Author Archives: iasshole

Really, I would run out of swears so I will skip them.

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Hello, Ladies.

LABIA LACKLUSTER? PUDENDUM PALE? VULVA un-VIVACIOUS? MEH MEAT CURTAINS?

Never fear, ladies, PUSSY DYE TO THE RESCUE.

From the FAQ:

Q. “Help! I’ve noticed I am turning a more brown color down there on my inside lips, is this normal”?

A. Yes, it’s perfectly normal and there are many factors that can contribute to this. Ethnicity is a big factor, also age, hormone change, surgeries, childbirth, sickness, health, diet and medications can all contribute to a change from “Pink” to “Brown” in a woman’s genital area.

Ah, yes, that pesky “ethnicity” problem.

Well, you can look at the webpage and be horrified yourself, but I ask you now, for lulz and victory:

Call before you come I need to shave my chocha.

Don’t Trust Anyone over Five

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Strudel has been talking, talking, talking since she got home.

“Abby says that monsters are REAL,” Strudel said.

“No, come on,” I said. “Monsters aren’t real.”

“How do you know?”

“I went to school for a long time and I learned it.”

“But Abby says–”

“Okay, you, I have a master’s degree, and Abby has a preschool education. Who are you going to believe?”

“Abby.”

Royal O’Reilly Tenenbaum (1932-2001) Died Tragically Rescuing His Family From The Remains Of A Destroyed Sinking Battleship

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For the past few days I have had the (mis?)fortune of commuting with P., who will take up the entire bus ride with whatever his obsession of the moment is. I admire him a lot of the time, because he takes a more scientific and curious view of the natural and historical world, whereas I am usually hovering somewhere between shadenlulz and Machivellian on the What is SJ Up to Today? chart. Lately he is thinking about math. BARF OUT. Did I tell you I did 5 years in algebra with no time off for good behavior? In the end I knew the system. I was on light laundry duty and I even had copies of the keys. They had to let me out eventually, though.

So yesterday, on the bus.

“I was thinking about the quadratic equation,” P. said.

“Noooo,” I said. “Just no.”

“Well, what I was thinking was about how it originated, like how it was originally compiled and I…”

“Oh my GOD,” I interrupted. “I forgot to tell you. On the way home yesterday, I could not believe it, there was a BASKET OF KITTENS on the street!”

“What?”

“Yes, and the bus driver did not notice and he RAN THEM OVER,” I continued.

“WHAT?”

“YES! And most of them were squished and you could see their little guts in the road all pink and smashed, and kitty heads, and THE SCREAMING OH GOD THE SCREAMING and the worst part is that SOME WERE CUT IN HALF AND WERE STILL ALIVE OH GOD I CANNOT LOCK THESE CAPS ANY HIGHER!”

“Oh Jesus,” P. said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I feel sad and nauseated now.”

“Well, that is how I feel when you speak to me about math,” I said.

En D’Autres Nouvelles

I am going to see Binary Star with Ruby on the 17th! I got into them about a year ago and then sort of wandered off. I think they’re great, though. I am surprised they are not touring on an album. When I heard they were coming, I assumed this was Splashy Comeback, but maybe they are ramping up. I love their sound. They really should have blown up when they put their albums out ten years ago. They really have that Midwest/Detroit sound, which makes me think of Eminem when he was all ye olde rap battle guy, but in a good way–there’s something about the cadences and rhyming patterns. The best part is that it is walking distance to my house, woot. I’m certain it will be better than Warren G, because really, a poke in the eye will probably be better than Warren G. Ruby won a concert package for the whole year, so she is making me Official Hiphop Ambassador on her tour. (I am the best she can come up with, heh heh.)

So, I think she is launching a blog, which I will link here, but I am thinking about giving my take along with her. This might call for a new category.

Harlequin Books Can Lick My Ass

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Warning: Fictional description of a woman being raped (not super graphic).

For most people, the Harlequin imprint evokes the classic tattered bodice-ripper books you find in a free box or see at the drug store. Maybe some of you even buy them (I am NOT judging you). I am not anti-emotional porn. Hell, some people I really admire have even read Twilight.

I have my own escapist genre that I enjoy: the hard-boiled detective novel. The more shady the dame is, the more desperate the private dick is, and the more ridiculous the old-thymey slang is, the happier I am. Last fall, when I was feeling pretty hard luck myself, I ripped through a ton of Mickey Spillane and anything else I could get my hands on. It was nice to read on the bus and during my breaks when I was making barely more than minimum wage.

Recently I was at the drug store and I had to wait quite a while for a prescription, so I strolled over to the book rack, which always makes me laugh. Bio of scandalous person of the month, romance novel, stale airport-type fiction…and…what’s this? Something good on the shelf? It looked like an old old detective novel with the original cover painting. I had to pick it up. You Never Know with Women, the cover read. I read the blurb, which promised a caper, some double crossing, and a foxy dame. There was also a note about how Harlequin was celebrating their sixtieth anniversary by reissuing some of their early titles. Neat, I thought. Sold.

For the next couple of days I enjoyed it, and read bits of it on the bus or while dinner was in the oven. The detective was a clever guy who had seen a lot and was about to cash it in when someone made him a cherry offer to rob a safe. The story the detective was given about the contents of the safe and other details was totally fishy and our man knew it. I love a deal that is sour from the get-go–how will he get out of the noose and get away with the cash?

There was another hitch–he sprung the dame who was involved in the caper as well. She was a cutthroat, smoking-hot stripper. Eventually they went on the lam and hid out at a hotel suite. The characters had kissed consensually earlier in the book. Oho sexy tiems ahoy, I thought. Alas, this is where the needle ripped off the record.

“Don’t go shrill on me sweetheart,” I said.  “I’m not interested in business anymore tonight.  I want a little fun.”

“You’re not getting it from me like this!” she said through her clenched teeth and tried to break my hold, but she wasn’t the only one with steel in her wrists. “Let me go!” she went on furiously. “I’ll scream!”

“Go ahead,” I said, gripping her arms. “What’s a scream or two in this joint? Someone’s always screaming here, it’s part of the set up. Scream as much as you like, if you want to.”

“Let me go–damn you!”

She wrenched an arm free and I collected a punch in the jaw that jerked my head back. She kicked my shin and thumped my sore neck with her clenched fist, but she didn’t scream and her wriggling only seemed to bring her body closer to mine.

I’d been punched around plenty during the past twenty-four hours. I was supposed to be a tough guy, but up to now everyone had been using me as a door scraper. It was about time something went my way.

“This is how it is,” I said, leaning over her. “We’ve been suckers long enough. Now it’s our turn, Blue Eyes, to get what we want. This is what I want and I hope you’ll like it.”

“You beast!” she panted, struggling up and closer still.

I grabbed her shoulders. She tried to bite, but she didn’t try very hard. After a while her arms slid around my neck and she held on like she was scared of losing me. Her lips parted against mine. Her eyes were shining like two blue stars.

Like I said, women are funny animals.

This was a solid third in. So that happened, I told myself. Huh. This book was written in 1949. It is sixty years old, an artifact of another time in pop culture. Does it have historical value as an intact manuscript? Is it ever okay to depict people being forced into sex against their will? How old does a book or movie have to be to make this okay? Should Harlequin have edited this part of the book, which I’m sure they could have done quite handily with a ghost writer, into consensual sex? Does this mesh with other detective novels I’ve read from this time? No. In Spillane’s Mike Hammer stories grown women who are not “trash” or whores seem quite interested in knocking boots with him, with no consequences except for, I hope, orgasms, and bacon the next day. (True story. I think it is cute when Mike Hammer plays house with these women and they have little fry-ups the next morning before he goes off to shake down stool pigeons.)

In the end, that scene was the boner killer, right there. I read on to the next day, where she woke up and recoiled from him, and he locked her into the suite for the day “for her own good,” as she threw vases at his head. I had lost all faith in the protagonist and could not go on. I put the book down.

It’s more interesting to me that she is set up as a “bad girl”–she earns her living stripping and grifting. She talks tough and moves fast–she passionately kisses the protagonist the very first time they meet. As this bad girl character, she could have carte blanche to strip off and get jiggy with the detective. But she doesn’t want him–not then, not like that anyway, and maybe not at all. What was the point of this? Is he more sympathetic because he raped a “bad girl”? Why not just have her consent, as an author in this mindset? It is a puzzle.

So, nuts to this, I say. I am not picking up any more of these. Harlequin, get your head out of your ass and tidy up these depictions of women being raped, or kill the reissues. This is a fucking sloppy disgrace.

News I Have News Pay Attention OK

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I started a new group blog over at The Queen’s Scullery. Check it out, Victorian nerdery ahoy. You are invited, if you want to be.

Life without wheat is going okay. We made a run at this a year ago, and sort of backslid on it. In theory, Franny’s father is taking this more seriously now after the hospital thing. In reality, there are cracks in the system, of course. Franny saw pics of my English pudding that I made for Christmas, and she said she had some at her dad’s house, but said it did not look as nice as mine.

“Really? Pudding?” I said. “Did you get a stomach ache?”

“No,” she said.

“That’s good.”

“Oh, there’s something else though, Mom. The other day he was trying to talk me into eating this granola bar thing. He said, ‘Come on, a little won’t hurt.”

“Well,” P. said. “Every time anyone tries to talk you into eating wheat, offer to kick them in the nuts first, so they can be in pain with you.”

“If it is a lady, offer an eye poke,” I said.

Franny spends a fair amount of time now mourning her departure from gluten. She sighs over things she cannot eat, and we are finding the balance between making substitutes, like gluten-free scones (bleah) and just eating other things. She was bonkers over some shrimp and spaghetti squash I made, because it was “just like noodles” as if we do not have soba and rice noodles on the regular.

I am very excited to get back into our regular non-holiday routine tomorrow, which includes me being done working my second job. Yeah!

She Was Looking Like An Erotic Vulture

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Hello! Happy New Year’s Eve to you. Do you have the plans? Surprisingly, I am cooking. I am doing some kind of weird wine gelatin dessert with poached pears in and some business with white sauce and there will be oysters, oh yes. I am pulling most of it out of Mrs. Beeton’s cookbook in accordance with the New Blog. It even has a banner now. So in between cooking today I am working on that. In theory we are podcasting tonight, which I would enjoy very much. New Year’s brings out the introvert in me, and I am looking very forward to holing up.

Let’s talk about Tweedle Beetles.

2009 Resolutions: I made two.

1. Drink moar scotch. Yeah, I kind of failed this. I had a good start into February or so, and then I switched to wine, and it was fruity boozy summer, so what are you going to do? Turn DOWN fruity boozy? No. I am making a pretty good showing here at the end of the year, though.

2. Have moar sex. I don’t want to talk about this. I just don’t OK.

Okay, moving on.

For next year I am having a couple of thoughts. I am entertaining the notion of blogging every day, even if it is a snippet or a link, with long posts/essays at the usual frequency. Too much asshole? I don’t know. I am going to start exercising more, especially as my second job is ending soon. It is a mild winter and nice for running. I want to visit USistani friends like Shan and Kaijsa and not just off to Canada all the time, though I like that too. I would like to see Shauna again…it’s been since 2007, weh. Working on it. I would like to meet my wife, but I might have to start playing the lottery to do that. Oh, and I am about to start New Blog, so in theory next year will be more writerly/academicy, ha ha, we’ll see. There will be posts, but perhaps not the correct amount of citations.

Have fun. I will be on the roof. This is 100% improvement over last year when I was asleep at 10:30. Sláinte!

Franny’s Back

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And she brought…wait for it….LICE. This is like blowing your nose now. I suspect the timing of her return has to do with a social engagement last night that SeaFed let slip.

“Did you know that back in a long time ago you could buy a whole BAG of CANDY for a penny? I wish I could live then. Except I wouldn’t be alive now. And I would not have a fish hat. Okay, never mind.”

Yes, have some moar candy from your stocking. Wheat-free child is HYPER.

Meowy Xmas

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Hello! How’s your day going? I am cooking my face off here. I have decided to kick off my year of Victoriananana blog with a giant four-course Victorian Christmas meal, and then I will go to smaller, more informal weekly Victorian suppers. I am making recipes from Mrs. Beeton’s cookbook. I got my first edition facsimile in the mail the other day, reprinted in 1963 and now out-of-print unabridged, I believe. I think the biggest surprise so far was the béchamel I made. I think of béchamel as a bland white sauce made of butter and flour and milk. This recipe calls for heavy whipping cream and arrowroot (I used cornstarch) mixed with a reduction of stock that had fresh herbs steeped in it. I think I like béchamel now. Also, this is a béchamel that Franny can eat–no flour. The tragedy is that it is only being used as a little binding for some croquettes of fowl, so I think I will reheat the rest and serve it alongside the croquettes.

My only misfire here was not being able to secure raw oysters this morning. Every year I’ve lived in this house I’ve zipped into Whole Paycheck on xmas morning and gotten some for fresh shucking. This year I was going to serve oyster patties, but the grocery store was actually closed for once! Good for them.

My sister is coming later for supper and Franny is coming back tomorrow. I will make a brag and say I got a ten-cup food processor and some flannel sheets, and, possibly the best part, CHEESE in my stocking, stilton and taleggio WITH crackers. Xmas in progress here.

Cloudy with a 90% Chance of Inverted Umbrellas

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Is it really countdown? Is Christmas really almost here? This winter does not make any sense, really. I’m glad it’s the solstice, that’s for sure.

I am grateful for two things right now. One is all the kerfuffle at my house about Christmas Steve, who is COMING FOR SURE this year. Strudel flipped the fuck out the other night when she was overly tired and kicked the ladder to Franny’s loft bed from behind and it made a terrible cracking noise. Her father sighed and said he could fix it, but it is permanently attached now, apparently.

Strudel is very nervous and is making suggestions to stave him off. Perhaps if she is really good for the next couple of days he will not come?

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe there will be less naughty child stink waves coming from the house.”

Perhaps we could hang a sign on the door explaining that they hadn’t really been THAT naughty, and could he skip our house this year?

“I dunno, man. You cannot get between Steve and his sock beer,” I said, slightly apologetically.

Franny had more questions about him as we were out on errands last weekend.

“what does he DO?” Franny asked.

“Not much. He enjoys his beer in the summer, and scotch in the winter. He has a string of ex-wives all over the country and children he never sees, and he does not pay child support.”

“Mom,” Franny said quietly. “Is Christmas Steve my dad?”

“What? No, honey. No.”

What do I do with this?

As always, I am still trying to think of a present. I am considering something that might ooze through the wrapping and smell, like raw chicken breasts, but the girls enjoy having something, even if it is crappy, which it invariably is.

The other thing I am grateful for is that SeaFed called me on Friday night after getting Franny back and bumbled and did not make any sense, but eventually came around to the fact that he wanted to return Frannie a week early during Xmas break. Originally he told me he wanted to keep her from school ending through the return to school (the 3rd). My last correspondence with him in regards to that was that I objected to it, but at some point, what can you do? Could I go snatch her back? Have a screaming fit? I did not hear back.

Unfortunately, Franny has spent a month fretting about being away from me for so long, and not spending any part of Christmas with us, which I get. I am still encouraging her to advocate for herself, and she did speak to her dad about this more than once. With my help she came up with a plan to remind him we had always split breaks in the past. I save all my calendars showing how she is with us most of the time, and I offered to photocopy last Christmas for her, which she took to him.

So things have been changing since SeaFed abruptly called me a year and a half ago and told me he was moving away. Franny has settled with me. It is her place and we are her people. She refers to her father’s other children as her “half” siblings, but Strudel is her sister. Now that her stepmother is about to pop sprog again, Franny has asked me more than once, I am not planning on having any more children, RIGHT?

I feel conflicted about this. There is a part of me that wants to say, “Of course, victory, this was inevitable. Of course, I am her mother,” I think 75% of parenting is just showing up. The other 25% is the work, but man, that showing up goes a loooong way.

In other news, I have planned my Christmas meal. I bought many, many animals at Central Market yesterday. The checker watched a duck, a rabbit, some fish, and some beef suet go by.

“You have every member of the animal kingdom here,” he commented.

“You know what they say,” I said.

“No?”

“The cuter the face, the better the taste,” I said.

“I have never heard that,” he said.

“Well, that is because I made it up.”

“I’m blogging that,” he said.

“Okay, link me.”

“The best way to appreciate your job is to imagine yourself without one.”

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Lately I am all about work work work. With this new blog project on the horizon I am excited that my second job is ending pretty shortly after the holidays. At first I was berating myself for being so freaking tired all the time, but I realized there is a difference between last year at this time and this year. This year I am working forty hours doing techy stuff and creative-ish writing (well, original, anyway. Until it is poems about unicorns and corndogs I feel I will not have achieved my dreams), plus I am working 10-15 hours a week doing sales. Last year I was cobbling together forty or so hours a week working this same holiday job, coffee, and doing a little writing on the side. My schedule was odd then–I often wasn’t expected in until eleven or later, so I could run after getting the girls off to school in the morning. I miss that. Now I leave in the dark and get home in the dark, sometimes eleven or later.

Someone asked me recently why I was doing this and I wonder. I replied it was because I need a steady exposure to degenerates and weirdos or else I feel like my brain is stagnating. Yet with all this work I barely have time or energy to write about the degenerates and weirdos, so I tell myself I am going through one of those phases where I am collecting ideas, people, and stories again. I also tell myself I am making a little extra holiday money, and getting a discount on products I like and things my friends like. This is partly true.

There is another little slice, though. I have this nagging voice in the back of my head that chimes in with “lazy, lazy, lazy” when I am only working one job at a max of forty hours. I was raised by a workaholic with a job and a side business who worked sixty hours a week without complaint (we were the ones who complained since this schedule made him borderline psychotic). Is he happy now? Does he sit on his pile of money and celebrate? No, apparently he is miserably unhappy and in terrible, foolish debt. My stepfather is not the most self-analytical person I have ever met, to say the least, so I wonder what he was thinking. His father did it too, and was also miserable. Why live like this? I get tastes of this life and ask myself that. Pride. The illusion of getting ahead, though life is just as short if you take weekends off or not. Ultimately, what else is there to do with yourself, if not stay busy? Why is it so hard for me to be happy when I’m happy?

I am thinking about this today because I am transitioning out of my current temporary job, though I don’t know when, exactly. On Monday my replacement came on and now I am back to looking for work in case they decide to cut me abruptly, because you never know.

P. and I were talking resumes. He is an excellent second person to look at mine most of the time. He brought up the fact that he usually drops the “library” from his “library and information science” degree on his resume now. We argued about this one a bit. I felt as if he was implying I should drop it too. Some people say leaving the l-word on hurts your chances of getting employed in a tech capacity. Others say that people recognize that librarians receive a considerable amount of tech training anyway, and the field is attracting people who have the skills and interest coming in.

It stung a little, and I wasn’t sure why. I am always careful to tell people that while I am a librarian by training, I have never worked as one. Why is it so easy for him to drop it, and not me? I offended him back by saying I was not ready to let go of the idea that I had a professional degree, which lead to more discussion about what IS an information scientist, and could you tell that to people and they would just get it? No. People have a picture of what a librarian is. The profession is almost as old as books. There are professional organizations and guilds for librarians, OK, I countered. He rattled off a bunch of organizations that are specifically for IS folks.

We did not come to any real conclusions except to say that librarianship is gold leaf you can lay over your tech skills, I guess, and some people hate that Rococo shit. Where is librarianship? Is it stuck in a crack in Plato’s cave somewhere?