O. Minor Pwnage; Maximal Lulz

“So Ginger painted her living room. And Mary Ann got mad because she said Ginger was just copying her,” my acquaintance said.

“Well, no one should be mad at anyone,” her husband said. “They were both just copying the Pottery Barn catalog.”

M. New Methods in Urban Boredom

I have been angry since I’ve been back to Seatown. I am now back in the land of passive-aggressive driving, and I have decided to take this problem head on, in a fashion that is best suited to the natives.

I was driving around Fremont yesterday and going to a munie lot that was near the restaurant we wanted. I was stopped at a light and a man wanted to get out of his parallel spot in front of me. I was thinking I would let him in, but I was kind of tired and hungry, which was making me spacy.

He did that thing they always do, which is to turn on the turn signal, try to inch out, and sigh a lot. He did not look at me. I like to make eye contact with people so I can see if they’re awake, on their phones, hittin’ teh bongz, whatever. I crept forward a bit, kind of on accident, and I could see the back of his head go all agitated (seriously), and his lips were moving. Still, he did not look at me, which is the proper protocol for a Seatool.

The other proper protocol in this situation is for the driver’s girlfriend to crane around and look at you, after the boyfriend’s lips finish moving furiously. The girlfriend at this point does one of two things: 1. Frowny brows, or 2. The blank, “I’m not really involved here, I’m just checking you and your assery out” look.

That’s it. No more feeling stupid from the passive-aggressive fuckwads. My new tack is to smile. For real. And mean it. I smile and wave like I am a smiling and waving machine, who is programmed to do those two things and nothing else.

The girlfriend smiled and waved back.

I did this to someone who almost ran me down in a crosswalk a couple of weeks ago, and to someone in Boulder who was crossing the street illegally and gave us a death look because we were coming to a stop sign legally.

I like how it pulls people up short as they go, “Do I know that insane person?” GERT.

G. PSASTFU

“hey, in a completely unrelated matter, can you give me a good solid definition of assmitten?”
—Zan

Assmitten n. ‘as ‘mi-t&n c. 2003 An assmitten is a person who is foolish, but fairly benign. It’s the guy who takes the last doughnut and says “Whoops, last doughnut!” and then moves to put it back, realizes that you can’t put the doughnut back once you’ve touched it, shrugs, and then sheepishly starts eating it. Also the person who just cut you off in traffic, and they’ve got the “Beam me up, Scotty” bumper sticker and their turn signal on, indicating the direction opposite of which they just moved in.

Usage: “When I realized my tampon string was hanging out my shoe, I sure felt like a grade-A assmitten.”

Related terms: Assmittens, Assmittentry

Also, WTF, Saturn?

I’ve been having these really disjointed dreams, the kind you can wake up from and wonder for a second if they really happened, like yesterday or something. I’m having that feeling like I’m just kind of existing right now, trying to jump from lily pad to lily pad of tolerable things that I actually want to do.

Companion commented that I “must not but cut out for high stress jobs.” I initially took that as a slap in the face, because children have been (literally, sometimes) been shitting on me for six-plus years now. And he was right there as I went through grad school. I didn’t just print out my degree online, which I used to daydream about in class when people would start arguing about copyright or OMGWATC*? I knew someone when I was in college who had done that, it he was making a fine living as a fraud. (No, it wasn’t my ex-husband, although it’s a good guess. It takes too much effort and motivation to go the fake degree route.)

So I thought about it for a few days, and I think it’s just that this auction bugs. I don’t like coming into things when they’re more than halfway there as kind of a cleanup bitch, because I am one of those way planny types. Maybe it would be okay if I had already done an auction before. People are neglecting to tell me things. My name is signed to letters I didn’t actually write. But it’s over on Saturday, and I will no longer be chair-in-training, I will be chair.

But I am wondering if next year I’ll still be somewhat of a sockpuppet, partially because of this precedent, and partly because my relationship with the school has changed. I know in the past parents have been able to really throw down about stuff, because they were unpaid volunteers. I won’t be an unpaid volunteer next year. Where does the parent end and the employee begin?

I did not expect this to be my first job after grad school, that’s for sure.

Anyway, it’s over soon, and the day after we are dying Easter eggs and getting back to normal life. No more dreams about snowboarding, something I have never done and have no desire to do, and wine tastings, something I have never done and very much want to do.

*”What about the children,” of course.

In Other News: Lifted off the Interwebs

Fastest toilet training method, developed while babysitting.

Take one older child, trained properly.
Add one younger untrained child who is of the correct age and mental development to be trained.
Tell older child that every time younger child successfully uses toilet, they each get a 1/4 cup of M&Ms. If the parents are health nuts, too bad. Explain the benefits of not having to change diapers many, many times a day.
Result: older child watches younger child like a hawk, and sits them on the toilet every five minutes.

Fastest successful toilet training: one single day.
Stupidest child took all of four days. (Or this was the smartest child, milking the system for more chocolate goodness. Your call.)

I hated changing diapers.

The true beauty of the method is that you know what both children are going to be doing all day and where they will be…and the true obsessiveness of a child hell-bent on cadging sweeties knows no bounds. The younger child may develop bowl butt (unsightly rim ring) but the end result is reduced diaper costs.

Tempting, tempting.

Fun with Hester Prynne, my new computer, never ends. The other day I tried to install my printer, and Hester waggled her digital finger at me. “Verily I have no understanding of the softwareths.” And this is the free printer that they sent me WITH Hester. I’m glad I named her Hester Prynne. At first it was a dumb play on the fact that it’s an HP, but now I’m thinking she needs to be banished to a small cottage in the wilderness with a big “U” for Unctuous.

I can hear HP going, “What? We didn’t say your free printer would work with the computer we sent. Roffle!”

I was in mah cups the other night, and when that’s the case I enjoy the online support. It’s fun to see what’s happening on the other side of the world. Many Americans could use to learn and grow, AM I RITE.

But it never ever connected, so I gave up. Well, HP sent me an email the next day, BEGGING me to click the link to be whisked off to instant online help. “Please give us another chance, Customer #68754S3-Twelvdy! We’re sorry!”

Well, okay. Watch how my question doesn’t get answered until I say “goodbye.”

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Hmm. It’s 11:37. I have yoga at six am. Anyone care to lay bets on how likely I am to go to it?

If you said, “Not bloody likely,” you would be right.

I have been working on the catalogue for the auction all day. This auction is like a really boring addiction.

One day at the mall, you see a Beanie Baby. “Aww, that’s so FLIPPIN cute,” you say to yourself. You put it on your dashboard like those goobs who put stuffed animals on their dashboard. Let’s say it’s an echidna.

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Sooo, today I have a very special and slightly disturbing secret, much like the businessman on the bus you see, wearing a nice suit. But, look closer, and there is the subtle shoulder indents that can only be caused by a Cross-Your-Heart bra.

Can you even get those anymore? I refuse to google that up.

Anyway, I am wearing a nursing bra today. I am not all, SURPRISE BABY! again like I was when I got off my court-ordered blog “hiatus,” either. I just can’t find my exercise bras today. And these are cloth and comfortable, but they have little flaps. So I am slightly trepidatious that I will be doing Sideways Buttweasel and SPROING, one of my flaps will pop open. And the boobs, they don’t look the same when one flap is down. They may escape and smother one of my fellow practitioners. I try to be optimistic, but I have seen too many people lost to the boob smothering to be a total pollyanna.

Okay, I’m done.

No, I’m not.

“It’s just one of the risks of this extreme sport,” she said affectedly, like Jeff Goldblum.

In Other News

Yesterday I had a really useful meeting with a person who has run previous auctions. It was like boot camp. She tore me down and completely rebuilt me again. I am a different person today.

The first thing she said, when she saw my list of items was, “Oh, you guys are about 75 items short. Wow.” This was followed by, “If you pull this off, it will be a miracle.”

What happened this year isn’t really anyone’s fault. We lost our old chair because her child aged out of the school. I didn’t feel right about picking up the gauntlet, because I have never run an auction, or you know, even been to one. And no one else picked it up either.

But here I am now. I kind of became the official chair last week. Understandably, it is too late to get volunteers in to bail me out in any significant way at this point, so I am doing a lot of things myself. I was sitting at my kitchen table working on the catalogue text last night wondering if I should include a “letter from the chair” that was actually signed by me. I opted just to make it a general acknowledgments section. I am feeling wussy in that this late in the game I didn’t want to take the blame or the dubious glory.

The person doing decorations called me to chat. “Do you want me to thank any of the people who helped you with decorations? I’m writing that part now,” I said. “You’re the only one who helped me, besides the teachers,” she said.

Ugh, what a dud year. People are burned out, or busy. I am trying to focus on the fact that next year will be easier and probably more profitable.

An old acquaintance sent me an email about a focus group for a local company that makes products for children. The reward for participating was free swag and dinner. Sounds fun, if you’re into that sort of thing.

I went and was in a room with five other moms who have children in my age range. The leader of our group showed us a drawing of a prototype and asked us what we thought as moms. Would our kids play with this? What would they like about it? Would we buy it? What would make us buy it?

I chimed in and said, “I think my younger daughter would like it, but the older one would reject it on the grounds that there are no unicorns anywhere on it.”

The leader whipped out a second drawing that was pink and had a fairy theme. She explained what the “boy” one did, which involved piloting a spaceship and having adventures, and how it involved role playing, and that the fairy one involved role playing as well, although all I could see was that it was pink and had some flowers and bugs on it. All the other moms seemed pretty sold.

“What I’m seeing here,” I said, “is a boy product that encourages the boys to take a leadership role, to DO something, to be actors. On the girl product I am seeing only a chance to pretend to be a fairy. What does the fairy do? Because if it’s just about being a pretty fairy, I would not buy this. I am trying to encourage my girls to be do-ers and leaders.”

They didn’t really have an answer about what the goals of the fairy toy was, because I don’t think they thought it out that far. I hope they rethink that one, but they probably won’t. Oh, well. The pizza was good!

In Related News

Companion just brought home a graphic novel by one of my favorite artists, Joann Sfar. Many of his works are now being translated into English, which is good for me. The book he brought home is called Sardine in Outer Space. It features a grade-school aged girl, Sardine, who works with her uncle (a space pirate) to fight crime and right wrongs. Sardine is in a strong leadership role, so it’s not one of those bullcrap sitches where the girl helps the main superhero or gets into pickles and needs to be rescued. They all get into pickles, and Sardine often has the best idea. And she has a bad ass pirate scar on her cheek, which I have always coveted. I suppose it’s not too late; maybe I’ll still get one someday.

I am going to make Franny read it when she arrives back from her dad’s, and she likes Sfar, too, so I think she’ll love it. I think ages six to ten would enjoy it, but I enjoyed it too. It’s funny.

PS

Dear friends, enemies, lovers, and mongoose porn fiends. I am having some issues with blogspam right now. My dope administrator is trying to figure out a dope solution to this undope problem. In theory, if you have one comment approved, you should be golden forever, so I appreciate your patience while being in comment limbo.

Love,
Totie

1. So I vetted the pole party (that was donated to the auction for my big kid’s school) with the director and a couple of other people who work there. “Have you seen this?” I said. It turns out someone at the school procured it. Well, I put in my two cents. I predict someone besides me will complain. Eh.

2. I tried on my interview pants today, because I have an interview next week. If I had to describe them in one word, that word would be “SNUG AS HELL.” But they can be buttoned, and they don’t look bad. When I was finishing all my post grad school interviews a couple of years ago, they were kind of falling off me. I liked having the small waist, but I don’t miss the miniature stress-induced white girl butt. At least I looked like Duff when I was going, instead of when I was coming.

Anyway, it’ll work for now, and maybe if I get a job I can get some clothes that actually fit teh lady can, so I can look nice at work, and not like flipping Jessica Rabbit. I’m not worried, because I’ll be fancier than the people interviewing me. I can’t believe I have been out of work now for almost two years. Except for the parts where feral naked dwarfs were vomiting in my mouth and throwing shit at my head, time has flown!

Thank you, wine.

3. I am missing protoshop like whoa. Hester Prynne does not have it installed, and we lost the disc, which may have not been an official copy in the first place. I am looking at installing Gimp, but fragdammit, I know protochump already. I want to PNW’ed. I want to PNW’ed for other people, who very politely requested one in exchange for a vote at BlogHer. I AM GOING THROUGH CAT MACRO WITHDRAWAL, HERE.

I can’t be all in UR ________, [verbing] UR ___________, otherwise. God, of all the stupid things to get addicted to. I need to start watching soaps or something, or get some proper drugs.

4. I am becoming the auction queen. I told myself I was only going to do checkout. I didn’t feel ready to snatch the pebble out of the auction’s hand. Now people are emailing me and calling me with things, because no one else is really doing it. I hate being the person who actually cares, and is a big enough spaz to do things well, in a way. It’s kind of embarrassing somehow to admit that you get satisfaction out of checking things off a clipboard and saying things like, “Put the giant tiki head over here.”

There is no real chair this year, so the school decided to take it over, but someone emailed me the other day and referred to me as the “defacto chair.” But you know what? I like doing this. I like running big shows. I think I can’t avoid this stuff in my life because I like this kind of spazziness. I’m not going to lie to you–I’m having a great time.

Goals for this week:
1. Find respectable addiction (Knitting? Bingo? Pulltabs?)
2. Buy plane ticket to Wyoming
3. Scream silently into pillow
4. Make time to masturbate.

I am back in the ass-crack-of-dawn yoga class, which is not nearly as painful as the December one was, because the light comes earlier and my car isn’t covered in frost at 5:45 am anymore.

Something is happening with me and yoga. I think our relationship is getting more serious. I have been limping around the house a little bit, and Companion says, “Are you okay?” And I have to say, really quickly, “I just walked into a door! I’m such a klutz.” But yoga loves me and always apologizes later, and buys me some jewelery that less than half the bling falls out of.

When I first started, I thought yoga was nice and friendly, stretchy-stretchy lay on the floor business. And now I realize that, like the Internet, Yoga is Serious Business. The underside of my ribs hurt like they have been hit with a stick. Damn, yoga. I thought we were cool.

Yoga Goal: Give birth to own head by July.

In Other News: The My Humpsfication of Popular Culture

I am slaving away here (okay, not right this second) entering auction items that have come flooding in at the last minute. This morning, as I was munching on a piece of orange and trying not to drip on my borrowed school laptop, I came across an item that pulled me up short. Someone has donated a stripping pole class “party” to the auction for ten women.

My first, knee-jerk response was “ew.” I sat and thought about it for a minute, and tried to get a little more rational about it than that. The description did say that it was private, and that there would be no spectators (other than your female classmates). But it was still bothering me.

I feel like the whole stripperaerobics and pole class phenomenon is part of the Pussycat Dolls and “My Humps” deal. (And I will be the first to loudly proclaim that I love that weirdo Fergie.) But I feel like I can boil this clusterfuck down into one statement: “Hey, look at me! It is empowering me to show you my tweeter!”

I’m not sure that it is. I think, as Zuzu says more eloquently here, maybe people are just just finding new ways to make you feel okay about showing your tweeter.

I am mostly certain that no tweeters will be on display in this pole-dancing class, but it still bugs me somehow. Part of it’s certainly the whole it’s-not-a-male (and sometimes female)-spectator-sport, it’s-empowerment aspect. But there’s something else, too. This item is going up for bid at a school auction. And, HANG ON, sit down, I am not going to that WHAT ABOUT TEH CHILDRENS place. I hate that place. It gives me the flibbertigibbets.

Where I am going with this, is that TEH CHILDRENS have mothers, many of whom will be at this party, since they are the ones invested in the school. It is likely that a mother will win this one. Many of these women who can afford private school and are breeding are also married to or with men, often the fathers of the children. In fact, the pamphlet touts the pole parties as a great “mom’s getaway.”

You see where this is going, don’t you? Studies have repeatedly shown that married/cohabiting women do more housework than their single counterparts, and more than the men they live with. The stay at home moms I know do most of the childcare and make most of the decisions regarding the spawn (which makes sense, if one partner is spending more time with the children).

So we clean, and we take care of teh beebees, and now we have to haul our lumpy asses up onto stripper poles, too? And this is in the guise of “getting away from it all?” You know that when those women come home, most of their husbands are going to say, “WELL? What did you learn at class today, dear?”

I say NO. I respect the choices women make in regards to stripping. It’s a way to make money and support yourself and your children. It’s not a method of personal empowerment for me.

But I have a feeling this will be a popular item, in a way that something that might truly empower women (like a sex toy party, as Zuzu points out in the linked article above) might not be.

MAILBAG, BITCHES!

Hi SJ!

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Hi Pickle,

SJ

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