Tag Archives: shenanigans

Compound fracture: Saturday/Sunday special

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Fwoo, writing on the internet is hard. I missed another day of content challenge. Amy is trouncing me with the alphabet. So far, I have managed to sneer at the real estate section of the Times, as is my weekend custom, and I also ate Belgian waffles. Yesterday was more involved, but too exhausting to recount.

The wind is howling, the cat is hiding under the table, and I am trying not to think about mini tacos because if I eat them all, they will be gone. The movers dropped off a billion boxes the other day, and I should be filling them and labelling them, but we can’t have that. I am also supposed to be doing something career-related, but I just. don’t. care. The parasite releases chemicals that make my brain fuzzy. It’s a warm, cuddly static, more like being trapped in a duvet than the usual January ennui, but the end result is much the same. We have pressing matters to address like playing “Who’s the baby!!!!!!,” which involves lying on the couch with a hand on the abdomen waiting for bonks. The baby is indignant when Mr. H takes his hand away, and the cat turns around and glares when petting stops. High needs.

Friday we took the gruesome ultrasound pictures over to oblige Mr. H’s family. Since he is a bastard, he held out two pictures, side by side. His mother freaked out, asking “Am I looking at TWO pictures?” And he said “Yes, you are looking at two pictures.” His sister jumped up and did an end zone dance, all “In your face, I was right, I was right, it’s twins!” No, but there are two pictures. I am not sure what made her think it was twins, since I am now 50% done gestating but have no obesity to show for it. Apparently my innards are spacious. So I asked about her reasoning, and it seems Darlene the psychic said it would be twins. Or a boy. Or a red-haired girl. Darlene is very diplomatic.

Yesterday in a-w-k-w-a-r-d

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Mr. H made the fatal mistake of allowing a checkout clerk into our lives. The insolent whelp commented eagerly on our selection of a pre-made pot pie, and Mr. H allowed that it did, in fact, look good. This led to a tiresome diatribe on the type of pot pie made by the clerk’s mother, and her gravy recipe to boot. His mother’s gravy is quite creamy.

Mmm-hmm, said Mr. H. I cringed as the worm cast an eye towards our pasta sauce. “Wow, only $3.49. Is this any good?”

While waiting for the card approval, the clerk stretched theatrically and asked “Does anyone want to walk on my back to get this knot out?” I decided this would be a great time to make sure the floor was properly tiled.

“You know, I used to have a friend who had his girlfriend walk on his back wearing six-inch pumps,” he persisted.

“Wow, usually you have to pay for that,” I said. The clerk stood there agog, as if I were suddenly the offensive one. Mr. H started snuffling, and we grabbed our bags and ran for it.

A time for consideration, horse sex

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Was it wise to start Content Challenge right before a weekend?

No, says Zellweger. Oh no you di’n’t.

Thanks to everyone who’s been clicking on ads. I’d click for you, you bastards. I also click on that dancing monkey to see if I can hit it with a banana. No rilly, so far I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the AdSense payoff. It’s an experiment. I am so pleased that I may make Content Challenge coincide with the return of Anal Sex Month to reward you all. This Editor & Publisher article handily uses the phrase “No. 1 finisher” in a story about lethal horse anal sex. People just cannot get enough horse sex. Horse sex: less scary and appalling than spreading freedom?

Also, I got a quasi-spelled email from the condo mgmt. people about “unclogging the chute” that I could excerpt to comedic effect, but I must retain some shred of privacy.

The following people have foolishly committed to joining Content Challenge:
The Biscuit Report – now with more impeachment!

Moose and Squirrel – writes better than me because she takes the bus

Kimbot – apparently she was gone, and now she’s back

This post is titled Damn but I could go for some raclette

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Christ, it’s Monday again. There was a holiday dinner, and I survived the gauntlet of one billion hugs. The mashed potatoes were instant, and I almost ran screaming into the cold when I found out, but I toughed it out and ate them anyway. Mr. H’s Indian co-workers livened up the proceedings by graciously enduring inadvertent racial slurs. I am pretty sure they took pictures of the carpeted kitchen.

This week my pants don’t fit. I can’t tell if it’s because I am genuinely obese or because the parasite made a major land grab. We’ve been getting quotes for hardwood floor installation (yes, I know people do this themselves, but that’s people), and this has been a humiliating process, reminding me that we have no money. Between that and my rope belt, I feel myself entering a Shame Spiral.

Also, I broke the internet yesterday. Word to the wise: the reset button on a DSL modem is hard to press for a reason. My inner monkey tried power on/power off a few times, but then she stuck a pencil in the reset hole, figuring this must fix internet good. It didn’t. A smarter monkey would have just signed “Put lipstick on cat OK please cake.”

DJ SSpace JaMM

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I went for walkies, and I was not disappointed, despite the burden of physical activity. I saw police action, the super obese, an albino, incomprehensible business cards, and teen satanists. Not bad for an hour.

While I was getting my hair blown out on Thursday, the parasite said mean things about nearly everyone else in the salon. Then it wanted a croissant. I can’t take my inner monologue anywhere.

In other leaving the house news, the other day, I went to the grocery store and ran into ALEX, ALEX, DAMMIT, and his loathsome sock of a mother. This time ALEX was pretending to be a fire engine. “Reeeeoooooooooo!” I stuck out my leg and blocked him from passing me, and I asked “Do you see anyone else in here acting like this?” The man stocking bulk mayonaise said “YEAH, DO YOU?” ALEX was stymied for a second. But the local retarded fellow who thinks he is also a fire engine came in, and my argument quickly took on water. There is nothing to do but stop eating groceries.

It rubs the lotion on its skin

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Yesterday the parasite and I took a voyage au train. The parasite has been hanging around making me ill for weeks, and now it has started speaking to me. Perfectly logical, I suppose. Stockholm Syndrome.

It told me that this girl sitting in front of us looked like Soccah Stah Mia Hamm, wife of Nomah. And she sort of did, except she was wearing fake Vuitton sunglasses and a blazer that appeared to come from Sears. Then Mia Hamm put on headphones, and the parasite and I recoiled at the sound of tinny audible fiddle music.

At the parasite’s behest, I took my gum out and stuck it on her headrest. She leaned back to enjoy her fiddle, and I popped an Altoid in my mouth in case my minty breath should implicate me when she discovered the gum. “Dirty deeds done dirt cheap,” crooned the parasite. I became excited because it’s so hard to find a reliable dirty deed provider in the first place. Maybe the parasite isn’t so bad. We could achieve symbiosis instead of a host/guest relationship. I am not about to put out soap shaped like seashells. Or fancy towels. No suh.

Although it did encourage me to vomit on Mia Hamm as well. I bribed it with a granola bar and the promise of leftover risotto, and it took its patter of villainous invective down to a dull mutter during my meetings. I’m still not above making an appointment with Science to have it removed if it doesn’t straighten up.

Very well

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It’s Sunday, which is apparently a day for mealy apples and horrors with slab serifs. It is also the anniversary of my sister’s birthday! If you see her, smack her.

Mr H is interviewing today, because work never stops in our home sweatshop. His subject is a man named Hung. A co-worker warmly endorsed Hung from a previous job.

Apprently Hung is very polite, and every morning when he came in to work, he would great his office mate by saying “How are you today, Steven?” And Steven would say “I’m well, Hung! Very well, Hung.”

I’d hire Hung on the basis of that testimony alone. This is America!

A harrowing experience at the grocery store

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Today I went to the store, and there I spied an unmannerly child running around licking all the apples. Imagine the odds of finding a child beyond parental control at the grocery store.

ALEX, ALEX, DAMMIT! asked me where the carrots were, so I told him to go stand in the frozen foods cooler and wait for the next delivery. His mother started to chew me out, but then she realized she couldn’t hear him from in there. I nodded cordially and pushed my cart away. I wonder if he’ll ever get out?

This was all nearly as repulsive as the time I saw a mother spooning mints from a restaurant lobby communal bowl directly into her child’s mouth before replacing the spoon in the bowl. There’s a moral in here somewhere. Perhaps it will occur to me after a restorative nap and a fall down the stairs.

Breakfast: what a fucking bitch

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Man, I have been chewing for about an hour, and I am still not finished with this bowl of cereal. Kashi Crunch is the Bataan death march of cereal eating. Is that a rock in there? I think it’s an igneous rock.

Yesterday Mr. H and I put on hip waders and slogged upstream to check on our hovel. In theory, we can give the developer more money and start living in it (the loft, not the money, although I have always wanted a money bin) next month. But there are only about four feet left before the foundation floods, so it’s really anyone’s game. We met two dudes boosting each other to peer in the windows, and it turns out they will be our upstairs neighbors. Those grandiose maniacs have purchased two units and are planning to knock out the wall between them. The developer is still forcing them to accept installation of a kitchen in each unit, so they will have to rip one out. They offered us an extra fridge. I guess I could set it on its side and nap in it. We made fun of the color of the hallway and vowed to reconvene later to hate the drapery choices of others. Too bad this friendship will be all over once they see that we live like animal. I don’t even own a pastry marble!

On the walk back, I found a pair of washed up thong underwear and a Precious Moments change purse. If that’s not lucky, I don’t know what is.