photographs on trial

July 29, 2017

So this is a picture of me in a dirndl and braces at sixteen. I was part of a church play. It is probably the most embarrassing picture of me in the world.

If ever I am a politician you’d like to quietly get out of the way with some compromising photography, know that you will have to work hard and dexterous to lower the bar.


Despite the more than adequate efforts of a lot of good kind people that I have enjoyed throughout my adulthood, nobody has had quite the success at getting me to eat something that my dog does.

She just flops down in front of me and stares at me until I go get something to eat, and give her some. I kind of have no trouble believing that the nanny in Peter Pan was exceptionally efficient.

get fudz


This morning I learned that I do not know how to open a can of freezer rolls.

At thirty three years of age I stood alone in my kitchen and gradually lost my shit over the instructions. Press spoon against seam? What spoon? Any spoon? What seam?

I considered waking my husband up to consult him. I considered texting a friend. I considered looking it up on the internet. Then I decided that I am a strong independent grown ass adult with a mind of adequately enquiring bent, and I could probably figure it out. Apparently scores of other humans have been managing this just fine for years, I have not actually encountered any stories of anyone else having difficulty with this task, or of anybody losing an eye to a particularly explosive spoon/seam press.

So I got a spoon, not exactly any spoon, it was selected specifically for its sturdiness, and began pressing it against the seam. After a few attempts at what were clearly the wrong angles, (why is there not a picture or diagram or something), there was an utterly satisfying pop and a bunch of pillsbury dough poofed out of the can. Seldom I am sure has victory ever been so sweet.

Because, pastries.


Muwaha. The days between now and my weekly Saturday morning butterhorn are looking a lot shorter all of a sudden.


a go-go

July 24, 2017

One of the girls I always talk to in Spanish class came in today wearing a Gwar t-shirt, setting off a cavalcade of reactions in my brain, which had only been awake for about forty minutes.

Firstly, I thought, oh Gwar! I haven’t thought about Gwar for awhile. I only know about Gwar from Empire Records. I haven’t watched Empire Records in like eight years.

Almost simultaneously I was thinking, wow, you really never can tell who’s going to be into what music. My (admittedly limited) exposure to Gwar fans (see: Mark/c[?] from Empire Records) had prepared me for someone younger, whose clothes fit a lot worse and whose hairstyle is on the opposite end of the spectrum. Probably they are getting high a lot and skateboarding down handrails. I tend to think of them (apparently, as this was the first time I was thinking of them at all) as whippersnappers. This girl has floral patterned notebook binders and always looks sparkling and beautiful, even at the very beginning of class, which is at the very beginning of what might decently be called the day. She always dresses nicely, always has her homework done on time, and always has a neat little nutritious homemade lunch to eat while the rest of us scarf granola bars like animals. I tend to think of her as a lady.

Then she took off her cardigan, and my brain did a back cartwheel and landed on its ass laughing at itself, oh my god all that thinking for nothing (and so early in the morning too). She smiled at me brightly. ¬°Buenos dias! Her t-shirt, her entire t-shirt, read:


year of the dog

July 11, 2017

Today is Mia’s birthday, mas o menos, according to her intake papers. The humans being as they are in our household, a sort of a big deal was made.


This is a cake. It is a meat cake. This means that I touched raw hamburger with my fingers, although when the time came it appeared that I wasn’t actually ok with it touching my mini cake pan. A lot of personal bucking up occurred, and I decided the hamburger would go into the pan tinfoil first. I just sort of baked it according to meatball instructions, and it actually turned out super cute. That is sweet potato frosting, and festive sprinkles a’la ye olde vegetable medley.

te presento

Mia sat like a statue while we very quietly sang happy birthday so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear us and know for sure that we were that kind of people. Such a mannerly dog when the potential for chow exists.


She was sitting so hard she basically bunnyhopped from sitting inside to sitting outside, an arrangement cleverly managed to avoid mash all over the floor. Not that we should have worried. Everything basically disappeared directly into her face.


Lucky, of course, celebrated in her own way.


We also ‘resurrected’ Sharkie, which means that we went to Ikea and bought another one, like the lying humans we are. The ‘reunion’ was a touching affair, radiating as much sincerity and violence as when long lost dragons meet.


I like to dream that one day far in the blissful future I will look at this picture and think, ‘I can’t even imagine that our dog ever destroyed a carpet quite so thoroughly.’

Year one: so far so good.

My version of save the cheerleader save the world.


Yes it really does relate, the dog sweat smell over here could very well bring down kingdoms and principalities.

Today I had two kinds of pie for breakfast.

pi are round

Long live that truest American dream, the breakfast of champions.