Beware I Lived

Hi! Move happened. We had a new guy who was dropping stuff, and this sounds crazy, but it was funny. All my stuff is funky boho flea market crap pile anyhow, so MEH, what’s a few more scratches. Less Crate & Barrel, more Waterlogged Cardboard Box & Dumpster. Does it make you crazy when bloggers show off their homes and it looks like there should be an “A. $599.99, color shown: Hunter” in the corner? Maybe I am just a snot.

Here comes the moving truck!

Look at these tough guys moving my chickenhaus.

Anyway, here are my sad sticks in my new split level. Today I think we do the final furniture shifting.

If I had to guess I would say this thing was built in the early 80s. I spent time growing up in split levels and I had my older daughter in one (blood + white berber=thank god for midwives and their bag of tricks) so I am quite fond of them. Other than the fact that this one is a five-bedroom, it’s mostly the same as all the others. The lack of a basement/storage motivated me to send a lot of stuff off to charity, which, I needed that kick in the pants. I don’t think I had done a proper cleanout since everything went cattywampus at the old place in 2008.

Also, I finally have internets today. The technician came out after customer service spent a while dicking me around on the phone, but he was really good. Apparently my signal strength here is very weak, which is worrying since I am working from home now, but I have a backup plan involving laptops and local cafes, if necessary.

I am tired but happy! More later. As I was moving, I discovered what someone did to Rosie the Riveter. :'( I suspect it was Not Me, who is usually responsible for things like this in my house.

WHY DO YOU HATE FEMINISM, OK?

P.S. Heh, Franny walked by and saw the picture of Rosie as I was uploading it and said I DID NOT DO THAT and I didn’t even say anything. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

P.P.S. Someone asked me if I boxed up P. and took him with. A: Yes. Useful babbydaddies are hard to come by. We are getting along like a house afire, ngl.

Find Odlaw Now

Longtime readers will be unsurprised to learn that at the end of spring, before school was even threatening to let out, I arranged camp for both of my girls, since I knew I would be doing some kind of work this summer and they would need fun safe things to do. Once I had done the sign up, paid the monies, and had gotten confirmation, I very quickly cranked a schedule out to Franny’s father, who generally takes her for half the summer now. We have settled into a routine–once he moved off in 2007 or so after leaving brief notice on my voicemail that I “would be ‘handling’ Franny most of the time, if that was okay” he picks her up every other weekend and takes her for two weeks of the month in the summer.

As always, I try to plan the schedule so drop offs and pickups are close to the middle and end of the month and call for a minimum of contact between us. Things have been rather terse between me and his new wife since he forged my name to get Franny out of the country, so that avenue is kind of out as well. I heard no response from him regarding the summer camp schedule, which was both unsurprising (the not hearing back) and designed to make things as easy for him as possible, as far as explicitness and avoiding his evil bitch ex-wife. His father, who was CC’ed on the mail for his own information, replied within a day, so I know it did not just bounce.

The last time I saw him, which was a couple of weeks ago when he was picking Franny up from my house an hour after camp closed (I am very glad the little man in my stomach was telling me he was not going to show, and to take her home when I picked up Strudel) he claimed never to have seen such a camp schedule in his everloving life. Who? What? Where is camp again?

“Okay,” I said. What could I say? No apology for being late, no interest in knowing what was going on, really. This is the man I am legally obligated to send my child off with every so often.

Can I tell you? He looks old now. He is slightly stooped and his eyes are getting beady. His hair is getting frizzy with grey. He has put on weight, which, I know. Life happens. Still, it is shocking when this is the man who people would ask me what I was doing with him and how I landed him because he was just so handsome and I, apparently, was the dog’s breakfast. “Are you two…siblings?” He looks like he has been hit by a bat. I reckon child #3 has caught up with him.

In theory I am supposed to see Franny tomorrow evening after camp. Will he find the schedule? Will he figure it out? Starting on Friday he began emailing, calling, and texting me in an attempt to ditch her early (today) because he happened to be in West Seattle. But I should meet them there after the party they attended because that is only “fair.”

Don’t tell me about fair. Really. No. I was at the courthouse on business on Friday and I went in through the wrong doors. The murals on the ground came swooping up towards me and my head started pounding–I could hear my heart up in my ears. The worst day in court six years ago came rushing back to me and I began crying uncontrollably as I walked through the metal detector, down the halls, towards the elevator bay. No one seemed fazed, really. I imagine there is a ton of crying at the courthouse.

So…this person…still blithely asks me for favors that are not going to be forthcoming, as if I ever ask him for everything, as if we have some kind of arrangement, as if we have some kind of exchange. This person had the temerity to ditch our child with me and move away, and yet fuss at me for claiming her on my taxes this year. What do you do with this?

I did not return any of his calls or texts. I have to file these things under “sounds like a personal problem” and not engage because if I give anything it will be endless and draining and there will be no return on it. I guess you just have to say “whatever, dude” and keep living your life and be there when Franny’s face falls when he is late again.

P.S. He just texted me to say that since he has not heard from me this weekend he is making “alternative arrangements” for her care. In spite of the fact that she is all set for camp and has been for months. Off. His. Rocker. I replied that as far as I was concerned the camp schedule was still valid. I’ll keep you posted.

P.P.S. Now he is texting that he does not know what “please reread the camp schedule” means. Head, have you met my friend, Desk?

Denouement: I had to call him after he spent a few exchanges pretending like he didn’t know what I was talking about. He actually countered some of my arguments with “SHUT UP” and “NO U.” Awesome. This is a very proud day for his people.

Act Your Age, Not the Size of Those Pants You Wear

I really do need to tell you about the frat boy booty grinding incident last Saturday when I was out with Ruby, especially since someone on the Twitter asked me to elaborate. What do you want me to write about? What do you want to know? I am curious. OK I swear I will stop posting PM convos and make a real post soon, sorry. Also it is important for you to know that all I care about is Longmont Potion Castle and my next husband Dirk Funk and finding a new contract. Mine is expiring!

LF:      and I’m like, this is so unfair
Me:     It is so rare that I am rude like that
LF:     You know what’s gross, fucking ball sack. Do I complain? I do not.
Me:      It is unfair
Me:     LOLOLOL
Me:     Have you ever babysat for baby boys?
LF:     No, I’ve never babysat
Me:     Ah
LF:     …I’ve actually never held a baby before
Me:    Well, poopy diapers are no fun for boys or girls, as I’m sure you can imagine
LF:     Eek.
Me:     You know how nutsacks are like loose and floppy and slide over something firm…
Me:     And they are sensitive
LF:     yes
LF:     heh
Me:     So when babies poop the poop gets all over their nutsacks
LF:     oh god
Me:     It is really really hard to get sticky paste off that surface
Me:     Women say “boys are easier” but I think of that
LF:     these are issues I have just never imagined
Me:      I would rather have my moody girls with their crevices
LF:     haha for sure
Me:      Sometimes when i see balls I think about how they have spent months dunked in their own shit
Me:     And I am like, really, you want me to lick those
Me:     Ok I know they are clean
LF:     I actually just laughed so loud
Me:    Good
Me:       I am in a mood!
LF:     They’re so weird. I’ve always thought balls are weird.
Me:      THEY ARE
Me:      Internal genitalia is awesome
LF:     Hurray!

(Whoa, WordPress won’t let me just drop the link in today, it embeds. Sorry.)

I Got the Sickest Vendetta When It Comes to Taleggio

Last night I dreamt that SeaFed was on a game show that involved producing streams of bullshit at lightning speed. He did very well! He insisted on making me watch the tape after and I couldn’t help but notice how old he was looking, which is something I have no clue about since I cannot actually remember the last time I saw him. Has it been a year? Possibly.

Speaking of fathers, I dragged P. out with me, whom I had extremely important plans with to watch Gilmore Girls later, just like in ye olde days. My goal was to dial M for Meat and get some random animal parts to make this thing that takes like three days this weekend, no kidding. But I had to start FRIDAY NIGHT because stage one takes 12 hours. I had a total I WANT AN OOMPALOOMPA NOW DADDY moment in my sad head when it was only 7:30 and the meat saw was already shut down for the night, and I was told it would take a half-hour to reassemble. I WONDER.

The best part, though, was taking P. to the drug store. He was holding his Feral Dwarf’s hand (currently she is HIS since she penned on the window sill yesterday) and the clerk said, “Happy Father’s Day” to him to be nice, and he responded with nothing more than a stunned and confused look.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the clerk said quickly. “I assumed she was his…”

“Yes, she is,” I said. “He just doesn’t know there is a holiday this weekend.”

“Ah ha,” she said, confused.

He turned to me as we walked away. “Father’s Day,” he said, wonderingly.

“Yes, you had better call your father on Sunday,” I said.

“Huh. It’s nice to be remembered,” he said.

“Yeah, it is,” I sighed, thinking about how Mother’s Day went forgotten this year.

There is a little bit of vindictive ignoring of Father’s Day on my part, I admit, and about three parts “eh.” It is obviously not important to anyone I know. It’s probably time to just let it go and save my money for a BOOTY POP or something.

You’re As Booty As You Come and You Dress Like a Geek

I am thinking about two things today. One: still thinking about Miss USA and people bocking over the fact that she participated in a pole dancing competition before she was crowned, which violates the morality agreement that is part of the rules participants have to agree to.

I started thinking about why this morality clause even exists in the first place. Are these young women really role models? Is there anyone outside of the pageant world who points to the contestants and says to their children, “Honey, this is your future?” Rah tah to women (and men) trading in large part on their looks to win fabulous cash prizes and scholarships, but does it really matter if the “Miss” in question has ever given birth or has acted as a parent (see rule 2)? Is there are rule against men becoming fathers in these contests? I could not find a morality clause for men.

This leads me to conclude, because I like making crazypants leaps like Caitlin Flanagan, that even beyond  the surface “Hey here are some bitches in a bikini” these pageants are  about some antiquated idea of sexual desirability. I think if they could get away with it, they would ensure the face of Jesus appears on every contestant’s intact hymen. Who cares if you’ve even been pregnant? The last time I checked abortion was legal, and also none of anyone else’s business. What if you are a mother? SO WHAT?

I spent most of my twenties married, in some kind of self-imposed sequestered state, during which I balked at even wearing a skirt that fell above the knee, but I think if my life would have gone differently or I was ten years younger, I would probably have some kind of interesting mini-scandal up my sleeve from my twenties or late teens. Our culture is pretty freaking sexualized/pornified to the point where I almost think it would be difficult to avoid. And why should people avoid it, if they are going to live public life where they are trading on their looks or sexuality? I’d say the Miss America/USA pageants are kind of the exception.

Here’s the answer: bimbo cloisters. Does your preschooler have promising bone structure? Lock her up now, before she puts her Miss Body Shots 2027 pics on whatever passes for Facebook in the future times.

Thing the second is that I really enjoyed a look at the dementia prediction issue on Radiolab called “Vanishing Words.” It’s about Agatha Cristie’s language decay in her final books and about the study they did on the nuns to see who lost their marbles later. Wouldn’t you love to know if batshit or confusion is in your future? I wish there was some kind of device that could measure your last good day, before you hurt the people who love you by forgetting who they are, or before you get lost, or cannot remember what happened for a few decades in there. That is when I would like to die–in my sleep on that last perfect day when you are all there. I find this program heartening because it says that people who write like overeager beavery maniacs  and less in a journalistic, carefully plotted fashion have a better chance of being non-nuts. Or maybe it means that you’re nuts now, ha ha! Well. Run on sentences full of mixed metaphors for the win.

Off to a dinner party tonight to discuss Omnivore’s Dilemma. More like OmniBORE amirite. Seriously, I would rather get a pap smear because at least that will be over in ten minutes. I’m going to get drunk and keep my fucking mouth shut. Will update.

Lust, Actually

Caitlin Flanagan, whom I am coming to believe is a bit of a froot loop, or at least has a moderate case of fogey-dom, has landed in my mailbox again courtesy of the Atlantic. This month she is writing about how teenage girls “endure” hookup culture.

In approaching this article we first need to consider the fact that her perspective is heteronormative and her examples of wholesome teen culture are, well, stuff white people like. In short, she makes assumptions that teenage girls are sexually-oriented toward teenage boys and are under the thrall of girly pop culture romance baloney.

Further, Flanagan doesn’t really define hookup culture, which, fair enough, it’s been in the lexicon for a few years now and people generally know what it means. She does kind of talk around the idea of hookup culture, and an example that she gives is of a solo young woman participating in a locker room gang bang, which some people might consider a varsity-level “hookup” at any age.

So whether girls are either burned by hookup culture, or, like the plucky heroine of a Victorian-era romance novel, they manage to avoid some faceless boy skeeting in their eye through a combination of spunk (def. 1) and luck, they yearn towards romantic impossibilities. She cites the example of the High School Musical franchise and the music of Taylor Swift as where young girls are taking their cues about romance from. Girls want boyfriends, she claims. Girls want to be loved and they want a happy ending. I wonder if Flanagan is too old to remember that teenagers can identify bullshit pop culture constructs? Is it not possible that this treacly pap is being engineered to appeal to the parents of these girls, to assuage some of the pearl clutchery engendered by a media that tells them that their daughters are getting DPed by the lacrosse team?

Flanagan compares the youth of today to the previous generation. A girl is “taught by her peer culture that hookups are what stolen, spin-the-bottle kisses were to girls a quarter century ago. She is a little girl; she is a person as wise in the ways of sexual expression as an old woman.” O RLY, Flanagan. If you want to pull pop culture as a reflection of society, a quarter of a century ago Fast Times at Ridgemont High portrayed a 15-year-old girl having an abortion, and I don’t think the character got knocked up from playing spin-the-bottle, and I don’t think you can shove 1985 (or the 70s, or the 60s) into the same weird platonic-ideal youth culture box as people have done with the postwar period in the US.

Can anyone else see the giant elephant in the corner of this pile of malformed claims? Where are teenage boys in all this? They mostly exist in this article to deny love, and to use teenage girls as their sexual playthings. Do teenage boys not desire love and stable  and healthy relationships? Let’s say for a moment that all teenage boys do seek to take advantage of girls. Flanagan writes about all this exploitation as something that is kind of just magically “happening” to girls, which seems a little rape-culturey to me.

Then there is this, her closing paragraph: “There might seem something wan, even pitiable, about all these young girls pining for boyfriends instead of hookups. But the wishes of girls, you have to remember, have always been among the most powerful motivators in the lives of young men. They still are.” What is this, I don’t even. Did you suddenly hit your word limit, Flanagan? At the very least, this seems to contradict all her business about girls following the desires of boys, typified by statements like, “Is it any wonder that so many girls are binge-drinking and reporting, quite candidly, that this kind of drinking is a necessary part of their preparation for sexual activity?”

I should say that Flanagan’s viewpoint is not as blinkered as the points I’ve pulled out here. She does make some decent points about the very real contradictory expectations that adults (who are inured to these contradictions)  impose on the young, especially in regards to sexuality.

My biggest sticking point is that Flanagan portrays teenage girls as resigned participants in some kind of sexual vacuum (boys exist only to deny them love and to fuck them unpleasantly, and then run), having no apparent agency or sexual desires of their own. Again and again popular culture wants to portray the teenage girl as the innocent or the victim, or completely over the line as in her example of the slattern in the novel she cites in her article:

In Testimony, the sex party occurs at the fictional Avery Academy; Shreve imagines Siena, the girl at the center of the event, as a grifter, eager to exploit her new status as victim so that she can write a killer college essay about it, or perhaps even appear on Oprah.

Just like real humans, teenaged girls can like romance AND they can like fucking. They can enjoy these things together or separately. Ultimately, Flanagan’s article is yet another pointless rehash of myths and half-truths about teenage culture.

Dear Tenacity Jones

Yesterday Franny recited a poem about mashed potatoes in front of her class. The children were given a couple of weeks to memorize their poems, which Franny did right away, and then sort of forgot about it for a week or so, then refreshed before she went in. Strudel listened attentively and was a good audience during her sister’s practice sessions, and when Franny returned home triumphantly and announced that everything had gone splendidly, Strudel jumped in and said the poem front to back without batting an eye. Strudel has a knack for memorizing things casually as Franny grapples with learning them, then spewing them out at inopportune moments.

“YES YES you have it,” snapped Franny, cutting Strudel in the middle of the final verse of the poem.

Strudel also finds other little fissures to thrust her tiny irritation tentacles into. Franny has low moments while doing math at times. Math facts sort of slide around and get mixed up. There is a particular deer in the headlights stare that Franny gets when what she knows leaves her and her mind is a blank.

I used to get the same look on my face. I was the last child to complete the timed tests that we had to take OVER and OVER and OVER until we passed. And by last, I mean weeks after all the other children had finished. My face burned with shame every afternoon as the teacher quietly timed me while everyone else did their silent reading.

Finally, it clicked one day. I had memorized the answers in their correct order. I did not even need to look at the problems. I had learned something, but probably not what I was supposed to have learned. I am fond of saying I did not really learn how to do math until I was 27. True facts.

Franny often lays her head down on her paper and taps her pencil while she takes a break from her math homework.

“A number times zero is always ZERO,” Strudel will say cheerfully into the anguished, frustrated silence. Franny sighs.

Strudel is deviling everyone at the moment. She is a huge fan of YOU ALWAYS and YOU NEVER and she will shiv a bitch if we cut her apples the wrong way.

I tried addressing the behavior and providing negative consequences, and the kid can hang on. I think her middle name should be “Tenacity,” which would be a totally awesome Pilgrim virtue name, don’t you think? I’d take Tenacity over Prudence any day.

One morning this week I woke up and it came to me–the thing I had not tried. It was time for a good old fashioned ignoring. Now when she flips her shit she is completely dead to the tribe. If she has anything remotely constructive to say regarding how she feels I acknowledge her, but otherwise she is shunned. No reaction, no need to continue the performance.

And I feel compelled to tell you the reason this letter is so utterly dull is because I really have nothing to tell you of any real importance. I was sick for a week and a half which is long for me. I suppose I could tell you that SeaFed tried to claim Franny on his taxes, despite not paying a dime in child support or for any of her insurance or upkeep beyond feeding her and clothing her on her brief visits to his far-away house. How we laughed. I am looking into buying a new desktop. I am going to Los Campisinos next week. Work is eating me LESS, which means my powers of evil are growing and returning. Soon orcs will be spewing out of my ears again and I will drive hobbits before me and hear the lamentations of their women &etc.

Hope you are well and xoxoxo,

SJ

How’s the Fifth of Never?

There’s a lot of levels of self-delusion. I think it’s pretty much necessary for life. One that I am utterly, completely entirely over is other parents. Recently I had someone email me whose child went to school with Franny at her old school, who also works ten-hour days and lives two cities away. Invariably the exchange goes like this.

Other Parent: HI! REMEMBER US?

Me: Uhh…yeah. sigh

Other Parent: Brunhilde really misses Franny! We’d love to set up a PLAYDATE really, really soon!

Me: Okay, I guess so. How about Saturday?

Other Parent: Brunhilde has spelunking that day!

Me: Okay, Sunday, then?

Other Parent: Krav maga!

Me: All day?

Other Parent: Well, it is a special camp, and…

Me: Okay, shut up.

Other Parent: How about next weekend??

Me: Yeah, she’s at her dad’s.

Other Parent: Oh, what’s that schedule again?

Me: First and third weekend, except when he ditches her at my mother’s house, and oh, summer, let me email you the PDF diagram…

Other Parent: Err…

Me: How about November 16th?

Other Parent: We’re in Malaysia then.

Me: WELL? WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU THEN?

Other Parent: We’ll get back to you.

Me: Mmmhmm.

This time I am going to cut it off at the pass. I am tired of these email exchanges. If it was convenient to hang out, we would do it. You are experiencing some kind of weird nostalgia through your child. This time I will say, Thanks, but no.

I Would Touch His Weird Head

Obviously I am obsessed with Trololololo man right now, so I made my girls watch it this morning. UN. IM. PRESSED.

Me: What do you think, girls?
Franny: Huh.
Strudel: Why is he doing this?
Franny: Look at his weird head.
Strudel: I would not want to touch his weird head.
Me: Is this not AWESOME?
Strudel: Uhhhh….
Franny: I feel like I wish this was funny.

PLEBES.

I made them lovely yogurt parfaits this morning with layers of banana, maple syrup, a sprinkle of oats, cinnamon, and almonds. I put it LOVINGLY in a large wineglass so you could see the layers. That’s right, Tim, I even serve my children BREAKFAST out of booze vessels. Get the beer bong, children, it is time for your afternoon smoothies.

Anyway, Franny took one look at her breakfast and immediately stirred it all up until it was a gluey uniform mess.

“Uh…” I said. “Parfait. Missing the point.”

Feral Dwarf smugly took dainty bites out of her otherwise-undisturbed parfait.

“DOH!” Franny said.

WhatEVERRRR I will still take Franny to LC in May. And it looks like I am going to Norwescon at the end of the month. HOW TERRIBLY EXCITING! See you there, I will be dressed as Sexy Pikachu. Too late for the writing workshop signups though, dratters.