As per usual, our personal heads here at the Offices of I, Asshole have been firmly planted up the respective owner’s asses. In other words, I’ve been busy.

On Friday, Captain Vimes went in for his ballectomy, which was a success!!! Unfortunately, having him de-balled now makes no difference about whether or not he will pee in the house in places other than his designated poopidor (not to be confused with a humidor, though some cigars have reminded me of cat pee). When we went to Oregon last weekend, we closed every door in the house, except the door to the basement, which leads to his poopidors. So while we were gone, the Captain developed the charming habit of peeing down the heating vent in the kitchen. HORRORS.

Our resident ol’ lady cat-grump is partly to blame, because I happen to know she’s often in his way, growling at him. I think the other part of it is laziness and convenience. To combat this problem, I laid a piece of cardboard about the size of a record over the corner where the vent is, and covered it with loops of sticky packing tape, which of course most cats will never walk on, let alone pop a squat on. We have not had another accident, and I take him downstairs if I see him looking sniffy. Most the time he’s just sniffy, but occasionally he’s like, oh yeah, I gotta potty.

The shaved area around the incision makes his junk look extra-protuberant, just like a porno actor with shaved pubes to add that critical extra inch. Good times. I have to say, the Seattle Pound was mighty affordable, although I’m 95% certain they gave him a case of ear mites. Our other cat doesn’t have them, and doesn’t come near enough to him to transmit them anyway, and he’s still an indoor cat. So, hooray, another thing for my to-do list.

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My friend Halo makes Michael Gorman look like a tool. Probably if you are a librarian you have already read the Gorman piece, unless you are too busy clicking and surfing, like I am. If you are not a librarian, then, you probably are saying “who’s Gorman?”

Well, I’m not going to tell you. Delight in your ignorance, my friends. All you need to know is that he’s a tool. A HAWT tool. I am assuming, of course, that you find Col. Sanders and Bob Villa hot.

Yeah!

One: Don’t Hate. Micturate. Over a Grate.

Today I took Strudel to the new play structure at the Zoo, so she could expel excess ya-yas before naptime. Plus the ground is wet, so I thought it would be good for her to play indoors. The Zoo opens a half-hour before the new building, so we waited outside for a few minutes. So much for trying to keep her dry– she found the nearest pile of mulch and did a bellyflop into it. When she got up she looked like she had been tossed around in a giant bag of Shake-n-Bake (Baby flavor).

We went in and she hoarded all the stuffed animals she could find. One of those frumpy, dowdy PNW moms who are my age but look like a middle-aged librarian* pointed me out and told her equally dowdyish mom-friend that she “used to have hair like that.” “Why did you quit?” said her friend. “Oh, it was too high-maintenance,” she replied snottily.

Bitch, don’t hate. I am not your slideshow illustrating how you used to be fabulous. Look way down inside yourself. Seriously. Way down. Past your stomach. Travel through your legs, and out your feet, where you will realize you are wearing the most hideous clogs I have ever seen. YALL JUST JELUS.

So that’s firstly. Secondly is that if you do colored hair right, it’s not high maintenance. It doesn’t have to be worse than maintaining blonde or “natural” red.

Thirdly, what is up with clog chic? One of my BFFs wears clogs, nice black ones, but I swear that nowhere else in the country are there clogs like the clogs I see here. It’s like people think…they look cool or something. I thought they were just things you wear you want to be comfortable? Or want to look like you should have your finger stuck in a dike? No? Whatevs.

* I can say that because I am one. I am reclaiming “librarian-looking” the same way homosexuals have taken back “queer.”

Two: Go! Fight! Win…Give Up. Take a Damn Nap.

So I have given up on the Franny kindergarten issue. When I first contacted the principal she agreed whole-heartedly that Franny should indeed be in the first grade. Now after speaking to the enrollment center and discovering there is no room to move her to first grade, she has (supposedly) told Sea-Fed that she will be plenty challenged in kindergarten again.

Sea-Fed also claims that (despite the fact he was all for testing her into the first grade) he called me months ago and told me he had enrolled her in kindergarten. I distinctly remember that phone call. He left me a message saying that he had enrolled Franny “in school.” I have not replied to his last email.

I mean this in the unsnarkiest way possible: I cannot work with someone who’s never wrong. It’s pointless for us to go back and forth, because the kindergarten thing is a done deal, and he either doesn’t remember that he didn’t tell me, or is denying it. During that same phone message he said he would send me a copy of the completed enrollment forms and then claimed in his last email that I never confirmed that I wanted them. I have this (maybe not-so-weird) feeling that he gave me as little information as possible to funnel her back into public school because it’s free.

It’s a mess, and again I take responsibility for this, because I didn’t double check and kick up a fuss about her grade placement in January, when there was time to do something. I am just trying to let it go now. There is a small possibility that they will move her to the correct grade in October. I am so sad that rather than pay to keep her in the right grade at her current school, he is okay with her going through kindergarten again. And we can’t pay all the tuition ourselves, and he might not even agree to that anyway.

Three: I Don’t Have a Rallying Cry for Three

In related news, I had my first meeting with Sea-Fed’s girlfriend. I think they’re going to do fine, because she’s the opposite of me. She’s nice, and by nice I mean amiable, but also one of those people who kind of smoothes things over and is polite and doesn’t really want to talk about hard stuff. I can see how she’d fit in really well with Sea-Fed’s family, who often found my need to do things my own way vexing. Also, she is delighted with Sea-Fed’s father’s deep pockets. She has already learned how to work the system to get him to buy play tickets, etc, and I give her props for that. And, possibly most importantly, she is willing to be the heavy with Franny as far as discipline goes.

I felt like I made her uncomfortable a few times. She mentioned what a relief it was to have her future father-in-law helping out financially, and that Sea-Fed was unwilling to take the money at first. (I can’t believe he’s still bothering with that charade.)

I said, “Well, maybe I am just imposing my personality on Sea-Fed, but I always felt like he did his best when we were supporting ourselves, and had to struggle a little.”

“He was hesitant to take the money,” she replied. “I had to talk him into it.”

“He always hesitates,” I said. “And he always takes it.”

I don’t know. It’s good to talk with someone in Franny’s life who doesn’t make my flesh crawl. Maybe she can see me as just a normal mom who is protective of her kid, rather than some fire-spitting she-devil. In court there was a lot of lip service on his side paid to “I just want what’s best for Franny.” I meant it; I left him in part because what is best for Franny is me not coming home and finding her covered in her own shit.

Looks like we’re getting together again on Friday. Franny was growing up learning how to play her dad and me off each other, because he would overrule and contradict me in front of her. I don’t want that with Sea-Fed’s girlfriend, either, so I am going to have to be careful here.

*TM Halo.

1. Okay, who’s having sex? ME. I am. Could sex possibly be the best invention that was ever invented? I like May and May likes me.

Okay, so you may have guessed that we’re finally over the flu here. It’s rough, having all that time off, and being sick. I got sick and well first and so was ready to get off the bench sooner, so I was having really weird dreams about running into people I haven’t seen in years and then flinging our clothes off. Hormones, you are making me crazy and turning innocent dreams about birthday cakes and snow into bargain-basement pr0n.

Ahem. Anyway. Can I show you my ass? Do you have a choice? NO.

You don’t know this, because I’ve not been posting full-body shots of myself here (and aren’t we grateful for the small things?) but I have dropped a pants size since weaning and moving here. I’m hoping I can drop another one so I can get back into my out-of-style Capri pants from 2004. I am clinging to my Capri pants because you will have to shoot me before I resort to MF leggings or whatever jank-ass length is in style now.

2. My fella is back to work today, so I am sliding back to my normal routine, but I really do miss him. I think Strudel does too. She was pointing at the door earlier, after he left, which could mean she’s thinking of him. Or she’s thinking of the door. Or she had to poop. I don’t know!

I have made an acquaintance through Franny’s school who has a baby a couple of weeks younger than Strudel and a daughter Franny’s age. She’s really nice, too. Pretty cool, right? Goddam, I hope so. But the reason I bring her up is because she does that baby sign thing with her children, where they make little gestures at each other so the baby can communicate preverbally.

When I was knocked up with Franny I thought this was a great idea, but we never really got around to doing it. But now I have seen it in action, and I think it’s a terrible idea. My friend gushed about how your little Boopsie can tell you EXACTLY what he or she wants. This is bad for two reasons.

First, in my experience, babies are confused and capricious a lot of the time, much like big people. Strudel seems to change her mind every three minutes or so. You get the message that they want carrots, you hop-to and fetch up some carrots, and then they tell you they want toast. NO, THANK YOU.

Second, I can wait until Strudel turns three to become a tiny ungrateful tyrant like her sister is sometimes. Be patient, The Baby. Until you learn to talk, I will tell you what you can have for lunch. And I will tell you what you can have for lunch even after you learn to talk. Learn to talk and then you can try to be the boss of me.

We have our own system, anyway. Strudel points at her lips when she’s hungry and throws her arms up when she’s finished. She points at the food when she wants more. And if I say, “Did you poop?” I know that she did if she runs away to the back of the house. Simple.

SOOOO, on Sunday night my fella and I totally made a pot pie which is fun and delicious. I always make the center and he is the Crustmaster. Sometimes he surprises me, because when my filling duties end I usually wander off. I think this even trumps the “SJ” pie, which I tried to find on my blog but couldn’t. Nevermind.

I love this guy and I’m going to keep him, as long as he comes home and has sex with me. If he stops putting out he GETS THE PILLOW. “I’m sorry, honey, I have to smother you now. This is for your own good.” Stupid flu. If I wanted to stop having sex, I would get married.

WHOA! *rimshot*

So, la, it’s been so long since I had brightly-colored hair that I forgot what daily life is like. This morning I woke up with a big smudge of red halfway down my arm and on my shoulder, but how could I have possibly slept in a fashion that would cause that smudge? How could I have twisted my head and neck like that and still be walking today? It’s a mystery. Sometimes I wake up with something that looks like, say, blue Play-Doh under my nails and I wonder where I’ve been.

Another side effect is that men now shout out of their car windows at me. But this is the PNW, so they don’t say “WOOOOT!,” they say, “My, that’s rather a nice shade of red. Good day!” The polititude is killing me, people. Motherfuckers can’t even catcall right.

Speaking of blue Play-Doh, the Grand Canyon cake turned out splendidly. I knew it would, because it is almost impossible to fuck up anything out my White Trash Cooking book. Sometimes you just have to get back to your family roots and dye a box cake funny colors. We’ll be peeing green for days!

Behold the breathtaking strata. Educational for the kids, too.

On Sunday, we had leftover cake AND leftover turkey bacon, which made me very excited. How often does an opportunity like that come along, anyway? Companion couldn’t believe what he was seeing, so he took some photos of me in unbridled ecstasy.

Turkey-cake roll-ups are pretty delicious, but I will confess to you that part of me was doing it to see Frannie say “EEEEEWWWW” forty-seven times. When I was in grade school I would do crazy things like drip pineapple rinds into ketchup and eat it for the pleasure of watching the girls freak out. I think they have medication that they give kids for that now.

Franny went off to school this morning and she won’t be coming home again–she’s off to her dad’s house. So for the next little while Strudel will be screaming at little blond-haired girls at the park who have a coat like Franny’s, and will be pointing at her picture and saying “DOO!” She always looks at me like I’m a little crazy at these times. “There’s Franny, Mom, let’s go get her!” Poor little thing just doesn’t understand.

I am working on the idea that Franny has another sister now. The first thing that wants to come out of my mouth when the subject comes up is “Tiny Vagina’s baby,” not “Your new sister.” It doesn’t quite seem real to me, and I worry that things will go badly over there for them. Part of me is rooting for Tiny Vagina to grow a clue and get away from Seattle Federline, but then I wouldn’t want Franny to have more instability. Another part of me wants Tiny Vagina to wait to watch CSI after Franny goes to bed, so I won’t have to have this conversation at the grocery store:

Franny: (singing) I’m going to suicide YOU! I’m going to suicide YOOOOU!
Me: Honey, you can’t suicide someone, because the definition of suicide is killing yourself.
Franny: You mean like when a girl sneaks into her parents’ room, and finds where the gun is hidden, and shoots herself, and all the blood goes all over the wall, including the brains?
Franny took a break at this point to blow on the pinwheel I was about to buy her.
Me: DO WHAT NOW?
Franny: I saw it on one of Tiny Vagina’s shows.

So we had a talk about about how suicide is bad, mmmkay?, and about how she can choose to walk away from bad television and amuse herself in her room. I don’t even know half of what goes on in her head. I was exposed to all sorts of things too young that gave me nightmares and a general sense of insecurity in all the adults around me, and I really wanted something different for Franny. But sometimes you have a babydaddy with jank-ass ideas, or even worse, NO IDEAS or plan so things just kind of “happen.” So you have to play the hand you’re dealt.

Today I am going to plant tomatoes and take deep breaths.

Monday is drag-O MF cleaning day at Rancho Asshole, and sad panda, now there’s more Rancho to clean. I told myself I was coming down to the basement to responsibly do online banking while Strudel naps, but now I find myself down here venting.

This morning, while I was sweeping upstairs, tragedy occurred. Hurricane Strudel tore through my bedroom and attacked my bandito, which had not yet been hung up on the stupid MF picture rails. So now Raoul has unbecoming scratches on his thirty-four year old face and poncho. I have no idea how to go about repairing a velvet painting, so I am going to have to accept him as his is, with his new character.

I had a moment of extreme fury after she had done it and I saw the velvet bits under her fingernails. I put her in her crib, quickly, and ran downstairs to call Companion and tell him how sad I was. I know it’s just a thing, and a super-ugly thing at that, but I have had it for almost ten years, and it’s one of my very favorite super-ugly things.

It was a real relief to talk to him. I feel so lucky to have people I can call up when I feel like I am going to eat my young. In the end, that is what will keep me from stripping off my clothes and running down the street screaming. YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, SUCKERS.

Britney Spears has been used as the inspiration for this anti-bear-life statue, by the sculptor Daniel Edwards, which is soon to go on display at Capla Kesting Fine Art in Brooklyn, New York.

“The artist wishes to convey a hatred for bears which could be interpreted to extend to all wild animals,” stated the gallery’s co-director, Lincoln Capla.

From Edwards’s artist statement: “Using this piece of synthetic, washed-up pop trash is my way of metaphorically shitting on nature and the rights animals have to life. Plus, it gave me a chance to sculpt some wide-open beaver. How often does an artist get to do that and call it art? Take that, Andres Serrano. Who’s edgy now? DAYUM, I hate bears.”

A representative for Ms. Spears would only comment: “Britney is delighted with this likeness of herself, but would like her fans to know she does not actually have struts protruding from her body.”

Aside to Dunhill: If you don’t go take pictures of this when you get back home, I will hunt you down and pinch you.

Grr grr grr! The building managers called again this morning. “Can we show the apartment at two and five and five-thirty?” I don’t know. Can you get a fucking clue that you are invading our privacy and right to notice? It’s weird, I feel like I’m too upset about this, but I have always hated having my rights stompled. I am also frustrated because my companion talked to them yesterday and they told him we could say no, but they were going to keep asking. I wish I would have known when they called this morning. My feeling is that they shouldn’t be asking. What are the odds they’re going to rent this place with clothes and boxes everywhere? I am not trying to keep it messy, it’s just moving mess.

Yaaar, HAAATE. Thank god we’re going out to dinner tonight. I need to get out of here. I am having to redo everything seven times because Strudel is following after me and unpacking things and dumping things. I am afraid she’s going to foil my scheme to get rid of Frannie’s broken plastic crap while she’s at school. I twirl my giant moustache as I throw out plastic ponies with broken legs.

If I ever become a member of the landed gentry, I resolve to give people fair notice or have a set open house day. With notice.

I think there are little tweetie birds flapping around my head right now….

1. What up gangstas? I need to tell you, long story short, that I did not actually post on Edward Champion‘s Oscarblog. Although he graciously left my name up and invited me to make commentary anyway, on other Oscar-related thingies that wouldn’t involve actually watching TV. He’s a swell fellow.

Instead of doing this, I was so wasted tired by Sunday night that we decided to lay on our couch-slash-bed and have delicious Taiwanese food, while watching Wedding Crashers. I suck, and a dumb and garlicky time was had by all.

2. I missed my grad-school BFF Halo‘s going-away party on Saturday night, which made me pretty sad. I sent my companion in my place, while I stayed home and guarded the sleeping Strudel, and he had a good time. Sometimes Halo and I talk about the first day of grad school, which is the day we met. It is also the day we both met my companion, because they lumped us into small discussion groups alphabetically.

On the first day, Halo and I were the earlynerds. If I remember correctly, we both had headphones glued to our heads. I was rocking the magenta hair then, and she was in a less-polished-more-punky phase, so we eyeballed each other and had the exact same thought: “This person could be cool, or could be bitchy.” It turns out we are both things, but were nice to each other.

For a while she was the bridge between me and my companion. When she wasn’t doing group work with me, she was working with him. I never saw him or had a class with him, but I heard about him and thought he sounded weird. It was because of her I started inviting him to parties and going out to the pub and lunch with the two of them, so I’m grateful for that. I think some people were convinced (Seattle Federline included) that my companion home-wrecked, but he was in another state doing summer fieldwork while I started planning my escape back in ’03. My companion was not Angelina Jolie to my Brad Pitt, although he does have nice lips.

So Halo is my last departing close grad school friend. I am going to visit her and other friends in May, but it won’t be the same as an impromptu trip to the mall and a delicious chain restaurant. SNIFF.

Here I am grinning like an idiot at our last LUSH run in Seattle. We totally tried on awesome marabou clips at the totally mall! ROXOR!

3. I am one step closer to boobie liberation, people. I have run out of my year prescription of my progesterone-only mini-pill, which is recommended for nursing mothers. Now I am back on the hard stuff–my old triphasic friend. Clear skin here I come! How I missed you.

The mini-pill and nursing kept me from getting pregnant, so MF hooray, but I was having that thing where I’d get PMS and break out and freak out and then (usually)…no actual bleeding. Then I’d feel normal a few days later and start over next month with the PMS again. A couple of times I took a pregnancy test just to be on the safe side. I can’t really complain about having only a couple of periods in the past couple of years, but it was like never being able to completely sneeze. A total ugh.

4. On Thursday a portal to hell opened up and I stepped inside for a minute. It was sticky and moist with a 40% chance of a rain of blood and I am still scarred.

Okay seriously, when Strudel woke up from her nap on Thursday, with no warning her tummy rumbled and she unloaded all over me. Of course I was cuddling her, because they’re just so freaking cuddly when they wake up. She probably hasn’t been sick like that for five or six months, so I guess we were due.

Dudes, I have to tell you, during her second wave, she vomited into my mouth a little. I was very impressed with myself, because I managed not to join the festivities. It was a toss up (ha ha) for a minute there, too, as I hovered by the kitchen sink.

Now you know, because I, Asshole, have told you: Children Will Vomit Into Your Damn Mouth. Sterilization is now easier, safer, and quicker than ever. I’m just saying.

I stripped her and wrapped her in a towel, and I stripped myself and changed into my pink fleece leopard robe that sometimes makes everything better, and saw that my companion was due home in about fifteen mintues, so I sat down to rock her until her came in. He took her while I showered and watched the half-digested noodles go down the drain. Then I took her in with me and cleaned her up. She had a fever all evening, and then was almost 100% the next morning. They’re amazing little animals.

After the jump is a picture I’m posting that will serve as a visual aid should my companion and I consider having one more child. I took this as a preventive measure.

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“Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop-offs at tedium and counter-productivity.”
-Erma Bombeck

When I was a kid I would read anything I could get my hands on. ANYTHING, cover-to-cover. Soup labels, cookbooks, the family medical encyclopedia (not just the dirty bits, but the section on bone cancer, too), the TV Guide, every new bottle of shampoo that came into the house. Last night, much to my shame and embarrassment, I revealed to my companion that I had read the manual to the garbage disposal when I was nine or ten, partly out of curiosity but partly to see if my stepfather was over-exaggerating about what could not but put down it (he was). My mother had boxes and boxes of old books collecting dust in the basement, which I would paw through when I had run through her current novels and self-help books. I read a lot of old fiction that was really popular in its heyday–Diary of a Mad Housewife, Fear of Flying, and The Bell Jar.

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