Category Archives: Rantin

In Which We Name and Shame

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For a year, Cornerhost provided me with server space and hosted my site. When the year was up, the owner, Michal Wallace, sent me a bill for this year, which I paid on time, and was cleared by the bank. Wallace pulled the plug on my site and apparently did not notice that it had happened automagically, and I moved to a different server.

Weeks later I received an email with a tepid apology about “stuff going on” and an offer for discounted service for a month. I asked for my money back for this year, since I have not used his service and would not. I have asked about four times now for my money back. Adding insult to injury, I am starting to get monthly “paid” notices that I owe nothing for hosting I do not want due to bad service.

Do not sign up with Cornerhost: “Hosting with a Human Touch.” I am out a hundred bone, but I hope you don’t have to be.

Personal Space and Being a Lady

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[Trigger warning–something I don’t usually include at the beginning of my posts since my whole blog is a trigger for some people.]

AHEM. Hey remember me? NO? Fuck off! Just kidding. I love you, even though the thing you got me for my birthday broke 45 minutes after I opened it and I know you took a second piece of cake before everyone even had one.

SO. What I really want to say! The other day I read this article and it really grabbed me: Schrodinger’s Rapist: or a Guy’s Guide to Approaching Strange women without Being Maced. That’s a mouthful, eh?

In a nutshell, the author, Phaedra Starling, claims that women, to varying degrees, constantly assess their personal risk of harm when confronted with men in daily life. This is everywhere–on the street, in the workplace, on the first few dates and even with men you have known for years if things go south suddenly. It’s not a new idea in the realm of feminist thought and discussion, but I think it’s worthwhile in the sense that the Starling takes a really matter-of-fact, non-hostile tone without cajoling or pandering. I feel like it’s the best possible way to present this idea to men who are genuinely good guys. A chance to say, hey, this thing that you may not be aware of–women’s fear of men–is real and takes up a significant part of women’s daily lives and energy. It would be great if articles like this were published in men’s magazines, wouldn’t it? AH HA HA HA HA, oh, I think I just hurt myself there.

The article is a good and essential read for a lot of people, men and women alike. Here is a snippet that gets at the essence of the problem:

Now, you want to become acquainted with a woman you see in public. The first thing you need to understand is that women are dealing with a set of challenges and concerns that are strange to you, a man. To begin with, we would rather not be killed or otherwise violently assaulted.

“But wait! I don’t want that, either!”

Well, no. But do you think about it all the time? Is preventing violent assault or murder part of your daily routine, rather than merely something you do when you venture into war zones? Because, for women, it is. When I go on a date, I always leave the man’s full name and contact information written next to my computer monitor. This is so the cops can find my body if I go missing. My best friend will call or e-mail me the next morning, and I must answer that call or e-mail before noon-ish, or she begins to worry. If she doesn’t hear from me by three or so, she’ll call the police. My activities after dark are curtailed. Unless I am in a densely-occupied, well-lit space, I won’t go out alone. Even then, I prefer to have a friend or two, or my dogs, with me. Do you follow rules like these?

So when you, a stranger, approach me, I have to ask myself: Will this man rape me?

I shared this article with a couple of men in my life–men I consider to be allies of feminism and pretty aware and cool guys. Men who would not stand by if they saw or heard women being slagged or hurt in cases where they could not defend themselves. Men who are aware that there are inequalities, and try to act in ways in their daily lives that move men and women closer to being equals.

“What do you think about this article?” I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral tone of voice that said, “There is no carrot for the ‘right’ answer.”

“I think it sounds pretty extreme, like an overreaction,” one of the men said. “But I don’t know what it’s like to be a woman,” he hastened to add.

I paused for a moment and tried to think if there were any women I knew who didn’t think in these terms to varying degrees, and this friend characterized the thesis of this article “extreme” and an “overreaction.” This extremely unscientific survey confirmed what I suspected, which is that these sorts of articles and discussions are absolutely critical.

It also made me think about how I live my own life, especially since having children. Before I had children, I didn’t pull any punches. If a man talked to me and I was uninterested I would ignore him or tell him to leave me alone, either neutrally or harshly, depending on my mood and the situation. Having children put a chink in that armor, and instilled more fear of strange men in me. If I acted in ways that come naturally to me to curtail unwanted conversations with strange men, which is coolly or with hostility, would the situation escalate? Could I risk some man getting angry with me because I wasn’t cooperating and watch the consequences unfold in front of or possibly to my children? Better to smile and play along.

This bleeds over to my life when I am without my children, too, which is, of course, when most men make unwelcome advances toward me. In the past, when I was only responsible for myself, I would tell men off if I indicated I was disinterested and the situation escalated. If things got ugly, it often ended in me being called a “fucking bitch” or a “cunt” or something equally charming. Now I feel I have an obligation to my girls to make it home in one piece, and so I nod and smile at whatever inanity/sexism/grossness is tossed my way.

Thinking of these compromises I make on a daily basis made me also think about the concept of rape culture, and of an excellent article I read by Melissa McEwan on Shakesville recently on the topic.

As the title of the piece promises (Rape Culture 101), McEwan provides the reader with a good background in different aspects of rape culture. Among many other great points she addresses what I think of as the perception/behavior problem.

Rape culture is 1 in 6 women being sexually assaulted in their lifetimes. Rape culture is not even talking about the reality that many women are sexually assaulted multiple times in their lives. Rape culture is the way in which the constant threat of sexual assault affects women’s daily movements. Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you’re alone, if you’re with a stranger, if you’re in a group, if you’re in a group of strangers, if it’s dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you’re carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you’re wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who’s around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who’s at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn’t follow all the rules it’s your fault.

[Links from this passage omitted but available at original post.]

(As an aside I should say that I am aware that I am a participant in rape culture, to some extent, and I actively educate my daughters in the tenets of it. This is something I have been considering writing about in the near future.)

So I have been thinking about this a lot since reading the Schrodinger’s Rapist article. Do I give my energy to being pleasing and compliant to the wishes of strange men who actively pursue conversations and interactions with me that I don’t want to have? Or do I go back to resisting: unsmiling, ignoring, intolerant, which is another sort of energy drain?

I walked out of my building, which is smack in the center of downtown, with a half-formed resolution in my head: for a month I would try the old way. I would not dial things up to defcon 1 the minute a man said “hello,” but if I didn’t want to talk, I would not. Something that is important to know about my typical demeanor is that I walk fast, avoid eye contact, and have giant can-style headphones that block everything out except the most annoying leafblowers. I am not sending the message that I am available for casual conversation.

I approached the corner and immediately there was a man standing next to me, trying to get my attention. I deliberately turned my head away, waiting for the light to change. A couple of times I turned my head forward, and saw him in the corner of my eye attempting to get my attention to speak to me again. I looked at him and watched him take a breath to speak and turned away again. He attempted to speak to me, even after this. This made me think of a passage from Starling’s article:

Women are communicating all the time. Learn to understand and respect women’s communication to you.

You want to say Hi to the cute girl on the subway. How will she react? Fortunately, I can tell you with some certainty, because she’s already sending messages to you. Looking out the window, reading a book, working on a computer, arms folded across chest, body away from you = do not disturb. So, y’know, don’t disturb her. Really. Even to say that you like her hair, shoes, or book. A compliment is not always a reason for women to smile and say thank you. You are a threat, remember? You are Schrödinger’s Rapist. Don’t assume that whatever you have to say will win her over with charm or flattery. Believe what she’s signaling, and back off.

[….]

So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone. If you pursue a conversation when she’s tried to cut it off, you send a message. It is that your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone. And each of those messages indicates that you believe your desires are a legitimate reason to override her rights.

Did this man on the corner scream at me, pinch me, light my hair on fire? No. What he decided was to try to initiate conversation with me four times, after I deliberately and pointedly ignored him, with my body language and with my headphones.

There are exceptions to every situation, of course, but when the light changed and I walked away, I realized that women DON’T do this. Women do not interrupt people wearing headphones unless they need something. I pick a woman to interrupt, and I see other women at places like bus stops do the same. If a woman interrupts me, there is a good chance that she needs directions, the time, change for a dollar. If a man interrupts me, nine times out of ten it’s to say he likes my hair color. That’s nice; I don’t care.

Starling is right: if you behave like this, “your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone.” Put another way, a man engaging in these behaviors is not treating a woman like an equal. Would this man make four attempts to pay a compliment to a man on a corner who was also keeping to himself? If I had to guess I would say no.

So here I am, resolved to “reclaim my space,” as one of my friends said. I am letting this little experiment run at least through the end of the month. I will let you know how things shake out.

On Cuntitude and Straight People

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A request and a complaint and some cunt.

First, complaining. The internet phenomenon that is sweeping the universe at the moment, Wrong Hole? Meh. MEH I SAY. While I love the gratuitous “celebrity” cameo, I just can’t get excited about this song. So, it is usual tired premise being presented as the epitome of straight male humor: “HUR I accidentally stuck it in my lady’s butt, and TWIST I would let her do it to me as well (points against for not using the term pegging–just think of the rhyming opportunities there) but TWIST takeback because I hope she does not want to peg ME, and TWIST again she actually liked it.” JUST STOP IT. Do it or do not, and just shut up the fuck up already. My biggest problem with this is my request, which is a garagey-type band with a female lead from the 1990s who did a song called “Wrong Hole” and now this new one has reverse googlebombed it and I cannot find it. I seem to be the only person I know who remembers it.

Also I am thinking about the term “misogyny.” I think I have been looking at a little too much Jezebel lately, but I am seeing this term tossed around like mad. Last week tango was declared misogynist in the comments. Like, all of tango. I thought I knew what it meant. In the strictest reductionist sense, we know, it means a hatred of women. You can get somewhat more specific and point to examples of HOW to be misogynist, such as reducing women to body parts, objects, assuming that all or many or a group of them will act a certain way or are out to get you somehow. Today Jezebel reports that Nikki Finke calls people cunts. Misogynist, they say.

Years ago I think “cunt” did have some kind of power over me, or at least novelty. When I first fell off the turnip truck and landed in Seattle, no one I knew used the word, and if it was referred to, it was spelled out in hushed tones: “C-U-N-T.” I came face to face with the cunt word in the form of a coworker at my first full time job who had “cunt” tattooed on her arm (years later I saw a picture of her tattoo hanging on the walls of SAM and was pleased.) By that point it was just a word, albeit a rarer one than some of the more common insults or “impolite” words. I guess you could say I have “reclaimed” (sigh) cunt, but I never really felt like it was snatched from me to begin with.

I have had cunt used against me by men on multiple occasions as a weapon with serious intentions that were meant to show me up and shut me down. In those instances I did feel that the user’s intention was to hit me with the worst thing they could think of verbally and shame me into being a “good girl” who would want to be non-cunty and worthy of my opponent’s approval. (I am not saying I would actually gain their approval. I am saying it was a manipulative tactic.) Is this an instance of misogyny? I didn’t feel MISOGYNIZE’D because I could see the attempt as the cheap and impotent tactic that it was. [Aside: what is the male version of cunt?]

If we agree that misogyny is a cause/result of patriarchal social structures, yes, perhaps you could argue that Finke has fallen into this trap of communicating with and about Hollywood types using their own “masculine” language. But first you have to buy the idea that the word “cunt” is always code for hating women. I am just as likely to use the word “cock” to insult someone, male or female. I find these both acceptable as insults for individuals and their behavior. What does that make me, besides crass?

What do you think? Am I oversimplifying things? What bus did I miss? Are there “misogynies” in the same sense that there are “feminisms“? Does calling Nikki Finke a cunt make her a victim of misogyny, or does it mean that the person who said it…thinks she is a cunt? Does her use of the word make her a misogynist, or does it mean that she thinks the person she called is one? Could it be that the people who are crying “misogyny” are simply uncomfortable with the use of the word?

Oh, and, um, I went to Brickcon yesterday. It was fun and very very misogynist. FROWNY EYEBROWS OF DISAPPROVAL with a side of pearl-clutching.

In Which We Keep Things In Perspective

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I am choking on the writing thing lately, am I not? Suddenly I have more drains on my energy and have been writing offline A LOT more. I know, I know, less fap, more rap. I hate blog excuses. It’s just this thing that is happening on the internets, you know?

If I don’t write for online for a few days I start to choke and block up, so I need to bite the bullet and give you disjointed updates that will pass for writing. Once Shauna said that the longer you go, the harder it is, and that is so true. At least my blog is like 3% better now. You can now click on my banner and it will take you home, and I got a shiny WP upgrade. Candy Mountain, bitches.

I should tell you what happened with my blog hosting that made me look like a motherfuckin 404in deadbeat. I got a bill for my yearly hosting, which I paid before the due date. Okay, cool times. I got no receipt, which I promptly forgot about. A couple of weeks after the due date, I got a late notice. Hmmm. I replied. No response. HELLO? Anyone home? Then I got a 48-hours-you suck email. HEY, I paid this, and it posted to the bank even. No reply. A couple of Sundays ago I went dark, which, thank you alert readers and emailers. A friend pulled me over onto his server and I was back up.

Days later I get a reply from my old host. “Sorry, busy, how about a free month?” Man, for serious? You cut me off like that automagically? Too little too late, I said. Refund PLZ. I am still waiting for a refund. I suspect I will be waiting forever.

My friend, with the goat essay? I am sorry to say that the contest she entered was made of fail. Instead of narrowing the entries down to a readable amount, the woman who runs the site merely threw them all up. All 60+ of them. There was no consideration or judgment of merit or anything. Who has time to read and judge that many essays? NO ONE. Of course it becomes a zerg rush of how many people each entrant knows on the internet. Far better would have been for the goat giver to form some kind of panel of judges. I have not seen a more poorly planned contest in quite some time. Would I be complaining about any of this if my friend won? No, I would not.

Franny is getting into a routine of sorts with public school. Homework is still fairly perplexing to her, but with a lot of handholding, she is getting there. There were things I absolutely hated about private school, but this school is a different world in a lot of ways. They have weird meetings where they compliment each other. Yes, that’s it. They say nice things to each other. What a fucking load of crap that is.

Franny now has two banes in her life: homework and dishwashing. I told her that if she finishes her homework and does a nice job with it well before dinnertime I will let her off the dishes hook.

Last night she was sitting at the table cranking about her subtraction homework. Carrying the one is a torture device sent from hell to torment her.

“I hate this, Mom. I HATE HOMEWORK.”

“Well,” I said, as I chopped onions, and then stopped, reconsidering.

“WHAT?”

“I was just thinking, if you lived in parts of Sudan, you would not have to go to school.”

“Really?”

“Yes, they stick an automatic weapon in your hand and you go to war killing people. If you are lucky you just end up missing some limbs.”

“…”

“How’s that homework?” I said.

“AWESOME I LOVE MATH.”

“Want to look at pictures of limbless children after dinner?”

“No thanks.”

P.S., In case you missed it, here is FYCL #8, Embarrassingly Fertile.

When I Was Young I Lived In a World of Dreams

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10:36 AM Coworker:
Um…wow. Crap to make role-playing dice.
10:36 AM SJ:
lol
10:36 AM Coworker:
no fucking clue where to categorize this shit.
10:36 AM SJ:
I have seen it. I am a nerd groupie. Use this:
Geekery|General Geekery|Virgins

WHAT’S CRACKALACKIN FOOLS? Did you see my little blog hiccup I had up in myah? Hosting issues and I was down for a couple of days. I am not a deadbeat. I have le new hosting now, and also tech support so I am very happy. I ONLY HAVE TO PAY WITH MY SOUL.

This is also the first day in about a week I have not been dizzy. Occassionally I mention here that I have long-term vertigo that comes and goes. Last week I got something called a VNG test. I felt pretty stupid as I was filling out the questionnaire before the test–“How long have you been experiencing vertigo/dizziness?” Uhhh…fifteen years. Crap. That’s pretty stupid.

The good news is that my hearing is pretty normal, though sometimes it cuts out and all I can hear is the aliens talking to me. The sucky news is that they didn’t find anything in my head, yet. So I have to figure out what to do next. A VNG test is really fucking intense. It turns out you can induce extreme dizziness by blowing hot or cold air into one ear or the other in about 45 seconds. WEIRD.

Anyway, I really really like you, but if you diagnose me with ANYTHING in my comments you will be B& and sentenced to reading everything the mommyblogger of my choice has ever written. Head broken; blogger crazy. Too many knocks, I suspect. Lower your expectations, I’m getting crazier by the day. HAVE A GOOD DAY.

P.S. Podcasting tomorrow; write when you learn how.

Hey Guys What’s Going On?

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I got stabbed by a “well-meaning” doctor last week who gave me some vaccine that caused a crazy reaction.  At least there was no medical mask over beard hairs. BARF OUT. Ladies only, yall. Long story short, I was kind of jacked last week. No podcast, no nuffin. Last Saturday night I was a samurai hobo with Ruby, except this time the sake was terrible and I couldn’t finish it.

Ruby took me to see the comedian Arj Barker, whom you may know from Flight of the Conchords fame. I do not, since I only listen to the videos on internet, but I heard him on the radio once and he seemed okay to me.

The funny thing was before the show, when we discovered that the Showbox decided to perpetrate a cruel sociological experiment by setting up some of the bar/counter seating with an odd number of chairs. This resulted in an empty seat next to me. Presently a short man, possibly even a midget, walked up with another chair and brandished it at us slightly.

“Could I get you all to move just a couple of inches,” he said, in an entitled-dick voice. He was with a lovely, tall blonde woman who looked like she was wishing she were somewhere, anywhere else as she assiduously looked off to one side as he harangued us.

“If we moved over,” I said, with logic that was approaching epic levels, “she will get bumped off the end of this bar.” I pointed to a hapless woman at the very end who was looking concerned.

“If we could ALL just move TWO INCHES,” said Entitled Dick.

“I don’t know these guys and I don’t want to get ANY closer,” Ruby said, indicating the men next to her and making me love her even more.

He took one last run at it: “Just TWO INCHES.”

“That’s what she said,” I said. He squinted at me, but it was getting loud in the club.

“It is VERY CROWDED,” Entitled Dick said.

“That is because you are horning your chair in,” I said.

Finally Ruby and I passive-aggressively scooched our chairs over the tiniest bit and he squeezed in.

I quickly forgot about him and went back to enjoying my vodka tonic and chatting with Ruby. I couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of my eye he spent the entire time before the show on his iPhone, poking it and scrolling around while his companion looked around and over his shoulder, bored. I had a moment of wanting to pull a “IS THIS DICK BORING YOU, BABY?” but I restrained myself when I remembered I am not actually Justin Timberlake.

Right before the opener came out Entitled Dick took a phone call and he pulled his companion and left. Two men that we did not have a traumatic history with swooped in and took their seats, which was great with me.

GOD HELP ME all I want to do today is listen to “Landslide” and eat spray cheese out of the can.

The Scarlet L

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JESUS CHRIST I am freaked. I was leaving the house this morning when I noticed my head was a little itchy, so I scratched it, and something was there. I pulled it out, and it was a LOUSE. It looked all clearish, too clear, really, but it had that louse shape. Do you remember last winter when I had lice? When one more thing could not possibly go wrong and then it did and it was LICE? Looking back on those posts I realized I only wrote two about lice, when in reality I used to lay in bed and say OMG I HAVE LICE I WISH I WAS DEAD. Okay, not that bad. But it sucked until I found out about the Listerine thing.

I need a slap or a pat, people. Can you have a one louse on your head and it is a coincidence? All I can think of is that I have been pulling out old sweaters from last winter, but someone told me the eggs die in about a week. P. checked my head quickly before I left and saw nothing else, and I checked him, and he checked Strudel. Franny is off at her dad’s for one last hurrah before school starts. CAN THERE BE JUST ONE? Am I the luckiest person because I caught the one? It looked too clear, could it have been something else??

All I can think of is the pain and the burning and the wasted money on the drugstore stuff and I lost so much hair due to those little useless combs and the PICKING, my god. I got to be a pro at pulling them off Franny. I don’t think I told you I went to a job interview with lice, because I had to. It was four hours and six people. I found my first full-grown louse on my head THAT morning, and I think my hair was even all pulled up professionally and shit. When I got out of the interview I got a phone call saying that Franny’s grandmother (my mother-in-law of 8 years) had died so between the interview from hell and her death I actually FORGOT I had them for a couple of days. Well, it might have been denial also.

I was looking at pictures of lice on wikipedia and it made me ill. I was queasy also after P. checked my head and I left. It’s not the SHAME really, it’s the hours of work and laundry. And school is about to start. Also I must confess that part of me wants to call SeaFed and part of me wants to let Franny be a vector. I have considered this–if I call him and tell him she has it, she will come back with it still anyway. Might as well let her spread it around. Oh yes I did.

P.S. If anyone has any big food blogs that are vegetarian-recipe-oriented with kind of a weeknight minimal fuss spin, I would love to get my mitts on them. I love tofu and seitan, but am not so big on the whole It Are Shaped Like a Meat But It Are Not a Meat. I don’t need a food dildo. Assume I know nothing, even if it is like the most popular blog ever. Also I am loving Tastespotting lately, which is not veggie. Thanks!

ETA: I will leave comments open for about a week as I always do, then I will make a round up of sites. I don’t think I was clear enough the first time–I am NOT going vegan, and I, personally, am almost physically incapable of enjoying food that does not contain butter or cheese or the tears of clubbed baby seals. I am going to continue to use dairy and my chickens’ eggs. HOWEVER, I’m sure that someone will find this useful. So thanks.

Love Letters from the Mentally Challenged

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This weekend, I put my spare chooks up on craigslist. Holy Recockulous Mistake, Bartman. Well, that was my bads. Next time I will go straight for the chicken board I have had luck with in the past. It turns out the purpose of craigslist is to entice hamtards to email you with bizarre, misspelled questions and then never reply to your response.

However, we did get one reply from a person who was legitimately interested in buying one of our chickens. She came, took the Easter Egger away, paid her moneys, and all was well. She did mention in passing that she had to get rid of one of her chickens earlier this summer because it turned out to be a rooster. Well, these things happen, yes? Ours was to replace it.

This morning we get a phone call from the chicken-buyer.

“This is not going to work out!” she said. “This chicken makes noise at 6 a.m.! There is a newborn next door! I think this is a rooster!”

SERIOUSLY? Are you for real. Are you? You are not. Did you get rid of your other chicken because it was cackling early in the morning as well?

P. said we would call her back, but no. JUST NO.

9:06 AM P: i picked up because i figured it was her when it came through as blocked and i thought either something had happened to Saffron or she wanted another chicken
 me: Hmmm
 P: you know, something reasonable?
 me: How did it finish, the conversation?
 P: why do i always think people will be reasonable?
 me: You can’t make someone take their chicken back.
 P: i said i’d call her later
 me: DON’T
  Let her figure it out. Moron.
9:07 AM me: CHICKEN MAEK NOISE
 P: yeah i guess
 me: What a dumbass
 P: but in spite of her being an idiot, i wonder if we take the chicken back, could we turn around and unload it on backyard chooks to somebody who actually wants a chicken?
9:08 AM me: Yeah, but she can’t have her money back.
  *crosses arms*
 P: oh yeah, i’m all about the idiot tax
  *nods head decisively*

If You’re So Very Entertaining, Why Are You On Your Own Tonight?

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So. It is established that Seattle cannot really handle anything above or below 65F. Winter brings OMFGBBQpocalypse if there is a half-inch of snow on the ground, causing school to be slammed shut and workplaces and bridges to close. (It should be noted that when I was working for barely above minimum this fall and winter, those workplaces did NOT close, not once.)

A couple of days ago it was over 100. Most houses have no air conditioning, which, fine, I can hang. I can make cereal for dinner and cheese and cracker and be cross and drink Mexican beer for a couple of days during the wave.

What cannot handle the heat is my stuffs. My router melted! I called Qwest to tell them and ask them if they would disown me if I used a non-Ma Bell model and they tried to troubleshoot me.

Them: Have you tried plugging it into another phone jack?
Me: It is melted!
Them: Have you tried cycling your modem by unplugging it and…
Me: IT HAS WAVES IN IT FROM MELTING AND IS TOTALLY WARPED!
Them: Oh.

Also, I had one of my favorite things, a big chunk of cocoa butter type moisturizer from Lush in my shower and it melted right down the side. It was not even in the sun.

Looks like I am offline this weekend. I might even have to GO OUTSIDE, UGH. Last night I spent about an hour trying to make dialup work, but no dice. It was kind of soothing hear the modem try to dial in though. NOSTALGIA. When I first started blogging, I used to click “connect” and then wander off and grow a beard and stuff. I also used to write all my posts in Word and copypasta them into the blogwindow, hit send, and get out again as if it was some kind of blogograph service. I almost pooped myself the first time I typed a post directly into the window, OMG.

Franny is off to her dad’s for two weeks, and she is hella pissed. I figure it’s good for her to have some not getting her way in her life. I think of myself as an advocate for her, generally–someone who can help her navigate the seas of WTF. Sometimes I say “Verily that sucks darling” about her traumas and sometimes I give her the little pep talk. She gets frustrated with SeaFed because he comes from the Jolly-but-dismissive school.

Lately she is having nightmares that I am dying and that she goes to an orphanage because her dad doesn’t want her. She has been worried about this lately because she knows she will be whisked away from our house and P. and Strudel if I died. I am the bridge.

I put on my gypsy lady rings and played Dream Interpreter.

I told her it’s normal to dream about losing the people we care about most. I told her about a dream I had about her where I lost her and panicked. Also I told her that last time her stepmom spawned she felt all left out and I wondered if her brain is worried about the new baby.

“See how it’s better to expose these things to light,” I said.

“What does that mean?” she said.

“Does it seem less scary now that we’ve talked about it?”

“Yes,” she said.

I have changes afoot–what else is new? I will fill you in in a few days. I am so feeling the Smiths today. HOBO LIKES SONGS ABOUT BEING BURIED ALIVE. Here’s to a new chapter.

Let’s Blow This Fire-trap, Eh?

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Franny was tired and in a snit after her summer camp today and looking how I feel pretty much every day after work. Sometimes I lose it and lay on the couch and eat Chinese food, but most nights I have to smile while I hear that I paid so my kid could have a bad day and that she did not bring enough money to go on the outing, which meant that she had to put it back in her bag, which was rifled, and the money was stolen. Some days she gets shoved, or someone says something mean to her and she cries.

It made me think of a story an old friend told me once about how he got cut and was bleeding everywhere and did not notice, but his sister saw the wound a little later and the dried blood. They were both amazed: how could he not notice? I used to feel like Franny did, every day. When do you stop noticing the bleeding?

Strudel was in better shape but seems to have forgotten how to eat. Seriously. I presented her with a slice of pizza tonight and she turned it on its end and tried to shove it into her mouth toppings-side up. I thought children were supposed to have the whole spacial/3-D understanding of how the world works by the time they are at least a year old, but it’s like she regressed. She also smacks loudly with her mouth open and wipes her fingers in her hair, leaving her napkin untouched. Who are you and what planet do you come from that you do not know what to do with pizza?

This all led up to World War 3 here, in which Franny decided to smack her sister and I caught her. I got the full watery-eye treatment, the sad, imploring, “You NEVER believe me!” Yes, because I SEE you hitting her. She was cranking up into a little pre-teen tanty when I told her that she needed to get in the shower. “I HATE THE SHOWER!” she wailed. “MY LIFE IS HORRIBLE.” Oh, cry me a RIVER. Your life is summer camp and time with me and her sister on the evenings and weekends, and horse camp FFS when she goes back to her dad’s house next month. The only thing horrible about her life is that I caught her in the act.

Tomorrow we are flying out of the country, which I am slightly nervous about because of a recent chain of events. We can let the viewer decide…well, whatever they want.

I have passports and birth certificate, of course. What I do not have is signed permission letter from her father. Of course there is a history and a backstory here, and, holy cow, it makes me realize that SeaFed has been married for like three whole years already. BOY was I histrionic in that episode. You can practically feel the heat coming off the screen. But you know what? I would call the cops all over again. That shit is not any less illegal today. So we have that under our belts.

We also have me saying “no” to him three times in the past week or so about stupid shit, like a tax law that he didn’t look up and yet demanded some unowed moneys from me anyway. I can sense from afar that he is in a temper, or at least less of a stupor, than usual.

So me trying two weeks out to get a signed travel permission letter? Not going to happen. Emails go ignored. Dates go conveniently forgotten. Half-assed attempts are made to schedule a notary meeting several miles and a ferry ride from my house in the middle of a workday. “Thanks for your efforts anyway,” I finally texted him sarcasmically.

But I am going, and I think we have a fine shot. We have all the documents and the same last name. The letter would have been icing on the cake. And we are going to have a fantastic weekend in a hotel that is more like an apartment with a pool and fine friends. I will throw pics up and travelogue all about it when I return. MONKEYCHOW OUT.