I’ve worn many hats in my life. I’ve been a daughter, sister, writer, tutor, advisor, girl scout, first out, Nutrition Nazi, New Age Mama, jackass, sassafrass, weirdo and WILF—(that’s, “Wife I’d Like To F-“), all at various points throughout the years.

Of all these plethora of hats, the one I liked least—the one I don’t talk about—was a purple hand-knit, hand-me-down I wore when I was 9.

In Florida around September, you can buy warm fleece mittens, scarves and hats from Gap bins for nearly nothing. That’s because the kids who live here have no use for them. Florida kids grow up learning to surf and use sunscreen. They know *nothing* about donning twelve layers—long johns, wool socks, wool hats, snow pants, whatever—just so you can step out your front door on a cold, winter morning.

In deed, the only blizzards Florida kids are ever exposed to come in paper cups and are sold at the DQ for two bucks a pop.

But Alaskan kids, they are hardcore. Growing up, I can’t tell you the number of times I had to walk five miles to school in a snowstorm.

… Mostly because I never did—have to walk five miles in a snowstorm, that is.

Contrary to popular belief folks, I’M NOT CRAZY!

But yeah, I did have to walk like 50 feet to the bus stop on more than one brisk-ass occasion.

And that was hell.

… But of course actually riding the bus, once it got to the stop, was worse.

And it was on the bus that the purple hat shit went down (when my lunch came up).

It was a clear, cold day, probably in the 20s. Like all the other kids on Bus 13, I was wrapped tight in my winter clothes like a Vienna sausage in a Pillsbury cresent roll. On top of my head was the lilac hat, entirely too conical, but warm nonetheless.

Five minutes from home I started feeling it. My stomach rumbled and the chunks began rising in my throat. Eyes wide with horror, I realized I was about to become that kid.

I was about to become The Kid Who Barfed On The Bus.

Panicked, I nudged my seatmate who only gave a cursory glance, being as she was otherwise engaged in showing off her stickerbook collection to the seat behind us.

No matter though, in a matter of seconds I had her full attention.

Like a 21-gun salute, I omitted a series of burps that erupted from my mouth just moments before the spew did.

In retrospect, I should’ve vomited on my seatmate. After all, in my later years—aided and abetted by such wonderful concoctions as candy + keg beer—I became very good at puking on people. (Just ask Bliss, Justin, Michiel, Anne, Andy, Blake, Tony, Eric, Smug, etc.)

But no, inexplicably, on Bus 13, in the interim between belch and barf, I’d ripped the purple hat from my head and was using it as a receptacle.

… And then I gave the hat full of yack to my mom.

And then she understood why I never got into the gifted program at school.

The end.

So I went to the library today, which is—next to being lodged underneath some sweaty Goth’s cavernous armpit at a My Chemical Romance show—my favorite pastime.

And I know you’re like WTF.

I mean, a writer who likes books? Who woulda thunk it?

Shiiiit son.

But seriously, the library to me is like a strip club to sex fiends.

I think the only difference is, I don’t get particularly put off when the object of my attention is on its periodicals.

But yeah, so I’m at the library today and I walk up to this counter that says “Returns.” I’m carrying this stack of overdue books, so I toss them onto one of eight piles of paperbacks stacked 15 deep.

Behind said stacks is a woman who appears to be a librarian—the giveaway: she’s processing the returned books, running that pen-looking thing over the barcodes and placing them on some sort of rolling cart.

And I ask this librarian, “Hey, do you know where I can find This Organic Life: Confessions of an Urban Homesteader? I’ve been looking, but I haven’t seen it.”

Dead serious, the librarian answered:

“Check in non-fiction 648. If you can’t find it there, you’re going to have to ask a librarian where it is.”

…

And I just stood there, dumbfounded.

I mean, who the eff was this imposter manhandling the bestsellers? Isn’t that a librarian’s job?

Noting my deer-in-the-headlights gaze, the Woman Who Was Not A Librarian attempted to qualify her statement about why I should seek professional help (literarily speaking) with:

“This place is just filled with books!”

And that my friends, was the understatement of the year.

Last night I had a dream. And that alone is pretty impressive, because —while I’m pretty good at daydreaming (about vegan brownies and boys who wear makeup *yum*)—I hardly ever have the kind of dreams that occur in the nighttime.

And when I do, they are often of the nightmare variety.

This is upsetting … mostly because I don’t care for horses. Those big-ass eyeballs are totally terrifying. Given the choice, I’d much rather have nighthares than nightmares.

Because let’s face it, Peter Cottontail really isn’t that creepy.

Anyway, the most amazing part of last night’s dream was the eff. I don’t remember what my companion did to warrant such an outburst, but for some reason I screamed it at the top of my lungs.

“Eff you!” —that’s what I said.

But actually I didn’t say “eff,” not exactly.

Quite out of character, I said the real thing. And there aint nothing like the real thing, baby.

That’s right, dear hannihaus readers, last night your mistress uttered the naughty, naughty.

In my dream, I said: EFF-YOO-SEE-KAY

And I would never use that word in real life.

That’s partly because its sounds retarded coming out of my mouth. I mean some folks sound all awkward-like when they drop the F bomb. They’re like giddy little girls teetering in their mommy’s heels. And since I’m twelve, I should probably stick with the flats, metaphorically speaking.

Another reason I don’t use the f- word is, that I am a lady.

…

And I’ll kick the dumb slut’s ass who says otherwise. Shit-talking, jackass, dickhead, motherfunky, hellcat beyotches can kiss my left nut. Well, except I don’t have a damn left nut, but you bastards get my drift.

Til next…adieu!

—–
Update: ok its 12:43pm on 06.06.06. I currently have 6 comments in the que and i’ve 666 hits so far today. Creepy? Mayhaps.

Every couple months or so, I get a nastygram. Sometimes they’re warranted, most times—ref. the infamous Hänni Horseface— they’re not. And the topic that gets folks most hot and bothered is the assumption that I, your kind and gentle mistress, have an unfair bias.

Shhh, the critics say, George Bush may hate black people, but …

*gasp*

Hänni hates fat people!

… And I’m sorry, but that’s just not true.

Not even a little bit.

Seriously, eff that shit.

On my list of things Hänni hates, fat people don’t even rank. Look:

If you examine figure A. Retarded.Graph, you’ll notice there’s no “fat folks” on it. Know why? Because—unlike the cocktail wieners that are contributing to my irreconcilable bitchiness—those of us who are overweight do not give me particular pause.

And I resent people accusing me otherwise.

The god’s honest truth is, I don’t care if you’re seven pounds or 700 pounds—If you think fart jokes are funny, then you’re alright with me.

A hannihaus reader asked, what’s my beef against fat people?

My answer is pretty simple: I don’t have one.

On a walk the other day, I crossed paths with an acquaintance. We’ll call this guy, Senor Pantalone.

Senor Pantalone has always struck me as strange. To start, he’s got this Charlie Brown face—completely nondescript and entirely featureless save for two black holes where his eyes should be. And when he walks, he often stumbles. It’s like there’s a hiccup in his step, it’s like he’s a wind-up toy running out of motion.

And I don’t know S. Pantalone that well—like I said, he’s an acquaintance—but what I do know is, his peculiarity extends past his faceless face and the stop-and-go gait.

Case in point: the other day, out on the walk, I noticed he was wearing lady’s pants.

And not just any lady’s pants.

The Senor, (who is fairly slim), was wearing lady’s fat pants.

Said pants were pastelly gray and made of a cheap, stretchy knit most commonly seen in the women’s athletic department at stores like Wal-Mart, Target or Sears. The legs, straight and long were stovepipe style with no taper at the ankle—a look favored by those XX’s who are reticent to accentuate meaty calves.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, the Senor’s pants were strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.

*ba dum bum ching—thank you, I’ll be here all night*

But yeah, we parted ways and I didn’t think any more about S. Pantalone’s pantalones … until I saw him next … and he was wearing lady’s fat pants again(!).

These ones were identical to the first, except for the color which was pale lavender/light denim.

And I wondered, where on earth was this man getting these large lady’s pants?

The most obvious answer was that the pants belonged to his wife. The only problem with this theory is: dude is divorced.

But still …

Though I never met the missus, the children—the little Pantalones— they are chunky monkeys. If forced to wage a guess, I’d say their mom was too.

Senor Pantalone *had* to be wearing Mom’s pants.

And I bet those stretch pants are what sent the couple careening toward splitsville.

Here’s how I imagine things went down:

One night, deep in conversation, Senior Pantalone probably told his wife he wanted to wear the pants in the family.

And that would’ve been fine by wifey except …

the pants S. Pantalone wanted to wear were hers.

And she probably wasn’t into that.

But I digress.