Tag Archives: shenanigans

Poo corner

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Yesterday, we foolishly tired of our air conditioned home and ventured out for a walk. You know, after a long drive. We had heard that a certain New England town, which I’ll call Concord since that’s what everyone else calls it, was quaint. But apparently there is a town ordinance there that requires everyone to bike in the damn road while swaddled tightly in Spandex. Lance Armstrong may have a vested interest in protecting his remaining testicle, but you’d think all those virile square-bottomed investment bankers could play a little fast and loose.

When we were nearly run off the road by yet another SUV (in this case, an H2) passing cyclists who insist on riding side by side (because CARS DO THAT ALL THE TIME WHEN THEY ARE FRIENDS, it’s true), we decided we’d had enough. Concord is now on the list of places to which I’m never going back, including Rockville and home again. Instead, we went to a farm, where a sheep did something offensive to my hand.

926: Don’t you wish you had brand recognition like me?

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Yesterday I was working at a coffee shop like an asshole does, and I messaged Mr. H to say “Guess what, I’m at a coffee shop without a ybab.” And he freaked out, assuming I had gone into some sort of fugue state and left her chained to the fridge at home while I decided to have a mocha. What a vote of confidence in my maternal skills! Then a friend came in with her daughter and looked similarly alarmed. Sheesh. Don’t you let your kids play in abandoned appliances while you’re at the loser fake office? No no no. Other wife or the chupacabra had her. I think. I don’t know. I pay someone, and I pretend I don’t count the pain pills in the medicine cabinet.

I am not as much of an asshole as the women sitting next to me, though. One of them had a daughter named Linda Pam. I clutched at the air upon eavesdropping this, thinking I had just accidentally fallen a dozen states into Alabama. Linda Pam is the proud recipient of a bag of her mother’s used sandals. Linda Pam’s mother is not really a size 6; I found out when she went to the counter to get something. The others in her coven see right through her assertions.

There is no real point to this post, but I wanted to work in how two birds collided in mid-air and died before they hit the ground my window. It was a thing to see. Ybab wanted to pet the birds. No no no no! No dead birds! What does the live bird say? Cheep? Who are you calling cheap? What does the Tiger say? Meow. Sure it does, Linda Pam. Your face is your fortune.

924: I’ll give you something to cry about

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Dearest innernet, I realized that I have been remiss in apprising you of my widdle doings. It’s not on purpose. I just get caught up in other things. You know, day trading, taste testing yogurts, macrame. I have two eyebrows, and they BOTH need my attention. So get in line.

Last week, I threw my back out by, er, well, never mind. Did I mention Mr. H has lost four pounds? Just as this was mended thanks to tough love from my chiropractor, I was felled by strep throat. I have spent countless minutes trying to take a picture of the back of my throat, for it is truly a remarkable vista. Think the surface of the moon, white and pocked, a fragile crust wrapped around a molten core of pure agony. This is by far the most disgusting thing that has ever happened in my mouth. And that’s saying a lot, given “the nineties” and that time I had oral surgery and found a spare sixteen yards of gauze crammed somewhere back there.

So who knows what the next week will bring? Right now, it’s all over but the whining and a few more days of antibiotics. I am going to unionize for more sick days. Ybab still had the nerve to expect to be fed and entertained while I was feeling poorly! As I sprawled on the ground, drifting in and out consciousness, shirt off to allow her to eat once in a while with no actual effort from me, I wondered if my soon-to-be dead corpse would continue to produce milk to at least tide her over until Mr. H got home from saving orphans with Angelina Jolie or whatever it is that he does these days. Can you believe ybab doesn’t know how to make an omelette yet? I have to go look that up, post-mortem lactation. Google, get ready for me! I want to be number 1 for “post-mortem lactation” now. Get to linking.

917: Dine in affordable chic

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I got an email imploring me to do just that. They must mean continue doing exactly what I am doing: eating a bagel while not wearing pants while ybab scavenges for sesame seeds. I can afford this! And certainly it is chic. I am sure celebrities do this all the time, when they aren’t busy doing other things that they also do.

I get many more emails than just advertisements from Worst Elm. The mind boggles. People feel I should do work at a schedule of their own choosing. Other people feel the need to be unreasonable about things pertaining to my personal life. Hi! Hi! I am going on an email boycott soon. I am going to print out each email I receive and shred it. This is the greatest idea since individually wrapped cheese slices. The alternative is to start telling people off, but that is the equivalent of eating a giant block of chocolate. It feels good at the time, but then things start to chafe. The Chafing of the Consequences. This is a national tragedy.

913: they see me rollin’

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Someone is big. Someone walks around holding one finger of my hand. Someone waves haughtily like a figurehead of the monarchy as we stroll downtown. Someone claps at the end of “Goodnight Moon” and when the waitress brings the chopsticks.

We haven’t yet tried this, probably because I like to believe in the illusion of the human soul. That link is so several days ago anyway. I have been too busy breathing into a paper bag to tell you things.

Developments

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Ybab was just carried screaming down the hall by the chupacabra. I told the chupacabra that the way to shut off the screaming is to sing “Let’s all go to the lobby, let’s all go to the lobby, let’s all go to the lobby to get ourselves a treat.” Why not, eh? It probably won’t work, but it will be funny.

I am exhausted from a round of “who has the paperwork?” with the mortgage vultures this morning. The answer: you do! You have it. Don’t you even think of faxing 134 pages to me, tree murderers.

Mr. H had never seen any lolcats. I can’t believe this. So I made him view some last night. He wanted to know why cats speak Engrish. Damned if I know. Could it be something along the lines of how dogs are bad at French? On another note, I received a brief written in lolcat recently.

Over the hump in Pahrump

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Do you ever think it’s weird that other cities are allowed to have their own TV news? That’s just not right. We only have news in my city. I don’t care what happens in Pahrump, although it’s usually snowing. What was I doing watching TV in Las Vegas anyway?

On Friday, the chupacabra took the day off to prepare for finals, so I had to watch my own ybab. The hell? That implies that I don’t normally watch her. Ha. I wish! Normally, I sit there and “work” while she hangs upside down from the rafters above my head. The chupacabra is close at hand, and she does a wonderful job of trying to divert ybab by shaking some boiled bones or something, but ybab mainly prefers me. Foolish ybab. The chupacabra has a degree in early childhood education. I have a degree in lying. I wouldn’t hire me to watch a ybab. Anyway, we tired of menacing neighborhood dogs, so we steamed open some mail that didn’t belong to us and applied for credit cards. We could have just opened the mail, but since ybab snorts steam naturally, it seemed like the thing to do. If only we had some unwanted wallpaper.

At least watching my own ybab was free that day. Normally the chupacabra exacts a demanding price for not really watching ybab. Next thing you know, the chupacabra will want a four oh onek.

In case you wondered

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This being a blog, I am sworn to tell you that I slept much better last night. I am still parked in my parking spot. I ate more raisin bread.

I slept so much better because I don’t have a ybab anymore. Last night around bedtime she sprouted leathery wings, scrawwwwwked a horrible scrawwwwwk, and flapped up to a nearby bell tower. While perched in the belfry, she snatched an unlucky river hawk and ripped it to shreds with her fangs until she was caked with blood and feathers. I called the chupacabra who lives in the “medieval prison” section of the park, and he managed to get leg irons on her and drag her away, still spitting and hissing. I am not sure what happened after that, but I don’t much care either.

***

Ah, how strange, I just heard a knocking outside, rapping on my chamber door and all, and she’s back. She points at everything and calls it a cat most authoritatively. Her tail has fallen off, leaving an unusually long butt crack. I wonder what this can all mean?