Tag Archives: shenanigans

What a damn thing to say

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This meme is going around like something you catch at the bus station: post the first sentence of each entry for the past twelve months. I’m also posting the subject lines because I am nothing without a support act.

And away we go!

1. A day late and a dollar short: 2005 by the numbers
Number of separate calendar days where vomiting occurred: 4

2. Everything’s OK in OKville
Goodbye January, goodbye Content Challenge, goodbye Supreme Court (It’s the, stupid).

3. I’m into something good (leftover spaghetti)
Madge, I’m soaking in it.

4. More human every day
We have a table!

5. And in our hearts we fly. Standby.
It started with other people drinking before the sun was over the yardarm.

6. Can I get some unnecessary antibiotics with that condescension?
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.

7. No sleep til Brooklyn
It’s amazing how somone under 7 pounds can make two adults with a combined 61 years of life experience feel totally incompetent at times.

8. Hey, wanna buy a monkey?
No? How about a baby?

9. Fiesta de Septiembre
Today is the third anniversary of my legal ensnarement of Mr. H

10. Condo meeting attended; area jerk spotted
Mr. H went to the meeting while I stayed home to ply a baby with strong drink, and when he returned, I asked after the lady who picks fights on the email list and then declares that the list is not a good forum for discussion when people disagree with her.

11. This year, I am thankful that Pharrell gave us something to bump to
Pharrell is like the Great Pumpkin, I think.

12. The continuing perils of instant gratification
Now there comes a time when one finds a leaflet for a new Chinese restaurant in one’s lobby, and one decides to carpe some diem and take a chance on life.

And in other news, this morning a ybab and I watched a three-legged dog poop on the lawn. It’s beginning to look a lot like Thursday.

Holiday card theatre

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I am shamed beyond belief because there is a tracking error in the inner message in our holiday card. It jumps out at me like a thumb in the eye, and I quake to think of others noticing. But what the hell do you expect when the card was designed in an online software system in two minutes? If you want quality, do it your damn self! At least we spelled everything right, including the word “adequate.”

We receive a card each year that is always remarkable in its liberal massaging of the English language. This year’s installment, a positively uncomfortable Thai massage, reads:

Happy holiday’s from our house to your’s!!!!
Happy new year!!!!
Love [Name],[Name], [Kreatif Spelling Childname 1],[Kreatif Spelling Childname 2] [Kreatif Spelling Childname 3]….

The ellipsis at the end is so ominous, as if there may be an additional child lurking. The pictured children are all at or near the North Pole, judging by the sign post covered with plastic snow. Yet they aren’t really dressed for the weather. Puzzling!

And now for our own important message from a ybab.

May I interest you in the devil’s liquid?

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I tried some kombucha the other day (this link might prove illuminating), and it was as disgusting as I had hoped. And by disgusting, I mean I totally hate it, yet I can’t stop drinking it. It is like a vile tincture of feline urine infused with vinegar and carbonated. But I want to marry it and have its little spores. That’s no fungus, he’s my lichen!

I’m going to make my own because my sister is going to give me some of her culture. Or if her poor alien is not up to it, I found a place where internet wackaloons will send me one for only the cost of shipping. I’ll have Zellweger tend a 5-gallon tub of it ’round the clock! Then I can stop giving these people all my lunch money. You know something’s good when the FAQ includes the question “So what are those little floaties, anyway?”

Also, I see that neither Biscuit is online right now, which means hell is freezing over, or their ybab has finally decided to outsource itself. To make sure, I am going to call their house and ask annoying questions.

Ethical problems continue apace

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Paris Hilton did not appear to me in a dream, but I see that Nicole Richie was just popped for a DUI.

Now for more in me, me, me!

I am pondering an issue with my ethicist. It seems my diamonds are most likely made of little African children. No, really, I looked it up. It doesn’t look good in the origin department. I haven’t been wearing them for months and months anyway. I was thinking of selling them to be rid of them, but then that seems like profiting again from someone else’s misfortune, although I could donate the money to some theoretically worthy cause. On the other hand, reselling potentially keeps newer ones from being purchased. Yet it continues to validate cultural demand. And then that damn movie that’s coming out is just making me trendy, and I hate that! And just about anything we purchase manages to despoil the earth, unless we’re David, so I’d have to replace all my jewelry with recycled gum wrappers. What to do?

And how will people know not to say “Hey mami, bless you for that ass!” to me when I’m out and about, unfettered by conventional matrimonial signals? Oh, right, it doesn’t matter. They’ll say it anyway. Ethically, I am OK with that, because I work hard for my ass.

The continuing perils of instant gratification

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Now there comes a time when one finds a leaflet for a new Chinese restaurant in one’s lobby, and one decides to carpe some diem and take a chance on life. One is too lazy to cook celebrating Mr. H’s last day at his old job. One places a call and ends up performing a slow-paced dramatic monologue of one’s address. Let’s try that again…. THIRTY five River… no…Thirty FIVE River…no…. R-I-V-E-R….R as in rangoon, I as in island, V as in vermicelli, E as in eggroll, R as in rangoon again.

One does not hold high hopes for delivery of this meal. One gets a return call from the restaurant in five minutes. One recites one’s credit card number for the thirteenth time.

The food arrives, much to one’s surprise. It is delicious! One notices that the ginger ale Mr. H requested is not in the bag. One calls the restaurant just to let them know. The restaurant representative has a seizure. Honor has been insulted. The driver will be dispatched at once. No, really, you can refund the card, or take it off the bill the next time we order, or just forget about it, we mean no disrespect!

The ginger ale arrives hours later. The arrival of the ginger ale wakes up a ybab. Justice is served on multiple levels. Why did Mr. H fiddle with the universe by ordering a ginger ale?

Will you plural marry me?

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It has come to my attention that Mr. H needs a second wife. He doesn’t know it yet, but I think that’s just the ticket. Other wife could watch a baby and do all the shopping and the cleaning. Other wife would pay the bills online and remember to buy and send cards for all festive days. Other wife would keep extra birthday presents for a variety of child age ranges in the closet for the occasions when Mr. H accepts an invitation to a friend’s child’s party and doesn’t tell any wives until it’s too late to shop. Because I would totally bring the kid a box of thumbtacks or whatever else I found lying around in the office. Other wife would preserve the balance of graciousness in our lives.

Other wife would use a toothbrush to scrub around the faucet in the kitchen. She’d fold underwear so crisply. God, other wife is a saint. She’s as beautiful as she is generous. She can speak three languages, and she taught a baby sign language. She’d fill out the customs forms at the post office since I hate doing that. She knows so many ways to prepare quinoa! Her handwriting is also impeccable.

Me, I’ll be on the lanai with a delicious smoothie! Other wife remembered the damn bananas at the store!

ZOMG

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Yesterday was Mr. H’s birthday. He is now Old. How sad for him! To celebrate, we tried sneaking away for dinner after a baby was asleep. Of course a baby opted to wake up and vomit all over his sister. Still, that was the best glass of wine and speed-eaten entree I’ve had in months. We returned to find a baby fully alert and talking to a stuffed bear.

Yahoo! Groups: tool of the devil? I read through 50-odd messages from the bitches who are vying to be condo board president for our complex. People are complaining that as the temperature drops, the windows are drafty. Someone was spotted pulling a door open by holding the key in the lock. Someone’s parking spot has a pot hole that collects rainwater. People want parking stickers for our DEEDED, NUMBERED parking spots. Now, we don’t even have an association yet. The complex is under control of the management company until December, when we can technically form an association. This sticker decision was made by some sort of pre-association cabal, drunk with the power of reply-all. Unless I get to go to a meeting and vote/complain about it (I will make a baby raise her hand too), it seems slightly premature to be pricing out the printing of stickers. When someone is in my spot, I don’t really care if that person has a sticker or not. I know that person is not me, and hence I am justified in calling the towing company. So simple and elegant. I guess some people really enjoy a rousing game of “one of these things is not like the other one!”

No, the actual logic is that people are fiercely protective of the single visitor spot. OK, then, with the aid of stickers, we’ll be able to see if the person in that spot is a resident using it for selfish purposes, like leaving a second car there for twenty minutes while he drops something off. Then I suppose we must take down the license number, go look it up in the office, and nail a dead woodchuck to his door. Or perhaps we can arrange a time to stand around with torches and pitchforks. This time will be arranged using the Yahoo! Group. No, it can’t be Sunday night, because Shelly is going to be out of town! This is too bad. Shelly loves a good public whipping. Hey guys, if you need me, I’ll be boiling some oil!

If you stand in line for twenty minutes, the terrorists have won

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I went to the post office again today. I know, I know. The selling everything I own campaign is a bit trying, although it’s fun to imagine an obese shut-in in San Diego enjoying my used copy of The South Beach Diet. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring the wolverine, because she would have launched herself across the counter and gummed her way through the clerk’s jugular. She doesn’t like waiting. She was home watching General Hospital with a bottle of Southern Comfort, if you were wondering. No, she was poking a dead bird in the park with her father. What else?

Some dark-skinned men were attempting to mail some documents written in a non-Latin alphabet to a foreign country. The clerk was flummoxed and kept making them fill out more forms. She finally plugged some stuff into the computer, only to announce with a quaver that the package would arrive on… September 11th! Suddenly all the other clerks had to come over and inspect the package, while attempting to be casual. One of the men started making a cell phone call in a FOREIGN LANGUAGE. I was just waiting for the guy behind me to yell “Let’s roll” and strangle him with a roll of stamps. They were Indian. See, not even the bad brown people!

Mr. H is joining Content Challenge with a photo a day. A baby sits up like a little Rory Calhoun.

Boop doop beep

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A dude left a message to say he was sorry for dialing the wrong number.

This is almost as entertaining as when another dude called to discuss my long distance service. I said “Oh, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” He apologized and hung up. I can’t believe that worked, but now I do it every time I get a call like that. Wiffff! No one ever catches the frisbee.

Hey, wanna buy a monkey?

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No? How about a baby?

No? How about a cat shaved up like a baboon?
No? A husband who is psychologically blocked from putting his clothes anywhere but next to the hamper?
No? I got it then. You want my cursed condo. The one that floods and threatens to explode.

The electrician was in to see about the sparks shooting out of the breaker box, and he kept muttering and asking “You sure no one’s done any work in here? This isn’t right.” Oh boyyyyy, Ren. No, it’s just as we found it when we moved in. Home surgery, sure, but no home electricianing for me.

Clearly, my housing problems must relate to some personal failing or stolen tiki idol. Track record as follows.

First home: was a trailer.
Second home: unfortunately my parents lived there too.
First apartment: contained a roommate who played Vampire: The Masquerade and had loud nerd sex clearly audible through the wall. Next to train tracks. Total stranger climbed the balcony and came into my room, although I marched him out the front door with the fake gun from my Wild West set from the toy store.
Second apartment: Bathroom ceiling collapsed on the night I moved in. Upstairs neighbor’s toilet rained liquid.
Third apartment: Bathroom ceiling also collapsed. Co-dependent relationship ended in complicated appliance custody.
Fourth apartment: landlord barbecued/distilled something in basement over open flame and caused carbon monoxide poisoning. Landlord also backflushed radiators and neglected to turn off water in the boiler, causing massive jets of steam to shoot out of radiator.
Fifth apartment: mice. And hoochie roommate who enjoyed having all her townie RI friends come to visit so they could screech “OMG I am sooooo wasted” while drinking Coors Light.
Sixth apartment: Living room flooded. Haunted. Upstairs neighbor a piano teacher and casual child abuser. Living room flooded again in new location. Air conditioner exploded twice in two weeks.
First condo: I don’t want to talk about. We can’t have nice things.