Author Archives: iasshole

GIVE JIM RAMSETH A NIPPLE, CAUSE HE SUCKS

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The shirt reads: “Plan B prevents abortion. Ask me how.” This shirt is available through Bitch Ph.D‘s store.

I’m calling for an immediate boycott of Covington (Washington) Pharmacy. The owner, Jim Ramseth, refuses to sell Plan B to anyone. Buy your Jujubees and US Weekly elsewhere.

From today’s article in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:

“Everybody draws their own lines,” Ramseth said. “And if a person’s purpose is to kill a fertilized egg, then I disagree with that. Regardless of where the practitioner draws that line, they should have the right.”

Plan B, essentially a high dose of the same ingredient in regular birth control pills, works by preventing ovulation and may stop fertilization or implantation of a fertilized egg. If a woman is already pregnant, the drug has no effect. But to Ramseth it still veers too close to abortion.

[Emphasis mine. And thank you, P-I, for immediately following that idiotic quote with the facts about Plan B, and for warning people away from his righteous judgement.]

Is denying emergency contraception to women going to cause them to reconsider? Or is it going to cause them to wait and have to have an abortion later? Impossible to say, but maybe it’s better to prevent the pregnancy in the first place.

I think I’m going to start forming opinions relating to body parts and health issues I don’t have. Prostate cancer? Testicular cancer? Yeah, sorry, it’s god’s will. I don’t feel like I should interfere with god’s will by treating that.

I hope turning away rape victims (among other legitimate clients) who could prevent a pregnancy won’t disturb Ramseth’s sleep at night.

France Can Have Them

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So it just got better. And by better, I mean felonious.

Remember yesterday, when I told you that I reminded SeaFed and Lady Federline that they needed a notarized permission letter to travel out of the country with my child? Yeah. Guess how that information was processed? I get this email this morning:

Subject: “written permission for Franny to travel”

From: SeaFed@Assdonut.com
To: sj@iasshole.org

Hi SJ,

Thanks for bringing up the notarized copy today. In
lieu of that I drafted a quickie letter of permission
signed by “you”, per your suggestion, with your phone
# just in case we need it. I appreciate you being so
flexible about this whole thing. I’m sure I’ll have
a chance to reciprocate soon.

SeaFed

PER MY SUGGESTION? Bitch, I did not tell you to fucking forge my name on a letter you should have gotten months ago. That little addition was pretty slick, I must admit. Way to make it look like it was my idea.

I printed off the email and called the non-emergency police line and told them that my ex-husband just emailed me and told me he was forging a letter to take my child out of the country. If there’s one thing I learned from my lawyer, it’s to get a record of EVERYTHING.

The cops came and an officer took my side of the story. I made it really clear that I was not okay with him forging my name for anything. They detained SeaFed at his house. It turns out they were leaving today.

He called me later and tried to get me to run down to the bank with him to see a notary, and I ended up telling him I wouldn’t do it. He actually apologized but there was a lot of confusion on his part.

“So are you not okay with her going to France?” he said.

“I don’t care about that,” I said. “You emailed me and told me that you were forging my name. I will not abet your petty crimes ever again.”

At one point he told me that if I was not okay with her going, I could keep her with me for the next two weeks and just they would go. I told him that that was a shitty choice–now I get to choose to be a beast and keep my kid home on the day of the trip? I told him that what I wanted from him was to follow the rules, and assume that I never, ever want to break the law with him.

“Your moral compass is so shaky…this is why I don’t trust you. This is why I’m never alone with you anymore. I can’t believe you are dragging your new wife into your dumb schemes,” I said.

“It looks like there was a misunderstanding,” he said.

“THERE WAS NO MISUNDERSTANDING! I did not tell you to forge my name!”

“Okay, it was a mistake then. But you said that….”

“I said that you all have the same last name, and that That Poor Woman and I have the same initials! I said that you might be able to get through with just Franny’s passport.”

He tried to get me to make a verbal agreement on the phone that it was okay for him to take her. I said that wouldn’t do any good, because he would just say whatever he wanted to later.

I also talked to Franny’s stepmother, who sounded annoyed with me for not cooperating at the last minute after SeaFed forged my name. She said, “Well, we’re in a real pickle right now. Are we going to find cops waiting for us at the airport?”

I told her that I didn’t care enough to monkeywrench them at the airport. I think it’s been clear, for anyone in my real life, and anyone who follows this that I didn’t care if she went to France or not. My concern was that I knew they were forging my name.

I told her that I was not married to him anymore, and that I would never go along with anything illegal that he was doing ever again, no matter how minor. Her reply was that she thought I was giving her the go-ahead for them to do it too. That’s what’s so fucked up about all this. I stood in front of both of them yesterday, and was basically like, “Good luck at the airport. Idiots.” I did make the observation that the airport people might not notice that Franny didn’t belong to both of them. But I did not say to make up a document.

This is so fucked up, because 1) they could have taken care of this weeks ago; 2) even if they forged my name, it wouldn’t be notarized; 3) they were willing to forge a letter to get Franny out of the country. If SeaFed made the same suggestion to me, I would say, “No thanks, we’re going to do this the LEGAL way;” 4) they thought this was about me not wanting Franny to go to France with them; 5) they were both trying to make me feel bad for being uncooperative after all this.

HOORAY, once again I get to be the crazy uncooperative ex-wife. They will probably get through, because SeaFed is apparently smiled upon by the patron saint of fucking morons.

In Which Fall Whups the Llama’s Ass

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Dear Mother-Spanking Diary,

Today a couple of cool things happened. First, Franny, Strudel, and I were on the way to the Zoo for a quick spin on the new carousel. I say quick, because today is the day she went back to her dad’s house, and she will be leaving for France tres rapidement. I reminded them that they had not arranged to get a letter of permission to take her out of the country signed by me and notarized. They seemed unconcerned about this, though, and I felt like I had done my good Samaritan bit for the day. They probably won’t have a hassle, though, as Lady Federline II and I have the same initials and same last name.

“What will you say if they ask you questions at the airport?” I asked Franny, after talking about the situation with a friend, who said her biological daughters were heavily quizzed upon reentry from Canada without birth certificates.

“I will say THIS WOMAN IS NOT MY MOTHER!!!!” she shouted.

I swear I had nothing to do with that. Good luck at the airport, Federlines.

ANYWAY, the cool thing that happened is that on the way into the Zoo I ran into Elswhere from Travels in Booland. She flagged me down and we chatted, and it was nice to meet her in person. Sometimes it really pays having the day-glo hair. Otherwise I might not have met Joshua Norton in person either.

The other cool thing was riding the carousel. I get all tied up in knots when I have to see SeaFed, so it was good to have something fun to do with Franny as a last thing. I am so glad school’s starting so we can just trade her through there again. Franny’s stepmom, though she seems to have no idea what my problem is, has taken over and I just talk to her now, which is a lot more pleasant. No more illiterate, nonsensical emails, just mindless pleasantries. I can do mindless pleasantries in a way that I can’t do PTSD, ARE YOU FEELING THAT PART OF WHAT I’M TRYING TO EXPRESS TO YOU? IS IT SQUISHY? I’d say chewy, yet crunchy.

I’m sure you’re all on tittyhooks to know how the whole barfing thing with Franny came out. Drumroll…she stopped eventually. These are the Days of our Extremely Boring Lives. On Saturday, Day of Barfing, we were stuck in the house, so to distract Franny (who wasn’t barfing constantly) I gave her some pretty smudgy eyes and took some glamma! shots with the new camera. I think I’ll have one blown up and framed, just for kicks.

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Figure 1: Franny Glammy!

So on Sunday we were able to go up to Sky Nursery and get the hella fall hookup. Our yard is all MIZZLE STEWART in the HIZZY, BREECHES. I totally yoinked planter ideas from this month’s issue. YES, I am a SUBSCRIBER now. I have NO SHAME. And no volume control today. You are so lucky that you are not here to hear me actually yelling as I type this. The bug up my ass is so large today that even the Metro will yield to it, and those motherfuckers yield to no one.

FALL ATTACK! lulz

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Figure 2: Planter box next to door.
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Figure 3: Our big front bed, which we fertilized the hell out of this time, because the summer flowers mostly croaked or didn’t bloom.
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Figure 4: AUTUMNALLY PWNED!

Despite my best efforts to keep her out, Strudel flung herself into the pond at the nursery (to the amazement of all the giganto koi). She bellyflopped in and her dad was so quick that he caught her before her back got wet. She gasped and cried and then got over it very, very quickly. Strudel knows how to live life to its fullest, for reals.

Also on Sunday my Companion sewed some minty little curtains for the basement, made from leftovers ends from Der Strudelheimer’s room. Yes, that’s her official title now. Lederhosen coming soon. I loves them. It’s nice to have someone around who, if I don’t get to things will just jump in and say, “I’ll do that” and get out his own sewing machine and shit.

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Figure 5: Aww FWEE little curtains. It’s almost a room now.

In Other News: They Cause Scenes

These people are perpetrating some very non-Satanic improv in public places.

In Soviet Russia, Sleeve Wears You

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This is making me laugh today: THE VOLUMINOUS SLEEVE. Are you for real? I think some of them look kind of cool, in that ding dong, arm-as-clapper sort of way.

If you click further in, they get to the real heart of the matter…How Will You Wear It? (The voluminous sleeve, that is. Let’s keep up, people.)

Fortunately, there are choices: A) Evening Dressy; B) Downtown Night; C) Downtown Day. Apparently Voluminous Sleeves will atomize if you set foot in the suburbs, leaving you with a sleeveless top. What does one do, change in the car on the way downtown? I need answers here, Fashion Squad.

In Other News

I am waiting to see if Franny is done barfing, which she only did once this morning but you NEVER KNOW. Le SIGH. I am quite wroth with her right now, because she’s been on a mindless streak of destruction for about a week now. She has been tearing things up that mostly don’t matter, but are kind of irritating and disrespectful.

This is a small one, but she asked me to paint her nails last night. I did, and then after I went out last night she laid in my bed and picked half the polish off her nails. It is thoughtless stuff, but I just want to shake her and say “THINK!” I have asked her to think about what she’s doing, but it doesn’t seem to do any good right now.

I totally remember this. I remember being so thoughtless and being like “bwah?” when people would get mad at me for crayoning on the wall or whatever. I’m starting to think it’s kind of dumb that we as a culture have moved away from dirt floors and such. But I’ll bet people still had stuff they liked then that their kids destroyed, like their only needle or favorite sheep.

Carpet. White walls. Nail polish. I blame the Victorians, as always.

Five Foot Seven and Rising

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Today, if you enter the word “asshole” into google, I am ranked number eight. Number Eight Asshole.

Before I shut this crapheap down in ’04, I was ranked number one on google for asshole. A couple of months ago, I was buried back on, oh, I don’t know, page twelve. When I started up again in ’05, I was buried way out in the back of beyond.

SO THANKS to everyone who’s been linking me lately. I am not making a dime off this site (I don’t think I should be, either, SNERK), but it was a point of personal pleasure to run into people and refer them to my site by saying “I’m the number one hit on google for “asshole.” So thanks. You’re OK. I’m getting back there again.

And thanks to Daniel who hosts this and controls this and refuses to take any of my hard-earned money from pimping and flensing.

YOU’RE ALL OKAY!

Now That The Kitchen’s Done, I Can Resume Fighting The Patriarchy Tomorrow

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Yesterday my gracious houseguest and I were busy painting my kitchen. It turns out that Gracious Houseguest is a painting dynamo! I kind of knew that, but to see her in action…woo. My head spun, and it wasn’t just the paint fumes I was huffing. I think I was much less helpful than I should have been, because I was drinking champagne at two-thirty in the mother-humping afternoon. On a Wednesday.

There was a reason, of course–isn’t there always? Right before my friend Whippet went to Asia she threw herself a huge birthday party and received a bottle of German sparkling wine. Whippet’s husband wouldn’t drink it with her, so she came to pick up her kid, who was playing with my kid, and brought the champagne with her. “I thought you would drink this with me, SJ,” she said.

Right you are, my friend.

Anyway, the kitchen was a milquetoast shade of yellow when we moved in, and scuffed and cracked besides. It was one of the only rooms in the house that wasn’t freshly painted when we moved in, but this place is great so that’s the tiniest quibble. I am not anti-yellow, generally, but this shade was just a little too wan for my tastes, plus all the dirt and random nails. Now that I am looking at the pictures it looks bright, but it looked blah in person.

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Companion was worried the color would be a little too deep, but I reminded him that when I lived in Ye Olde Ghetto Crown Hill house I painted the living room there Mexican Whorehouse Red (hi-gloss) with metallic gold trim around the windows. That was the TITS, yo. I wish I could have cut that room out and taken it with me.

BUT NO. Because now I have the kitchen that is absolutely the perfect shade of terra cotta. Not too orange, and not too pink. It will be perfect and warming for slogging through the long dim winters here. Now that we have a little extra cash, we will also be investing in some full-spectrum light bulbs.

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Confidential to Anne in regards to the Dore Alley Fair….

Anne said:
“SJ, can I ask you a parenting question? Would you have gone to the Dore Alley Fair if you had had Franny with you? What about Strudel?”

To recap, the Dore Alley Fair is a street fair/gathering for gay men, many of whom wear leather outfits and accessories to the fair. I wrote about attending it recently in the entry before this one, and Anne left her question in the comments.

No, I would not bring either of my children, and here’s why. To me, the Dore Alley Fair seems to be a meeting about celebrating one aspect of sexuality. I think children are inherently sexual (or at least sensual) beings, but my children are pre-pubescent and not out in the world of sex with their peers yet, so I wouldn’t take them.

I also wouldn’t take them to a political convention or violent movies, because I don’t think that’s appropriate at this point in their lives either. It’s not the nudity. I brought the kids to the Fremont Solstice Parade, which features a naked bike ride and lots of random hippieness, but is about celebrating the solstice and has lots of cool floats and costumes that would interest kids. I just feel like something that’s totally about sex is not for my kids. If anyone else has something to say I’d be happy to hear it.

In Other News: Cat Soup

Hooray, I found one of the most disgusting and delightful cartoons ever, now on You Tube: Nekojiru Gekijou. The short of it is that it’s about a Japanese cartoon about a cat brother and sister who are so evil it’s astounding. The pigs in the cartoon are all second class citizens. I wonder what it all means? Japanese culture is an alluring mystery to me. I was always so jealous of my friend Manuel who got to visit there.

Also, poor Dr. Tran. Thanks to JP for that one.

In Other, Other News: I Am Rewarded For My Compulsive Spewing

In June, I entered my first ever writing contest with the intention of winning a free trip to BlogHer next year. The subject was summer vacations, and the story is an expanded version of a blog post here. I placed as a runner-up and got some seriously cool swag: a new digital camera, a tee-shirt, and a book. I would just link to the site, but I believe you have to log in to view them. I have reproduced my winning story under the cut. (Loyal readers: don’t worry, I have not married without telling you. I referred to my Companion as my husband to make it scan better. Also, it’s kind of lame and commercial–no swears. Boo!)

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(Opera Voice) DEAR M F DIE-A-REEEE!

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Ah, that felt good.

Dear MF Jank-Ass Super Princess Mashbook of Assmittentry,

1. Toddler Sabbatical

This weekend, I was Companion-less, because he went to Portland to visit his family. He came back all amazed by the fact that he was able to sit down and…have real conversations with his family.

“It was like…I don’t know,” he said eloquently. “They are so interesting.”

“Was it like, not chasing a toddler around? Because I find that makes conversations better,” I said.

Then I could see the little PIF bubble that appears above cartoon character’s heads when they are gobsmacked by something.

“Yes,” he said. “I was not chasing a toddler around.”

Time off is awesome, isn’t it? I am so glad I could go to California last month. Which makes me realize, I totally forgot to post about staying in San Francisco after BlogHer.

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