Archive for the ‘Rantin’ Category

Oy with the Poodles Already.

Thursday, August 26th, 2010

Since we moved in 3 weeks ago, the neighbors or someone has been putting their recycling cart in our yard and driveway. I have not met or seen this person who lives next door, all I know this that they have a tiny and loud dog. It happens about three times a week. I have been patiently and perplexedly moving it back. It seems they think we are very stupid, because they keep moving it in closer and closer until today…

Someone knocked on my door a few minutes ago, which I could not answer, because I was on the phone with Seattle Public Schools, but when I opened the door to see if there was a package, there was the neighbor’s bin, right on my doorstep. What kind of wacky sitcom-like misunderstanding is this? I walked back over and knocked on their door: no answer, only yap dog.

I had to resort to The Note.

“Hello, We are your new neighbors. We thought you should know someone keeps moving your recycling bin with your address on it into our yard. This is becoming a nuisance, so could you make sure your bin stays out of our yard? Thanks.”

Update! 8/27: The note seems to have done it. The recycling bin is now over on the other other side of their gate, about as far as it can get from our yard. Let’s see if it stays there. I cannot believe I had to explain to my neighbor that it was their bin. So now they will either hate us or hide from us forever, I reckon. Good times.

“Are You a Killer?” “I Don’t Like Labels.”

Tuesday, August 24th, 2010

Sooo, the honeymoon is over here with this new house. I am not sure there was ever really a honeymoon in the first place. Moving into the 80s split level is like marrying a person you find really plain and who has kind of a boring sense of humor and spends a lot of time agreeing with you.

HOWEVER you can take his metaphor to its tragic conclusion and split your boring spouse like a tauntaun and decorate their innards with GLITTER!!

Let’s make a LIST LIKE NERDS, after which will will argue about how we organize our books, ok??

Pros:

Everything is BIGGER. House, yard, storage space, even the dishwasher is bigger. I cannot think of one thing in this house that is smaller. Nietzsche looks smaller in it, but that is an illusion, I suppose.

No neighbors! Our duplex neighbors weren’t bad, in fact, they were very nice, but we always worried about noise. Let me tell you my girls spent 17 minutes singing selected duets from the beautiful modern operetta “NO U” and I did not shoosh them once.

Cons:

There’s a couple of things going on here. We will not mention the complete lack of hot water, which is temporary, of course.

The fridge is kind of a menace. It’s one of those modern side-by-sides with the glass shelves. You would think glass shelves might be a good thing, but using it is kind of like the experience of driving a PT Cruiser.

You don’t have the top down/angle view of the food like you do in the traditional fridge. This has lead me to conclude that I am just not finding things because it is hiding behind the melon or something. I spent ten minutes looking for the leftover chicken the other day.

P. came home as I was rootling.

“Whatcha doin?” he said.

“Looking for the chicken I cannot find fucking anything in the fridge EVER.”

“Ah…I ate it,” he said.

“AHA!” I said. “I CANNOT SEE IT BECAUSE YOU ARE OPAQUE.”

Otherwise the kitchen has a lot of storage and though the stove is electric like the last one, but it works a LOT better than the one at the old place, which was one of those flat top Star Trek bullshit ones where only half the burner got warm sometimes.

Also, something bad happened in this house with animals. Now that the initial carpet-cleaning goodness is wearing off, the small of animal urine is being revealed. I am taking steps with Febreze and whatnot. Now I know what probably everyone else in the universe knows. When an ad says “No Large Animals” this may be a sign that the owner has had a bad experience with large animals.

As a renter, and as the owner of a place where some past dog let it go on the wooden floor whenever and wherever it felt like, and it was often apparently allowed to completely dry in situ, creating giant blackened lakes that are probably great if you think your dog is like the second coming of Helen Frankenthaler or something. And to this point, Nietzsche has not ever once ever gone potty in the corner ANYWHERE. She is being a complete champ here in this medium-stinky house as well, and goes outside or uses the litterbox every single time, so at least there is a finite end to the smells.

One of my favorite things about my room, besides the fact that it adjoins the loo, keeps Imelda and the Bandito together, overlooks the pear tree in the front yard, and has a giant porny closet door mirror, is my SURPRISE VIRGIN!!! hiding behind my two doors in my room.

Presh to Death

Thursday, August 5th, 2010

Ananka and I were out at Greenlake doing our usual thing, walkity walk, bitchity bitch. She was kind enough to come see the new house and give it the stamp of approval. The general consensus seems to be that the new house will be good for parties, like snobby wine kind.

We decided there was too much blood in our caffeine stream, so we made a pit stop to refuel. I was catching Ananka up on various dramz in line when this woman who had been waiting behind us interrupted.

“Excuse me,” she said. I was in my own bubble, as usual, and thought we were blocking the pathway or something. I turned. “I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but my daughter wants to say something to you.”

What, where, who the fuck was this. I put on my neutral face. Was this woman familiar? She was not. I looked down at her little daughter who was in a stroller and was nibbling on her finger. Did I know her from my Strudel’s preschool? No.

The child paused for a long moment, looking up at me. She held her hand out. “HI,” she finally managed. This is the thing she wanted to say to me?

“She is interested in your hair,” her mother said. “I do my hair red sometimes but she wants me to put pink in.”

Ahh…ok.

As we were leaving, I asked Ananka if she thought the exchange was…a little weird?

“Yes, totally,” she said.

“How rude,” I said.

“I think it was less about the kid and more about how she wanted to let you know she dyes her hair sometimes.”

“Good call,” I said. I need a shirt that says “I AM NOT HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS OK.”

Beware I Lived

Saturday, July 31st, 2010

Hi! Move happened. We had a new guy who was dropping stuff, and this sounds crazy, but it was funny. All my stuff is funky boho flea market crap pile anyhow, so MEH, what’s a few more scratches. Less Crate & Barrel, more Waterlogged Cardboard Box & Dumpster. Does it make you crazy when bloggers show off their homes and it looks like there should be an “A. $599.99, color shown: Hunter” in the corner? Maybe I am just a snot.

Here comes the moving truck!

Look at these tough guys moving my chickenhaus.

Anyway, here are my sad sticks in my new split level. Today I think we do the final furniture shifting.

If I had to guess I would say this thing was built in the early 80s. I spent time growing up in split levels and I had my older daughter in one (blood + white berber=thank god for midwives and their bag of tricks) so I am quite fond of them. Other than the fact that this one is a five-bedroom, it’s mostly the same as all the others. The lack of a basement/storage motivated me to send a lot of stuff off to charity, which, I needed that kick in the pants. I don’t think I had done a proper cleanout since everything went cattywampus at the old place in 2008.

Also, I finally have internets today. The technician came out after customer service spent a while dicking me around on the phone, but he was really good. Apparently my signal strength here is very weak, which is worrying since I am working from home now, but I have a backup plan involving laptops and local cafes, if necessary.

I am tired but happy! More later. As I was moving, I discovered what someone did to Rosie the Riveter. :’( I suspect it was Not Me, who is usually responsible for things like this in my house.

WHY DO YOU HATE FEMINISM, OK?

P.S. Heh, Franny walked by and saw the picture of Rosie as I was uploading it and said I DID NOT DO THAT and I didn’t even say anything. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

P.P.S. Someone asked me if I boxed up P. and took him with. A: Yes. Useful babbydaddies are hard to come by. We are getting along like a house afire, ngl.

Find Odlaw Now

Sunday, July 18th, 2010

Longtime readers will be unsurprised to learn that at the end of spring, before school was even threatening to let out, I arranged camp for both of my girls, since I knew I would be doing some kind of work this summer and they would need fun safe things to do. Once I had done the sign up, paid the monies, and had gotten confirmation, I very quickly cranked a schedule out to Franny’s father, who generally takes her for half the summer now. We have settled into a routine–once he moved off in 2007 or so after leaving brief notice on my voicemail that I “would be ‘handling’ Franny most of the time, if that was okay” he picks her up every other weekend and takes her for two weeks of the month in the summer.

As always, I try to plan the schedule so drop offs and pickups are close to the middle and end of the month and call for a minimum of contact between us. Things have been rather terse between me and his new wife since he forged my name to get Franny out of the country, so that avenue is kind of out as well. I heard no response from him regarding the summer camp schedule, which was both unsurprising (the not hearing back) and designed to make things as easy for him as possible, as far as explicitness and avoiding his evil bitch ex-wife. His father, who was CC’ed on the mail for his own information, replied within a day, so I know it did not just bounce.

The last time I saw him, which was a couple of weeks ago when he was picking Franny up from my house an hour after camp closed (I am very glad the little man in my stomach was telling me he was not going to show, and to take her home when I picked up Strudel) he claimed never to have seen such a camp schedule in his everloving life. Who? What? Where is camp again?

“Okay,” I said. What could I say? No apology for being late, no interest in knowing what was going on, really. This is the man I am legally obligated to send my child off with every so often.

Can I tell you? He looks old now. He is slightly stooped and his eyes are getting beady. His hair is getting frizzy with grey. He has put on weight, which, I know. Life happens. Still, it is shocking when this is the man who people would ask me what I was doing with him and how I landed him because he was just so handsome and I, apparently, was the dog’s breakfast. “Are you two…siblings?” He looks like he has been hit by a bat. I reckon child #3 has caught up with him.

In theory I am supposed to see Franny tomorrow evening after camp. Will he find the schedule? Will he figure it out? Starting on Friday he began emailing, calling, and texting me in an attempt to ditch her early (today) because he happened to be in West Seattle. But I should meet them there after the party they attended because that is only “fair.”

Don’t tell me about fair. Really. No. I was at the courthouse on business on Friday and I went in through the wrong doors. The murals on the ground came swooping up towards me and my head started pounding–I could hear my heart up in my ears. The worst day in court six years ago came rushing back to me and I began crying uncontrollably as I walked through the metal detector, down the halls, towards the elevator bay. No one seemed fazed, really. I imagine there is a ton of crying at the courthouse.

So…this person…still blithely asks me for favors that are not going to be forthcoming, as if I ever ask him for everything, as if we have some kind of arrangement, as if we have some kind of exchange. This person had the temerity to ditch our child with me and move away, and yet fuss at me for claiming her on my taxes this year. What do you do with this?

I did not return any of his calls or texts. I have to file these things under “sounds like a personal problem” and not engage because if I give anything it will be endless and draining and there will be no return on it. I guess you just have to say “whatever, dude” and keep living your life and be there when Franny’s face falls when he is late again.

P.S. He just texted me to say that since he has not heard from me this weekend he is making “alternative arrangements” for her care. In spite of the fact that she is all set for camp and has been for months. Off. His. Rocker. I replied that as far as I was concerned the camp schedule was still valid. I’ll keep you posted.

P.P.S. Now he is texting that he does not know what “please reread the camp schedule” means. Head, have you met my friend, Desk?

Denouement: I had to call him after he spent a few exchanges pretending like he didn’t know what I was talking about. He actually countered some of my arguments with “SHUT UP” and “NO U.” Awesome. This is a very proud day for his people.

Act Your Age, Not the Size of Those Pants You Wear

Thursday, June 24th, 2010

I really do need to tell you about the frat boy booty grinding incident last Saturday when I was out with Ruby, especially since someone on the Twitter asked me to elaborate. What do you want me to write about? What do you want to know? I am curious. OK I swear I will stop posting PM convos and make a real post soon, sorry. Also it is important for you to know that all I care about is Longmont Potion Castle and my next husband Dirk Funk and finding a new contract. Mine is expiring!

LF:      and I’m like, this is so unfair
Me:     It is so rare that I am rude like that
LF:     You know what’s gross, fucking ball sack. Do I complain? I do not.
Me:      It is unfair
Me:     LOLOLOL
Me:     Have you ever babysat for baby boys?
LF:     No, I’ve never babysat
Me:     Ah
LF:     …I’ve actually never held a baby before
Me:    Well, poopy diapers are no fun for boys or girls, as I’m sure you can imagine
LF:     Eek.
Me:     You know how nutsacks are like loose and floppy and slide over something firm…
Me:     And they are sensitive
LF:     yes
LF:     heh
Me:     So when babies poop the poop gets all over their nutsacks
LF:     oh god
Me:     It is really really hard to get sticky paste off that surface
Me:     Women say “boys are easier” but I think of that
LF:     these are issues I have just never imagined
Me:      I would rather have my moody girls with their crevices
LF:     haha for sure
Me:      Sometimes when i see balls I think about how they have spent months dunked in their own shit
Me:     And I am like, really, you want me to lick those
Me:     Ok I know they are clean
LF:     I actually just laughed so loud
Me:    Good
Me:       I am in a mood!
LF:     They’re so weird. I’ve always thought balls are weird.
Me:      THEY ARE
Me:      Internal genitalia is awesome
LF:     Hurray!

(Whoa, WordPress won’t let me just drop the link in today, it embeds. Sorry.)

I Got the Sickest Vendetta When It Comes to Taleggio

Saturday, June 19th, 2010

Last night I dreamt that SeaFed was on a game show that involved producing streams of bullshit at lightning speed. He did very well! He insisted on making me watch the tape after and I couldn’t help but notice how old he was looking, which is something I have no clue about since I cannot actually remember the last time I saw him. Has it been a year? Possibly.

Speaking of fathers, I dragged P. out with me, whom I had extremely important plans with to watch Gilmore Girls later, just like in ye olde days. My goal was to dial M for Meat and get some random animal parts to make this thing that takes like three days this weekend, no kidding. But I had to start FRIDAY NIGHT because stage one takes 12 hours. I had a total I WANT AN OOMPALOOMPA NOW DADDY moment in my sad head when it was only 7:30 and the meat saw was already shut down for the night, and I was told it would take a half-hour to reassemble. I WONDER.

The best part, though, was taking P. to the drug store. He was holding his Feral Dwarf’s hand (currently she is HIS since she penned on the window sill yesterday) and the clerk said, “Happy Father’s Day” to him to be nice, and he responded with nothing more than a stunned and confused look.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the clerk said quickly. “I assumed she was his…”

“Yes, she is,” I said. “He just doesn’t know there is a holiday this weekend.”

“Ah ha,” she said, confused.

He turned to me as we walked away. “Father’s Day,” he said, wonderingly.

“Yes, you had better call your father on Sunday,” I said.

“Huh. It’s nice to be remembered,” he said.

“Yeah, it is,” I sighed, thinking about how Mother’s Day went forgotten this year.

There is a little bit of vindictive ignoring of Father’s Day on my part, I admit, and about three parts “eh.” It is obviously not important to anyone I know. It’s probably time to just let it go and save my money for a BOOTY POP or something.

You’re As Booty As You Come and You Dress Like a Geek

Friday, May 21st, 2010

I am thinking about two things today. One: still thinking about Miss USA and people bocking over the fact that she participated in a pole dancing competition before she was crowned, which violates the morality agreement that is part of the rules participants have to agree to.

I started thinking about why this morality clause even exists in the first place. Are these young women really role models? Is there anyone outside of the pageant world who points to the contestants and says to their children, “Honey, this is your future?” Rah tah to women (and men) trading in large part on their looks to win fabulous cash prizes and scholarships, but does it really matter if the “Miss” in question has ever given birth or has acted as a parent (see rule 2)? Is there are rule against men becoming fathers in these contests? I could not find a morality clause for men.

This leads me to conclude, because I like making crazypants leaps like Caitlin Flanagan, that even beyond  the surface “Hey here are some bitches in a bikini” these pageants are  about some antiquated idea of sexual desirability. I think if they could get away with it, they would ensure the face of Jesus appears on every contestant’s intact hymen. Who cares if you’ve even been pregnant? The last time I checked abortion was legal, and also none of anyone else’s business. What if you are a mother? SO WHAT?

I spent most of my twenties married, in some kind of self-imposed sequestered state, during which I balked at even wearing a skirt that fell above the knee, but I think if my life would have gone differently or I was ten years younger, I would probably have some kind of interesting mini-scandal up my sleeve from my twenties or late teens. Our culture is pretty freaking sexualized/pornified to the point where I almost think it would be difficult to avoid. And why should people avoid it, if they are going to live public life where they are trading on their looks or sexuality? I’d say the Miss America/USA pageants are kind of the exception.

Here’s the answer: bimbo cloisters. Does your preschooler have promising bone structure? Lock her up now, before she puts her Miss Body Shots 2027 pics on whatever passes for Facebook in the future times.

Thing the second is that I really enjoyed a look at the dementia prediction issue on Radiolab called “Vanishing Words.” It’s about Agatha Cristie’s language decay in her final books and about the study they did on the nuns to see who lost their marbles later. Wouldn’t you love to know if batshit or confusion is in your future? I wish there was some kind of device that could measure your last good day, before you hurt the people who love you by forgetting who they are, or before you get lost, or cannot remember what happened for a few decades in there. That is when I would like to die–in my sleep on that last perfect day when you are all there. I find this program heartening because it says that people who write like overeager beavery maniacs  and less in a journalistic, carefully plotted fashion have a better chance of being non-nuts. Or maybe it means that you’re nuts now, ha ha! Well. Run on sentences full of mixed metaphors for the win.

Off to a dinner party tonight to discuss Omnivore’s Dilemma. More like OmniBORE amirite. Seriously, I would rather get a pap smear because at least that will be over in ten minutes. I’m going to get drunk and keep my fucking mouth shut. Will update.

Lust, Actually

Thursday, May 13th, 2010

Caitlin Flanagan, whom I am coming to believe is a bit of a froot loop, or at least has a moderate case of fogey-dom, has landed in my mailbox again courtesy of the Atlantic. This month she is writing about how teenage girls “endure” hookup culture.

In approaching this article we first need to consider the fact that her perspective is heteronormative and her examples of wholesome teen culture are, well, stuff white people like. In short, she makes assumptions that teenage girls are sexually-oriented toward teenage boys and are under the thrall of girly pop culture romance baloney.

Further, Flanagan doesn’t really define hookup culture, which, fair enough, it’s been in the lexicon for a few years now and people generally know what it means. She does kind of talk around the idea of hookup culture, and an example that she gives is of a solo young woman participating in a locker room gang bang, which some people might consider a varsity-level “hookup” at any age.

So whether girls are either burned by hookup culture, or, like the plucky heroine of a Victorian-era romance novel, they manage to avoid some faceless boy skeeting in their eye through a combination of spunk (def. 1) and luck, they yearn towards romantic impossibilities. She cites the example of the High School Musical franchise and the music of Taylor Swift as where young girls are taking their cues about romance from. Girls want boyfriends, she claims. Girls want to be loved and they want a happy ending. I wonder if Flanagan is too old to remember that teenagers can identify bullshit pop culture constructs? Is it not possible that this treacly pap is being engineered to appeal to the parents of these girls, to assuage some of the pearl clutchery engendered by a media that tells them that their daughters are getting DPed by the lacrosse team?

Flanagan compares the youth of today to the previous generation. A girl is “taught by her peer culture that hookups are what stolen, spin-the-bottle kisses were to girls a quarter century ago. She is a little girl; she is a person as wise in the ways of sexual expression as an old woman.” O RLY, Flanagan. If you want to pull pop culture as a reflection of society, a quarter of a century ago Fast Times at Ridgemont High portrayed a 15-year-old girl having an abortion, and I don’t think the character got knocked up from playing spin-the-bottle, and I don’t think you can shove 1985 (or the 70s, or the 60s) into the same weird platonic-ideal youth culture box as people have done with the postwar period in the US.

Can anyone else see the giant elephant in the corner of this pile of malformed claims? Where are teenage boys in all this? They mostly exist in this article to deny love, and to use teenage girls as their sexual playthings. Do teenage boys not desire love and stable  and healthy relationships? Let’s say for a moment that all teenage boys do seek to take advantage of girls. Flanagan writes about all this exploitation as something that is kind of just magically “happening” to girls, which seems a little rape-culturey to me.

Then there is this, her closing paragraph: “There might seem something wan, even pitiable, about all these young girls pining for boyfriends instead of hookups. But the wishes of girls, you have to remember, have always been among the most powerful motivators in the lives of young men. They still are.” What is this, I don’t even. Did you suddenly hit your word limit, Flanagan? At the very least, this seems to contradict all her business about girls following the desires of boys, typified by statements like, “Is it any wonder that so many girls are binge-drinking and reporting, quite candidly, that this kind of drinking is a necessary part of their preparation for sexual activity?”

I should say that Flanagan’s viewpoint is not as blinkered as the points I’ve pulled out here. She does make some decent points about the very real contradictory expectations that adults (who are inured to these contradictions)  impose on the young, especially in regards to sexuality.

My biggest sticking point is that Flanagan portrays teenage girls as resigned participants in some kind of sexual vacuum (boys exist only to deny them love and to fuck them unpleasantly, and then run), having no apparent agency or sexual desires of their own. Again and again popular culture wants to portray the teenage girl as the innocent or the victim, or completely over the line as in her example of the slattern in the novel she cites in her article:

In Testimony, the sex party occurs at the fictional Avery Academy; Shreve imagines Siena, the girl at the center of the event, as a grifter, eager to exploit her new status as victim so that she can write a killer college essay about it, or perhaps even appear on Oprah.

Just like real humans, teenaged girls can like romance AND they can like fucking. They can enjoy these things together or separately. Ultimately, Flanagan’s article is yet another pointless rehash of myths and half-truths about teenage culture.