On their website, iBill.com claims that they are the “leader in e-transactions”. So then, let me give you one good reason not to buy anything from a merchant that uses iBill: their phone number is disconnected.

I discovered this when I tried to call the phone number on my credit card statement (the same one on their website) when I wanted to inquire about the mysterious continuous charges I’ve been receiving from a transaction I have never authorized (gradesaver.com- an apparent report paper cheat site). Luckily, the charge was only five odd dollars every month, but it�s still a mild irritation that I have had to cancel my credit card for the second time in a little over a year (the first cancellation was because my purse was taken from me at gun-point in the University District). I suppose this also means that it will be the second time in a little over a year that I have to file a fraud protection report with all three credit companies.

Oh well, the plus side of filing fraud protection reports is that I won’t be getting credit card advertisements for another year. I should also add that this is perfect timing as I received my first credit card ad since I was robbed just yesterday.

When I signed up for the Seattle P-Patch program a year ago, I thought the most appealing part of having a garden would be planting whatever vegetables I chose and watching them grow into plump, delectable produce for my consuming pleasure. Never did I imagine what joy I would derive from ripping up grass and other weeds. But needless to say, this is the best part of my garden. Screw the easy way of weeding, which consists of “Roto-tilling” the entire plot with an unwieldy machine from the pits of garden shed hell and then leaving the unearthed weeds to dry in the sun. No, this stressed college student prefers to plunk her ass down in the dirt and gleefully rip chunks of grass by the handfuls. And as I found out today, my dog apparently enjoys sitting next to me in the sun while airborne grains of dirt fleck her white fur.

So this is what part of my day was like. After months of having neglected my plot due to the dismal Seattle weather, daily demands of school work, and absolute laziness, I finally hauled myself, my dog, and my gardening gear up the road to my garden plot. The abandoned plot wasn’t completely alone as there were others here and there overtaken by grass, but mine was immediately identifiable by the twelve massive broccoli plants sporting bright yellow blooms. Overgrown broccoli is not a new sight to me, so I hunkered down into the dirt and settled in for a couple of hours work of weeding. And there I sat, happily ripping mounds of grass from the rich, soggy soil while the pleasant “spring” sun kept my back warm.

A savage soundtrack of dog fights and dog owners who believe in negotiating with their pets played over my blissful weed ripping. After an entire spring and summer of listening to the chaotic chorus of the dog run near my garden plot, I’ve learned to ignore most of the yips, yaps, howls and screams of dogs and their owners. However, my ears couldn’t block out one dog fight in particular. Vicious snarls from two large dogs echoed across the dog run, through the parking lot and over to my garden plot. The snarls continued to echo. And they continued some more. Finally, the voice of one of the owner’s could be heard over the violent dogs; “Penny! Now, Penny, you know that’s not good. Stop fighting with that other dog. Penny! Penny, if you don’t stop fighting with that other dog I swear I’m going to spray you with this hose here. Penny, don’t make me…”

I always thought it was horrible how some parents try to negotiate with their misbehaving children lest the child throws a temper tantrum and cries in public, but the ridiculousness of negotiating with a dog just goes to emphasize how ineffective this method is for children (who, hopefully, are much smarter than dogs).

The fight eventually ended with both owners dragging their dogs across the shit-encrusted dirt in opposite directions, both heading for their cars and hopefully out of the park and out of my life forever. Soon, Penny and her new friend left me alone with the mournful howl of a basset hound and a few abrasive yips of joy. Once again, peace enfolded my corner of the park as I adjusted my loose-fitting jeans lest the crack of my white moon should offend anyone wandering the gently curving woodchip pathways of the P-Patch.

Soon enough, a mother and her daughter appeared- no doubt church goers who decided to spend the wonderfully sunny afternoon wandering the park and playing at the playground. “Alison! Al-ee-son! Walking through gardens that don’t belong to you isn’t nice- you walk on the pathway.” I peered through my weeds and watched pensively as Alison continued to trample through gardens. “Alison, come over here! Look at this bug! Alison!” the mother cried frantically in a vain attempt at enticing the kid to step on the proper pathway. But Alison had no interest in a bug and so ran through a couple of more garden plots. She stopped at a plot across from mine a started stomping on my neighbor’s onions and lettuce. “Alison! Alison! Look at the bug I found over here!” the mother cried, running after her child. When she reached the scene of the crime, she yanked the child through some more onions and onto the woodchips. Then, she stared right at me and asked, “Do you have a problem?”

“Funny you should ask,” I replied, “I do.”

The mother glared icily at me, and I could tell she knew what I was thinking. I left it at that and went back to pulling my weeds and showering my dog with dirt, trying not to listen to the mother mutter about “how rude people are these days” as she dragged The Abominable Onion Stomper towards the playground.

Hey, Homie Ho

See what kind of trouble I get into when procrastinating? I tell you, it’s bad when I have too much homework to do.

When I applied for college, I applied only to the UW, but I remember being assaulted by a constant barrage of paperwork. There was the initial application form to fill out, along with an essay and a list of academic achievements, followed by an acceptance form where one had to declare that I would be in the Arts and Sciences College rather than the College of Engineering, etc. On the same form, I also had to disclose unnecessary information for statistical purposes. Did the UW really need to know what my sexual orientation and race were? Say I hadn’t fit neatly into the straight/white American ideal and had been a lesbian Native American/Hispanic (Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban)/African American/Other. As a high school student, I know I wouldn’t have been comfortable checking off all of those boxes and breaking down the percentage of my “racial heritage”. In reality, I wasn’t even comfortable checking off that I was 100% white; it made me feel guilty for my race. In what I now realize to be a failed attempt at retaliation, I chose the “Other” box and wrote “Euro-Mutt WASP”.

That barrage decreased slightly after I was accepted to the UW and had registered for classes. But once January shuffled around, the paperwork returned in the name of taxes and the FAFSA. As a poor student, taxes aren’t so bad- unless you have the unfortunate circumstances to find yourself in the complicated realm of the 1099-R and how the hell you’re supposed claim that thing. But then, that’s what Turbo Tax (and a high speed internet connection to “download” it) is for. A synopsis of the two years following my freshmen year would read: taxes, the FAFSA, correction to the FAFSA, an application into the English department, an application into the Comparative Literature department, more taxes, another FAFSA, another correction to the FAFSA, and another application into the Comparative Literature department because the Registrar lost the first one. All in all, things weren�t so bad after I had made it into the UW.

But then this year happened and I suddenly found myself knee-deep in paperwork. So far there has been/will be/might be if I’m not too lazy: an application for “graduating senior priority”, a graduation application, an internship application, an internship contract for credit, taxes, the FAFSA, a study abroad application, a third application into the Comparative Literature department because the Registrar lost my first and second one, a passport application, and an application for a student visa. And I haven’t even strayed into the world of the GRE and graduate admissions yet!

So this is what my life has come down to: a mass of paperwork and forms and filling out personal information in all capitals with blue or black ink in the white areas only.

I usually don’t get much in the way of spam on either of my personal e-mail addresses. The spam that I do get at work consists solely of ads for penis enlargement, horny college freshmen or anything Jewish related. The Jewish stuff is okay- being as I work for a bunch of Jews and I have yet to see anything along the lines of “h0t & h0rnie Jewish Mamas l00kin%g for @ G00d Time!”- but the other stuff is annoying as it’s clear the same two people (or perhaps it’s just one loser who runs two outfits) have nothing better to do than send 100 identical copies of the same e-mail with different headers each day (this is not an exaggeration!).

So, you can imagine my amusement when Tyler happened to show me the below spam for Soma. Is this real? Has Soma really stepped off the pages of Huxley’s book and into our everyday lives? Is this a government conspiracy?

A simple Google search has proven that there are a couple of spammy looking drugstore websites that do, in fact, sell a muscle relaxant known as Soma. As for whether this is a Bush Administration conspiracy– well, I’ll let you be the judge…

Update 10/11/2004: if you hotlink this image, you will be punished.

What a beautiful spring-like day it was in Seattle. I enjoyed a nice saunter to the HUB on Campus to grab a cup hearty soup before wandering around aimlessly and taking pictures. I didn’t end up taking too many pictures during my two-hour break, but I did enjoy the warm weather. I didn’t even have to wear a coat!

Apparently the pigeons were enjoying the weather as well. These two were certainly enthusiastic about a wire belonging to Flowers sign. Their fight over the wire lasted at least ten minutes before a third pigeon joined in. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to witness the rest of the fight and who the victor (if any) was since the bus rolled up just as the third pigeon decided that delicious looking wire was worth braving two of it’s fellow vermin.

Ever since I read Middlesex, I’ve found crocuses to be quite sexual. Yeah, I know; those crocuses are always so proud and erect, how can you not naturally draw a connection between them and sex? But I honestly never did make that connection before. But now I can’t even briefly think about them without sexual connotations. The funny thing is that it took me awhile before I realized the reoccurring motif of the crocus in Middlesex. Sure, the first time the motif appeared, I thought, “Wow, that’s a cool way to describe that.” And the connection Eugenides draws between crocuses and sex makes perfect sense: crocuses are the first flowers of spring, spring is deeply associated with mating and thus sex, and flowers are often deeply associated with sex. Thus, it’s easy to connect the dots to create a line that reads “crocuses and sex are connected.” However, Eugenides’ motif was so subtle and matter-of-factly placed that it carved a deep impression in the dark corners of my mind before I noticed it. Now I can’t get the blasted correlation out of my head.

I suppose it’s a true testament to Jeffrey Eugenides’ skill as a writer since his words made more of an impression upon me than Georgia O’Keeffe and her vagina flowers.* I’m not saying O’Keeffe is a horrible artist, since what she created was quite revolutionary for her time. However, the words of Eugenides stand out more in my mind than the constant barrage of O’Keeffe’s paintings I’ve encountered over the years. I find this quite interesting as most people would agree that images from paintings are more likely to stand out in one’s mind than images from books. And yes, I am quite partial to books and literature, but I often find that photographs and paintings can evoke powerful feelings byway of concrete imagery where books cannot. Though Eugenides certainly has done well to prove this isn’t always the case since I can’t get those damn crocuses and their sexual connotations out of my mind.

*It’s good to note here that there is a controversy over this topic, and that I don’t read her paintings as sexual repression like most critics who lean towards the sexual interpretation of her works.

Dear “Rattanack”:

I hope you enjoyed the embarrassment that ensued once members of your bulletin board saw the naughty picture courtesy of my boyfriend’s porno collection. Because you either lack any ethical convictions or are too dumb to realize the consequence of your actions, let me explain something to you:

I have made a selection of my photographs and words available on the internet for the enjoyment of others. However, this does not mean that said “others” can steal what I’ve made available. I take it personally when someone takes my photos or words and does not credit me as the author since this is a direct violation of my rights as the sole creator of those works. In the future, when you decide to directly link images (or steal them) make sure you note the origin of what you linked/stole out of common decency toward your fellow human being(s).

Furthermore, I’d like to remind you that I am also a student on at the University of Washington. Do you really desire to make enemies with someone who may share your classes and could potentially make you’re life a living hell quite easily? I didn’t think so. I don’t give a rat’s ass what your excuses and validations are for what you did, but I do want you to know that it was wrong and you offended me.

Dear Mr. Williams:

Ever since I first heard your poem, I was always struck with how un-useful your dependable wheelbarrow was. Although your poem isn’t very long and it’s rather hard to tell exactly what image you had in your mind, due to the stark contrast of the red against the white chickens, I’ve come to the conclusion that your wheelbarrow has an untarnished coat of paint. If you had ever chanced upon an encounter with a wheelbarrow that’s been used, you would know that the brilliant red of newness quickly dims to a more muted and earth-tone red.

Because of your oversight, I took the liberty of rewriting your poem so it conforms to my standards. I hope you’re not offended. If you are, however, please roll over in your grave three times and hit your head against the coffin wall three times more.

The Rusted Wheelbarrow

A Response and Parody by Mindy Messenger

nothing depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

rusted from rain

water

beside the black

roadside

It seems that everyone knows a crazy old cat lady. For me, there was a scary woman in the north university district (or, as I named it, “the university ghetto”) that always sat with my former landlord/neighbor on his overflowing porch of rusting and rotting junk. They would remain unmoving on the porch, even in the rain or during the winter, where they would watch the news on a blue and white 13″ TV late into the night. Because both she and my landlord pissed me off, and because she seemed to always be lurking outside my living room window, she earned the name “My Landlord’s Ho.”

My Landlord’s Ho was a reputed crazy old cat lady. She never used the term herself, but she had admitted to owning over ten cats (the number might have even been closer to twenty). In a fit of rage over the fact that she hadn’t taken proper care of my landlord’s cat while he was away, my landlord once disclosed to Tyler that his ho kept her cats separated into different rooms- some even in “compartments”. Since this is second-hand knowledge, I’m not sure what he meant by “compartments”, but I always had the image of cats stuffed in those large plastic Tupperware containers. Anyway, My Landlord’s Ho had a couple of living room cats, a couple of bedroom cats and a couple of bathroom cats, and I assume the most annoying were stored away in under-the-bed boxes. She separated her cats because she owned so many that they often fought with one another.

To this day, I conjure up images of what it was like before My Landlord’s Ho started keeping the cats locked up in different rooms and compartments. There must have been one time where there was a huge living room brawl where all ten+ cats screeched and hissed at one another as they flew to the center of the room in a giant orgy of claws and teeth. Fibers of upholstery and fur must have clouded the air in an impenetrable dust, while the weaker cats were tossed against walls and the floors, kicking up the smell of sour cat piss forever soaked into the rotting floor and carpet.

It’s images like this that make me wish there were more crazy old dog ladies in this world. But you never hear stories about them, only stories about people like My Landlord’s Ho. I think this world might be a better place if there were more crazy old dog ladies. I doubt it’s that hard to become a crazy old dog lady; there certainly are dogs smaller than cats these days (my dog being one of them). Besides, at least you can house train dogs and don’t need to live in a house full of stench-filled litter boxes. All you need to do is fence in your yard and install a doggy door and you’re good to go. Of course, there are minor setbacks- like having dogs that dig and burglars that can squeeze through a dog door. But I’m being hypothetical here. Even with the consideration of what troubles you’d have when owning over ten dogs, at least you won’t have furniture and door jambs that have been shredded to bits.

When I grow up, maybe I’ll do a great service for this country and become a crazy old dog lady. I’ll own a house and surround my decent-sized yard with a six foot fence. Then I’ll spend my solitary days relaxing on my porch in a rocking chair and idly throwing a dirt and saliva covered ball to one end of my property. The thought of sitting in the sun with a drinking glass full of vodka and watching ten frantic dogs run over each other in pursuit of a ball is rather appealing.

Replace the dogs with children and you have the typical backwoods Mormon family I grew up near. Maybe that’s why the idea is so appealing- it’s like the frantic sibling-filled days I envied my Mormon schoolmates for. Of course, I have no intention giving birth to that many kids, so dogs seem like a fitting substitute. And on the rare days that I feel my life is meaningless and I’m crazy for owning so many dogs, I can just dress them up in some random doggie outfits and pretend that I’m a Mormon with a house full of children.