SOOOO Much Room For Pics of Vigoda

Posted on January 23, 2009 by iasshole

Here I am, about to start making out with my recovery disk. Them’re BONA-FEE-DAY crazy eyes. YEEEHAWWW

SHE’S BACK!

I have to confess, though, there is a part of me that will miss AbacusTop, who was a good boy in my time of struggle. Now I can transfer my old HP files, including novel in progress, which I have been working on like whoa since AbacusTop wouldn’t let me look at Hulu. Hur.

I have a Blogher article due today, which I am almost finished with, and I hope I can squeak it in before midnight after my dinner party tonight. What with the technology and this headcold, life is wacky. Also, I did a tidy bedmaking this morning and discovered that I got peanut sauce all over my white quilt. I have become an indolent pig now that it’s just me and the cat and my laptop and my phone and a dirty child sock and nine books and three issues of the New Yorker in the bed. They don’t tell tales. I guess I do, though.

I am home alone this weekend. TOTALLY ALONE. Children are out of town! I am going to catch up with friends, write, work, and attend a film lecture. Woot I am as fun as watching paint dry.

xoxo Asshole Girl

ETA:

FNIF

Posted on January 20, 2009 by iasshole

Today I did half and half intervals around most of the lake. It was so foggy that when I came home there was mist in my hair. I started right at nine sharp, so I heard the Inauguration. I cried through the whole thing. I might cry at work too. We”l see.

Not a Girl, Not Yet a Cougar

Posted on January 18, 2009 by iasshole

Today I test well with the 18-24 demographic who enjoyed talking to me all day long about my pretty pink hair. Seriously, mall boys? I know you didn. I think I’m ovulating or something, except rather than planning to ruin the lives of these boys by leaving a trail of STDs, outstanding parking tickets, etc., I am instead focusing on inanimate objects or moods. Music is so beautiful today and everything smells so good. I am in love with the world rather than the people in it and this is disturbingly transcendent and non-carnal of me, so I assume it’s just a phase.

I kind of wish I could go on a rampage of Epic Rake proportions but I just don’t have it in me. I have that feeling like in dreams where I walk from room to room, immediately forgetting the previous room and being completely incurious about what’s going on with strangers I hardly know, who insist on dropping tantalizing tidbits before me. I used to feel like it was my duty as as a writer to actively rubberneck, to catch the essence of life, distill it, and bottle it into a few words that would actually make people give a shit about something and feel glad that they woke up this morning. Maybe it’s because I actually am writing more lately, so I am out of Humanity Research mode. If we are not already besties, I am probably not the best person to tell about your colon operation or your affair with your Esperanto professor. NO.

There is this little part of me that is concerned I am coming off as a giant feckless douchebag, and this other part of me that doesn’t care. How long is it reasonable to stay in survival mode? Is it ground gained and lost again? I usually do things more dramatically and decisively, like Wonder Woman gets her fucking powers back all the sudden and kicks out the wall. Now, I don’t know. I feel like I can do things by halves.

Thursday night I spent throwing up and my prime suspect is dodgy pub nachos, since everything else I ate that day was awesome and lovingly caressed by artisans holding degrees who are located within a ten-mile radius. It’s either the nachos or some stuff I ate off the ground after I left the pub. Tough call. While I was ill Franny’s stepmother came over and used the bathroom and no doubt took in the squalorous state of my sickhouse. Part of me feels judged by the smug contingent who have only been married once (Big ups, go Team Inertia) and the other part of me thinks, WELL WELL, just wait until you are a used up slattern with piles of debt and recycling that needs taking out. JUST WAIT.

Also, I want to tell you that the thing I forgot about retail is that you are absolutely trapped and are completely under the thrall of the public and their whims. I would like you to do a ten-point inspection of me and tell me why every time I work retail portly men in their fifties decide I am the fucking tits. Show your work. I keep getting older but these guys stay the same age. Cripes.

Today’s Horoscope: Today you will get caught sniffing your ring finger on the bus repeatedly, producing a look of shock and revulsion, but you will be unable to stop. You will find a pink hair in your food, which you will blame on me. DNA testing will clear my name, but what you don’t know is that the SPIT is mine.

Lucky numbers: FUCK RIGHT OFF.

P.S., Gave up and ordered a Vista recovery disk. I am a little afraid that Vista owns me now. OSes will move on, but Vista and I are tied, I fear. You never forget the one who made out with you at the movies, dented your car, talked you into London Bridging but then made you soup, and then got away. Despondent sonnets to follow; watch this space.

WOW So This is What Being a Fucking Moron Feels Like, Or, Hester Prynne Won’t You Let Me In

Posted on January 15, 2009 by iasshole

All those years I spent in high school, wondering about what it felt like as I sat disaffectedly smoking cigarette after cigarette at Denny’s, peering out under a mess of black hair pomaded with shoe polish, and drinking coffee after nine p.m. (!), my my my. Now I know how it feels to be one of the many morons who walk among us, like the ones I stared at derisively so many years ago. Frankly, it’s shocking that I’m typing this at all and not just bashing my head against the keyboard and drooling.

So, you may recall that Hester Prynne’s hard drive cacked it around Thanksgiving. Well well well, some of my most special internet bitches pooled and sent my broke ass a new one for Xmas, completely unprovoked. I’d link them, but we probably have the kind of relationship where we make out in secret, and then when the rest of the football team is there they call me a ho and snap my bra strap.

Since then I’ve been wrasslin with old Hester Prynne. The following reenactment, which is not suitable for viewing by minors, has taken place over several days when I’ve been not at work and, um, sober (mostly). The HD installed smoovely and beautifully. It gapes with space that is aching to be filled with poor attempts at Barney Miller slash and photoshops of Hayden Pantymare. AHA, I said. I popped in the internet start up diskgummy in a jolly fashion. I was seconds away from mongoose porn!

BUT NO. I was SO SO SO far away. Hester Prynne did not come with a Vista disk. No, srs. She didn’t. I didn’t care or even notice at the time, really. Meh. Plug n’ play, etc etc GO. Oh, but what’s this? I had a copy of XP that seemed to be…from the Enlightenment? Feeling like Professor Peabody, I carefully fed the crumbling scroll into the data receptacle and watched Hester try to grok it. “Oh, verily my master can I play yew this cunninge versionne of an Oh Ess.”

Uh oh. Can you get on the Internet?

“Ho ho, ha ha, what is Internet? I hail from a time before service packs. Forsoothly it doth proclaim that this XP scroll dates back to Ye Olde Dell of Yore, that did barely play Sims 1.”

“GOD, that sucked. I could barely play Michael Bachelor’s house.”

SHIT. No updated drivers, no nothing. No way to get onto the internets. I went to suck some service packs off the web, which is a huge pain in ass involving things like READING FOR COMPREHENSION and patience while 300 GIANT MBs download onto the Abacustop. (Abacustop, feeling left out: “Aye think aye kin run ye Sim Ant.” Me: “FUCK YOU. You can’t run fucking Minesweeper.”)

Step 4,000: Mooch a flash drive that is bigger than half a page in Word, which is all I seem to own (what is UP with that?). Put SP files on flash drive and jam it into Hester’s port. WHAT’S THIS? You don’t even SEE the flash drive? I can’t even MANUALLY ASSIGN IT A LETTER? At this point a nerd comes to help me with some fucking DOS commands to make other drives BEE-HAVE, accidentally gives Unix commands (“Which are totally, like, pretty similar”), watch Unix commands fail, break for call sign and swearing, hear treatise on superiority of Unix, and FAIL.

Step 12 Kerjillion: Burn files to disk. This is where the stupid really kicks in. Go downstairs Where Such Things Are Kept, rootle, find a big disk, assault Abacustop’s drive with it.

What are the odds SJ brought up the wrong disk? HMM? Bonus points if you calculate them to the nearest decimal and turn water into wine and give it to ME.

AHH! Smartening up now. She brought up TWO disks of the correct type in case there is some kind of fail with the first one, because there will be. Copy SPs to disk. Jam disk into Hester, click quickly on…is this SP2? It must be, because the other is SP3.

Anddd NO. Thank you for playing. SJ copied the start up file for…Windows Movie Maker? Because that looks totally like SP2? Ah well. I can at least move SP3ANNNNND BIG RED STOP SIGN FILE CORRUPT.

I thought typing this would make me feel better, but it’s actually giving me a bigger headache. I left some stuff out, but it’s pretty much been two weeks of this. I sort of feel like if you asked me my age right now I would start stamping my hoof in reply.

In Other, Non-Fail News

My friend Shauna is going to be on the Early Show on Friday pimping her book! EEEEEEE!

FUCK YES CAPS LOCK IS ENGAGED

Posted on January 13, 2009 by iasshole

OH HEY GUESS WHAT’s going on in this thread? Strudel has been rendered half deaf and insensible by her cold, so now she shouts constantly. It’s like living with someone’s tiny grammy, except tiny grammy runs in circles and sings Dr. Horrible and shouts FOR THE WIN. You wish your Grammy was so…SIX MONTHS BEHIND. Gert!

The work flap with me getting called a swear has blown over nicely, which is what I was praying for. Some people cannot be thrown down with. I did have a moment yesterday of lip biting when it was announced that OH the closets have been cleaned out and don’t they look great? And I thought that was kind of odd that credit was being taken for something I did just two days earlier. Did you seriously not notice I cleaned? Because I pwn the tacos out of cleaning.

It doesn’t matter, though, because I have a presentation today. It is the very best kind of presentation, because no one but me knows that I have one. It will be a surprise presentation. Not as good as the other kind of surprise.

What am I presenting? ROBOT CLAW HAND. It will revolutionize the way business is done. The outcome will be awesome either way. One, you and your new robot claw hand are accepted, or two, you are trespassed by security. I like both options, as long as someone is there to video it and put it on YouTube.

This Evening Before Dinner with Ruby

Posted on January 7, 2009 by iasshole

“Mama are you wearing this one?” Strudel said, holding up my favorite eyeshadow.

“No, I’m wearing some gold stuffs,” I said.

“This is how you open it,” she said, kind of to herself.

“Hey, don’t open my makeup, please!” The little brushes fell onto the floor and behind the toilet.

“I wasn’t opening it.”

“Yes, you did, I saw you. It’s open right now.”

“Well, I didn’t do it.”

I took the makeup out of her hands and put it back in my box.

“Scoot, toots. I don’t want a fibber in here.”

She moved into the hallway and resumed playing with her blocks.

“I’m still in here, Mama.”

“I don’t want to talk to a fibber, how’s that?” I said, finishing my mascara.

“Guess what? You are talking to a fibber right now. Because you said you didn’t want to talk to a fibber, so you are actually talking to one.”

Dudes

Posted on January 5, 2009 by iasshole

I have two things to tell you. One, after months of jonesing, I am finally listening to my very own Blossom Dearie CD. It’s really the little things. She makes my brane melt a little.

TWO my boss called me a bad swear today. My boss is the IRL version of Steve Carrell. I am quite sinsur. Also my coworker told me today she’s packing a heater. I don’t want to know these things. No I do not.

Three. (Bonus Round) I also got a Diana Krall CD of standards that I somehow missed in the last couple of years. There is something about her now. Something disconcertingly Sinatralike. I love Sinatra, but I don’t know if I need another one in my life.

Four. Mr. Klassy is coming back! He is laying eggs! MR. KLASSY COME HOME. ALL IS FORGIVEN. I am going to drive to his farmhome on Saturday and get her. Apparently she was a bit of a pariah. Polishes are really mellow birds, so I am not too surprised in hindsight. I offered my friends my dudlike Buttercups, but shockingly they declined. The Buttercups are laying now and they make smallish white eggs. Anyone want some fucking buttercups?

FIVE I had to work up to Franny’s bedtime, so I said hi to her when I came home. She went all babymush on me and stuck her arms out and said MAMA. I said, “Come on kid,” and she climbed into my bed, where she is snoring right now. She was at her dad’s for a week after Xmas and that makes her all weird.

Six. Speaking of weird, the threads continue to unravel. Have you ever put on an outfit that you are pretty sure is a bad idea, but you really want to wear it so you do it anyway? Dig if you will the picture, of pants too large and a top slightly too small and socks that keep falling down. You are fidgeting at your pants to keep them up and OH the socks are itchy and what’s this? The bastardy shirt flips up over your muffintop. This is bad. Did your bra strap just break? What the fuck?

I am feeling a little bit like that about life lately. I get one goo ball up and five more fall down. All this preamble is to tell you that I lost it a little in a sad fashion in the store I work in. I have this history with dogs. We’ve never gotten along too well. I realized recently, now that I have been running, that the feeling of unease I get when a dog is coming is fear. Problem: there are approximately 4.9 dogs to every human in Seattle. People in Seattle deem it appropriate to bring dogs into GROCERY STORES here. So of course people bring dogs into the store where I work.

It was all over the place, too. I felt totally trapped. Non-swearing boss asked me if I was okay, because apparently I turned white and started shaking. I had to step outside. The best part was that the dog was one of those floor sweepers that weighed about five pounds. I am now afraid of things that weigh less than my own head. I am officially crackers.

There, I said it. I just became a Larry David character. I predict that Kleenex box hands are about a year out. Spazzychow out.

Are You Going To Take Advice From Someone Who Slapped Dee Barnes?

Posted on January 3, 2009 by iasshole

Hey jerks. What is the haps? Nothing much to report here. I am trying to ease my way into the New Year. I had kind of a scary moment when I pissed off four people in the first two days of the year. Then I misplaced my keys on NYE, and today I realized I mislaid my work apron, which I was going to wash. The bummer of it is that I had a vintage brooch pinned to it from Phoenix when I was in college. I am losing and finding things like crazy, undoing and redoing them.

One thing I redid was my hair. I am realizing that it doesn’t seem to matter what I do. This is terrible after school special confessional tiem, but it seems like if I am doing my own thing, life seems to turn out for the best and I feel the happiest. I am not talking about being selfish or doing things at the expense of others. I just mean I am trying to follow and fit in where I belong, and it’s going okay so far.

Now I’m happier and feel more like myself. Improved mental state has to count for something, right? I am going to throw it into a bun the next time I get called to interview, take a deep breath, and be myself. Only with fewer swears. I can do that.

Happy New Year, Vague Chow Out.

ETA for Jendajen and other rubberneckers. Hee.

Your Words Burn the Air Like the Names of Candy Bars

Posted on December 28, 2008 by iasshole

All I’m going to tell you is that when you need a job you’ll do things you didn’t quite expect. You know that I was an evictress, and that I worked retail in the past. When I first moved to Seattle I had a tiny bit of money and no prospects, unless you count getting mad booty, which always happens when you move to a new town. Unless it doesn’t. Condolences. Well, there was the Canadian corn salesman who kicked me out of his van after he discovered all I wanted was his hot, slightly butter-scented body. Ah, well.

I flipped through the want-ads daily in between moodily riding the bus making myself damn deaf listening to Rocket From the Crypt and Louder Than Bombs. One day there was an ad up for a “telephone interviewer.” HMM, curious. Was this telemarketing? Not quite. It was calling people up and asking them nosy questions twenty hours a week. One job was for King County Health or something and involved me asking people both how many times a week they ate vegetables (“Hmm, five.” LIES.) and how many firearms they had in their house (“NONE OF YOUR GOTDAM BIDNESS THIS ARE AMURICA COLD DEAD HANDS ETC.” oic.).

There was a man who got hired at the same time as me, my oh my I would look at him and drool would literally form in my mouth. He could not have been more my type had I drawn him myself. He was an artist and a recent transplant from the Midwest, and like me, needed a crappy job to tide him over until he found something more satisfying and fulltime. I followed him around. I hung on every word as he talked about his next project or painting. He found out I was 17 to his 25. WAH WAH WAAAAH, thank you for playing.

But I hung in there and we started hanging out together, having lunch or exploring Seattle together. I heard his sad story about his rilly terrible break up with his clingy anorexic girlfriend and how he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. Awesome, neither was I. He was with me the day I turned 18–we got a slice of chocolate cake together at a cafe that was where Rosebud is now. What was it called then? I had a glass of merlot courtesy of my fake ID.

A few weeks later, we were at Ileen’s. of all places (neither of us liked sports, but the beer flowed nicely there). It is important for you to know that I have always been the Sultana of Subtlety. Once when I seduced a man in a field I just basically peeled off all my clothes and stared at him until he did the same. I ensnared a high school fling by calling him up and saying, “Hey, come over, let’s have sex.” I KNOW, Smooth Operator was written about ME, right. Well, this artist guy and I were staring at each other across the table and I said, “Say, when’s the last time you had sex?” GOOOOAL!

But the one thing I really, really remember about that job was that there was a lifer there. Most telephone type people burn out quickly, but she was in it to win it. She placed one call after another like a robot, and hung up after rejections and moved on to the next call like it was all nothing. I felt bad about bothering people, though I did get the occasional “OH BOY I LOVE SURVEYS!”. She was terse and weird and had a long-ass I Dream of Jeanie ponytail, but muddy brown. And the kicker was that she kept a picture of Commander Data on her desk. Not Brent Spiner, Commander Data. It was kind of soft focus, too.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.