I had the joy of asking him to pay half of his kid's tuition. His stance on this as of a couple of years ago was, "Private school would be great if it was free," so I haven't spent a lot of time bothering him about money. But I am done working for the school and it is out-of-pocket again, and I have heard rumors that he is being less of a luser, so I thought I'd take a crack at it.

Rather than asking him if he would contribute, I told him what the total was and asked him how he wanted to handle it. We could pay the office separately? He just shut me down. "I owe something? Do I owe you for the other years, too?"

Then he made some vague noises about paying his half up front with the proceeds of the house he just sold, but I will knit myself a vagina suit if he actually pays.

I feel really weird about this, because on one hand, her school is "optional." On the other, we agreed to it in the beginning when she was two and a half and for every year after that. I hadn't even discussed the next school year with him til now, which I guess is my fault?

My face burns every time I think about it today. What do you do in a situation like this, when someone refuses to provide agreed-upon expenses like education and medical? And then they tell you they are optional? But they still want to spend all the 50/50 time they are entitled to. I wish I was woarlike enough to go to court all the time, except I'm not. Not that it would do any good, in the long run.

Then I told him I was having her molars sealed and he said something vague about having dental insurance himself now. That's nice for his new family, I guess. Then he told me he was moving to the island for the summer, and could I keep Franny for a few extra days, because he was in California? And could he make that up later? Yes, you can make that up when I get a check for three grand. LOOOOOL

In Conclusion, bring me:

1. a mai tai
2. Ben Barnes
and
3. a pink taser with kitty head on it!

I have never actually picked up Esquire for Mans before, and overall it was pretty disappointing. There was an article on OMG, have you noticed skulls are everywhere now in fashion? WHAT. Next you are going to tell me there is a hot new car called the Prius. So, while I am uncertain how I feel about being namechecked in a publication that thinks it's the Amazing Year 2006, I guess all publicity IS good publicity. Now shop at my store and click my ads.

cleek

--David Richo

And now it can be told: school is over and I am so excited I could throw up. I had a few moments there where I almost snapped and ran away and took the children off to the School of Life, aka Piratetry, Mexico, Hoboport, or fill in the blank.

Flack, there was flack, flack ahoy. Like a responsible netizen (oh yers I did) I did not tell you that my big kid was walking by herself to and from school every day. When I moved to this neighborhood, this is something I thought would be a possibility with the children, along with running to the store for bananas, to the methadone clinic, etc, etc. But I thought this would be a far-off future thing, since they are just now able to wash me to my satisfaction with a rag on a stick.

It came up, though, somehow, the walking, and I thought about it. It is all of a couple of blocks, no busy streets are crossed, and school ins and outs times are always broad daylight, as they say.

"Are you sure you want to do this by yourself?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Well, okay."

And she went! A little scared on the first day. There was some hesitancy and some surprise from her teacher, who called me on the first day she was to come home. "She's here and I'm sending her home now, right? Okay?" Right, okay. Her teacher is used to the helicopter parenting, which is about 47 times less amusing than a roflcopter.

And then it got interesting. The sound of chopper blades filled the air. People started cluing in to the fact that Franny was embarking alone daily on a five-minute walk. OMFGBBQ, release the hounds. A parent told her that she should not be walking home by herself, after she and I had decided it was okay and that she was ready. Did you catch that? Another parent told my little fledging independent so-proud-of-herself kid that what she was doing was not okay. Another well-meaning parent offered her a ride. This article flew around the list. Asperations were cast.

Lucky for me, I put my head together with my kid's teacher really quickly. I also talked to my kid. Good job, my kid! Keep up the good work. Her teacher let her lollygag for a few minutes every day so she could avoid the swarming.

But she toughed it out. I tried not to make a big deal about it--she could walk with me, or alone, whatever. I told her I was proud of her, and I was. Letting her have some freedom, is the best thing I can do to let her know that I think she's capable, because she IS. DAMMIT!

In conclusion, the best part was the drunkenness and the bathroom:

SOOOO I think I told you that I dropped a cup size some time in the past few months. I have heard the way cup sizes work is expressed in two ways. One is to measure the boobs in weight, as if they are well, melons, and the other, simpler way is to say that for every cup size, your boobs will stick out more or less one inch, once you cram your junk into the appropriate globulareque shape, instead of what they would be doing on their own after two children, which is trying to get away from you like sea cucumbers.

This means that since I dropped from a D to a C-cup, I have lost, in theory, six ounces, or they have gone in one inch closer to my torso. This means that my boobs weigh somewhere around twenty-one ounces, or roughly a pound and a half. HOWEVER. Dropping from a D-cup to a C-cup has made a major difference somewhere else. My bra straps have gone from a practical and comfortable 3/4"-1" to a flimsy half an inch or less. Once you hit C-cup, they decide you're all smexy and don't need to be practical or have the twenty-one ounces supported properly or something.

In FURTHER conclusion, bra scientists can turn in their badges.

Also Toe Jam.

This weekend was both wet and eventful. It was not wet and eventful in a Dear Penthouse Fantasy Forum way, it was more like a sixty-five degrees and pouring and still doing stuff kind of way.

Now my coop has a sign, so lost chickens will not be confused.

"Which one's this then, I thart the Donkey's Head was round here?"

"Nar, nar, this be Chook's Respite. Donkey's Head is two blocks yonder."

So now you can rest content knowing that chickens talk like bad English movie peasants.

I like the sign, but I think it needs Moar Glitter. I will work on this. In theory, it's supposed to stop raining here in August. I'm sure my corpse will appreciate the beam of light shed on it as it swings from the rafters as I give up on July 29th. Hey, that's not funny. Suicide, serious business. I have to get out of here before I get MS or something.

I went to the Fremont Sunday Market and I met this nice woman who makes really badass jewelry, sometimes out of exploded vintage pieces. This is nice, because some old stuff can be too much as one piece, but if you take part of a piece and add it in with something pretty, like new beads, it gets way cool. I am going to pick up a piece next Sunday.

Then when I came home, a spider nest had exploded by my front door.

They were huddling in a ball, because it is too cold to live.

I leave you with this nice song about cheese.

Interview with Strudelpire.

AHA! I forgot one more. I took the little chicks out on Sunday too, but it was so chilly they just crouched next to me, so I had to carry them back in. You could say it was not their bag. Ho ho.

From There Will Be Chicken Blood.

Seriously? Because I think the best part is you know, eggs. And raising them up, and letting them sit in your lap and stuff. I have killed chickens, and it's not that bad, but c'mon. Maybe you should stop backyard birding and work in the Tyson factory?

Speaking of chicken melodrama, batch number two is now three weeks old. The two Silkies have not yet acquired names, but Strudel stepped in and named the Polish hen.

Figure 1: Meet "Mr. Klassy." I was going to quash it, but the "Mr." won me over, really.

Veronica and Calliope happily putter around the yard like the big ladies they are now, and Marty has gone to a new home, where no one will mind if he crows. Too bad. He was a beaut.

Figure 2: Nomnomnoming Thai curry that Strudel did not eat.

Oh! And you have to know the house is done. It is jolly blue. Ye Olde "Chooks' Respite I" was green. I am going to be extra creative and name this new house "Chooks' Respite II." I should say, too, that there are now chicken ladders attached under the doors, so they don't have to just fly/jump.

Figure 3: The run is in a dead zone under a laurel and hawthorne, but they have grassy sunny backyard access most of the time, too. So there is a "front" door to the yard, and a "back" door to the run only, for when we are gone all day.

Figure 4: And then there is the big door for cleaning and food/water access.

Figure 5: The inside not yet showing the two perches and hilarz wood-patterned linoleum. It's like some kind of Norwegian Disco in there are something, or a roller rink.

The hamster turned up on the basement stairs as I was doing laundry, with a dusty butt and looking tired. I took him home and he had a bite and went to bed.

Other than that, I've been doing odds and ends that aren't worth mentioning, let alone writing about. Do you ever have those stretches of days where you feel like you accomplish not very much, yet the household keeps running and the world doesn't end? I am idling. I am always kind of a dud in the summer. They are predicting rain for the next week, so maybe I can regain some of that winter angst that makes me go. I've got a bead on a job, though, so I hope that pans out.

Something funny did happen last week when I went on Franny's class camping trip. We slept in cabins with double bunks, meaning there were two people on the top, and two on the bottom. I slept with my kid, and the girls above me were early risers who had to use the bathroom. I could hear them whispering: "I have to use the bathroom." "Meee tooooo." I thought, OH they are going to totally wake up the other mom, because she's the nice one (I'm the fun one, until someone loses an eye). I wait and wait. There is more whispering, followed by a quiet creep down the ladder. "Let's wake up SJ." Darn, but probably for the best as I was indeed awake.

"Fraaaanny," they stage whispered, "Wake up your mom!"

"Mmm," I heard her say, waking up. "Mom? Mom? MOM?" The stage whispering grew louder. She was inches from my face as I laid there playing possum.

"BOOO!" I whisper-yelled at her, watching her eyes go ginormous. Heh heh heh. That is a good way to wake up. The girls went to the bathroom and I lay still next to her. She soon got the wiggles and was making Marty Feldman face at me, followed by a rendition of "PYT." I didn't even know she knew the words to "PYT." It's small things like that that remind you that you maybe don't know your kid as well as you thought you did, and they can surprise you. For my part, I think I peed a little laughing.

What store has one fennel? Ours, that's what. Well, alright.

The good news is that when you have one fennel you can cook the halibut at the same time. One pan action.

Later I made a cheesecake and Veronica hung out on The Joy of Cooking. She cool.

Finally, the birds flocked and watched me make cheesecake. You are never alone when you are with chooks. Have a good weekend, perps.

I've been kind of quiet over here because I've been disorganized and unmotivated and also chickenshit about grabbing brass rings. There is a brass ring that I want REALLY BADLY and I almost grabbed it yesterday, but I did the equivalent of falling off the carousel, scraping my chin, and having my dress fly up over my head, so I am still recovering from that. Is it better to try things and have life say NO, YOU SUCK, or is it better to not try and then go home and flagellate yourself? I guess it's case by case, but I'm sure if I pulled up my shirt my belly would be yellow. Being pathetic is EXHAUSTING and embarrassing. I need a nap and a boot to the head, in either order. Mostly the boot.

So, when I feel like this, a good first step is to try to do a little writing. One thing I haven't gotten the hang of is writing for other companies on here, because you know I just write whatever pukes out of my head that day. But to write with a Theme and On Time is another matter. On the other hand, if people ask me what I'm doing right now, I get to say "I get paid in sex toys." HUR.

This story goes back to the amazing year 1998, when I was in college. Actually, it goes further back than that, probably back to the awful time when I started sprouting boobs in grade school and the words "mosquito bites" started getting tossed around. I was in denial about this, because I was convinced there had been some horrible mistake and it would be revealed that I was a boy after all. In my neighborhood, the boys did the fun things, like kickball, spitting, and fist fighting, while the two girls who lived nearby practiced for when they were going to get on the pompon squad, combed Barbie hairs, and gossiped. No, I didn't want to hear about the time you saw the "thingie" of the girl on the next block and it was like four inches long. WHAT?

One day teeny bras appeared on my bed. I ignored them. A few days later I was threatened. "You may not leave the house until you put a bra on." JESUS GOD NO. Like that won't be noticeable as I was rounding the bases. I had seen the poor, poor super-early bloomers, the girls who had lady-sized racks in the third grade. I had run interference for some of them as the boys attempted to corner them in the coat room and snap the boinginess out of their bras. I saw one of these friends in tears as she asked the teacher for a safety pin to fix a broken strap. Wearing a bra separated you, not just from the boys, but from the other girls. Suddenly you were all different, like a Bodhisattva or Zombie Jesus, with your purse full of mysterious and embarrassing items, and bra lines under your shirt.

Then I outgrew my dirtbike and was denied a larger one, and was instead given a ten speed which I hated and only used later, when I was grounded off my car. My petition for a basketball hoop was denied on the grounds that "no boys live in this house."

What I learned from this was that being an older girl was bad, bad, and lame. I began to hate my body and see it as a prison that made me different and kept me away from the life that I loved. If I wore any shirt that clung to my body, older boys (and sometimes creepy men) began to notice me and talk to me. I didn't want to be talked to like this. I wanted to play with my friends.

I knew, of course, that my body was going to ignore what I wanted and turn me into a woman whether I liked it or not. After a couple of years I accepted what I looked liked and even got a little girly. I thought, well, this isn't so bad. Then college came, and my hips followed.

Stretchmarks ripped across my hips and upper thighs. My clothes didn't fit right, and I had no idea how to dress myself in any way that even approached looking attractive. Phoenix was so hot, I didn't even care, really. I threw on a pair of shorts and a baggy band shirt, and went on my way. Since the shirts were so loose, they obscured my waist, making my fashion statement, "I am a cube."

I got lazy in the heat, choosing to hide out in the air-conditioned libraries, and gained twenty pounds. My mother was going through her cyberchondriac phase, and diagnosed me out of the blue with polycystic ovary syndrome. "WHAT?!" I said. "Well," she reasoned. "You have irregular periods (not true), you have acne (give me a break! I was twenty and lived on the surface of the sun), and you're obese (hey, let's leave my college chub out of this, please). You should go see a doctor about this." Lucky for me, I had the sense to ignore her.

Then I had my first child. Well, it's all downhill from here, I thought to myself cheerfully. But it wasn't. Is it bad that feeling like a deformed freak for most of my life was actually helpful after I had kids? When I was younger I read a lot of old Hollywood stars' biographies, and the beginning of Liz Taylor's always stuck with me. One of Liz's earliest memories is of knowing that her mother blamed her for "ruining" her figure and her "perfect waist." I had never worn a bikini. Until I was twenty-five, I had never worn a tank top. I had no perfect image of myself to ruin.

It was all up from there. I survived spawning, and found out that I was a good mom, most of the time. I got more interested in how I looked, initially because I realized that how I dressed would effect how others treated me and perceived me. I was out of college and I didn't want to scuff around looking like a teenage boy anymore, with my sneakers and Husker Du shirts. Then I realized that I liked looking nice for its own sake. For myself. HEY! I even had a waist, even if it wasn't as small as it was ten years before.

I know a lot of these kinds of "witness my special self of steam transformation" stories often end with "and I learned to love my body again, even though my boobnibblers had done horrifying things to it." I guess what I am trying to say, is that becoming a mom made me care in a good way about my appearance, and care less about if I looked weird or bad or large butt syndrome. I learned to love my body for the first time. FUCK IT. I are conquering queen, behold my subjects that I have shot out of my own body. Being proud of yourself and what you have done can go a long way towards making you feel confident and attractive, and yes, even the "s" word. SEXAY.

Last night I kept dreaming about my gay high school boyfriend and that I tried on all these really holike promdresses. I think it's because I was in Ballard on Friday night with my friend and we kept seeing white stretch Hummers. I suspect the white stretch Hummer market is now exclusively taken over by high school kids and Mariah Carey, and I know that wasn't Mimi cruising up and down Market Street.

I was standing on Ballard Ave. and I loaned some drunken middle-aged guy my pen, and followed him out to use it since it has sentimental value. He had that kind of hair that looked sculpted or perhaps injection-molded, and like his name was probably Bill or Harold or Fletch. He claimed the person he needed to write his phone number down for disappeared and I socked it away back into my purse. He took a look at me.

"Nice tits!" he threw my way.

"Alright!" I said. "Nice complete lack of guile!"

I forgot to tell you: Yesterday the girls were playing in the hose and filling up a bucket. Over the winter not one, but both sprinkler heads have disappeared, leaving them with only the plant sprayer. Franny yelled at her sister: "Let's play Mad Jesus!"

I immediately stopped sawing and listened, pretending to work.

"Okay, Strudel, Mad Jesus is a fun game. Here is the sea," she said, indicating the bucket. "You are The People and I am The Jesus. The Mad Jesus. You act like a people."

Strudel obediently waggled her hands in the water, acting like the innocent and sinful masses.

"Mad Jesus! I'M MAD JESUS! I'm spraying The People to Death!" Franny drenched Strudel and her sinful hands. "Okay, The People are dead. Now you be Mad Jesus."

A. I have to find new hosting, so I am working on that. Because of happenstance, etc, I have never paid for hosting, but now I will stop being a hosting ho ho ho. I was dreading it so much I was thinking I would just stop writing my website, because I hate MT and dealing with this shit. I could go back to diaryland. You can't stop me.

B. Doot doot doot doot doo...It's Domestic!

Pumpkin starts. These will go up on the garage roof.

Nearby are the tomato starts, which were purchased at the edible plant sale at the front of this month. I didn't know they could stay in their wee buckets for this long.

The cucumbers are outside in cloches, and by cloches I mean all we were allowed to drink for two weeks was large bottles of Talking Rain.

Also, the coop is coming along. It is actually further along than this:

But this is the newest picture I have. It's going to be four feet by four feet and eighteen inches off the ground. We have it framed out and tonight we will put in the floor and broody box, I hope. I showed it to my friend JB today and he said his experience with chickens was with big old meat birds. We were talking about the stuff people do around here, me included, to make the "urban microfarm." I love that phrase.

Yesterday I picked up my second and last batch of chickens for the spring. I now have two Silkies and a Polish (I was inspired, KQ). I was going to just pick up two, one to replace my rooster and one for insurance policy, but these birds were straight run, so bets, watch me hedge them. I did a little wing-spotting, but feather sexing is a dicey game. ALTHOUGH five years ago I picked all pullets with my ghetto eyeballing, so we shall see. I have a soft spot for Silkies, so I hope they are both pullets.

Franny with white Silkie.

I wrote a piece a bit ago on the mudflap girl here and at Blogher, and what do I see yesterday?

Irony? An alternative for bear truck drivers? I dunno. I like it.

This is the same cockloaf who brought you Britney giving birth. All I can say to recommend this is that it's gold. I think this man should have a cock and balls tattooed to his forehead and all his profits should be forwarded to ME.

Moar tomorrow with pics.

ALSO. I now have one chicken whose comb is going all red. I've got rooster, which starts with an "r" which rhymes with "f" for FUCK I CAN'T KEEP THIS THING. Lucky for me I have a friend with a farm connection, so it's farewell, my cochin. I am afraid of going into the summer with only two hens, because lose one more and it's single psycho chicken syndrome. More chicks it is. How about I don't hit the ten percent sexing failure rate this time?

They are happy in their wardrobe box condo, with deluxe windows for peepery.

Last Monday I was walking around in Ballard and meeting a friend for breakfast when I walked by a giant condomomium with a fridge party outside. I was talking to a friend about our society and this urge we often have to steal anything that's not nailed down. Is that a by product of capitalism or is that just human nature? Anyway, I thought, OH YES, I could get one of those fridges into my trunk. I would like a freezer chest for real, though. I think being raised in the midwest made me think that was part of being an adult.

You get your meats and you put it in your ice box. NOM. Also popsicles.

Saturday night I was in the grocery store getting stuffs for brunch yesterday, and I saw this woman who looked young, decently dressed, and totally normal, except for the fact that she had a dog wearing clothes in the BABY seat of the shopping cart.

Why is thinking that your dog belongs in a grocery store baby seat not considered mental illness in this town? I was talking with my friend about this yesterday, and he mentioned the proliferation of "please don't bring your dog in here" or "service dogs only" signs on restaurants and cafes. It makes me CRAZY that people have to be told not to bring their pet into a restaurant. I am going to start asking about store's dog policies and see if I can encourage them to be clearer about it. You want dogs in your grocery store? Fine, I will shop elsewhere. QFC has taken a vocal no-dogs stance, and as much as I hate that place, at least they own up to it.

You want to have some company when you go out? Call a HUMAN, idiot. Blonde Maltese girl, I would much rather see you on your cel phone than having your stanky pantsless "life prosthesis" (as my friend says) rubbing its butthole all over the babyseat and shedding in the cart I may be using. UGH. I really hate the dog culture in this town. If you say something in a park about a leashless dog rampaging through the playground you get your head torn off. GROW UP and take some responsibility, and please don't assume that because your dog is "great with kids" I want your unknown beast near me.