Author Archives: iasshole

Two Plus Two Equals, “Have Some Protein, You’ll Feel Better.”

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This weekend, Supa was visiting Seattle and graciously included me and Franny in her weekend plans. We decided to take all our girlies to the Zoo for Memorial Day.

As we walked past the penguin prison, Franny noticed a chubby boy about her age, who was gleefully narfling a whole bag of Cheetos by himself.

“Ohh,” Franny said, totally unprompted. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Mom, that boy is eating a lot of Cheetos. That’s not good for you.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I wonder why his parents would let him do that?”

“I think too many Cheetos will make you feel bad. They have chemicals,” she added.

Supa, fellow food nazi, came close and high-fived me. “Good job, Dude.”

“Yes, brainwashing complete,” I joked.

Supa’s oldest daughter had a puzzled look on her face. “Mom,” she said to Supa, “what are Cheetos?”

“Okay, you win at life,” I said to Supa.

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1. At Dinner

“Franny, if you don’t finish your dinner we can’t go for a walk,” I said.

“This sauce is bad,” she replied.

“Eat up, because I’m afraid you’re going to grow old and die at the table.”

“Penis, penis, penis…I have PENISES coming out of my EYES!” she sang.

“Don’t change the subject,” I said.

“Penises,” she murmured softly to her salad. “Eyes.”

2. Sex Ed Pays Off

That Poor Woman and I were discussing Franny’s grasp of human reproduction.

“When I was pregnant, she knew where my stomach was, and where my uterus was. I think she knows more than some of my friends,” That Poor Woman said, as she nursed Franny’s sister.

“We were reading What’s the Big Secret? a lot when I was pregnant,” I said. “It marches you through the whole thing…gender differences, sexual reproduction, what happens during childbirth. She wanted to pull it out again when you were about to deliver.”

“At one point,” That Poor Woman said, “I was really tired and I said I was uncomfortable. Franny said, ‘I guess you shouldn’t have had sex then.”

“Ouch.” I laughed uncomfortably.

“Well, she’s right, you know,” she said.

3. Franny Has a Visitor

Last weekend, Franny had a friend spend the night. It was the first time she has hosted a sleepover at our new house.

“Okay, girls,” I said, as I was about to close the door. “Please wake me up if you’re having an emergency, like a bloody nose, or someone gets sick or hurt.”

“Okay,” they said.

“Goodnight.”

The next morning at six-fifty, ten minutes before Strudel wakes up, I heard a creeping on the stairs, and whispering. Uh-oh, I thought. The door popped open and I could see two little kindergartener heads peering in at Companion and I, who were trying to have a restful Sunday morning.

“Mom?” She and her friend peered in at us.

“What’s wrong?” Franny looked okay at first glance.

“I feel crappy,” she said.

“You feel crappy? You came up here to tell me you feel CRAPPY?”

“Yeah….”

“Go downstairs and have a glass of water.” And I will try not to hang you by your toes, I did not add. “I’ll be down in a little bit.”

I came down eventually, but first Franny and I had a little conference in the bathroom about what constitutes an emergency.

Eh. Privacy’s for suckers, am I right? AM I RIGHT?

Be Aggressive. B-E Aggressive!

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One: Don’t Hate. Micturate. Over a Grate.

Today I took Strudel to the new play structure at the Zoo, so she could expel excess ya-yas before naptime. Plus the ground is wet, so I thought it would be good for her to play indoors. The Zoo opens a half-hour before the new building, so we waited outside for a few minutes. So much for trying to keep her dry– she found the nearest pile of mulch and did a bellyflop into it. When she got up she looked like she had been tossed around in a giant bag of Shake-n-Bake (Baby flavor).

We went in and she hoarded all the stuffed animals she could find. One of those frumpy, dowdy PNW moms who are my age but look like a middle-aged librarian* pointed me out and told her equally dowdyish mom-friend that she “used to have hair like that.” “Why did you quit?” said her friend. “Oh, it was too high-maintenance,” she replied snottily.

Bitch, don’t hate. I am not your slideshow illustrating how you used to be fabulous. Look way down inside yourself. Seriously. Way down. Past your stomach. Travel through your legs, and out your feet, where you will realize you are wearing the most hideous clogs I have ever seen. YALL JUST JELUS.

So that’s firstly. Secondly is that if you do colored hair right, it’s not high maintenance. It doesn’t have to be worse than maintaining blonde or “natural” red.

Thirdly, what is up with clog chic? One of my BFFs wears clogs, nice black ones, but I swear that nowhere else in the country are there clogs like the clogs I see here. It’s like people think…they look cool or something. I thought they were just things you wear you want to be comfortable? Or want to look like you should have your finger stuck in a dike? No? Whatevs.

* I can say that because I am one. I am reclaiming “librarian-looking” the same way homosexuals have taken back “queer.”

Two: Go! Fight! Win…Give Up. Take a Damn Nap.

So I have given up on the Franny kindergarten issue. When I first contacted the principal she agreed whole-heartedly that Franny should indeed be in the first grade. Now after speaking to the enrollment center and discovering there is no room to move her to first grade, she has (supposedly) told Sea-Fed that she will be plenty challenged in kindergarten again.

Sea-Fed also claims that (despite the fact he was all for testing her into the first grade) he called me months ago and told me he had enrolled her in kindergarten. I distinctly remember that phone call. He left me a message saying that he had enrolled Franny “in school.” I have not replied to his last email.

I mean this in the unsnarkiest way possible: I cannot work with someone who’s never wrong. It’s pointless for us to go back and forth, because the kindergarten thing is a done deal, and he either doesn’t remember that he didn’t tell me, or is denying it. During that same phone message he said he would send me a copy of the completed enrollment forms and then claimed in his last email that I never confirmed that I wanted them. I have this (maybe not-so-weird) feeling that he gave me as little information as possible to funnel her back into public school because it’s free.

It’s a mess, and again I take responsibility for this, because I didn’t double check and kick up a fuss about her grade placement in January, when there was time to do something. I am just trying to let it go now. There is a small possibility that they will move her to the correct grade in October. I am so sad that rather than pay to keep her in the right grade at her current school, he is okay with her going through kindergarten again. And we can’t pay all the tuition ourselves, and he might not even agree to that anyway.

Three: I Don’t Have a Rallying Cry for Three

In related news, I had my first meeting with Sea-Fed’s girlfriend. I think they’re going to do fine, because she’s the opposite of me. She’s nice, and by nice I mean amiable, but also one of those people who kind of smoothes things over and is polite and doesn’t really want to talk about hard stuff. I can see how she’d fit in really well with Sea-Fed’s family, who often found my need to do things my own way vexing. Also, she is delighted with Sea-Fed’s father’s deep pockets. She has already learned how to work the system to get him to buy play tickets, etc, and I give her props for that. And, possibly most importantly, she is willing to be the heavy with Franny as far as discipline goes.

I felt like I made her uncomfortable a few times. She mentioned what a relief it was to have her future father-in-law helping out financially, and that Sea-Fed was unwilling to take the money at first. (I can’t believe he’s still bothering with that charade.)

I said, “Well, maybe I am just imposing my personality on Sea-Fed, but I always felt like he did his best when we were supporting ourselves, and had to struggle a little.”

“He was hesitant to take the money,” she replied. “I had to talk him into it.”

“He always hesitates,” I said. “And he always takes it.”

I don’t know. It’s good to talk with someone in Franny’s life who doesn’t make my flesh crawl. Maybe she can see me as just a normal mom who is protective of her kid, rather than some fire-spitting she-devil. In court there was a lot of lip service on his side paid to “I just want what’s best for Franny.” I meant it; I left him in part because what is best for Franny is me not coming home and finding her covered in her own shit.

Looks like we’re getting together again on Friday. Franny was growing up learning how to play her dad and me off each other, because he would overrule and contradict me in front of her. I don’t want that with Sea-Fed’s girlfriend, either, so I am going to have to be careful here.

She Loves Books As Much As I Do

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This morning I was sweeping the upstairs and Strudel was raiding my nightstand.

“Aha,” I said. “Did you find Mama’s library book?”

“Oh, wow,” she said, as she carried it to the middle of the floor.

“We need to be careful with books. Be gentle,” I said. Strudel patted the book gently, as she’d been shown many times with the cat.

“MWAH!”

“Yes, that’s gentle. You don’t need to kiss the book, though.”

“MWAH!” Pat, pat, pat. Ah, I love Peter Mayle too.

ALSO, I think I love Brandon Hardesty. He is reenacting movie scenes–he’s really kind of ridiculously hammy-good. He slaughters Partick Stewart awesomely.

Just Another False Alarm

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Last night…I dreamt…that somebody loved me.

Okay, just kidding. I just can’t get that song out of my head. Let’s start over.

Last night…I went to a bellydancing class. It was through the auction at Franny’s school. I asked if I could buy-in, but in the end I just ended up showing up, because so many women flaked out. One of my mom-acquaintances at Franny’s school, Whippet, had to call around just to get someone, anyone, to show up. I was promised cocktails and treats, so a gaggle of wild Brandon Davises couldn’t have kept me away.

The hostess, a mom of two kids in Franny’s class who has been bellydancing for most of her life, had a trunk full of harem pants and veils, which she insisted we help ourselves to. A lot of the blather was about children and school and husbands. There was much eye-rolling about the fact that many husbands would be expecting to see what we learned. Whippet kept referring to my companion as my husband, and another mom turned to me and said, “You’re not married, are you, SJ?” I said, “No, I got two babydaddies and no husband. I’m a ho.” There was some laughing and murmuring that I should have had my sangria cut off at that point, but what they don’t realize is that I will say things like that at ten a.m. on a Sunday.

I learned some pretty cool maneuvers, but I’m not sure that I want to pursue it. I am feeling the effect of doing “snake arms” this morning, which makes me want to start weightlifting again. I don’t think I have the temperament to shake my jelly like that. If I did a performance, I would have to overcome the urge to start jumping around karate-chopping like THAT four-year-old who should probably be medicated, or at least made to run laps daily. I think I’m more suited to kickboxing or at least jumping around like an idiot.

But it was fun. The company was good, the sangria was cold, and the baklava was delicious. Whippet got a little too drunk and criticized the class on our walk home, saying there was “too much dancing, and not enough drinking,” but it was really okay. How can you complain about doing something new on a Saturday night, that doesn’t involve your babies being on your jock, asking for snacks or emptying out your kitchen drawers? I like taking a break and only being responsible for myself for a few hours. And it got me invited to a weekly playgroup this summer, so that will keep tiny whiners from getting too bored.

Meanwhile, Back at Rancho Braindead

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I am a little like, UGH UGH YAARGH today. But I’m not dead. I’ve just hit a rough patch and am having trouble focusing on writing. Or anything. I wish a magazine would come in my mailbox every single day, because I am in the mood to fill my head with trash right now. Or stare. Staring’s good, too.

I have been debating for a few weeks now whether or not to bring this up at all, but my best friend just moved away on Monday. In theory she’s coming back at some point, but I kind of feel like once she escapes the PNW and tastes the freedom of, well, not living in the PNW, that will be it. I wouldn’t blame her.

Lots of my friends have moved away in the past year, because of the no-job grad school diaspora. Before I was always able to say, I am so sad that my firend left, but think goodness I still have these other friends I see a lot. Now I am like, Oh, shit, that was the last one. I forgot to stockpile berries for the coming winter, like a big retardo grasshopper.

I am over here, a little weepy and irrational right now, and I mean, my sister’s still here, and Companion’s here, but I miss those other people terribly. And now I am poouring my heart into my dumb blog without using speel cheek, that’s how low I’ve sunk. Haw.

So you should probably look at this thread, which discusses one-of-a-kind dolls for sale on Ebay and elsewhere. I peed myself a little when I saw these, one of those gape-mouth involuntary pees of abject horror. You will encounter the words “anatomically-correct” and “exsquisite eleven sword.” This discussion board is really cool in general, and usually NSFW, but I think that thread is okay. I think it’s a bunch of talented but dissaffected comic artists.

Joshua (yes, you): I am cogitatin’ on the email you sent. I will reply soon.

SMELL. THE. CRAZY!

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So despite all evidence, which is that Strudel is only fourteen months old, she has decided that she is actually two. The length of her patience, which is tested when she gets something stuck in a drawer or under her own foot, is about three seconds now.

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Desperately, I decided to carry her to Franny’s school, a distance of about two blocks. I usually put her in the backpack because it’s easier, and because one of Franny’s younger classmates is fucking nuts and will put Strudel in a full nelson if I turn around for half a tick. I thought, cleverly, that we could have a meander home. It could be like those races where they dump the crabs in the middle of a circle and wait to see which one crawls out first. Who knew how long it would take to go two blocks? Could be forty-five minutes, could be two hours.

I did not expect her to make a beeline for home in fifteen minutes, stopping only to shout at a wiener dog and sample some delectable flowers on the way.

So for the rest of the morning she followed me around the house, shouting her opinions at me. She got really into munching on cranberries, and I realized after her third helping that she was saying “more” to get a refill. She is using the same freaky inflection I do, to try to get her to tell me what the hell she wants. What I really want to say is, “If I give you this, are you just going to throw it at the cat, or will you eat it?” We’re not there yet.

Her first really useful word, and I think it sums up her philosophy well to boot.

Of course, the cranberries weren’t really gone. During breaks from wiping her snotty nose on my beautiful green couch, she was dumping them in between the couch cushions and secreting them in her sister’s room. I’ll be finding desiccated burgundy crumbs for weeks.

I decided to take a little break and work on one of my quiet hobbies, pimprolling sewing, which was completely infuriating. How dare I look at something besides her? After ten minutes of minor brattiness I gave up and treated my stinky pickle to a tickle break.

Thank you, Giant Head of Charlie Sheen, for naptime. And tonight I go out with my rad sister, to have dinner. If you see a woman in the U-District with snot stains on her shoulders and cranberries falling out of her purse, just assume it’s not me, and that I am somewhere else, looking more fabulous and well-rested.

ALSO, I’m enjoying this, the My Space stupid haircut awards. R0x0r.

Cirque du Soleil: Rehab!

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Last night we went off to Redmond to see one of the latest concoctions from Cirque du Soleil. You probably shouldn’t read this if you’ve yet to go, as my interpretation of Cirque du Soleil’s newest show may spoil the surprise of their special brand of glitzy gibberish. I don’t know, can you spoil something that doesn’t completely make sense? I’m not complaining; I like it when things don’t make sense.

Anyway, the show currently in Seattle is called “Varekai,” which according to the website is the Romany word for “wherever.” I thought maybe it would have a gypsy-type theme, then, but it featured a lot of people dressed as bugs and sea creatures writhing around on the stage. This in itself is pretty cool, but these people are so flexible that several times I was afraid their heads might accidentally slide into their crotches. It’s a good thing they were wearing so much spandex, is all I’m going to say.

The show starts with this feathered Icarus dude falling out of the sky. He gets his wings yoinked away by a jerk with a lightbulb spouting out of his head. The rest of the show features this Icarus guy sliding around the stage as if he’s been half deboned, while the other people/creatures taunt them with his own wings. This is broken up with comedy, light effects, and people swinging around on ropes and narrowly avoiding giving birth to their own heads. There are also people ambling around on crutches and what appears to be water therapy.

Apparently, at the end Mr. Icarus gets well again. I kept waiting for the little man to get his wings back and FLY A-GAIN, but instead he gets distracted and marries the most flexible girl there, who could probably lick her entire spine. Well played, Icarus, well played.

Okay, so this may sound a little critical, but I really enjoyed myself, and so did my fella. It’s the first time we’ve had a night out since Valentine’s Day, and that alone made it pretty awesome. If I have any nits to pick with Cirque du Soleil, it’s that they march you through one of the merch tents on your way in and out. But hey, no one forced me to buy a four-dollar clown nose, so we were fine. I enjoyed it more than the first time I went, because I was pregnant with Franny and was, therefore, slightly ADD, as well as on the countdown to intermission because of my bladder.

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SO HIGH You Can’t Get Around

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Oh, man, I feel like I’m going to cry right now. I just got an email from Seattle Federline. He’s trying to hold me up for some money for Franny’s school next year, and he was blathering about a kindergarten open house at her new school for next year. I was like “Dumbass SAY WHAT?” because I know the first grade program doesn’t cost any money…and KINDERGARTEN open house?

I just called the school and told them situation and asked them about getting information sent out for first grader-parents, and they said they were not sending information out about first graders yet. And then I felt that familiar prickle up my scalp…that “what stupid, stupid thing has he done now?” prickle. I started getting it about six months after we were married and I get it a lot less now, thank god.

“Can you check and see what grade my daughter’s registered for?” I said.

“Yes…okay, it looks like she’s registered for kindergarten,” the secretary replied.

Fortunately for me, I was able to talk with the principal, who shared my concern. I explained to her that Franny had been at an AMI-accredited program for three years, and was reading and doing math now. The principal said that in a situation like that, if a child’s been in kindergarten for at least six months, she should go on to first grade, even if she is a little young. They make exceptions for the her school kids, because the school’s structured differently. Franny has been doing a full nine-to-three school day since she was three-and-a-half.

I searched my email to make sure I haven’t gone totally crazy. Seattle Federline and I had this conversation in January:

Me: I am concerned about sending her to PS kindergarten after three years at her school. For the last year and a half at least she’s been doing the equivalent of kindergarten. She’s going to be six next fall–what do you think about trying to get her admitted to first grade? She’d be going on to the equivalent at her school. She complains to me about
school now–I’m concerned she’d get bored.

SeaFed: As far as public goes, I’m all for testing her into first grade, or even AP as well.

So for some reason, he plunged ahead, signing her up for kindergarten anyway. He knows Franny is doing basic reading and math and will turn six shortly after school starts…I just…don’t…understand. I hope there’s room left in the first grade program for her now.

I’m just so sad. We found a good PS program for her, applied, and she got in, and he fucked up…again. I couldn’t stop him from signing her up, because he volunteered and ran with it, and I thought we were on the same page with the first-grade thing.

And now I’m angry with myself, for trusting him with something so important. This isn’t a little thing, like the ill-fitting clothes or the non-functional dress or platform shoes he sends her to my house in–this is a whole school year of her being bored out of her gourd. I got switched off on school in the first grade–I don’t want that for her, too.

I am making a vow to check and double-check everything he does for her. It’s only May…I hope I can fix this. My divorce lawyer was not the most helpful guy, but I loved what he said to me once, about leaving aspects of the divorce process up to SeaFed: “Any job worth doing is worth doing yourself.” I need to get that tattooed on my punchin’ arm.