SUP BIOTCHES my name is K-Fed
I cut myself shaving and it totally bled
I got a crazy single and it’s about to drop
If I was a stir fry I’d rust your wok

I get mad cash from my baby mama
If she takes away my Spyder then I’ll start some drama
I got mad rhymes that I need to start bustin
When I have sex, bitch calls me “Justin”

A clip from one of the hot tracks, “Y’all Ain’t Ready” (that’s an understatement) may be found here.

From People.com:

As the rap’s refrain goes: “Go ahead and say whatcha wanna/I’m gonna sell about 2 mil, oh, then I’m a goner … I know you all wish you was in my position/Cause I keep gettin’ in situations that you wish you was in, cousin … Steppin’ in this game and y’all ain’t got a clue … Getting anxious? Go take a peep/ I’m starrin’ in your magazines now every day and week … But maybe baby you can wait and see/ Until then all these Pavarottis followin’ me.”

The Daily News suggests that Federline means to say “paparazzi” instead of “Pavarotti,” who is a famed opera singer. (Other Web sites say it’s not a mistake, but Federline’s nickname for the ever-present photographers.)

My rhymes are better! Man, where’s my MF Bentley and jiggly bikini girls?

In Other News

In differently frivolous news, I am calling it quits on the pumpkin poll. I am not actually sure how to close a poll, so I am just calling it good here. Pumpkin “B” won by a landslide, which was, I am slightly embarrassed to say, mine. As of today at 1:37 PST, it received 62.9% of the vote, or 39 out of 62 votes. My sister’s pumpkin, Pumpkin “A,” came in second place, my mother’s pumpkin, “C,” came in third place, and I am sorry to say that my companion’s pumpkin “D” finished dead last.

In his defense, as he said last night, “But mine looks much awesomer in person!” Or something lame like that. SJ SMASH!

Just kidding, honey. I love you and your retardo pumkpin.

I have to walk up a busy street to take Frannie to school, and to fetch her in the afternoon. It is a fifteen-minute walk one way, and involves crossing several crosswalks and going through a couple of stoplights. It’s not great, but it’s good exercise–I get an hour of forced walking on school days. And Strudel is usually happy going for a ride in her strolly.

The last crosswalk light on the way there is broken, and always flashes red now. There were some workers there recently, fooling with the intersection, and I think they screwed it up.

Yesterday I was crossing with the green light but against the red hand, which makes Seattle drivers irate, generally. They will look at your light and bust you righteously. The problem of course, is that there’s no button to push to get it to change, so we are stuck crossing “illegally.”

As I was crossing, a car was attempting to make a right. He was driving one of those monkey-shit brown rust buckets and saw me coming and tried to decide what to do. Should I punk this stroller mama? His car lurched with his indecision. He finally decided to punk me.

“DON’T WALK!” he yelled at me, as he cut me off. His hair was grey and limp and he looked like he had maybe one tooth left in his head. I wanted to shout “It’s broken!” back at him, but what good would that do? That would have deprived him of this chance to menace a lady with a baby. Then he would have to find another stroller mom to menace, and in Seattle that could take all of thirty seconds.

This is good, I think. I’m glad to see that someone is taking a stand against the scourge that is stroller moms who cross against lights.

Best comic Evah!!! Well, today, anyway.

My neighborhood has been overrun with nitwits in puffy coats. Alas, alas, a high school in another neighborhood is being remodeled from the ground up, and while this is taking place the school’s students are being temporarily housed at a closed school in Wallingford. The remodel is going on its second and final year. In the meantime, this quiet neighborhood has been subjected to boom-boom cars, rampant littering, and general idiocy. The resident stroller mamas and elderly live in terror.

Before you start stabbing me with the accusatory finger of impending curmudgeondom, let me assure you that I did not like high schoolers when I was in high school. Ooh er, angry loner, I can hear you, mocking me. Well, yes, good call. I was an angry loner. But I also had a sense of awareness that extended beyond my own body. I knew to stand near the wall, rather than in the center of the hallway. At sixteen, I found chills running down my spine whenever one of my classmates let out a shriek or was incapable of speaking in an indoor voice, especially if other, non-school-affiliated adults were around. This is making us all look bad, I thought to myself.

The ironicaltastic part of all of this is that I thought I would grow out of this hatred. I was told as a younger person that when people get older they “mellow out” and I thought this meant that the urge to bang people’s heads into their lockers just because they said the word “EEEWWWW,” sixteen times before first period English started (when some of us were good and hung over), in regards to God knows what, in a shrill tone that would make a constipated fruitbat’s head explode, would, you know, go away.

Don’t get me wrong. I no longer feel the white-hot fury I did when I was younger when I see these puffy-coated nitwits scurrying around my neighborhood, busily hooting and throwing gum wrappers on the sidewalks. (Not that there’s anything wrong, either, with white-hot fury. When I was in the sixth grade I beat a boy up for throwing an empty soda can into my yard. Well, it wasn’t so much “beat up” as “watched him throw the can into my yard, walked over to him, and then pulled up sharply on the seat of his bike that he was currently straddling, until it connected.” WHEN YOU LITTER THE GIANT BLOATED HEAD OF JOHN TRAVOLTA CRIES.)

Where was I? Yes, so anyway, I don’t feel furious with the little twits, just mostly irritated. And I have discovered that something interesting has changed in the ten years that I’ve been out of high school: I am now invisible to high schoolers. I am clearly Just Another Adult. It is uncanny and almost like a super power. This is good, because you don’t get jeered at and have your things knocked out of your hands anymore, but it’s also bad because their lack of awareness can really interfere with your day.

Last week my sister Morgan and I were having a ramble around town and accidentally managed to end up back in my neighborhood around two-thirty, the time at which all hell breaks loose and the afternoon sugar high commences, abetted by the newly-remodeled Chevron a block from the school. (“Welcome back, students!!!” read the sign earlier this month.) A youth was standing in the middle of the sidewalk gesturing at some other youths across the street. “You’re blocking the sidewalk,” I said to him levelly, as I pushed the strolly around him.

“What? Me?” he shouted.

“Yes, you,” said Morgan, over her shoulder.

He came ambling after us. “Excuse me!” he shouted. “EXCUUUSE ME!” We ignored him.

“I don’t think that was a sincere apology,” I said to Morgan.

It happened again yesterday. Foolishly, I was out in the middle of the afternoon again. I was making for the library, in front of which stands the nearest city bus stop to the high school. A horde of students were standing in front of the bus stop, causing most adults to walk into the street to continue on around them. In the middle of the crowd, two students, a boy and a girl, were locked in a mating ritual. “Excuse me!” I said, trying to get the strolly through the clot of kids. Without looking around, the boy and girl continued viciously punching each other and began moving slowly to one side without really making room for a safe passage. “Excuse me!” I tried again, and added, “damn” under my breath. You know, “dayum,” like you cannot believe the stupid that is being perpetrated in front of you.

“We were moving out of the way MA’AM!” shouted the girl, as if it were obvious that every courtesy was being extended toward all passersby. I finally made my way into the library, where I saw the librarian and desk clerks looking through the windows onto the bus stop with horror, as they probably do every day. One of the clerks had a phone receiver in hand, a finger on the other hand poised over the “9,” as he probably does every day, as the violence and volume outside escalated.

So, I have learned that this is the reaction you get if you dare to interfere with their weird little tribe in any way. The lesson, of course, is not to muck around Wallingford after ten, the point at which many of them get bored of being in school and decided to catch a bus and “totally go to the mall.” The neighborhood becomes safe again after about three-thirty.

Shine on, you little hosebags. Gradgeate and get the fuck out of my ‘hood.

This shit is bananas, and not in a good way:

1. Head cold.
2. Strudel is “snacking” (suck, suck, look around, suck, suck, doze, suck, suck, stare at internets though illiterate).
3. Rewashing clean laundry due to “cat incident”
4. Down to last two diapers. Fred Meyer is the eleventh level of hell when you have a head cold. At least I won’t be able to smell the chili dogs.
5. No one has RSVPed for Frannie’s birthday party on Sunday.
6. Considering chucking elaborate birthday present idea in lieu of cheap plastic crap.

The baby just bit me with her evil little bottom row chompers. Why do they cry when they bite you? Of course I’m going to yelp.

Okay the baby, you stay over there.

And I’ll stay over here, and we’ll both take a nap later.

The cat’s puking right now. I’m not even kidding.

Everybody needs to be on opposite sides of the room right now, and quiet. Except for me, who needs to be in another room, possibly in another country, drinking rum that involves coconut milk.

Update! 2:14 pm

Okay, I’m feeling better. I got the diapers. I found a present for Franny. It is a super-deluxe wooden dollhouse, and it came with furniture–much cheaper than finagling all the furniture a la carte. And I am still sober, for now. Woo!

If you are feeling creative today, go over to Tinyblog and write a haiku! (Bless you.)

Dr. Squid‘s Headcold Tonic

Here is how I deal with head colds:

-juice of 1 lemon
-lots of honey
-bourbon to tolerance
-put in mug and fill with boiling water, then mix.

Either it clears out your sinuses, or–because you can’t even taste the bourbon–after five minutes you just won’t care. Regardless, it is scrumptious.

I do this after the baby’s already nursed, of course. Of course. Yeah.

Why do I always want the unpopular MP3 ringtones? Why is it so hard for people to understand that some people want Fergie bleating out of their hip pocket while they are pushing the strolly around Wallingford? And why is it so hard to find a good real tone version of “Toxic” three years after it came out?

Why? WHY? WHY? I lay awake at night.

My HUMPS, my humps, my humps, my HUMPS!/My lovely lady lumps!

NO ONE bleats like Stacey Ferguson, I tells ya.

Can I even tell you how happy I am that Fall is on the horizon? Britney Spears’ giant vulgar tummy-sized happy, that’s how happy.

What comes with Autumn is two of my favorite things, one new and one old. The old thing I love is baking. This year, since my sister has moved out on her own, my mother has relinquished Thanksgiving, so I get to be the Thanksgiving despot cooktress. I told my mom I would go “traditional,” but frankly, we’re just going to have to see what mood I’m in that week. Do I want to clog up my oven with a giant crapping turkey for four adults, a boob nibbler, and a mermaid, when I could have five interesting side dishes going in there instead? We shall see.

The NEW thing I love is another year without my former in-laws, which I hereby dub, The Out-laws (TM Halo). No more Fangsgiving like this, and no more xmas like this, thank you Giant Gay Head of Tom Cruise. The other night my mom confided that she is still occasionally overcome by a surge of relief about having left my stepfather for good. “And it’s been eight years now,” she said.

She also said she still has nightmares, though. I am hoping that my marriage nightmares will subside eventually. Mostly they are variations on similar things that happened during my marriage. I dream I am trying to do everything without help. I dream that he is menacing me, like he used to when he was drunk. I dream that I am relying on him and he constantly forgets everything I tell him, or is not listening at all. I dream that he is ignoring or has forgotten Franny. I dream that I wake up and I am in bed with him, and my divorce and my companion and Strudel were all a dream, and there I am again, covering up for his heavy-drinking-non-working ass and acting like everything’s fine. And he’s there going “that other life was all a dream, didn’t you know?” I cry so hard in those dreams until I drown him out and everyone else who is trying to speak to me. All I can see is their lips moving. Sometimes I even wake up with tears on my face.

I hardly ever have nightmares about my stepfather anymore, and I’ve been out for ten years.

Another great thing about Fall is that Franny goes back to her school on the seventh. Her father, Seattle Federline, and I had to see each other a lot this summer to swap her. I get the wiggens every time that guy slimes up in his giant white Cadillac to take her away. Now that school is letting back in, we can go back to only exchanging her through school. We have gone to a new schedule of two weeks on and two weeks off. I think this will be a positive change, because last school year it seemed like we swapped her so often that she would just get mannerly and unferal again, and then I would have to give her back.

In related news, I talked to That Poor Woman (Sea-Fed’s new mark; I can actually see the chalk handprint on her back) on the phone yesterday. The last time Sea-Fed and I did a Franny-swap we agreed to meet at ten o’clock yesterday. He was a no-show and I had the feeling he had gotten the time wrong. I called him and got his voicemail, and so hung up and called That Poor Woman. She wasn’t answering, and called me back later. Her voicemail said, “I hope we didn’t get the pick-up time wrong.” I’m not sure what this “we” business is. It’s his responsibility and I don’t communicate with her about Frannie or exchange her with That Poor Woman. Presenting a united front, I suppose. I called her back and said, “What time did Sea-Fed think he was supposed to pick her up?” and she gave a different time. “The Federline memory is notoriously bad,” I replied, and she said, “Yes.” She said she would arrange it so that Sea-Fed would come later. She made some remark about being confused and stressed out lately, and I said, “Franny mentioned you were pregnant.” She said, “Yes.” (Pregnancy confirmed, people. Now she’s trapped.) She added, “I am two weeks away from being out of my first trimester and I am so sick. It gets better, right?” I couldn’t help it. “Well,” I said. “Some women are sick throughout their entire pregnancies.” Hope sprung eternal, as she responded, “But you got over it, right?” There were so many things I didn’t say that I wanted to, such as, “You know about his criminal history, then?” and “When’s your birthday, because I’d really love to buy for you The Sociopath Next Door, for no reason other than it’s a great book?” and “Have you read the court paperwork from our divorce, because you really should?” But I didn’t. Ah, me. I am the MF model of restraint. Poor little lambie.

When Seattle Federline came to pick her up I saw that he had shaved his head again. After we broke up, he let his hair get all scraggly. My sister saw him recently and told my mom he looked like a chimo. Well, now he looks like one of those fauxthugs you see on the bus with their perfectly measured two inches of DRAAWS hanging out. He looks like…wait a minute. There’s someone else I’m thinking of here, but who is it?

Oh, wait, I know. Kevin Federline, v.1. Pre-Britney ensnarement.

When Seattle Federline met me, all he had to say was, “I had six o’clock written down.” Oh, well then. If you had it written down, it must be true. I’m going to finish typing this, so I can open my day planner and write down that I have a million dollars in the bank. And then I am going to write down that I am the President. Because if I write that down in my planner, it must be true. Sweet!

From my friend Halo, the academic librarian:

—–Original Message—–
From: all campus email [mailto:all campus email] On Behalf Of XXXX XXXXXX
Sent: Tuesday, August 09, 2005 12:52 PM
To: all campus
Subject: Coffee Cart Early Closure, Tuesday August 9
Importance: High

Due to an unexpected event the Coffee Cart will close at 2:30 today, Tuesday. August 9.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

I started typing and suddenly I was on page five of my Word doc. Fasten your seatbelts, bitches, or come back tomorrow. I am spilling it today.

1.

This weekend was pretty taxing, as Franny was on a rampage. It’s hard, because there’s the normal, four-year-old rampage, and then there’s the extra stuff that comes with having a child with two households. She seems to be regressing in a mighty way, because she’s with her dad a lot and not at delightful iron-fist her school. The first day she came, she had forgotten her manners to the point of forgetting to even say “please” or “thank you.” The way she demands things and talks back with such ease, it makes me think that’s the status quo over there. Her dad didn’t enforce manners, or even seem to notice when she’d smack her food or say “gimmie some water” when I lived with him, so I find it hard to believe he’s enforcing manners now.

Continue reading →

Ladies…a tip: do not put white bras under white shirts. The object here is to match the bra to your flesh color. If you want your bra to be visible under your shirt, at least do something interesting, like aqua or leopard. Sheesh.

I am so tired of this. All I can think of is your boobies when you do this, and not in a good way. I feel like I’m gawping at an overgrown twelve-year-old.

Seattle sheds its winter fleece to reveal…white bras. I need to move somplace sexier.

After some time spent with a focus group this weekend (i.e. my family trapped at the dinner table at my mom’s house) it turns out that I am a bad, bad driver and I take peoples’ lives into my hands every time I get behind the wheel. I believe my companion even used the phrases “anticipating a bloody wreck” and “do you know the following distance rule?”

YES I KNOW THE FUCKING FOLLOWING DISTANCE RULE. The rule is, go the fucking speed limit so I don’t have to follow you so fucking closely. If I can read your squishy vegan/Howard Dean bumper stickers then something is terribly wrong, because I have awful eyesight.

Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t admit that.

Anyway, this all started last Friday when my sister and I were going to pick up my older daughter, Franny, from her dad, whom I will refer to (until I get tired of it) as Seattle Federline*. A silver Honda I was following suddenly swerved off to the curb in front of me in Wallingford. “Hmm,” I thought. “I guess they really wanted that parking spot.”

My sister turned to me. “Wow, they gave you a serious dirty look.”

“Really? Are you sure?” I said.

“Well, you were tailgating them like crazy.”

“Wha…what? Tailgating? Me? But everyone in this town drives so slo….Crap. It’s me.”

My sister said nothing, letting righteous good-driver silence suffuse through the car.

“Really? Are you sure? Crap.”

Later, on the way back from getting Franny, I had almost pulled onto my street when I saw another Honda in front of me.

I joked to my sister, “Ha, another Honda, maybe I can get them to get out of my way, too.” Instantly the second Honda jerked over to the curb, letting me pass before driving off again.

“Jesus, what now?” I said.

“Don’t worry,” my sister said. “That couldn’t have been you, you were too far away.”

“Maybe they are looking for an address,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said.

I think this whole thing is totally unfair! Here I am, stuck in Seattle, home of random passive-aggressive road asshattery, after learning to drive in Phoenix, Arizona, a place where the fast lane means 90 MPH and if you don’t respect that, you will get plugged or driven off the road with a cowcatcher that someone built in their garage, in between breaks on cleaning their gun(s) which they wear, unconcealed and strapped to their chests. To the library, even. I saw an awful lot of unconcealed guns at the library there, because that’s where I hung out. The library’s dangerous, man. Someone could really do something with that box of crapping golf pencils. But I digress.

So now I am boycotting driving, for the next few days at least, until I get tired of that, too. Now I am being ferried around by my companion, a driver who learned to drive in Oregon. (State motto: “We’ll get there eventually.”) He drives and the Seattle drivers, who are anxious to go their risk-taking neck-breaking 31 MPH tailgate him, while he goes the Oregon-standard 25.

“We’ll get there eventually, and in one piece,” he says, as I claw frantically at my child-locked rolled up window.

I’ve got an idea: what we need is a city of origin plate. Mine can say Phoenix and Overcaffeinated and people can get out of the way. My companion’s can say Portland with the additional bonus designation “Librarian” and people can sigh and pull off onto the side streets. Everyone wins! Except for me because I am staying home today, as I am afraid of killing the baby in a bloody wreck.

*Seattle Federline: Allergic to work and once told my mother that when I finished graduate school I would be his “sugar mama.” Your wife of eight years is not your SUGAR MAMA. Glah.

In Other News: The Box Opening Was MIIIINE

I am currently enjoying the horrors of this post over at the Childfree Hardcore LJ Community. First it made me go “gleep!” because this person, who may be excessively hyperbolic like me, claims that they (out loud) threatened to stab the little child at the Harry Potter event in the eye with their wand.

It freaks me out that people can hate children this much. I don’t think that all people should have or want children themselves, or have them in their lives, and props if you know that about yourself. But all these hardcore people were children once. I know, duh. But I think about how much butt-wiping I have done, and pukey face-kissing, and it makes me sad to think that the girls could grow up to despise children. I can’t really explain it better than that.

Finally I had to laugh and laugh because this?

Fucking moo brings her bratty sprog in at 8:59am dressed in a generic Kmart cape with stars and glitter and fucking gaudy BLAH. Twig for a wand.

OMG WITTLE PWESHUS SO CUTE OMG YOU CAN OPEN THE BOX AND HAVE THIS BOOK YOU CAN’T READ AND *fawning fawning, blatant breederism etc*

THE FUCKING KID WON’T EVEN REMEMBER THIS. THE BOX OPENING WAS MINE. MIIIIINE.

I wouldn’t have minded if someone had said “Oh look Sass, you are best-dressed but would you mind if this land-mine amputee opened the box instead?” I would have said “Absolutely no problem. Go for it.” But no. FUCKING CROTCHDROPPING GETS THE HONOUR. I’m furious. On principle of course, not out of any sense of entitlement. Well yes, entitlement also. But I WORKED FOR IT, I DESERVED IT.

I made an effort. I spent money making an effort. I showed up early. I will remember and treasure this event for ever and eternity. And I’m passed over for an ugly little brat with a sparkly tie. Woo fucking woo.

…is funny. I am going to try to work “crotchdropping” into conversations as much as I can from now on. And Sass? You do know that the main characters of the Harry Potter books are…CHILDREN?