WOW! Companion had a SHIRT MADE! FOR MY BIRTHDAY! I am 29 today. He made me an I, Asshole shirt. Woot!
At five o’clock we are going to Pies N’ Pints for a big famjam dinner. It’s been a good day. Today was Franny’s B-day party also. Watch this space for pictures. I am drunk. The end!
cleek for bigger boobers. This shirt refers to this comic from June.
Once again, like a giant doody bird, I have overscheduled myself for today. I think my past self thinks my future self is faster, more capable, and less likely to scratch delicate surfaces. It’s just not true, past self. But I turn around to punch her, and she’s gone. So I am stealing a couple of minutes to complain.
Holy Fucking Shit y’all, I went to a “parent education” night at my daughter’s school on Thursday. My confession is that this is her fourth year there and this was my first one. D’oh! Things are easier now that my baby sleeps at night and we live two-minutes’ walk from the school.
It turns out I wasn’t missing anything before! The actual parent education part took about ten minutes (and was very interesting), and the rest was “Harangue the Elementary Teacher” night.
It started off normally. The teacher began her discussion of classroom procedures, and the subject came to lunch. She practices the extremely controversial lunch method of “letting the children decide when they are hungry, within a reasonable window of time.” OOOOOH. This is part of the reason I have Franny in private school, because of the flexibility that’s possible there. And because the school is so gung-ho on personal responsibility and making choices and all that stuff you never get to do when you’re the product of a Future-Derelict Factory like I was.
The teacher was promptly attacked for her crazy notions. We heard extensively (and almost exclusively) from one child’s mother, who shall be pseudonymously named “Emily’s mommy,” since she seemed to have no name of her own.
“WELL,” Emily’s mommy started in. “Emily has been having problems with this lunch method. Emily wants to do what her friends are doing, so she brings her food outside. But she has a warm-up, so she can’t eat it all!” Emily’s mommy was making reference to the fact that the teacher also provides a microwave, so the children can bring actual meal-like leftovers, instead of a sandwich every day, and the fact that the children can choose to eat outside during recess. “Children should be playing outside during recess, not eating! It defeats the purpose of recess, doesn’t it?” I could see that her eyes were casting around the room for votes, support, anything.
She went on, undeterred by the lack of support, like a political candidate whose position statement is a breakdown of the moon-landing hoax. “FURTHERMORE, Emily has low blood sugar issues. At our house, we eat every hour. WE ARE GRAZERS!” There were some calmer parents there, like Whippet and her husband, and Wonder Woman and her husband. We were reduced to making the “MY GOD, KILL ME” bug eyes at each other, since there was barely room for anyone else to speak.
It continued on like this on every topic. I could have been at home putting Franny to bed, and reading Half-Magic to her, but alas, now I know more about Emily than I do my own child.
On the walk home, Whippet and her husband were cutting up about the whole thing. “I feel like I know how often Emily’s mommy has sex!” Whippet’s husband snapped. “Not enough, I’m guessing.”
“Poor Emily,” I said. “Poor Emily’s therapy bills.”
I wondered to them why people have their children in a program they obviously don’t trust at all. There was another man who went after the teacher about silent reading. “HOW DO YOU KNOW they’re reading silently?” he demanded.
“I don’t,” the teacher replied. She explained that she moves around the classroom during silent reading to see if any children are struggling, and that’s it’s about practicing reading techniques, as well as learning to read silently.
“But HOW do you KNOW?” he kept asking.
I don’t know. My kid seems happy, I like what she’s doing, and I feel relieved that she’s in a stable environment. But you don’t know for sure. The other choice is quitting your job and homeschooling, isn’t it? And faced with that, I think I’d be nibbling on the wallpaper within a week. So I am choosing to trust the system.
Today was a special day! I got to leave the house, not to punch and kick, and not with El Strudeldoro in tow. I test drove my new gynecologist. She handles like a dream on the freeway and sidestreets!
Sirisly, though, it was nice to get out of the house and do something different. I took a book for the bus. I am finally reading Microserfs by Ye Olde Douglas Coupland, and it’s funny to see all the salmon, salmon, fleece, fir trees biznaz. You know what the weirdest part is? It’s all pop-culture hell, and it seems like the protagonist was raised by television advertisements, but it was published before the era of Reality Television and obsessive celebrity culture. I think MTV’s “The Real World” existed, but that’s before there was “Survivor.” “Reality” wasn’t a genre yet. (“BACK IN MY DAY, we called that nonfiction.” SJ creakily wields due-date stamper.)
Can I tell you that I am starting to forget what the time before reality-everything was like? Microserfs is bringing it back for me a little bit. But the book…it feels a little flat somehow. If only he’d waited five more years. Then it would be the perfect melange of old television ads, childhood nostalgia (is that redundant?), alienation, and Flava FLAV!
So I piled on to the bus with the students, flashing my non-student bus pass triumphantly. People discussed readings they didn’t do and living in crappity student housing with difficult strangers. Meanwhile I read about Microsoft, a safe crashpad for those newly-sprung from college and embarking for the rest of their lives. Supa and I were talking about this the other day–the Microsoft “campus” with its weird little buildings and dimly-lit offices populated with man-boys who decorate their offices with xmas lights and manga. Not everyone, I know. But for some, college part two, right?
I was relieved when I got off for the doctor’s at a couple of stops before the bus starts disgorging the university-bound. I walked past the office building where I was awarded a research office during grad school for being a good footstool. I thought about the fact that I would have an office there now, had I been accepted to the doctoral program. I would be starting my third year as a doctoral candidate, rail thin, not sleeping, still living on Diet Cokes and cigarettes. I looked into the windows. Grey. Who designs an office in grey in Seattle? Lots of people, actually. It’s wrong. Maybe it’s to make you feel better about being indoors. See, it’s grey in here and it’s grey out there. In here, you’re dry and making money. Out there, you’re wet and stepping in goose poo.
I had stopped after the bus and bought a sugar-free Red Bull. I have a body memory of being irresponsibly caffeinated whenever I’m in the University District so I can’t resist the lure of piss-tasting chemicals. Actually, regular Red Bull tastes like piss. Sugar-free tastes like fermented piss.
I walked on, delightedly sipping my disgusting drink, and looked down to avoid the puddles on the sidewalk. In one puddle there was a brand-new-looking teal and magenta thong. The doctor’s office went well. I swear they’re nicer now than when I was a student. And it turns out there’s still not a “babydaddy” checkbox on the next-of-kin form. I don’t like the Foucaultesque “significant other.” They didn’t want to take my Companion, so I lied and said I was an orphan. When in doubt, lie on forms.
Or, The Poorly-edited Blogstress Bitches About Others
ENTITLED. Guess what? Your story is not “entitled” anything, or to anything. It is TITLED. Stop being FANCY, ya fuckin fancypants. Yeah, I’m talking to YOU, NPR.
Correct: “I am entitled to more pie.”
Correct: “My book is titled, Give Me Some Pie Or I Will Garotte You.”
WHAT THE FUUUUCK?: “This pie is entitled Boston Creme.”
UTILIZE. I know it’s a damn word. Don’t care. Utilize the word “use,” instead. Unless you want people to think you’re an engineer. Do you want people to think you’re an engineer? Then I can’t help you. If you do want help…well, dropping “utilize” from your vocabulary is only one thing on a list of long things you need to do to hide your true identity.
But don’t worry, some people think engineers are hot? Peut-etre?
(ETA: Oh wait, never mind. I just assumed that googling “hot engineers” would turn up a calendar or engineer pron or something. My bads. Engineers, drop the u-bomb all you want.)
AND MYSELF. Just no. The only time this is acceptable is if you are some kind of mafiosio hoity-toitily threatening someone in a nice restaurant with the tinkly piano and the silverware and the murmuring from the other diners, etc. There should be a lady with a wacky hat and a poodle as well.
Correct: “Last week Mariah and I totally got all the hairs ripped off our junk. Now I can completely rock my new mega low-rise Sevens!”
INcorrect: “Tara and myself were mortified to discover that we had perpetrated a nip-slip at the same event. The pavarottis didn’t know if they were coming or going, dog!”
Acceptable: “If you do not come up with the balance my boss is requesting, Vincent and myself will be forced to reupholster your scalp. Which is a shame, because Vince and myself are sympathetic to the rising costs of hair transplants.”
Okay. Air cleared. Carry on.
Hey wow! Another of my parent hacks is up today. This time I instruct the masses on how to get their children to safely play in traffic. Safety first, people. No, no, totally JK, it’s something less offensive than the last one.
AAAND that’s it. I have no more hacks. We spend the rest of our time just sitting in our cardboard boxes, staring at the walls.
People who read this junk tip regular know that I am really interested in photoshop magic. Today I found a little film/commercial on YouTube by Dove that shows the transformation of a model–being made-up, photographed, photochopped, and then put on a billboard for the idolators.
It made it more clear to me why people in magazines can look sort of like themselves…but not quite right. I know this is a dumb ol’ sci-fi idea, but why don’t they just cgi-up some babes, and then they don’t have to worry about models not showing up?
1. Franny’s coming back in, like, a half hour. She is six now. Because of my awesome freedom from Seattle Federline, I did not get to see her on the actual day she shot out of my body, which was the ninth. This is okay. There must be sacrifices.
HOWEVER! We are having a family party tonight and a lil’ friendlet party on Saturday, featuring cupcakes from Cupcake Royale that we will decorate ourselves. It should be pretty bomb. I’ll keep you updated.
Because of random scotch tape scarcity, i.e., we could not remember to buy any anytime we set foot out of the house, I was only able to wrap her presents this afternoon. Frankly, I did a terrible job. I think that wrapping presents is maybe something Momz* are supposed to be good at, but I get impatient and start throwing shit. The motto of my presents, as anyone who’s received one from me knows, is “don’t judge a book by its wrinkled, poorly cut cover.” I mean, look at this. I misunderestimated this job so badly that I had to patch underneath.
I should be ashamed, but lo, I am not.
Bonus FAQ !
Q. Will there be unitorns?
A. Do Ann Coulter like to take it up the butt? Alright then. I can’t believe you even asked me that.
* Momz: n. What Grrls can grow into if their birth control fails.
2. On Saturday night, I had dinner guests. I made a frickin chicken fricassee and some salad and there was lots of wine. I talked Companion into whipping up a chocolate cake and he used some old Kahlua to flavor the frosting. Yum!
Here is the mannerly Jakums with my sister. I think he got a little squicked when we brought up our usual dinner topics, such as buttsecks and Tara Reid’s boobers. This is how we roll, Jakums. You are welcome to come back.
And here is Daniel, who is growing out his hair a bit so he can go all Taxi Driver mohawk on us. And Companion, of course.
3. After Jakums skipped out, begging me to stop feeding him so he could “save room for booze later,” and Daniel left, then we got really crazy. Well, by our standards. Morgan, Companion, and I were arguing about supertasters and whether or not she was one after she did not find the smoked salt caramels I fed her crazy delicious.
Additionally, Morgan and I have long thought that Companion is the opposite of a supertaster. The Jimmy James-taster to Morgan’s supertasting abilities, if you will. So we dropped food color on our tongues to see how our tastebuds are clustered.
It was just as we suspected. Companion had very few tastebuds, which explains why he happily glomps expired leftovers for breakfast and he complains about having a tummyache later. Morgan had many, many tastebuds. I was somewhere in between (a little closer to Morgan), so I can handle hot peppers and weird nouvelle cuisine, but can still tell when I am eating rancid victuals.
I’ll spare you the tongue pics. You are grateful for this small mercy.
Could we be more attractive? No, we could not. At least, not without the inclusion of some goiters.
So, one of the very helpful suggestions I submitted to Parenthacks, an extremely cool site for the be-spawned that I have to give insane props to (as the kids used to say), was posted today. Thanks, Asha! You can read it here.
And I was so pleased to see that someone left a comment that really kick-started my creativity as a parent! In fact, the comment inspired me SO MUCH, I have decided to write a book so that I can share my awesome parenting suggestions with the whole WORLD!
Here’s the comment:
This is a HORRIBLE idea. What’s next? Taking medicine through pretend cigarettes? Novelty glasses are fine, but putting the focus on distinct glasses designed for adult beverages is a bad move.
–Tim
A bad move? A BAD MOVE? You know what’s a bad move? Having that giant stick shoved so far up your ass. It must really impede walking.
Sup, Seagros. Any locs crashing this BlogHer meetup? I am interested, but I want to make sure there will be some fun perps there. Lola? IRL friends? Anyoooone? Lurkers? Liz Henry, are you coming to town for this? Just checking. C’mon, I don’t bite hard. I’ll be the one…well, you know. Lampshade. Man drawers.
YOU GUYS! You thought I died or something, didn’t you? No such luck, ENEMIES.
I’m here, I’m just tired as FUUUCK. For reals. I mean, I did grad school, I did two babies, I did the made-for-TV-movie marriage. So I knows what tired is. It’s here. And it wants its drycleaning.
On Sunday I went to kickboxing class. I am supposed to go to kickboxing class on Sundays, but tell me, is that a bad idea or what? Sundays are for stuffing your maw with crepes, or totally buying some MF shoes, or hoovering some rinky-dink off a hooker’s flibbertigibbet. Needless to say, I have NEVER gone to class on Sunday, and now I know why. Verily, it sucketh. Suckethed.
So I bopped around with my jump rope until my face matched my hair, and then we did a little boxer’s shuffle, and some warm up punching, and after about ten minutes got ready in front of the bags. We were going to give those bags a bag-whuppin.
I got ready for a jab-cross, just to warm up. Jab. Cross….OW. Ow, ow, ow. Hello, the floor. I love you, The Floor.
“Dude, are you okay?” Supa said.
“No,” I replied. “I’ll be across the street.” I scraped myself off the floor, mooched some ibuprofen off the instructor, and went to the coffee shop to get a giant mocha-latty. The barista played the entire new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album all the way through, which I am now interested in because of the awesome fall mix tape that Sweetney sent me. I had a great time. I love exercise!
You know, through all my retail and barista shenanigans, I have never pulled a muscle in my back until Sunday. My conclusion is that I am old and that exercise is bad for me. In fact, I know this is true, because I got on the scale for the five-week weigh-in and I have gone up in weight and bodyfat. Five days a week of exercise=fatter. Yes! I have awesomely subverted the dominant paradigm or something.
“Um, what happened?” said the instructor, as she marked down my numbers.
“There was an incident with some cheese,” I replied evasively.
“Hmm,” she said. “Well, if you’re concerned or frustrated…”
“I feel like I should be more concerned or frustrated,” I said, which is true.
I’m not either, though. My pants are looser. I feel better. I sprinted across the rose garden the other night and I didn’t even get the teensiest bit out of breath. I’ve lost a couple of inches off my waist. I am reaching the point where I see myself in the mirror and say, “OH YEAH I’D HIT THAT.” (It’s fun to do this in public and watch Companion edge away with the baby. Hur hur hur.)
I’m not really in this for the numbers on the scale. My goal is to have endurance and be stronger. I don’t want to be one of those old ladies on the bus who are question mark-shaped and can hardly move.
So screw you, scale. Screw you, creakity back. When this is over I can say, “I think I can beat Mike Tyson.”
Oh, and if this blog is being updated too infrequently for you, you can often hear me Rambling Boringly and Incoherently ™ at I, Tourista when I’m in my car and too tired to make the typing.