrealistically Norman Rockwell kind of allure for me, whereas our family Hanukah parties more resemble Picasso in his Expressionist period. But even more than that, I am all for balancing the overly factual, overly information-laden kind of world into which your kids were born.
I believe there is a difference between telling your child a lie and protecting wonder. Keeping wonder alive for your child is saying, “I have never seen the Tooth Fairy, but I like to believe she brought you this quarter”, whereas a lie is more like, “I know her. She hung out with me after she visited your room. We watched Big Love. She ate all the cashews out of my Moose Munch.”
When my children were little, they used to love it when I cut their apples so that the seeds formed a magical star. I made up a sweet little story about it, featuring sprites and fairy dust and all sorts of crap that I used to my advantage by turning it into a morality play in which the good little children always cleaned their rooms.
Anyway, when my kids were, like, four, they figured out that magic had nothing to do with the way the apple seeds made a star pattern. In fact, my scientific children were positively concerned about my lack of, well, smarts – a concern they hold to this day, to tell you the truth. A few years ago, when I made an offhand comment about how Philo of Alexandria (philosopher in 20 BCE) probably invented philosophy, all my horrified son could say gently to me was, “Wow. The 1960’s alternative education movement really failed you, didn’t it?”
I still don’t totally understand why what I said was stupid, but that’s a problem for another day. The point is, my children were quick to eschew magic as an answer to how anything happens but I still tried. I believe there is value in a sense of wonder for young children.
Albert Einstein once said, “We can live life believing that everything is a miracle, or that nothing is a miracle.”
And he was at least as smart as my miracle-eschewing sons.
By Ann Brown
Well, it’s coming down to the wire.
In a previous post I said that if Romney wins this election I am going to hit myself over the head with a cast iron frying pan until I lose consciousness for four years. However, it has come to my attention that in that event, I’ll miss the season premiere of MOB WIVES. So I have recanted my threat. I mean, life goes on.
I will stay conscious in the event of a Romney win, but in a very, very bad mood. For four years. It’s the least I can do for The Movement.
We all, however, have to survive whatever befalls us, be it space garbage or Mitt. So I’ve been planning.
Since Hurricane Sandy, everyone is talking about making an emergency kit in case of natural disaster. Well, I am going to make an emergency kit in case of political and existential disaster: A Romney win.
It will include:
1. A dictionary. I will have to learn waaaaay more words that mean “vitriol”. Eloquence will be key in a world gone mad.
2. A Tetanus shot. I expect to be doing a lot of throwing myself at the television and other rusty nailed objects during the four years. For relief.
3. Tweezers. The end of the world is no reason to grow a unibrow. No reason at all. Because if we are not a well-tweezed movement, then, truly, the Republicans will have won. They have so many blondes. They could go weeks without tweezing, I bet. Jewish gals grow a ‘stach between bites of our morning bagel. That is why everyone hates us. That is also why Jewish men don’t want to date us.
4. A new dental bite guard. They don’t make material strong enough to stop the teeth grinding I will be doing.
5. A new black friend and a lesbian wife. I will need to make a strong statement during a Republican administration. My old black friend Wade has been busy with his own life and cannot, evidently, make the time to hang with me and make me look progressive. I miss Wade. I looked good with Wade on my arm. People knew I was a liberal.
Too bad Wade’s wife isn’t into me. I could marry the both of them, raise our kids Communist, and totally ruin America for Mitt. Yep, I gotta find me a wife. Ooh, maybe I can find a black wife. Maybe Wanda Sykes. OMG, how bitchen would THAT be? Mrs. Dr. Strangemom Sykes. I know I am against taking on a married name but, for fuck’s sake, it’s WANDA SYKES. Who doesn’t love Wanda Sykes? I bet even Robin would take her name.
Oh. Right. I am veering from the point of this post: My emergency kit. It needs one more thing.
6. A full layette and diapers, in case I am illegitimately raped. I just hope my rapist will know which kind of rape he is performing. My luck, I’ll get a low-information rapist who didn’t listen when Aikens explained it.
And that ought to do it.
Now, I am going to climb into my binder and wait.
By Ann Brown
There’s this intersection I drive through, like, a billion times a week and every single time I drive through it I remember that I do not know if it’s okay to make a right turn on the red arrow or not.
I’ve been wondering about it for almost seventeen years, since the first time I was at the front of a long line of cars and the signal turned to the red arrow. Cars started honking at me, which spurred me on to immediately step on the gas and GO because, you know, I didn’t want them to think I was a pussy or something. It’s crucial to me that people do not see me as a pussy driver. Or as a pussy anything. Or see me as I truly am.
It’s very difficult to maintain my hard-ass image while I nervously wait out the red arrows in life.
Oh, I know I look all tough and shit, running out onto my front lawn in my housecoat, giving the finger to the world, shaking my fists and railing at the gods and all, but I am actually quite mellow and “whatev” deep down inside. Under all the vitriol. And the Wheat Thins. And all the wine.
There are, however, a few things that bring out the inner ass-kicker in me:
1. People who forget to eat because they are busy. Really? Fuck you.
2. People who believe that America’s middle class is going to do better with Romney as our president. I am going to send my brilliant wonky sons out to each of your homes and make you listen to them. I would go to your home myself but I tend to get fuzzy on the numbers and facts, plus I have a thing about eating food from other people’s kitchens. Presuming you would offer me food. Unless you are too busy to remember to eat. In which case, double fuck you.
3. White people who think they are all that. Actually, I am against white people in general these days. I am sick of us. We are just so…weenie. So….white.
4. Exceptions to the rules of the road, including the dreaded red arrow. I mean, it should either mean STOP or GO. None of this “well, under the following circumstances, a person might choose to…” bullshit. How much thinking can a person do while driving and texting and spreading wasabi on her sushi and trying to remember if it is Brawny or Bounty that is owned by the evil Koch brothers?
I am just one person, for fuck’s sake. I can’t do everything.
Maybe the laws are different in California where I learned to drive. I think that in California a person can make a right hand turn on a red arrow. Or on a blinking red arrow. Or if a classic Lionel Richie song comes on the radio. Or if you really, really want to.
On the other hand, maybe it should be a personal choice. Some folks go on the red arrow, some stay put. Whatev. Just don’t buy Bounty. Or is it Brawny? Ask my kids.
I am pretty worried about some shit.
I am worried that the dull ache in my upper left molar means I am going to need yet another root canal.
I am worried that I will never learn to use my i-phone and I will spend the rest of my life accidentally taking videos of my body parts when I meant to lower the volume on my phone, and saying “hello? Hello??” into the wall phone jack.
And I am worried about the election, of course. I just don’t think I have it in me to cope if Romney wins. I might have to repeatedly hit myself on the head with a cast iron frying pan and put myself in a coma for four years. To deal with my worrying, however, I volunteered to do phone banking for Obama.
Here’s how you do it:
You call the numbers they give you and you say (into the phone jack), Hello (fill in name). My name is (fill in name) and I am calling from the Obama campaign. Then you ask questions from a prescribed list and thank them for their answers. Then, before they hang up, you ask them if they know of any publishers who would like to make a book out of your blog posts.
Now, I am a pretty good schmoozer despite the fact that I hate talking on the phone. I guess I just hate talking on the phone to people I actually know; talking to faceless names around the country doesn’t really bother me. Especially when I get to talk to them about myself.
I mean, Obama.
No I don’t.
One lady in Cleveland felt that the dull ache in my molars was something I should definitely ask my dentist about. A man in Dayton suggested Sensodyne. I left a long message on the voice mail of a guy in Columbus about finding a publisher for my blog, but I am still waiting for a call back on that one.
Yep, I think Obama has a good chance.
Frankly, I don’t know how effective phone calling is, even when done correctly by people who are not self-absorbed and hoping to get free dental advice from registered Democrats around the country. I am trying to remember if getting a phone call about something has ever actually spurred me on to do the thing. I am also trying to remember if anything has ever spurred me on to do anything.
Nope. It’s really a miracle I get out of bed every morning. But I digress…
Here’s how I fantasized the calls would go:
Me: Hello, Ohio Democrat, my name is Dr. Strangemom and I am calling from the Obama campaign.
Ohio D: Dr. Strangemom? The blogger? OMG, I want to publish you.
Me: Thank you. But I am calling about President Obama.
Ohio D: Right. I’m so confused. Tell me what to do, Dr. Strangemom.
Me: Vote for him. Vote in all Democratic senators and congresspeople, as well. And give a lot of money to NORML. And to the David Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage in Kenya. And to me.
O.D: Will do.
In reality, however, it goes this way:
Me: Hello, Ohio Democrat.
Then I get an incoming call on my i-phone and I start pushing random buttons and wind up recording a video of my stomach. Which I send to the Ohio Democrat.
And Obama wins by a landslide.
By Ann Brown
I am in that awkward in-between stage of life: too young to totally let myself go, and too lazy to improve myself.
Maybe I will just end this post at that last sentence. I mean, really, what more can I say about the topic that is going to matter?
Dr. Oz says that all we have to do is focus on one thing and work on that. Which is bullshit, of course. Because you can’t improve upon only one thing without having to up your game on the rest of your shit. It’s all connected.
It’s like when you are just about to take a shower but all the towels are in the washing machine so you have to use, like, ten clean kitchen towels to dry yourself and while you are naked in the kitchen getting the towels, you smell something funky. Which, upon investigation, is the kitchen trash. And you decide to take out the kitchen trash now, you know, so you don’t have to do it after your shower when you are all clean and shiny and all great smelling of Burt’s Bees Sugar and Honey Scrub.
So you throw on a schmatte and tie up the trash bag but some garbage falls out the top and leaves a funky viscous drool on the kitchen floor. So you put the bag back into the kitchen trash can and get a paper towel to wipe up the floor so the new puppy doesn’t eat the funky drool and vomit while you are taking out the trash.
But shit. You are out of paper towels. And the new package of them is downstairs because Robin insists on shopping at fucking Costco even though there are only TWO of you left in the house and he brings home the, I don’t know, four-hundred-roll package of Brawny, which doesn’t fit anywhere except downstairs in the guest bedroom. Which reminds you that Mom is coming next week. And that we aren’t even supposed to buy Brawny paper towels because they are owned by the evil Koch brothers, so you drop everything to write Robin a note that says, “Mom is coming next week. Please remove your porn from the guest bedroom. Also, we are boycotting Brawny. And stop fucking shopping at Costco. The Persian cucumbers always go bad before we can finish them, and let’s be honest – we NEVER actually cut a maple muffin in half and freeze the other half. We eat the whole fucking muffin. Which is why I have to let the seams out of my maternity underpants.”
It will be a stellar note: Robin’s fault that we are poor AND I am fat. I love being a writer.
But all the pens are dry and the only thing you see on which to write Robin a note is the envelope from the library reminding you that you owe approximately eighty two million dollars in overdue fines. Which reminds you – those books you thought you lost were actually in the back of the Toyota! So you run down to the car to bring them into the house. And then you think, “I should really keep them in the car so I don’t forget to return them” which, of course, is exactly the reasoning that you put them in the car eleven months ago.
And while you are out in the driveway, you see that the garbage can is already filled to the top so when you bring the kitchen trash bag out, it is going to make it impossible to close the lid. And then everyone on your street will judge you for being a household of two and having so much garbage like, I don’t know, maybe they will think you don’t recycle or compost – which you do – or that you throw entire contents of linen closets into the kitchen trash – also which you do – when you don’t feel like folding towels and stuffing them into the shelf.
And then you totally forget why you are standing in the driveway.
And then you notice the color of your hair in your car’s side mirror and you decide that – broke or not – you are springing for the non-generic hair color next time because in the sunlight you look like you are wearing one of those multi-colored clown wigs. And then you remember that this is Oregon and there never is any fucking sunlight.
Which gets you thinking.
Do you want to move? Not back to LA, of course, although you do miss your friends and family. And will you ever realize your dream of the commune on Whidbey Island? And how will you ever convince Cousins Adam and Ken to leave New York? What will it take, dear Lord, to get them here? Maybe my hair will be a cry for help that will bring them running to me.
Oh, and do I want a salmon burger for lunch? I think I do.
And where is the spray starch, because I have a lot of shit to iron. I love my JJill linen tops but it’s a lot of ironing. I do love JJill. I wonder when the next catalog is coming…
And – shit! What if Romney wins? I don’t think I have it in me to handle that without a major incident.
And why is Phila running outside carrying a large white pillow case? How adorable.
Wait. That is not a pillow case at all. It is the trash bag that I left in the kitchen. And she has torn it open.
And all the kitchen trash is scattered all over the kitchen and down the stairs and now, on the front lawn. And then it all comes back to you – why you are standing there and what needs to be done.
And you think to yourself, Robin really needs to mow the lawn.