Author Archives: iasshole

I AM NOT AN ANIMAAAAL!!!

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MAILBAG, BITCHES!

Hi SJ!

I wanted to let you know about a new parenting site called Mom Mash!

As a Mom Mash member not only will you be part of a wonderful parenting community, but you can easily and seamlessly expose your blog to new readers by importing a feed into your Mom Mash journal. All entries will appear as new and link back to your personal blog! Get started here: xxx

You will also be able to participate in parenting blogger groups with other bloghers, like:

Fluppy’s Baby Birthin’ Barn

My Uterus Is About to Prolapse

and

Without Children My Life Would Be Meaningless

And don’t forget to check out our cool widgets! From funny things kids say to a badge that fits your personal style, you can find one here: XXXX

So come by, check us out, and let us know what you think!

Regards,
Pickle

Hi Pickle,

I’m not trying to be rude, here, but do you know who I am and what site I run? People usually reject me from groups like this on the basis of my URL alone. I’m not really a “parenting blogger.”

Thanks,

SJ

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Do You Like My Peen? Y/N

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Go Fug Yourself meets Craigslist. These ladies (and the token guy) are REVIEWING peen pics found on the Wide Web of the World.

At first I was all OH HELL NAW that’s so funny. But then I started thinking about how I would feel if it was a passel of mens going “Look, I think her nipple just winked at me!” I think I would be okay with that. But I bet a lot of people might feel uncomfortable. This is all hypothetical, because I don’t know of a site where a group of men make fun of women’s naked bodies.

What do you think? Could this site go both ways? Would you be cool with that? Are you cool with either flavor, the existing peentown or the hypothetical winking boobs? I’m just curious.

Either way, I think this site is gonna blow up.

Volunteer Kid Hassler For Hire

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Wow! My kid’s teacher just asked me to give a book talk for her class. Apparently some of the kids have been mistreating books lately, and she wants a librarian to come in and impress the importance of books upon them. I guess all the real librarians were busy! Ha!

Anyway, Companion and I talked a little and he gave me some ideas for activities. I think I am going to start with a game where each kid gets a piece of paper with a skilled job and a job description on it. The scenario is that they all live spread out in an area, and the plague sweeps through and some of them die, taking their knowledge with them. Lo, the recipe for cement and the secrets of midwifery are lost. In this way I am going to try to show the importance of collected information in an easily-accessible format.

I am just brainstorming at this point, but I think this could be fun. I have been offering my skills to that school for years. I’m really glad the new teacher finally sees me as a tappable resource.

Call Me Brotty

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So, in very important news, it seems that the singer Keith “Drinky” Urban is suing the more obscure oil painter, Keith Urban. The lesser-known Urban‘s crime? Owning Keithurban.com. Drinky Urban just wants the dot-com, because he just has sad little dot-net.

Don’t like that there is more than one Keith Urban on the planet, Drinky? Are you afraid someone will renounce your Devil Music and become an aficionado of oil paintings? HMM? Then change your name. I suggest Mandelbrott Buttslapper. It will be great publicity and you won’t have to share a name with anyone.

I have worked up a new image for your splash page, which you may have, gratis!

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Plus we will get to refer to your wife as “Mrs. Buttslapper,” and LO, that will own.

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That’s right. I called you Mrs. Buttslapper.

Here at Crazy-Go-Nuts University

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Shit. I am having trouble posting right now. Hell, I’m having trouble brushing my teeth.

Ever since Strudel hit about twenty months, she’s been on eleven all the time. Everything has become big. HUGE. There is no three, or seven. It’s on or off. And off is hard to achieve.

This morning Companion rescued her from her cage (“HEYOO? POO POO!”) and brought her downstairs to feed her eggs so I could sleep for an extra half-hour. When he came up to wake me, he brought her too. “MAMA! HI MAMA! HI MAMA!” She kissed me several times. It’s sort of like being woken up by a Jack Russell terrier, but probably slightly more slobber.

The tantrums are pretty epic, too. This isn’t the best example, because she’s not throwing as much stuff or screaming as loudly as usual. I think she was thinking about the camera. I was being rotten and not letting her empty the entire contents of our mitten and hat basket. Me and my occasional need for order and cleanliness. I am such a nutter.

This is this morning. The minute I came downstairs, before I could even reach for a glass of water, she pointed at my MP3 player and demanded MUSIC!

I asked her if she wanted dance music or quiet music, and she said, “DAAA!” so Kelis it was.

Companion’s father came last weekend and spent the night. He kept saying things like, “Wow! She’s very busy,” and “She never stops, does she?” and (sarcastically, as she jumped off the couch repeatedly) “I have no idea why you’re so tired all the time.”

Companion is one of six children, all raised with a lot of involvement on his father’s part. After Companion took Strudel off to bed I asked him if Strudel reminded him of any of his kids. He thought for a minute.

“No,” he said. “She’s a lot more active.”

Strudel is a great kid. She’s smart and healthy, and she has a sense of humor. She’s just very intense. Happy is just as big and tiring as angry. I’m frustrated also because she does so well when her sister’s here–they play constantly and with not much crying. When Franny’s not here, I kind of have to make a choice. I can watch her constantly, or I can take a break and call a friend or read a book, knowing that something will probably get broken or the tub will suddenly be overflowing. If she’s not off getting into trouble then she chatters constantly, which is basically her shouting one word repeatedly until I acknowledge her.

Today I am trying to think of further ways to keep her occupied. We have a Sit-and-Spin, and this rocker, and a membership to Gymboree, AND a Zoo membership, AND a bunch of other little random toys, all of which are helping, but we can’t do all of those things every day. We take walks at least twice daily. I need to mix it up a little bit. I am thinking about buying a mini-trampoline or a Big Wheel, or maybe both, because I love being indoors with a mug of tea, and if one of those could buy me some time I might be able to think again.

She doesn’t “get” television. On the rare occasions I get out the laptop and play Shrek 2 for Franny, Strudel glances at the screen for a minute and then wanders off. I have seen cats take more interest in TV than my kid, so raising her how I was raised is not even an OPTION. And I’m not going to lie to you. My fantasies used to involve Raoul, an ice-cold pitcher full of dirty nipples, and flensing gear, but now they involve a half-hour of TV time.

I miss writing. I miss sewing. I miss taking a shower without having the bathmat thrown in at me. What I really need is a giant hamster wheel so we can power the house.

The Cement Mixer Gets It All Ready

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Clothesbombing: The act of deliberately returning your child to your ex-spouse’s house in clothes that are too small, so as not to lose the “good” clothes.

I took my big kid, Franny, to school today to ditch her for two weeks over at her dad’s house. The minutiae of sharing a child are so stupid I can’t even tell you. For instance: clothes. For a while as a single mom I was really, really broke. And then I joined forces with Companion to become…two really, really broke people. We took a lot of walks together.

The point is, for quite a while we were worried about clothes, because just when you have a drawer full of cute, well-fitting clothes it took you hours to thrift, beg, borrow, or steal you take a deep breath and relax. And then a month goes by…and the perfect little pants you scored are now capris that cannot be snapped up. (Lesson: do not spawn with tall people or your child will constantly be running around in tiny pants.) This reminds me, I need to up Franny’s cigar and black coffee intake. Let it not be said that I run an inefficient household.

So there was a lot of stress about clothes disappearing. Many times Franny would leave in something normal, and in well-fitting shoes, and would return in lederhosen, a tube top, and moon boots that were two sizes too small. She has literally come into my house and said, “OH, I need to get these off! They are way too tiny, but my dad made me wear them.”

I cannot do this to her. It pains in my financial place to see her walk out the door in the “good” clothes, knowing it won’t come back for three months (too small) but I am trying to accept it as something I can’t change. He just sent her back in boots that were too small, so I had to shop for her immediately

Adding to the mix, Franny has tag/seam/shoelace sensitivity issues, so I am shopping at Nordstrom for shoes now. She wears Vans and other slip-ons, and boots with zippers. It’s certainly more money than Payless, but they take things back even if they’ve been worn. Which is critical with Franny. She can fall in love with shoes and then decide a week later that they are actually uncomfortable. And then she will stop and adjust them every few feet as we are out on a walk, eventually bursting into tears of frustration. So now I am buying higher-quality shoes that she likes the look of (often only one pair at Payless would “work” but she would reject them on looks), AND that can be exchanged for something else if they don’t work out. The extra money is so worth it for us.

But I really don’t want to see her nice leather Stride Rite boots vanish off at her dad’s, to be replaced by some foam platform sandal clusterfuck that her heels hang off by about an inch (true story). So I took her to Fred last night, and bought her a pair of fifteen dollar Sketchers-knockoff maryjanes, which she will probably wear to school and home where they will disappear into the back of her closet. This is lame, but acceptable.

The word on the street now is that they are broke over at the other house, so there is some agitating about “their” clothes that I am hoarding over here. I make every effort so send her back in the clothes she came in, but I draw the line at a couple of things. 1. My kid does not get sent out in too small clothes that she’s uncomfortable in. She gets cold enough right now in clothes that cover her ankles. 2. I will not send her back in seasonally inappropriate clothes. Recently Franny came in the snow in a pair of (real) Capri pants that they had bought in France on their honeymoon. Franny’s stepmother is agitating for them to come back, but if I send them in a bag with what she’s wearing, then we lose more clothes.

Do you see what I mean about annoying minutiae? And that’s just clothes.

My kid left the house this morning clean, appropriately-dressed, and well-fed. I kissed her at the gate. It’s all I can do.

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So I’m Trying to Write a Cover Letter

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But the kid is interested in potty practice, and won’t stop ripping off her clothes. Sometimes, when I’m trying to do something to improve myself, but I find myself interrupted by cleaning turds up off the floor, I feel like the message the universe is sending me is GIVE UP, YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE. INSERT TWENTY-FIVE CENTS FOR THREE MORE MINUTES. And then the raisin chucking starts.

I think some people who are critical of stay-at-home moms who drink have never been stay-at-home moms.

(The post I linked is great, by the way. It’s not a criticism.)

Three Stories About Frannie

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My Frannie has been beaucoup de bubbleheaded lately.

1. Eel. EEL. EEL!

On Saturday we were at Blue C with Supa, gobbling sushi like freaks. Supa grabbed some unagi off the conveyor belt and exclaimed, “I LOVE eel!” I haven’t been able to comfortably eat eel since college, when I made the wise decision to snag some out of the refrigerator case at the grocery store I worked at. Grocery store sushi and Phoenix, Arizona is not a good mix. Let it suffice to say that you never forget your first eel puke.

Anyway, Supa was enjoying her eel and continuing to exclaim. “This eel is so good! Hey, Franny, do you want to try some of my EEL?”

Franny brandished the little kid chopsticks they thoughtfully provide there. “Okay,” she said, and snagged a small bite.

“Hmm,” she said, chewing. “This eel is good chicken.”

AWWW, Baby’s First Jessica Simpson Moment!

2. Eel Again.

Later that day I told Companion the eel story and he chuckled. Franny weighed in from the kitchen table where she was watercoloring.

“Mom!” she said. “You can’t tell that story. I don’t appreciate they way you have been giving me compliments lately.”

“Oh, the compliments are bothering you?”

“YES!”

“Sorry, I won’t give you any more compliments.”

3. AND HE WAS DEAD!

Earlier that weekend Companion had his guitar out and was strumming it. Can I tell you I was trepadacious about the fact Companion was a guitar player, because of my marriage to someone who was into the non-stop solo horning in a closet. But he is a benign weekend strummer, not an ARTISTE.

So Companion was strumming, and Frannie was an Interruptasaurus (Bargus Rudus).

“P., can you sing a song about me? And my sister?”

Companion came to an abrupt stop with guitar equivalent of a needle ripping off a record.

“A song about you? Okay,” he said. He began strumming again. “There were two little girls….” Franny was all smiles at this point. “Aaaand they were too curious, and they in-ter-UP-ted a looot!” She was less smiley then. “And they ended up DEAD!”

Franny ran out of the room as I laughed hysterically. As soon as I was able to pull my uterus back up into my body and stop laughing, I made them get together and make up.

This weekend, while it had its highlights, was way too long.

PS, If you make a ringtone of the “Look Around You” theme song and send it to me, you will be the proud recipient of twelvedy doubloons and a photocopy of a butt.

In Which I, Asshole Learn the Importance of Having an Adult Drawer

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I had this roommate, oh JESUS CHRISTO I had this roommate. Me being in the same room with her was a bad idea, but I didn’t realize that at the time. Firstwith, she was trying to steal my boyfriend at the time. That sounds very Betty and Veronica, doesn’t it? It was worse than that because I was clueless, so I couldn’t even have the cartoon wavy-bacon steam lines coming off my head. I should probably tell you that story some other time.

One story about my roommate.

I. I was having a really bad, bad miserable time in my hometown. I was smoking a lot of cigars and dating this guy who worshipped the Beastie Boys and had a fresh-ass afro and a motorcycle. Unfortch, I was also living with my boyfriend. That puts such a pall on your dating life. So my BF was all, “Girl, I am tired of your cigars and you coming home randomly handcuffed,” which happened after my friends dropped me off from the Verve Pipe/Majesty Crush show (I don’t remember anything about the Verve Pipe, but Majesty Crush totally saved my life and I will give you seven dubloons if you have one of their records).

So I called my friend and told her my boyfriend wanted me out, and she said she was looking for a roommate. This sounded good to me. I was working as a landscaper/apartment building maintenance person, and as an evictress on the side, and the crew I worked with decided it was only right and proper to give me a going-away party. We went to the bowling alley and had some pitchers, and when I came home my date dropped me off and I got off the wrong side of his motorcycle, which resulted in me burning my calf. I still have a plum-sized white scar to pay for my folly, which made me limp so bad during my first week in Seattle I had to cancel on a PJ Harvey concert. I will show it to you sometime.

Later my date and I did something (with our pants on, even) that made him write me letters for months after, which I unfeelingly ignored.

Anyway, I moved out with my roommate, who I am too lazy to assign a pseudonym to, and we hunkered down in her little studio together. Of course, this was during the reign of Mr. Buzzy(s), and I was careless enough to leave it under my pillow, tucked inside the case. What did I care? I was seventeen, in the big city, and unemployed at the beginning of my run there. Let us say I had loads of spare time.

I also had Taibas Jones, who was shipped out as part of my swag, which included four boxes (mostly records) and a cat. I tell you, this cat learned how to climb the rungs of my roommate’s bunkbed. Judged to be more nimble and fifty pounds lighter, I was stationed on the top. There Nietzsche would go, hooking her paws around the rungs and climbing to get me. She had a game where she’d actually scootch up the ladder and come after me, when she was in her kittenhood.

WELL, one day Nietzsche was up and down the ladder, freakishly, fucking with me and having a fabulous time. I kept jumping back and my roommate was ensconced in her bed and mockingly cursing me for making so much noise and fucking around. It was kind of like a slumber party gone wrong.

Then, for the last time, I leaned back into my pillow as the cat attacked and BZZZZZZZZ! I leaned right into my vibrator under my pillow, somehow twisting the dial and turning it on. Fucking fantastic. It took me a minute to realize what I had even done before I could (subtly) scramble to turn it off again.

My roommate was in hysterics. She knew what I had done and what had happened, and she was literally rolling around on her bed below. I, for my part, lay very still and wished I could disappear. I laid there until my roommate was able to stop laughing, and then got up and went on with my day.

Part of me was totally embarrassed, and part of me didn’t care. I was three years younger than her, and she sort of treated me like goony entertainment anyway, so I knew it wouldn’t matter. A month later we moved to a bigger place that had separate bedrooms. Weird stuff goes down when you’re in close quarters, doesn’t it?

In Other News

Guess the fuck WHAT? I got a job offer today. So it’s really loose at this point, but sincere, and it looks like I’ll be working this fall. And it’s all kid-friendly and flexible and crap. I win! Just like the terrorists.

AAAND Strudel is giving up naps. Rather than sleeping, she chose to strip her bed and herself. WOW! Does anyone know how to tie a hangman’s noose?

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Seriously, I feel like crying, but I’m TOO TIRED. HAA HAA HAA HAA! (Prays for drugs.)

This morning I put her barrette back in her hair eleventhy times before eight o’clock. So guess what? SNIP, BITCHES! And LO, there was bangeths.

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Also, I think you should know that I dropped so much ice cream into my keyboard last night that it is hard to depress the question key. Poor Tyrone!