I have to tell you two things: one is that I just woke up from the most terrifying dream. I was on a couch where Brian Warner was doing it with this woman from my library school. I don’t know her really well, certainly not well to participate in a couch orgy with her and Brian Warner. I don’t know anyone that well. It was even worse because Brian Warner’s makeup was mostly off and I could see he had incredibly bad skin.

There were broken nacho chips stuck to the couch, and they got stuck to my poor scared naked butt, just like they would if you were sitting on a couch covered in broken chips. Normally I appreciate a little realism in a dream, but having realistic nacho butt just added to the terror.

Then he turned on me…and he, um, “pulled out” of my classmate and I could see he had a really small penis. I said, “I’ve experienced natural childbirth. There is no way I’m even going to feel that.” Then I walked off, probably with nacho chips falling off my ass. Again, the Size Queen burninates the villagers!

Thing two: Per Miel’s request, I will yammer a bit about my impending research. I know I’ve been vague, but I figure most perps around here aren’t interested in the details.

I am going to be talking to people at homeless shelters to find out who they talk to to get their information about social services, and what information they feel is missing. The idea is to create some sort of “map” to see what channels homeless persons follow to solve their information needs. The United Way will take my report with the idea that they can share the findings with social service agencies, and can fund stuff that is more helpful to people. It is delightfully naturalistic and qualitative.

I know, I know, I’m just as surprised as you are…I thought I’d be working for evil by now, too.

Things are taking many, many turns for the better, to the point where I feel like I have whiplash.

Finally, months after I submitted my first application, I have passed my research through human subjects. It took me longer to get through them than it will to talk to actual human beings, which falls under the commonly-accepted definition of irony. There has been a change of plans, and instead of just a social services agancy report I am writing the full thesis, so it looks like come June I will have an object to brain cows with after all…or at least a very sexy doorstop. You know you have set sail for Planet Academia when you are excited about being published in information science journals.

I have been a student volunteer for my thesis advisor’s research team since this summer, and two days ago she asked me to go down the admin offices to get put on her payroll. Now I am getting paid…to think ten hours a week. I knew there was a reason I decided not to go to beauty school after all. People are pooping grant money all over my advisor right now, and she says she has to use it or lose it. Money well spent, I say. I just wonder if my graduate school nemesis is on the payroll now as well. I won’t think about it too hard.

This was a fun weekend. On Saturday morning I talked my mom into watching Frannie so I could take my sister to a portfolio information session at one of the local art colleges. In spite of a total lack of interest on our mom’s part, Morgan is pursuing her dream of going to art school. In fact, I would call the amount and type of involvement of my mother detrimental–she asked my sister how she was going to make ends meet when Morgan moved out, because “they won’t let you live on student loans.” KEE-rist. A little ignorance is a dangerous thing sometimes.

I told Morgan that I’d do whatever she wanted: information sessions, college tours, etc. When I was a junior in high school, my M.O. was to get my hump on and/or intoxicated as much as possible; Morgan’s is to get good grades so she can go to college and get the fuck out of my mom’s house. I wish I would have been as far-seeing as she was…I could have saved a lot of time.

So, we drove downtown to the school’s new building and went into the commons area. There was a gob of doughnuts and coffee, so I knew it would take while. Finally, a woman came out and told students where to go based on their interests.

“We anticipate this information session will last about two hours,” the woman said. Morgan made a face at that. “Parents, please wait here and help yourself to coffee and snacks.”

“Dude, let’s go,” Morgan said.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“Yeah. I don’t want to sit through it. All I wanted was this pamphlet that tells you what to include in your portfolio, and I’ve got it.” She waved it at me.

“You are very wise,” I said. I was very impressed. I didn’t learn about the uselessness of information sessions until I was a lot older. They always provide what you need to know in written form anyhow. She’s already got it.

“What do you want to do now?” I said.

“I dunno.”

“Want to go to the mall?”

We ended up at Target, where I bought a very cute bra. Time well spent!

Madlib text by Mopie. Fill-ins by, Me, Mondo Beyondo.

One day, on the bridge of the sticky ship known as the Enterprise, Captain Picard was startled by the sudden appearance of a klepto aboard his ship. ‘Assmitten!‘ shouted Picard sarcastically as the klepto began gyrating. Britney Spears, the ship’s first officer, decided to attempt to neutralize it with jizz, but her plan failed. Picard then asked the android, Abe Vigoda, who suggested that they beam it to my crotch, biotch. Picard tried to do that, but the transporter began to glow a perverted shade of chartreuse and didn’t work at all. In desperation, Picard called on his chief engineer, SJ, who stated jauntily that they should find a shuttlecock which would transform the klepto into a polar bear. This worked, and Picard became very pointy and started to burninate, and they all lived sarcastically ever after.

On Sunday we went to the Seattle Marathon to cheer on our friend Pete. We froze our asses off and I ended up wrapping my fur scarf around Frannie’s head about three times.

[picture lost]

That’s me on the left, holding the “P”. I am a brunette again and happy to be invisible. I had another round with PMS and the hair scissors again, and this time I won. These are my favorite bangs I’ve ever had, which is surprising because I freaked out and cut them after I put a bunch of hair product in them about a half-hour before I went out a couple of Saturdays ago.

I think hair rule number one is: “don’t cut your hair while you have product in it, moron.” Rule two is: “don’t cut your hair while you have PMS, dickface.” Sometimes you get lucky.

I will post more pictures as soon as my friend uploads them, so you all can see how adorable I am lately.

Thanksgiving was very extremely delightful. There was not a blood relation in sight, thank you Giant Head of Bob Saget. Alas, alas, that I am married, for my hostess’s mini-thug cousin showed up right after we ate dinner.

He was this huge dude of Swedish descent, and he seemed really nice at first. But then he started telling this story about some hapless fucker who parked in his assigned spot at his apartment complex. Hapless Fucker refused to move his car (which is a major party foul, of course) and my hostess’s cousin opened a can of whup-ass…on Hapless Fucker’s car.

The police came and hauled The Cousin off to the pokey for malicious mischief.

“What’s jail like?” said one of our friends who was sitting at the table. I was fetching myself another drink so as to further increase the enjoyment of the story.

“It was okay,” The Cousin said. “I was in the tank with a bunch of guys who had gotten six months for beating their wives. I got out in two days.”

He was smoking these queer cigarettes that mini-thugs always seem to smoke and I was totally enamored of him. What is it about jail time that’s such a turn on? I told my hostess that I was ready to be his Kim Mathers.

Also, I learned a very useful cure for hiccups. You lay down on your back and another person massages your diaphragm. I have never had hiccups go away so fast. Which was good, because with all of my slurring, staggering, and belligerence, I did not need to be hiccupping, too. Good lord.

Well. I asked, you gave. The response to my desperate plea for advice on Christmas has been totally amazing. You all rule the school. So many of you are so funny. Also, I am feeling much better now, flu-wise and Christmas-wise, because I know that I don’t suffer alone.

An Unnamed But Really Cool Person said:

“My advice to you is to drink heavily during this Christmas, if possible, and afterwards negotiate your terms for subsequent Xmases (alternating years, maybe?). ”

Badgerbag said:

“You could try to make some kind of agreement where you do 1 xmas with his family and 1 where you have some alternate exciting plan that involves being out of town. (expensive though. visit friends? duct tape selves to chairs and pretend you were burglarized and couldn’t make it to the holiday party?)For the irritating present giving, get everyone the same cheap joke present, like, everyone gets whoopee cushions, or ugly porcelain figurines or mugs from Goodwill. Another option: I used to hang out with these nutty craft project women who actually competed with each other in weekly craft groups to see who could make the worst, tackiest, most stomach turning christmas gift for their in-laws, like winking, leering, smiling santa with golf clubs, crossstitched onto some sort of frame thing. I recall that one with particular horror. There were bonus points for anything with a cutesy slogan on it, or a naked baby/angel/cupid. The idea was, they hated their inlaws, and the inlaws hated them, but would be obliged to display the Ugly Ornament till the end of time, as it was Handmade. I am not really recommending that you cross stitch anything, but you could hit up the Goodwill again with this idea in mind, and claim to have made the objets d’art yourself.”

I am loving this image of me duct-taped to a chair to avoid Christmas. At this point, it doesn’t seem that extreme.

“Also I have noticed that getting The Wrong Sort of Present especially
from people who are supposed to know you can often be a big “fuck you”. Or,
worse, when they do understand you, but get you something that clearly says “I wish you were not you, but would become the sort of person who would wear this J. Crew sweater that is 2 sizes too small.”

Wordy word word from Wordport.

“I also wonder if the present-getting falls on you, or if Mr. Husband does his share of it.”

Oh, he’s doing it ALL this year, baby. I am done. Seven years of shopping for someone else’s relatives is seven years too many. I have gotten to the point where I realized that if he forgets, it is a poor reflection on him, not me. I let him drop the ball on his niece’s second birthday this March because, dammit, I only have the energy to take care of one child.

Monkey said:

“If you figure out a way to avoid Christmas and not fucking hear about it daily for the next hundred or so years, please, PLEASE share your technique. My life and liver depend on it.

“It’s hard being a cranky gal with a deep and abiding hatred for all things christmas and a significant other that just loves the motherfuck out of it. I tried, in vain, to ‘accidentally’ book a plane ticket that would have me hurtling through the air somewhere over the pacific come Christmas time, but those flights were booked out last year.”

I loves me some Monkey.

Zipzilla said:

“The thing that works best for me is to one, come up with a reason why we will be at our own home for Christmas -just tell them that you want to start your own traditions and tell hubby that you’ll make a special trip out to see his aunt at some point in the near future. Second, just get used to the fact that they are going to go gift crazy and just keep getting rid of all the crap as soon as possible. We make regular trips to the Goodwill truck to drop off all the crap we get from my mother. Third, we side stepped mom and told my brothers and sister that were just buying stuff for their kids not them and that we hoped that they would do the same. This worked -everybody saves money and gets less crap. We still have to buy for my mom, step-dad, and all of the nieces and nephews but it’s a little better. One of my wife’s brothers who we never visit actually liked the idea of not sending each others kids anything either so that helped too.”

Your relatives sound a little bit reasonable. A person could die of jealousy.

Melissa said:

“…I spent 8 xmas’s with [my] family doing exactly what you describe. Spending a wonderful day with my in laws (my sister in law hates me and makes it clear), opening gift after meaningless gift…which went back to my house and were then forwarded to the Salvation Army. STUPID!

“Add to that the 6 kids in the family, the 4 spouses, the nieces and nephews and the Mother and Father in law…HOLY CRAP….it was a lot of money to be wasting on shit no one wanted anyway.”

I hear that, woman.

“We tried to suggest alternatives but there was always one sibling who resisted. Usually the younger (24ish) one without their own family, spouse and in laws to buy for.

“Anyway, my advice is GO AWAY FOR THE HOLIDAYS! I had so much resentment built up about spending every xmas with these selfish and nasty people. I have always looked forward to xmas…but with my in laws it was like bamboo under my nails kind of torture.”

Yay! I like this advice a lot. I’ll send you all a postcard from Humptulips. I want to be a Happy Asshole, not a Resentful Asshole.

Rachel said:

“�The next Xmas I responded by making the most horribly crappy “homemade” new-age granola presents for everyone (hemp flour shortbread cookies and Yoga manuals for everyone!). That almost did it. Truly creative and terrible presents are a very effective way of getting your name removed from any Xmas guest list. Remember the three steps A – You made it and it tastes bad and/or looks awful B – You made it and it smells bad and/or looks awful C – You bought it and it’s condescending and/or insulting. And I also realized that somehow in-laws don’t seem to mind you skipping Xmas as much if you’re “barren” *and* you give really crappy presents. The only next best thing to being “barren” is having really nasty misbehaved kids I suppose. Or well-bribed children who are highly trained in the art of faking a stomach ache and/or seizure. Start training Frannie now!�

I was always so jealous of the little girl in my grade school who had crippling migraines�they always hit when a test would come up. I will have to give this some thought.

“…So after the bad gift foundation was established, I invented the -“We’re going ‘away’ on vacation to spend Xmas with friends” ritual. We give people lots of advanced warning so there’s no surprises or disappointments (as if there would be). If pressed I explain that those friends also have no children and that’s when family give us one of those freakish ‘Handmaid’s Tale’ kinda looks, as if they understand our “shame”. (barf) So of course the friends are imaginary. In reality, we spend each Xmas season in bed, wasting days away taking long hot showers, watching movies and playing video games with our fellow childless Xmas escapees who have followed this same time-honored formula. Woohoo! And after the holidays we make a few short “pop-in” visits to exchange gifts (ours seem even more terrible after they’ve gotten everyone else’s) and pretend that we regret missing their big family Xmas. Now – the only problem with this scheme is that it might not work if A – a little un-trained and un-bribed person spills the beans and B – you happen to be the worshipped breeding receptacle and deliverer of grandchildren everyone wants to lavish with incense and myrrh. In that case you might be kinda screwed. After all – kids don’t bind you to your husband… kids bind you to your parents and in-laws. I recommend being drunk or stoned all the time – it seemed to work for my parents.”

Alas, I am the bearer of the first (and cutest) grandchild, and she must be present. This “drunk and stoned” advice is a nice segue into something my friend said last night while some of us were sitting on my couch:

Supa said:

“Go to your doctor and say that you have to fly to visit relatives and you are scared of flying. It is so easy to score Xanax. You will be the happiest person in the world on Xanax. Take one at eight in the morning on Christmas. You can open presents and be like, “Thanks, I love it.” Supa mimed tossing the crap gift over her shoulder. “Thanks, I love it.” More tossing.

If I can’t get away, this is a serious contender.

Shauny said:

“PS, i wish i knew what to do about your xmas, it sounds like hell on earth. my solution has been to move to the other side of the world, i wish you could come hide out here. arrgh… sorry i am no help, but here is a steaming serve of sympathy :)”

I am also taking sympathy, in the form of pats, emails, or Nordstrom shopping trips.

Ruth said:

“I really think you should try to offer an explanation to the rest of the family why you don’t like Christmas. I think your reasons sound perfectly, well, reasonable. They should understand. Then you can explain that it makes you uncomfortable to celebrate a holiday you don’t really feel that into, and you can express your wish to be left out of it. That way they’ll know that it’s not that you’re off somewhere skulking and feeling sorry for yourself, or that you and Mr. Husband are fighting; it’s just that Christmas isn’t your bag.

“Obviously, the worry here is that they wouldn’t understand and would freak out about it. But this is just a worry, an assumption, and I firmly believe that human beings possess a basic level of decency that is invoked by being talked to simply and honestly. Just tell them how you feel, in honest terms. I bet you’ll be surprised.”

I like this; it’s very logical. I wish I trusted Mr. Husband’s family enough to take this tack. They are the types who, when cornered, adopt the attitude that in-laws are second-class citizens, and it’s their way or the highway. Thanks, Ruth, for being the voice of reason, though.

Erika said:

“I have no constructive advice. But am perfectly willing to offer an amusing (to me, anyway) alternative: Focus on finding each person a hideously awful gift, and *then* convincing them that it has been *just* the thing you’ve been looking for for them for years. This would serve to (a) provide amusement for you (b) possibly cause the recipient of hideous do-dads to rethink the necessity of getting/giving a gift for/from *everyone* and (c) further hone your acting skills.”

Long-time readers know what a liar-pants I am. This idea thrills me, especially the notion of giving Auntie Jaguar this treatment. Ho ho ho. Hee hee.

Pierre said:

“All I can really say, on a more general note, is try to make a clear and sound decision. (If you really can’t stand it, then you can’t stand it and it’s going to be
better if you’re not there. But come up with some convincing reason for not
being there. (the charity work thing is a good idea) In the interest of maintaining healthy family bonds you need to give them SOME reason to not hate you for being absent. :) Also, most importantly, don’t be afraid to realise if you’ve made the wrong choice and to fix it. I like to think that the only true mistakes are the ones we know we’ve made, but don’t do anything to correct.”

Pierre thinks he’s channeling Dr. Phil (as he mentioned later in his email), but he is actually very wise. And should email me when he starts his blog, because I want to know what South Africa is really like.

Joshua said:

“When I moved out on my own when I was 17, I discovered that the only thing that would keep me from having anxiety attacks during Christmas was to sit at home alone watching movies and drinking whisky. That, in fact, this works out to a pretty good Christmas; one I can feel nice about afterwards. One where I can go to bed relaxed and wake up refreshed. But what I also discovered is that nobody nobody NOBODY believes that’s what someone ACTUALLY wants to do during Christmas. They argue and cajole and piss and moan and fucking REFUSE to take “no” for an answer.”

God, totally.

“And at some point it just starts to be more trouble to argue with them than it would be to just sit through their stupid little ritual. The thing I find most irksome about the entire arrangement is that, after ruing my Christmas and forcing me to attend a gathering that makes me break out in hives (no matter how much I like the participants; and I’m quite fond of some of them), my friends and extended family smile with the benevolent vacuity of people who have done the Lord’s good work. Basically, the conclusion I’ve come to is that in order to avoid completely upsetting the people I love, I pretty much have to just play along until the ones who are just too old to learn a new trick die off and leave me the fuck alone. The ones who are closer to my age, while no less confused, are at least capable of taking “GODDAMNIT: NO NO NO, FUCKING NO!” for an answer.”

I think this is a good way to sort out who sucks and who doesn’t. I also think that more people should read Joshua’s blog.

Scott-san said:

“I’m not going to say I don’t enjoy it. I like Christmas. Of course, I’m a jaded whore of commerce, so what do I know? We spend obscene amounts of money on gifts.

“Here’s the advice part: I think you have to consider Frannie’s wishes. I’m sure she doesn’t share your anti-Christmas sentiments, so maybe you have to be there for her. So, I’d say keep campaigning to bring back an emphasis on heart-felt gifts, but you kind-of have to keep on keepin’ on. At least until Frannie says, “Mom, do we HAVE to go there for Christmas?”

Scott, Mia’s cuteness has obviously melted your brain a little. I understand completely, though. Thank you.

Finally, Clay said:

I want it to be fun and relaxing.
I want to spend time with my family minus the stress of having to give and receive “things” (which none of us need anyway, since we’re all comfortably middle class).
I want to eat my mom’s cooking.
I only want to hear and/or sing carols Christmas Eve and *never* juxtaposed with an advertisement of any kind.

It�s a fairly simple wish-list. Too bad it�s just a dream.”

I am such a mush-brain. This one made me a little teary. Thanks, Clay.

Thanks again, everyone. I have the coolest readers, I think. I hope this helps you all to hear from each other, and I hope it will also provide comfort to those of you who just typed, “I hate Christmas,” into the Goog.

What will I do? Will I freak and run away? Volunteer in a soup kitchen for the day? Xanax or drink myself into oblivion? Stay tuned; I don’t know what will happen either.

Tomorrow: nothing to do with Christmas, whatsoever.

I have been wearing a thong for about six months now. I have discovered two things about thongs: 1) they rock, and 2) it REALLY matters what size they are.

With my ol Grannie Pannies it did not really matter what size they were. I have had the sad, extremely wide-n-low pair. The kind that only stays up because you are wearing pants over them. (Disturbing, I know.) Even worse, I have had the kind that sit well on your hips, but that bags off your butt like a full diaper. As long as the elastic was still intact, I was in business.

However, with thongs, you need to have a pair that is exactly the right size. Too big, and they slither down your ass, giving you a different, but still unpleasant, kind of Visible Panty Line (VPL). Too tight, and oh god…let’s just say it’s very unpleasant. Let’s just visualize that ceramics class you took in junior college. Let us reflect back to the first piece of cold, hard clay you purchased. What did you cut it with? A long, sturdy piece of string. Poor Miss Labia.

But now that I have gotten the perfect-sizing thing down, I can’t live without them. Now I have new problems: Visible Panty Line Paranoia (VPLP). Much like those who are addicted to crack will smoke it all and comb through their carpets, looking for that piece they are POSITIVE they dropped, I find myself looking for VPL when I really shouldn’t be. Sometimes I go home and switch to a pair of my old Grannie Pannies, and there I am, checking myself out in the mirror while wearing my pajama pants and with no plans to leave my house until the morning.

I guess what it comes down to is that I feel unsettled unless I have a tiny piece of fabric jammed in my ass crack. Yes, I know how insane that sounds. I cannot stop, and if anyone tries to intervene I will remove my thong and strangle them with it.

Oh, man. One of my favorite rockers got into a car crash. One of his bandmates in in the hospital as well. If you ever liked Beat Happening, The Halo Benders, Dub Narcotic Sound System, C.O.C.O., or any other K band, I hope you’ll consider dropping a little dough. I am sending $15, today. There are also benefit shows coming up here (Seattle) and in D.C.

I have a constant stream of students to tutor in the writing center, which is good, because I’m always busy, but is also bad, because empty appointments were supposed to be the time I could get caught up on abusive emails, eyebrow-tweezing, and Secret Office Masturbation.

I am still trying to figure out what I should and should not do for students. Sometimes I feel like I’m street-slinging and they need their fix, but they’re afraid I’m the fuzz. They listen to my general advice about structure, and content, and the formal academic voice. They nod their heads and jot little notes. But some always want more.

“Go ahead,” one said. “Tear my paper up. Make it bleed with red ink.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t do that. I’m just your fellow student and I’d rather give you advice to help you become a better writer overall.”

Sometimes they lean in and say it quietly: “I think I have a problem…with semi-colons.”

I always have to say something about the fact that we only have fifty minutes, and I need to take a ‘global approach.” They slink away, looking for someone else to do their nitpicky editing for them.

However, if I face many grey areas in my duties with them, I do feel strongly about what they should do for me.

DO:

• Bring the tutor a Diet Vanilla Coke.
• Tell the tutor she looks “completely rad wearing 100 jelly bracelets.”
• Look at Frannie’s paintings that that are taped to the wall and exclaim, “Look! A future de Kooning!”
• Bring the tutor more pictures to hang on her wall. It’s bad enough that the joint doesn’t have windows, man.
• Act pleased to receive a service that comes at no extra charge, other than your exorbitant tuition.
• Tell the tutor how much that one phDude sucks as a professor, because she knows, and delights in hearing it.
• Complain about hot professors who are married. I know, they ARE totally hot. I can’t believe they are married either.
• Tell the tutor you read writing manuals for pleasure, and mean it. Mmm, style guide.
• Bring me some damn chocolate, already. Fran’s.

DO NOT:

• Offer to drop off your paper and come back later. This is not the damn dry cleaners.
• Ask to see a paper the tutor wrote. She is waiting for you to leave, because the tutor’s paper is due in, like, an hour.
• Look sad that the tutor thinks you are a good writer and doesn’t have many suggestions. If you want to get whipped, go see your professor.
• Lick the tutor.
• Pat the tutor.
• Quote Nirvana to the tutor.
• Smell the tutor’s hair.
• Cry in the tutor’s office. It’s a pass-fail paper. If you stopped crying and wrote it, you would probably pass.
• Look at the tutor’s dirty pillows. The answers to your problems with effective transitions are not written on the tutor’s luscious rack.