Are you there God? It’s me, Abe Vigoda.
Finally, a book for me about MY problems!
Category Archives: MF Diary
Super Saturday Footie PWNage
Figure One: My place card, up in the nosebleed seats. Apparently I am a “chicken.” Whatevs.
Companion and I went to his holiday party on Saturday night. We got all dressed up and junk, knowing that some people would be wearing ball gowns (there was a fine Scarlet O’Hara number in attendance) and others would be wearing jeans. We were somewhere in between. I just got my hair did, thanks to Supa, so it was krazy baboon’s ass red.
Figure Two: No one will notice that these foot-long eyelashes aren’t real.
As we walked in the door, we were immediately descended upon. I suspect they were eager to bounce us because we were looking pretty non-conservative. Since Companion works for a contracting firm, he didn’t actually know anyone in the room and no one recognized him. But lo, we gave the correct names, and were name-tagged, wined, and sent on our way.
When I Awaken, I Must Be Mistaken, I’m on Third Avenue
WOW! Today was my first day of yoga! I sat on the edge of the bed, putting on the pants I bought for kickboxing partway through when Companion’s running pants weren’t doing the trick anymore.
“Are you excited?” Companion asked groggily.
“Yes. When they ask me what my goal is, I’m going to reply, ‘To fellatiate myself,” I said.
“Don’t you mean…?”
“No, I mean ‘fellatiate.”
“See, people like you is the reason I’m glad I’m not a teacher.”
I did really well! The teacher gave me a gold star. She asked me if I’d ever done yoga before and I said no, but later in the privacy of her office I confessed my sordid yoga past with Denise Austin. I was forgiven on the spot!
Companion Sings the “No Chaichi-Humpin Blues”
I have barred Companion from the house until he gets his Chachi-mop mown down.
“What?” he said, incredulously.
“I said, ‘Don’t come home until you get a haircut.’ I am not bedding down with Scott Baio tonight.”
“Ugh,” he ughed, but then he complied. I promised I would keep the lentil stew I’m making warm. That’s better than it sounds, I swear. It’s not just a pile of hippie barf. There’s carrots and bacon, and some other crap.
Man, if I had a diner I’d be bringing them in in droves. Tonight’s special: Some Crapped Up Stuff I Found. Served with Sauce avec “lumps de foreboding.” Poor Companion. The only reason he comes home every night is because he has nowhere else to go. And the bench warrant. Heh.
They’re Just Like Apples, Only Smaller
Thanks everyone, for giving me some sweet, sweet reader’s advisory. Mmm, yeah. I will certainly pursue some of your leads.
1. So, what’s going on? I am having one of those times where I am busy with very boring things. I look back on the day, and I say, “Man, today was jam-packed…with lameness.” On the other hand, it’s keeping the winter wackness at bay, for now.
Supa is a busy working lady for pay now, after being out of the paid work force for eight years. The tables have turned so completely. When I met her, she was at home with her crazy girls, and I was just about to start graduate school. Now Supa is relishing her freedom from being screamed at and vomited on all day. Because when that happens at work, people get fucking FIRED!
After her first day Supa texted me: “Working is so much easier than being a mom!” Ha! The secret’s out now. Watch out, indolent husbands.
2. I don’t usually talk about this. Ugh.
I have taken leave of the kickboxing. It is due to be over this week, but I haven’t been feeling right since I got back from Canadia. I’ve had syphilis for forty-three years, and my nose is collapsing, so I think I should have something done about that so I don’t ruin my pretty face.
Fleeing Your Honeymoon In Seven Easy Steps
1. No Billy Tiptons Here
Dear MF Diary, can you get an annulment if your rugged beloved has ladyparts where another variety was promised? Ha, ha, no just kidding. There was certifiable peen. Hence the baby. I don’t think anyone would believe I fell on a turkey baster anyhow.
Figure 1: Dinner at Santiago’s. It started well.
2. The Rain
Holy Moly, there was some rain there. I know, I know, it’s Ye Olde PNWed. But where we are it sort of kills you softly with mist, and you feel fine, but one day you look in your armpit and there’s moss there, and the day after that you’re like that creature that Stephen King turned into in Creep Show. Yuckers.
But Victoria rain, that’s for real. We got soaked like crazy. My shoes shrunk. Hee.
Figure 2: “Checking out” the Victoria Public Library. Ho ho ho. Erm.
3. Rat Behavior
Strudel behaved like someone else’s child. You know, that kid you see in a restaurant who’s throwing forks at their parents’ heads and lighting the edge of the table cloth on fire. You’re like (especially if you’re gleefully childless), “HFS, I will never have a child like that. What is wrong with those people? It looks like all they’re doing is sitting there drinking alcohol with tears silently running down their faces. People like that shouldn’t leave the house.”
Hi! That was us. That was our daughter who was in a screaming puddle of fury on the ferry because we weren’t allowed to stay on the car deck, therefore strapping her into her seat, which would have allowed her to nap. Don’t worry; we learned our lesson and won’t be leaving the house again.
We were almost constantly in public, too, so we had trouble doing the really hardcore toddler lockdown stuff. There were always people swooping in with crayons and offering candy and making goo goo faces at her. And people were giving me dirty looks every time I got the Taser out.
Figure 3: The view from our balcony. Say, that’s the butt of Parliament!
4. An Aside
The cat just threw up on the couch. Steaming chunks of rich sliced beef in gravy are sliding down the face of the velvet cushions. I hate that fucking cat sometimes. How can a cat go from hiccupping to rocket vomiting in three seconds? When cat vomit can change, chameleon-like, to match my furniture, then I will believe in intelligent design.
5. Rivulets of Pure Streaming Love
So first there was wet water rain, and then there was a rain of snot. Strudel got sick within a couple of days of our arrival, which wasn’t too surprising, because Franny was sick on Halloween with a fever. Companion spent the whole trip with a stiffening snot epaulet on each shoulder.
Figure 4: Before the plague hit.
6. Flee! FLEE!
By day five of our seven day trip, we gave it up. We were exhausted. Sex was something to discuss in the abstract. You know you’re in trouble when you get to this point. “So, if we had enough energy to have sex, how would we do it? Ooh, that sounds fu…ZZZZZZ.”
Saturday was the absolute nadir. We trudged around Chinatown morosely, looking in windows without stopping and getting wetter and wetter. We tried to stop into a comics shop, which is normally something that cheers us up, but it was mostly a games dungeon with a shitty selection and the owner was a dick.
We ended up at dim sum, where Strudel would not put one bite into her mouth. She threw something at me, splashing soy sauce everywhere. Back at the hotel, we contemplated our options for abandoning Strudel in Canada.
“Canadians are nice,” I said. “They’ll raise her right.”
“Customs might notice that we had three people with us when we arrived,” Companion reasoned.
We made a pact to go home the next day, which was just in time, because on the ferry ride home I felt like I had been beaten with a stick. I came down with the dreaded fever and cold as well.
7. Cocoon World
For the last two days of our trip we let our catsitters off the hook and just hid in the house. We rented movies and Companion busted into the bread baking book I got him for his birthday on Halloween. Yesterday he made panettone, which is something we scarf around here over the holidays. It’s nice to live with someone who has patience for the yeast breads.
In the end, we recovered. Poor Companion is depressed, because he wanted to have a really nice honeymoon. It sounds lame and trite, but I’m just glad it was with him.
Naked Librarians Wed; NO Film at 11
So we got married.
We started big. We booked the Library Bistro downtown a year ago, all fancy and ooh-la. We were going to do it all cocktail/drinks/tinkly piano-stylee. But then the event planner changed. And then in was a month before the wedding and we still hadn’t heard from the new one, so we cancelled. Do not try to plan a wedding at the Library Bistro. There’s more to this story, but I’ll leave you with that.
And then we thought we’ll do it at home! We’ll do it small! But that sort of fell apart, too. It ended up being just us; even the children were gone or sleeping. I didn’t want to bust out my wedding dress for that, because we had punted on picking up Companion’s tuxedo, so I opted for being starkers. It worked out well. I let Companion examine my teeth as well, so he could be sure of what he was getting. Later we put clothes back on and took some of our family out to Moroccan.
For you, I leave out the crying parts and the stress parts and the parts where we spend a bunch of money on things that don’t work out! The cake was DEELICIOUS.
I feel like the whole part of our struggle with the wedding planning and our friends and family was summed up in one sentence by Companion’s brother: “You have dead people on your cake. THAT’S WEIRD.”
And so, we were pleased that we did it by ourselves and that we went through with it at all. Franny says she’s glad we’re married, though she’s dismayed that she couldn’t be a flowergirl, and Strudel says the same thing she always says nowadays: “NO WAI.”
Aside:
“Want some toast?”
“NO WAI.”
“Want a kiss?”
“NO WAI.”
“Put down the knife, please.”
“NO. WAI.”
“Yes pees,” is the answer you get if you offer strawberry kefir or soy mocha foam.
Hello Mother. Hello Father.
Whoa whoa whoa, life was whuppin me. Today I woke up with a small bug that made my guts rumble, and I said “that’s it, life, you fucking asshole, obviously things are not going to get better so I might as well get out of bed and pretend it isn’t happening.” Plus Companion had that look. You know. The I REAALLY WANT TO GO TO WORK look. It’s a weird one. After he asked me for the eighth time if I “reeeeally needed him to stay home” I shooed him out.
I took me a while to recognize that look. As you can guess, my ex-husband never manifested the I Really Want To Go To Work look. The first couple times I thought Companion just really had to pee or something.
I haven’t puked yet. You know what I felt like this morning? Morning sickness. The only thing worse than experiencing the feeling of morning sickness and not being pregnant is experiencing morning sickness and being pregnant. Cause then you’re pregnant. And that baby, she will come out and be barfing on you in a few months. You can’t win. And then she’ll grow up and say “I totally hate you, Mother, and I am going to model my life on my idol, Mallory Keaton, portrayed magnificently by Justine Bateman on Family Ties.”
Am I the only one who experiences things that are like pregnancy when they are stone-cold not sperminated? I doubt it.
Moving on: I need to tell you that I got 93% of the hair ripped off my junk on Tuesday. I had some pain after. Wednesday was like a sunburn, in a place where if you are smart you will never get a sunburn.
Overall I like it. I was tempted to go for the Hitler mustache, because I think there’s something postmodernly-hilarious about having a hoo hoo that’s doing an imitation of a white supremacist. In the end I decided on a triangle. The post-wax triangle is like the vestigial tail. Or a pinky toe. Useless, somewhat pathetic. Decoration. Or perhaps it’s like a topiary; a mockery of nature.
I think I’m going to stick with it. I like this perversion of nature. Also, not having to shave as often. I am a sucky shaver. I don’t really cut myself, but I miss strips of hair here and there and I feel like I’m always rockin it Seth Brindle stylee. BOO.
And now I must tell you that Hamstergrrl sent me this link to a video. I thanked her because it features one of my very favorite things–the convention of the reporter not knowing what the ding dang dooly is going on behind him. In this case the ding dang dooly is a ding dong dildo. Yeah! Thanks Hamstergrrl.
Also, when I accidentally send something to my spam folder in gmail, and I go there to fetch it out, google now features ads there for Spam recipes. If only I could turn the spam I get into something nutritious. I would never have to shop again.
I hope this makes sense. Um…camp is fun! We are making lanyards today after canoeing! I miss your cooking!
Love,
Bigus Dickus
Addendum, 3:58 pm: Vomiting now. Will not be at BlogHer meetup. Goodbye cruel lunch.
Booze Shoes Capitalism. This Blog is Just Writing Itself, People.
Sunday night Whippet and her husband came over to dinner. They brought their kids, who go to school with Franny, and they almost fell asleep in their plates, because they had an impromptu sleepover the night before with another kid from their school. It’s a shame they were so tired, because I made pretty good Moroccan food. It was the dog’s breakfast to them. I understand. Sometimes sleep is more important. And I imagine couscous can make a nice pillow.
So Whippet’s husband took them home (home being a half-block away). Whippet decided at the last minute to go back with him, but she came back and finished off her champagne and dessert with me. She was inundated with champagne and sparkling wine for her birthday, and her husband doesn’t drink it. Whippet knows I am good for it, so she hooks me up now.
It took me so long to get to know any of the moms at Franny’s school after the divorce started. Before the divorce I was super-busy with school, and during the divorce I found out that SeaFed was having moms sign pieces of paper saying what a stellar dad he was for court (after only knowing him for a couple of months). So I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Whippet is one of those social-hub people, though, the kind that will ferret you out and find out what your deal is. And she knows a thousand people to introduce you to. I think there were at least fifty people at her son’s fourth birthday, all having a fabulous time on the lawn, eating pizza and drinking sangria.
So of course she got up my tree, especially when she found out that I was pregnant. I wasn’t sure about her at first, but now I think she’s a really good person. She’s strict with her kids like I am, and she says I’m one of the only people she trusts with them. After sending her daughter to SeaFed’s house once and seeing how he was living (insulation, exposed nails/metal), and seeing that the playdate was TV, I think she was willing to give me credit just for leaving him. I am sort of kidding, but not completely.
And now Whippet is trying to move to Asia next year. Seriously, Asia. This is what happens when I befriend people. They realize their mistake and have to go into witness protection. Ah, I would move away if I could, too.
Sup Fools: In Which Asshole Gives an Account of All Her Doings And Beings And Whatnot, &etc
I am so happy my blog is back up. Anyone else see the White Screen O’ Death? No redesign here, no overhauls. And no clue what happened, really. Eh.
I called Daniel to fix my biznaz and he was in a car in Northern Illinois, off to shoot guns with his Maw. That guy, honestly.
1. “I Love to Hear You All Groaning In the Morning”
Kickboxing is going very, very well. I’ve finally turned the corner on soreness and exhaustion, and am getting stronger. It is easier already to do simple things, like carry heavy objects. I feel myself swinging out of bed now, propelled by my new crunchy abs. My neighbor asked what I’ll be able to do when I’m done with my program.
“Break boards with your hand?” he said.
“I’ll be able to pick up cars. And throw them,” I replied. He looked impressed.
Our next weigh-in’s tomorrow. I don’t have too far to go, but it will be nice to tone up. I suspect my weight has gone up (muscle) and my body fat’s gone down. And the bagwork…ah, the bagwork. Due to the power of my overactive imagination, my enemies have received many broken noses.