So I’m Trying to Write a Cover Letter

But the kid is interested in potty practice, and won’t stop ripping off her clothes. Sometimes, when I’m trying to do something to improve myself, but I find myself interrupted by cleaning turds up off the floor, I feel like the message the universe is sending me is GIVE UP, YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE. INSERT TWENTY-FIVE CENTS FOR THREE MORE MINUTES. And then the raisin chucking starts.

I think some people who are critical of stay-at-home moms who drink have never been stay-at-home moms.

(The post I linked is great, by the way. It’s not a criticism.)

Three Stories About Frannie

My Frannie has been beaucoup de bubbleheaded lately.

1. Eel. EEL. EEL!

On Saturday we were at Blue C with Supa, gobbling sushi like freaks. Supa grabbed some unagi off the conveyor belt and exclaimed, “I LOVE eel!” I haven’t been able to comfortably eat eel since college, when I made the wise decision to snag some out of the refrigerator case at the grocery store I worked at. Grocery store sushi and Phoenix, Arizona is not a good mix. Let it suffice to say that you never forget your first eel puke.

Anyway, Supa was enjoying her eel and continuing to exclaim. “This eel is so good! Hey, Franny, do you want to try some of my EEL?”

Franny brandished the little kid chopsticks they thoughtfully provide there. “Okay,” she said, and snagged a small bite.

“Hmm,” she said, chewing. “This eel is good chicken.”

AWWW, Baby’s First Jessica Simpson Moment!

2. Eel Again.

Later that day I told Companion the eel story and he chuckled. Franny weighed in from the kitchen table where she was watercoloring.

“Mom!” she said. “You can’t tell that story. I don’t appreciate they way you have been giving me compliments lately.”

“Oh, the compliments are bothering you?”

“YES!”

“Sorry, I won’t give you any more compliments.”

3. AND HE WAS DEAD!

Earlier that weekend Companion had his guitar out and was strumming it. Can I tell you I was trepadacious about the fact Companion was a guitar player, because of my marriage to someone who was into the non-stop solo horning in a closet. But he is a benign weekend strummer, not an ARTISTE.

So Companion was strumming, and Frannie was an Interruptasaurus (Bargus Rudus).

“P., can you sing a song about me? And my sister?”

Companion came to an abrupt stop with guitar equivalent of a needle ripping off a record.

“A song about you? Okay,” he said. He began strumming again. “There were two little girls….” Franny was all smiles at this point. “Aaaand they were too curious, and they in-ter-UP-ted a looot!” She was less smiley then. “And they ended up DEAD!”

Franny ran out of the room as I laughed hysterically. As soon as I was able to pull my uterus back up into my body and stop laughing, I made them get together and make up.

This weekend, while it had its highlights, was way too long.

PS, If you make a ringtone of the “Look Around You” theme song and send it to me, you will be the proud recipient of twelvedy doubloons and a photocopy of a butt.

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

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!

It Is Important For You to Know

That someone is uploading Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather. You know, somehow I’m down with the giant space turtle and the four elephants, but I don’t understand how trillions of gallons of ocean can dump off the edge of the disc and be regenerated somewhere in the mountains. It’s a damn mystery! If you are not reading Terry Pratchett, I recommend you start with Going Postal. It’s not my favorite ever, but you can get a feel for his style and Discworld without feeling like you’re missing out on a bunch of backstory, because it’s kind of a stand-alone. I just read the entire Tiffany Aching series in opposite order, because these things happen sometimes. SO good! I can’t want until Franny is a year or so older, so she can pick them up. Squid, if you’re out there, Iz would love them. I know you’re busy.

Shatner remembers his legendary “Rock-it Man” performance in 1746. Why? Because I’m a completist, that’s WHY. Thanks Supa!

ANTM withdrawl? (Tits?) Try Cycle 7.5. It’s a little flash atrocity that, if it continues, with be equal parts parodic and moronic. Gaffled from fourfour.

Update! SCRANTON, WHAT? Lazy Scranton. So wrong. I pray that that Steve Carell becomes my next babydaddy. After Tucker Max, of course.

In Which iJerks Are iJerks

SO! And AHA! My internet is still talking to me. Every day I put the baby in her Skinner Box and expect to see my connection dead again. Well met, web of the world.

There were some crazy amounts of librarians in Seattle over the weekend. Apparently the ALA conference was overbooked by something like 7,000 iPerps. This is critical to understand when I tell you the next part.

My old friend, Bean, came into town. She was a year behind me in school and followed me as Vice President of all things Awesome. Bean emailed me before she came but she’s a super-busy academic librarian so we didn’t finalize any plans, but I knew she wanted me to save Thursday for her.

Bean came and had lunch, and we caught up and gabbled about the time before I was an unemployed layabout. She told me a classmate from her cohort, Crimson, who I am slightly acquainted with, offered to put her up in her house for four days. Bean attempted to call Crimson to firm up their meeting time that evening, so Bean could settle in and spend the first night. Crimson said she was terribly, terribly ill, and not much else, and Bean hung up, looking a little puzzled.

Bean attempted to call Crimson back about an hour-and-a-half later, and was unable to reach her. I offered to put Bean up, because I was starting to get a little worried about her sick disappeared host, and I warned her that we’re up pretty early and the girls are on eleven as soon as they wake up. “Well, it’s okay, I have to get going to an early meeting anyway,” Bean said, and thanked me. Bean called a couple of hotels in neighborhoods near downtown, but they were booked solid.

Companion came home and we took Bean and the girls out to dinner. On the way to the superb Taste of India, Crimson called. At this point it’s almost 6:30, which is getting late to head downtown to catch the ferry to the island she lives on. Crimson claimed she went to the doctor and was feeling better, and that was about all she said, from the sound of it. Bean said she was going to take the offer to spend the night with us, since it was getting so late.

The next morning before she left I asked Bean what her plans were. She said she was going to see if she could crash with a colleague from her school who was coming in for one night. “You can come back here, too,” I said. “Keep me in the loop, because I don’t want you wandering around downtown with your luggage.”

Finally, I couldn’t resist and had to ask Bean something that had been nagging me. “Bean, did Crimson apologize for flaking on you last night, and did you guys make plans for your last two nights?” Bean said the answer to both of those questions was no. I told her I was sorry for being nosy, but I was really curious. Bean seemed unflapped, but being the person I am I was pretty irritated on her behalf. We were happy to put up Bean, but we were a little, “Who DOES that?”

On Sunday night, we went to an iJerk alumni reunion. As I threatened, I wore a nametag that read “Nick Belkin.” Almost immediately, a woman came up to me, waggling her finger, and told me she went to school with a Nick Belkin in 1974. I think she was trying to bust a rogue impostor. “He’s quite famous now,” one of my old professors (who I was talking with) said. “Oh reeeally,” the woman said. I had forgotten that he was alumni.

I ran into Bean later who had come down with a nasty cold since I had seen her on Friday morning. “I checked into a hotel in Queen Anne,” she said. “I gave up on Crimson.”

Halo was at the reunion as well, and she and I made plans for Monday night. While we were out on Monday, Halo gave me some scoop. “Friday night was a clusterfuck of Librarians on Capital Hill. You could not get away from them,” she said. “Oh, and check this out. We went into the Six Arms, and guess who was at a table with a bunch of other UW librarians?”

“Who?” I said.

“Crimson. She was sitting there having a beer,” Halo said.

“Oh HELL NO. Did you tell Bean?” I said.

“Well, no, because Bean was really sick. We didn’t want to make her feel worse.”

So there was Crimson, at a bar yucking it up, the very next night after disappearing on Bean, after being the one who extended the invite in the first place. Nice. But hey, Bean and I had more time to catch up this way. Next time I will invite Bean to stay with us again.

I think today is a good day to review the Rules of Being a Grownup, don’t you?

I Do This and Then I’m Sorry Later When I Get The Pile of Blog Spam and the Squirrelly Search Terms, But I Have To Do This

So I’m all going to yoga and all, and feeling really good about things, generally. I kicked caffeine while I had the flu so now I’m all Zenned out and some junk and not having big crashes during the day. I also had a cup of yerba mate at my studio the other day when I showed up a little early, and you know, that stuff is absolutely hippie crank. My glue huffing days are over, so I have to take my thrills where I can get them. (Nipple pinching, buttsecks, waiting for Xmas Steve, etc.) AND Whippet came over and gave me a Pilates mat class today, and I am all what the hooey is up with my super exercising self, but then I remember that LO I have JANUARY LIGHT-DEP MANIA. AS USUAL. Fear for my nervous system.

You know, that was absolutely the best part of public school–the shit you could get away with. I could sit in my studio art class and literally huff glue out of a soda can and no one noticed. I had a friend who did acid every day for a month and no one noticed that either. Probably I could have also lit a ceremonial bonfire and picked up a Coke bottle with my chocha and this would have gone on without remark as well. Except for the stoners sitting back in Stoner’s Corner with me, and they would have put some singles in my coconut-shell bra. Later I would discover that it wasn’t actually singles at all, but rolling papers with a smudgy white guy drawn on with pen who looked sort of like George Washington, but sort of like Abe Vigoda.

But I digress.

Anyway, things are well. How are you? Still nursing that nasal spray habit? I thought so, because you will always be that little nasal spray bitch.

But come closer…I will spin plates while I tell you about my pubes. I used this hip-hop-happening new stuff called Betty Beauty, which is specifically for “The Hair Down There, Tee Em.” They ask the intriguing mindbender, “Is Your Betty Ready? Tee Em?” Well played, Betty Beauty, or as I shall call you, Beaucephalis Beauty. You are a grown-up product. You deserve a grown-up name: Beaucephalis.

Also, I get around a fair bit, and I am a nosy Assmitten, and I did not know this Lady Beauter Secret, did you??? I need more anecdotal information in this regard.

So, you take the little kit, which costs twenty bone. Let us keep in mind Thee Cadillac of Drug Store Hair Dye, Feria, costs only ten bone a box. BUT, Beaucephalis assures us, there are ONE to THREE applications in each bottle. Hmm, lottery style, I wondered? But no, the directions assure me, I can get three servings by consorting with my treacherous yet handsome nemesis, Math Matherson.

I did some, like, one-to-two (1:2) mixing jive so I could eke out more servings of product and put the bleach on my poor lady parts, but only on the Safe Zone (tee em, for realla). I did not follow all the rules, and went down to my skin, because who wants pube roots, really? It will be a cold day in Hell before someone refers to my ladyparts by the moniker Tiny Emily Valentine.

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I left it on for the recommended half hour for medium blonding. Beaucephalis Beauty recommends another twenty minutes for platinum, but I thought it was light enough. Plus, the bleach hurt like hell and left my skin…matching my hair. WOW! If I want that kind of itching and burning in my crotchoidal region, I’ll hang out at the plasma donation clinic, honestly.

I hopped in the shower and rinsed, dried, and applied the pink dye. The box had me thinking it was going to be crazy eye-blistering pink like the box or like Special Effects Atomic Pink. Instead, it was sort of that sad thing you get when you’re fifteen and you’re totally desperate, and you heard somewhere that Kool-Aid can totally dye your hair, man! So it’s a kind of sad, faded, slumber party pink.

But I do give them props–it does not come off on towels or clothing, as they say. Points there for Team Beaucephalis. Now if only they can marry the brightness of Special Effects with the non-rub-offness…I don’t think it’s possible.

That’s it in a nutshell. I don’t think the hour and the burning sensation is worth it, unless you’re really eager-beaver (hur hur) to cover some greys.

I AEIN’T DED

Hi, my internets shit the bed again. Oh Qwest, you are so my nemesis. They came today and fixed it though, after no-showing twice and showing up randomly without being scheduled (of course I was out). I have a super slammed day today, involving seeing some Ye Olde iJerks down at Benaroya Hall tonight, followed by a date with my babydaddy (new one, not the broken one).

I have so much to tell you! I ran into my ex-in-laws (DUN DUN DUNNN)! I dyed my pubes to match my hair! I thought about this one time at band camp!

Say “hi” if you’re an iJerk and you’re there tonight. I’ll be wearing the nametag that says “HELLOOO MY NAME IS Nick Belkin!”

PNW’ed 20: Terrorflu Edition

I started writing this after taking a giant dose of Theraflu. I was having weird dreams when I got sick. I realize this is horrible quality…so it will fit in with all the others. *rimshot*

And no, there’s no punchline. I got bored and went into a Theracoma shortly after.

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