Sunday, June 29, 2014

Autocorrect Pride

I would like take this opportunity to celebrate my supremacy over autocorrect. It is gay pride season, after all. 

You might think those two things have little to do with each other, but you'd be wrong, for I have turned my autocorrect gay. It now turns
"feel" into "grrl"
"such" into "Sugo" (a charming Italian restaraunt which is totes gay)
"whatever" into "whatevs"
"dream" into "dress"
"nbd" into "lbd" (I talk a lot about dresses, for a grrl who rarely wears them)
"duck" into "fuck" (It used to do the opposite, but I slapped it around some)
"bicycle" into "Bikini Kill" and
"chicken" into "hickey."

Ok, that last is my wife's autocorrect, but whatevs. My autocorrect knows how to spell tom kha gai and wouldn't dare try to suggest any other thing because it's my bitch, and it finally understands me.

Happy pride, people!

Monday, June 23, 2014

Bizarro Chores

Sometimes, in the midst of my whacked out life, I realize I'm not normal. I don't know what normal is, but I'm fairly certain that it involves chores like:
-walk the dog
-buy milk
-iron shirt
-pick up car from repair shop.

My chores are:
1). . . 
(We have no dog--thank Jesus.)
2) go to Safeway approximately 2x a day for the remainder of life to get things no one realized we needed, but now must urgently have. And they are nothing so bland as milk! They are: limes and cupcake papers and Spider-man toothpaste which cannot ever be any other kind of toothpaste because if, perchance, a mistake is made in the area of toothpaste, Armageddon shall occur. Nothing about the Safeway trips is simple. Everything requires a consult, as below.

3) I don't iron. Who has time?
4) Tell B about estimate for car repairs so she can call and talk them down. (I am not allowed to do anything before she has a chance to talk them down.)
5) Put ping pong table up against garage wall, because it is always out, not against the wall, due to my ping pong/bubbly combo habit, and it is either -2 or 105 sodding degrees out, and we would be fools to park in the driveway.
6) Order new bench cushion because the old one got yucked by filthy water from a burst pipe, and then we washed the cover, but it shrank even though we hung it to dry. Of course, the bench cushion cover arrived and looks NOTHING like the picture, so now the bench clashes horribly WITH ITS OWN CUSHION. Truly, I have never seen anything so wrong.

This all is boring. Let me tell you something more interesting. Tonight, we attempted to organize the Legos. B tends to call Legos "Lego" in the collective singular, which for some reason I find hot.

"Let's discuss the Lego," she will say, since it is the bane of our existence, and we forever seek a solution.

"Oh? Only the one?" I will say, with a flirty grin.

Before you know it, we are off to the races, having quite the date night.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

I am a liberal fuckwit.

Here is the evidence:
1) I think, in actual, human thoughts, "I hope the cleaning lady doesn't know Ari's gender! Perhaps we should work harder on the identifiers. He doesn't have any skirts!"
2) I have a pot rack, with ridiculously-expensive, mother-fucking pots, and I put it up myself, like every other liberal fuckwit who is trying/not trying to take a job from somebody.

3) I have a cheese grater hanging from my pot rack, because I eat a lot of stinky cheese to try to pretend I'm not American and insist, in my liberal fuckwitted-ness, on taking jobs from/liberating cheese graters, too.
4) I used to be dirt poor, so I can say all this and then also say shit about how I walked dogs to buy food, but made the dogs hold it so I could babysit and tutor. (Poor puppies!)
5) I am too. . . I forgot.
6) I have poor-ass, white-trash, Texas roots, but deny them when pressured by Yankees, even though have constant, secret urge to shoot a really big mother-fucking gun. (Shh! Is not very liberally fuckwitted to be into guns, which of course, I am certainly not. Whatsoever gave you that idea?)
7) I hate everyone (see above, re: gun).
8) except my peops. That's right! Reinventing elitism right here, in case it had been endangered!
9) I had to change my shirt, which is from a non-profit, liberally-fuckwitted (but actually really wonderful) organization, the other day because Ari can now sort of read and said, "mommy, what's a sex worker?"

10) I grow own lettuces, and act/sometimes feel like that is meaningful on global level, because own ego is so enormous.

11) I received the above texts from a friend yesterday, and I knew exactly which two "prized ideologies" she meant (polyamory and Marxism--duh!) but had no idea if she meant South Africa, the nation, or the grrl from said nation she's been virtually dating. 
11a) Then, I became suddenly worried had missed some international news event in which South Africa was a pain in the ass, and that I'd embarrass self somehow for not knowing. So, naturally, went on frantic news search before even finished reading message.
12) I have a super sleek orange computer with a hot pink disco ball inside, and it sits on top of a kitten coffee table book to keep its vents clear of carpet. Oh, and, just in case that's not pretentious enough: the kitten book is in French!

13) I just had a debate with B, about whom to root for in the World Cup, which included the following sentences:
13a) "not the United States! We're awful!"
13b) "not Italy, because they're jerks."
13c) "Mexico would be good. They're not elitist, and" (condescendingly) "it'd be so good for their economy."
13d) "Ari says we should root for Russia, and we're all Russian, but Putin's been such a dick, lately."
As if, at some time, he has been less of a dick.
14) I use British, sodding, curse words even though have been to London exactly one time for approx 48 hours.
15) I'm working on my novel.

Friday, June 6, 2014

Summer Wine Groove #6

Song: "Cut It Out," by Kitten

Wine: El Xamfra Brut Cava, no vintage

You shouldn't pay more than $15 for this cava. With my New Year's resolution to never run out of bubbly, I've found a zillion cheap, delicious proseccos and cavas. This is a cava that tastes like a prosecco, and since prosecco is a bit pricier and yummier, it's a steal. The label is also cute. I drink it so often, I sometimes see it in my dreams, though perhaps should not admit.

The song is by a newish group. The lead singer is like 17. She started playing bass when she was 10. It was her first instrument, and it shows, here. The bass line is cute as hell, and the song has many other fine qualities, including:
-a Robert Smith-y guitar line
-a killer 16 beat drum intro to the chorus
-an absolutely sick drummer to drive in the above
-various riot grrl elements. (Only it's prettier, which is good because I'm actually not a riot grrl, no matter how I try. I'm more of a disco diva, or a dancing twink. Sigh--I can't be a badass all the time.)

It's a love song--to someone or some drug. I did a lot of research, and it's still unclear which, but with a chorus like that, who cares? It's subtle--the kind of song you think is conversational background until one day after you've heard it a few times, you wake up at 3:18 am and must immediately listen to it. So, you know, you end up on the porch in your fuzzy, polka dot robe, so as not to wake your loved one with the headphones maxed out. Only, of course you wake her anyway, and then you end up having to tell her what's up because she's worried when all you wanted--no, needed--was be alone with your song at 3:18 am. Is that so much to ask, universe?? Evidently.

I think that's all I have to say about that. Except the YouTube link is not the official video because I think vids are distracting. I mean, how can you hear properly when you're watching?

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Shit my students wrote (I stole this line from some dude, but I have students, too.)

Luck lurks

in the midst of a war
Some people fade away
but others are on

Sixth grade, people. Who's on fire? She is! That's what I told her, anyway.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Soul Work

This post is about gardening. Just in case unclear. 

I walked home from work today because B had the car because Ari had a half day, and she took him to the aquarium. We have only one car because we only need two every six months. I keep meaning to get a bike, but I want a Vespa, and B worries I will die. I keep trying to tell her a Vespa is not a motorcycle, but a scooter, and when she does that whole search-the-interwebs-for-scary-statistics-to-dissuade-your-loved-one-from-buying-a-motorcycle-so-she-doesn't-die thing, she needs to be searching for scooters in particular, because everyone knows the people who ride scooters are math nerds, and the people who ride motorcycles are Hell's Angels. And those are different people.

Anyway, she wants me to buy a bike that you pedal. We are at a stalemate, and nobody has bought anything, so I walked home. It's four miles, mostly along park trails. I could have gotten a ride with a colleague, but I can't stand that shit. You have to make conversation, and I've just been conversing with 150 twelve-year-olds all day. I could have waited for B and Ari to pick me up, but I hate waiting. It's actually rather a disability of mine.

But, damn it, the point is, I saw a beaver. A big, mother-fucking beaver. I'm not using a euphemism here, people. (I wish. . .) I am talking about the animal. He might have been larger than Ari. He saw me and, absurdly, ran away, so that I could not take his picture. Why he ran, I do not know. He could have wiped the floor with me. This was on the tennis courts of the high school near the school where I teach. There wasn't anywhere for him to hide, especially given his girth, but he managed, in spite of weighing 2,000 lbs, to move quickly. He was under the bleachers before I knew what was up. The end.

Only, there is more. I used google maps' satellite thingy to not get lost on my walk home. I've worked in same school for two years and lived in same home for I don't know how many, but I have that disability, too. Directions and patience lacking. The google maps' satellite thingy rocks. Here, look!

                        Real Path

Google Maps' satellite thingy, with beaver-sighting tennis court.

Look at that geometry, people!
It totally turns me on. I mean: Vespa-rider wannabe over here.

Onto the gardening. My friend Mara visited this weekend, and I showed her my lettuces, and she said, "Oh, you have a green thumb!" I was extremely excited about this. Mara is one of those people who knows how to do everything, and when you try to tell her something new, something you're good at, she already knows it. So, I was pretty psyched about this compliment. Because, of course, Mara is an excellent gardener. Honestly, I'd like to see the shit she plants not grow. It wouldn't dare. Mara has like seven siblings and raised them all, which is a feat, I tell you, given I am a grown woman barely keeping my one child alive. In the process of raising all her siblings, she learned how to do everything ever. It's kind of annoying, but not when she says I have a green thumb. Then, it's all good.

So, I bought this lime tree. I ordered it on Amazon. I wanted to find a seed, and I wanted it to be organic, but failed on both counts (lime shortage). I eventually gave up on that pipe dream and figured I would detox it from fertilizer in my organic soil after a few seasons. I also decided to get one that was 4-5 years old, so I could have fruit now. 

                        Lime "Tree"

Well, that didn't work. I wasn't paying attention when I ordered or something because when the box came, it was about the size of a champagne box. And then when I took the tree out, I was all like "where's the rest??" This led to a dilemma. This wasn't the tree I'd expected, but I couldn't just toss it. It was a living being! I needed to help it out. It had some holes in its leaves (B called it "half-eaten") and some kind of fungus, too. I had space for only one lime tree, and this had to be the one, unless I wanted to become a murderer. No, thank you.

I put it in an enormous pot with my detox soil and sprayed it with some baking soda/dish soap mix (for the fungus) and hoped for the best. The holes in its leaves didn't disappear, but there were no new holes, and the fungus went away almost immediately. It is definitely looking better, though still tiny. It'll be years before we get limes, and by then the shortage will be over. Still, I'm happy. 

Gardening is miraculous. I had no idea. I just wanted better salads. When I was reading about gardening last summer, I kept coming across this concept of being anti-automatic watering because it makes you spend less time with your plants. I thought that was bananas. I mean, they don't even speak English--get a grip! As time passed, I realized what it meant was that with time spent you notice things, like how the holes in leaves are doing, and you (if not a sociopath) develop a love thing. This motivates you to water that shit, moderately, three times a day, when you could just drown it once. It makes it so you can't forget them. It's like the natural order or some such. 

When Mara said I had a green thumb, I was thrilled because of the source, but even more so because of the task. Gardening is soul work; it's hard as fuck. Every part of it is heavy and tedious. There's so much kneeling--it makes you shake. It makes you smell like actual shit. Ain't nothin' dirtier. But when you eat that lettuce, you taste your own love, in your mouth. You eat it. What other thing can do this? Tell me. Because I wanna do that, too.