Monthly Archives: May 2011

Do Not Gaze Upon the Royal Person!

I suppose its only fitting.  My Old Man has called me Princess from the beginning.  Never viewed myself as a princess, really.  A contessa, certainly.  A duchess, indubitably.    But he stuck with it and I’ve learned to accept it as a term of endearment, and not that he thinks I”m a selfish, stuck-up, snooty girl with too many shoes and no sense of fiscal responsibility.  (yeah, I don’t have very positive views of the word–sorry Kate.)

So, I suppose it  follows that our son would take on certain royal habits.  Now I don’t’ mean noblesse oblige or any sort of droit de seigneur.  No, no–just a simple decree:

*sound the heralding trumpets*

“Upon royal decree, let it hereby be known that upon waking from naps or any sort of sleeping activity, or any such time as His Majesty demands it, no one shall look upon the royal personage without strict consequences, such as the slamming of doors, shouting, or general mayhem.  None shall make eye contact, nor even move until His Royal Highness has acknowledged that sleeping time is now over, and you may bask in his divine presence.”

Yeah.  I’m not kidding.  He gets up, opens the door–and if you so much as acknowledge him in any way he shouts “NO!” and slams the door again.  Now I get it:  waking up is hard to do–although it doesn’t seem that hard for him to do at 530am–but I digress.  Waking up from a nap can be disorienting and disturbing.  Especially if that last image he saw of me was *angry face* telling him to “take a nap, NOW.”  And then he’s greeted with *smiley face* “hey there sunshine!”

And in all honesty–this is pure jealousy.  I would love to choose when people could interact with me and when they can’t.  I mean–who was one of the first customers on the Ralph’s self-checkout lane, heh?  And think about those times when some people look at you that you really wish wouldn’t.

Like the homeless dude on the freeway overpass that you gave money to like two weeks ago, but he remembers your face and is always LOOKING at you like, “hey lady–cough it up!” when all you’ve got is a gum wrapper and .27 in change, and plenty of good intentions.

Or the weird interchange I had this weekend when some dude was lookin at me all cockeyed–like my dress was all hiked up or something, (but it wasn’t–phew!) and when i returned the look to him, he just got MORE cockeyed, to which I almost blurted a very New York “what the fuck YOU lookin’ at?”–but didn’t out of, I don’t know, a false sense of propriety or some such. (or the fact that my husband was with me and he has a tendency to get a little POSTAL when he feels I am being threatened by another male.  unga.  and also bunga.)

And I’ve mentioned the bagger at Ralphs.  Yes, Sherri, I’ve taken into consideration he may have social skills issues, and his foreign background.  Doesn’t make it any less creepy.

Or if you came face to face with this scenario:

So this afternoon, when my son tentatively opens his door, I must feign ignorance on the matter and wait for his approach–which is usually quite sweet and affectionate.  For that, I think I can follow the royal decree.

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Its all good

5 years ago, i decided he wasn’t gonna get any less hairy, and i stood beneath the huppah and said “sure!”.    Ben came along shortly after and it’s been a hell of a ride so far.  I have been lucky enough that he accepted Ben’s situation right from the start without any of the “daddy drama” i often read about.  And he puts up with my smart mouth, which is sayin’ something.  So it must be a good thing, eh?

Love you, Old Man.  Wouldn’t change a thing.

Our wedding song…

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Hater Humpday

I had to go clear a fix-it ticket yesterday.  At the lovely Van Nuys Municipal Courthouse.  As you can imagine, i got ALL SORTS of material for Hater Humpday.

I hate:

1. Poor signage. I mean, it’s as if they want you to wander around the building aimlessly as you try to figure out just WHERE you are supposed to go. Is it some sort of test–or do they charge for questions?

2. Metal Detectors. Or rather, being behind someone who forgets every piece of metal in their pockets, shoes, hair extensions…

3. Chatty mother fuckers–not with me, but with the clerk. You know, the ones right before you that decide to just chat it up with the clerk about whatever drama brought them to the courthouse in the first place. I heard more about restraining orders. warrants and unfair traffic tickets yesterday than anyone would ever need to know. It was like my own personal version of Jerry Springer–except that i don’t watch JS because i detest 99% of the people on those shows. Now imagine me in the middle of them. *shudder*

4. People who want to tell you how blessed they are. THere was some woman in line yesterday who, once she got there, proceeded to tell us how blessed she was that the line was so short. The line that snaked around 2x. But somehow Jesus saw fit to give her a shorter line, which made up for all the iniquities in her life. Seriously–the dude behind her with all the gang tattoos (and yes, i know the difference) was about tho shank her or something if her white trash boyfriend didn’t show up and holler at her that it was stupid to stand in line because they had to go to court. I think the tatted guy was disappointed that he didn’t get to add another teardrop (he had 5)

5. No cell phone rules. If you are going to make us stand in line for HOURS while your clerks listen to the drama stories–even though they can’t do a damn thing because they are not the judge–at LEAST let us play on our phones while we wait. It’s torture. Pure torture.

And a special extra hate for the dude standing directly behind me yesterday with NO CONCEPT of personal body space. First of all, your AXE cologne was a poor choice and second, you were lucky i didn’t draw back and cock-punch you–he was that close. And every time i would try to take a step forward–with respect to the personal space of the person in front of me, he would just nudge closer. And did i mention the person in front of me REEKED of alcohol? I was in the middle of a hell sandwich. Its surprising i didn’t blow. Lucky for them i left my shiv at home–although i think my homie woulda had my back.

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Blog Gems

Lovely Jillsmo over at Yeah. Good Times. is hosting Blog Gems this time around.  This fortnight’s post is about airing an old blog entry that went unappreciated.  So here’s an oldy but goody, as i pick on those poor ladies from the Real Housewives of who the fuck cares?  Enjoy.

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Seriously? (or how the LAPD fucked up my Rapture)

So…I didn’t make the rapture.  Not that this is a surprise, me not being a Xian and all…

So now it’s back to life, or post life, or zombie life, or whatevs.

All I want to know is how to clear this goddamned fix-it ticket!

Backstory–tail light out.  LAPD with NOTHING to do pulls me over to be smarmy and give me a ticket.  HE actually confesses to me that that was their assignment for the day–to find people with broken shit on their cars and give ’em tickets.  Ok–he didn’ say shit–but i bet the dude that was hovering in my blind spot ready to pull his glock if i so much as reached into my glove box or purse said it.

Anywhores,   shit happens and i dont’ get it fixed until yesterday (figured i should get it done before the rapture, just in case) and then go over to the North Hollywood LAPD station to get it looked at and cleared.

Except LAPD doesn’t clear the ticket.  THey can hand ’em out easy enough, but GOD FORBID they should make it easy to follow through.

So the cop behind the desk, let’s call him officer not-at-all helpful, tells me they don’t do that, and that i have to go to some other place, that he thinks is closed, or a sheriff’s station.  OK, i ask him in my thinnest smile, WHERE might the nearest station be?

Shuffles around some papers, looks at the computer screen, runs a finger down a list on the wall…DOES HE NOT KNOW?

Finally he gives me some mystery addy in Universal City, and as I am feeling a strong urge to commit homicide–and thinking the police station might not be the best place for that–I take off and look it up on my new smart phone.

(Yay smart phones!)

only to find a Los Angeles Sheriff’s webpage whose links are not valid–i.e. I click on the Universal City substation only to get the page for the West Hollywood station.

(Fuck smart phones!)

So, since it’s on the way home, I decide to drive up to “Universal City” (otherwise known as where tourists go to get burned) and see if the sheriff station is labeled, visible, or obvious.

Now, I’ll have it mentioned that i did not plow into ONE overweight tourist in stupid clothes and a fanny pack on an already enormous fanny.  I showed some fucking restraint!  Remarkable, since the mystery substation was nowhere to be found.  Part of me assumes its in Citywalk, which means they couldn’t check the car ANYWAY, so Officer Not-Helpful can go SUCK IT.

So, i have three days left until LAPD puts out a warrant for my arrest and charges me MORE MONEY to get this thing taken care of.  So if you don’t hear from me in a few days, just send me a cake with a file and a carton of Marlboros.

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Hater Humpday 5/18/11

Since yesterday was a rainy “Humboldt-y” kind of day, i found myself reminiscing on ye olde college days in Northern California. you know–where is rains 99% of the time? I know Jillsmo can feel me.

And as i looked back fondly on those halcyon days, i also remembered the things i hated about Northern California. So i thought this week i’d issue my “its NOT all good, bro”, or “why i don’t live in NoCal” edition of Hater Humpday.

I hate(d):

1. MOLD.
In a moist climate, it’s EVERYWHERE. If you don’t wipe your entire house down with bleach, DAILY, it will take over anything that isn’t moving. Burners beware.

Everyday i would wake up to find 3-5 slugs just hangin out in my sink, like it was Club Med. And unlike snails, you can’t pick these lil fuckers up by their shells to chuck them outside. Oh no. You have to either TOUCH THEM (ew) or destroy them with beer or salt (EW!)
No wonder i was thinner up there–i lost my breakfast daily over these disgusting creatures. What is their purpose again?

3. Self-righteous hippies.
Now, i’m not talking about cool old ladies who wear flowy garments, create art and hung out in the Haite before it was cool to hang out in the Haite. These ladies are top notch in my book, and usually the most easy-going cats you can meet. No. I’m talking about the self righteous skanks who look down their nose at you because you just ate a conventional strawberry and *gasp* bottle feed your baby! Listen, honey. Just because you don’t wear a bra or shave your legs doesn’t give you the right to be a bitch to people. And here’s a bit of advice–if your hair won’t dreadlock naturally, then it’s looks STUPID when you make it do so with chemicals and crap. In fact, you could use a little time with those ladies i spoke of earlier. They’d settle you down quick.

4. RAIN.
When i first arrived in Humboldt county, it rained 100 days straight. And it’s never warm. A hot day there is @70 degrees. big whoop.

5. Passive Aggressive judgemental bullshit.
I know–this kinda goes with #3, but it’s a little different. I noticed during my time in the emerald triangle that a number of the people up there that think they are somehow better than those of us down here. It’s ok–ill admit alot of people here suck. no question. But guess what–that ratio is pretty much the same everywhere. Being surrounded by trees doesn’t make you better–just makes it easier to breathe.

SO there you have it. The five main reasons i left the moist climes of Humboldt county to develop asthma here in sunny Los Angeles. Did i mention it is sunny here? Because of the sun.

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You can’t make me

I detest nearly all foods in the genus Brassiceae. For the non-science geeks, that is anything in the cabbage family. Cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli–anything that will stink up the ENTIRE HOUSE if you cook it.  I see no reason to ever have to ingest them.  EVER.

My true nemesis? Saurkraut. The demon spawn of all cabbage dishes. The bane of my existence. The very trigger of homicidal tendencies.

Now, i know what you’re thinking–how can a girl of such obvious German stock (blonde, blue eyed, fairly translucent skin–eat it Hitler) hate saurkraut?  Easy. There, see? That’s how.

Now, I was a picky eater as a child.  But my mother in all her wisdom taught me to at least TRY everything.  “One bite” was the mantra.  So i’ve tried alot of things with or without “the face.”  Hell, she was able to feed me chicken livers (which i will not touch now) as long as there was lots of mushrooms and noodles.  But I will not touch cabbage.  Especially stinky fermented cabbage.

My husband (before he was my husband) once tried to bring in a plate of brats and saurkraut into the bedroom to watch tv–the same bedroom where i was laying in bed, peacefully reading.  I accused him of trying to break up with me, and told him it was a dick move to do it with cabbage.

He removed himself and the stinky offal to another room, and to this day has not eaten the foul substance in my presence, lest i pack my bags.

Now, i’m a grown up.  I know i have to eat my vegetables.  I will tolerate some raw red cabbage in my salad.  I will eat broccoli–eat it, not love it.  I know it’s great for joints and other aging issues that will no doubt plague me soon enough.  But there are pills with the same great stuff.  Oh crap, i hate pills too.  DAMMIT!

I don’t care.  I will find another alternative.  I will not eat it.  You can’t make me.

And honestly–NO ONE wants to be on the receiving end of the gasses that are created when i eat cabbage.  Not even the dog.

And to all of you who want to share and tell me i just haven’t eaten the right coleslaw/rustic cabbage soup or even saurkraut, just stop right now.  I don’t care about your recipes or testimonials.  Yes–i ate it once–at a french restaurant covered with butter and cream and whatever else the French use to make detestable food actually edible.   I didn’t know it was saurkraut until i took a bite, and wondered for the briefest moment how it was that i was able to ingest it without invoking that nasty scene from The Life of Brian. In fact my now husband holds that fact over my head whenever he can. But that doesn’t mean i like cabbage–it means i like butter.  Two VERY different topics.

I realize its a fantastic economy food–and lord knows i love to stretch my food budget dollar to squeeze every ounce of life out of it.  And my CSA gives us a head of cabbage damn near every week.  It’s like some sort of hippie torture society.  Cabbage, chard and mustard greens.  Seriously–do you want me to stink up the entirety of Studio City?

I realize that to some, i am not modeling the correct behavior for my intensely picky child. But the kid won’t touch anything other than PB&J & noodles. So i think i’ve got a greater battle on my hands than trying to get him to eat cabbage.

So, you’ll pardon me if i pass on the coleslaw.  And if you put saurkraut anywhere near my person, i will cut you.  I think the law’s on my side.

Mama’s Losin’ It

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We found out yesterday about the passing of a good friend.  And it’s left us all…well, grieving.  Its always hard to describe grief.  And yet we all understand it.  I mean we’ve all been through it to one degree or another.  But it fuckin sucks.  Fuck you, grief.

I’m not gonna eulogize David–he was an awesome dude.  Enough said.  I always hated eulogies, obits and the like.  They never do the person justice–they are never enough.  All i can say is that he liked my kid and my dog, and they loved him: the definition of good people.  He was my husband’s poker buddy–and that is one awesome group of dudes. See?

My husband's poker buddies at our wedding in 2006. David is directly center, in the back.

(fyi–my Old Man is the one in the tux, leaning in, with the spikey hair and ‘stache. Yeah, the one that kinda looks like muppet. )

But of course, when death hits close, it brings all kind of shit to the table–things you don’t want to think about, refuse to think about,  really, STFU, i DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT THIS.  You know, what would happen to your kid, your family, yada yada yada, should you just not be there anymore.

And not to diminish what the parents of typical kids feel, when when your kid falls into that “other” category, this thought almost makes you shit yourself.  Or at least might be a challenge for the sphincterally challenged.

ANd yes, yes.  I know there are legal things i(we) can do to make sure our lil dinosaur is taken care of–i’m not talking about that.  You think about the little things–who will patiently wait through each step of making a PB&J with him? who will know to scratch his back and play with his hair when he’s over the edge sensory-wise?  Who will diligently fill out every last piece of fucking paperwork to make sure he gets every fucking service for which he is eligible?

Yes, yes.  I know.  I know.  With a kid like this, who wouldn’t? Hell, i’m convinced the girls down at the bank would take full custody of him if we didn’t already have something in place.  But as with the nature of  in-your-head scenarios–they are always the worst.

And like a nag, they just WON’T SHUT UP.

So it’s 345am and i’m up, thinkin about shit i don’t want to think about, drinking decaf because it just doesn’t make sense to drink caffeinated coffee at 345.  I was originally up because of a bad dream about–you guessed it–Benji.  THe kind of dream that took every bit of energy i had not to go into his room and hug the snot out of him.  Yeah.  That kind.  good times.

So, you’ll forgive if today’s post isn’t as snarky as promised.  That’s the thing about death and bad news.  it doesn’t pay attention to your schedules and plans.  It just moves in and starts bogarting all your snacks and taking over the remote control and farting alot.  Suck it, grief.  Get the fuck off my couch.

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Typical’s new digs

So, i’ve finally caved (blogger’s shut down yesterday helped) and i’ve decided to move my blog over here to Word Press.  Gimme a few days to get settled in and i promise something snarky and well worth your time when i get unpacked.  Until then, enjoy…

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