Category Archives: Rantin

OOH Bitch That Ain’t Fair Give That Horsie Back His Hair

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Hey. Heeeeey. Sexy man on my vending machine. Baby, I like the way you eat that potato chip. I can see all the way back there. Kind of wish I had a dick to cram in there, but I could probably find something else in a pinch. Man, do you still have your tonsils? That’s pretty hot. I have mine in a jar at MAH CRIB. Yes, for reals. Do I look like the type of person who would just say I have my tonsils in a jar at MAH CRIB if that was untrue? That hurts, baby.

Yes, I know snacking is an important personal decision, or at least that’s that the sign next to your sexy head says. I still don’t want to pay two bone for a bag of peanuts with a weird sweet coating. You know, when I squint my eyes, you look kind of like my geometry teacher. Sort of like that, or one of my aunts. I really like your ethnic ambiguity. Feeling included is making me want to eat potato chips. Also not feeling like anyone else is excluded. That is making me want salty snacks as well. You sort of look like the dude version of a Bratz doll. What kind of accent would you have? HEY, you’re not a digital composite, are you? I think you might be.

That’s okay, I’m open-minded.

IN OTHER NEWS: Could I Please Have a Look at the Lyrics?

On Saturday I went to the Symphony. I had heard the Seattle Symphony was like totes casual, like we just need to keep it real and hear some damn music, there’s no time for peacocking. FALSE. Seattleites are lazy as hell with disgusting personal habits. I dressed up, but MY BADS it was Final Fantasy, so there were people there in costumes. Can people not contain their appalling personal problems for one night? No, they cannot. Bonus: I discovered that not only are they still manufacturing tuxedo-print shirts, a wall of unholy neckbeards wearing them can sashay toward you as you are innocently on your way to the bathroom. The composer was there with a giant fish and there was a huge screen behind the musicians. It was still pretty cool though, when you closed your eyes.

I am going to a wedding this weekend (not mine FTW) and Hazel is coming and sleeping at my house. I am her date. I didn’t see her for months and now twice in a summer. It’s amazing what a difference having a little extra money and not working constantly and odd hours makes. Also I am getting close to fleeing the country with my shiny new passport for a weekend with Franny. How happy I am to be traveling with her again so soon. She is back from her dad’s now after a two-week sojourn so I will probably be writing more now. I was sort of at loose ends without the routine she makes for me.

The conversation recap from breakfast was Franny recounting sacking up and asking her stepmother why she is not allowed to say “butt” when she’s there. Of course the butt-deprivation resulted in an acapella duet to butts and vulvas, and how awesome they are. It would be an overstatement to say I enjoy this. Let’s say I feel benignly toward this. Strudel is struggling with this as well. She wants to use the proper names for her body parts, and in her summer program these words are known as “bathroom words.” On one hand, I don’t like to hear the proper names for things referred to this way, on the other hand, Feral Dwarf, do you have to talk about your VULVA constantly? Do we need to hear that it likes the quesadillas? Does it need 27 sonnets and an epic? Why can’t my children rebel by aspiring to get an MBA?

So what we are working on now is APPROPRIATENESS. Yes, yes, my very existence is ironical now. I think Strudel is probably going to grow up to be one of those menstrual blood artists or something. I will come to her openings.

Things I cannot stop with today: 1. Shakira’s new single, She-Wolf, GOD HELP ME. LOOK at this PREVIEW. She is a Hooters girl up to her NECK and is in a cage. SO MUCH AWESOME. 2. The last Girl Talk album. 3. Seattle has awesome hiphop, even if people are slobs. 4. Also Tony’s Bitch Track.

Glib; I’m Not Even Going to Wait for This to Get Rejected

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Hey look at me putting myself out there.

SBLOTCHYF seeking whatever, really. Must meet or exceed the following minimum expectations.

Looking for jerks in that kind of deliberately-cool sense. Bonus if you have a pompadour or skater cut you can flip while being one. Cripples are encouraged (emotional okay, physical preferred) and interesting scarring patterns. Librarians are also encouraged to reply, but only if the only time I hear about said librarianship is when the words are coming out of my mouth as I am introducing you to my super-cool friends at a party. Then you will be subjected to me going “HOT, right? MROWR,” and winking. A combination of crippled jerk librarian is ideal, but not totally necessary.

No tramp stamps.

Pole or hole or both at once, and that’s me being neither politically correct OR perverted. I am serious AND I have a signed piece of paper from three (3) sexually-ambiguous people backing this up.

You must be excited by the idea of owning a gold Jetski without immediately needing to say something stupid like, “But you realize a gold Jetski would immediately sink to the bottom of Lake Washington, right?”

Other preferences include: minimal eye contact, a hatred of furries, appreciation of and frequent use of Rule 34, telling me I don’t look a day over 48, the ability to lick the back of your knee, a GED and a McMansion (these last two items (2) must be both or nothing).

MUST have the musical taste of a fifty-year-old gay man without actually being one, because I don’t think that will work out very well, do you? Must know what ODB stands for and the ability to dance unironically to DJ Assault.

Ownership of a Mini Cooper without a twee vanity plate (I see wut you did there, BlkNTan).

Must be able to lift 82 pounds.
Must be able to stealth vomit.
Must know how to braid.

Must not mind when I enter a fugue state and shout “NO FACE!” while we are fucking.

Accents and all your own teeth a plus. If you do not have all your own teeth, then let me see your grill. Nerds, accents (convincingly fake OK) from UK A+.

NO CANADIANS.

I totally know this is going to work. Have a nice day.

P.S. If you think you are a qualified candidate, clarifying questions will be tolerated via comments.

Cockahole the Remix

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Okay, remember when my cockahole neighbor was moving out, so I thought? Well, I was wrong. That’s right. But I couldn’t bear to tell you that he was just getting rid of his dinette set. I could not untell you. You were too happy for me. Well, now his moving truck is parked on my damn lawn for reals

and his ugly bachelor art and the nasty toadstools that he sat on while nomming delishus raw fish are spread out there as well. This is almost worth being home sick for. This could actually be a positive thing about the economy going into the shitter. Maybe he’s moving in with his parents in Bothell or something.

I can open my curtains on his side again!

Since I am less poor now, I bought new shoes. The other ones were pretty broken.

A hip youth told me they were “filthy” yesterday. I can only agree. Neon crown toes FTW. Basically when I shop I find the ugliest thing in the pile and choose that. YEY comfort while walking and unwet feet.

SOOOO Much Room For Pics of Vigoda

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Here I am, about to start making out with my recovery disk. Them’re BONA-FEE-DAY crazy eyes. YEEEHAWWW

SHE’S BACK!

I have to confess, though, there is a part of me that will miss AbacusTop, who was a good boy in my time of struggle. Now I can transfer my old HP files, including novel in progress, which I have been working on like whoa since AbacusTop wouldn’t let me look at Hulu. Hur.

I have a Blogher article due today, which I am almost finished with, and I hope I can squeak it in before midnight after my dinner party tonight. What with the technology and this headcold, life is wacky. Also, I did a tidy bedmaking this morning and discovered that I got peanut sauce all over my white quilt. I have become an indolent pig now that it’s just me and the cat and my laptop and my phone and a dirty child sock and nine books and three issues of the New Yorker in the bed. They don’t tell tales. I guess I do, though.

I am home alone this weekend. TOTALLY ALONE. Children are out of town! I am going to catch up with friends, write, work, and attend a film lecture. Woot I am as fun as watching paint dry.

xoxo Asshole Girl

ETA:

Not a Girl, Not Yet a Cougar

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Today I test well with the 18-24 demographic who enjoyed talking to me all day long about my pretty pink hair. Seriously, mall boys? I know you didn. I think I’m ovulating or something, except rather than planning to ruin the lives of these boys by leaving a trail of STDs, outstanding parking tickets, etc., I am instead focusing on inanimate objects or moods. Music is so beautiful today and everything smells so good. I am in love with the world rather than the people in it and this is disturbingly transcendent and non-carnal of me, so I assume it’s just a phase.

I kind of wish I could go on a rampage of Epic Rake proportions but I just don’t have it in me. I have that feeling like in dreams where I walk from room to room, immediately forgetting the previous room and being completely incurious about what’s going on with strangers I hardly know, who insist on dropping tantalizing tidbits before me. I used to feel like it was my duty as as a writer to actively rubberneck, to catch the essence of life, distill it, and bottle it into a few words that would actually make people give a shit about something and feel glad that they woke up this morning. Maybe it’s because I actually am writing more lately, so I am out of Humanity Research mode. If we are not already besties, I am probably not the best person to tell about your colon operation or your affair with your Esperanto professor. NO.

There is this little part of me that is concerned I am coming off as a giant feckless douchebag, and this other part of me that doesn’t care. How long is it reasonable to stay in survival mode? Is it ground gained and lost again? I usually do things more dramatically and decisively, like Wonder Woman gets her fucking powers back all the sudden and kicks out the wall. Now, I don’t know. I feel like I can do things by halves.

Thursday night I spent throwing up and my prime suspect is dodgy pub nachos, since everything else I ate that day was awesome and lovingly caressed by artisans holding degrees who are located within a ten-mile radius. It’s either the nachos or some stuff I ate off the ground after I left the pub. Tough call. While I was ill Franny’s stepmother came over and used the bathroom and no doubt took in the squalorous state of my sickhouse. Part of me feels judged by the smug contingent who have only been married once (Big ups, go Team Inertia) and the other part of me thinks, WELL WELL, just wait until you are a used up slattern with piles of debt and recycling that needs taking out. JUST WAIT.

Also, I want to tell you that the thing I forgot about retail is that you are absolutely trapped and are completely under the thrall of the public and their whims. I would like you to do a ten-point inspection of me and tell me why every time I work retail portly men in their fifties decide I am the fucking tits. Show your work. I keep getting older but these guys stay the same age. Cripes.

Today’s Horoscope: Today you will get caught sniffing your ring finger on the bus repeatedly, producing a look of shock and revulsion, but you will be unable to stop. You will find a pink hair in your food, which you will blame on me. DNA testing will clear my name, but what you don’t know is that the SPIT is mine.

Lucky numbers: FUCK RIGHT OFF.

P.S., Gave up and ordered a Vista recovery disk. I am a little afraid that Vista owns me now. OSes will move on, but Vista and I are tied, I fear. You never forget the one who made out with you at the movies, dented your car, talked you into London Bridging but then made you soup, and then got away. Despondent sonnets to follow; watch this space.

WOW So This is What Being a Fucking Moron Feels Like, Or, Hester Prynne Won’t You Let Me In

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All those years I spent in high school, wondering about what it felt like as I sat disaffectedly smoking cigarette after cigarette at Denny’s, peering out under a mess of black hair pomaded with shoe polish, and drinking coffee after nine p.m. (!), my my my. Now I know how it feels to be one of the many morons who walk among us, like the ones I stared at derisively so many years ago. Frankly, it’s shocking that I’m typing this at all and not just bashing my head against the keyboard and drooling.

So, you may recall that Hester Prynne’s hard drive cacked it around Thanksgiving. Well well well, some of my most special internet bitches pooled and sent my broke ass a new one for Xmas, completely unprovoked. I’d link them, but we probably have the kind of relationship where we make out in secret, and then when the rest of the football team is there they call me a ho and snap my bra strap.

Since then I’ve been wrasslin with old Hester Prynne. The following reenactment, which is not suitable for viewing by minors, has taken place over several days when I’ve been not at work and, um, sober (mostly). The HD installed smoovely and beautifully. It gapes with space that is aching to be filled with poor attempts at Barney Miller slash and photoshops of Hayden Pantymare. AHA, I said. I popped in the internet start up diskgummy in a jolly fashion. I was seconds away from mongoose porn!

BUT NO. I was SO SO SO far away. Hester Prynne did not come with a Vista disk. No, srs. She didn’t. I didn’t care or even notice at the time, really. Meh. Plug n’ play, etc etc GO. Oh, but what’s this? I had a copy of XP that seemed to be…from the Enlightenment? Feeling like Professor Peabody, I carefully fed the crumbling scroll into the data receptacle and watched Hester try to grok it. “Oh, verily my master can I play yew this cunninge versionne of an Oh Ess.”

Uh oh. Can you get on the Internet?

“Ho ho, ha ha, what is Internet? I hail from a time before service packs. Forsoothly it doth proclaim that this XP scroll dates back to Ye Olde Dell of Yore, that did barely play Sims 1.”

“GOD, that sucked. I could barely play Michael Bachelor’s house.”

SHIT. No updated drivers, no nothing. No way to get onto the internets. I went to suck some service packs off the web, which is a huge pain in ass involving things like READING FOR COMPREHENSION and patience while 300 GIANT MBs download onto the Abacustop. (Abacustop, feeling left out: “Aye think aye kin run ye Sim Ant.” Me: “FUCK YOU. You can’t run fucking Minesweeper.”)

Step 4,000: Mooch a flash drive that is bigger than half a page in Word, which is all I seem to own (what is UP with that?). Put SP files on flash drive and jam it into Hester’s port. WHAT’S THIS? You don’t even SEE the flash drive? I can’t even MANUALLY ASSIGN IT A LETTER? At this point a nerd comes to help me with some fucking DOS commands to make other drives BEE-HAVE, accidentally gives Unix commands (“Which are totally, like, pretty similar”), watch Unix commands fail, break for call sign and swearing, hear treatise on superiority of Unix, and FAIL.

Step 12 Kerjillion: Burn files to disk. This is where the stupid really kicks in. Go downstairs Where Such Things Are Kept, rootle, find a big disk, assault Abacustop’s drive with it.

What are the odds SJ brought up the wrong disk? HMM? Bonus points if you calculate them to the nearest decimal and turn water into wine and give it to ME.

AHH! Smartening up now. She brought up TWO disks of the correct type in case there is some kind of fail with the first one, because there will be. Copy SPs to disk. Jam disk into Hester, click quickly on…is this SP2? It must be, because the other is SP3.

Anddd NO. Thank you for playing. SJ copied the start up file for…Windows Movie Maker? Because that looks totally like SP2? Ah well. I can at least move SP3ANNNNND BIG RED STOP SIGN FILE CORRUPT.

I thought typing this would make me feel better, but it’s actually giving me a bigger headache. I left some stuff out, but it’s pretty much been two weeks of this. I sort of feel like if you asked me my age right now I would start stamping my hoof in reply.

In Other, Non-Fail News

My friend Shauna is going to be on the Early Show on Friday pimping her book! EEEEEEE!

Dudes

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I have two things to tell you. One, after months of jonesing, I am finally listening to my very own Blossom Dearie CD. It’s really the little things. She makes my brane melt a little.

TWO my boss called me a bad swear today. My boss is the IRL version of Steve Carrell. I am quite sinsur. Also my coworker told me today she’s packing a heater. I don’t want to know these things. No I do not.

Three. (Bonus Round) I also got a Diana Krall CD of standards that I somehow missed in the last couple of years. There is something about her now. Something disconcertingly Sinatralike. I love Sinatra, but I don’t know if I need another one in my life.

Four. Mr. Klassy is coming back! He is laying eggs! MR. KLASSY COME HOME. ALL IS FORGIVEN. I am going to drive to his farmhome on Saturday and get her. Apparently she was a bit of a pariah. Polishes are really mellow birds, so I am not too surprised in hindsight. I offered my friends my dudlike Buttercups, but shockingly they declined. The Buttercups are laying now and they make smallish white eggs. Anyone want some fucking buttercups?

FIVE I had to work up to Franny’s bedtime, so I said hi to her when I came home. She went all babymush on me and stuck her arms out and said MAMA. I said, “Come on kid,” and she climbed into my bed, where she is snoring right now. She was at her dad’s for a week after Xmas and that makes her all weird.

Six. Speaking of weird, the threads continue to unravel. Have you ever put on an outfit that you are pretty sure is a bad idea, but you really want to wear it so you do it anyway? Dig if you will the picture, of pants too large and a top slightly too small and socks that keep falling down. You are fidgeting at your pants to keep them up and OH the socks are itchy and what’s this? The bastardy shirt flips up over your muffintop. This is bad. Did your bra strap just break? What the fuck?

I am feeling a little bit like that about life lately. I get one goo ball up and five more fall down. All this preamble is to tell you that I lost it a little in a sad fashion in the store I work in. I have this history with dogs. We’ve never gotten along too well. I realized recently, now that I have been running, that the feeling of unease I get when a dog is coming is fear. Problem: there are approximately 4.9 dogs to every human in Seattle. People in Seattle deem it appropriate to bring dogs into GROCERY STORES here. So of course people bring dogs into the store where I work.

It was all over the place, too. I felt totally trapped. Non-swearing boss asked me if I was okay, because apparently I turned white and started shaking. I had to step outside. The best part was that the dog was one of those floor sweepers that weighed about five pounds. I am now afraid of things that weigh less than my own head. I am officially crackers.

There, I said it. I just became a Larry David character. I predict that Kleenex box hands are about a year out. Spazzychow out.

Are You Going To Take Advice From Someone Who Slapped Dee Barnes?

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Hey jerks. What is the haps? Nothing much to report here. I am trying to ease my way into the New Year. I had kind of a scary moment when I pissed off four people in the first two days of the year. Then I misplaced my keys on NYE, and today I realized I mislaid my work apron, which I was going to wash. The bummer of it is that I had a vintage brooch pinned to it from Phoenix when I was in college. I am losing and finding things like crazy, undoing and redoing them.

One thing I redid was my hair. I am realizing that it doesn’t seem to matter what I do. This is terrible after school special confessional tiem, but it seems like if I am doing my own thing, life seems to turn out for the best and I feel the happiest. I am not talking about being selfish or doing things at the expense of others. I just mean I am trying to follow and fit in where I belong, and it’s going okay so far.

Now I’m happier and feel more like myself. Improved mental state has to count for something, right? I am going to throw it into a bun the next time I get called to interview, take a deep breath, and be myself. Only with fewer swears. I can do that.

Happy New Year, Vague Chow Out.

ETA for Jendajen and other rubberneckers. Hee.

Tooodally at the Mall

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What is working at the mall like? I hear you wondering, you blessed three people who escaped this fate. It seems like young people who are not doing manual labor go one of two ways: restaurant or retail. I went retail, because although the work is dirty (in the sense of actual dirt) and the people are often jackasses, you don’t get food all over yourself. I did have a dalliance with coffee for a while, but it broked my carpals and made me smell like dairy barf. DAINTY.

1. My coworkers’ average age is 20. There are a couple of people who are near my age, but when I say things like NOOOO THEY TOOK MY BUCKET they just cock their heads and look at me funny. Don’t panic, I’m from the internet.

2. I am captive to whomever comes on off the street. I was alarmed the other night because someone came into the mall entrance and yelled, “LISTEN UP!” I was ready to hit the floor and crawl out the back, but then one of my coworkers said, “Oh, don’t worry, it’s a fraternity ritual.” He yelled his name or something and then walked out. We also had the meth heads who somehow got their mitts on a generic mall card that could be spent in any store. I guess nothing in our store looked resellable, because they left pretty quickly. This was a relief because though the girl was tiny (90 pounds, seriously) she smelled like she had shit her pants with a massive shit that you would imagine being produced by, say, John Goodman. Then there was the old letch who immediately upon coming in swooped up and put his arm around me. I backed away, but he kept touching me, until I almost bolted. I may look like a retail bimbo with my eyeliner and giant earrings, but don’t touch my bikini, doods.

3. There is a guy who works at the mall with a cool shiner. I am going to ask him if he will be my friend. I love shiners.

Hey It’s Saturday Post Some Fucking Carps

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I am supposed to be out gallivanting right now, and by “gallivanting” I mean “doing whatever I can find to do downtown that’s free.” Instead I am sitting at home with some bottles of Special Effects on my head that I found in the back of the cabinet. The cool dark brown sort of faded out to a dreary auburn color, so I am hoping that the red goo will make it look a little brighter, and yet still interviewable.

I’ve been hanging out at the library a lot lately, with the hobos, whom I kind of feel just a couple of degrees removed from right now. I don’t know how long things can carry on like this. When do you start making deep cuts? Do we really need the internet at home? I thought about selling the car, but who would buy it right now? Don’t go anywhere–don’t need the car. I tried to figure out my Xmas list this morning, and I am worried about that, too.

I cut my own hair this morning for the first time since July. It’s kind of fortunate that it’s so long, because it’s pretty easy to cut, one little section at a time. I had split ends like whoa from all the tiny combing and abuse with the lice thing. Also, I can finally say that the lice are gone. I don’t think I finished telling you about Listerine?

After giving up on the lice creams from the drugstore after two rounds and still having the crawlies, I went for the big amber bottle of Listerine. The first time I saturated my hair with it over the tub and put a shower cap on for a couple of hours. Afterwards I tipped my head over the tub and rinsed out the Listerine and watched bugs fall out. I don’t know if anything can be more happy and more depressing at the same time. I followed up with some conditioner and combing and lo, more bugs. Way more results than with the drugstore stuff. This was followed by a week of constantly rechecking and pulling nits, and they seem to be gone for now.

More awesomeness: I talked to SeaFed about Christmas scheduling last night. We also talked about the fact that Franny has been having stomachaches for the past two years and I am testing her by changing her diet to be gluten free, since it seems there’s a correlation between her eating pasta and bread and having a stomachache after. In the few days that she’s gone gluten-free she has had no stomachaches, which could be a coincidence, I know, but it’s hopeful since she used to have them daily. Then we are to put her back on gluten for five days and see if they return, and if so her doctor will order tests to see if she has Celiac’s.

SeaFed told me that she doesn’t get stomachaches at his house, unless it’s around the transition. I almost laughed, because she told me she gets them all the time, especially since her stepmom was making spaghetti a lot at one point. He also basically came out and told me that she was having them because Strudel’s dad and I broke up. Of course it’s my fault. Of course her stomachaches of two years were caused by the terrible conditions at my house and our recent break up. He conceded that sometimes he has a tendency to “gloss over” things (I immediately had a flashback to coming home to find Franny covered in her own shit and him on a different floor of the house, or me crying during fights and him falling asleep in the middle). He’s lucky he lives an unimpeachable life; how terrific that Franny never has stomachaches over there. It’s times like these that I have to remember he never really believed me about anything that was important with the kid, even, like, scientific facts. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I don’t spend more time talking to him.