Lykke Li @ NTBR Part 4 – “Hustlin'” from Drew Innis on Vimeo.
Soooo excited about the new Lykke Li on 1 March. High kicks for that.
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Fingernails That Shine Like Juiceboxes
Today Strudel came home early with a high fever. She said she was cold all day and her teacher said “Well, I guess you are going to have to live with it,” which sounds exactly like something I would say to Strudel if she was bitching about whatever (she is an expert complainer) but is also exactly the kind of thing that offends me when someone says that to my child. WHY did you not immediately get her a space heater and a nest made entirely of sterilized dove feathers and angel farts? And then I say, oh yes, she complains all the time. LOUDLY. In conferences her teacher said “We always know how Strudel is feeling at any given moment” which is code for “Your child is always bitching about fucking something.”
This is my fault, because when I was a kid and frustrated by something my mother would say “Oh” and when Strudel says, “They run out of apples by the time I get through the lunchline,” I say, “You know, you could politely ask if they have more apples and explain that you would really like one and they are out. Or you could bring a fruit from home.” And then her father says, “OR you could make your own lunch.”
She sighed. Too much information. I try to remember to just dole out some pity sometimes as well.
Tomorrow my friend Hovy and I are going off to get Elvis doughnuts! I am taking pics again.
Dear Cary Tennis
Well! Today I came home from the Rack (L.A.M.B. tote covered in pink bats with one buckle only slightly scratched, puce kidskin gloves sold separate so they fit my hands, which are inconveniently a S and a L, but that’s another letter). I set everything down and did what I always do, which is check ALL the nanny cams to see what’s been happening while I was away. You know if you hit that sweet spot you can see exactly what’s happening and not have to watch it in real time? Using the internet and tapes of old episodes of 20/20, I’ve trained myself to see child battering even in fast motion. The way they run around! And the dogs! Hilarious! It’s kind of like the Sims but with fewer fires! I was treated to something I simply did not expect, my husband was in the antechamber to the orgy room (a teddy bear with a video camera embedded in its root cellar is less obtrusive in there than you would think) and had taken down the fuckbutt I keep mounted on the wall in there, as a, you know, ice breaker for when we have “guests.” And he was fucking my mounted fuckbutt, which is professionally mounted on rock maple from DELAWARE. You know how much it costs for unusual mountings? Can you believe they charged us NOT to have glass eyes put in, since all taxodermy comes with glass eyes. I considered the glass eyes, but I thought that would be over the top. The wipeable sofa and a round of Harvy Wallbangers seals the deal, but not if there’s a fuckbutt GAZING upon your gloriousness while you are having a three way with Roy from accounting and some salad tongs. That charge was robbery. But our hands were tied, yes they were. And they did turn the fuckbutt around, including shipping, in three weeks. Now there are blue fibers embedded in it from his fur chaps, how am I supposed to get THAT out of latex. My question is, he snores, so do you think it would damage our relationship to sleep in separate bedrooms?
–Stressed in Seattle
More Misspent Youthisms
The scene: Public High School, 10th grade.
The year: 1992.
The place: West of UGH and North of gott im himmel.
Sometimes if I was really lucky and could get a ride with some charitable driving upperclassman, I would abandon any pretense of being interested in my future and would tag along to Chicago. Chicago! Where the streets were paved with perverts and decent bagel shops! I used to drive 90 minutes to buy fishnets. NINETY MINUTES. And that was if traffic was cooperating. In this city the ragman comes along three times a week with his distinctive cry, “DILDOS! PORN! FISHNETS! OTHER THINGS THAT WOULD MAKE GRANNY SAD!” There’s none of this 90-minute perv-commute business.
I don’t remember who I was with or what the circumstances were, exactly, but I very excitedly bought a pink triangle button to pin onto my coat. This was it! I was going to take a stand! I was going to be super activist girl and drag my high school into the 20th century.
I walked in the next day and thought that all sound would stop and everyone would turn and look at me. I would be under a spotlight, that was it, the line would be crossed and there would be no turning back.
Instead, there was a whole lot of nothing. No one knew what it meant. Even kids who I suspected were gay, and were teased for being so stared at it blankly. It blended it with all my other rock buttons and rude slogans. The sign is meaningless if no one can read it.
I think that was probably the beginning of me realizing I didn’t really have to broadcast anything about myself. I didn’t have to label myself or hang a banner. It’s very liberating to realize that most people don’t care, or conversely, it doesn’t matter what people think the truth is or isn’t. I wish I still had that pin.
This is the morning report
WELL. 2011 found me up betimesish, mental, and writing terrible, maudlin love poetry that should never ever see the light of day. Have I ever done this before? I have not. I hesitate over the delete button, however, because my future self derives perverse enjoyment from mocking my weakened, pitiful, inferior past self.
I had (have?) an upper respiratory infection (Merry Fuckmas) that has lasted for about 9 days. I slept through most of Christmas but managed to see the present opening and say “Mmmhmm” and “Oooh” and “You’re welcome” at the right moments. It still hurts when I breathe a little but I think I’m on the mend. Look ma, I’m writing. I tried to get an appointment to my clinic but I was too late, and damned if I’m going to show up at the ER on New Year’s weekend. So looks like it was viral, rather than bacterial? What do I know about these things.
I did not cook for Xmas. I did not cook my final Victorian meal. I didn’t mind, really. I’ve had plenty of practice. I am gearing up to write my final essay on The Queen’s Scullery. I had planned on it earlier this week. It’s okay. I did really well this year with meeting all of my goals and life happens.
At 11:45 last night I was swigging my familiar friend Theraflu (I’ve been rotating drugs so as not to build up a tolerance just like our pal ELVIS) and lay down in bed, waiting for the clock to strike. The neighbors were out full force, banging on pots and pans and shaming my indolent self, who is at least 20 years their junior. Moonpants got into the act a few minutes later and was outside bellowing HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Or at least someone who sounds just like him.
I am happy about something! My vacuum cleaner died this morning. This seems very auspicious to me. I hated that thing for six years. However, it exhaled some kind of horrible stink on expiring that still hangs in the air. An awful melange of burnt rubber and rot. Further examination revealed that it is not simply the belt, or a hair jam. Some kind of spindle has completely fused. Can the patient be saved? NO. Good.
The bad news is that I am wrestling with cleaning the couch. There was some serious confusion in Goethe’s mind about where the litterbox was when she first came home. The beloved Lund Bjuv took the hit. She seems to have gotten over this confusion but the couch has not. I would make a Faustian bargain not to have to tear this thing apart again, but I am glad it’s IKEA “crap” instead of a quality couch, which would be ruined by a cat pee assault. I have hit the unwashable parts with enzyme stuff, and the cover has taken a trip through the washing machine. Hooray!
Xmas Steve came, and he was wretched. He even sampled some of the girls’ gingerbread houses. Strudel was VERY unimpressed by her corncob pipe. (“I CAN’T SMOKE WITH THIS THING! SMOKING IS STUPID!”) Franny hated her thrift store soccer trophy.
My favorite present was from my seamstress.
A Mondrian lozenge rendered in the medium of “pillow.”
Rancho Asshole Xmas Tally.
Members hit by vomiting: 2
Members hit by colds: 4
Members hit by upper respiratory infections/pneumonia: 1
Number of times I said “FML”: 4,002
Happy New Year!
Xmas Eve Eve Eve?? Eve eve
Man, am I tired of this year.
I mean, it was a good one, but I’m done with it.
I feel like a shut in right now, as well.
I guess this is just winter sometimes?
….
I need to get out more…
Yet there is so much to do HERE.
How to find balance?
Poor overburdened Xmas Ficus.
Goodbye Nietzsche
“Her body is here, but she’s gone,” Strudel said, when it was over.
She purred until the sedative knocked her out. I really can’t say enough nice things about vets who make housecalls.
SnoMGBBQ Apocalypse ’10
HOKAY so we went out of town with a voucher that I was kind of talked into and only marginally excited about, from the Place Where Sensible Thought Goes To Die, the school auction. Sure, I love swimming? And waterparks? And spending money to stay in resorts? Dear God. WHAT.
So we went for a midweek overnight to an indoor water park here. And you know, it felt great. The first night at least. It was nice to get out of town, and not to be trapped in the car with the girls for as long as it takes to go to Portland. However, what was ostensibly supposed to be a quick 90-minute jaunt somehow stretched to two-plus hours.
There was a little melodrama on the way down with Strudel (I have no idea where she gets THAT from) where she thought she was going to barf. I was worried because Frannie had the barfs earlier that week, like for real twelve times in one day barfing stomach virus keeping her out of school thingie, and I thought surely Strudel was next. We decided to press on instead of turning back. If it was a false alarm, why lose the trip? If it was not, then I figured I could sit in the hotel room with her and watch the Comedy Channel. It was a false alarm, hooray.
Day one was pretty splendid. It was WARM in the waterpark and getting colder outdoors all the time due to the impending arrival of snow.
And here it is, this morning.
Then I realized that everything I needed was right there in one ridiculously large building, and it was like what I hear about cruises–overpriced, meh food, trapped in one place. Then bedtime came. Foolishly, I decided to have some dessert fondue before bed and snapped awake at four, indigested and queasy. I snuck over to the living room area and quietly turned a light on to read my magazine for a bit and just generally be upright.
Strudel woke up shortly after me and though I got sleepy again, she could not go back to sleep. She was WIRED! She was EXCITED! She has a LOT OF TROUBLE USING AN INDOOR VOICE! Basically she could not accept that we needed about three more hours of sleep. At home if she cannot sleep, she jabbers away to herself in her room, but there was no escape in the hotel. Finally, after drifting in and out of sleep for hours, we dragged ourselves out of bed.
That morning, things started to get to me a little. I didn’t go to bed super late, but everything felt surreal, as it does when you are sleep-deprived. There was an animatronic “storytime” nightly in the lobby that Franny declared “creepy,” which is an example of a trait I love about her. It featured a byootyful Indian Princess named “Yellowfeather” and some talking trees. I seem to recall something similar happened to me once in high school, but it did not take place in a resort.
The show kicked on again in the morning as I was getting a latte and it was much worse, somehow, with no audience. Sometimes stuffed robotic raccoons (double ugh) would come to life in the corridors and begin to sing. Every surface, including the trash can rims (covered with molded-plastic cute woodland creatures), was perfectly in theme and embellished, reminding me of staying at a Disney resort years ago, where even the light switches had mouse heads on them.
I popped into a wizard-themed shop and spoke to a man with a goatee wearing a metallic-gold cape. “Is this where you can buy wolf ears?” I asked him. No, he replied, that was at a “kids camp” here.
“I used to wear them,” he offered. “But They made me stop. Sadface.”
The waterpark rules sign read, in bolded letters, “DO NOT POOP OR PEE IN THE POOL.” It was nice to be warm, and I finally got to wear my rowr rowr 60s style teal halter suit (+15 to vanity and moxie) but I was happy to get home.
IN OTHER NEWS
I am still cooking (shocker, I know). Now that my list of recipes are winding down, I have picked up more hours at work! Hooray! I am almost a useful and productive human being again.
Last night I made three ounces of candied peel from oranges, lemon, and a citron.
It’s going into this gorgeous mincemeat, which contains real meat.
We’ve been hanging out all week, since Strudel is off. SeaFed came at me with charts and graphs of why he should have Franny all week (congrats, you win the crazy-off THIS TIME, SeaFed) so she is gone and dour about it as usual.
I took Strudel to the library and when she came home she made a “book puzzle.”
I hope the snow melts a bit. There is a goose downtown with my name on it for tomorrow, and I don’t know if I can get down there!! Happy Fangsgiving, I’ll be back with pictures, triumphs, and FAILURE.
So, I Got The P*dophelia Book, How’s Your Day Going?
HELLO NEW VISITORS. Please be warned, I am quoting portions of the book in the comments. THIS MAY BE TRIGGERING for abuse survivors.
Note: I do not condone, agree with, or endorse p*dophilia in any way or form and I find this book reprehensible.
You following the news? A pro-p*edophilia manual/manifesto book is being sold on Amazon, and the internet is, justifiably, shitting itself. There was a review on Amazon that got me thinking:
I have seen this kind of argument all over the place today, so I decided to put my money where my mouth was: I paid for it and downloaded it.
There is discussion of “appropriate” sexual activities between minors and adults, including discussion of contraceptives. There are pornographic accounts of sex between minors and adults. The plight of p*dophiles is compared to the plight of the Jews during World War II. There are made up words. It IS a how to, and a how-to-not-get-caught. It is Not Nice at All. I felt queasy after skimming it.
A selection of quotes:
As long as both partners have passed the age or majority, there is no question of p*dophilia. So, a ninety-year-old is not a pedophile if its partner is thirteen and they both live in New Mexico.
Do not imagine that you have been given a mere code of ethics. Instead consider that the nectar of love has been given from the hand of compassion and grace. To this the eye of truth and fairness doth witness. Ponder upon this, O people of vision.
Now you have a brief summary of the crazy. Flame/link away. I will answer questions if you like.
ETA: Author says he has sold one copy. [via Badgermama]
Update, 8:06 p.m.: The book’s URL now is a 404 page.
Update, 12-Nov: I’ve closed comments. Thanks, everyone, for stopping by and commenting. The news cycle has moved on very quickly, as usual, but if anyone has any questions I can be reached as always via email, SJ @ this domain. Thanks again.
You Can Taste the Resentment in My Cookie
Hello! This is an announcement to say that we have now entered the fourth quarter of The Queen’s Scullery. Woo! Black crepe pom poms! Tuberculosis’d! Etc. Anyway, I would like to cordially invite you or someone you know to contribute an article on some aspect of Victorian culture if you’re so inclined. We get a fair amount of traffic and it’s just good “clean” “fun.” Links back to your site NO CHARGE. Email me and we can rap.