Tag Archives: from the desk of coot

A day and another day and the day before

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I have about six drafts saved in here. Maybe you would have preferred to read “Take the Krugerrand and run.” But you won’t read that one. The subject was the best part anyway.

I am up to no good. Others were up to no good first, but I can’t change the situation, only how I Lord grant me the serenity, Britney. You can’t go home again, Britney. Especially when home is infested with menacing dust particles. Ask the dust. Ask away. The dust will tell you all about the Federal Reserve.

Today I had a green soda. I never have soda. But it looked so convincing in the case. It purported to be lime soda on the English label, but it was something else entirely. Battle kitty had a single black bean and part of a napkin. It was nice to walk in the sun.

My girl is the queen of the savages

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I bought a lovely pair of ballet flats in early 2005 and promptly ruined them two months later. When we toured the construction progress on our Indian Burial Ground, the ground was a bit marshy, and one shoe got sucked entirely off my foot. Foolish me, thinking a hard hat paired well with kicky flats. Where are Stacy and Clinton when I dress myself each day? They might have put the kibosh on the three shirts plus Nanook boots and rubber gloves joint from the other day. What can I say? I am always cold.

I found out that I have a vata problem. I used to be a nice corn-fed pitta with the moon eyes of a kapha, but now I am cold and crackly and speedy and have trouble falling asleep. I forget as quickly as I learn. And don’t get me started on how hard it is to be an Alpha. At least I am not infested with imaginary bugs, like my poor father.

Losing my slipper was only fitting though, since sucking and my real estate forays go hand-in-hand, hoof-and-mouth. I tried to sponge the mud off, but it didn’t really work. So I left the shoes in the back of my closet for two years. Duh.

Yesterday, I cleaned and polished them, and whaddya know, instant Spring! I also added up all our debt before I did this. All of it. I wrote it on a big piece of paper and stuck it on the fridge. Shame works wonders. I love to be shamed, don’t you? I’m your secretary. In summation, we owe every cent we take in before the end of the year to that piece of paper on the fridge. No, I can’t have new shoes. I am putting tiny human diminutive former primate to work on making me some, though. She is handy with an awl. She climbs the couch like a little ape and hangs upside down from my chest. One day I will give her power of attorney, and she will have to make decisions about my welfare. Until then, we Make Do and Improve.

This giant fungus is telling me to KILL

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My mom is in town for three days. Already she has achieved a new hot single for the greatest hits by releasing my ybab from the carseat while the car was moving. I guess something something never had something and turned out fine? I don’t know. I couldn’t even quite get to the bottom of it. Instead, I took the high road and screamed and kicked the side of the car. Yes, that high road. You know, under the sea! Hey, that cheerful crab is offering me a turn with the hookah. BBL!

Since you asked, LISA, gosh, nosy much!?

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Then there was some sleeping, and some life force draining, and more sleeping, and more life force draining. Laundry was not folded. Then phone calls were made because someone thinks speakerphone is soooo funny. A ybab yelled at Grandma, who said crazy things. “Well, maybe those veal were raised nicely.” Then Mr. H came home. He brought me a present! No, he didn’t, but he should have. Now we’re having “apple pie,” and we plan to watch ANTM. Life is small and precious, no?

In Frisco Bay there lived a whale, she ate porkchops by the pail

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A baby just survived two days of being awakened at untimely points by her grandmother. Her grandmother agrees that a baby is “high needs,” which I could have fucking told you. Each day is like juggling several rabid badgers and running chainsaws, although a baby allowed us to eat dinner the other night because she was too busy stuffing her feet in her face. My mother elaborated so much as to use the term “handful.” And this is coming from a person who never met an inconvenient, convoluted process that she didn’t like.

To wit: on her last baby-poking expedition, Mr. H sent my mother to the grocery store with a detailed map. She returned with bags of groceries. Mission accomplished. On this expedition, I offered to draw her a map to the store, but she said she remembered where it was. My instinct said “no, not so much,” but I let her go anyway. Three hours later, I was thinking about calling the police. Turns out she went to the wrong store last time. Over the state line, in New Hampshire. So in the process of attempting to mis-follow the original directions, she missed New Hampshire. Some people gave her directions, and she ended up at the store in the next town. An employee at that store then gave her directions to the store I had initially suggested. Then she went to that store. So three hours for two real and one imaginary stores isn’t so bad. I guess.

Can I get some unnecessary antibiotics with that condescension?

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The other day I made the big, huge, giant mistake of calling my parents to let them know we moved back into our house after a soggy two-week vacation in crapsville. I see now that I missed my chance to disappear forever, but live and learn. In passing, I complained to my mother about my aunt’s religious forwards, and I left instructions to never give my email address to anyone again, unless that person can prove he needs to contact me to award a genius grant. I mentioned my aunt’s helpful recitation about her grandson’s neck fold infections, and my mom ran with that. “Those kids have been on constant antibiotics, it’s no wonder!”

Wait. A tick. I seem to recall getting dragged to the doctorin’ hut (a walk-in clinic, we never had real doctors) for antibiotics for even a hint of a cold, or possibly seasonal allergies. Dr. Nick would protest “Is virus, no antibiotics,” but my mother would snort like a bull and cross her arms, and we’d leave with amoxicillin anyway. No thermal print out on the care of a sore throat involving mere salt water would be enough for her. Then we’d stop the antibiotics as soon as we felt better, and she’d give us the leftovers on the next cold. I think that’s the definition of how not to take antibiotics, unless perhaps you are also procuring your antibiotics from someone who runs the donkey show in Tijuana.

And let’s not forget the entire year I took tetracycline for acne when I was about thirteen. It never worked, and years later I found out that this was probably because my mom fed it to me each morning with a Carnation Instant Breakfast. She’s always been big on the “you have to eat breakfast” concept, although it’s perfectly OK if breakfast is a Little Debbie snack cake, purchased from the day old store. “As long as you have it with milk, for protein.” Whaddya know, dairy interferes with absorption. If you read the pharmacy label, you find things out sometimes.

I think I’ve taken antibiotics about four times in the last ten years, once I was left to arrange my own medical care.

On the flip side, my dad is now so paranoid about “Big Pharma” that he makes his own colloidal silver with a laser from a kit he bought on the internet. He attributes only daily colloidal silver consumption to his continued lack of death. Colloidal silver is a “natural antibiotic.” It can also turn you blue, but not according to his internet crackpot counter research.

But my mom stood her ground, and told me how babies always need antibiotics for a cold because of “secondary infections in their delicate little passages.” I mentioned that one of my annoying pediatrician interview questions was “Under what circumstances do you prescribe antibiotics,” and how I would rather not see someone who used them for the sniffles. This enraged her, and I got off the phone after that. Well, there was a diatribe about a conspiracy at her periodontist’s office, but I managed to think “meow meow meow meow” through most of that.

Today I finally got around to calling pediatricians. I got scoffed at for being “too close to my due date” to ask questions. I asked “So you mean my baby just doesn’t need a pediatrician then?” No, no, we just thought we’d berate you before making an appointment for an interview. I said “Fine, just assign me to the most attractive person in the practice, and I’ll call you once the baby’s here.” Then I called the next place. Same drill. Finally, I realized I was dealing with biddies, so I mentioned that I meant to do this sooner, but our house flooded. That was just the sympathy vote I needed, apparently. I’m all set up with Dr. Hot. If I’m going to have to listen to crappy mainstream parenting advice, it might as well be from someone incredibly comely.

Zero tolerance

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Our own problems are always the worst, right? I am an angry wolverine, ready to bite the next person who says they’ve had a hard day when what they really mean is “They were out of toasted coconut iced coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Whatever. At least I can poo, even with a parasite attempting to force all my internal organs up into my left arm somewhere. There are people in this world who don’t poo, you know. Poor kids in China. We’ll always have regularity.

My mother sadistically gave my email address to an aunt, and that aunt has been bombarding me with religious spam. Funny, right after this started, I GOT FORCED OUT OF MY HOUSE. Thanks, St. Theresa. Today’s installment slipped past the junk filter, and it also contains a gem about her grandson’s neck fold staph infection and her son and “his use of coffee grounds to grow beautiful blueberry bushes in his yard.” My cup, my cup, my cup runneth. Over. And around. And through. Behind and before. My cups actually leak now. That’s another problem for another day. The solution is a humiliating system of bra stuffing.

How many more disgusting things can I put in one post? I am dying to see what the sponsored links comes up with to go next to this one. Speaking of which, I am so glad I am monetized. No fair that you get to enjoy my bad mood for free!

And in our hearts we fly. Standby.

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It started with other people drinking before the sun was over the yardarm. Or maybe it started when Mr. H and I almost threw up on the plane. Turbulence. I don’t know.

At some point, I was asked if “THEY” were “satisfied” with the “progress” that the parasite has made. “No, of course not,” I replied. “I am having a weak and reedy child, sunken of chest. THEY feel I will have to heave a sturdy rock at its hideous visage shortly after birth.” Then there was a discussion of a custom closet system, not my first choice for conversation. “Did you MEASURE?” “No, of course not,” I replied. “Why would I measure to ensure custom results?”

Then there was the problem of more drinking and gross sexual harassment of a waitress and food covered in sauerkraut. I think that was supposed to be delicious. But again with the almost throwing up business. My primary tormentor wolfed down a plate of German potato salad and told a tale of meddling, which stemmed from describing a problem with her inability to gain satisfaction from the help file in Excel. “You have to know how to look things up!” Yes, yes you do. “I was in the checkout the other day, and there was this young kid doing the ringing, and he didn’t know what a Belgian Endive was. So I said ‘Look under witloof.'”

“Witloof?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s the Dutch word.”

“And this would help a checker in an American supermarket?”

“Well, I’ve seen it called that before. At Kroger!”

“Were you at Kroger?”

“No.”

“What were you doing with an endive, anyway?” I was suspicious, as it took this person nearly fifty years to try asparagus.

“It wasn’t mine, the lady in front of me had it.”

“So you injected yourself into someone else’s transaction and offered a bizarre foreign word to be helpful?”

“Well, she thought it was some kind of celery. So I said to try looking under Belgian Endive. And he still couldn’t find it, so I said he should try Endive Comma Belgian.”

“If you had been quiet, he would have entered it under either celery or general merchandise, and you would been able to leave two minutes sooner.”

“But that would screw up their inventory!”

***

It has taken me days to get over this trip. You really can’t go home again. Not without getting bombed back to one’s emotional stone age. There’s the judgment, the paranoia, the incoherent ranting about Big Pharma and how money will be worthless, the revisionist history of wrongs committed in childhood, and the great sucking need for connection that I don’t know how to answer. What does anyone want from me? What do I want from anyone? If someone likes me, is that enough reason to give my time to that person? What if you also owe that person $10,000 that you aren’t really good for? What if you are having a child, and someone assumes he or she will be a part of that child’s life, and all you can think of is how much you hope you don’t do to that child what was done to you? And the very prospect of repeating history keeps you up nights, in a soppy swamp.

Let’s pretend

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Let’s say that there is a lady who runs out of checks. She is a beautiful and kind lady. She has very healthy teeth. Full disclosure: she could use a pedicure. Anyway, this lady says “Hmm, I am out of checks. Although most of my bills are paid electronically, this could pose a problem.” She calls the check ordering company. They assure her that her checks will be there in a few days. They are not. So she calls back and complains. They blame DHL. DHL has never heard of these checks. So the lady waits a few more days, and then the lady has to pay her fucking federal taxes and quarterly taxes with money orders, like poor people. The lady waited til the last possible minute to get the cursed money orders, hoping against hope that DHL would come through. The lady comes home from mailing the money orders (which cost $3 each because she does not have a GOLD account). “Look,” says the friendly three-legged dog. There is a package from DHL! On the steps!

In other news, the teller at the bank thinks the parasite will be HUGE. The dry cleaning lady thinks the parasite will be TINY. Either I am a compulsive overreater, or I am starving the parasite. I can’t be sure. I should have gotten a third opinion from the grocery checker, but she was too busy drawing me in to a conversation on whether or not that was Eva Longoria on the cover of Scientific American. I asserted that it was. Because it was, and it also said “Eva Longoria” under the picture. She felt that Eva normally does not wear so much eye makeup, nor does she traffic in straightened hair. The bagger finally convinced her, and she mentioned that we could all change our looks so frequently if we had as much money as Eva. Damn the system. Some of us are just stuck being ugly.

Putting the fun back in funeral

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I called my parents yesterday since I hadn’t talked to crazy in a while, and my dad answered. He always sounds guilty when he picks up, as if he’s been rudely called away from dismembering a hooker. He said he was just finishing up manufacturing a batch of colloidal silver. Yes, at home, with lasers! Learned on internet! Can’t even talk about it!

I said “OK, that’s great, is Mom around?” He said she was sleeping, and we talked about the murderous dog, how fat the cat is, and all the rotten things the neighbors do. Somehow we got on the topic of bad news, and he said “Speaking of receiving bad news, how would you feel if your mother died, and I just had her cremated and told everyone later?” I said he should probably consult her prior to her death to see if she has any feelings on this topic. He said “Well, she would want a memorial, but I don’t want to see her relatives.” He’s right, of course, I don’t want to see them either. They are terrible. I said I would prefer to be notified in advance of the cremation, and he said “What, so you’d have to drop everything and fly down?”

I asked if he might want support from his children after losing his wife, and he felt sure that he would not. I said that if he’d sweeten the pot and have the dog cremated along with her, that would make it worth my time for a visit. So we left plans along the lines of handling the death of pharaoh, where the household goes too. He’s going to be so disappointed when I don’t agree to club him and burn the house down at the last minute. That house is paid in full; there’s no way I’d burn it down.

When I got off the phone, he said he’d have my mother call back later. She never did, and then I started to wonder if he’d been hinting around the whole time. I told Mr. H, and he thought about it, and we agreed we wouldn’t put it past him. But she emailed me this morning, apparently alive. I told her she might want to make a will and give me a copy if she wanted anything fancier than being put in a paper bag and set in the mirrored fireplace. Of course this is a useless argument if he’s just impersonating her, and she’s tucked in the guest room, A Rose for Emily-style.