Author Archives: iasshole

From Books to Boobies and Back Again

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“Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop-offs at tedium and counter-productivity.”
-Erma Bombeck

When I was a kid I would read anything I could get my hands on. ANYTHING, cover-to-cover. Soup labels, cookbooks, the family medical encyclopedia (not just the dirty bits, but the section on bone cancer, too), the TV Guide, every new bottle of shampoo that came into the house. Last night, much to my shame and embarrassment, I revealed to my companion that I had read the manual to the garbage disposal when I was nine or ten, partly out of curiosity but partly to see if my stepfather was over-exaggerating about what could not but put down it (he was). My mother had boxes and boxes of old books collecting dust in the basement, which I would paw through when I had run through her current novels and self-help books. I read a lot of old fiction that was really popular in its heyday–Diary of a Mad Housewife, Fear of Flying, and The Bell Jar.

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Holy Fucking Shiot, Cockholes

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For some reason, this Brian Smith person has listed me as the cursing librarian. Huh. I like this Blogga Llama song. Fuck yeah!

Seriously, I used to read The Laughing Librarian when I supposed to be working on papers for my knowledge org class. So, Brian Smith, thanks for making me put off until three o’clock in the morning to write a paper I should have had done a week ago.

In Other News

Milkfat, where where where have you been all my life?

Bookworms and Sweet Teeth

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This morning I sat down to write marketing-type copy for the fundraising auction at my daughter’s school. You write one procurement letter, then all of the sudden everyone thinks you’re John Fucking O’Hara or something. So now I have been tapped to write/edit the copy for the auction catalog. “Hey, jerks! It’s a wagon. Pay too much for this! Hey! It’s a quilt. Pay too much for this!” Ad nauseam. I am cleaning up a lot of typos and turning blunt sentence fragments into something you might actually want to bid on.

Needless to say, I am doing volunteer work for a project that my companion and I can’t afford admission to, let alone bid on any of the items on offer. A lot of it is typical stuff, like spa packages and ski trips, but then I ran across this badly mangled blurb:

Join S.C. for dinner and wine as we discuss the book Cahndy Freak [sic]: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America by award-winning Steve Almord [sic]. Reminisce about our own favorite candies from childhood. We will sample an array of the regional chocolates [sic] he discusses in the book. Valomilk, Twin Birg [sic], GooGoo Clusters. [sic, sic, SIC! Weep!]

Some of you may recognize this garbled passage as an offer to have dinner with Steve AlmoNd, not Steve AlmoRd, who wrote Candyfreak as well as My Life in Heavy Metal and The Evil B.B. Chow, two excellent short story collections that I devoured after reading Candyfreak. I like his down-and-dirty writing style–often, simple passages that seem like they should plod along breathe sensually.

Most of the time I am okay with being the scholarship perp at Franny’s school. I listen to the other moms talk about things I have no understanding of, like nanny problems and the travails of being retired at thirty-eight, and where on earth to “summer” this year. I like the program and the teaching philosophy, but they are expensive private schools so most of the families are wealthy–that’s baseball, man.

But then I see stuff like this and it makes me wish I had money. How fun would it be to drop money on a dinner with an author you really like? Is someone at my daughter’s school really that pally with Steve Almond? Ack. I hope the person who bids on this at least knows who he is. Again, WEEP!

My update, which is nothing special but is at least spelled correctly:

Perfect for bookworms with a sweet tooth! Join S.C. for dinner and wine as we discuss the book Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America by award-winning writer Steve Almond, a hilarious and touching reminiscence about favorite childhood candies. We will sample an array of the regional chocolates he discusses in the book, such as Valomilk, Twin Bing, and GooGoo Clusters.

Steve Almond’s website
My friend Ed has a different opinion on Steve Almond, and so does his friend Mark Sarvas.
Steve Almond commenting on his encounter with Mark Sarvas in Salon.

I would like to make it clear that Ed’s commentary came after the Salon piece. I had listed Steve Almond’s piece as a rebuttal earlier, which was making things unclear.

Directory for the Uncouth

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This morning I witnessed an exceedingly unmannerly sight: a man was urinating on a tree in my neighborhood. Not just any tree, but a tree planted right next to the sidewalk on Wallingford’s busiest thoroughfare, 46th Street. Apparently, he didn’t know I was following him so closely and without looking around or behind him, he whipped out his pants weasel and went to town. I cleared my throat loudly and he jumped as I passed. I could see his stream waver slightly, but he kept on with it. Since I always have a baby strapped to my back nowadays, I have plus-ten in shaming ability, which is awesome and I use to my advantage when yelling at the high school hooligans in Wallingford. When he finished he lit a cigarette of empty-bladder relief. Unfortunately, we were both headed into Wallingford together, which was a little awkward; he stopped eventually and fooled with his cel phone and I passed.

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Portland and Back, and Squalor

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It’s a glorious sunny day outside and literally, freezing cold. The puddle on the patio is icy. This is the part of winter where you get a little nutty here, in a different way than the days of endless rain. Last week we had a taste of spring, including flowers, and now it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I am eating bloody toast because the air’s so dry my lip keeps splitting.

Our trip to Portland this weekend was fantastic. We stayed with my companion’s father, who lives in a beautiful old house that has separate areas that used to be the servants’ domains. I like old houses like this, with the old, extravagant use of wood and gorgeous light fixtures, but I’m not crazy about the lack of integration between the domestic and leisure areas. I prefer an open, beautiful kitchen to a closed-off one with a makeover that was obviously meant to be shut off from the dining room. Because of the location of the butler’s pantry and all the doors, you can tell that food was just supposed to magically appear.

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Figure 1: It is delicious to make many small pecks on an apple and then fling it onto the hairy floor. Scream, rinse, repeat.

We had a small dinner party there on Saturday night, with my companion’s brother and his wife, and some old friends. The house’s design had an interesting effect on the flow of our small party. During parties at modern houses, people usually get stacked up in the kitchen. I decided to put cheese and olives out on the sideboard in the dining room, which mostly kept people in one place and not underfoot.

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Figure 2: Playing demo derby with Grandpa’s chairs.

My job was pretty simple; all I had to do was make a lamb roast, which, once you put it in the oven, pretty much makes itself. I had cut slits all over the raw meat and inserted little bits of garlic as the only seasoning. We brought the leftovers home, and now have a giant bone in the freezer, suitable for rendering a cavewoman unconscious or for making stock.

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Figure 3: Obligatory lamb porn.

It was funny to get the leftover lamb from my companion’s dad. He chucked it into a plastic grocery sack and tied a knot on the top, which made me realize the apple doesn’t fall too far, at least in terms of man-Tupperware. I was raised to hermetically seal all leftovers, but you know what? That lamb was fine.

I also discovered something odd in the neighborhood we stayed in. We walked past an adorable house and I asked if it was a bed-and-breakfast. I was told no, it is a special house, though. Apparently the woman who owns it had a ceremony and married it. It’s called the Ladd-Reingold house, and she runs a hat museum out of it. I wish I would have known about the museum when we were there.

Also, we bought a stupid amount of books at Powell’s. Stupid because we are running out of shelf space, and because we spent a lot of money (for us, the thrifty bitches). It’s good, though. I want to put them all on the bed and roll around in them, really. And the portable crib worked! She slept in it both nights. We should get some use out of it this summer and when we go on our honeymoon in the fall.

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Dear Hero Imprisoned

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One: I Oughta Know

Yesterday we got a nastygram from our building managers. Apparently the new owners are considering raising the rent, and are taking away our free parking. They’ve got our nuts in a vice with the paid parking thing, because there’s no way in hell we’re parking the car on the street to save $35–not in this neighborhood, where we often wake up to piles of broken glass on the street. I don’t know what they think they can get out of this place; it’s next door to one of the (until very recently) skeeviest motels in town and is right on Aurora Avenue. Also, since we’ve moved in, quite a few minor things have gone wrong with the place, a trend that I suspect will continue, since this is new cheapie construction and the building’s just hit its tenth birthday.

So we’re dangling here, a little bit, because we should know at the end of the month whether or not my companion will become permanent at Giant Local Software Company. When we know that, we will have a steady budget and will be able to move into a house. But if he keeps contracting, then we will want to spend less money and move into something smaller and cheaper. They don’t even know if they want to go month-to-month, so we may just be out of luck. We wanted to get out of this place this summer, because it’s too small, but we may be out sooner.

Did you ever watch that show on Nickelodeon, “Out of Control?” I always liked it when Dave “I slept with an underage Alanis Morissette” Coulier would pull the “hurry up” switch. They would film these kids doing things they hated and then show it in fast motion, like they finished cleaning their rooms really fast. I want a hurry up switch, so I can see what’s going to happen next with the job and rent.

Two: Snot Vengeance Is Mine

I had a little accident in bed yesterday morning. The Strudel awakened and immediately demanded access to the milkbar. I have been slightly sick and congested all week, after the worst part of it happened this weekend. All of the sudden, this mongo sneeze snuck up on me while I was nursing her and then, KERSPLAT. It was one of those sneezes where you go, “Oh, shit, where did that go?” Of course it landed right in the middle of her forehead, and it was dark and I cleaned her up as best I could.

When she was done nursing and I took her out of bed I discovered that I had missed the bit that got in her hair, and the bath situation did not pan out like it was supposed to, so she was “there’s-something-about-mary’d” all day long. Except, you know, with snot. The great thing is that babies are usually a little cruddy, so everyone probably assumed it was some food or something.

I spent about thirty seconds trying to feel bad, and lamenting my lackadaisical mothering “techniques.” But then I remembered that this kid has vomited, sneezed, pooped, and peed on me, and is learning that neat trick of using me as her own personal napkin/nose-itcher. So, vengeance is MINE.

SJ: 1
Teh Baby: Forty-Ninety-Twelvedy

Three: “I once shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, but then I got distracted and missed it.”

This weekend we are going to Portland (so if I owe you an email you will hear from me next week), prompting a visit to the133test baby store 3vah, Babies R Us. There we purchased a portable baby jail so Miss Thang can have her naps and sleep safely imprisoned in mesh walls at her grandpa’s house. It came with its own tin cup, with a sippy top! She likes it so far, but I haven’t abandonated her in it yet. I am leaving it set up, because it reeks of newly-minted plastic and vinyl, so hopefully it will air out.

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Figure 1: “Mmm…delicious mesh.”

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Look at the print on this thing. Just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we’re tacky. Well, actually, we are both tacky AND poor, and I think we will be rich and tacky someday. All I’m saying is that there should be choices outside the “fun” jungle print for under $100. Whatever, it’s done. And we’re out.

Four: WOO Pineapple Express

It’s warm-ish today! There are daffodils coming up! The Wallingford high school girls’ purple be-mini-skirted legs are out! (Yeah, that’s attractive, girls, with your teeth chattering and everything. Targeting the neighborhood necrophiliacs, are we?)

Anyway, Seattle, I forgive you for a month of rain. Let’s make up. What’s that? It’s ten degrees in my hometown? Don’t worry, guys. Mosquito season is just around the corner! EAT IT SUCKAS!

See yis Monday!

Spears, You and Me Are Through

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Perps a plenty! Last night behind the A-1 Motel there were many, many officers and some shouting perps. It was like a scene from Cops. Hell yes I was out on my patio taking pictures in my underwear. They didn’t turn out well, which is fine because there was no brutality to report, just some apparently legitimate perpetration.

But let’s talk about some VISIBLE perpetration.

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It is heartbreaking to me that an idiot like this can spawn and endanger her child in such a cavalier fashion, while other responsible, loving grown-ups I know cannot get pregnant. Yes, I know I’m a little old to be rattling on about how unfair the universe is. Don’t care.

I hope two good things come out of this. 1) Her mother, Lynne, will call her from Louisiana and have a good long talk with her. 2) I also hope this will raise awareness of airbag dangers and the general dangers of having little mushy-headed and soft-spined babies out of their car seats in general, at least among Britney’s five remaining fans.

At the middle of this Venn diagram of Perps and child-neglect lies my first babydaddy, Seattle Federline, whom I am back on the emails with. (You may remember a few weeks ago I discovered he lets Frannie ride in the front seat of his car, as well as other people’s children.)

SeaFed is strongly advocating public school for Franny next year, which I am really ambivalent about. On one hand, my fella and I aren’t completely financially stable yet because he’s still a contractor, so there’s a risk we will have financial fluctuations this year. So it doesn’t seem like the best time to commit to another year of tuition. On the other hand, public schools in Seattle are in a huge state of flux themselves–they don’t have enough money, and they are talking about closing some again.

I am taking cold comfort in the remark SeaFed made in a recent email defending Seattle Public Schools:

I have full confidence in Seattle Public Schools as I am a product myself along with That Poor Woman, Auntie Jaguar, and all of my current friends.

Why does that not make me feel better AT ALL? Why would he be so foolish as to even make a remark like this to me? Maybe a long-dormant, twisted sense of humor has finally awakened in him. Such are the mysteries of Seattle Federline.

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How I Really Got an Education

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“Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing.”
-Charles Bukowski

Today I am unshowered and gross, as well as a sneezing mess. Come and get it, boys! Seriously, the only nice thing about being sick like this is that my nose ring doesn’t slide around…because it is covered in snot and thus stuck in place. *sad panda rimshot*

Which reminds me of a story. When I was seventeen I had a car, a little Volkswagen Rabbit (the official First Car of punk rock girls everywhere, coming in second only to giant, rusty Buicks). Sadly, in my senior year of high school my first class of the day was Honors English, which was chockablock with stuck up assmittens, who objected to sitting next to someone who smelled like stale whiskey and cigarettes, and who would say things like “Faulkner was a PRICK” and “Do you realize this class is taught by a soccer coach with a plate in his head?” when called on. This class was followed by geometry, which was mostly full of high-achieving ninth-graders who were all scared of me for some reason.

So I didn’t have much motivation to go to school in the mornings, because my three hours of art classes didn’t start until after lunch. Often my friend (who had stopped showing up all together after her mother died) and I would choose the ninety-minute drive to Chicago over sticking around in town. Usually we would skip breakfast, as we often had a fast-food hangover from the night before, so we had to make two critical stops when we got there.

The first stop was a gas station, since my Rabbit would burn oil like crazy on the Kennedy. I would push the speed limit until the little doors rattled, which the car didn’t like very much, so we could get there as soon as possible. I was usually down about half a quart after this. I learned about the oil thing after my first trip to Chicago and back. When I got back into town an old guy in a truck yelled at me, “Hey, your car’s making that noise because it’s low on oil!” After that I learned to recognize the characteristic ticking sound.

The second stop, of course, was breakfast. We would usually arrive around ten o’clock and park on a side street near the neighborhood we were familiar with, which was near The Alley. We would wander around until three or so and then come home with spiked collars or German pornography.

One morning after arriving we stumbled upon a Jewish deli that had a giant case of bagels. My friend and I walked in and looked in the case at the bagels, drooling. Before the counterperson could come over to us, I was addressed by a very old man who was dressed in a really fine dark suit. He stood at the counter and was waiting for his order.

“Hello young lady,” he said with a slight Yiddish accent, addressing only me.

“Good morning,” I said.

“I see you have a ring through the middle of your nose there,” he continued. Often I was rude to people my own age, but something about this man commanded respect. I usually waited until I saw how people were going to treat me before I shut them down or walked away.

“Yes,” I said.

“I have never seen this before and it is interesting to me. May I ask you one question?” He looked at me with a glimmer in his eyes. Most people in the Midwest came up with the exceedingly clever, “Did that hurt?” or “Do you know you look like a freak?”

“Sure, go ahead,” I said, bracing myself for the usual questions.

“It makes me wonder, how do you kiss the boys?”

He made me laugh out loud. I was always so grateful, then, when I would run into someone who could see a person under the purple hair and metal.

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Just want to leave you with the image of me, walking around with my pink leopard robe open, blowing my nose on a dish towel. I have a scratch on my butt and I don’t know how it got there. Everyone is sick; no survivors. Things will be better tomorrow.
This is rocking my ass right now. The Super Mario music on a marimba and drums. I swear I teared up when they played the invincibility music.

PS Now I am blowing my nose on one of our nice dinner napkins.