LO! Gather around, Libertines, and behold the tale of Christmas Steve! You have to be particularly naughty or Christmas Steve won’t come! So hit the bricks now, or else you won’t get your flipflapperies codswalloped (and I know you would be sad if you missed out).
So a new tradition is born: the Tale of Christmas Steve. He’s just a fledgling legend now–I imagine this will be expanded next year.
Oh, finally, finally, we got our crapping fuckity xmas ficus erected. By “erected,” of course, I mean “brought downstairs and put in the front window for the neighbors to gawp at.” Take that heathens! BABY JESUS SMASH! Ha ha, just kidding. It is unseemly to visualize the Baby Jesus in tatty purple pants.
After much struggle and debate, Franny and I decided that our xmas ficus needed to be more bananas, so we hired everyone’s favorite L.A.M.B.-flogger, Gwen Steponme.
I hung all four of the remaining gingerbread ornaments I made the other night. That was all that was left after Hurricane Strudel came through. Her favorite new game in to play “Counter Fishing.” The rules are simple: blindly grope around for objects on the kitchen countertop. When you feel something, fling it to the floor as violently as possibly. Bonus points if you can make mommy cry when you break her mug, which was ugly but had sentimental value. SCORE!
So the gingerbreads were flinged.
When Franny comes back from her dad’s, we are going to make little paper chains, too, and that’s probably it. We started this holiday decorating sham a couple of years ago, and now it’s tradition. Franny expects the ficus now. She brags to people at the grocery store about it. Learn from my mistakes, people.
Sweetney threw down the xmas tree gauntlet a few days ago, and I make my retort. Who’s your xmas daddy now, Sweetness? You, with your…actual Christmas tree and…real, non-crapped up ornaments…. Well, it looks like you are MY xmas daddy.
Ah well. I’ll be back next year. If I take good care of him, Mr. Ficus will be at least four inches taller and might even be able to hold a few balls. And then I’ll really bring it.
Oh, and: I am starting to like Rosie O’Donnell again. That’s crazy–I never thought that would happen in five million years. Here she is on Teh View today (?) talking about the no-panties bimbo summit. Sorry it’s stinky AOL video and their stinky ads. Oh, and shut up, Hasselbeck. I want to feed you processed pimento cheese spread until it comes out of your straight-woman (read: humorless), ultra-conservative ears. You kill joy and beauty.
1. Can I tell you something? I have been hesitant to bring this up, but tomorrow IS Thanksgiving. And everyone knows what Thanksgiving is about, RIGHT? No, not gonorrhea awareness. That’s next month. NO, not the wanton subjugation of indigenous peoples. God, what is wrong with you today?
Thanksgiving is about FAMILY, jerks. And I need to tell you a story about family. I have not seen my father since I was three. Long story, and the short version is that there’s no hard feelings about that part of my past.
*Alright, if you’re tired of SeaFed drama, just skip to Other News. You have been warned.
Franny slipped and fell down a couple of stairs while she was walking down to the basement on Sunday. She hit her back and has a bruisy line on part of her spine now. This would be pretty normal, except for the fact that when she started crying a disturbing story tumbled out of her.
She told me that recently when she asked her dad if she could spend Thanksgiving over at my house this year, her got really angry and sent her to her room for even asking. After she came out she was made to apologize to both him and her stepmother for asking.
I have barred Companion from the house until he gets his Chachi-mop mown down.
“What?” he said, incredulously.
“I said, ‘Don’t come home until you get a haircut.’ I am not bedding down with Scott Baio tonight.”
“Ugh,” he ughed, but then he complied. I promised I would keep the lentil stew I’m making warm. That’s better than it sounds, I swear. It’s not just a pile of hippie barf. There’s carrots and bacon, and some other crap.
Man, if I had a diner I’d be bringing them in in droves. Tonight’s special: Some Crapped Up Stuff I Found. Served with Sauce avec “lumps de foreboding.” Poor Companion. The only reason he comes home every night is because he has nowhere else to go. And the bench warrant. Heh.
Supa and I had just gotten back from kickboxing, and Companion was clomping around the house, gathering up his things for work.
“Oooh,” I said, “will you take back this DVD on your way?” I waggled the yellow box at him.
“I thought you would do it,” he said.
“Aren’t you going right by there on your way to work?” I said.
“Wellll, yes, but I’ll have to cross the street, and I thought you would have time to do it today, and….”
“Cross the street! I guess that’s pretty hard to do,” I said. He sighed and took the DVD out of my hand.
“I feel like I’m being taken advantage of,” he replied, as he set off downstairs to get his bike.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you later,” I called after him. “I’ll be here taking care of your kid and making you dinner and then having sex with you later! So thanks for going all the way out of your way!”
I heard a groan from the basement.
“Hee hee,” I said.
“Burn!” said Supa, from the couch.
I am having serious amounts of trouble keeping my shit together lately. July is apparently Rancho Asshole Bug Invasion Month and no one told me. There is currently a moth in every room of my house, and possibly on every wall. I pick up a towel: moth. I pick up some laundry: moth. I fart or cough: moth. Enough with the drab dusty wings that I have to wipe off my counters after you throw yourself through my fans! Go outside and pollinate something. Shit.
I am getting a little jumpy as a result of the moth mafia, which has evidentially decided to team up and make me pee a little every ten minutes.
At our nearest grocery store, which is independent, and (I hate this word, but it’s true) TOTALLY darling, Franny is friends with half the clerks there. The night manager doesn’t really even talk to me, but will poke Franny when she comes by. A new clerk I didn’t know bounced up to us and said “Hiiiiii!!!” to Franny. “Remember me?” She was really young and the first thing I noticed was that she was incredibly and perfectly brown, which she explained a moment later. “I tan in the park across the street from Franny’s school, so I see the kids at the park all the time when they’re out.” She introduced herself and gave us the name of her building, which is two doors down from Franny’s school.
She was a very friendly young woman and Franny seemed thrilled to see her, so I said quietly to Companion on the way home, “It boggles me a little that people still tan themselves.” Skin cancer runs in my Whitey McWhiterson family.
“Well, not everyone can be naturally beautiful, honey.” I thought he was teasing me, and I gave him a pinch. “No, I’m serious,” he said. “You don’t need to tan, you got booty on tap, baby.”
Only in my wildest dreams did I hope to find someone who would say things like this to me. I spend most of my time being equally delighted and horrified by him, which I’ve discovered I enjoy. What will happen next? I never know, but 99% of the time it’s a good surprise.
This weekend was a bit of a blur. But on Saturday, two fabulous things happened: we got a letter and a contract for next year from Franny’s current school. The directors of the school, after meeting with me and SeaFed separately, made us a special offer for next year. After the public school kindergarten debacle, I kicked and screamed until I got the right person’s attention, which was Franny’s current teacher. I asked if she would testify to Franny’s abilities to the public school enrollment office, and she agreed that she was ready for the first grade and said she would back me up. Her teacher was concerned about her being bored and said she would help. She told one of her directors what was happening, and the director asked me if we could work something out to keep Franny at her current school.
SeaFed’s said he would want to continue on at private school–if it was free. That sounds awesome, doesn’t it? A world where private schools are totally free. In this world I imagine I can put a spigot in my wall that will alternately issue Phad Thai or crack cocaine, depending on what mood I’m in.
When I met with the director, we discussed his condition, and I told her I’d be willing to do whatever it took to make it as easy as possible for him. So the school is holding us up for a full half of the tuition and…whatever else they want from me. I got writing skillz, I got techie skillz (really good ones, if I get my fella as backup), I can teach cooking, I can teach fine arts, whatever. They partly agreed to this because I did so much writing for the auction last year, and they were impressed with the work (Eye. Roll.) and the simple fact I was volunteering (involvement is low). Looks like I’m going to be a SLAAAAVE to them. And SeaFed pays…nothing, and his contribution is TBA. (This is the part where I will refrain from mentioning his tightness regarding Franny’s education and his upcoming honeymoon to France, because his dad’s probably paying for the honeymoon anyway, and has never offered to pay Franny’s tuition, unless it’s Catholic school.)
Ahem. Anyway.
AND YOU KNOW WHAT? I am thrilled. Franny is staying in this neighborhood, at the school she’s been going to for the past three years, with all her friends. I am starting to hook into the community of moms here, now that I’m leaving my divorce in the dust, and I am even cool with being part of the school so much. I’ll see Franny during the day, and Strudel can get used to the environment for when I dump her there next year.
WIN, WIN, WIN, everyone’s winning. How often does that happen, people?
Thing number two on Saturday is that Companion’s paycheck finally came, after an excruciating six weeks. So there was an incident with some midori sours which resulted in me being pretty useless on Sunday morning.
And then we were anticipating houseguests for Sunday night. I did some cooking, and Companion decided to clean the house from top to bottom, because of aforementioned uselessness. He did it cheerfully. I love that guy. I did end up cooking for us all day, and that went pretty well.
FOOD PRON
On Friday night, I made that Brazilian dish that’s basically poached eggs in a tomato sauce with bacon. I put feta on it too, but I doubt that’s traditional. It turned out well, but I kind of wished I had crusty bread to go with it. Yum! I accidentally put twice as much garlic, and now I think I’ll always do that.
During:
Then, last night, I pan fried our first crookneck squashes, right before serving chicken and potatoes. They were so salty and crispy they were just like little fries. Hooray for gardens!
Oh yeah, and I finally got Blogher tickets. Will I be seeing any of you there?
