Category Archives: Ah, Regrets

In Which I, Asshole Learn the Importance of Having an Adult Drawer

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I had this roommate, oh JESUS CHRISTO I had this roommate. Me being in the same room with her was a bad idea, but I didn’t realize that at the time. Firstwith, she was trying to steal my boyfriend at the time. That sounds very Betty and Veronica, doesn’t it? It was worse than that because I was clueless, so I couldn’t even have the cartoon wavy-bacon steam lines coming off my head. I should probably tell you that story some other time.

One story about my roommate.

I. I was having a really bad, bad miserable time in my hometown. I was smoking a lot of cigars and dating this guy who worshipped the Beastie Boys and had a fresh-ass afro and a motorcycle. Unfortch, I was also living with my boyfriend. That puts such a pall on your dating life. So my BF was all, “Girl, I am tired of your cigars and you coming home randomly handcuffed,” which happened after my friends dropped me off from the Verve Pipe/Majesty Crush show (I don’t remember anything about the Verve Pipe, but Majesty Crush totally saved my life and I will give you seven dubloons if you have one of their records).

So I called my friend and told her my boyfriend wanted me out, and she said she was looking for a roommate. This sounded good to me. I was working as a landscaper/apartment building maintenance person, and as an evictress on the side, and the crew I worked with decided it was only right and proper to give me a going-away party. We went to the bowling alley and had some pitchers, and when I came home my date dropped me off and I got off the wrong side of his motorcycle, which resulted in me burning my calf. I still have a plum-sized white scar to pay for my folly, which made me limp so bad during my first week in Seattle I had to cancel on a PJ Harvey concert. I will show it to you sometime.

Later my date and I did something (with our pants on, even) that made him write me letters for months after, which I unfeelingly ignored.

Anyway, I moved out with my roommate, who I am too lazy to assign a pseudonym to, and we hunkered down in her little studio together. Of course, this was during the reign of Mr. Buzzy(s), and I was careless enough to leave it under my pillow, tucked inside the case. What did I care? I was seventeen, in the big city, and unemployed at the beginning of my run there. Let us say I had loads of spare time.

I also had Taibas Jones, who was shipped out as part of my swag, which included four boxes (mostly records) and a cat. I tell you, this cat learned how to climb the rungs of my roommate’s bunkbed. Judged to be more nimble and fifty pounds lighter, I was stationed on the top. There Nietzsche would go, hooking her paws around the rungs and climbing to get me. She had a game where she’d actually scootch up the ladder and come after me, when she was in her kittenhood.

WELL, one day Nietzsche was up and down the ladder, freakishly, fucking with me and having a fabulous time. I kept jumping back and my roommate was ensconced in her bed and mockingly cursing me for making so much noise and fucking around. It was kind of like a slumber party gone wrong.

Then, for the last time, I leaned back into my pillow as the cat attacked and BZZZZZZZZ! I leaned right into my vibrator under my pillow, somehow twisting the dial and turning it on. Fucking fantastic. It took me a minute to realize what I had even done before I could (subtly) scramble to turn it off again.

My roommate was in hysterics. She knew what I had done and what had happened, and she was literally rolling around on her bed below. I, for my part, lay very still and wished I could disappear. I laid there until my roommate was able to stop laughing, and then got up and went on with my day.

Part of me was totally embarrassed, and part of me didn’t care. I was three years younger than her, and she sort of treated me like goony entertainment anyway, so I knew it wouldn’t matter. A month later we moved to a bigger place that had separate bedrooms. Weird stuff goes down when you’re in close quarters, doesn’t it?

In Other News

Guess the fuck WHAT? I got a job offer today. So it’s really loose at this point, but sincere, and it looks like I’ll be working this fall. And it’s all kid-friendly and flexible and crap. I win! Just like the terrorists.

AAAND Strudel is giving up naps. Rather than sleeping, she chose to strip her bed and herself. WOW! Does anyone know how to tie a hangman’s noose?

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Seriously, I feel like crying, but I’m TOO TIRED. HAA HAA HAA HAA! (Prays for drugs.)

This morning I put her barrette back in her hair eleventhy times before eight o’clock. So guess what? SNIP, BITCHES! And LO, there was bangeths.

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Also, I think you should know that I dropped so much ice cream into my keyboard last night that it is hard to depress the question key. Poor Tyrone!

Naked Librarians Wed; NO Film at 11

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So we got married.

We started big. We booked the Library Bistro downtown a year ago, all fancy and ooh-la. We were going to do it all cocktail/drinks/tinkly piano-stylee. But then the event planner changed. And then in was a month before the wedding and we still hadn’t heard from the new one, so we cancelled. Do not try to plan a wedding at the Library Bistro. There’s more to this story, but I’ll leave you with that.

And then we thought we’ll do it at home! We’ll do it small! But that sort of fell apart, too. It ended up being just us; even the children were gone or sleeping. I didn’t want to bust out my wedding dress for that, because we had punted on picking up Companion’s tuxedo, so I opted for being starkers. It worked out well. I let Companion examine my teeth as well, so he could be sure of what he was getting. Later we put clothes back on and took some of our family out to Moroccan.

For you, I leave out the crying parts and the stress parts and the parts where we spend a bunch of money on things that don’t work out! The cake was DEELICIOUS.

I feel like the whole part of our struggle with the wedding planning and our friends and family was summed up in one sentence by Companion’s brother: “You have dead people on your cake. THAT’S WEIRD.”

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Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. MMM.

And so, we were pleased that we did it by ourselves and that we went through with it at all. Franny says she’s glad we’re married, though she’s dismayed that she couldn’t be a flowergirl, and Strudel says the same thing she always says nowadays: “NO WAI.”

Aside:
“Want some toast?”

“NO WAI.”

“Want a kiss?”

“NO WAI.”

“Put down the knife, please.”

“NO. WAI.”

“Yes pees,” is the answer you get if you offer strawberry kefir or soy mocha foam.

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Hey There Lonely Girl

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Since it’s anniversary week (even though I have postponed anniversary week due to scanner troubles), I feel compelled to bring up another anniversary. One that I didn’t think would still be on my jock now. Today’s the day that I lost Strudel’s twin two years ago.

Miscarriages are tricky things. I had been feeling like ass for days leading up to the thirteenth. I was feverish and felt bloated, more so than normal early-pregnancy bloat even. When I lost her twin, I felt better instantly. Eventually I slept, and other than insane amounts of bleeding, I was so much better. Companion said I looked noticeably smaller the next day.

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Frida Kahlo, Henry Ford Hospital (1932)

I was very sad about the baby’s death and simultaneously felt guilt about the relief of feeling better physically. You start to move on and accept it as a loss and as a could-have-been. You think about maybe trying to have another baby in the future. I started exercising again and trying to take care of myself, and even to look forward to the relative ease of just having one child.

Then I found out that Strudel was still tenaciously hanging onto the sides. I always imagine her, arms and legs spread wide, fingers dug in, like a cartoon cat who doesn’t want to take a bath. I imagine her going NOOOO like she always does now, even to things she wants.

An Aside:

Me: Here, want some peach slices?
Strudel: NOOOOOOO *glomp*

So I found out I was still pregnant, and actually my first thought was that I was pregnant again. Actually, my first thought was OH SHIT. I cannot DEAL with this right now. And I felt guilty about that because this was a new baby and it didn’t have anything to do with the other one. I was not excited about this new baby, which was actually the old baby.

After the ultrasound, and after we figured out exactly what had happened, I felt better. I cautiously allowed myself to become excited again. But it didn’t stop being tricky. Sometimes I am relieved that I have only one insane child to deal with, and then I feel bad about that. Sometimes I feel very sad that Strudel will only be a single, when she had a chance to have a partner-in-crime. Would it have been another girl, or would there have been a boy Strudel and a girl Strudel? I’ll never know.

And I get furious when people say things like, “It was obviously defective, so it’s good you didn’t bring it to term,” and “You’re pretty lucky, you could be chasing after twins right now” and “At least you got one out of it.” I think the best thing to say is, “I’m sorry this happened to you,” and go from there.

Will Strudel ever feel like someone is missing? Will she feel lonely? The questions and the guilt and relief continue to plague me. It’s tricky.

The Cat Came Back, It Wouldn’t Stay Away

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Okay, I have lost it again and am opening a can. But this is good, so don’t worry. I didn’t even cry when I wrote this.

The Franny came back today, bursting with news. The unholy wedding of Seattle Federline and That Poor Woman came to pass. Franny said the best part involved some other children (new cousins?) and some bunkbeds, and “Oh, yeah, the wedding, too.” Sometimes her polite diplomacy really reaches toxic levels. She was the head flowergirl, one of five (!!!). I asked if her baby sister was the ring pillow and she said she wasn’t, but the baby was made to wear a tutu.

“How was that?” I said.

“It was dumb, she should have been wearing her normal clothes.”

And she totally remembered to ask about the tattoo! She told Supa and me at lunch today. This was the trigger that made my can open, so to speak.

“What did he say?” I said.

“He said No.”

“No?” I said. “Like, no, under his new tattoo is not my name?”

“Yeah, Mom, he said no.”

Supa’s eyes goggled out of her head.

“Your dad lied,” I said, surprised in spite of myself. She looked at me and kind of blinked.

“I saw it,” said Supa. “I saw it after he had it done.”

“That Poor Woman has seen it, too,” I said. “He had it for the first few months they dated. People know it existed.”

Franny looked from me to Supa and then shrugged. What can you say?

I don’t mean to go after my kid. I don’t know what to say to her at times like this. I told her about the tattoo offhandedly one night, and I told myself that she probably wouldn’t remember, but she did, and she asked him, and he lied about it in front of his new wife, who knows about the tattoo.

So I have decided to stop saying things like this all together. It doesn’t change anything, and it just puts her in the position where her dad lies to her. This has been happening since the divorce, where she comes back and tells me something that he’s told her that’s really untrue. His new wife has said a couple things to me, too, that he told her that have no basis in reality. My reality, anyway. I’m prepared for the possibility the sky is actually orange, I guess.

When they first got together, when he was still telling me he wanted to get back together and have another baby with me, he told me his plan for dating TPW was not to tell her his secrets, meaning about his past. I have often wondered how much she knows, but at the same time I don’t think she cares. So I am laying down the aggro and walking away from it. Franny’s dad will find other things to lie to her about without my involvement, because he’s the type of guy who lies needlessly to people.

I know we all do this with history. Our memories are bad, and get worse with age and children. We want to portray ourselves in the best light. The real story comes from whoever wins the wars, or the one with the loudest voice, right?

I remember early on, when he and I were still speaking. Before he sexually assaulted me. I didn’t tell you about that before. That was the second event in my life that almost killed me. Franny remembers waking up to me crying in my new apartment but she doesn’t know what happened. I wrote a cartoon about it and court in general here.

Now I feel like my silence is totally unbroken: Hey, my husband sexually assaulted me after we were separated. How about degrading someone you can no longer control? It’s the new fucking purse dog, yo. Now you know part of the reason I hate him so much. He went to court and said it was consensual. Of course, what else was he going to say?

Before I filed for divorce he used to call me at my office and tell me how we could knock boots and that my companion and TPW didn’t have to know. We could have another baby, it will be great. I WOULD KNOW. IT WOULD NOT BE GREAT. I’d rather stick my arm in a fucking thresher.

Anyway, I was going to tell you something that happened when he and I were still speaking. The subject of my mom came up, and he turned to me and said, “Your mom says she never disowned you.” My mom disowned me when I was seventeen. She said, “Come into my bedroom, I want to talk to you.” I sat down and she said that she didn’t care what I did anymore. “I disown you,” she said. That was the first thing that almost killed me. I moved out shortly after that. And hey, guess what? I got back on the honor roll before I graduated. Go, Asshole.

It is like scrubbing your insides with sandpaper to hear that people never did things that almost killed you. I know what being torn in two is like. That tore me in two. I thought I was going to die of a broken heart right there.

My mom called me up in February and told me I need therapy, because of some of the stuff I write about people (meaning her; I deleted the post I wrote about our falling out over Christmas).

I need therapy. She should know, she watched me go from loved and secure and well-adjusted to fucked up when she took me back from my grandma’s to live with my new stepfather at six years old. THIS IS MY THERAPY. Damn, what am I supposed to do? I keep running is circles on these things in my head, and in my art, but I am feeling better. Things are getting better. I don’t have anxiety attacks anymore. I haven’t cut myself for eleven years.

I was afraid to write completely openly about these huge specters in my life, my ex-husband and my mother, but I am not afraid anymore. Both things are out of my immediate space now, and I feel better. For a long time I hoped I could get away from things like this, but you never can, really, because they will still be in your own head. So I guess it’s okay that I hear about things from afar.

How do you rebuild your life when you are torn in two? I don’t know. Watch this space, I am still working on it.

I can still see the ghost of the tattoo of his name that’s on my shoulder, under my newer one. I am going to show Franny when she gets home, and that will close the matter on my end. I am trying to tell her you can try to rewrite history, but sometimes the ghosts are still there.

Denominator, Go Decatur, Go Decatur

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“And in my best behavior
I am really just like him
Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid”

–Sufjan Stevens, “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.”

I have a SECRET to tell you. My eleventh high school reunion is coming up, because those jackasses couldn’t get it together to put on a tenth. I thought about going, but then I realized three things: 1) I really just want to visit Illinois, not the people there; 2) I am on the MIA list, and I think I want to stay that way; 3) I hated everyone in high school. How could I forget the most important ingredient? As Seattle Federline or someone just like him would say, “Baby, that’d be like leaving out the baking soda when you’re cookin up booya.” I’m just saying. Hated.

I don’t want them all to see that I have become a successful podiatrist with a Beemer. Plus I used to be a man. Did I mention that? Sometimes I miss my ten-inch whack-a-mole but I don’t want the people I endured every other day and never after lunch for four years to know that I miss my Tiger. And the Tiger’s friends, Siegfried and Roy.

Breasts. Honestly, what a consolation prize.

Anyway, this has been leading me to think about Illinois. I have the urge to see a real fall again, not just some soggy jank-ass mess that you get here. It feels like a real season there. And then when I am done, I can flee away to my own personal leper colony, the PNW. As much as I hate this place, I don’t think I can leave it.

So I have been listening to the Illinois album by Sufjan Stevens, which means I’ve been playing the John Wayne Gacy song, which is possibly the most beautiful song ever written about a serial killer. Franny was closely inspecting the lyrics since I have been listening to it on repeat.

“What is this ABOUT, Mom?” she said, in between bites of macaroni and cheese.

“Well, honey, it’s about a guy named John Gacy who used to kill people. He couldn’t stop himself. It’s a real story.”

“Whoa,” she said.

“Yes,” I continued. “There are people who kill people and they can’t stop. But the government caught him and they killed him.”

“How many?”

“Thirty-three,” I said.

“Well, that’s just RUDE,” Franny concluded.

In Which I CAN’T. CONTROL. MYSELF. Again.

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“A few years ago an ex-girl of mine
Asked me to keep her name out of my rhymes
So I said this rhyme that I’m about to say
It came from the heart and it went this way:
Go to hell girl, you make me sick!
I hope your new boyfriend gets cancer in his dick
What the fuck makes you think I’d put your name on my record?
Yeah, now I feel a lot better”

–Atmosphere, “Guns and Cigarettes”

I am taking this train wreck back to the OOOOOL SKOOO today, in the spirit in which it was conceived. Two things are important to know: 1) Seattle Federline, Esq,. is engaging in unholy matrimony with his second babymama on Saturday, when he will officially become Someone Else’s Problem. Let us have a moment of silence.

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Originally snapped by Squid Rosenberg. Manipplated by Indentured Servants at the Offices of I, Asshole.

Thing two you should know is: refer to title. No, it’s up there. Stop looking at my tits!

Anyway, at breakfast this morning we were all eating eggs and talking about tattoos.

“My dad has a tattoo,” Franny offered. “It’s red and blue.”

“I know,” I said, “but do you know what’s under that tattoo?”

“No. Under? Are you forrealla, Mom?”

“Hells yes, I’m forrealla.”

“What’s under it?”

“My name,” I said.

Franny actually gasped. Apparently she has no recollection of being three. I should have stopped there, but I didn’t.

“You should ask him about that when you see him tomorrow. Before the wedding.”

Perhaps you feel this should be one of those emo posts, where I reflect and lament about life’s changes. No, man. I raise a glass to the woman who MUST keep shit together over there, since I couldn’t work, clean the house, cook, and raise the babies. If her ovaries are that much bigger than mine, then I raise a glass to her. Which I will drink in my quiet house where no such unreasonable demands are made on me.

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A Turquoise Fork!

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Damn, doods. I just saw one of my oldest friends, Rob. I met him in my hometown in Illinois my junior year of high school, and he was one of the only interesting people around. We both came to Seattle within a week of each other in ’95 and now he’s leaving for California, which I think is a great idea for him and his fiancee.

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Pictures of Bonni and Rob on one of their epic trips, taken by each other, of course.

He really surprised me today. He has a tattoo now on his ring finger, after years of swearing he’d never get one. But it is for romantic reasons, and I think that’s pretty cool. I have only met his fiancee a couple of times, but those two really seem awesome together. They have a myspace together, which kills me with punk-rock adorableness. Their song on their myspace is the theme from The Dark Crystal. I can’t stand it.

He says they’re getting married around Easter-time which is another thing I never thought Rob would do. I can’t wait to see that. So he’ll be in Oakland soon, and I’ll be in San Jose for Blogher, but I doubt we’ll be able to hook up. He agreed to design my next tattoo for me, which is fabulous, because he’s an amazing artist.

I think I did sort of a half-assed job of apologizing to him for losing touch with him when I lived in Phoenix for three years. Rob and I were really close when I left, but living on top of thousands of dollars of cash and drugs when I was first married really screwed me up. SeaFed told me about his line of work shortly before we got married, and I thought I could handle it, but I really shouldn’t have moved into a drug house when I was eighteen.

So I told Rob today that I was pretty much agoraphobic for the first year I lived there. After we moved away and I got out of that house I was very happy, but I also locked up. I only left the house to go to school, and I didn’t really talk to anyone when I was there. I froze up if anyone knocked on the door or if the telephone rang. I could not answer the phone at all and would turn the ringer off for days at a time. For a while I didn’t want to have a phone at all.

I’m sorry I lost that time I could have kept in touch with him. And then when I moved back to Seattle I had Franny, and he was building up his band, so we had opposing lifestyles. But I think we’ve done as well as we can. We check in every couple of months. He’s one of the few ties I have to my past.

In Other News: Writing Because I Can’t Stop Writing

Also, it’s worth noting, or something, that my blog has been back now for one year as of the fifteenth, and I missed it. Ah, well. I’ve never been the sentimental type anyway. I think I will have to do a special five-year anniversary week in September, though. Even if this blog has had some service interruptions throughout its sordid history, it has lived in my mind, at least, for all five years.

I Hail From Nerdport

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Despite appearances, I am usually EXTREMELY behind on things that are cool. In fact, one of my very favorite things to do every six months or so is to go out to the biggie-sized electronics store and rootle through the bargain software bin. I am never happier as when I find something marked down to like, $3.95. Nevermind the fact that the game is so old my computer won’t even talk to it, and I have to find some OTHER no-doubt-spyware-installing software to download that will make my computer (Tyrone) be able to understand toddler language, so to speak. I can just hear Tyrone, “I have a brain the size of a PLANET, and you want me to run Bard’s Tale II.”

So on Sunday, when we were supposed to be looking for MP3 players, I found Elder Scrolls III for TWENNY DOLLA! Featuring AMAZING 2002 TECHNOLOGY. That shiot will blow your doors off, dude. Actually, it’s marvelous, because Tyrone was built in ’02, and I have beefed him up since then, so he says he likes this.

Speaking of the amazing year 2002, I have gotten into the Harry Potter series eight years later. NOW I KNOW what you were all talking about. Sorry about the confusion before.

Seriously, it’s Okay. I can see why I read the first one in ’98, after getting it for xmas, and then losing interest by the time the second one rolled around. What got me into the series this summer is A) Extreme boredom coupled with the inability to go anywhere interesting due to the fact that I have a toddler who’s squirmier than a bag of het-up snakes, and B) Companion brought home Hairy Pooper 6: I Have Killed Off the Best Character (Evil Laughter). Aaand then I could go back and read them all in a big gluttonous two-week orgy.

So it’s actually not always so bad to get things late. Witness: $20 computer games, and two-week reading orgies. THE END!

Next Time on I, Out-Of-It-hole: Have you guys heard about ROLLERBLADING? It’s like skates, but just one row of wheels!

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“I think you ought to know I’m feeling very depressed.”

SO HIGH You Can’t Get Around

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Oh, man, I feel like I’m going to cry right now. I just got an email from Seattle Federline. He’s trying to hold me up for some money for Franny’s school next year, and he was blathering about a kindergarten open house at her new school for next year. I was like “Dumbass SAY WHAT?” because I know the first grade program doesn’t cost any money…and KINDERGARTEN open house?

I just called the school and told them situation and asked them about getting information sent out for first grader-parents, and they said they were not sending information out about first graders yet. And then I felt that familiar prickle up my scalp…that “what stupid, stupid thing has he done now?” prickle. I started getting it about six months after we were married and I get it a lot less now, thank god.

“Can you check and see what grade my daughter’s registered for?” I said.

“Yes…okay, it looks like she’s registered for kindergarten,” the secretary replied.

Fortunately for me, I was able to talk with the principal, who shared my concern. I explained to her that Franny had been at an AMI-accredited program for three years, and was reading and doing math now. The principal said that in a situation like that, if a child’s been in kindergarten for at least six months, she should go on to first grade, even if she is a little young. They make exceptions for the her school kids, because the school’s structured differently. Franny has been doing a full nine-to-three school day since she was three-and-a-half.

I searched my email to make sure I haven’t gone totally crazy. Seattle Federline and I had this conversation in January:

Me: I am concerned about sending her to PS kindergarten after three years at her school. For the last year and a half at least she’s been doing the equivalent of kindergarten. She’s going to be six next fall–what do you think about trying to get her admitted to first grade? She’d be going on to the equivalent at her school. She complains to me about
school now–I’m concerned she’d get bored.

SeaFed: As far as public goes, I’m all for testing her into first grade, or even AP as well.

So for some reason, he plunged ahead, signing her up for kindergarten anyway. He knows Franny is doing basic reading and math and will turn six shortly after school starts…I just…don’t…understand. I hope there’s room left in the first grade program for her now.

I’m just so sad. We found a good PS program for her, applied, and she got in, and he fucked up…again. I couldn’t stop him from signing her up, because he volunteered and ran with it, and I thought we were on the same page with the first-grade thing.

And now I’m angry with myself, for trusting him with something so important. This isn’t a little thing, like the ill-fitting clothes or the non-functional dress or platform shoes he sends her to my house in–this is a whole school year of her being bored out of her gourd. I got switched off on school in the first grade–I don’t want that for her, too.

I am making a vow to check and double-check everything he does for her. It’s only May…I hope I can fix this. My divorce lawyer was not the most helpful guy, but I loved what he said to me once, about leaving aspects of the divorce process up to SeaFed: “Any job worth doing is worth doing yourself.” I need to get that tattooed on my punchin’ arm.

Holy Fucking Shiot, Cockholes

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For some reason, this Brian Smith person has listed me as the cursing librarian. Huh. I like this Blogga Llama song. Fuck yeah!

Seriously, I used to read The Laughing Librarian when I supposed to be working on papers for my knowledge org class. So, Brian Smith, thanks for making me put off until three o’clock in the morning to write a paper I should have had done a week ago.

In Other News

Milkfat, where where where have you been all my life?