Yesterday, insane amounts of snow dumped all over our lovely city of Seattle. This inspires two reactions in me: first, I laugh up my sleeve because in Illinois this is motherfucking bikini weather, and I know I get to watch all the assmittens slide all over the place because no one here has practice driving in two-plus inches of snow. Then, I get really angry, because everything closes and I can’t get anything done.

All was not lost, though. I did a little painting, which I don’t think I’ve really done since I was knocked up. And I cut a snowflake out of some construction paper, which I don’t think I’ve done in years. I hitchhiked for the first time, since my bus was turned sideways at the bottom of Phinney Ridge. I made a little sign with my notebook that said “UW” and stuck my thumb out. I know some people have hitched all over the damn country, but I was very pleased with myself anyhow. Everyone is extra-friendly when it snows here, I think.

When I got to school, I discovered that classes were cancelled and that the computer labs were closing in ten minutes, so I fetched my friend and we got swept away by a bunch of first-year library students to the pub. Hooray for black-and-tans. However, I discovered that consuming two black-and-tans on a delightful snowy day may cause a person to engage in activities that will make your downstairs neighbor come upstairs, knock on your door, and say something like, “This is kind of awkward, but these units really aren’t very soundproofed.”

Ahem.

I give her props and snaps for telling me to keep it down. My companion thinks we need to find her a boyfriend, and then a house, in that order.

I am here, depsite evidence to the contrary. My internet access is up at my new apartment on Wednesday, thank you Giant Head of Rush Limbaugh.

I am in good spirits, even though my ex-husband has been stalking me. Honestly, who does early morning drive-bys to see if there’s a strange car in my spot and then admits it? Him, I guess. He is also threatening to get his vasectomy reversed so we can have more children. Because, you know, nothing saves a marriage like MORE CHILDREN.

Moving on:

I love living next door to a retirement community. It is so quiet, and they never look out their windows, so they are all missing the late-nite, I-must-have-Special-K-right-now Boob Show. Because one should only eat Special K topless.

I can’t believe that school is starting tomorrow. Oy!

All is well…unless you consider spending Christmas with your “engaged”-for-the-fourth-time mother (who told you that she slept with someone in your Baby Daddy’s band the night she had them over to play for her birthday party in early December, and then leaned over the minute your sister walked out of the room and said with a big wink, “I’ve done much worse things than that since I got engaged”) you know, stressful. And then you get to watch your mother telling your aforementioned underage sister that she needs to “drink more.” Good times. Next year I will just put myself in a stockade in Pioneer Square and invite everyone to paddle me in the tooshy. That will be more delightful, as I will be surrounded by STRANGERS ONLY.

Despite getting MSG-ed in one of the only Chinese restaurants in Shoreline that was open on xmas, spending time with the Shedonist and my sister was better than witnessing the Kavalcade of Kapitalism that was no doubt going down at Rancho Alexander. And I discovered that it is now much harder for the Shedonist to provoke me than it used to be. Perhaps I am now more accepting of her deal with polyamory and the fact that she refuses to be a role model for my sister.

I will rise above this through, through my new dependence on Lush bath bombs, macaroons, and stabbing stuff. I bought a mattress today for my new apartment and I sat under my new best friend Pierre for four hours while he put a tattoo on me that looks exactly like a luscious oil painting. Pierre is an artiste, and is now threatening to give me a whole chest piece. I said “oui, oui, Pierre, as long as the grant money keeps coming down the pike.” I will post a picture soon.

Off to the bath! Don’t worry about me, babies, I am much better now than when I was not writing.

Hey Homies,

I have been thinking about this entry for a few weeks and I still don’t know what to write. I am having a major upheaval in my life right now, and I need to take a break from blogging. I am getting to the point where I have nothing to say because I am not ready to go public with my issues…and my issues are taking up all my time right now.

My Bitchmaster and I are going to do a little collaborating on a new web design for this place. I love you, Gorgeous George, but I need something different for the New Year.

Come back on January 2nd or so, and I’ll be back. Thanks for all your loyal support and interest. Have a good holiday, and don’t let the jivey assmittens get you down.

I have to tell you two things: one is that I just woke up from the most terrifying dream. I was on a couch where Brian Warner was doing it with this woman from my library school. I don’t know her really well, certainly not well to participate in a couch orgy with her and Brian Warner. I don’t know anyone that well. It was even worse because Brian Warner’s makeup was mostly off and I could see he had incredibly bad skin.

There were broken nacho chips stuck to the couch, and they got stuck to my poor scared naked butt, just like they would if you were sitting on a couch covered in broken chips. Normally I appreciate a little realism in a dream, but having realistic nacho butt just added to the terror.

Then he turned on me…and he, um, “pulled out” of my classmate and I could see he had a really small penis. I said, “I’ve experienced natural childbirth. There is no way I’m even going to feel that.” Then I walked off, probably with nacho chips falling off my ass. Again, the Size Queen burninates the villagers!

Thing two: Per Miel’s request, I will yammer a bit about my impending research. I know I’ve been vague, but I figure most perps around here aren’t interested in the details.

I am going to be talking to people at homeless shelters to find out who they talk to to get their information about social services, and what information they feel is missing. The idea is to create some sort of “map” to see what channels homeless persons follow to solve their information needs. The United Way will take my report with the idea that they can share the findings with social service agencies, and can fund stuff that is more helpful to people. It is delightfully naturalistic and qualitative.

I know, I know, I’m just as surprised as you are…I thought I’d be working for evil by now, too.

Things are taking many, many turns for the better, to the point where I feel like I have whiplash.

Finally, months after I submitted my first application, I have passed my research through human subjects. It took me longer to get through them than it will to talk to actual human beings, which falls under the commonly-accepted definition of irony. There has been a change of plans, and instead of just a social services agancy report I am writing the full thesis, so it looks like come June I will have an object to brain cows with after all…or at least a very sexy doorstop. You know you have set sail for Planet Academia when you are excited about being published in information science journals.

I have been a student volunteer for my thesis advisor’s research team since this summer, and two days ago she asked me to go down the admin offices to get put on her payroll. Now I am getting paid…to think ten hours a week. I knew there was a reason I decided not to go to beauty school after all. People are pooping grant money all over my advisor right now, and she says she has to use it or lose it. Money well spent, I say. I just wonder if my graduate school nemesis is on the payroll now as well. I won’t think about it too hard.

This was a fun weekend. On Saturday morning I talked my mom into watching Frannie so I could take my sister to a portfolio information session at one of the local art colleges. In spite of a total lack of interest on our mom’s part, Morgan is pursuing her dream of going to art school. In fact, I would call the amount and type of involvement of my mother detrimental–she asked my sister how she was going to make ends meet when Morgan moved out, because “they won’t let you live on student loans.” KEE-rist. A little ignorance is a dangerous thing sometimes.

I told Morgan that I’d do whatever she wanted: information sessions, college tours, etc. When I was a junior in high school, my M.O. was to get my hump on and/or intoxicated as much as possible; Morgan’s is to get good grades so she can go to college and get the fuck out of my mom’s house. I wish I would have been as far-seeing as she was…I could have saved a lot of time.

So, we drove downtown to the school’s new building and went into the commons area. There was a gob of doughnuts and coffee, so I knew it would take while. Finally, a woman came out and told students where to go based on their interests.

“We anticipate this information session will last about two hours,” the woman said. Morgan made a face at that. “Parents, please wait here and help yourself to coffee and snacks.”

“Dude, let’s go,” Morgan said.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“Yeah. I don’t want to sit through it. All I wanted was this pamphlet that tells you what to include in your portfolio, and I’ve got it.” She waved it at me.

“You are very wise,” I said. I was very impressed. I didn’t learn about the uselessness of information sessions until I was a lot older. They always provide what you need to know in written form anyhow. She’s already got it.

“What do you want to do now?” I said.

“I dunno.”

“Want to go to the mall?”

We ended up at Target, where I bought a very cute bra. Time well spent!

Madlib text by Mopie. Fill-ins by, Me, Mondo Beyondo.

One day, on the bridge of the sticky ship known as the Enterprise, Captain Picard was startled by the sudden appearance of a klepto aboard his ship. ‘Assmitten!‘ shouted Picard sarcastically as the klepto began gyrating. Britney Spears, the ship’s first officer, decided to attempt to neutralize it with jizz, but her plan failed. Picard then asked the android, Abe Vigoda, who suggested that they beam it to my crotch, biotch. Picard tried to do that, but the transporter began to glow a perverted shade of chartreuse and didn’t work at all. In desperation, Picard called on his chief engineer, SJ, who stated jauntily that they should find a shuttlecock which would transform the klepto into a polar bear. This worked, and Picard became very pointy and started to burninate, and they all lived sarcastically ever after.