Last night…I dreamt…that somebody loved me.

Okay, just kidding. I just can’t get that song out of my head. Let’s start over.

Last night…I went to a bellydancing class. It was through the auction at Franny’s school. I asked if I could buy-in, but in the end I just ended up showing up, because so many women flaked out. One of my mom-acquaintances at Franny’s school, Whippet, had to call around just to get someone, anyone, to show up. I was promised cocktails and treats, so a gaggle of wild Brandon Davises couldn’t have kept me away.

The hostess, a mom of two kids in Franny’s class who has been bellydancing for most of her life, had a trunk full of harem pants and veils, which she insisted we help ourselves to. A lot of the blather was about children and school and husbands. There was much eye-rolling about the fact that many husbands would be expecting to see what we learned. Whippet kept referring to my companion as my husband, and another mom turned to me and said, “You’re not married, are you, SJ?” I said, “No, I got two babydaddies and no husband. I’m a ho.” There was some laughing and murmuring that I should have had my sangria cut off at that point, but what they don’t realize is that I will say things like that at ten a.m. on a Sunday.

I learned some pretty cool maneuvers, but I’m not sure that I want to pursue it. I am feeling the effect of doing “snake arms” this morning, which makes me want to start weightlifting again. I don’t think I have the temperament to shake my jelly like that. If I did a performance, I would have to overcome the urge to start jumping around karate-chopping like THAT four-year-old who should probably be medicated, or at least made to run laps daily. I think I’m more suited to kickboxing or at least jumping around like an idiot.

But it was fun. The company was good, the sangria was cold, and the baklava was delicious. Whippet got a little too drunk and criticized the class on our walk home, saying there was “too much dancing, and not enough drinking,” but it was really okay. How can you complain about doing something new on a Saturday night, that doesn’t involve your babies being on your jock, asking for snacks or emptying out your kitchen drawers? I like taking a break and only being responsible for myself for a few hours. And it got me invited to a weekly playgroup this summer, so that will keep tiny whiners from getting too bored.

Last night we went off to Redmond to see one of the latest concoctions from Cirque du Soleil. You probably shouldn’t read this if you’ve yet to go, as my interpretation of Cirque du Soleil’s newest show may spoil the surprise of their special brand of glitzy gibberish. I don’t know, can you spoil something that doesn’t completely make sense? I’m not complaining; I like it when things don’t make sense.

Anyway, the show currently in Seattle is called “Varekai,” which according to the website is the Romany word for “wherever.” I thought maybe it would have a gypsy-type theme, then, but it featured a lot of people dressed as bugs and sea creatures writhing around on the stage. This in itself is pretty cool, but these people are so flexible that several times I was afraid their heads might accidentally slide into their crotches. It’s a good thing they were wearing so much spandex, is all I’m going to say.

The show starts with this feathered Icarus dude falling out of the sky. He gets his wings yoinked away by a jerk with a lightbulb spouting out of his head. The rest of the show features this Icarus guy sliding around the stage as if he’s been half deboned, while the other people/creatures taunt them with his own wings. This is broken up with comedy, light effects, and people swinging around on ropes and narrowly avoiding giving birth to their own heads. There are also people ambling around on crutches and what appears to be water therapy.

Apparently, at the end Mr. Icarus gets well again. I kept waiting for the little man to get his wings back and FLY A-GAIN, but instead he gets distracted and marries the most flexible girl there, who could probably lick her entire spine. Well played, Icarus, well played.

Okay, so this may sound a little critical, but I really enjoyed myself, and so did my fella. It’s the first time we’ve had a night out since Valentine’s Day, and that alone made it pretty awesome. If I have any nits to pick with Cirque du Soleil, it’s that they march you through one of the merch tents on your way in and out. But hey, no one forced me to buy a four-dollar clown nose, so we were fine. I enjoyed it more than the first time I went, because I was pregnant with Franny and was, therefore, slightly ADD, as well as on the countdown to intermission because of my bladder.

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Here’s some more about ME.

So, I didn’t want to post about this until I had actually DONE SOMETHING, but a couple of weeks before I moved to this new house my friend Tom asked me to contribute to one of his webchildren, the Urban Archivist, especially since I’d been writing about Wallingford and Aurora. I just cross-posted my recent entry “We Can BJ” there, and soon I will be posting there with some stuff that will not appear on this site, about Seattle, etc.

Of course, in the spirit of shameless self-promotion, I will let you know when an original post is up there. I will also be migrating my old entries on Aurora Avenue and the like there eventually. I don’t want to totally flood them all at once with my blather.

The Urban Archivist is a super-neato site in its own right. I had it grabbed on mydelicious before Tom graciously invited me to join them.

Here’s a snippet from their statement of purpose:

The Urban Archives project contributes to the body of knowledge on urban communication. Since 2004, we have been documenting Seattle’s streets and conducting original research using a variety of approaches and perspectives. We carry out field research by capturing urban texts such as graffiti, public art, advertising, signage, and architectural design. These urban texts are archived, annotated, and shared with the community for further research and analysis. Since our inception, our data collection has expanded beyond Seattle.

Thanks again, Tom! I am excited to be collaborating with one of the only orginal, creative people I met in graduate school.

Companion and I were tootling around Greater Wallingford when I noticed a landscaping flyer on the ground with writing on it in pen. The only thing I can’t figure out is why they were communicating in writing. Maybe they were afraid their negotiations would be overheard? I think I’ve got it in about the right order, although there were probably hand gestures and non-verbal communication to fill in the gaps. It should be noted that I found this a stone’s throw from Blue Video.

Male: Im Marco.
Female: I’m Jennifer.
Male: Cops. I remember you. I’m single.
Female: I’m too.
Male: Where you live?
Female: Capitol Hill
Male: I don’t have no home I got kick out 3 day ago. How much?
Female: I can front of stuff and we can BJ.
Male: I don’t like weed, only rock.
Female: How much
Male: Can u get $20 stuff and we would enjoy BJ or sex go to your place fun or what?
Female: Be patient.
Male: Where go
Female: Be patient
Male: I miss u
Female: I’ll get $20.00 at 5pm 45th/16th I’ll give you a call. 5pm

A couple of weeks ago, Joshua Norton, Protector of Wales, entreated me to act as his guide to the internets to show him what gems I’ve been stumbling upon lately. I have been looking this way and that and have discovered that…I have really bootums taste. And assume that you should not click on any of these at your place of business. Unless your place of bidness is you, at home, with your hand in your pants. (Talking to you, DT.)

Grab Yo Socks! It’s the Quadumvirate of Evil; click it bitches.

The Church of Annette: this webpage makes me feel dirty and I love every minute of it. Also, he relentlessly makes fun of Perez Hilton, which is A-OK avec moi.

Fourfour: better if you’re into ANTM, but still pretty good anyhow.

For Sentimental Reasons: PIMP CUPS, BITCH’S. What, NOT dishwasher safe? Do I have to SLAP a BITCH???

Templar, AZ: I’ve been all short-attention span theater lately, so I think I need to re-read this, but I love it. It’s a webcomic by a very very smart lady. Related: Playing with Dolls.

Also a comic: Cat and Girl and Beaver and Steve!

And, I am really degenerate so I can’t stop clicking on Oh No They Didn’t! I forgive you, Livejournal, for you have broughten me ONTD.

Also, The Morning News fercrissakes. Like all the good parts of the New Yorker, without all the nasty thinky parts.

So, clicky clicky clicky away from this acursed place, we’re all doomed, etc.

UltimateBadassss9: Sup, SJ.
SuperJive: Hey who is this? I don’t have my gchat on.
UltimateBadassss9: I know you don’t have it on.
SuperJive: Is this spam? I don’t want porn.
UltimateBadassss9: lol. This is God speaking.
SuperJive: STFU
UltimateBadassss9: And don’t be ridiculous. Everyone wants porn.
SuperJive: Well, I don’t want porn RIGHT NOW. What do you want?
UltimateBadassss9: No, seriously. Look at my user name. And I logged you in myself.
SuperJive: Why are you IMing me?
UltimateBadassss9: If I burn a bush, then someone immediately whips out their cel and calls the FD.
SuperJive: Okay, fair enough. What do you want to chat about, “God?”
UltimateBadassss9: Don’t think I’m not detecting sarcasm here. I thought you might like to chat for a while. It seems like you have a lot on your mind lately.
SuperJive: That’s true. I was at the bank the other day and CNN was on and the screen said something about nuking Iran. I think that’s a super bad idea, don’t you.
UltimateBadassss9: I don’t know. I don’t really make judgments about stuff like that.
SuperJive: What happened to “thou shalt not kill?”
UltimateBadassss9: That wasn’t me, that was Charlton Heston.
SuperJive: Oh, snap, good one, god. lol
UltimateBadassss9: Are you sucking up to God?
SuperJive: No, sir.
UltimateBadassss9: Ha ha, J/K.
SuperJive: You suck.
SuperJive: Hey speaking of, did you hear that Gwyneth Paltrow just named her baby “Moses?”
UltimateBadassss9: Yes, I did. What happened to Banana?
SuperJive: Since you would know if I’m humoring you, I’m just going to come out and say that joke is very 2005.
UltimateBadassss9: Okay. lol
SuperJive: Anyway, if we bomb Iran, and China bombs us, and everyone else gets in on it, you’re going to have a lot fewer believers. As an abstract concept, it’s people’s faith that keeps you “alive.” Do you care about that?
UltimateBadassss9: Well, I can counter that argument by saying that historically, in times of turmoil, people are more fervent in their beliefs.
SuperJive: So one black plague-infested peasant is worth three twenty-first century disease-free Westerners?
UltimateBadassss9: Realistically, maybe four.
SuperJive: Wow
UltimateBadassss9: And you have to remember that no matter what happens, I will just transform into whatever people need me to be. I’ve been a dude for a long time, but I started in human consciousness as a female, the literal giver of life. I’ve been splintered into many gods with cat heads or fins or have been just the sun.
SuperJive: SO if we all nuke ourselves and turn into zombies, you’ll get blue flesh.
UltimateBadassss9: Well, I don’t think that’s very likely.
SuperJive: You can take loaves and fishes and turn them into BRAAAINS
UltimateBadassss9: This is why I don’t talk to people from your century very often.
SuperJive: Suddenly transubstantiation will become a lot more literal. “Eat of my delicious, delicious flesh….”
*UltimateBadassss9 has logged off at 10:46 am*
SuperJive: God? Come back!
SuperJive: I didn’t get my three wishes!
SuperJive: Dammit.

So on Thursday night, I decided to get clever and invite Daniel and Supa over for dinner. My sister came, too, after work. Regular readers will be unsurprised to discover that I served a lamb roast–in fact, I am so predictable now that my friends dubbed me a Lambitarian. I think I’m going to use that excuse to befuddle people. “Dude, get those fucking chicken fingers away from me, you know I’m a LAMBITARIAN. Proper.”

Figure 1: This viognier complemented THE SHIT out of the taleggio.

So Thursday became sort of an informal housewarming. I didn’t know we were entitled to another one, since we have moved three times in as many years, but that didn’t stop Supa from bringing me a beautiful cyclamen plant, which she said reminded her of my old hair color. IT’S THE TITS.

Figure 2: THE TITS.

Here are my friends looking innocuous. They got crazier later. My sister challenged Daniel to a mad rhyming smackdown. You wouldn’t even know that later a person who shall remain nameless revealed that they had both bumped rails off of someone and had rails bumped off them. No guessing, either, because that would just be uncouth. (It’s not me, so stow that forthwithly.)

Figures 3 & 4: Daniel tells a story about drunkenly painting the basement of a party which he crashed. Naked. Wearing an eyepatch. Everyone feigns interest politely.

For those who don’t know, Daniel rocks the braids, and Supa is pink, and my sister is purple right now. Companion is wearing his customary stripes.

In Other News: Yet More Piggery

And tonight, to end my week-long fun orgy, Supa and I skipped off to the newish Moroccan restaurant in Crown Hill, my Ye Olde Gheetto Enclave. I felt a little jumpy at first, like I was waiting for SeaFed to pop out of one of the palms or something (since he still lurks in that crappity old house where the chickens were), but he didn’t.

And we had the most awesome meal. Everyone who can, should try Moroccan once. It’s not spicy or fried or any of those things that can scare people off. It’s meat falling off bones and delicious bean soups and chicken b’stila, which is a chicken-egg-almond mixture inside of puff pastry with sugar on top. Oh my jesus.

Supa pointed out that for once I got my wish of having a jiggly bikini girl around, because behold, it was Saturday night and there was a belly dancer. I even got to tip her, OH HO HO I am such a pimp. We were lucky that we had her, too, because we looked at the wall roster of belly dancers, and, frankly, one of them was pretty, well, cross-eyed. But I’m sure she is talented. And to eat we had, um…not lamb. OKAY, we had lamb, you caught me!

And now Supa is taking a vacation to San Francisco for two weeks, and when she comes back we are going to look into kickboxing classes, so when I say Do I Have To Slap A Bitch? I can really mean it. Supa gone…sad panda.

Yesterday I met Squid, a blogger who found me (hooray!) about three years ago. She was visiting Seattle so I took Strudel to have a run-around with her Mali, who is three months older. Mali’s a little smaller than Strudel, so it was funny to see someone a little smaller racing around spouting off words. Strudel decided to give Mali one of her patented menacing hugs and Mali shouted, “Hi Mama!” which I believe is toddlerese for “Get this nutbar off me.” I also met Squid’s older girl Iz, and I am very sorry Franny wasn’t there to meet her too. If I am very lucky I will meet some more cool women like her in my very own city someday.

I haven’t posted about this at all, but I really want to go to the BlogHer conference this year. Squid went last year and is going again this year [ETA: okay, I am completely high because I thought Squid went but she didn’t.]. I feel like I want to even more now, after Squid has stepped off of the Internet and become a real person (to me, I mean). There are some other people I would also like to meet in real life, like Badger. It’s all about the benjamins at this point. It should have happened sooner, but this house opened up, and BAM, we moved.

I think it will happen. Anyway, we tried to put the babies together and get pictures of them. We did okay. They are slippery little beasts at this age–Mali would shoot off one way, and Strudel the other.

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This is some stuff I’m enjoying the shit out of lately. Just assume that it’s all NSFW.

My dick’s scared of Natalie, too.

Robin Bougie has the dopest links.

The Brick Testament–the Bible in Lego format.

Totally pleasing, even if you are not a pointy-ear wearing nerd (though that helps): Order of the Stick.

Playing with Dolls. Spike should have a gig on a nighttime soap.

Trent for gossip, because he’s actually GOSSIPING, unlike fucking Perez who’s promoting himself and listing the contents of his goodie baskets. Nobody cares about your free stuff. Do I look like I have a “I wanna hear about your free stuff” face? Nobody wanna see that, you goddam fourth grader.

After a crappy, crappy day of crying babies and banana amounts of nonsense, I could come home and click on the boss of my internets, Daniel, being redonkadonk.

And now I leave you with my new totally rad LJ avatar. This is the one I use when I write Domlijah and Mr. Roper/Mr. Furley slash. That’s hott!

Thanks Daniel! You made me laugh! You’re okay!