Tag Archives: shenanigans

The new phonebooks are here! The new phonebooks are here!

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It is a red letter day already here in sunny Vomitsville. After I got back from having the dealer fix the perma-locked car door, physician I decided it was high time I paid the car insurance this month. The things a mind does think. So I headed downstairs to mail it (I hope pressing a blank check to my forehead, malady thinking “car insurance,” and dropping it in the outgoing box works; Zellweger usually handles these things for me, but she is on a zen retreat).

And lo, there on my doorstep was my powerbook, like some kind of bastard foundling. It was so nice of Apple to warn me they were shipping it back from Rancho Relaxo, and so nice of DHL to, you know, ring the doorbell or something, instead of leaving a several thousand dollar piece of equipment with a “signature required” sticker on it out in the open. No harm done, right, Pants? Pants? Are you there? I missed you so. Mommy did so much while you were gone. Mommy got some new pain pills, and mommy even thought about making dinner.

Yes, I did think about making dinner. I went so far as to add wasabi to the mashed potatoes someone else was cooking. This was grueling. I had to lie on the floor until things stopped spinning. The cat came by and considered eating my left eye, but then I moved and ruined everything. So now she sulks, and I sit on the highest chair in the house to avoid her.

Punish me with disk failure and a plague of larvae

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Meine Festplatte ist tot. Or something like that. I know not what I say. Really. I have taken up with some local Germans, and I have learned to ask their baby if his Trousers are stinky. It is all I can do to not ask people that same question in the checkout line, on the train, at Best Buy. Ja!

On Friday, I got a cold finger of fear down my spine, so I backed up my system, and then whaddya know, ker-flunk. Now, hulk not lose any data, and hulk always buy Apple Care, so no big deal. Except Apple no send for laptop until Wednesday, and then laptop stay in sunny Cupertino for another week. What? Hulk not have time for Wednesday! Hulk have to synergize. Hulk have to write in online journal and not balance checkbook due to dependence on online banking. This not happening to hulk!

So hulk go to Apple store and get Mac Mini and cute matching back-up drive for temporary use and future storage. Hulk mutter like Andy Rooney about how old Wallstreet powerbooks so much tougher. Why, hulk stand on, sit on, roll joint on, spill wine on…. For good measure, hulk get cinema display and CS2 upgrade. In for a penny, in for several thousand more dollars. The world ending anyway. Hulk draw line at getting new bag from Banana Republic. What is hulk, a monster? That bag made from animals!

And the larvae. You can’t show a larva crawling in my cabinets in the first scene and not deliver a pay-off. OK, last week, Mr. H opened the cabinets to get some cereal, and there were moths and larvae all over the place. I want to blame the sack of bulgur wheat, but that would be profiling. We threw out all the food not in cans or jars and sprayed toxic chemicals all over the kitchen. At least Mr. H did, I slept through the whole briefly inconvenient ordeal.

Now that I think of it, between the larvae and the Festplatte, there was a trip to the hospital. Hulk literally made of teflon, like Dick Cheney. Try harder.

I could tell you why the ocean’s near the shore

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OK. It took me a good fifteen seconds to correctly retrieve the correct spelling of “shore” from the linguistic trash heap in my brain. “Sure.” Nope. “Shower, that’s got to be it.” “Shure?” No. “Sore!” Closer. At least I finally got there before I had to Google it.

OK again. Now it’s two days later than when I first started trying to write this post. I forgot what the hell I was going to talk about in the first place, but I’m sure it was snotty and self-righteous. I consumed a ton of narcotics yesterday, for legitimate reasons even, but that whole sure/shure/shore mess took place Stone-Coldstone Creamery Steve Austin sober. I blame the Shure Fine, a convenience establishment down the road. I also blame the drugs I did in college. And I blame George Bush, for leaving this child behind. I blame a lot of people for a lot of things, but most of all I blame myself.

My long weekend of rage concluded with a trip to the ER for an ovarian cyst, which is how I got the narcotics. Turns out you can be mad enough to actually explode. Also turns out the bigger the fuss one makes about grinning and bearing it, the more forthcoming they are with the goods. Those folks in New Orleans should have clearly played harder to get instead of waving white flags and chanting “Help.” I told the nurse it was our second wedding anniversay, which it was, and she scuttled right back with apple juice and a giant syringe full of demerol. Guess where she stuck the syringe, just guess. According to Mr. H, the needle was “this long.” I am going to try telling people it’s our anniversary wherever I go. This might get me a free Bloomin’ Onion or something. But what I’d really like is world peace!!!!!!

If you knew anything about physics

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I am so mad, internets. I am mad at people in our goverment for claiming our current situation was not forseeable. Chertoff, you GOON. What, natural disasters that show up on radar need to wear bells around their necks? I am mad at the people who say “this shouldn’t happen here, we aren’t a third world country.” This includes you, Andrew Sullivan. They are right that the hurricane aftermath shouldn’t have escalated the way it did, but since when is it OK for widespread deprivation and turmoil to happen anywhere? The things going on in the Sudan are just fine, because hey, third world country. Those folks knew what they were in for when they elected to exist in a third world country. Of all the lines of justification for why we should not be in this situation, “we’re not a third world nation” is shameful.

I am mad that I don’t have more money to give right now. I am mad at the people who say anyone who didn’t evacuate does not deserve help. I am mad at the people who are yapping about not contributing to relief efforts because they are soooo offended by what Kanye West said. I am mad that people don’t see all the opportunities to help to alleviate poverty in their own communities, and that it takes something this large and terrible to make people even consider helping another living soul. Hey, instead of burning the gas to drive your SUV from New England to New Orleans all by yourself, why not volunteer for the Red Cross here? They can send trained personnel to the gulf, and you can handle the less glamorous things like people getting displaced by fires. Howzabout that.

Yesterday, Mr. H and I drove down to the South Shore to participate in a tango contest. We did our best, but we were trounced by a one-year-old baby with a penciled-on moustache. We demanded a voting recount, but that went over about as well as it did in Ohio. What, we hate America. Of course we’re going to ask. It’s the supreme fucking court, stupid.

Anyhoo, I noticed a wind turbine along the highway, and I wondered why our highways don’t have these things all along them. After all, it’s not like they’re going to ruin the view, and wildlife has already been neatly thwarted. So I started looking into this option, envisioning a future as a wind power magnate, clear of conscience yet still filthy stinking rich. I found this blurb about just such an idea, and then the comments made me mad. Is there anything that doesn’t make me mad today? People arguing about physics = gold. Oh, thermodynamics. Where were you when I needed you? You could have helped me win the tango contest and stopped the cat from throwing up after eating all the cilantro.

And and and and

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There is so much I want to say about our villainous administration, but instead I have temporarily quieted myself by filling out the matching donation form from Mr H’s work and working on my WWLIWD? product line (bitch I already copyrighted it, don’t even think about it). What, indeed, would Laura Ingalls Wilder do? Verily, when those around you are losing their scalps, you must keep yours. You have a blind sister to think about, and a couple of insane parents who keep moving you somewhere dangerous and trying to subvert nature. Laura would make poultices out of Hostess Cupcakes and cholera vaccines out of malt liquor (brace for the smooth taste).

Soon we will all be able to enjoy pioneer activities like defending one’s homestead, making hardtack, and driving a buggy. I am having a hard time deciding on the slogan for my merch line. I figure “Laura Ingalls Wilder has a posse” will sell, but then again I like “Lunatic Fringe.” Maybe a Laura vs. Nellie grudge match kind of motif would be nice. I am simple, stupid people. My post-apocalyptic skills are going to be sharpshooting and carnival game rigging. So much for knitting and making my own soap. Where we’re going, we don’t need soap. Our own goverment is consistently more frightening than any turrorist attack.

Find out more about how you can help and where the money goes. Be sure to see if your employer offers donations-in-kind.

Give.org BBB Wise Giving Alliance
JustGive.org
Charity Navigator
Rainbow World Fund

Self-Importance, the fragrance for jerks

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I wore my largest pair of sunglasses to brunch today, and I came down with quick-onset glamour poisoning. I hate that. I feel faint. I could barely finish my blinis.

Living in a small town is insane-o. In one quick trip to the coffee shop, I encountered my hair stylist, the local crazy person who prays for the souls of things in store windows, the guy who sells hot dogs at the ballpark, and my lawyer. I am on a need-to-know basis with all of them, it seems. We chat. And then people just walk up and ask you to do work for them because you are having a meeting with someone else, and they overheard. My hair stylist randomly decided she couldn’t live without search engine optimization. And really, who can? Vomitola is no longer #1 for Lindsay Lohan Panties. I am a poor example in all ways. Don’t expose me, please.

This just in!

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Recently it was brought to my attention that women are using the technology, including the computer! Did you know women use the computer? For a while I used a graphing calculator when I took a few years of calculus. I think that was technology, but I’m not sure. I also use a flat iron and a microwave on a regular basis. And I am pretty used to using the computer since I’ve done it every day since I was about twelve, but sometimes I like to stop and think about all the other fly ladies out there using the computer. For instance, my mom can use the computer, both instant messenger and email. I taught her how to cut and paste using only keyboard commands. That’s hot. She even attaches things to email. She can also use a table saw and a post-hole digger, but that’s like technology a monkey might use. Old school. My sister uses the computer. She’s also hot.

Some women use the computer to know about their periods and their lady mucus and stuff like that (Fertility Friend, OvuSoft). Some women use the computer to buy shoes (Zappos.com). Some women use the computer to plan their weddings (TheKnot.com, Indiebride.com). Some women don’t even have boyfriends, but they use the computer to look at pictures of engagement rings, and they use the instant messenger to send links to their other single friends. Some women eat oatmeal for women. That has nothing to do with the computer, but it’s still for women. Some women use online banking so they can make sure they didn’t spend too much on shoes.

Women are always talking and talking and talking, so of course they like blogs. They like to tell you about their hair and their periods. Ewwwww! Women think they are so funny. Some women are fat, and they use the computer to talk about that (3 Fat Chicks on a Diet!). And some are skinny, and they use the computer to look for pictures of Angelina Jolie to put on their fridge so they remember to throw up their Kraft dinner.

Some ladies are lovely shades of tan and chocolate (Brown Bloggers), and some ladies are plain pink (me, you can see my veins so easily). Some ladies live in countries outside of America! They don’t even talk English, but they still use technology. I have seen this while on vacation.

Some ladies have kids, and they like to talk about them. They are called mommy bloggers. Some have a huge boner for breastfeeding, and some are all “breastfeeding, no thanks.” Some of these ladies may use Craigslist to find a nanny. That means they are straight up bitches, because who would let someone else raise their child? Ladies use technology to snipe at the choices of other ladies. This is called the Mommy Drive-By.

Some ladies want kids real bad but can’t have them easily, so they are infertile bloggers. But through technology, some of them go on to have kids. Wow! Some women just use the shit out of technology.

Sometimes the ladies like to step away from the computer, say to buy some douches and have brunch and catch a matinee of Must Love Dogs. If they do that, they can always take their cell phones. We ladies don’t want to miss when we might be ovulating. You can ovulate during brunch! If that happens, close your legs tightly and breathe into a paper bag.

Personally, I’d probably skip out on Must Love Dogs. I catch all my Diane Lane movies on planes. I watched Under the Tuscan Sun on a plane ride to Japan, and it worked to put me to sleep. Technology again. Can you imagine: there are ladies flying though the air right now, some of them even ovulating. I used the computer to get those plane tickets too. It was so hard, what with the clicking and the typing. And I had to pay for the tickets, with money, from a job. I found that job using the internet. Lucky! My job was to make food dance on the internet, via technology.

And now back to getting married and pregnant, because that’s all most ladies think about. You might need a dude for that, so you can use technology like a digital camera to take a picture of yourself and put it on a website where you tell a man that you’d be in Paris if you could be anywhere right now. And that is code for the man to remember to pick up a rose at the gas station before he comes to your house to bang you. Because Paris equals romance! He probably used Mapquest.com to find your house, but that’s OK, because technology is old hat for the gentlemen. They are so good like that.

After all your banging, if you think you might be pregnant, the internet can even give you a pregnancy test.

Whoa, sometimes the world just gets so overwhelming for a lady that all I can do is apprise you of the ferociously itchy mosquito bites on my toes. Now I have to take a break from using technology to get in my car and drive somewhere and use my debit card to buy something. While I am doing that, I will probably text message some people. I just found out you can do that. I will feel guilty about using oil to power my car. Stay strong while I am gone. I still love technology, always and forever.

Scream like a baby

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Internet, I cannot provide you with the filth I had planned to smear today.

A new baby is here, innocent and, well, a little fat. He could stand to lose a few ounces. Never too early to watch the figure.

Please welcome Declan Patrick*, delivered this morning by an Italian Oompa Loompa. His mother and father are resting after a long night (time actually extends like pulled taffy when one is in a hospital). We laughed, we cried, we hurled. I feel like I just stepped off a long haul flight, and I didn’t even have to do any birthing!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to zombie my way into the shower and then attend a wedding. Maybe I can work in a funeral too.

*David, you are exempt from even thinking about children, although your song was the hit of the maternity ward.

Oh for….sometimes I wished people was like dogs, Luke

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It’s get-up-and-go Monday, and that means I got out of bed well before noon. I don’t like it any more than you men, but it’s how science and the Lord need me to be. I have already done distasteful things like send invoices and print labels and finish the leftover wine in a glass that was on the coffee table. That last one was not as bad as I thought it would be. I think it was Gewurztraminer.

Later, I turned on the TV, and it started on the surgery channel. Instead of operations, they were showing something called “The Baby Human.” That program featured researchers showing babies clown masks. Guess what? The babies cried, because CLOWNS ARE FUCKING SCARY. Where can I get an Obvious Grant? So far, my preliminary findings include the fact that traffic can be stressful. I confirmed this between 1 and 3 pm. Also, people dislike closing doors on their fingers. At least I do.

And damn, $4 coffees and damn. I get up to all kinds.

Going to hell, going to hell.

Incarcerated

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So I decided not to have a party at my house for my birthday, because of some housemate difficulties.

Instead I went to a party in a shicky micky loft in the South End. It was pretty bumpin’, but at 1:30, some meatwads with badges stormed in, spoiling for a fight, as though they had stumbled upon the Happy Land in the Bronx. As we gathered our coats and our wits, something these gentleman clearly had no need for, we were ordered at top volume to be out in 30 seconds or go in the Wagon. I believe in our constitutional right to party on Lambchop’s Birthday. Or maybe I am a sucker for sarcasm. In any case, this thuggish behavior really teed me off and I started to holler “that’s right everyone, trample for the exits! We want bodies crushed on the stairs! MOVE!”

I won this round of “Most Likely to be Arrested”. I spent the rest of my birthday in the clink with a bunch of hookers, playing scrabble. At least they had a boombox. Chaka Khan, everybody!