Today was a special day! I got to leave the house, not to punch and kick, and not with El Strudeldoro in tow. I test drove my new gynecologist. She handles like a dream on the freeway and sidestreets!

Sirisly, though, it was nice to get out of the house and do something different. I took a book for the bus. I am finally reading Microserfs by Ye Olde Douglas Coupland, and it’s funny to see all the salmon, salmon, fleece, fir trees biznaz. You know what the weirdest part is? It’s all pop-culture hell, and it seems like the protagonist was raised by television advertisements, but it was published before the era of Reality Television and obsessive celebrity culture. I think MTV’s “The Real World” existed, but that’s before there was “Survivor.” “Reality” wasn’t a genre yet. (“BACK IN MY DAY, we called that nonfiction.” SJ creakily wields due-date stamper.)

Can I tell you that I am starting to forget what the time before reality-everything was like? Microserfs is bringing it back for me a little bit. But the book…it feels a little flat somehow. If only he’d waited five more years. Then it would be the perfect melange of old television ads, childhood nostalgia (is that redundant?), alienation, and Flava FLAV!

So I piled on to the bus with the students, flashing my non-student bus pass triumphantly. People discussed readings they didn’t do and living in crappity student housing with difficult strangers. Meanwhile I read about Microsoft, a safe crashpad for those newly-sprung from college and embarking for the rest of their lives. Supa and I were talking about this the other day–the Microsoft “campus” with its weird little buildings and dimly-lit offices populated with man-boys who decorate their offices with xmas lights and manga. Not everyone, I know. But for some, college part two, right?

I was relieved when I got off for the doctor’s at a couple of stops before the bus starts disgorging the university-bound. I walked past the office building where I was awarded a research office during grad school for being a good footstool. I thought about the fact that I would have an office there now, had I been accepted to the doctoral program. I would be starting my third year as a doctoral candidate, rail thin, not sleeping, still living on Diet Cokes and cigarettes. I looked into the windows. Grey. Who designs an office in grey in Seattle? Lots of people, actually. It’s wrong. Maybe it’s to make you feel better about being indoors. See, it’s grey in here and it’s grey out there. In here, you’re dry and making money. Out there, you’re wet and stepping in goose poo.

I had stopped after the bus and bought a sugar-free Red Bull. I have a body memory of being irresponsibly caffeinated whenever I’m in the University District so I can’t resist the lure of piss-tasting chemicals. Actually, regular Red Bull tastes like piss. Sugar-free tastes like fermented piss.

I walked on, delightedly sipping my disgusting drink, and looked down to avoid the puddles on the sidewalk. In one puddle there was a brand-new-looking teal and magenta thong. The doctor’s office went well. I swear they’re nicer now than when I was a student. And it turns out there’s still not a “babydaddy” checkbox on the next-of-kin form. I don’t like the Foucaultesque “significant other.” They didn’t want to take my Companion, so I lied and said I was an orphan. When in doubt, lie on forms.

Last night I went to visit my sister in her new digs so we could watch the premiere of this season’s ANTM. Her neighborhood has many apartment buildings that used to be kitchenette hotels built for visitors to the World’s Fair in 1962. As a result, many of the buildings are practically identical, since they were knocked up at the same time.

I walked up to her door and idly noticed that the unit next to her, which had been vacant, was now occupied. “That was quick,” I thought. I knocked on her apartment door and was greeted by a middle-aged white guy. I had that moment: “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY SISTER?” I looked around and wondered where her furniture was…and then I knew. I was at the identical building next door to my sister’s. What can I say? It was dark.

The man smiled. Was he expecting me? Was he some kind of freaky radioactive gypsy who would tell me my next baby daddy would be Geraldo Rivera? (I could only be so lucky.) He looked a little drunk and was wearing suspenders.

“Oh, man, sorry!” I said. “I am at the wrong building, I think. This isn’t Eisenhower Terrace, is it?”

“Nooo,” he drawled slowly, his smile widening. “But I’ll tell you what, this may be Nixon Manor.”

I backed away a little. “Okay, well, sorry. I was looking for the same apartment next door.”

“Alright,” he said. He seemed totally unperturbed and even a little pleased that I had doltishly knocked on his door. I think that if my sister’s not home some time I could just head over to his place.

“Goodnight,” I said.

“Goodnight.”

I told my sister what I had done. “And he looked like he was happy to see me,” I concluded.

“Really,” she said.

“Well, I am pretty cute,” I said.

“Hmm,” she said. My sister always knows when to say “hmm.”

A little Friday Frivolity.

No More Turns: CivAnon. Looking at you, Companion. You have to want to quit. I love you baby.

Cool optical illusion. Try it, it works. I SWEAR this isn’t a scare site. I hate those things. I mean, how many times a day can a person change their pants? (Seven.)

Little Dancing Bendy Man. The big letter buttons are songs. It warms the cockles of my charred heart that this person used two Outkast songs. “F” is “Footloose,” of course.

Best FanFik EVAR. This is a few months old, but you have to read it.

Don’t put yourself in a garbagecan. Just don’t do it.

A proctologist is examining a man in his office when he discovers, to his great surprise, a bouquet of roses inside his ass.

“I can’t believe it!” shouts the proctologist. “There is a bunch of roses up your ass!”

“Really?” says the patient.

“YES!” says the protologist.

“What does the card say?”

I’ve made it though the first week of kickboxing. And by “made it,” I mean, “limped through like a seven-legged hamster.” Today I experienced the unique pleasure of having my triceps cramp up. This has never happened to me before, even when I was doing dips using a chair.

I attended the morning class today, and I’m so glad I did. It was half the size of the evening one, and I am a better morning exerciser anyway. I heard rumors of the evening class skipping rope and being so crowded that people were wanging each other with their ropes. I struck a deal with Companion so that I can go to the morning class when Franny is here. That way I can put her to bed.

Supa is taking the morning class right now, but she said she’ll switch over to evenings when Franny is gone to keep me company. That will make the sardine world a little better.

Printed on a tag, inside my glove:

WARNING: Boxing, kickboxing, and martial arts are contact sports. This product is manufactured with care and craftsmanship to provide a degree of protection, but is not warranted to prevent injury. Users of this product are subject to injury, including death. The user, therefore, must assume full responsibility for all risk of injuries.

Oh dag. Maybe I should go back to smoking and drinking. I won’t look as cute in my pants, but, hey, I’ll be drunk. And just as dead later. Well, I have all weekend to think about it, anyway.

This weekend ended up being relatively quiet, in the end. We had Bumbershoot tickets, but big lamers that we are, we did not go. Now I take a break where I imagine my eighteen-year-old self punching my twenty-eight-year-old self in the fucking face. Sorry, surly youth! I was tired.

DJ Assault was more than enough excitement for me on Saturday night. I decided that since I had some extra time, I would dress up as a hootchie. Because, come on, it’s DJ Assault.

Companion hovered near me in the bathroom while I made myself “pretty” (Necessary Estimated Time: three hours).

Companion: What are you doing?
Me: This is called backcombing.
C: What does that do?
Me: It makes your hair stand up. See, now I comb the unratted hair over the top. POOFY!
C: Is that bad for your hair?
Me: Yup.
C: Now what are you doing?
Me: Curling my hair.
C: Is that bad for your….
Me: Just assume everything I’m doing tonight is bad for me.
C: Okay.

To paraphrase Supa, if it looks good, your hair probably got damaged in the process. It was hard to backcomb my hair without a cigarette hanging out of my mouth, but I managed.

Result: Crazed Anime Shi-Tzu Hoochie!

Shi-Tzu, Me. You can’t tell the difference.

I rocked my gold fakeskin shoes, which have left cuts on my footies that are still sore. The price of being a GLAMMA QUEEN, I tells ya.

I told Daniel that if he bought me enough drinks I would make out with some big booty girls in front of him.

“A double-WHATEVAH for the lady!” he replied, suavely. What a high roller that pimp is.

The rest of the weekend there was grumping and napping by everyone. On Sunday we went to a barbeque at Halo’s parents’ house. Halo changed her plans and will be here for the rest of the week, so MF squee! I haven’t seen her in five months, but due to the gloriousness of free cel phone long distance, we’ve been in touch. It doesn’t make up for seeing her, though. Her off-the-cuff observations, which I’m not used to hearing in person anymore, make me “HAW” several times.

And Gracious Houseguest made her way out of our gentle haven and into her own apartment. I can’t wait to see it!

And now we have no houseguests. This place feels too big for just us and Strudel now. Soon, assuming that they don’t end up in International Dumbass Limbo (IDL), Franny will be back on the fifteenth, all jet-lagged and ready to start first grade!

Now on a sign in a gas station in Wallingford:

As the captain of our new police force, we at the offices of I, Asshole will tell you…YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SEXY. Disregard the sign…please DO cross that line. Especially if you at all resemble a hottub full of jiggly bikini girls.

Mroow! Expect to be frisked.

HEY WOW, I went on a date last night. With my baby daddy.

No, not Earl. No, not Randall. No, not Marsha. COMPANION. Sheesh, you guys. I guess I have to be more specific.

Anyway, Gracious Houseguest has watched my children twice in the past week so we could go out. Do you know the last time we went out before that? May. And the last time before that? February. I’m talking about out-out, all by ourselves with complicated, highly-stainable clothes and shit.

Presumably (and I say “presumably” because I don’t really know) Franny is in France right now. So we stormed the Greenwood neighborhood with impunity, because we knew other babydaddies wouldn’t be lurking about there. I still heart you, Greenwood. I’m sorry you make Companion a little queasy.

We ate dinner at Olive You, which I liked for lunch about a year ago. The fellow at our friendly neighborhood comics shop (one of the only reasons I come back to Greenwood) told us that Olive You is now featuring a full bar. This was our final deciding factor in going.

Supa ruined me for Seattle Greek food by taking me to this orgasmic place while I was in San Francisco. She’s said in the past that there’s ultra-deluxe Greek food to be had in Denver as well, and I have to admit I thought maybe her memory was telling her it was better than it really was. But I concede to her. There is this whole other tier of Greek food…and it’s not in Seattle. But the appetizers at Olive You are pretty good. The service both times I’ve been has been terrible. I hate having to beg for water, because I’m one of the most water-drinkingest people I’ve ever met. But I will probably go back to get some of those spreads.

Then, to walk off our bursting bellies and make room for beer, we walked up to the 74 Street Ale House. It has been at least two years since I’ve been out for cider on tap, so three went down scary-easy. The waitress remembered us from somewhere, and we told it was from that pub. We confessed that we had a baby and so weren’t out nearly as much. She said that couples often disappear for a while because of spawnatude. “Welcome back,” she said.

The rest of the evening is kind of a blur. I woke up and a bra had been completely torn in half, which was not the bra I began my evening in, my butt hurt, and there was mongoose porn everywhere. Illegal things may have occurred. I think I have met my match. This babydaddy is a keeper. Sorry, Earl. Sorry, Crockett. Sorry, Tubbs.

And today I am staring a lot and eating Peanut Butter Puffins (heck yes, yum) every two hours in lieu of actual meals. I think we should go out more often so I don’t have a Shedonism explosion like this every time. And tonight we are going to the elementary picnic to meet Franny’s new teacher! I am going to buy corndogs at the Quite Fucking Costly to eat while the good moms there serve their progeny something organic! I’ll get to say, “Would you like more eyeballs and assholes in a sweet corn coat, sweetheart?” All this without Franny! So I will get to tell everyone who innocently asks, “Did Franny get off to France alright?” what happened. Suckas!

Here is a website that has completely photochopped a young girl until she looks one of those cover girl doll people. I always enjoy websites like this that make the point about how artificial mass media images can be. It’s kind of sad, too, because if you look at the “before” picture, she looks like a normal girl you would see on the street. But if you click back and forth a few times, her real face became a little repulsive to me, because it was up against a “perfect” image.

I have been thinking about this issue a lot lately. Were celebrities prettier before photoshop? Did only the most photogenic people rise to the top? Are they taking anyone now, with the knowledge that they can fix their face on a computer and fix their voice in the mixing? The current paradigm seems somehow falser to me now that the old way of attempting to present celebrities as perfect saints who never get a divorce or hooked on drugs.

On a related note, I read somewhere on the website that the model for this is 14. She is surrounded by titles that say things like “sex bombshell” and “undress me.” Like I said, I like these movements to show what photoshop does, and I understand that they’re parodying mags like Cosmo, but that squicks me out a little even the same.

Oh I am a relentless critic today.

It’s been a while since we’ve seen Captain Vimes, hasn’t it? I’ll bet he’s getting big. But you have no idea how big. Perhaps we need something for the basis of comparison.

Continue reading →