Author Archives: iasshole

In Which I Am Awesome

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“Say you love me,” Mr. Husband said. He had been drinking vodka, the good kind, and had been menacing me all night. Earlier he was snapping me with a washcloth while folding clothes.

“You’re too hostile right now,” I said. “Leave me alone.” When the Girlie is in bed we don’t have to censor ourselves. I am nicer when she’s awake because I don’t think she would understand how we can be completely cross with each other one minute, and have it completely forgotten the next. Her little brow gets all frowny. I wonder if she will ever see this dimension of our relationship or if it will stay private, meaning it will be what she hears only when she is spying on us.

“Say you love me, right now.”

“Bleah,” I said, and stuck out my tongue. I am a sucky wife.

He leaned in and I could smell the spoiled boozy smell on him. He retains smells longer than I do; we can have the same garlicky meal and he will still smell like it twelve hours after I do.

He leaned on me and the book I was holding flipped out of my hands. I had been unsuccessfully trying to read all night and he had been interupting me to tell me that if Hillary Clinton ran for president he’d vote for her, and if Bill ran again he’d vote for him in a minute and was that even legal?

He opened his mouth and bit down on my neck, hard. If you hold still and let all the muscles and tendons relax it hurts less. He told me to say that I love him again, out of the corners of his mouth and through his teeth.

“Ow,” I said without much feeling. “You’re hurting me.”

“Ray oo rup mif,” he said, and tightened his jaw more.

“I don’t like this. You’re a menace.”

After another thirty seconds he gave up.

“Dammit,” he said.

“I would have let you bite all the way through before I said it.” My neck hurt but I was glad.

“I know,” he said. “You are so stubborn. It’s awesome.”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s stupid.” I picked up my book and he went back to watching stupid Hillary Clinton get interviewed by stupid Barbara Walters.

It is almost one and I can’t sleep. I wonder how long it would take him to wake up if I tried to fill his nostrils with toothpaste?

Stabbed! and Successful

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The party went well. Too well. I’ve got a major pounder but I am so happy to have done it that I don’t care. Drinking water. Quiet voices. I have to go to my Saturday class in an hour. Please kill me.

I rented five- and six-foot tiki gods, fake palm trees, and a balloon arch for the dean’s band to play under. Everyone seemed to be having a fantastic time.

So I got that job for this summer back (the “we will buy a new computer instead” one), only now I’m paying them as an independent study. I am paying both places I work this summer for experience. Again, I think the throwing money away while slapping myself with a flyswatter metaphor applies here. I was talking to one of my classmates about it, since she is on the project team, and her final comment, made with a nervous laugh was, “Don’t upstage me.”

Later, as she and I were popping the balloon arch with tiny cocktail umbrellas, she stabbed me with one and it lodged in the skin between my thumb and first finger, on my right hand. My right hand is my evil writing hand, and I turn out many evil information science propagandistic screeds with it, so recovery will be a bitch. I think I may be reading too much into the stabbing, however. (Foreshadowing.)

Most people laughed at my “free Martha” shirt, but I don’t think that anyone appreciated the fact that I was serious, as I was planning a party for 200. One woman who is a total pill said, “I didn’t think she was in jail yet.” Talk about not getting it.

Oh, well. I showed them. I jumped into this fountain when we were all finished:

Drumheller216.gif

It is five feet deep, so only my head and shoulders stuck out. It was very cold. Some nice people in my program pulled me out and it sobered me up a little. I was so jealous of these frat boys I saw in it at five-thirty when I went on a beer cup run, I just had to try it.

Party of 200, Your Table is Ready

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The party’s today. Eeep eep ack ack oop. I will not vomit.

I was going to go allllll fancy, but instead I took a gold marker to an old grey tee shirt. Because sometimes you just have to get political.

FM.JPG

See you at the party. I’ll be the one vomiting behind the giant tiki idol.

In Other News

Some silly shit: Mr. James Jordan IV presents “In da Tub,” a Hi-larious Weird Al-worthy parody of 50 Cent’s “In da Club.” Even better than the Beyonce Remix. “Go, James, it’s your bath day!”

A sample verse:

“I thought that you

In Which I Make Improper Invocations in the Name of SCIENCE

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The Scene: The bathroom. For some reason 7th Heaven is playing in the background and the actress who plays Lucy is whining, a major stretch for her as an actress. There is blood. There is screaming. There is a strip of paper with some sticky stuff and a bunch of hair stuck to it on the ground.

Perhaps I should back up a bit. Today I decided it would be really neat to buy one of those home-waxing kits so I could become one of those hairless freaks that you see on the MTV.

I am wearing something sleeveless to the Big Party and I thought it would be a kick to rip out all my armpit hairs at once. Bam! The teeny Vietnamese lady who did my nails a couple of times showed me her legs and said that every time she has them done, less and less hair grows back. Hmm. It got me to thinking.

I went to Fred Meyer, ostensibly to buy some chapstick. The hair-removal aisle pulled me like Demi “Midlife Crisis” Moore to some barely-legal boy candy. “Sugar wax! That sounds good.” My stupid brain told my stupid hand to pull it off the shelf. I shunned Nad’s and that creepy new Veet stuff in order to go with a classic: Nair. “Heat in the microwave!” exclaimed the package. “Three easy steps!” The smiling hairless woman on the box gazed at me knowingly.

“But I like your armpit hair,” said Mr. Husband, as he put Frannie’s shoes on.

“Mmmph,” I said.

“Just so you know.”

“See you,” I said, and closed the door behind them. Damn him and his supportive, accepting attitude. I had crossed a line and couldn’t go back now.

So tonight, with the house to myself, I went to work. I opened the box and it had a giant roller bottle full of brown goo, with fragrance added to it. I don’t see why it needed fragrance; it’s made of sugar, and doesn’t that smell good on its own? There were some paper strips and some little wipes that you wipe yourself with first to get all the oil off your skin, because then it works better, I guess. I skipped that part.

The directions said that the “hair should be more than 1/4 of an inch, but less than 1/2 of an inch.” Hey! Math? All the sudden this was getting hard! I went into the bathroom and trimmed my armpit hair over the sink, not an easy task.

I hate looking at myself in the mirror without a shirt on and wearing pants. I think I look all goony that way, especially with one arm up in the air and my poor little armpit with its new bad haircut. And men look goony with just a shirt on and no pants. What up with that?

Now that I had the desirable 1/4 to 1/2 of an inch length, it was time to heat the goo in the microwave. “Full bottle: 15 seconds. Wax should be as warm as comfortably-hot bathwater.” I got that done, then I had to squeeze it down to the “easy roller tip” that you use to smear it on your chosen manlike body part.

The packaging says it is “easy and neat” but it’s really not because you have to roll it around with your finger to get the goo all over the roller. It was at this point that I was starting to realize what the fragrance smelled like: Boy. It was manny, like boy deodorant. That’s weird.

So I put it on my least favorite armpit first, the left one, and the rolling itself painfully tugged my doomed hairs. At last I was coated in goo. The illustrated directions showed a hand ripping the strip off and a hand holding the skin taut next to the line drawing of an armpit. But I only had one hand free, the ripping hand! The other hand was attached to the arm that was attached to the victim armpit! What to do? Rip anyhow, I guess.

YOINK! I actually saw stars for a second, and then I remembered to start breathing again. Damn, dude. Like four hairs came out, and you bet your pimp juice I have more than four armpit hairs. I put my arm down to take a break…and it got stuck to my side. Fuckity! This was not crapping going well.

I always like to Make Matters Worse, so I ripped a few more times. More hair came out, but I am certainly not ready for the MTV. Or even MuchMusic. Now blood was rising to the surface. It was like I was giving myself some kind of awkward hickey.

I decided to switch to my upper lip, which is not super manlike, but I figure it could be improved. That worked marginally better, but now all I can smell under my nose on my freakishly feminine lip is man-smell. Those people over at Nair have got quite the sense of humor. I salute them.

Now I have a swollen, itchy, smelly, hickey-fied armpit, and a normal armpit with trimmed pit hairs that are short n scratchy. And an upper lip that looks okay.

I should have just thrown my seven dollars off a bridge, and hit myself with a flyswatter for about an hour. Same damn results.

What I should do now, and what I should have done in the first place, is make myself a pan of crappity fucking rice krispie treets, and eat them all before Mr. Supportive Modern Guy Who Will Secretly Laugh Up His Sleeve at Me comes home.

Where Is the Love?

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So, promoting the aforementioned “school party for 200” and getting a little squirrelly at this point, lemmie tell you. I made the criminal mistake of sending a “humorous” reminder that the party was approaching:

—– Original Message —–
From: sj@u.washington.edu
To: ilistserv@u.washington.edu
Sent: Friday, May 30, 2003 3:17 PM
Subject: Put on Your Party Boots, It’s the Spring Fling!

> Why: Free beer! Dancing! Drunken future librarians! Mike Eisenberg
and His Rockin’ Information Scientists!
>
> See you there!
>
> SJ
> Vice-President, ALISS
> Lord of the Dance

And then, the replies, with my responses that I can’t send in real life, unless I want my academic career to come to a screeching halt:

“From here out I would recommend that you lay off the drunken references. In case you have not noticed, a UW frat is facing a lawsuit over an alcohol related death.”

I hate this sort of thing; “alcohol-related” should be hyphenated, duh. More from the same fellow:

“I’m very surprised that this message made it past the listserv administrator. You need to remember that all of you [sic] email on this system is owned by the state, especially the listserv stuff. If something were to happen and an attoney [sic] found out about your message, it would get used in court.”

If I went to court, I’d get to wear my cool wide-brimmed hat that I never get to wear. It has feathers! More of this guy. Man, I’m tired of him, too:

“Also, you might want to consider that that while most of us do enjoy a good brew, many of us are past the age where we want the term “drunken” associated with us.”

Ugh. Lighten up, dude.

This lady was so pissed she didn’t even sign her email. Rumor has it she’s a Mormon:

“SJ – are you aware that more than half of the students in the MLIS program are over 30 and this announcement may very well keep them away from the social? Or was that your intention? Do you only want people to come who are excited by the offer of free beer?”

No, I had no idea that half the people in the program are over thirty. I mean, I look around and all I see are people with grey hair, wearing comfy jumpers and giant wooden necklaces, showing me pictures of their grandchildren…HAAAY, waitaminute….

A person in my student organization sent me this comment after I forwarded this flamey email to dozens of my peeps:

“Personally, I’m offended that she characterizes anyone over 30 as being
against drunkenness.” Hee hee.

The crab goes on, of course:

“I am somewhat surprised that someone who is as defiantly diverse as
yourself doesn’t respect the differences in those around her. For many of us this is the last time to socialize with our fellow students, however we might find the prospect of seeing “drunken future librarians” not terribly appealing.”

The Spring Fling always has free beer. Someone (me) will get drunk. The beer isn’t secret. Neither is the fact that the sticks that are in some peoples’ asses will never see the light of day.

I’ve got a question for you, Mr. and Ms. Prissy: where the fuck were you when I was planning this mofo? I mean, I only reminded people they could get involved 4800 times. “Committee meetings! Everyone welcome! Come and help plan your party!” You have made your own beds, Mr. and Ms. Prissy, and I hope you lie in them. At home. By yourselves.

Exercises In Futility Part 48

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Me: “Hey, you know, lately when Daddy’s home you’ve been pretty mean to me. When you tell me not to look at you and not to touch you it hurts my feelings.”

Frannie: “I’m a Baby Cat!” I hate this game sometimes; I have to make my voice all high and scratchy, like I’m Daniel Kitten’s mother from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.

Me: “So will you be nicer to me when Daddy’s home? We both love you very much.”

Frannie: “Mommy Cat?”

Me: “Yes, Baby Cat.”

Frannie: “I’m hungry!”

Me: “There’s some cat food in the cat dish upstairs.”

Frannie: (angrily) “MAAAOW!”

Point for SJ, but the match is clearly tied.

In Other News

The Interview: Went very well. There was no flatulence, hand-licking, or ass-scratching (for instance), and I give myself major props for that.

Now I’m all extra-double-stupid because I’m thinking maybe I don’t want a job. I believe I won’t have to make that decision, however, since I just found out another contender is this woman in my program with ten years experience teaching ESL classes. It’s a writing center job with an emphasis on tutoring, so I don’t know where that puts me.

I can’t just coast by on my GIANT THROBBING WRITING and my Large American Breasts all the time, you know.

Meanwhile Super Jive Takes a Nude

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Ah ha. Mmmhmm. Breathing.

I was totally afraid of this…that graduate school would be all outside of my comfort zone and I would be forced to do things that frankly make me want to take a trip to the Throw-Up Store.

So the job this summer, the job I didn’t have to interview for, fell though. The professor needed a new data-analyzing computer and I got cut. (Outkast: “They say, a damn compruter, can do the damn job better than I can damn do it.”)

But now I have an interview for a different graduate assistanceship at school today. It turns out there are ten applicants (all my peers) and the one I know of is very qualified. The worst that can happen is that I won’t get it. But it’s not just a job…it’s my Sense of Manhood.

Just kidding. You didn’t think I was going to go there, did you? Especially since I’m not a man and all? Okay, I will ramble and freak out now, so I won’t do it later. What the job actually is, is free tuition next year, insurance, and a small stipend to boot. A job where I won’t have the nickname “Breaky” or “Stealy” or “Drinky in the Back Roomy.” Whoop.

Idea: I will have the bad interview now, so I am bound to have a good one later. Cause that’s how it works, right? RIGHT?

SJ’s G.A. INTERVIEW:

Interviewer: “Hello, there, SJ. Is it ‘SJ?’ Does that stand for anything?”

SJ: “SJ stands for having a good time. No, I’m just kidding. It stands for ‘Super Jive.”

Int.: “Okay…have a seat.”

SJ: “I think I’ll stand, actually. My bum grapes are acting up again, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Int.: “Umm…let’s get started.” (Pretends to look at resume with interest.) So it looks like you have supervisory experience?”

SJ: “Yes, well, I was the only one who didn’t quit after a week. There was nowhere to go but up.”

Int.: “Okay, and it looks like you were responsible for starting a digital slide conversion pro…”

SJ: “Did you call my reference? Did that bitch tell you I broke the scanner? Because it was like that when I found it?”

Int.: ….

SJ: “Listen, I really need this job. I was wondering if you’d talk to my other reference, my friend Alexander Hamilton here.”

Int.: “I think that’s all the questions I have for you.”

SJ: “Wanna see my tattoo?”

******

Yes, it will have to be better than that. RIGHT?

I, Asshole Cross Over To The Dark Side (Again)

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So it�s that beloved time again: the end of the quarter. Not only is it the end of the quarter, but I am also undergoing my usual violent monthly hormonal changes. Changes SO VIOLENT, SO SHOCKING, that they made me drink seven beers in one looong night and dye my hair black. That’s right, no more pink.

There are some good things about this: there will no longer be a pointless-to-scrub pink film in my shower. Or one on my neck. No one shouting “run, Lola, run!” at me when I am late to class. That guy I flipped off on the Ave. last week won’t be able to recognize me now.

The freakout continues…there are now accompanying tiny bangs, which I think is a prereq if you have long, evil black hair. I cut them so they sort of point in the middle. I am now a cross between Bettie Page and O.G. Glen Danzig. This was the last step I needed to take to become an evil information scientist, I suppose.

And today, I bleed like a stuck pig, but lack Snipper’s Remorse, which is surprising. I have this theory that last-minute PMS haircuts are some left over biological hard wiring. Your body says last. chance…to…get…egg…fertilized…we must change our appearance, and get humped by a different demographic. My hair is telling me I want to have Marilyn Manson’s baby, I think.

Well, another twelve-hour day in the grad school salt mines. I have ensconced my menstrual cup up there so far that Jesus couldn’t even find it.