1019 Words that all say WEH.

I woke up this morning and immediately threw up. It was one of those bad burning ones that makes your throat hurt. It was kind of a relief, because I’d been feeling bad all night, which was waking me up, and then I knew I had a legit reason to stay home rather than just “I woke up all night and now feel like hammered shit.” Sick days are precious gems and I have used too many of them already this year. But: my head hurts, my body hurts, my sciatic nerve is making a call, which is surprising because I haven’t heard from that since I was mongo pregnant.

Thing two is that I spent about two hours dreaming about something extremely trivial: Mad Men. If you don’t like or watch Mad Men, or you save them all up like precious truffles and gobble them all up after the season’s over, you may want to run away now, and just know that I am sick and unhappy and rambling about pointless shit.

So. Ahem. I like to go slow, deep, and very hard into my Mad Men, and read the online graduate seminar known as a Tom and Lorenzo recap. Among people who enjoy taking part in the wanky Mad Men Symbolism Quest of tearing costumes, setting, and flashbacks apart, much hay has been made about Don and Megan in their bedroom. “They are never on even footing!” say the posters. Don is ill with Megan hovering over him, or Megan is in her PJs and Don is in his suit. One is up walking around, and the other is in bed. I was thinking about Don Draper miserable in bed, because I was feeling like that one ep where Don stuffs his ex under the bed. Confused! And fucked up.

I am also thinking of elements of good dialogue–dialogue that is snappy, and moves the plot along, and what is happening during the dialogue. Rarely on Mad Men or in a good novel do you have two people talking and doing absolutely nothing. I’ve decided it’s pretty simple. You can’t put two people in a bedroom in the middle of the day without at least one of them having a legit reason to be there. Sickness, sleep, changing clothes. At this point, you get the feeling that Don and Megan are well over their honeymoon stage, and showing them lovingly making with the sexy times isn’t really moving the plot along, nor would it tell the story Wiener seems to want to tell this season. A lot of commentary over on Tom and Lorenzo, beyond what the recappers say themselves, is insignificant, and amounts to “Hey I noticed a thing.” Is it significant, this thing you saw? Or is it just a plausible reason to get two characters somewhere so they can talk and do the actual work of moving the story ahead? My favorite commenters are the ones who 1. remember the 60s, a la Sally Draper, or 2. Notice some shoutback to a previous episode or season. That is all.

I also had another minor revelation this morning. I’ve been kind of operating on austerity measures around here (okay that is a total misuse of that term) regarding things the girls like but rip through, and then you have to buy more in about five minutes, and it’s annoying. Case in point: cough drops. Strudel decided to raid the medicine cabinet and eat all the cough drops for no reason, other than the fact they contain sugar. Then she lied about eating them, and then I found all the wrappers under her pillow. I thought, well, it’s almost spring, and we rarely use them anyway, so I would wait to buy more until we need them. I forgot that a time when it is nice to have cough drops is right after you make a big burning porcelain phone call. Straws, also. I really want a straw this morning to pathetically sip my Talking Rain through, and I gave up buying them when I moved because I discovered the girls were going through them at a rate of approximately 17.5 a day. WHY? HOW?

This is one of my least favorite things about having children. “Say, I’d sure like an X right now.” Oh? Tough shit, some short assholes used that up ages ago and then did not put it on the list because they know they are not supposed to build crowns out of Q-Tips. Yes, they have access to 1. Actual, non-mentholated candy, 2. Lips, that they can suck water through, and 3. Art supplies to make crowns from if they wish. They even have SEPARATE art supplies because I couldn’t take the fighting anymore, and now there are art supply drawer raids, which leads to art drawer supply raid fights.

The big one woke me up at 11 last night to inform me she’d vomited all over her bedroom floor. I was kind of like “and?” since everything hurt and I’d just solidly fallen asleep. So there I am cleaning up phad thai, which I dreamt about all night, and almost vomiting myself. Vomit begets vomit in me something like 75% of the time. I’ve been dreading this day. On one hand, you are a sick kid. On the other, the 8-year-old can now make it to the toilet, or at least make a good attempt at it. When do you stop cleaning kid puke?

After I’d gotten the bulk of the steaming noodles off the floor, I rolled up her rug and left that one for her. That should be a good baby step into showing her how awful cleaning puke is. I wanted to atomic wedgie her on Saturday, because she was teasing Strudel about getting sick on Friday night, starting the chain of barf-a-rama. Franny barfed almost weekly until she was five or so, in the worst places, like between her wall and bed, into my hair, etc. I can probably count the total number of times Strudel has been that sick since she was born on two hands. She wasn’t even much of a milk spitter.


It Burns When I Monday

I came home yesterday to a pile of receipts and some other odds and ends on the table. There is nothing like the feeling of something not making sense and trying to figure it out. Sometimes I imagine I have the spinning hourglass over my head. I turned around to face the living room and all of my electronics were gone. Well, that tears it: robbed. It’s never good timing, is it? It feels kind of extra bad right now because the house was the good thing happening, and it still is, I have to remember that. As I tried to go to sleep last night I had this feeling of wanting to go home, like I was on some kind of nightmare extended trip, but I am home. Bad things can happen in your home and you have to kind of move forward and pave over them with better things.

The good news is that the thieves were kind of morons–I guess if they weren’t they would have, like, real jobs? I assume it was kids, because most of what they took was Franny’s, including all of her pajamas, strangely. They weren’t even like super fancy jammies, either. So today for her birthday, I took her pajama shopping and got her a couple of other odds and ends since some of her other clothes were nicked. The electronics they took either needed set up software or they could be bricked remotely. Passwords were easy to change and took only a few minutes. I haven’t even finished hanging up all my pictures yet.

The receipts were on the table because my purse itself, which contained nothing valuable, had been emptied and stolen. My camera happened to be on me at work, which is nice. I haven’t been robbed since I was a kid–and then it was my parents, of course. All of my stuff is kind of old and outdated and/or easily rendered useless. I have crappy weird antiques, mostly, and a lot of books and kitchen stuff. Overall I think we were a bad score–I don’t even have a TV. But it sucks because I liked my $80 refurb laptop from dinosaur times. If they knew what they were doing, they wouldn’t have bothered even unplugging it.

The thing that people say when you are robbed is that it’s such a violation. I don’t really feel that. My house felt the same, only messier, and emptier. I feel like the real damage is that now the girls are nervous, and I worry about that. The officer who took the report was very reassuring about people not being hit twice close together–of course not, all of the things of apparent value are gone.

In other amazing news in these amazing end times, my trial has been postponed again. I sort of feel like I can’t really talk to people about this anymore. It’s like going into your twelfth year of having some obscure disease. “How’s it going, still dying?” Yes. Anyway, it’s pushed out to November, the week of FANGSGIVING. The temporary parenting plan says that we have her for that week but her stepmother told her they have her that week, so I imagine that will be another fight. I really don’t understand the confusion over a line of text that says: Thanksgiving, mother, even years. TWELVE IS STILL EVEN, RIGHT? I told SeaFed recently that he should perhaps consider sitting down with another adult and reviewing the parenting plan, like his wife, but wow do I take that back now.

My lawyer suggested I try to settle with him just for funsies, so I emailed him and told him I would pay his half of the GAL fee if he signed now, and we could avoid missed work for trial. Because I am a jolly cockface I pointed out that this would also save me the trouble of filing a lien to get the money later. This, of course, has been entered as a THREAT against him in his trial brief. His trial brief is not quite the comedic document that his divorce proceedings were (which for some reason included the FACT that only 6% of his diet is snacks) or for that matter his impassioned defense against the evil known as child support (which included a moving passage urging the commissioner to change child support guidelines right then and there in court for his case, as well as some fascinating math that ended in a calculation that his fair share was $81 a month and that the King County Office of the Prosecuting Attorney was in my pocket, hello hello mind the lint and crumbs boys), but it still has its moments.

He turned in his trial brief late and as monstrous hard copy. Once my attorney submitted hers, which was terse, easy to follow, and contained actual case law citations, he turned in another document, claiming that he had accidentally left part of his trial brief off. This document, naturally, looked a lot more like hers. My lawyer has asked the commissioner to award a portion of attorney’s fees due to intransigence and general jerkymandering, so naturally he has asked for attorney’s fees as well (N.B.: He still has no attorney). He has also asked for me to be supervised by a CASE MANAGER because I am bad, bad, super bad, and naughty. The basis for this is that I gave him a few days’ notice the weekend I moved that I would not be able to drive Franny all the way to his city that day, and he would have to make arrangements to pick her up at school. Also I should be held in CONTEMPT OF COURT because of this. Okay, his trial brief is not really fuck yeah, caplocks, but it kind of has that flavor. Or maybe some Random capitalization for Emphasis.

Unfortunately my deviation from the letter of the temporary parenting plan one time in eleven months has made him decide it’s now a good idea to begin text/email harassment three days before any drop off is supposed to happen. The good news is that this harassment prompted my lawyer to push back and point out that he was violating the parenting plan himself by not remitting her passport to me. He went away but has ignored her request.

So, as I said: endtimes. I am going to write about this, and then it will be done, and I will dénouement around a little, and then I will be happy to put this to bed.

My last word today is that this is the only time in about 8 years that I have wanted to have a TV. Dr. Horrible is airing live tonight on the CW. I will have to catch it later.

The sign over the door says “Give Up”

In the dairy aisle, at that time in the a.m. when it is all nice little old ladies, con brio: “BLOODY HELL, MOTHER!” Tooo much Buffy and Spike. The blue heads swiveled. I wished I was dead. Franny wished she was dead. And we laughed.

At the Nordic Hertitage Museum

At sushi, with chopsticks and a miso spoon [nonchalantly]: “I’m unforkened!”


At the antique store, confidently: “This typewriter’s broken.”

“How can you tell?”

“There’s no screen.”

Tryyy the motherfucking veeeeal people!

En Roy Dotrice Nouvelles

Franny is gone for one week each to Colorado and the San Juans with her father. She has a bad attitude about it in the way of eleven-year-olds who are not being allowed to sit around unbathed, reading comic books in their pajamas. He took her one day early and it was a FEDERAL CASE to even arrange that.

He emailed me the day before to tell me to remind Franny to loot a bunch of clothes and stuff from my house since she doesn’t have enough for a week’s vacation. Of course I paraphrase, but I tell you it was not an ask. Which, you know, I am still smarting a little over that whole being sued thing last fall. I don’t really think paying a small amount of child support makes this the Bank of Franny Clothes, especially since she tells stories about our clothes being absorbed into hand-me-down boxes for his other children. TAKE AN HOUR OUT OF YOUR FAPPERY-FILLED DAY AND GO TO GOODWILL FFS. Am I off base here?

This is all just so SIGH. Picture me, waiting outside of the girls’ school last September, on a sunny fall day waiting for Strudel, and knowing that he is about to pick up Franny. I expected him to be in his car, but up he strolls, knowing that we have been exchanging nasty emails all summer, with his threats getting cranked up up up post-child support all the time until I knew he was about to sue me. Like, as I was standing there I was expecting summons that week.

“How’s it going?” he said, GLIBLY, as he walked up. UM I’M ABOUT TO GET SUED BITCH is how it’s going. P.S., by you. I don’t feel like chitty chatting.

I get tired of this push push pull, you know? But I cannot stand that car dealer mentality (I know, insulting to car dealers) where I am being pecked for everything on the off chance I might say yes, or maybe he thinks it’s legit? I cannot tell anymore.

Do you get locked into eternal combat with something or someone and then imagine yourself letting go? I let go of a lot of things–with other people, with work, with my girls. It’s better to give when you can. What do you do when you cannot give that one person anything, because you know you will never get anything in return and it won’t benefit your kid to boot and you are just empty? I cannot imagine what letting go looks like. I feel that this is a major personal flaw right now. I have sensible talks with myself about being mature and flexible and then I just imagine myself bending over and taking it up the butt with a bowling pin the size of the Eiffel Tower (try to sleep tonight now, I defy you).

I’d like to think that when the ink is dry on the parenting plan, which is coming, SOON, like it or not, I can let a lot of this go. I sure it’s been a long year reading all this blibber blubber about court, but I think I’m in the home stretch now. Then it’s the fun part–I’ve saved every bill and I’m going to add it up. ALL OF IT. It’s going to hoit. How’s that for an x-ray into Changing a Parenting Plan for Dummies, and We Do Mean That You Are a Dummy. And probably like a recap about what I did right and wrong.

The bummer part is that every situation is different and walking into a court room is a coin flip, but I tell you I would do it all again. There’s also some stuff I have to keep under my hat til the paperwork’s signed, and then…oh yes.

And then I am on to other things!

Commander Pineapple/Colonel Mustard Slash

“Then you have given up hope?”

“Hope of what, Sir?” she asked mildly.

Simon felt foolish, as if he had committed a breach of etiquette. “Well–hope of being set free.”

“Now why would they want to do that, Sir?” she said. “A murderess is not an everyday thing. As for my hopes, I save that for smaller matters. I live in hopes of having a better breakfast tomorrow morning than I had today.” She smiled a little. “They said at the time that they were making an example of me. That’s why it was the death sentence, and then the life sentence.”

But what does an example do, afterwards? thought Simon. Her story is over. The main story, that is; the thing that defined her. How is she supposed to fill the rest of the time?

–Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace

It’s beyond the point, but I like to picture the main character as Gina Torres, though she’s a white Irish lady. It’s ok.

PNW Strawberries rather than store California ones

I have a little news so I will make a little post. ETA: Whoops, I am incapable of being terse.

THING THE FIRST: I have been a victim of FRAUD, FRAUD I TELLS YOU. I knew it was coming, due to my predilection to shop on dodgy sites at 2 a.m. and buy things like Drain Snake What Someone Has Glued Google Eye Onto (J/K, I always use the most trustworthy sites ever and this is not an ADMISSION OF ANYTHING, Giant Corporate Bank). I was looking over my account and there it was…Two pay-as-you-go phones, Match.com recurring monthly debit and then a cancellation (did you know that OKStraightPeople is $36 a month!!!???), and a pizza place in California.

It did not really bother me too much, since these things are so impersonal. I called, cancelled the card, etc. It did make me think of an old friend of mine who had her bank card number lifted right as she was traveling in to the U.S. and then went bonkers about how evil Americans crimed her, when it turned out that all the fraud was frauded in her own country. I still laugh when I think of that–not at the misfortune of being robbed, but how certain situations can bring out our deep and not-so-secret prejudices.

Heirloom is my favorite, though purple roses struggle here.

THING THE SECOND: I don’t know if this deserves its own Legal Beat update, but this is just to say that star of stolidness and screeds, Seattle Federline, is being VERY amusing as of late. Seriously. As you may recall a guardian at litem was appointed (by court order) to our case in December in the event that we did not just immediately settle.

We mediated in late January or early February and I don’t think I wrote about it because man was it a big bag of suck. That was when I was kind of running out of gas and jollytimes and working at shitty contract and this was just one more thing on the shit pile. It was shuttle mediation, where you sit in one room and the other party sits in the other room, at his insistence, which is unfortunate because I really wanted a chance to wear my new snake wig out somewheres.

The mediator was all Hard Bargain Harriet and I think she was trying basic bitch mind tricks or something, because I had canceled mediation the previous summer and I quote myself here (you’re welcome future biographer*):

For my mediation appointment with SeaFed we were required by the mediator to submit a statement saying why we wanted to mediate. I’m grateful to her for this since it clarified everything for me like bang. I would not allow myself to reply “I don’t want to mediate” so I made myself put “to appear cooperative,” which is a pretty shitty reason to do anything you’ll spend a lot of money on and get nothing out of (forced parenting class during my divorce comes to mind as well). He replied, well past the courtesy deadline the mediator asked for, naturally: “My purpose in mediating is to nullify the temporary living arrangement we’ve been adhering to and return to the original parenting plan.”

Well, that tore it. What a colossal waste of time this expensive discussion would be. I was also lulzing at the fact that when SeaFed is put into some kind of grown-up communication situation, he never uses one word when three officious ones would do, much like I imagine a twelfth-grade honors English essay reads. With a great sense of relief, I cancelled the appointment, saying that I didn’t think it was the right venue in which to make a change like this…because…it’s NOT.

COUGH anyway once I got in front of her she said, “I thought YOU were the difficult one since you canceled mediation. I never would have advised a client to say that they merely wanted to ‘appear cooperative.” Okay, a. not my most brilliant move ever and b. way to play hardball, lady. I am shaking in my negged boots over here. She also told me that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance of getting what I wanted, in spite of the fact that what I wanted was what we’ve been doing, because she has Seen Things in Many a Courtroom.

This struck a false note with me, and I was done. We drew up something tentative, which SeaFed refused to sign, having been wanged by signing the Memorandum of Understanding in mediation in 2007. I took this as a clue that he was not buying her bullpucky either. I could not ask him, of course, since he was elsewhere. As I was leaving she said, “The next time we meet we push forward. We are not changing anything written down on this paper.”

“Mmmhmmm,” I replied, which is SJ for “I am done with you but have learned not to command people to fuck off and die willy-nilly.”

So nothing happened, and nothing happened, and we did not discuss mediation, and then in May(?) SeaFed sent a proposed parenting plan that looked very like the weirdy stuff from mediation. I made notes on it to the point where it became a different plan and sent it to my lawyer, asking her advice. Recently we had to furnish a witness list to court and get the ball rolling on the guardian ad litem and that is where SeaFed has decided to throw the brakes on. The GAL intake form was 107 questions (and there was a bonus “short” form about a quarter of that size). The retainer is $1450. I can’t imagine this had anything to do with the series of panicked emails he sent after the GAL contacted him recently. I reminded him we were on deadlines and that mediation had failed, due to the fact that we didn’t agree on anything and did not have a signed parenting plan.

“Mediation was successful!” he declared to me, the GAL, and my lawyer via email. “Expressions of complete and total surprise!” he narded on. I was ready to have my first appointment with the GAL and she called an canceled on me morning of. “Mr. SeaFed seems surprised and confused by all of this, so I will wait to hear back from him again…I know this is a court order but we should wait a bit if we can save you both some money.”

“Okay,” I said.

Later SeaFed sent out an email politely declining the GAL’s services. I had the exquisite joy of watching my exhusband politely decline a court order. Schadenlulz turned to schadenweeing my pants. I emailed my lawyer: “Can he politely decline a court order?” Her: “Um, no.”

I think the time is finally right to send on my proposed parenting plan–it’s ready now.


THING THE THIRD: Did you know that Modern Clue (aka Cluedo) has taken away the honoraries of the guests? I was thinking about how the men always had Professor or Colonel, but the ladies were all Miss or Mrs. This is very freeing, actually, since I remember the old names, but now Mrs. White is Dr. White when we play. Take that, patriarchy. And now Miss Scarlet is bringing Fierce Drag Queen realness.

I am almost always Colonel Mustard, since I have always identified with and admired pompous asses. His flavor text is still pompous: “Did I ever tell you about my glorious football years?” I approve. When I was a kid and I would stare at all the pieces in the Clue board that my mother and her siblings abandoned along with the rest of her childhood at my grandmother’s trailer, I liked to imagine the Colonel had elephant-foot umbrella stands and oryx heads on his walls.

Strudel cheats. “No, I have never seen a Mrs. Peacock card in my hand in my life.” Later: “Whoops!” You know if she is marking clues down mid-game and it is not her turn, then good fucking luck at the pool house. Usually everyone dies. I declare it Cluethulu.

* Working title: Cuntligula and the Art of Mastodon Maintenance


Dear Sparkleprincess Unicorn Slambook,

HI HOW ARE YOU? This is that post where I am saying I should be doing something else right now, specifically editing recipes. That’s going well. What a difference a day makes, as they say, or maybe that’s more like eight months. Sometimes you have to dump things for a while and have a good cry to find your passion for them again. In other news, I hate posts like this, because it’s sort of like when someone is making a grocery list in their head while they’re having sex with you.


“Yeah, EGGS, baby!”

“No, we are OUT of eggs.”

My boner!

Longcat is long, so you know it’s warm.

New contract is going well. It’s in one of Seattle’s “fun” neighborhoods and the commute if very reasonable. I am making zucchini bread. The recipe calls for “three medium zucchinis” but if your zucchini is the size of a baby, then the recipe should call for “half a baby,” eh?

I thought my Victorian recipes were pretty complete other than that pesky “conversion to British” thing, but it’s taking a bit. Cups are going over to grams, liquid measures are going over to ml. A British pint in not a US pint, but you are so smart and probably knew that already.

Goethe gerroff my zucchini batter.

That’s better.

I do still have my other two cats, of course, it’s just that Gertie Pie is the one who comes around.

I am listening to the Song of Ice and Fire series via audiobook. I think at this point it’s almost a habit more than anything. I hate it when I get into this loop where I can’t decide if I’m enjoying myself or not, yet I continue. This seems like a very human thing to do, eh? Deer are more “there is not try, only do,” I think. Sometimes I wake up while listening to them and I’m on some weird chapter and someone is getting stabbed and I’m all WTF is happening, you fell asleep again, dummy. But most of the time I am upright and listening properly.

Lemon cucumbers for days! I eat them like apples. Yum!

En dotry nouvelles

Franny called yesterday, from her father’s house. I’ve been so scattered with new job and the abrupt end of old job that I realized I’ve been blurting on Twitter but have not written properly about things. Franny called to say she misses me and cannot wait to come home on the first, and that she was delighted to receive a letter from her sister yesterday. It sounds like she’s having fun visiting as well, though. I told her that just an hour before I had walked to the local plastics store and bought two sheets of plastic to construct a guinea pig habitat–she’s getting guinea pigs for her eleventh birthday in October. It’s going to be her jam, with heavy supervision from me to make sure the enclosure stays clean and whatnot. So now I’m reading up on them on a few sites. Really enjoying this one–it’s chockablock with guinea pig “activists” among the actual decent information, so occasionally you can watch them run someone off for not doing everything exactly right. OH INTERNET.

Two things have happened. I received a letter from the prosecuting attorney’s office saying that all the 4,000 pieces of personal and financial information they had requested from me had been received; were adequate; were processed, and now I have a COURT CASE and that I would hear from them regarding court date etc. “soon.” I may hear from them soon, but I reckon that I won’t have an actual court date until sometime around Q2 of next year. That’s OKAY. I am a tortoise.

For my mediation appointment with SeaFed we were required by the mediator to submit a statement saying why we wanted to mediate. I’m grateful to her for this since it clarified everything for me like bang. I would not allow myself to reply “I don’t want to mediate” so I made myself put “to appear cooperative,” which is a pretty shitty reason to do anything you’ll spend a lot of money on and get nothing out of (forced parenting class during my divorce comes to mind as well). He replied, well past the courtesy deadline the mediator asked for, naturally: “My purpose in mediating is to nullify the temporary living arrangement we’ve been adhering to and return to the original parenting plan.”

Well, that tore it. What a colossal waste of time this expensive discussion would be. I was also lulzing at the fact that when SeaFed is put into some kind of grown-up communication situation, he never uses one word when three officious ones would do, much like I imagine a twelfth-grade honors English essay reads. With a great sense of relief, I cancelled the appointment, saying that I didn’t think it was the right venue in which to make a change like this…because…it’s NOT.

The plan for now is to carry on until things change somehow, meaning he gets mad enough about child support to sue me to move to 50/50 time and I lose. I know he will object to child support once he officially gets a chance to do so (it’s worth noting that he STILL has not mentioned that I’ve filed for child support in any of our communications). I’m relieved that child support and the state of the parenting plan are two separate issues, requiring separate efforts, paperworks being filed, attorney fees. I got an email from his father the other day that led me to believe he has no idea that his son is being sued for child support, which makes me think SeaFed hasn’t hit his dad up for attorney fees yet.

Since my brain is back with a vengeance and steel trappin up and down and all over town, I’m going to create a schedule for this next school year, holidays included, using last year’s calendar for reference to see whose turn it is to have Thanksgiving and whatnot. This is partly prompted by sadness and irritation at his lack of ability to get his shit together to figure out what time he’d like to pick his daughter up at the appointed location before the day of this summer. I don’t have time to fuck with this shit now that I am back to a desk job for now. It’s the same old shit as always, but I’d like to take a break from confused, last-minute emails for the school year, thank you. The last time I made a schedule for SeaFed to follow ended with him drunkenly screaming at me from a party. But that will not happen again, because we are older and wiser now, yes? (Ha.)

So, I have been validated by the County of King: I have a COURT CASE. Soon I will have a COURT DATE. I have cancelled mediation. I have lost my hobbles and this has become such a small part of my life and concerns…why my 2004 self would hardly recognize my 2011 self. Looking forward to having a last hurrah out of town before school starts.

The Plan of a House The Body in Bed

MAN I am dead I tells you. I’m okay with starting a new job this week, really I am. I like money. What I didn’t expect is to walk for a half hour to pick up my girls every night. This is totally great, but in addition to waking up at 6 and keeping up on yoga, I am just tired. I’ll catch up.

The stressful thing is starting a new job and having summer camp end two weeks before school starts. I forgot about this bullshit. What to do now?

Goethe decides I am done with yoga.

Mère takes a bath. She was under the weather for a couple of days and I was worried about her. She slept smooshed up against my ribs last night which she never does–usually she’s between my feet. This is better than that sick cat who hides under the porch, how sad is that?

Goethe LOOOOVES her mother. Mère finds her daughter annoying. I find all of this hilarious.

I uhhhh drunkenly syndicated my blog on Kindle. I guess my point in telling you this is that it’s so easy a person who has consumed half a bottle of rosé and a small glass of whiskey can do it. Jennyalice told me to do it this weekend when I was in San Diego, and as it turns out she’s a pretty good boss. “Drink more mai tais,” she said. “Wear my underwear,” she said, handing me a spotted pair with a proper butt part since I packed drunk. I have always wondered what it’s like to pack drunk. Here is the answer: hot pink bandeau bra with silver zebra stripes, bikini top (note lack of actual for real bras) and assorted XXX-tra fancy thongs. Apparently I thought Squid‘s mom’s house was some kind of porno set.

Anyway, I hope the syndicating will be worthwhile to someone, since sometimes I write long and sometimes I write short, and I hope the average of that feels like value. I’ll have the link up when I get it. Apparently they have to look at my blog and assess its value and make sure it’s a really real thing or something. I’m still going to finish my first date series, don’t worry.

Also, this is kind of funny, ha ha, I signed a book contract for the Victorian cookbook in San Diego. Remember that? There’s more to it, and also less to it, but suffice it to say that I have a manuscript due January 5th, 2012.

Hang the Sign Upon the Door

Man, I’d like to be the filling in that sandwich. I didn’t realize how flowery the lyrics are…just to pull this out of my ass, I tend to think that’s the influence of Prince, who was really at his peak at this time. I mean, even “Darling Nikki” takes place in a castle (wut). I like Prince’s style. If I met someone masturbating in a hotel lobby to porn* I’m not sure what I would do. Probably take a picture. Or steal the magazine. What are they going to do? Are you going to chase someone when you’re in fap mode? Well, not anyone I know would.

ANYWAY, looks like a thrilling weekend of tomato planting ahead of me. I’m also trying to finagle the cat door situation, because there are TOO MANY CATS ON THE DANCEFLOOR. I found a steaming present in front of the closed patio door yesterday. I have four litter boxes that I scoop daily and change regularly. I take this as a sign. ADDITIONALLY tonight I am volunteering at the trans film fest. I have also got to get down to the library to find a font book that’s reference only, so don’t hide it, okay? Busy weekend ahoy.

Franny, taquito, Strudel.

In other news, I held a list in my head yesterday, all day. I remembered names and details. I am going to be doing less nodding and agreeing from now on, so look out. I have an ultrasound scheduled for next week (not the baby kind) because somethin ain’t right in there. HOW MANY HANDS WILL I HAVE IN MY VAGINA BY THE END OF THE MONTH? My guess is “too many, and not the right ones.”

*Unspecified. She could have been ‘batin to “Guns and Ammo” I suppose.

HEAD DESK Head desk head deeesk

I am in the process of watching Franny’s dad not listen to or consult with her, and it is twisting me. He’s telling me he’s going to take her to see my mother on Friday. She doesn’t want to go. I’m not opposed to her having a functional, respectful relationship with her father. I don’t really understand the idea of him forcing her to see people she doesn’t want to see who no one else in her family sees either. He got really mad when I told him she’s an alcoholic. Being confronted with other people’s habits or problems can be like looking into a mirror. I have experienced this myself in other ways.

I don’t have much to say about this. I think I just need to express my disbelief that it’s happening again. It happened for spring break. He emails me, tell me what’s going to happen as if he is asking my permission. It’s contrary to whatever she wants. I feel like he wants collusion, but I cannot sell her out like that. I feel cheap, man! Like I could say yes to something and not know they’ve already talked about it and she’s expressed her opinion. She’s old enough to decide where she wants to spend her spring break. I’m not going to tell him how to parent her, either.

Being her advocate is exhausting and never-ending…and totally what I signed up for. However, sometimes I can relate to this asshole.

When I Awake I Awaken with a Tingle/2-Mar Rainbow

“Are you SURE you don’t want to trade places?” the woman whispered to me sharply. On Monday she had asked me the same question. I was sitting on my yoga mat in the back, trying to stretch a little.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. It seemed notable that she had taken my spot from the immersion last month. “My friend is new and I’m staying back here to keep him company.”

She looked at me with her bitchy face. I overheard her talking smack about the teacher last month, too. Snide comments about other things. Really? In 6 a.m. yoga? WHY?

REALLY BITCH? Get out of my happy place. The worst part is she’s a teacher there. Put your Zen Bonnet on for an hour, ok lady? She can HAVE her assigned seat on Friday.

Thing the second is a question I keep asking myself over and over again: WHY? Why am I personally dealing with my mother’s alcoholism now? Why not years ago? My mother’s favorite thing to say to me is that I need to “get over my childhood” and she’s right…to a certain extent. Her idea of getting over things is to stop making weeping vagina noises and to go play in the street. I think I’m over it, but I’m not going to stop thinking about it. I’m not going to stop asking how I am being and treating my kids, and how it still affects me as an adult.

I had an aha while talking to a friend this morning about why now: because NOW it is affecting my child. I don’t move until they are suffering. I did not leave SeaFed until he was neglecting Franny.

Which is really only part of the story. I have been motivated in recent years to stand up for myself and make things right on other things. It’s getting better. Spacey is a good person and knows about these things, and she said “You are not required to deal with this on your own.”

I don’t think I can handle any kind of group experience at the moment, so I am going to do some reading and some self-inventorying and some other stuff that sounds like therapy hoomhaw. Happily and with purpose. There seems to be very few moments of coasting. When I was a kid I thought you grew up and then coasted. Uh…until you died. HA!

Okay, so there is my weeping vagina moment of the day. I am grateful to my friend for listening to me word barf until I had an epiphany about something that has been nagging at me.

I did not remember my dream until I was driving around this morning. The wind was blowing, the sun was shining, and it was raining, or as my grandma would say “the devil is beating his wife.” I saw a rainbow and I remembered, then, dreaming about one. Spring is coming, or possibly Sring.

Hooray for Tetanus Shots!

I learned something at PetCo yesterday. They have found a way to monetize tail shapes in Siamese Fighting Fish. Once they were $6 a bucket, take your pick of color or shape. Now there is a code for fin shape! And some of them are $28! If the choice is between $28 for something that will live for 3 weeks, and like, the equivalent in hot dogs, then I am going for hot dogs.

I like to turn off my alarm and listen to the girls gossip about me. Strudel hears more than her sister because she does not leave on weekends.

“Mom’s planting KIWIS!” she whisper-shouted over the clank of their breakfast plates. That child does not have a quiet bone in her body.

“Really,” said Franny, who is used to her sister getting things hilariously and disastrously wrong. “Real kiwis? Like these?” she asked, no doubt pointing to the ones they were chowing down on now.

“Yes real kiwis, they are vines. And Mom’s talking about moving the hot tub, but it’s too heavy.”

There is a horrible, wretched, decaying hot tub in the corner of the yard. I am certain it’s a mosquito vector in the summer and is an ugly blue tarp-covered mass year round. I called a local junk hauling service just to see and they quoted me $400. It’s steep to consider as a renter. The back up plan is to move it to an unused part of the yard where it will be shaded and not fill with water. I am also hoping to cover it with something else.

This yard has a lot of just generic junk in it, which makes me CRAZY. When the girls go out to play they will find random things, like flattened, popped beach balls or a tattered gardening glove. I have done several sweeps to get rid of the detritus that’s around, but things keep getting literally unearthed, like all the empty shampoo bottles that you get with home hair color kits we found in the side yard. Why do you hoard those? And why do you then put them into the side yard?? The chickens have done a lot to scratch up odd bits of plastic and trash. At first I assumed it was years of messy renters, but we find things with the owner’s children’s name on them, like old membership cards.

There used to be a wood stove hooked up in the basement, long gone now, but the stack of firewood and broken wood from random construction projects and cabinets is still out there. There was another pile of trash near one of the sheds, and a recycling bin full of mixed horror that I will deal with when the weather gets nice.

I’ve lived in poor places, in the North and the South. I like things like wabi sabi and found art and whirligigs and bottle trees, but this trash has got to go. I’m going to Freecycle the now-useless firewood, and I’ll have to see what I can do about the rest. I’ll take some pictures next month so you can see it in all its glory.