Author Archives: iasshole

Ballard=Death

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Today is a Frannie-goes-to-grandma’s day. It is quiet. We went to Ballard with our not-so-much money and had breakfast at Vera’s, then went to the kids’ bookstore where I bought a book for my favorite little footstool.

Mr. Husband and I were flipping through the cheepy books (paperbacks) because it’s what we can afford, and I can’t justify spending money on nice hardbacks and then turning them over to the Rending Claws of Doom.

“Hey, lookit this one,” Mr. Husband said. He was holding a book with a huddled child drawn on the cover. It was titled Hiding From the Nazis.

“Ugh, why don’t we just get it over with and buy her the companion book, God Hates You, and So Does Your Mommy and Daddy.”

We were snortling at our cleverness as we flipped through, and I started seeing all sorts of weirdy stuff. The Dead Bird. It’s Not Your Fault, Koko Bear. Dad! Why’d You Leave Me! I Had a Friend Named Peter. Charlotte’s Web.

I was getting skeeved. I don’t really know how I’d deal with that stuff. I am a big talker, so I’d probably just talk to her as things came up.

“Lyle, Lyle Crocodile, or Froggy Goes For Bike Ride?” I said, holding them up.

“Lyle,” Mr. Husband said, and we cut out of there.

The Healing Power of Thank-You Notes

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I can’t believe how lucky I am sometimes. On my primary thesis advisor’s advice, I asked a professor I didn’t even know yet to be my secondary. She agreed, which was miracle number one. I think the odds were with me on that one, since only one person is doing the optional thesis this year. I will probably be the only person next year.

ANYHOW, I raised myself right, because when someone does something awesome for me, I write them a thank-you note. I left a simple one in my secondary advisor’s box yesterday, you know, “Thanks for being nice even though you don’t know me from Adam’s housecat.”

Then I ran into her later as she was leaving the main office.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” she said. You will have to imagine the rest in a Newfie accent. “Thanks for the nice note. Would you like a job this summer?”

I think my brain went piff a little at that point. I stammered something about needing to consult with the minister of finance at my house and she told me to get back to her, which I did this morning.

So now it seems I am a research lackey for the professor that brings in half-a-million-dollars a year in research money. Not a bad star to hitch your wagon up to. And it’s the first time I’ve had a paying job since the amazing year 1999.

The only foreseeable drawback is that I will be so busy this summer I won’t have time to pluck my eyebrows or do my roots, which is a shame, because up to this point I had prided myself on not looking like one of those eccentric, ungroomed scholars.

In Which I Declare Mother’s Day Wiggity-Whacked

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(Inset standard Mother’s Day rant here: Hallmark cards, fabrication of holidays, every day should be Mother’s Day, etc.)

Okay, moving on, I have my own problems with Mother’s Day, and they are purely selfish, as usual. One of the first Mother’s Days I remember was when I was about seven. My mom expected something from me. Things cost money. I had no money! (My wages were being garnished by Smitty’s Pantry, which had a very large candy section.)

So every Mother’s Day until my mom disowned me, I had to cough up a present. Sometimes they were small n crappy, like some made-up markered-on oragami shit. Sometimes they were bigger and fancier, like new tea towels. Every time they were received the same way: “Oh thank you! Just what I wanted!” Now, while I was impressed that my mother was able to turn off the sarcasm for that long, I also knew it was insincere because she was so serious.

I am sparing my little Frannie from that nonsense; if she wants to get me something, fine. And it won’t be all, “No, no, don’t be silly, don’t get little old me anything!” and then weeping when I don’t get anything.

Here’s the korny part: I would really like her to make me some crappy squashed oragami shit on March 17th, or November 3rd, that she made just for fun. That would please me. I have a birthday and a wedding anniversary; I think that’s enough for any Mr. Husband to worry about.

In Other News

Oh la la, I finally got my crappy puff piece published in my school newspaper. The piece is puffy, not the professor. I wish I could have done better for him.

Also finshing up my resume for a school job that will cover tuition, insurance, and provide a stipend. I haven’t worked since the amazing year 1999, so I am actually excited. Yes, I know I’m dumb. Yes, I will eat the word “excited” I know.

Demonic Possession Arrives in Crown Hill

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The baby is having PROBLEMS, which means that EVERYONE is having problems. And alas, alas, she’s too big to be abandoned anywhere, because she knows her name and my name and how many teeth she has. And she’s usually clean, so people will think she’s awwwl wost instead of an ol gutter punk toddler.

Gutter Punk Toddler: “Heyyy, man. Spare some change for a ya-pop?” But she would spend it on those vending machines that sell those tiny Homies.

All right. So the real story is that she is talking in her sleep–very disconcerting. The child got into bed with us the other night, and I was sleeping so heavily that I didn’t know it until she spoke, loudly and in a rather deep voice.

“GIVE ME MY YA-POP.”

Mr. Husband and I bolted upright and looked at each other.

“What was that?” I said.

“I think it was some kind of demon,” he replied.

“GIVE ME MY YA-POP,” Frannie repeated. I could see her eyes rolling around under her tiny eyelids. Ugh, call a priest.

“I think she wants her lollypop,” I said, waiting for her to start spitting fire or some such thing.

She quieted down a while after that…I think she only intoned her mantra another three times or so. That really is a child’s mantra–chanting about sugar.

This morning it was, “Pick me up!” And right after Mr. Husband got up for work and was walking across the room.

“Pick me up! Pick me up, Daddy!” About twelve more times, and sound asleep to boot.

The kind of creepy thing about it, besides the fact that it comes from OUT OF FUCKING NOWHERE, when you are sleeping lightly, is the fact that her words are so eerily clear. She’s two and a half and is a bit of a mushmouth as they all are, but I understand her. But when she talks in the middle of the night, she sounds like she’s eight or something.

As I came upstairs to do some writing, she was giggling like Beavis, a fairly common occurance nowadays. I thought we would sleep better if I moved her into our NICE QUIET room where there are “no giants” (her words). Truly I smoke the crack.

In Which the Asshole is a Good Capitalist and Discovers What She Left Behind

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Mistake Number One: Went to Target. I was so happy before they put that Target in, I just didn’t realize it. I saw it being built at Northgate, a mere ten-minute drive from La Casa Del Asshole, and my heart filled with joy.

“Now my life will be complete,” said I. Happy consumerism for as far as the eye can see. Cheap stuff, with brushed aluminum and candy stripes. Mmm.

So now I pop in all the time, to visit. And here is my leather coat that I will buy, and here are the lovely slides with kitten heels that I bought but had to return because they were getting messed up after one day and you should have seen the jive the salesgirl was giving me. I tap the sweet heels with my wand and sigh.

BUT I DIGRESS.

Mistake Number Two: After going to Target, drifted over to the sales rack. The only thing I love more than Pez, sex toys with sparkles in them, kitten heels, stupid boys, and Trogdor the Burninator is a Sales Rack.

I found this sweet black linen skirt that swooped in at the bottom and had a ruffle and made me look all Amelie, you know, if Amelie weighed more than my cat. And only fourteen bucks! I had to snap it up.

I put it on this morning. “Spring has sprung, bi-otch,” I said to all my Western wear, which I am so tired of by this point. I am always ready to burn my winter wardrobe shackles by May.

I got in front of the mirror and made the mistake of turning around. HOLY J-LO ON A TROLLEY! Stupid Cadbury Eggs! I’d wear it today, but I don’t want the ugly future librarians calling me Bootious Maximus behind my junked-out trunk back.

I decided I will save it for another day, as it wouldn’t be fair to inflict my ass on the .3% of my classmates who are actually straight male future librarians. I am a shining pillar of compassion for all to behold.

Mmm…Selfish

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I wanted some quick mint tea from the garden yesterday.

“Well,” I said, “too bad I don’t have that mortar and pestle anymore.”

“What happened to it?” said Mr. Husband, who was driving. I jacked my knee up while running, and now it hurts to shift, so he is driving now. Pathetique.

“I made you take it back, remember? We were fighting.”

“Oh, yeah, you and your gift weirdness.”

“I don’t see what is so weird,” I replied. “I can’t accept nice gifts from you when we’re cross with each other. That bike you got me a few years ago, every time I rode it I would think about the events that led up to our anniversary.”

“Hmmp,” he said. Not ‘hmmph.’ I couldn’t live with a hmmph-er, I’d feel like I was in a bad movie.

“Anyway, I’d rather have the memory of the mortar and pestle and bike than actually have them.” It was raining lightly and we let the windshield wipers punctuate the pauses.

“That’s better than having the stuff?” Mr. Husband said, after a minute.

“Yes, because I have the memory of your considerate presents, without having to see them and remember the fights. It’s the best of both worlds.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “That was a nice bike.”

“That’s why we’re still married,” I said.

In Other News

Personal library kit.
I usually just resort to scribbling my name on the inside, but this is cooler.

MWAHAHAHA!

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Ah, when chickens attack…next on FUKS!

“I don’t know if it’s possible to envision a roosterless plaza,” said Councilman Ken Brown, “but I have to tell you, when it comes to a question between a kid and a chicken, it’s the kid.”

A quote from the article that made me puzzle a bit. So, they’re booting out the kids? Or the chickens?

Personally, I can’t sleep at night because there is so much stupid in the world.

Ah Spring

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Ah, yes, spring, I remember that. Misty showers. Me telling people to shut up less. Me squirrelly.

Misty Showers….what a great porno name. I’ll have to remember that one.

Anyway, VERY unhappy because it is one of Ye Olde Twelve-Hour School Days.

However, VERY HAPPY because it is also my seventh wedding anniversary. We are going out of town this weekend.

In Other News

This weekend being Easter and all, I learned a new Martha Skill. On Sunday night I went downstairs for, like, two minutes, and when I came up the girl was busting up one of the freakishly oversized Frankeneggs that my mom helped her dye that day. “Extra large” really shouldn’t mean the size of an orange. Stupid better living through chemistry!

So there was stanky hard-boiled egg all over my sexy red carpet and Mr. Husband sat obliviously on the couch above her, zoning out on the baseball game.

“Hey! Mr. Husband! Look what the baby’s doing!” I shouted.

He sat up, and said what he always says.

“Wow! I…I didn’t notice. I had no idea, even though I am sitting six inches away from the scene of the crime.”

He picked up the large pieces, and I used every ounce of my willpower to not scrub it all up. I figured that would make it worse. So we roped off the area and ignored it, which is super hard when your whole upstairs smells like stanky Frankeneggs.

The next morning, I got up and the mess was all dried, and it sucked up in the vacuum so easily. Martha would be proud. Horrified, yet proud. If it happened to her, she’d probably just spend the night in a different house or something.

Malaise

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So this is the part where library school gets insanely boring. This is the part where I realize that I’m in a professional program and there’s no real room for asking questions. I know I sound like a horrible spoiled child even complaining, because I’m SO lucky to be in any graduate program and do I KNOW how bad it is for people in the real world? Et cetera, et cetera, repeat until you or I vomit.

I’m just glad it’s the Spring of my Discontent, rather than the winter, because discontent is much less bearable in the winter. Now I can nick off and go to a park and watch the clouds turn into Nick Belkin and Evil Dewey. I will just hang in there until it is thesis time.

The nice part is that even though school no longer has me in its intellectual grip, I am aware that there are other challenges to be had. Back to pleasure reading, now that I am an assigned-reading skimmer. Back to gardening, now that I won’t spend hours agonizing over a paper. Back to doo-in it with out thought or care about how much sleep I’m going to end up with. No more Pretty Princess in my nine-thirty class, but at least I am extra-curricular again.