Author Archives: iasshole

I Live By The Three E’s: Exercise, Eee-Rest, and “Eh.”

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Good news: I have had four nights of unbroken sleep for the first time since the baby was born eight months ago. Now that I have come out of my haze, I have discovered a few things.

1. My house is a mess. But you know what, no one died while I was too tired to clean it so…eh. Somehow I managed to keep the baby clear of the broken glass pile and the lit, unattended cigarette corner, so yay for me!

2. I can focus again, and have pleasant conversations with people. I have had the following conversation with more than one person in the past few months:

“How are you, SJ?”

“Oh, fine, good.”

“How’s the baby?”

“She’s good! She’s pulling up and clapping a lot.”

“What’s new with you?”

“….”

“SJ?”

“I…don’t know….”

“Are you still there?”

“Who is this?” To companion: “Someone left the phone on again.” (hangs up.)

3. I AM HAPPY. I laugh at my companion’s jokes again. Paradoxically (wow, my grown-up words are coming back), the happier I am, the more cantankerous I am. So no more “I, Semi-Coheranthole,” or “I, TooTiredToGetUpAndPee-hole.”

I, ASSHOLE. I will be perpetrating some badness on someone somewhere soon, and it will be like you were actually there, just wait.

4. In my circle (read: people who are contractually or financially obligated to spend time with me) I am known as a person who loves gossip magazines. I love Hollywood gossip like my cat loves humping socks. I can tell you where Britney Spears is RIGHT NOW (at her divorce lawyer’s office; later she’ll be at Fred Segal’s with a giant mocha-latty). People think I have no life (okay, true), but in reality gossip magazines are like a drug that has no harsh side effects. But the good thing is that now that I have slept, I can distinguish fantasy from reality. So I know that this is a real picture.

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Urgent memo to butterflies and unicorns: Release Mimi. You’ve had her in your evil, iridescent clutches long enough.

I wanted to be a mermaid when I was eight. Now I’m damn glad I went to college…so I could be a stay-at-home-mom. DOH! *rimshot*

Reality: 1 (Yes, I have returned to you, sweet reality.)
SJ: elevendy points for sleep!
Daniel, trying to get me to stop writing about ASS HORNS: 0!

I Used To Be Conceited, But Now I’m Perfect

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Do you know how you can have that feeling like you are being an adult, and are super on-top-of-things, and then all of the sudden some idiot says, “HAAAAY, what does this button do?” and then the bulldozer’s off and running, careening into one of those shops full of glass kittens and walnuts with googly eyes glued on them?

Ugh, even my metaphors are ugly and out-of-control.

ANYWAY, I received my diploma last November and I noticed right away that my name was misspelled. Did you know that a name containing only two letters could be misspelled by your university? Me neither. One year later I finally thought I got things settled.

I called them three different times and asked them to reissue it. I had a hard-ass final year in graduate school, and when they sent my diploma I was doing crappy temp work and realizing that my baby was still very much alive and in my body, despite all evidence that she had jumped ship two months before. On one hand, I was like, “Yeah, whatever, diploma, I’m busy,” and on the other I was like, “HEY I AT LEAST want my GODAMN NAME spelled right.” Are you feeling me here?

So all three times I called them they said, “Okay, we’ll reissue it with the next printing.” LIES.

Finally, I was doing some housecleaning for Fangsgiving this year, and I found it in my “non-urgent to-do” pile. Hmm, I thought. Let’s see what happens if I take this to the top dog. I wrote the King Registrar a very polite email about what had happened, and he replied with, “Yes, we will do a rush order and get this to you very quickly.” He was very apologetic and promised to investigate why I had been blown off by his office.

I got cc’d on the email to someone who actually handles the nuts and bolts of this sort of thing, and she told me that an academic hold had been placed on my account. I investigated, and it seems I am in arrears for my smallest student loan, and I owe a small sum on it. Glah! I thought I had bumped all my loans because of broke-assedness, but apparently I missed one. Man, I sure could have used a personal assistant last year. I was so stressed out I could barely remember to clip my ass horns brush my teeth.

I was going to go through the rigmarole of deferring this one too, but it is such a small amount it would be easier to start paying it. I’m just sorry they didn’t have my address sooner so I don’t have to be all arrearful. So the government found me and it turns out that Fat Tony won’t have to break my face after all. Maybe if I pay them, they will release the diploma that they fucked up and owe me in the first place. Well played, The Government. Well played.

Government: 1
Registrar’s Office: 47
SJ: half a point for stylish flailing around

In Other News: Put Down That Pop Tart First

Oh, man, I do not want to tell you what I am about to tell you, but I have to. I don’t want this to turn into one of those Poop Blogs–mostly because I feel like there are more dignified and important things to write about (such as boobies), but here goes.

This morning was crazy–my house turned into an intensive care unit dedicated to log-jam removal. Poor Strudel. She is an infrequent pooper anyway, but I have never seen her this backed up before. I was hovering over her with a glove and some non-irritating cream, to help things along. It was like a scene out of some lame, low-budget medical show. “I need some poo here, stat.” She would poop a little and then I would dress her again and she’d do a little dance in my lap with that sad, sad, confused look on her face like when your Gay High School Boyfriend breaks up with you for the last time, but you don’t realize he was gay until, like, five years after high school. All you know is that he is breaking up with you and won’t give you a reason. Why, GHSBF, why???

Finally I lay down on the couch with her and nursed her until she dozed off. She popped up ten minutes later, stinky and smiling, with a little log in her pants that was full of carpet fuzz, hair, and, I am quite ashamed to say, some lightweight, non-scratchy plastic that she narfled when I turned my head for a minute.

I think it’s time to invest in one-o-them giant hamster balls, so she can travel around the house that way. I just hope she doesn’t turn out like me; some problems can take YEARS to overcome.

Slushy Slushy Coco Puffs

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Last weekend we bought Strudel (if I can invoke my family heritage for a moment) her first mobile home. Seriously, this backpack thing is great. The hippie sling stopped being fun months ago, and the strolly is nice on the back but really difficult to maneuver on Seattle’s crapped up streets. Where’s the pothole brigade been lately, eh, Mayor Gridlock?

Anyway, when my fella came home from work yesterday, we got to take a fun meander in the snow, which is one of our favorite things to do. We saw a woman with a strolly who said, “It’s nice to see someone else out in this.” I said, “I was raised in Illinois, so this is nothing.”

“I was raised in Indiana!” she replied.

“Ah, this is bikini weather, isn’t it?” I said, dismissing the feeble amounts of slush in the gutter. I got her to laugh and agree with my ridiculous statement.

So my handsome fella was out in his full winter regalia, which is a muffin hat and my cast-off, too-big pea coat. I love to see him in this, because it reminds me of two years ago when we used to go for snowy walks and I ended up falling in love with him. And now look: I make him carry our spawn.

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“Haw-haw, all I need is les Gaulloises et le baguette.“

Who Likes Food Porn?

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Dear MFD,

Me, I like food porn, that’s who. Fangsgiving was a damn success. There was one little hitch, though. I put the turkey in at exactly the right time and it was a little tight in the oven. The door was the teensiest bit ajar, and since I bought an aluminum turkey pan I knew I could get the door shut anyhow. There is a lock for the oven door that I assumed it was for keeping reckless toddlers (who should be out of the gene pool anyway) out of the proceedings. And…no. The lock is only for the automatic cleaning part of the oven, so as soon as you lock it, the oven SHUTS OFF. What the fuck is up with that? (Rhetorical question, don’t email me with diagrams attached. Again. I like being stupid; it gives me something to write about.)

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A Temp and L.A.M.B.’s Clothing

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Speaking of church signs, I was just thinking about what I was doing last year at this time. I was a temping fool, paying the bills by turning up in a new office every week or two as the administrative assistant du jour.

Right around Fangsgiving last year I was working on First Hill for the Catholic Archdiocese. I was filling in for an admin who was extremely ill. I was enjoying this very much, because I was knocked up by my companion, whom I had just started living with a couple weeks before, and I was still married to my ex-husband. “Hussy” doesn’t even begin to cover it. On my first day, as I was going to lunch, my cel phone rang.

“Hello?”

“SJ?” It was my companion.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to see if you turned into a pile of smoldering ashes when you crossed the doorway.”

VERY FUNNY, Companion. I was fine, but my pentagram was making my neck burn a little. And I could hear a tiny voice saying “RED RUM” that I think was coming from my crotch, but I couldn’t bend over to check because I was starting to show.

So the woman running the department I was working for had a daughter who was probably nineteen or twenty and attending the nearby Catholic university. The daughter, “Lindsay,” used to make a little money doing filing and such when they got backed up. She was a favorite around the office, because people there had known her since she was a little girl.

On the first day that I came in, the head admin had stepped out and I was greeted by Lindsay. My contact at the temp agency said, “Go business casual, but conservative. It is the Catholic Diocese, after all.” When I walked in, I could see that Lindsay was wearing a miniscule tank top that had L.A.M.B. spelled out across her breasts in those shiny silver fabric dots. Suddenly I felt overdressed in my nice maternity sweater.

She was a nice girl, really, and the rest of the week went well. I really liked the ladies there–the place was full of them. Occasionally I saw the Archbishop floating around in his dress and pope hat.

On one of my last days there, the big project was to prepare for a national audit by a government agency that was reviewing how the Catholic Church was dealing with investigating molestation charges. I was putting together binders for the agency, which I was told was composed of ex-CIA, to review. Lindsay was helping with this project as well, as there was a tight deadline. The second-in-command of the office I worked for was concerned about Lindsay’s chosen outfit that day, which was a strapless tube-style top and a pair of tight capris. “You better hope the archbishop doesn’t see you in that,” she warned Lindsay.

Later that day we were carrying the binders and some paper to a conference room so we could stuff the binders assembly-line style, with lots of room to spread out. As we turned a corner, an apparition in a sparkly dress and pope hat appeared at the end of the hallway–the archbishop. “Oh shit!” muttered the second-in-command. Her arm whipped out, shoving Lindsay into a nearby copy room and closing the door. We continued on our way down the hall and passed by the archbishop who was walking toward us while in deep conversation with his assistant. “Hello, Archbishop,” we said as we passed them.

Lindsay was rescued a few minutes later, after the archbishop had moved to another part of the building.

Church Signs Are Getting Better

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I saw this one near Northgate today:

Sin fascinates, then it assassinates.

I have loved church signs since I learned to read. Not enough to go in or anything, but that’s another story. Man, churches must have their work cut out for them here, what with the high numbers of godless communists and all. There are more church signs here. Mostly stupid, but number ten made me laugh.

In Other News: Crash Course

My sweet, formerly immobile slug of a baby has decided to begin pulling up at just eight months old. But that’s not enough. She also has to let go and swan dive to the floor, or cruise using the futon so she can menace the cat. I didn’t sign up for this! I don’t want an upgrade. If she starts walking next month I’m going on strike.

She wanged her head at least three times before my babydaddy left for work. I dub thee “Little Baby Welty Face,” which is better than “Little Baby Whiskeybreath,” at least.

Family Fun for Jerks

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Dear Busted-Ass Diary, early this morning we had a swell time out in the wilds of Issaquah picking wild chanterelles. We brought Daniel, who had never been mushroom picking and enjoyed himself very much. I like mushroom picking because all the climbing gives me the opportunity to work off the “librarian can,” which develops when you sit in front of the internets for most of the day clicking on shiny things. Also, you get mushrooms. Bonus! We are using them for our Fangsgiving dinner.

mossy

shelf

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Again With The Alienating The Only Remaining People Who Will Spend Time With Me

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One of Franny’s friends came home with us from school today. I am always astounded when people want to trust me with their children. I always want to say, “Do you KNOW who I AM?” Not in that entitled celebrity way either. I always want to say, “I am a person who once shaved three-fourths of my head, with the idea it would look cute. Two years later, I put half a box of jawbreakers in my own babychute and then thought I wet the bed when they melted. Does your child have any food allergies?” But after a few her school Moms’ coffee mornings I seem to be impersonating a responsible person pretty well. Mwua-ha-ha.

So my sister Morgan was over as well, who is a card-and-a-half, as well as a certified wiseacre. She took it upon herself to begin gently ribbing Franny’s friend, who was taking it in stride. Still, I was just so amazed that the most discriminating her school mom would let me make off with one of her brood that I had to put a stop to it when the girls retreated to Franny’s room to put on 40 pounds of taffeta, tulle, and fake bling from the dress-up drawer.

“Hey, take it easy on our little guest, whydontcha?” I said to Morgan.

“It’s alright,” Morgan said.

“Just because you had no friends as a child doesn’t mean you can go after Franny’s.”

“What!”

“I’m sure Morgan had friends,” interjected my companion meddlesomely.

“No, she didn’t. Haw!” I said.

“You don’t know if I had friends or not!” Morgan said to my companion.

“She didn’t. Haw!” I said.

“And now you’re laughing about it!” Morgan said to me.

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “I’m just kind of laughy today. I can’t help it.” Truly, everything, appropriate or not, has been funny today.

“I watch your baby for you today, and now you mock my childhood pain and loneliness,” Morgan finished. She is going to make a great mother someday.

Everyone was on speaking terms at the end of the afternoon, but I learned that this is something that Morgan can make fun of herself with, but that I should probably leave her alone about. Kind of like my goiter. Or my ass horns.

Hey Britney,

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I know it’s been a while since we talked. You’re busy with your helpless, vomiting child and your new baby, and I imagine that takes a lot out of you. Like, perhaps you are too busy to think about what you are wearing all the time. Did I tell you one day last week I spent most of the day in my bathrobe? No? Well, I know my baby’s older so let’s keep that between you and me.

Anyway, I hate to tell you I had a breast-related “why god why?” moment yesterday. Not over myself. I am a grown-ass woman and have come to terms with my breasts. We’re speaking and sometimes we even have coffee together. But yesterday…I saw some other breasts that took me straight back to Arizona State, when I used to work out in the gym there.

Let me tell you about a young woman who used to work out at the same time my gym buddy and I did. And when I say work out, I mean, she used to treat the ellipticycle like her own personal little bitch. She pwned that thing so hard I thought it was going to jump off its frame and go crashing through the plate glass in front of her. She always had a top knot that used to bob along in time with her furious pace.

This woman’s poor breasts had the extreme misfortune of being at least C-cups, so they would move on the same beat as the rest of her body, but one step behind, of course. Body up, breasts down. Breasts up, body down. We made light of it by calling her “The Fraggle” because her movements looked like the characteristic “Fraggle” walk–with the bobbing and the floating feather hair. “The Fraggle’s at it again,” my friend would say as she nudged me. We would wince and look away. “Strap those bitches down, jeez.”

I suspect she looks like this now.

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