Author Archives: iasshole

DEAR FRANNY

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Last night in the car.

P., to me: Are you okay?
Me: *cough cough* I’m sick.
Franny: Boo, you whore!

******************

Today, you are thirteen years old. I’m not going to lie to you, this scares the ever loving crap out of me. Of course your life is very different than mine was.

You were born at home, in a split-level rental in Shoreline. Later I was told the neighbors heard me screaming. The neighbors, presumably, were civilized people and had their children in modern hospitals. You were nine days late, and I was a little bummed when I knew you were coming right then, make way everyone, because your day was also the day of my childhood best friend’s birthday, and there were sad memories there. I never told you that. Your day superseded my thoughts of her pretty quickly, though. It’s funny how what comes after overwrites what came before so easily sometimes that you barely even notice.

Here is a secret: I felt kind of smug that my body had toted you along into my month, and out of your father’s birthday month. Yes, I was thinking thoughts like that even then.

I was very alone during my labor with you, like I was in a long, dark tunnel. I remember people kept leaving me alone in my room where time would crawl, and then crash forward. I remember voices outside the room, and the smell of coffee being made. Sometimes I would be fed and then throw up again. There would be a lot of pain, and then nothing but staring and thinking about the book I was reading that your labor interrupted and how the rain looked crawling down the window. I still never really came back around to Hardy. I kind of wished I was in a hospital, not because I was scared, but because I knew there would be people around.

It made sense to me that in the final moments I would feel alone in labor. I was alone a lot as a child, and in my marriage. Everyone saws on about how you are born alone, and how you die alone. This is dark, sorry. There’s a lot of cobwebs and bullshit in here. But when I saw you, I felt, well, confused as hell. Having a little creature come out of my body and open its eyes and start breathing was crazy! WHO THE HELL INVENTED THAT.

You were very solemn and looked around the room with your unfocused eyes. The light was dim. Your eyes would lock on my face and then flicker away again. They looked very deep grey. You were not the horrible slime goblin I was expecting at all. You were very cute. And then I felt something else: less alone. I joked that you were my 23rd birthday present.

Now you look like this [further commentary redacted]:

Fierce, girl, fierce.

When I was thirteen I was living with my mother in a terrible apartment after she had run away from my stepfather for the second or third time. I had just started high school and I was getting dark for real. I think this was my second real depression. The first one happened after I was picked up as a runaway at ten. I started collecting black clothes from thrift stores and moping endlessly. I tried to teach myself transcendental meditation from a book I got at the library. I stayed up for three days at a time because I could and there was no one to tell me not to.

Sometimes my mother wouldn’t come home, or at least I wouldn’t cross paths with her for days. Sometimes there was a sign she had been there briefly during the day while I was at school. What was she doing? I have no idea, it was none of my business. Was she avoiding me? I spent many nights in my room crying, being ignored. There is this small part of my brain that hisses, “Well, you were a real drag then and I had my own shit to deal with” and I realize that is my mother’s voice.

I try to imagine leaving you alone for days at a time and ignoring you while you cry heartbreakingly and I think I would rather pluck the veins out of the back of my hand with my teeth. It all seems so foreign to me. I am your protector. I care about you. Here is another secret: when there is love and a certain level of functionality, it’s not that hard.

I did not know I would have a daughter who was so smart and funny and who quotes Mean Girls and is easy to live with. I am a happier person for knowing you and having you in my life.

I feel like we’re on a hump now, but the land below is all foggy. On one hand, I see the floodgates opening and BOOM you’re almost a teenager now. On the other, I know you have another year or two where you will actually listen to my lectures about compound interest, the dangers of open containers at parties, why you leave a note, how teeth are not tools, and The Importance of the Correct Undergarments. Soon I will need to listen, listen, listen to you or I could push you away, or at least bore the crap out of you.

Happy birthday, Franny.

Wide Open Beavers Inside!

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”If you want to know who your friends are, get yourself a jail sentence.”
–Charles Bukowski

It’s turnabout this weekend. My friend Laurie who I recently stayed with in San Francisco is now here with me.

It’s a gorgeous day and the tomatoes have died and so the chickens once again roam the Earth. Well, the limits of their Earth. They are happy to be out of their summer pen and they look TERRIBLE. The older ladies are molting, possibly worse than I have ever seen any of my chickens go. They look diseased, except they are just missing feathers, of course.


[Not pictured: dag chickens]

Like the chickens, I am sort of pecking away at my house. Hanging pictures and switching out things like doorbell covers, because brushed chrome is not where it’s at. Besides, you can see the little original outline in the cedar, right? When this house was built, space was the place.

There is something about places being exposed in houses that are normally not that makes me think of surgery, or of parts of the body. I see a sad vulnerability, as if I can see a place for what it really is. Sometimes I feel guilty when I have friends over when I am half through a project and you can see through the walls. Sorry, I want to say to the house, and throw a gown over it. It’s all a big metaphor, isn’t it? Nothing’s ever as together or as whole as it seems.

I think this is part of the reason I went crazy living in a three-year remodel of a very small house. There were constantly gaping wounds everywhere.

As an aside to Kurt Vonnegut and wide-open beavers, I wrote one of my high school term papers on Breakfast of Champions. I liked the idea that something could be so raw and smutty and still make me feel my feelings, all six of them. Also I think duality and insanity are some of my favorite themes, after death.

My contractor says he has obtained permits to begin construction, so what I really need to do, which terrifies me, is commit to about a billion dollars worth of tile. The purchase I am looking forward to is giant tub of doom. The upstairs tub is one of those short 50s bastards that is for kids or dogs and needs to be refinished to boot.

In Other News

Strudel was in the living room on Friday morning before school, braiding something, or sorting something with her dolls. Her favorite dolls are having a little hiatus because she broke a door on the chicken coop (long story there) so she was playing with the second stringers. Franny was at the table, attempting to memorize the capitals of the Northeast.

I walked from the kitchen, through the dining room, and towards the bathroom. I was getting ready for work. As I passed through the dining room, Strudel spoke to her sister.

“…So that’s someone ELSE added to my shitlist now.”

“What!” I interrupted. “How do you have a shitlist? You’re eight years old. What are you, Tiny Nixon?”

“Her sub sounds pretty bad, Mom,” Franny said, in Strudel’s defense.

“She’s a yeller, she yells at everyone. She’s talking to one person and yelling at them and it’s too loud. Everyone hates it.”

“Hmm, fair enough,” I said.

I don’t know what to do with this. I just needed to write it down.

P. made danishes this morning. I think I like the blackberry ones best.

Frannys Gonna Fran

I think it’s funny that she’s spending a lot of time lately trying on what teenagers are “supposed” to be. The other day she stomped off to her room shouting “NOW I’M GOING TO SLAM MY DOOR BECAUSE HORMONES” and went in and closed it with a little snick. She wasn’t even mad as far as I can tell. Though some times, it’s stormy for real.

Your goodbye was even colder than ice

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Obsession of the moment. I would like to be in the state of this song instead of fall-induced antsiness. This may be spawning a Diahann Carroll thing as well. I just worked Nancy Wilson out of my system, too. I used to really dismiss the more mellow jazz women, preferring screamers like Dinah Washington or crazy virtuosos like Sarah Vaughn. I guess it’s time to shut it down when I embrace Jane Monheit. BLECH. I saw Porgy & Bess done at the Seattle Pops on Saturday night. It was so weird to hear Bess done as a proper soprano and not what Sarah Vaughn did with it.

I left my hard-on in San Francisco

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GEESH three posts this month. That is almost a new low. Well, no one said we at the offices of I, Asshole were some kind of cutting-edge hotbed of activity on the internezzzzz. But, things have been happening IRL. ONLY GOOD THINGS.

Actually something cool happened at work today, even. I had a breakthrough with some code I was doofusing through and I was actually high for about 15 minutes or so. This is something I’ve been worried about for a couple of weeks now. I could fucking see time. I love that feeling. Usually I have bad realizations, like why your butt actually hurt last Sunday morning (tequila) or how you actually look in those pants (like a cud-chewing badger).

SO. I was in San Francisco last weekend. Here are the highlights (if I was wearing my badger pants they would be THIGHLIGHTS WHAT UP).

1. I sweated. It is still summer there. *FNIFFFF*

2. I went to the Tenderloin and my friend got pickpocketed! (Lowlight.) This was a mural in a bar we were at before we realized my friend’s wallet was missing. Every mural in this bar looked like the people were having some kind of mind-bending experience, were demons, or were hell demons on acid. It was kind of cool, if you’re into that sort of thing I guess.

3. I went to tea at Lovejoy’s which was fucking amazebaws. I have not had Branston Pickle in a dog’s age. I actually got too full to finish.

4. I had a lot of coffee. A LOT. MORE THAN USUAL EVEN. Ritual (below) was better than this place, with its creepy unfinished murals.

Plus it decided to be Blowjob Week when I was there, so I was peeing about every ten seconds. When I went to Long Beach last month I forgot my usual “form” of “feminine” “protection”*, which is a rubber cup. I don’t care to soapbox about the cup at the moment, because Satan knows there’s enough literature out there already. But I’ve been using one for about 15 years now and I usually travel with it. I actually had to buy tampons, which are STILL AS HORRIBLE AS I REMEMBERED so I gave up and used pads. Which, also ugh. Way back in the day I used to augment my business with actual strips of cotton (har har I was on the rag) but ain’t no one got time for that shit now. I just sit down and squeeze all the blood out in about a half hour using secret tantric techniques. Tantra: Not Just for Sting Anymore.

Where was I again?

5. I always have a Major Revelation in California, and I have for years. In 2008 I thought I was a total asshole there and got into therapy (not cured of being an asshole but it was different before, trust me). When I was there in March I thought I wanted to write a book, so I did. Now it is sitting on my shelf in MS form. :'( I’ve discovered I am super good at writing at 5 a.m. but not super good at editing. Like, at all. In fact, that time sucks echidna scrote for editing for me.

Revelation: Doing Book Words Make SJ Happy, Make More Book Words. I’m moving on to book two. And maybe after that, three. And then I need to figure my shit out for editing (foreshadowing). My friend is passing a short story to an editor, though, so maybe if I suck I will just stop.

6. Every thing is super good right now, in general. All I am doing is eating and fucking and working sometimes. When I was young I thought I was a deep and tortured soul, but now I think I was just poor and disenfranchised. I may be again someday, though, so if this part is boring you, stay tuned. I’m sure something terrible will happen soon.

7.

*NOT THIS SHIT AGAIN

What the fuck is the haps exactly; or, Cool Toilet Lives

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WHAT IS HAPPENING MY PEOPLE! School started. I’M REALLY HAPPY. It’s purely selfish. Okay, it’s medium selfish. The girls were bored, too. They were ready for school to start.

This daguerreotype is from the day that I blasted the girls awake with the Lion King. FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, Y’ALL.

FURCE, GIRLS. Way to go.

It’s going okay, except for the fact that they tried to slap Franny into an additional math class that starts before the actual start of school. To quote Buffy, “A world of no.” This in spite of the fact she is getting As and Bs. I sent an email to the principal asking her to remove Franny, in light of her grades and the fact that she is a year younger than her peers. Aaaand…crickets. You know, I am not interested in your test scores if it kills my kid’s interest in school. I’m just not.

On Saturday P. went hiking somewheres near Gold Bar and incidentally saw chanterelles as he went along and brought a few home. I was busy sauteeing them and putting them into eggs with green onions and sharp white cheddar on Sunday morning when BAM, krumpy walked in from PERU. How often does that happen? She brought the girls cute hats with llamas on and she brought me these, because clearly I am a fucking pimp with a limp:

What Krumpy doesn’t know (/secret camera show guy voice) is that I used to actually smoke cigarillos in high school. I mean, of course I did. Any ridiculous, sleazy thing I could think of to do, I would try. I cannot tell you what habits stuck; it’s a breach of my contract.

I met Krumpy in Internetsport about seven (!!) years ago when she lived on the East Coast and now she’s working in Eastern Washington. I visited her in August before we went to Long Beach and I got to drive the Elco. I had that tense new car feeling on the way out, but on the way back, I was broken in and really learned how to drive it. That’s the best feeling for someone who loves to drive I think. I smiled most of the way home, even all 3,000 times I had to stop for gas. (I have a new appreciation for the Honda, which I realize is my wife. The Elco is my mistress.) My only regret is forgetting my camera! But I will visit her again, soon I hope.

So she napped in my bed, because, seriously, Machu Piccu and then like 18 hours of travel and then took off to her work function thing downtown. And tweeted about food. Everyone who visits tweets about the food. It’s either obligation or terror. I don’t care much either way. Anyway this gives me hope as the proud future owner of a B&B.

Let’s talk about GUEST ROOMS, which I will have to put Krumpy in by Decmeber or so. This is all very germane because my contractor, who reminds me of Mike Ehrmantrout, emailed me today and says he has designs for my basement. This could not come a second too soon, because I parked the Elco tonight (no, I will never tire of saying that, but I will suppress the urge soon, I promise) and walked into the basement where I heard the unsettling sound of running water.

I froze. Was it the sink? No such luck. I have this sad little john in a tiny room (not referring to P. here) that is going to be replaced and BAM! It cracked.

Have you ever seen a toilet tank just crack like this? There have not been weather extremes or anything. This motherfucking toilet was just like FUCK IT, #YOLO, SNAP. The water flowed out of the tank onto the floor so I turned off the valve leading into the tank and flushed, to get a lot of the water out of the tank. Then I mopped and ran a fan into the water closet. So eh. Good timing that Mike E. is coming by in a couple of months to wreck shop.

Fortunately it was not the disaster I thought it might be and I was still able to go running. I am miraculously not injured in my old age at the moment so I am running again.

And then something amazing happened involving a Sharpie. When shit gets shitbozzled you can draw on it, it’s a rule.

Let’s rewind. Okay so in March I met Cool Toilet at 8 a.m., the mascot of my work neighborhood.

Then a few days later, SOMEONE SMASH COOL TOILET.

I was legit sad.

So tonight, I dropped broken sad john into the Fuckit Bucket. COOL TOILET LIVES!!!

NSA,

SJ

Report From Lone Pine Mall

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It’s the first day of school. The video cuts off since my camera is still full of vacation pictures, but suffice it to say I carried on with the wakening.

As soon as Franny popped up, before she even had a glass of water, she told me about a dream she had about Kyle MacLachlan who was looking at a dead lady on a table and then she melted into cheese. Strudel has a nervous stomach ache.

Regular rides free; mustache rides five dollars

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Today I bought a 1981 El Camino Super Sport. It is in wonderful, amazing, marvelous shape and I feel so lucky. For the price I paid, I thought I would get a fixer and spend three-plus years ordering parts and coaxing it along. I would have preferred something drivable, so I feel like I struck gold.

I’ve been wanting an El Camino since before I had Franny. I spent a lot of time watching the internet for deals, and getting a grip on reasonable prices, and seeing what was out there during my long two years in court. I told myself once it was settled, I would look in earnest. I happened to take a break on Friday and peeped the ads and there it was.

My gut said “yes, I think so” when I saw the ad, and then seeing the fat files documenting all the replaced parts and work records (one for the body and interior and one for the engine), I said OH HELL YES. It’s drag race ready and it really jumps. I love it SO MUCH. Welcome to the pregame show for my midlife crisis.

Peaking In, Or, What Happens in North Bend Stays in North Bend

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HELLO. I’m SJ Alexander. You may remember me from such blogs as “Musing on Poetic Hermaphroditism,” “New Notions In Angry Cuntism,” and “Let’s See If This Fits In Sideways.” Anyway, on Sunday evening I got back from the North Bend/Snoqualmie area of Washyourhandsington, and let me tell you I had a fine time there with my sister.

As I mentioned, I went for the Twin Peaks Festival. I didn’t expect it to change my fucking life or anything, which it didn’t, thank god, because I’m too old for that shit. But I had a really nice time and met some new people. Mostly first timers, because the repeat offenders were catching up with each other, which I completely understood. The festival is aptly named, I think. I’m used to gatherings that have some kind of academic or analytic façade with panels and shit, but this is really just a time for fans to gather and have fun together and geek out. There was a banquet with a costume contest, and a picnic, and a bus tour.

Morgan and I met a young lady there who had talked her father into taking her as a fifteenth birthday present. Let me tell you, I cannot even remember my fifteenth birthday. I said so. My sister said, “I can, Mom made me make my own cake that year.” HA! And aww. I probably blocked mine out. My best family birthday was maybe sixteen when I asked for a bucket of coleslaw and got it. My bar was so low at that point I was like, she cannot fuck up KFC.

The funny thing was that the young lady happened to be dressing up as prom queen Laura Palmer. And my sister grabbed some plastic wrap on the way out of town. So really, our happy weekend friendship was meant to be. She wants to be a filmmaker, and runs a horror fan/review site.

As a bonus surprise, our new friend’s father dressed up as Bob. HA. I’ve made a little album over on the Flickr if you want to see everything.

The highlight of the bus tour was probably the Bookhouse. The tour guide told us it’s now a methlab. We came up behind the fence to take a picture of it. A shirtless tweaker came out to scream at us. “Get the fuck out of here! This is private property (incorrect, we were on separate property). I’m gonna call the fucking cops!” Like hell you were, Mister.

Since we were staying in Snoqualamie and driving back and forth to North Bend, we happened to notice the local shops. I started to get a bang out of how unassuming and modest the names were.

“Where’d you get your hair done?”

“Oh, you know. Another Hair Place.”

“Looks ok.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“For our wedding, we want something tropical.”

“That sounds expensive. We have tulips for you. They’re in season.”

“Um, ok, I guess.”

Nothing to Wear. I looked in and there was half a shirt and a sock on the floor.

Now I have tomatoes setting. How was your weekend???

I’ll see you again in 25 years

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This morning I’m leaving with my sister to go up to North Bend, where Twin Peaks was set, for the annual meetup there. It’s kind of sad, actually, that we haven’t taken a trip together in ten years, but you know. Time money babies school divorce. Life. We went camping for her sixteenth birthday. This post is a fun, cringe-inducing blast from the past. The good news is I don’t sound like a 100% moron like I do in some posts (including some from last month) but I see typos, grammar problems, and a declaration that I was done reproducing in 2003. HA! Guess what 2003 SJ? 2004 SJ is coming and her ass is going to SNAP. There followith a Strudel in 2005.

Anyway, I am excited. Twin Peaks first aired when I was in high school, and I didn’t really get the appeal of it. Other than Knots Landing, which I believe I was into solely [ahem] because it afforded the chance to stay up an hour past my bedtime on Thursdays, I didn’t get into a lot of TV when I was a kid. At least, not with my mother.

Plus I thought Nicolette Sheridan was probably the most beautiful woman anywhere, on TV or in a movie. The way her bangs would jump around, since they were so long they kind of rested on top of her eyelashes…well, that was kind of weird, actually. You don’t really see distracting hair like on TV anymore, unless it’s supposed to be distracting. I’m pretty sure I wandered off after the season when the scammy Greek guy showed up, so I didn’t see crazy Alec Baldwin on it. I still have a terrible tendency to wander off from a show during its summer break and not come back. “I’m full,” I say. There’s exceptions.

When I was a kid I thought of TV as something you did by yourself, when you were too lazy to read or move. I usually did something while I watched TV, like draw pictures of totally sweet unicorns or do the puzzle in the TV Guide. So I watched the first couple of episodes of Twin Peaks with my mother, before shit gets really weird, and I thought it just looked like a soap opera, which it was, in its way, or at least a parody of one. They did not hold my interest then because I was in the phase of my life where I was trying to make my own personal soap opera, and do actual drugs, and have actual sex with people/objects instead of just sitting in the safety of my house behind my pulled shades shouting “OH GIRL DO NOT RETURN HIS CALL” at the screen like I do now.

I worked at Tower Records and Video in college, mostly on the video side, and it was free rentals ahoy there. Every shift I would bring home my allotted two movies whether or not I would watch them. I saw White Men Can’t Hump [main actress had alarming leg bruise; when she was on her back her implants floated like biscuits, giving her chest this terraced effect], Jurranal Park [no comment], Edward Penishands [I’m guessing he never got into smartphones later], and a bunch of movies with plots and clothing and TV. The VHS porn section was prodigious, though, and I took to wearing medical gloves since you never knew how slimy a video you would fish out of the return slot bin would be.

So that was when I saw Twin Peaks on VHS, coming home to my unemployed husband counting out stacks and stacks of cash that must never be deposited. Okay, he was not constantly counting fat stacks of Benjamins, this is just how I like to frame him in my memory at that time. My life had become a soap opera I wasn’t enjoying (teen runaway becomes child bride to extremely small-time drug distributor) so I think I was happy to retreat into the cool pines of Twin Peaks then.

Franny’s gone again–I took her to the ferry terminal yesterday. She was very unhappy about leaving again after spending a month over there at the beginning of the summer. She tells me she sneaks out of her room and lurks on the roof when she gets sent there as punishment. She also told me she got into a fight with her father and threw Cheerios at him. I feel like I don’t know who she is when she’s there, but I love sweet Franny and the angry one. I know we can have many faces and behaviors for different situations, but there are some faces I don’t really see. She and I saw the first episode of Orange is the New Black so I sent the book to her after I dropped her off. The cover is subtitled “my year in a women’s prison” so I included a note that read “This seems appropriate. Love Mom.” I hope she reads it.

Everyone was on edge on the way to the terminal (such an appropriate drop off place, really. A terminal. This situation is terminal. Everything’s terminal, though. So.). This meant that Strudel was saying whatever popped into her damn head.

“I think instead of waving at your other sisters, I’m going to just flip everyone off,” Strudel said. She’s 91% nature, I’m convinced, and should thank her lucky fucking stars we haven’t died before now, because the Nice Christian Family who got their mitts on my healthy white baby would have attempted about 28 exorcisms on her by now.

“Strudel, you CAN. NOT. flip my sisters off!!” Franny’s voice rose in pitch and I could see how tense she was, clutching onto the dog in the passenger seat.

“Your sister is not going to flip anyone off,” I said, almost believing it.

“Mom! She’s not allowed, right? My sisters don’t even know what that MEANS.”

“No, she’s not allowed.”

“Mom, what will you do if I do it?” Strudel asked.

“Well. Laugh,” I answered honestly.

“MOM!” Franny was reaching middle-school girl glass-cracking levels with her pitch.

“Strudel will not flip off your other family because she is a NICE PERSON who wants to KEEP THE RESPECT OF HER BIG SISTER. Yes?” I glanced in the rear view.

“Look, it’s the motherfucking po-po,” Strudel said, changing the subject as we passed a cop car that had pulled someone over. It’s never “a cop” or “the police” with this one. Always “the motherfucking po-po.”

And she was fine at the terminal.

Strudel is spending the weekend with her dad as well. Unlike Franny, she throws Cheerios at the ones she loves the most, so probably the same scenes will be enacted by both of my daughters in their respective house, but for very different reasons. It should be a good weekend. I am happy to spend time with my sister, but I will miss my jerks.