The party went well. Too well. I’ve got a major pounder but I am so happy to have done it that I don’t care. Drinking water. Quiet voices. I have to go to my Saturday class in an hour. Please kill me.

I rented five- and six-foot tiki gods, fake palm trees, and a balloon arch for the dean’s band to play under. Everyone seemed to be having a fantastic time.

So I got that job for this summer back (the “we will buy a new computer instead” one), only now I’m paying them as an independent study. I am paying both places I work this summer for experience. Again, I think the throwing money away while slapping myself with a flyswatter metaphor applies here. I was talking to one of my classmates about it, since she is on the project team, and her final comment, made with a nervous laugh was, “Don’t upstage me.”

Later, as she and I were popping the balloon arch with tiny cocktail umbrellas, she stabbed me with one and it lodged in the skin between my thumb and first finger, on my right hand. My right hand is my evil writing hand, and I turn out many evil information science propagandistic screeds with it, so recovery will be a bitch. I think I may be reading too much into the stabbing, however. (Foreshadowing.)

Most people laughed at my “free Martha” shirt, but I don’t think that anyone appreciated the fact that I was serious, as I was planning a party for 200. One woman who is a total pill said, “I didn’t think she was in jail yet.” Talk about not getting it.

Oh, well. I showed them. I jumped into this fountain when we were all finished:

It is five feet deep, so only my head and shoulders stuck out. It was very cold. Some nice people in my program pulled me out and it sobered me up a little. I was so jealous of these frat boys I saw in it at five-thirty when I went on a beer cup run, I just had to try it.

The party’s today. Eeep eep ack ack oop. I will not vomit.

I was going to go allllll fancy, but instead I took a gold marker to an old grey tee shirt. Because sometimes you just have to get political.

See you at the party. I’ll be the one vomiting behind the giant tiki idol.

In Other News

Some silly shit: Mr. James Jordan IV presents “In da Tub,” a Hi-larious Weird Al-worthy parody of 50 Cent’s “In da Club.” Even better than the Beyonce Remix. “Go, James, it’s your bath day!”

A sample verse:

“I thought that you

So, promoting the aforementioned “school party for 200” and getting a little squirrelly at this point, lemmie tell you. I made the criminal mistake of sending a “humorous” reminder that the party was approaching:

—– Original Message —–
From: sj@u.washington.edu
To: ilistserv@u.washington.edu
Sent: Friday, May 30, 2003 3:17 PM
Subject: Put on Your Party Boots, It’s the Spring Fling!

> Why: Free beer! Dancing! Drunken future librarians! Mike Eisenberg
and His Rockin’ Information Scientists!
>
> See you there!
>
> SJ
> Vice-President, ALISS
> Lord of the Dance

And then, the replies, with my responses that I can’t send in real life, unless I want my academic career to come to a screeching halt:

“From here out I would recommend that you lay off the drunken references. In case you have not noticed, a UW frat is facing a lawsuit over an alcohol related death.”

I hate this sort of thing; “alcohol-related” should be hyphenated, duh. More from the same fellow:

“I’m very surprised that this message made it past the listserv administrator. You need to remember that all of you [sic] email on this system is owned by the state, especially the listserv stuff. If something were to happen and an attoney [sic] found out about your message, it would get used in court.”

If I went to court, I’d get to wear my cool wide-brimmed hat that I never get to wear. It has feathers! More of this guy. Man, I’m tired of him, too:

“Also, you might want to consider that that while most of us do enjoy a good brew, many of us are past the age where we want the term “drunken” associated with us.”

Ugh. Lighten up, dude.

This lady was so pissed she didn’t even sign her email. Rumor has it she’s a Mormon:

“SJ – are you aware that more than half of the students in the MLIS program are over 30 and this announcement may very well keep them away from the social? Or was that your intention? Do you only want people to come who are excited by the offer of free beer?”

No, I had no idea that half the people in the program are over thirty. I mean, I look around and all I see are people with grey hair, wearing comfy jumpers and giant wooden necklaces, showing me pictures of their grandchildren…HAAAY, waitaminute….

A person in my student organization sent me this comment after I forwarded this flamey email to dozens of my peeps:

“Personally, I’m offended that she characterizes anyone over 30 as being
against drunkenness.” Hee hee.

The crab goes on, of course:

“I am somewhat surprised that someone who is as defiantly diverse as
yourself doesn’t respect the differences in those around her. For many of us this is the last time to socialize with our fellow students, however we might find the prospect of seeing “drunken future librarians” not terribly appealing.”

The Spring Fling always has free beer. Someone (me) will get drunk. The beer isn’t secret. Neither is the fact that the sticks that are in some peoples’ asses will never see the light of day.

I’ve got a question for you, Mr. and Ms. Prissy: where the fuck were you when I was planning this mofo? I mean, I only reminded people they could get involved 4800 times. “Committee meetings! Everyone welcome! Come and help plan your party!” You have made your own beds, Mr. and Ms. Prissy, and I hope you lie in them. At home. By yourselves.

Ah ha. Mmmhmm. Breathing.

I was totally afraid of this…that graduate school would be all outside of my comfort zone and I would be forced to do things that frankly make me want to take a trip to the Throw-Up Store.

So the job this summer, the job I didn’t have to interview for, fell though. The professor needed a new data-analyzing computer and I got cut. (Outkast: “They say, a damn compruter, can do the damn job better than I can damn do it.”)

But now I have an interview for a different graduate assistanceship at school today. It turns out there are ten applicants (all my peers) and the one I know of is very qualified. The worst that can happen is that I won’t get it. But it’s not just a job…it’s my Sense of Manhood.

Just kidding. You didn’t think I was going to go there, did you? Especially since I’m not a man and all? Okay, I will ramble and freak out now, so I won’t do it later. What the job actually is, is free tuition next year, insurance, and a small stipend to boot. A job where I won’t have the nickname “Breaky” or “Stealy” or “Drinky in the Back Roomy.” Whoop.

Idea: I will have the bad interview now, so I am bound to have a good one later. Cause that’s how it works, right? RIGHT?

SJ’s G.A. INTERVIEW:

Interviewer: “Hello, there, SJ. Is it ‘SJ?’ Does that stand for anything?”

SJ: “SJ stands for having a good time. No, I’m just kidding. It stands for ‘Super Jive.”

Int.: “Okay…have a seat.”

SJ: “I think I’ll stand, actually. My bum grapes are acting up again, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Int.: “Umm…let’s get started.” (Pretends to look at resume with interest.) So it looks like you have supervisory experience?”

SJ: “Yes, well, I was the only one who didn’t quit after a week. There was nowhere to go but up.”

Int.: “Okay, and it looks like you were responsible for starting a digital slide conversion pro…”

SJ: “Did you call my reference? Did that bitch tell you I broke the scanner? Because it was like that when I found it?”

Int.: ….

SJ: “Listen, I really need this job. I was wondering if you’d talk to my other reference, my friend Alexander Hamilton here.”

Int.: “I think that’s all the questions I have for you.”

SJ: “Wanna see my tattoo?”

Yes, it will have to be better than that. RIGHT?

So it�s that beloved time again: the end of the quarter. Not only is it the end of the quarter, but I am also undergoing my usual violent monthly hormonal changes. Changes SO VIOLENT, SO SHOCKING, that they made me drink seven beers in one looong night and dye my hair black. That’s right, no more pink.

There are some good things about this: there will no longer be a pointless-to-scrub pink film in my shower. Or one on my neck. No one shouting “run, Lola, run!” at me when I am late to class. That guy I flipped off on the Ave. last week won’t be able to recognize me now.

The freakout continues…there are now accompanying tiny bangs, which I think is a prereq if you have long, evil black hair. I cut them so they sort of point in the middle. I am now a cross between Bettie Page and O.G. Glen Danzig. This was the last step I needed to take to become an evil information scientist, I suppose.

And today, I bleed like a stuck pig, but lack Snipper’s Remorse, which is surprising. I have this theory that last-minute PMS haircuts are some left over biological hard wiring. Your body says last. chance…to…get…egg…fertilized…we must change our appearance, and get humped by a different demographic. My hair is telling me I want to have Marilyn Manson’s baby, I think.

Well, another twelve-hour day in the grad school salt mines. I have ensconced my menstrual cup up there so far that Jesus couldn’t even find it.

Today is a Frannie-goes-to-grandma’s day. It is quiet. We went to Ballard with our not-so-much money and had breakfast at Vera’s, then went to the kids’ bookstore where I bought a book for my favorite little footstool.

Mr. Husband and I were flipping through the cheepy books (paperbacks) because it’s what we can afford, and I can’t justify spending money on nice hardbacks and then turning them over to the Rending Claws of Doom.

“Hey, lookit this one,” Mr. Husband said. He was holding a book with a huddled child drawn on the cover. It was titled Hiding From the Nazis.

“Ugh, why don’t we just get it over with and buy her the companion book, God Hates You, and So Does Your Mommy and Daddy.”

We were snortling at our cleverness as we flipped through, and I started seeing all sorts of weirdy stuff. The Dead Bird. It’s Not Your Fault, Koko Bear. Dad! Why’d You Leave Me! I Had a Friend Named Peter. Charlotte’s Web.

I was getting skeeved. I don’t really know how I’d deal with that stuff. I am a big talker, so I’d probably just talk to her as things came up.

“Lyle, Lyle Crocodile, or Froggy Goes For Bike Ride?” I said, holding them up.

“Lyle,” Mr. Husband said, and we cut out of there.

(Inset standard Mother’s Day rant here: Hallmark cards, fabrication of holidays, every day should be Mother’s Day, etc.)

Okay, moving on, I have my own problems with Mother’s Day, and they are purely selfish, as usual. One of the first Mother’s Days I remember was when I was about seven. My mom expected something from me. Things cost money. I had no money! (My wages were being garnished by Smitty’s Pantry, which had a very large candy section.)

So every Mother’s Day until my mom disowned me, I had to cough up a present. Sometimes they were small n crappy, like some made-up markered-on oragami shit. Sometimes they were bigger and fancier, like new tea towels. Every time they were received the same way: “Oh thank you! Just what I wanted!” Now, while I was impressed that my mother was able to turn off the sarcasm for that long, I also knew it was insincere because she was so serious.

I am sparing my little Frannie from that nonsense; if she wants to get me something, fine. And it won’t be all, “No, no, don’t be silly, don’t get little old me anything!” and then weeping when I don’t get anything.

Here’s the korny part: I would really like her to make me some crappy squashed oragami shit on March 17th, or November 3rd, that she made just for fun. That would please me. I have a birthday and a wedding anniversary; I think that’s enough for any Mr. Husband to worry about.

In Other News

Oh la la, I finally got my crappy puff piece published in my school newspaper. The piece is puffy, not the professor. I wish I could have done better for him.

Also finshing up my resume for a school job that will cover tuition, insurance, and provide a stipend. I haven’t worked since the amazing year 1999, so I am actually excited. Yes, I know I’m dumb. Yes, I will eat the word “excited” I know.

Mistake Number One: Went to Target. I was so happy before they put that Target in, I just didn’t realize it. I saw it being built at Northgate, a mere ten-minute drive from La Casa Del Asshole, and my heart filled with joy.

“Now my life will be complete,” said I. Happy consumerism for as far as the eye can see. Cheap stuff, with brushed aluminum and candy stripes. Mmm.

So now I pop in all the time, to visit. And here is my leather coat that I will buy, and here are the lovely slides with kitten heels that I bought but had to return because they were getting messed up after one day and you should have seen the jive the salesgirl was giving me. I tap the sweet heels with my wand and sigh.

BUT I DIGRESS.

Mistake Number Two: After going to Target, drifted over to the sales rack. The only thing I love more than Pez, sex toys with sparkles in them, kitten heels, stupid boys, and Trogdor the Burninator is a Sales Rack.

I found this sweet black linen skirt that swooped in at the bottom and had a ruffle and made me look all Amelie, you know, if Amelie weighed more than my cat. And only fourteen bucks! I had to snap it up.

I put it on this morning. “Spring has sprung, bi-otch,” I said to all my Western wear, which I am so tired of by this point. I am always ready to burn my winter wardrobe shackles by May.

I got in front of the mirror and made the mistake of turning around. HOLY J-LO ON A TROLLEY! Stupid Cadbury Eggs! I’d wear it today, but I don’t want the ugly future librarians calling me Bootious Maximus behind my junked-out trunk back.

I decided I will save it for another day, as it wouldn’t be fair to inflict my ass on the .3% of my classmates who are actually straight male future librarians. I am a shining pillar of compassion for all to behold.

Ah, when chickens attack…next on FUKS!

“I don’t know if it’s possible to envision a roosterless plaza,” said Councilman Ken Brown, “but I have to tell you, when it comes to a question between a kid and a chicken, it’s the kid.”

A quote from the article that made me puzzle a bit. So, they’re booting out the kids? Or the chickens?

Personally, I can’t sleep at night because there is so much stupid in the world.

Ah, yes, spring, I remember that. Misty showers. Me telling people to shut up less. Me squirrelly.

Misty Showers….what a great porno name. I’ll have to remember that one.

Anyway, VERY unhappy because it is one of Ye Olde Twelve-Hour School Days.

However, VERY HAPPY because it is also my seventh wedding anniversary. We are going out of town this weekend.

In Other News

This weekend being Easter and all, I learned a new Martha Skill. On Sunday night I went downstairs for, like, two minutes, and when I came up the girl was busting up one of the freakishly oversized Frankeneggs that my mom helped her dye that day. “Extra large” really shouldn’t mean the size of an orange. Stupid better living through chemistry!

So there was stanky hard-boiled egg all over my sexy red carpet and Mr. Husband sat obliviously on the couch above her, zoning out on the baseball game.

“Hey! Mr. Husband! Look what the baby’s doing!” I shouted.

He sat up, and said what he always says.

“Wow! I…I didn’t notice. I had no idea, even though I am sitting six inches away from the scene of the crime.”

He picked up the large pieces, and I used every ounce of my willpower to not scrub it all up. I figured that would make it worse. So we roped off the area and ignored it, which is super hard when your whole upstairs smells like stanky Frankeneggs.

The next morning, I got up and the mess was all dried, and it sucked up in the vacuum so easily. Martha would be proud. Horrified, yet proud. If it happened to her, she’d probably just spend the night in a different house or something.