Anyway, we kept the lid on my pregnancy (barely) until I had gotten out of my first trimester. In September, when I was a respectable fourteen weeks along, we decided to break the news to our family. We told my mom and my sister and then drove to Portland for the weekend to visit and tell my companion’s family they were a few months away from their first grand-spawn.
Author Archives: iasshole
Part 1: The Poisonous Snack Arrives
For those of you playing along at home, you may have noticed I had a baby in March, which means that I got pregnant last June. I had a very strange pregnancy. By strange I don’t mean, “Man, did I crave that nasty kraut-in-a-jar,” or “Hoo hoo, I dreamt I had sex with a vicar, but it was actually Desmond Tutu (what would you do?).” I mean it got STRANGE strange about halfway through.
I Believe in Ashley and Mary-Kate
I wrote this April 18, 2005, mostly for myself.
Franny and the baby and I were cruising down I-5, listening to Atmosphere, which always raises some interesting questions from the backseat.
“Mom, what’s God?”
Shit. I guess I knew abstract concept day was coming, but I wasn’t prepared yet. I have discovered that four is all about her asking me about abstract things, and me stammering like a fool.
“Umm…well….” I said, casting around. “Some people think God is like a person who created the universe and animals and people, and lives in Heaven. Other people think God is in everything, like in every person and blade of grass.”
“And trees, Mom?”
“Yep, every thing. Some people get so worked up about God that they fight in wars. Other people don’t believe in God at all.” I decided to give her something else to consider: “Remember that book we read about Greek myths? Those people believed there were many gods, like Hera and Zeus and Hades. Most people now just believe in one.”
Franny turned this over for a moment.
“There are six gods, Mom,” she said, decisively.
“Six? Who are they?”
“There’s Ashley. There’s Building. He works in a building. There’s Flower. She watches all the flowers. When the bad guys come she turns herself into a bird egg.”
“Why does she do that?” I said.
“She turns herself into a huge egg and rolls over the bad guys. There’s Post, and Chimney. She lives in a building with lots of chimneys.”
“I see,” I said. You have to say this a lot when you have a four-year-old. “What does Ashley do?”
“Ashley’s the boss.”
I found out later what Post does; she wears many pins in her hair that she uses to “fix up people who get their arms slashed in wars.” However, I don’t know who the sixth god is, because she went on to something else. So, lo, another dogma is unleashed upon the world. If I asked her, Franny would now want everyone to go forth and be fruitful or something, because she really likes fruit, “especially watermelon.”
She Drives Me Crazy
After some time spent with a focus group this weekend (i.e. my family trapped at the dinner table at my mom’s house) it turns out that I am a bad, bad driver and I take peoples’ lives into my hands every time I get behind the wheel. I believe my companion even used the phrases “anticipating a bloody wreck” and “do you know the following distance rule?”
YES I KNOW THE FUCKING FOLLOWING DISTANCE RULE. The rule is, go the fucking speed limit so I don’t have to follow you so fucking closely. If I can read your squishy vegan/Howard Dean bumper stickers then something is terribly wrong, because I have awful eyesight.
Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t admit that.
Anyway, this all started last Friday when my sister and I were going to pick up my older daughter, Franny, from her dad, whom I will refer to (until I get tired of it) as Seattle Federline*. A silver Honda I was following suddenly swerved off to the curb in front of me in Wallingford. “Hmm,” I thought. “I guess they really wanted that parking spot.”
My sister turned to me. “Wow, they gave you a serious dirty look.”
“Really? Are you sure?” I said.
“Well, you were tailgating them like crazy.”
“Wha…what? Tailgating? Me? But everyone in this town drives so slo….Crap. It’s me.”
My sister said nothing, letting righteous good-driver silence suffuse through the car.
“Really? Are you sure? Crap.”
Later, on the way back from getting Franny, I had almost pulled onto my street when I saw another Honda in front of me.
I joked to my sister, “Ha, another Honda, maybe I can get them to get out of my way, too.” Instantly the second Honda jerked over to the curb, letting me pass before driving off again.
“Jesus, what now?” I said.
“Don’t worry,” my sister said. “That couldn’t have been you, you were too far away.”
“Maybe they are looking for an address,” I said.
“Maybe,” she said.
I think this whole thing is totally unfair! Here I am, stuck in Seattle, home of random passive-aggressive road asshattery, after learning to drive in Phoenix, Arizona, a place where the fast lane means 90 MPH and if you don’t respect that, you will get plugged or driven off the road with a cowcatcher that someone built in their garage, in between breaks on cleaning their gun(s) which they wear, unconcealed and strapped to their chests. To the library, even. I saw an awful lot of unconcealed guns at the library there, because that’s where I hung out. The library’s dangerous, man. Someone could really do something with that box of crapping golf pencils. But I digress.
So now I am boycotting driving, for the next few days at least, until I get tired of that, too. Now I am being ferried around by my companion, a driver who learned to drive in Oregon. (State motto: “We’ll get there eventually.”) He drives and the Seattle drivers, who are anxious to go their risk-taking neck-breaking 31 MPH tailgate him, while he goes the Oregon-standard 25.
“We’ll get there eventually, and in one piece,” he says, as I claw frantically at my child-locked rolled up window.
I’ve got an idea: what we need is a city of origin plate. Mine can say Phoenix and Overcaffeinated and people can get out of the way. My companion’s can say Portland with the additional bonus designation “Librarian” and people can sigh and pull off onto the side streets. Everyone wins! Except for me because I am staying home today, as I am afraid of killing the baby in a bloody wreck.
*Seattle Federline: Allergic to work and once told my mother that when I finished graduate school I would be his “sugar mama.” Your wife of eight years is not your SUGAR MAMA. Glah.
In Other News: The Box Opening Was MIIIINE
I am currently enjoying the horrors of this post over at the Childfree Hardcore LJ Community. First it made me go “gleep!” because this person, who may be excessively hyperbolic like me, claims that they (out loud) threatened to stab the little child at the Harry Potter event in the eye with their wand.
It freaks me out that people can hate children this much. I don’t think that all people should have or want children themselves, or have them in their lives, and props if you know that about yourself. But all these hardcore people were children once. I know, duh. But I think about how much butt-wiping I have done, and pukey face-kissing, and it makes me sad to think that the girls could grow up to despise children. I can’t really explain it better than that.
Finally I had to laugh and laugh because this?
Fucking moo brings her bratty sprog in at 8:59am dressed in a generic Kmart cape with stars and glitter and fucking gaudy BLAH. Twig for a wand.
OMG WITTLE PWESHUS SO CUTE OMG YOU CAN OPEN THE BOX AND HAVE THIS BOOK YOU CAN’T READ AND *fawning fawning, blatant breederism etc*
THE FUCKING KID WON’T EVEN REMEMBER THIS. THE BOX OPENING WAS MINE. MIIIIINE.
I wouldn’t have minded if someone had said “Oh look Sass, you are best-dressed but would you mind if this land-mine amputee opened the box instead?” I would have said “Absolutely no problem. Go for it.” But no. FUCKING CROTCHDROPPING GETS THE HONOUR. I’m furious. On principle of course, not out of any sense of entitlement. Well yes, entitlement also. But I WORKED FOR IT, I DESERVED IT.
I made an effort. I spent money making an effort. I showed up early. I will remember and treasure this event for ever and eternity. And I’m passed over for an ugly little brat with a sparkly tie. Woo fucking woo.
…is funny. I am going to try to work “crotchdropping” into conversations as much as I can from now on. And Sass? You do know that the main characters of the Harry Potter books are…CHILDREN?
A Message From Management
Welcome to I, Asshole…I’m the administrator here, and we’re starting to get this ship patched up and running so Asshole can do what she does best, which is write shit that makes milk spew out your nose (even if you’re not drinking milk) and not worry about the technical details.
Seems like comments should be a simple matter. However, since comments post content to the web, it makes it a valuable free “link exchange” for people try to get their C*alis and T*xas-H*oldem sites to be #1 in Google. I understand where they’re coming from, but it makes a tool like a blog with literally hundreds of submission forms in it a big problem.
Movable Type solves the problem by requiring users to register before they can posts, but that kinda sucks, so I’m looking into other solutions. For now, I think I’m going to go ahead and try unmoderated comments for the most recent couple of posts and see how that works.
Try it out and we’ll see how it works. I was reading back through some of Asshole’s old comments, and y’all are pretty funny. I’d hate to see any barrier to that.
thanks,
Daniel
Let’s Have Cake Every Day
“Most forms of rage, after all, are only sloppy cloaks for grief.”
First, let’s have the good news. When you haven’t seen your friend for a whole year, there’s a lot to catch up on. You know, great haircut! You’re looking thin/fat/indifferent/one foot in the grave, etc.
Last time you saw me, I was trying desperately to finish my Master’s degree and my thesis. Good news: I am now officially a librarian, as of August 2004 (area of specialization: Britney Spears). It felt so weird to graduate and not post pictures here. My daughter walked across the stage with me and I did not wear a dopey gown and mortarboard hat. Can you think of a less flattering look? Maybe if you added thongs and tube socks to the ensemble. It was my first time walking at graduation…I didn’t for any of my other degrees or high school.
Holeee Shit
Whoa, you guys, I had this crazy dream!!! I dreamt I was married to a jackass for like, yonks, and then I tried to divorce him. Yay, freedom! And I dreamt I went to court and told everyone what had happened, about how I came home and found our kid covered in her own shit while he was “watching” her! And they said, “we’ll believe you, maybe, if you pay us another $15,000 to look into this.”
Oooh, that was a bad part, because I was only a student and had like, only $15.00.
In the meantime, I dreamt my shitty husband brought my weblog to court and presented it as pornography that was exploiting my daughter! And he had no idea I even had a weblog! And said that I was a dog fucker with low self-esteem!!! And that it was my fault my stepfather abused me!!! It turns out my stepfather threatened to lock me out of the cabinets BECAUSE I WAS SUCH A BIG FAT EATER, NOT BECAUSE HE WAS A FUCKING PSYCHO. HAA HAA HAA!!!!111
Phew, I’m glad the court paperwork cleared that up for me. Here I was, thinking I was abused as a child and that I had endured an emotionally frigid marriage which culminated in our daughter being progressively more neglected. MY BADS!!! LOL!
SO, in this dream I lost my weblog, for like, a whole year which was incredibly depressing. When you put three years of your life into something creative, you can get a little, you know, ATTACHED to it. MAN, DID I CRY A LOT. You could have drowned a pony in my tears. HAHA HA!!!!!!
SO I woke up this morning to post again and I realized that my last post was…what? June…2004? I really haven’t written in a over year?
Well, that’s about to change. I’m done fucking crying; back to writing.
Thanks to those who bumped me to start again: Daniel, my Companion, Supa, Mike, Joshua Norton, and everyone else. THANK YOU.
(Archives and the rest of the design will be finished soonly.)
“Who Are You? I’m Your Motherfucking Conscience.”
I was talking to a friend of mine on the phone last night. She called me because one of the Seattle Monorail cars caught on fire; apparently it was all over the local news. She thought of me because we did a “cognitive work analysis” project together relating to the Seattle Monorail (I don’t know what that means either, so save your questions).
Letter From Crazyport
Dear Revlon,
Your new, limited-edition nail enamel “Twilight” is utterly and completely off-the-hook. I get mad compliments on it wherever I go. I wore it to court the other day, and it works at night too. It is trashy in a very good way…this is my summer color. Also, this stuff is NOT chipping. My little girl and I think it totally rules!!! I feel just like Paris Hilton, except you know, without the millions of dollars, tiny chihuahua, and the lazy eye. Please keep making it!
Six Days Later:
Dear Ms. Asshole:
We have received your comments from the Revlon website and wish to thank you for taking the time to contact us regarding Nail Enamel Twilight.
We love to hear from our consumers, but more so when words are as kind as yours!
Thank you for sharing your observations about our product. We assure you that your comments have been noted and forwarded to the appropriate personnel.
Thank you for your interest in Revlon products. We hope to continue to serve your cosmetic needs.
Sincerely,
Rachel
Sr. Consumer Services Representative
Revlon Consumer Information
Something to Chew On
I think I love Ian Kerner. He rules. How can you not love someone who wrote the Cunnilinguist Manifesto? And, I’m sorry, but he’s kind of cute, too. Maybe his ideas are making him cute.
This interview in The Morning News is hilarious, and really shows the way he is being very careful with this issue. He uses humor, but is not mean-spirited. Dr. Kerner aknowledges the previous issues with feminism and sexual empowerment, but does not say women or men are superior; he just says that men and women are different (duh, I know, but I prefer this approach).
Father’s Day is coming…give the gift of cunnilingus tips!
Did I just write that? Yes, yes I did.