Subtitled: The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

Well, everything’s falling apart over here, as usual. Out to dinner with Mr. Husband and his family last night and he casually mentions that he’s going to let his sister take my precious wee little Frenchy and her daughter and put them on some strange man’s lap and let a random photographer immortalize their fear and misery.

It was her idea, of course (Mr. Husband would never be that organized), but he is such a chicken that he only mentions it in the presence of his parents and in a restaurant where I can’t TEAR OUT HIS LIVER and eat it in front of him. I am very touchy about subjects regarding The Sister ever since she accused me of trying to ruin her wedding four years ago. I, Asshole have the memory of an elephant, as they say.

The Sister is not doing her daughter any favors with this stunt, either, since the child all ready looks like a Troll Doll on a good day. Put her next to Franny, who is frankly WB-ready, and some old guy dressed up as Santa, and KAPOW! the camera will crack with all the visual contradictions.

Mr. Husband’s sister is a big fan of the Importance of Traditions. I have seen the hallowed family album that features Mr. Husband and Sister on Santa’s lap, first as embryos and then as people old enough to put away a fifth of vodka apiece and remain standing. We must get together every year and BE HAPPY and CELEBRATE XMAS, which involves breaking the bank on escalatingly-extravagant gifts which everyone must open ONE AT A TIME, taking a minimum of four hours.

(Last year Mr. Husband and I tried to buck tradition and rip and shred and rejoice quickly, the way it’s meant to be. We were greeted with a cavalcade of dirty looks and everyone else just opened their presents extra slowly, to make up for our ridiculousness.)

The thing that is most worrisome is that Mr. Husband seems to be getting subsumed into all of this Hoo-hah. He says things like, “I don’t really care what happens, or what we do,” but I see him getting this dopey look on his face when his family makes sappy Christmas plans around him. This year he had the nerve to suggest that we purchase a Christmas tree.

“Hmm,” I said, as if I was actually considering it. “That’s sounds okay. I’ll make a list. Let’s see. A good tree will probably set us back…fifty. A tree that will be up for a couple of weeks. And we will need some ornaments. And some lights, and a tree topper. I don’t want an angel, so my vote is for a picture of Ayn Rand or Nietzsche. I’ll let you pick that one.

“We need something to hold up the tree, and to finish it off we need a tree skirt. I bet we can get away with spending about $150 or so.”

I smirked with satisfaction as Mr. Husband’s eyes bulged out.

“Huh. Maybe another time, then,” he conceded and went off to practice his horn.

I have learned that I never have to veto something outright, all I have to do is estimate the cost involved. Works every time.

“If you want that piney smell, burn some freaking candles,” my sister says.

Word to that.

Surreal Moment #4,627:

1:50, this morning: I had a cigarette while taking a little spin around Ballard. Obstensibly, I was out to buy cat food, but I wanted to finish my cig before I got out of ol’ Jerome.

I drove up Holman Road, which was looking hyper-real due to my recent insomnia. I can’t figure it out–it’s usually anxiety, but my head has been so full of fluff since school let out I should be sleeping like a corpse.

There was nothing but red and white Christmas lights strung up on the trees lining the road. I flipped on the NPR station that plays jazz at night, and it was Stephanie Grappeli, who I normally don’t enjoy at all. But hey, he was playing “Ain’t Misbehavin” and even he couldn’t fuck that one up.

Sometimes, when you’re out at two a.m., and there are Christmas lights and a cigarette, and no sounds except your wheels going “shush” and a weird fiddle version of a Cole Porter classic, you can squint your eyes and pretend you’re someplace else. Someplace nice. And then you can sleep.

Am I special? You bet your fucking webbed toes I am.

I was thinking today that all we are can be summed up by our likes and dislikes. Isn’t that it? You can’t tell what’s cranking around in a person’s brain until they start reacting, right? I don’t want to hear about DNA or brain scans. What’s imporant is all the shit you should talk about on a first date, but don’t cause you’re scared that if you say “well, I happen to LIKE the taste of my own semen” you won’t get to see that person’s no-no place. These are not easy things, these are hard things.

What I Totally Get:

• Ripping scabs off. Repeatedly.
• Plucking eyebrows until you look attitudinal, even while smiling.
• Spanking naked butts, any age or gender.
• Eating the seeds of everything. I will not be one of those suckers standing around, spitting out watermelon seeds.
• Cat fuzz therapy.
• The pleasures of smashing and destroying something that took hours to create.

Things I Don’t Get:

• Why Rob Schneider is not an international superstar, since he is so damned sexy. Oh, wait. Am I the only one who has a thing for short, weird-looking men who star in horrible movies? Come on, you know that fake-leg part in Deuce Bigalow was money. Heather Mills be damned, I say, fake parts are funny.
• GIANT dildoes with REALISTIC veins, and OMG hair.
• People who are so repressed that the first time you see them drunk, they tell you a bunch of depressing shit about their lives. Our post-finals pub night comes to mind here. NEVER get drunk with a bunch of forty-something future librarians. NEVER. Let it out when you’re sober, people.
• Speaking of, why do I always fall prey to the Fast Food Fairy when I’m drunk and out and about. Why? Why? Last week I had three lemondrops and a beer, and there I was at Taco Bell, all queued up and ready to hurl. The Bell gave me and my sober friend food poisoning. Will I go back? YES.
• Staying up late and then complaining about it. This was supposed to be a list about other people’s stupidity, but once again, it’s all about ME. Me tired, me no go to bed. Me stay up and write in blog and google “giant dildo with veins.” Me have no life.
• People who don’t have lives, and then talk smack about others. God I wanted to link someone else here, but I can’t think of her url. She was from Canada and so annoying and horrible…would whine about not being linked on your blog and then not link you. Also posted a picture of herself with a giant zit on her nose once. That was pretty cool.

Ah, me. Time for bed.

Ah, me. X-mas is truly upon us. How do I know? Today I experienced the ultimate pleasure known as the Annual X-mas Fight with Mr. Husband.

“My grandma called today,” Mr. Husband said nonchalantly. This is the woman who still calls Japanese persons “Japs” and has told me I’d be “much prettier if I only could lose ten pounds and if I’d take all that stuff out of my face,” referring to my piercings.

“Ah-hah,” I said.

“She’s emailing a recipe for potatoes that we’re supposed to make for Christmas dinner,” he said, his voice getting that note of tension that would be hidden from other people but is easy for me to distinguish after all the mess we

After an extremely mild winter that had the local weatherpersons yelping “drought!” it has been raining and raining and raining. Puddles are turning into small lakes in the streets and in my backyard. The chickens huddle together underneath the big pine tree, which is the only tree in the yard that has a dry spot under it. I hope they don’t mold like everything else around here does.

Poop. It’s the kind of rain that makes you want to stay in the house and just sleep the day away. Our friends who don’t have kids did exactly that today. Lucky bastards.

How old do you have to be before you stop being afraid of the dark?

This August, Mr. Husband finished the basement and we moved all of our bedroom stuff down there and out of the tiny upstairs. Before, when someone wanted to go to bed, the other person had to sleep too, or else stay awake veeeery quietly. Frannie slept in the office, which you had to cut through to get to the only functioning bathroom. Suffice it to say, it was tight in here.

One night in July, I was sleeping in our living room/bedroom and I snapped awake, for no reason. Or so I thought–it was actually a dream. But one of those dreams where you think you’re awake, because you’re dreaming that you woke up and you’re laying in bed, looking around.

There are stairs in the living room that were put in to unite the two floors (this place was previously two studio apartments). The warmer air rises up them and at night I can almost hear the whooshing sound as the air blows upward, like the hole for the stairs is some kind of cavern or something.

That night I dreamt that something indistinct and blurry, like a glowy animal, flashed up the stairs and past our bed, rushing into the kitchen while I watched. I would then “snap awake” again (but would still be dreaming) and watch it all over again. I think this happened five times, and I was completely convinced each time that I was genuinely awake. The last time I woke up (for real) I was so scared it was going to happen again I thought my heart was going to pop.

Now it’s months later, and when I’m the last person awake and have to go down the stairs to bed (in the dark, so as not to wake up little Frannie) I still get the willies. It doesn’t help that I had a similar experience when I was pretty small, and I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a dream. I think this is why I have nightmares like this now.

Sometimes I feel like I’m the only grown-up around who gets the heebie-jeebies in their own house. At least I will be more sympathetic to Frannie when she hits her “there’s something in my closet” phase. Because, you know, maybe there is.

So, I have two papers left but it feels done, since the presentation is over.

It went really well. I cut a crown out of a pie tin and wrapped my flashlight in foil. I snaked my grey top sheet off my bed and POOF! I was the Statue of Liberty. I made my friend take a picture but they all turned out cross-eyed or puffy of tired-looking (since I was all three, really) and vanity is preventing me from posting any. (REALLY goggle-eyed, I don’t understand. Maybe I am goggled-eyed most of the time, and my pictures just don’t reflect it? Do you ever wonder if everyone knows you’re goggle-eyed or have a lisp or a hump on your back except you?)

You will just have to imagine the Statue of Liberty with purple hair and red sneakers. With a western wear shirt underneath it all.

We did very well, aided by the fortifying drink we had on the Ave beforehand. There is a new Irish pub there called Finn McCool’s and the proprietor is absolutely adorable. He was also telling us anecdotes about the INS, so we we still doing Legitimate Information Gathering an hour before the presentation. Plus he gets major props for being the only bar open at 11, rather than 11:30 like all those other wussies who are afraid of the Washington State Likka Board.

Looong story short, we got a four and mass accolades from our library science comrades. Victory!

So what else have I been doing, since I got buried in Presentation Land? Well, people have been sending me many, many ultra-fantastic links. Like they think I run a legit blog or something.

Perhaps you wish to join the Handlebar Moustache Club? Makes me wish I was a man, almost.

Cool short films from the weirdos who brought you Pee-Mail: Strindberg and Helium.

Good for Bush-haters, and people who secretly think Condi is sexy: Bush Wars!

From Amazon: Goodbying Depression Through Anal Restriction. I still don’t know if this is real…I feel like this is going to show up on Snopes any day now.

And I am currently obsessed with the fact that NINJAS ARE COOL. And by cool, I mean totally sweet.

I am currently insano at present. The last time I had more than four hours of sleep at night was Thursday…or was it Wedsnesday? Anyway, my friend was talking to me this morning, and she asked if I heard what she had said.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m too busy watching your head morph.” One of THOSE days.

So today I fidgeted like a Ritalin Tot, and couldn’t even sit still when Professor Hottie (of Future Thesis Advisor Fame) came into my class to introduce a guest lecture. Looked right at me and there I was, twiddling my hair and jiggling my leg and crunching on seaweed to counteract a noontime sodium freakout. Oh well.

I have been goofy in general for the past few days.

I’m not sure how I was behaving yesterday, either. I took Mamiko out to sign up for ESL classes at Seattle Central. Her English is at the survival skills level and pretty good, but I can tell she’s frustrated by how limited her thoughts are when we speak.

Just before Mr. Husband quit the taxi job, he met a newly-arrived Japanese couple while he was driving. They became friends and now we’re all spending time together.

I pointed out the Aurora Bridge to her while we were driving around.

“That’s the Aurora Bridge. Lots of people jump off it.” I made my hand dive and crash into my lap. We use a lot of hand motions and little drawings.

“Jump off?” Mamiko said. I could tell she was stuck there.

“Yes, Jump off. Uhh….” I tried to think of a useful synonym. “Ah! Seppuku!”

“Oh,” she said. “Seppuku? Jump off bridge? Oh.” She said she had heard that about the Golden Gate Bridge when they were in California. I wondered how many Americans have discussions about the suicide rate with recent immigrants.

Later we were at a cafe and I was pouring Franny a juice with soy protein in it. Mamiko has been seeing the word “soy” a lot–when they first moved here, they found a Japanese-language newspaper called “Soy Source” that was helpful to them.

“What is soy?” she asked. I thought again.

“Soy…it’s a bean. I know you know it. Aha…edamame.”

While we waited for our food we talked about kanji writing and what her name means.

“Ma-Mi-Ko.” She wrote her name in crayon, breaking up the syllables into kanji. “Means, ‘very-pretty-girl.’ What does ‘Franny’ mean?”

“Do you know ‘fen?” I asked. “Swamp? Bog?” She shook her head, and I picked up the crayon.

“See, here’s a frog, on a lily pad. And here’s some water, and some reeds and trees.” She nodded. “Swamp. Bog. And a church.” She knows “church” but I drew it anyway. “A church in the middle of a swamp. Franny.” We laughed at my drawing.

Sadly, “seppuku” and “edamame” are about the extent of my Japanese skills. But we’re getting along okay. Sometimes you don’t have to understand a person a hundred percent of the time to have fun.

OOOH, I am so steamed. The kind of steamed where I feel like my head’s going to pop.

I have this dreadful, ridiculous Ongoing Saga with Dell (the computer company, not tha Funky Homosapien).

I ordered a computer from them in September. The Dell website said that it came with a shitload of freebies–$100 or a free digital camera, and a free CD burner. Swell! I thought. I wanted a digital camera more than the computer, honestly. I was required to have a computer, but a camera would be totally fun and useful.

The thing was, you could only get a discount if you actually called them. The person I called couldn’t pull up my order basket because her computer wasn’t working. (Red flag #1.) I should have asked to be transferred, but no, I was too stupid to wait another day, or speak to someone else.

My computer came in early October, AND SURPRISE, no camera! Huh, I said. I will call them and clear this up.

So she wrote down my order, and it was wrong. I know I said “I want that camera,” since it was the only thing I cared about.

When I called back to say that my camera was missing from my order, and reminded her that I called on the day her computer was down, she said, “Okay, here’s your order number, it will be there in a couple of weeks.”

Two weeks…no camera…so I followed up…and she didn’t return my calls. I emailed the main customer service, and they said I would have to contact her directly, even though I told them she wasn’t replying to me, and that’s why I contacted them. I know how these things work, I follow procedure.

I wrote her one more email yesterday, laying it all out. I concluded by saying:

“This is such a trifling matter! I’d hate to have to take my business to another company next time over something that could be so easily resolved if only someone would put energy into making it happen.”

Today I get the most passive-aggressive customer service reply EVER:

“I apologize for the confusion. I was looking back to the original date of purchase which I noticed was 9/23. Dell was not offering a camera at
that time. We did have $100 in mail in rebates. In addition to the free CD burner
you received. Please excuse the misunderstanding.”

The italics are mine. How infuriating is that? Like I’m some kind of ingrate because I’m complaining about wanting the camera THAT THEY WERE OFFERING.

The worst part is that I can’t actually prove that they were offering a camera, because their employee purchase program deals rotate constantly, and they offer’s been gone for a while now. And I called on a day when she made no actual computer record of what I ordered. It is her misinformed word against mine.

I don’t know what to do next, but someone in charge at Dell will certainly get a copy of this email. I would rather someone call me a crack ho with camel toe than to get all passive-aggressive on me. ROAR!

So. Large Presentation looms…well…large.

I feel really betrayed. I thought library school was going to be a lot of, you know, sitting there…taking in lectures, quiet contemplation. Instead they’ve got us jumping through every academic hoop known to man.

“OKAY, cadet! Over the course of the next few weeks, you will read thousands of repetitive pages on bizarre, non-implementable theories; write papers that will be marked down if you use the word “very” (Thanks Per