PNW’ed 10
Monthly Archives: February 2006
March of the Strudel
And she’s so proud of herself.
In Which February Becomes Less of a Nemesis and More of a Little Bitch
Dudes, let me tell you that I now have a reason to hate February a little less. Last Friday, when it “snowed” and left that frozen coating all over the ground and left black ice in unfortunate places, I made sure that Franny was ready for school early, so we could have a leisurely walk though the half-inch of snowy ice.
We walked slowly, and stopped to let Franny crunch icy puddles and make snowballs. We took the streets to school that seemed to have the most snow on them, so we took a slightly different route through the residential neighborhood her school is in. Frannie and I decided to turn down a street we never take that had a sidewalk covered with pristine snow as far as we could see.
From Books to Boobies and Back Again
“Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop-offs at tedium and counter-productivity.”
-Erma Bombeck
When I was a kid I would read anything I could get my hands on. ANYTHING, cover-to-cover. Soup labels, cookbooks, the family medical encyclopedia (not just the dirty bits, but the section on bone cancer, too), the TV Guide, every new bottle of shampoo that came into the house. Last night, much to my shame and embarrassment, I revealed to my companion that I had read the manual to the garbage disposal when I was nine or ten, partly out of curiosity but partly to see if my stepfather was over-exaggerating about what could not but put down it (he was). My mother had boxes and boxes of old books collecting dust in the basement, which I would paw through when I had run through her current novels and self-help books. I read a lot of old fiction that was really popular in its heyday–Diary of a Mad Housewife, Fear of Flying, and The Bell Jar.
Holy Fucking Shiot, Cockholes
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?
It’s a Crime, It’s Criminal Really
After a crappy, crappy day of crying babies and banana amounts of nonsense, I could come home and click on the boss of my internets, Daniel, being redonkadonk.
And now I leave you with my new totally rad LJ avatar. This is the one I use when I write Domlijah and Mr. Roper/Mr. Furley slash. That’s hott!
Thanks Daniel! You made me laugh! You’re okay!
Bookworms and Sweet Teeth
This morning I sat down to write marketing-type copy for the fundraising auction at my daughter’s school. You write one procurement letter, then all of the sudden everyone thinks you’re John Fucking O’Hara or something. So now I have been tapped to write/edit the copy for the auction catalog. “Hey, jerks! It’s a wagon. Pay too much for this! Hey! It’s a quilt. Pay too much for this!” Ad nauseam. I am cleaning up a lot of typos and turning blunt sentence fragments into something you might actually want to bid on.
Needless to say, I am doing volunteer work for a project that my companion and I can’t afford admission to, let alone bid on any of the items on offer. A lot of it is typical stuff, like spa packages and ski trips, but then I ran across this badly mangled blurb:
Join S.C. for dinner and wine as we discuss the book Cahndy Freak [sic]: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America by award-winning Steve Almord [sic]. Reminisce about our own favorite candies from childhood. We will sample an array of the regional chocolates [sic] he discusses in the book. Valomilk, Twin Birg [sic], GooGoo Clusters. [sic, sic, SIC! Weep!]
Some of you may recognize this garbled passage as an offer to have dinner with Steve AlmoNd, not Steve AlmoRd, who wrote Candyfreak as well as My Life in Heavy Metal and The Evil B.B. Chow, two excellent short story collections that I devoured after reading Candyfreak. I like his down-and-dirty writing style–often, simple passages that seem like they should plod along breathe sensually.
Most of the time I am okay with being the scholarship perp at Franny’s school. I listen to the other moms talk about things I have no understanding of, like nanny problems and the travails of being retired at thirty-eight, and where on earth to “summer” this year. I like the program and the teaching philosophy, but they are expensive private schools so most of the families are wealthy–that’s baseball, man.
But then I see stuff like this and it makes me wish I had money. How fun would it be to drop money on a dinner with an author you really like? Is someone at my daughter’s school really that pally with Steve Almond? Ack. I hope the person who bids on this at least knows who he is. Again, WEEP!
My update, which is nothing special but is at least spelled correctly:
Perfect for bookworms with a sweet tooth! Join S.C. for dinner and wine as we discuss the book Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America by award-winning writer Steve Almond, a hilarious and touching reminiscence about favorite childhood candies. We will sample an array of the regional chocolates he discusses in the book, such as Valomilk, Twin Bing, and GooGoo Clusters.
Steve Almond’s website
My friend Ed has a different opinion on Steve Almond, and so does his friend Mark Sarvas.
Steve Almond commenting on his encounter with Mark Sarvas in Salon.
I would like to make it clear that Ed’s commentary came after the Salon piece. I had listed Steve Almond’s piece as a rebuttal earlier, which was making things unclear.
Directory for the Uncouth
This morning I witnessed an exceedingly unmannerly sight: a man was urinating on a tree in my neighborhood. Not just any tree, but a tree planted right next to the sidewalk on Wallingford’s busiest thoroughfare, 46th Street. Apparently, he didn’t know I was following him so closely and without looking around or behind him, he whipped out his pants weasel and went to town. I cleared my throat loudly and he jumped as I passed. I could see his stream waver slightly, but he kept on with it. Since I always have a baby strapped to my back nowadays, I have plus-ten in shaming ability, which is awesome and I use to my advantage when yelling at the high school hooligans in Wallingford. When he finished he lit a cigarette of empty-bladder relief. Unfortunately, we were both headed into Wallingford together, which was a little awkward; he stopped eventually and fooled with his cel phone and I passed.
Portland and Back, and Squalor
It’s a glorious sunny day outside and literally, freezing cold. The puddle on the patio is icy. This is the part of winter where you get a little nutty here, in a different way than the days of endless rain. Last week we had a taste of spring, including flowers, and now it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I am eating bloody toast because the air’s so dry my lip keeps splitting.
Our trip to Portland this weekend was fantastic. We stayed with my companion’s father, who lives in a beautiful old house that has separate areas that used to be the servants’ domains. I like old houses like this, with the old, extravagant use of wood and gorgeous light fixtures, but I’m not crazy about the lack of integration between the domestic and leisure areas. I prefer an open, beautiful kitchen to a closed-off one with a makeover that was obviously meant to be shut off from the dining room. Because of the location of the butler’s pantry and all the doors, you can tell that food was just supposed to magically appear.
We had a small dinner party there on Saturday night, with my companion’s brother and his wife, and some old friends. The house’s design had an interesting effect on the flow of our small party. During parties at modern houses, people usually get stacked up in the kitchen. I decided to put cheese and olives out on the sideboard in the dining room, which mostly kept people in one place and not underfoot.
My job was pretty simple; all I had to do was make a lamb roast, which, once you put it in the oven, pretty much makes itself. I had cut slits all over the raw meat and inserted little bits of garlic as the only seasoning. We brought the leftovers home, and now have a giant bone in the freezer, suitable for rendering a cavewoman unconscious or for making stock.
It was funny to get the leftover lamb from my companion’s dad. He chucked it into a plastic grocery sack and tied a knot on the top, which made me realize the apple doesn’t fall too far, at least in terms of man-Tupperware. I was raised to hermetically seal all leftovers, but you know what? That lamb was fine.
I also discovered something odd in the neighborhood we stayed in. We walked past an adorable house and I asked if it was a bed-and-breakfast. I was told no, it is a special house, though. Apparently the woman who owns it had a ceremony and married it. It’s called the Ladd-Reingold house, and she runs a hat museum out of it. I wish I would have known about the museum when we were there.
Also, we bought a stupid amount of books at Powell’s. Stupid because we are running out of shelf space, and because we spent a lot of money (for us, the thrifty bitches). It’s good, though. I want to put them all on the bed and roll around in them, really. And the portable crib worked! She slept in it both nights. We should get some use out of it this summer and when we go on our honeymoon in the fall.
Dear Hero Imprisoned
One: I Oughta Know
Yesterday we got a nastygram from our building managers. Apparently the new owners are considering raising the rent, and are taking away our free parking. They’ve got our nuts in a vice with the paid parking thing, because there’s no way in hell we’re parking the car on the street to save $35–not in this neighborhood, where we often wake up to piles of broken glass on the street. I don’t know what they think they can get out of this place; it’s next door to one of the (until very recently) skeeviest motels in town and is right on Aurora Avenue. Also, since we’ve moved in, quite a few minor things have gone wrong with the place, a trend that I suspect will continue, since this is new cheapie construction and the building’s just hit its tenth birthday.
So we’re dangling here, a little bit, because we should know at the end of the month whether or not my companion will become permanent at Giant Local Software Company. When we know that, we will have a steady budget and will be able to move into a house. But if he keeps contracting, then we will want to spend less money and move into something smaller and cheaper. They don’t even know if they want to go month-to-month, so we may just be out of luck. We wanted to get out of this place this summer, because it’s too small, but we may be out sooner.
Did you ever watch that show on Nickelodeon, “Out of Control?” I always liked it when Dave “I slept with an underage Alanis Morissette” Coulier would pull the “hurry up” switch. They would film these kids doing things they hated and then show it in fast motion, like they finished cleaning their rooms really fast. I want a hurry up switch, so I can see what’s going to happen next with the job and rent.
Two: Snot Vengeance Is Mine
I had a little accident in bed yesterday morning. The Strudel awakened and immediately demanded access to the milkbar. I have been slightly sick and congested all week, after the worst part of it happened this weekend. All of the sudden, this mongo sneeze snuck up on me while I was nursing her and then, KERSPLAT. It was one of those sneezes where you go, “Oh, shit, where did that go?” Of course it landed right in the middle of her forehead, and it was dark and I cleaned her up as best I could.
When she was done nursing and I took her out of bed I discovered that I had missed the bit that got in her hair, and the bath situation did not pan out like it was supposed to, so she was “there’s-something-about-mary’d” all day long. Except, you know, with snot. The great thing is that babies are usually a little cruddy, so everyone probably assumed it was some food or something.
I spent about thirty seconds trying to feel bad, and lamenting my lackadaisical mothering “techniques.” But then I remembered that this kid has vomited, sneezed, pooped, and peed on me, and is learning that neat trick of using me as her own personal napkin/nose-itcher. So, vengeance is MINE.
SJ: 1
Teh Baby: Forty-Ninety-Twelvedy
Three: “I once shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, but then I got distracted and missed it.”
This weekend we are going to Portland (so if I owe you an email you will hear from me next week), prompting a visit to the133test baby store 3vah, Babies R Us. There we purchased a portable baby jail so Miss Thang can have her naps and sleep safely imprisoned in mesh walls at her grandpa’s house. It came with its own tin cup, with a sippy top! She likes it so far, but I haven’t abandonated her in it yet. I am leaving it set up, because it reeks of newly-minted plastic and vinyl, so hopefully it will air out.
Look at the print on this thing. Just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we’re tacky. Well, actually, we are both tacky AND poor, and I think we will be rich and tacky someday. All I’m saying is that there should be choices outside the “fun” jungle print for under $100. Whatever, it’s done. And we’re out.
Four: WOO Pineapple Express
It’s warm-ish today! There are daffodils coming up! The Wallingford high school girls’ purple be-mini-skirted legs are out! (Yeah, that’s attractive, girls, with your teeth chattering and everything. Targeting the neighborhood necrophiliacs, are we?)
Anyway, Seattle, I forgive you for a month of rain. Let’s make up. What’s that? It’s ten degrees in my hometown? Don’t worry, guys. Mosquito season is just around the corner! EAT IT SUCKAS!
See yis Monday!