In Which The Princess Is Not In Another Castle

Last night we went to the 4,000th Survivor’s Banquet for the Puget Sound Mycological Society. There were about 100 people there so I guess a lot of people survive. They had a few schmancy chefs and everything was all mushrooms all the time. Mushroom soup. Mushroom salad. I encountered mushroom pataaaaay. Then, of course, the chicken had a mushroom ragout on it. The dessert was shaped like a mushroom, but did not contain mushrooms (I think).

The servers were pouring champagne for a toast as one of the founding members had died recently. I was sipping on mine and a server came up and topped my glass. “You’re going to want to SAVE some champagne for the toast,” she told me sternly. I just looked at her. I felt like I had just Bushuru’ed all over the flower arrangement or something.

Someone was awarded the Golden Mushroom award, and I found it awesome that such a thing exists. You get a golden chanterelle pin, which is at least worth the price of admission. This is a crowd that obviously enjoys their NOMs if they are willing to go out in the natures and procure it themselves. So after dinner, the schmancy main chef and pastry chef, who are members, came out and spoke. Where else can you go to a banquet where the chef speaks?

On the way there I saw a billboard hawking something called Moonvertising. Since I don’t yet have the internet in my arm, I flipped out and called a couple of my friends. “Explain this fuckery,” I demanded, but they could not. When I came home, I googled it and discovered Rolling Rock, which is the shittest beer on the planet, is threatening to become the shittiest beer on the moon as well.

I know I fall under the category of “crackpot” in about twelve different ways before noon, but I find this idea, even in jest, infuriating. It has to be not a huge deal because none of the real news services have picked it up. I think they are going to get a lot of attention but I think it will backfire.

When I got to the part in The Time Machine where the moon cracked up like a broken molar I cried while reading it. I have had nightmares since I was a little kid about people fucking with the moon and it always freaks me out. It was hard to get to sleep last night. Not much bothers me in the scheme of “idiocy the rest of the world is up to” but I will take to the streets with a pitchfork if they try this.

PS, your moonvertising site is slow and sucks, and even my grandma who tried to answer a mouse that she thought was ringing once knows it. YOU SUCK.

Hey This Looks Dusty and Full of Cheerios

So it must be a VENT.

I have two things to tell you.

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The Life of a Volunteer Coordinator

Stage One: Ask for Volunteers
“GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY YES we’d love to do that for you!” You describe the job completely. “Yes, yes, we can do that in our sleep!”

Stage Two: Wow!
Wow. I have a team.

Stage Three: Call in Team
And then you say, OKAY, tiem to do jorb nao, and they say, “This is not as described. I have surgery/vacation/fallen arches.” And then I check my sent mail and see how I described the job exactly as it is.

Stage Four: Wine
I am stupid. Cry. Do job myself. Vow to never do this again. Mean it this time.

PART DEUX

2. Today I told my friend a story about my ex-husband to make her laugh, as she was having a rough day.

Three years ago, I took my big kid to the dentist. This is when I was still under the impression that we were going to be splitting medical expenses and whatnot as outlined in the parenting plan. (“Parenting Plan: For When You Run Out of Hamster Litter.”)

So I sent him a bill for the dentist, asking him to pay half. I think it was around a hundred bucks total. What I got in the mail was a check for twelve-fifty.

“What’s this about?” I said.

“Well, that would be half the copay if either of us had insurance,” he replied. Clever. ELEGANT.

After I finished telling the story my friend said, “Is he…special?”

Yes. He’s very, very special. Turns out she gave me the laugh.

A Letter To My Body

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Dear Body,

Hey. Sup. Haven’t seen you in a while. Oh, I guess I passed you this morning, naked, at the mirror. That was kind of awkward. I guess when I take you out and get you drunk like that, bring you home and have my way with you, and then expect you to leave without breakfast it makes sense that you’re kind of pissed. You don’t have to be a bitch about it, though. I already apologized for the rugburns and the dents in your foot. Whatever. You can be really stuck up about accidental shit like that.

This old argument got me to thinking–remember that time that I pierced your nose, and drank that delishish fotie of King Cobra, and you decided that the best retort was to rocket-vomit out of said freshly-pierced nose? Yes, I guess you showed me.

Or that time in high school I forged a field trip permission slip and let Cory Jaworski carve “Slayer” into my back and it got all infected and bloogy, so now what could have been a cool homemade tattoo looks like “Sawyer” and I don’t even know any Sawyers. DAMN, BODY. What the crap.

There was also that one time that I threw a snowball at a car that I (accidentally) packed a rock into and the driver swerved and said I made a hairline crack in his windshield. You could not run fast enough for me to get away from that fucking guy. How could I have known he was one of those classic cars freaks?

And now you have burdened me with children, who are running off so fast I can see their blur lines. I cannot keep up with them, in spite of the fact that their passage through you left me with cool silver racing stripes. Thanks a lot.

So I guess we’re mostly even. I could start being nice to you or like you or something, but then you will probably slap me with cancer or a goiter or something. It STILL hurts to sit on my vestigial tail stump. I resent this ass doughnut.

I’m not even going to get into my muffin top.

GO FUCK YOURSELF,

SJ

The Asslets Don’t Fall Far From the Asstree

Today, I am making a note of today. This is a special day. Today is the day when my spawn turned on me.

I knew something was coming. Recently, as in the past few months, I noticed the tide had turned when Strudel’s speech became clearer. I “the jig is upped” Franny about this.

“Now you will have to be nice to your sister, because she can tell on you,” I told her.

Strudel was making such great leaps that Franny would be gone at her dad’s for two weeks and would come back and say, “WHOA, she sounds so different!” Strudel would jump from babytalk like “mi-mi” to full-on “mitten” in two weeks. Most recently Strudel is dropping the nickname “Ditter” for “sister” and is calling Franny by her real, long, and unwieldy name.

They are doing this thing now where they are clumping together with their heads tilted in, having these very quiet conversations as they build their Lego buses that stop when I get too close. I am an adult, a very tedious and bossy one, and am not in The Club. They also seem closer now that they are sharing a room together. There is greater empathy for each other when they get hurt or wake up scared in the middle of the night. A four-year gap seems to make less difference now that Strudel can talk a mile a minute as well.

So this weekend is the EVIL five-day holiday known as “midwinter mini-break” (what the fuck is that, I ask you?) and they had Friday through today off. Today was the day they became complete hivemind on me and began to use “we” when addressing me. I would ask them to do something and they would glance at each other.

“WE don’t want to clean up the crayons,” Franny explained. “WE want to go to the park.” She looked at her sister.

“WE don’t want to! NOOOOOOOO!” Strudel said.

“Oh hell no,” I said. Franny used to be mild and obedient, but now she has decided to turn her sister on me like a firehose.

Later, at the grocery store: “We’re hungry! FEEED USSS.”

What is this WE crap? Don’t you understand I am supposed to be pitting you against each other?

“Of course you’re my favorite, you’re my first child.”

“Of course YOU’RE my favorite, you’re the baby.”

Don’t you want to jockey to be the favorite daughter? Apparently not. It’s united front-ho around here, and I have a feeling they are enjoying their newly-formed lobby and the power that is coming with it.

Because they know. They know I am weak. They are smelling blood and flabbergastedness coming off my pores. WE? Really? It’s just strengthening my resolve to really go for that purse chihuahua after all.

Why I Don’t EVER Write About Blogging “Rules”

(WOW, I know, SHOCK! I’m actually writing about blogging for once. Usually I try to keep myself as far away from the “blogosphere” as humanly possible. This is not to say I don’t read blogs–I certainly read them. I just got tired of the metacirclejerking around 2002 or so. I don’t even have a category called “blogging” and so I will slap this under “ranting” I suppose.)

Today I read a blogpost that made my blood boil. I know, I know, I’m the excitable type to begin with. I was going to link it and tear it apart, shred by delicious shred. And then you could read it, too.

But the conclusion I came to was that it was really a boring post by a boring blogger. You don’t need to see that, and she doesn’t deserve your eyeballs or the ad revenue.

In a nutshell, the post was ANOTHER one of those tedious diatribes on how to blog. This always results in two things, especially among the more popular blogs. The first thing it results in is the deluge of fawning commenters. “JOO are so right! No one has ever been righter! I am going to print this list out and have it tattooed on my arm! Blogging Commandments! No one has ever thought of that before!” The word “netiquette” is tossed about, which makes me want to further stab my eyes out. Or, like, grow new ones for the restab. I dunno.

The second thing is the Wave of Self-Righteousness, wherein the holy and correct bloggers take turns patting themselves on the back for their fastidious and careful blogging, via comments and backlinking. A commenter even went so far as to say, and I paraphrase because I will turn this internet around if I have to look at that post again, “my lawyer husband told me I would be screwed in a custody battle with the post I wrote yesterday.” WTFBBQ? Did you really spawn with that? Good thing he’s letting you know exactly how far you can go. I wish I had a husband who would do that for me. He could also inform me of the proper length of my hemline and other appropriate, ladylike ways to comport myself online and off.

Longtime readers know that I blogged about my life while I was married, and my online writings were used in an unsuccessful bid for stripping me of my rights to see my older child. I was called a “pornographer” and was accused of exposing my children to sexual predators through my blog. I was even called INAPPROPRIATE. Oh noes! The “I” word. I take responsibility for choosing to blog, even though I knew he was a sketchy guy who I witnessed doing morally grey things many, many times.

You know what my real mistake was? It wasn’t that I dared to put my life out there at all. It’s that in my situation, I wasn’t open ENOUGH. I covered up the fact that my fucking lazy ass husband wasn’t going to work and all the weird bullshit that went down in our marriage. I did not post about how he neglected her, who was helpless (and, less importantly me, who is not helpless) and he took this as an opportunity to show the court what a great dad he was, because I only posted the positive things. I was ashamed of the conditions we were living in and writing, reaching out to other people who were laughing to prevent themselves from crying so I wouldn’t lose my fucking mind. This meant that for the most part, I wrote about my past. Where I did horrifying things like have sex with consenting adults and steal candy from the neighbor kid. I’m a revolutionary, I tells ya.

So if blogs are to be taken as gospel in court by idiots who can’t read between the lines, or by assholes who will turn your words against you, then I am not going to censor myself for the sake of propriety or insulate myself against future bullshit.

I am not perfect. I am not nice, which is different than being polite. But for fuck’s sake, my life is interesting to me, and I want to be interesting online and off. If I wanted some fake-ass representation of myself up, I would just post a picture with a bag over my head with a smile drawn on it. And, you, when you censor yourself so much, you are BORING. Well, to me anyway. Based on some of the more popular bloggers, someone out there is eating up BORING with a spoon on toast.

ADDITIONALLY, there was some tongue-wagging in the comments of the heinous post I am alluding to about “certain mommybloggers” who are not Actin’ Proper in their blogs. Boy are they cruisin’ for a bruisin’. And you don’t enjoy watching trainwrecks (LIAR), but they will get what they deserve for feeding their kid Lucky Charms three meals in a row, or not vacuuming or some crap and brazenly declaring this publicly. Oh yes indeed. HOW DARE YOU ACT HUMAN. Motherhood is a tough gig, man, with long hours and few benefits. Some days I cannot remember why I am doing this, like, all day. (And this is not the part where I write, “And then Madison gave me a gummy smile and it was all worth it.” That sentence ended where I stopped it. We do not roll like that around here.)

You know, all those trainwrecky people who you may or may not be watching, their lives may hit that wall. They will probably live through it. They will probably learn something. They do not need blogging rules. They need to figure it out for themselves. And don’t think I didn’t see what you did there, with your comment that people should Digg your post. So glad you are writing altruistically for the benefit of the confused blogging hordes.

And this is why I do not make rules for blogging.

FUCKING A, JURY DUTY

Reporting to you live, from the downtown courthouse, is someone who shouldn’t be here. Hur. That’s what they all say, right? My head almost exploded when I saw the introductory video. It was like being trapped in cataloguing class all over again.

I found a terminal with a network cable slightly loosened, so everyone else thought it was borken. Ha ha!

Anyway, I have totally screwed the pooch. I thought I could just declare that there were lobsters coming out of my ears or something, but NAY. I wait. My child rots in daycare. I face the ire of Companion, who has to pick her up. I think I’ve pissed everyone off again who has the day free, so there is no one else to pick up my child. I am Queen of Poor Planning.

Well, I have MP3 player, and the most funny novel I’ve read in a long time, An Evening of Long Goodbyes, and the new Nuevo Yorker.

They say the pool is small this week, so I may be screwed til Thursday.

Contingency Plan:

1. Quote Nietzsche (Cat or Dead Philosopher): “There are no facts, only interpretations” or “MROW” depending on mood.

2. Wearing Israeli Defense Forces shirt and “Die Yuppie Scum” button

3. Flipped septum piercing down

4. Will give profession as “Porn Writer.”

5. Know things about Jury Veto.

I know, I know, I am a bad citizen. I just don’t believe in this shit. Whatever, send me someplace like France so I can eat well.

So you should probably look at this naked Japanese man wearing a horse head and eating poisonous mushrooms. Dengue Fever will help me survive. Listen to Tiger Phone Card or I will send you to a home for unwed mothers. There WILL be a quiz.

So, I miss you and that cute little hat you wear that looks like pastry gone wrong. I’ll be home soon; open a can of beans for me.

P.S. Did you get rickrolled yesterday?

UPDATE! 2:18 p.m.

1. Added a comma for V’s Herbie.

2. CALLED. It’s showtime. JAYSUS will show me which way the sword swings.

Heart Hearts, Heart Pie, Yeah, We Open

Friends, lovers, people from Sheboygan, your mom, assmittens, I greet you. Last night, inspired by my recent viewing of Sweeney Todd, I took one look in the fridge and decided to make a meat pie. I’m certain no one will miss the letter carrier that package of lamb. I threw in a giant bag of matsutakes, a carrot, some onion, and bam, my dope-smoking spirit animal sang to me in my sleep. Twas pie. Even Nietzsche partooketh. She likes her some pie.

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This pie LOOOOVES you. I love February today. Usually February brings insanity and bizarre fits of cleaning, plans for an ill-conceived novel (which now has been worked into my schedule once a month) and threats to run away from home. But I am hanging in there. Ask me again in three days.

Because in three days I may be trapped under the landslide of the auction, which is quickly approaching in April. I read with great interest recently what Badgerbag had to say about fundraisers, and how much they BLOW and I totally am feeling it. At this point, I just want to pay more tuition and be left alone. And when I come to people with my sad Bambi eyes and I’m like “OH PLZ will you run desserts” and they look at me like I am about to sit them down in front of a slide show of aborted fetuses, I think something is not working. Badger’s point about how this should be PAID WORK if it’s so damn critical to the operation and continued existence of the school. Community building, volunteerism, bliddy bladdy, I am not buying it anymore. I have attended many a parent night and pot luck, and I get to know parents just as well that way.

HOWEVER, I think I wrangled a good deal by having tuition comped, at least. This is as it should be. It’s kind of sad that I have scored such a deal just by creating a job for myself and getting some kind of compensation. It would be fantastic if there was a paycheck on top of this, but the system is not working that way. And so, auction will be run, auction will be fabulous, etc, and then I shall take my bow and get a damn job that pays me to show up.

I love what she said in the same post linked above:

What the hell people. Just pay your taxes! And go vote for higher school taxes if that’s what it takes, and if you’ve got a wad of money extra then give it to the district so they can spread it out fairly, or donate it to the Teachers’ Union to help the teachers get some decent pay. Instead of dicking around endlessly organizing your Box Tops and your toy drives. It drives me crazy… Go get a job. Instead by volunteering you are enabling a classist system that means schools that serve wealthy populations get decent funding, and schools where there aren’t a bunch of housewife-role-filling parents don’t. Plus, women pressured to systematically disempower themselves by doing unpaid political and fundraising work. That is bogus! I respect organizations like the PTA, and the women who do the difficult politics of them, and YET… again… how about making those jobs into REAL PAID JOBS. You’re doing work, ladies. Demand a paycheck for it. What are you teaching your sons and daughters in this meta message? That you… that mothers… that women’s work is invisible and unworthy of being considered “real” work.

That is awesome.

Excuse me, miss, I forgot your name, thank you, God bless you, good night, I came.

In Which We Encounter: Poor Jane, Minky’s Progress, and Imelda. Call Me Princess.

Joe has ambitions. He wants to go to college and do things. He’s getting out of this small town, which is too close-minded to contain him. MAN. But Jane. Jane now, Jane baby, she’s his thing. It’s cool. She’s less of a girlfriend, maybe, and more of a receptacle. Joe talks, and Jane listens. She’s really great. Jane nods at all the right parts. Jane doesn’t want anything for herself, because she’s as dumb as a fucking post.

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Thanks a lot, ninety-nine cent coloring book. Have we learned nothing from the diaper stalker? Women can be astronauts ALSO. Jesus, I am taking this crayon with me everywhere from now on.

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Weaksauce Picture Biz

This morning I woke up and it was all white. School was closed, of course, just for lulz. They did not close school recently when it was freezing and the streets were solid ice, but when it’s 35 and not sticking, sure. What the hell.

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One of the most fun things we did, among MANY fun things, was to go to the Ferry Building downtown. There was a whole store devoted to mushrooms. Why is there not one in this damply armpit?

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I had to take a picture of last night’s depresso chicken cavalcade. When I come home from trip, I want to find in the fridge 1) orgasms and 2) Phad Thai.

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