Tag Archives: celebrity!

A holiday scourge

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Sorry it’s been so quiet around here. You’d think we’d gone and had a baby or something. But no, we’re recovering from colds and filing our hate mail related to our holiday card. A sample “deluted the tradition’s of Christ!!!! [sic, all of it]” SRSLY, you are no one until you are hated! I could do a dance. We were just being inclusive!

A ybab says “hi” and “da,” although in no particular context. The cat always gets a “hi,” although she could just be agreeing in Japanese.

All those year-end review shows on VH1 are catching me up on all the culture I blissfully missed. Fergie: what a scourge! London London London bridge. Can we deport her? She can move in to Madonna’s castle and grow an accent.

Mr. H owes me a guest blog on Fergie and Rachel Ray. He’s tentatively calling it “Hot? Or ugly chicks with haircuts?”

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.

Apocalypse: soon

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I am feeling so left out of the recent Bimbo Summit! Two nights ago, I had a dream that I was back in highschool with Lindsay Lohan. I bought her beer with my fake ID, and that’s how all the trouble started. I woke up knowing the subsequent downward spiral of la Lohan was all my fault. “Be adequite” indeed!

Then last night I woke up in a panic after a dream that I was hanging out with Britney Spears in Vegas. In the dream, she informed me that Kevin wanted to get back together, and she considered it because it was nearly their “Humpin’ anniversary.” This stuff writes itself, and the end must be nigh. If I dream about Paris Hilton tonight, start burying gold in the yard and set up a home water distillery.

Up Next: More on My Problems! For starters, I miss flying first class with live minks nestled around my feet for warmth. Did I mention those minks sipped Perrier?

We don’t need no stinkin’ naps

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Today I went to the grocery store to wrestle for the last can of cranberry sauce. I had to hurt a bitch. A ybab (I am sick of all those ybab ads) bit a bitch. OK, she bit me. She bit her dog? I didn’t even buy cranberry sauce; it was just fun to play America. No one was in the bulk aisle buying organic quinoa by the pail but me. Why is that? Boy are my relations gonna love a pilaf.

The bagger at the checkout told a ybab that she is too small to be five months old. Well, how do you like that? Demoted by the help! There is no need for science when we have the great natural resource of grocery store advice just waiting to be tapped. Imagine our confusion and need for guidance as a nation, waking up in a world where Michael Richards has just Mel Gibson’ed himself. Down is up, up is down, and there is a tarantula in my bananas.

Oh, and peep this: the plumber came and put the tasteful little “hot” piece of red plastic and brushed metal in the bathroom faucet. Now I know that tap is Hot, as opposed to just knowing it was Not Cold. This divot has only been missing for a year, since we moved in and stuff, but compared to the other random hijinks to which the seller has attended (blood spatter on the counters, exploding circuit breaker box), this was a very small problem. With this problem’s small frame, it could curl up in a very small ball.

You must not know about me

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I heard a disturbing song on the radio the other day wherein Beyonce throws a dude’s stuff out. That’s fine. I’m all for throwing a dude’s stuff out. He was probably an insolent whelp. Beyonce doesn’t have time for trifling.

Then she tells the dude that “I could have another you in a minute,” cautioning her lover to always remember he can be easily replaced. Yes, but wouldn’t you want to replace the cad who “called up on that chick to see if she is home” with a non-cad? Another him would be an emotional disaster. Has Beyonce not seen Groundhog Day? Apparently not, because she’s on and on telling the dude “I will have another you by tomorrow.” Nooooo, Beyonce. Break the chains!

I made sure to use this teachable moment to remind a baby that the number one rule of a broken relationship is “always trade up.” Just think, I could still be dating a roustabout if I had played my cards right. He was in a very promising local band that, as promised, is still a local band ten years later.

Tomorrow: I bring a baby up to speed on taking stylish victim tribute photos.

You know how to whistle, don’t you, Katie Couric?

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Man, why you gotta go sit on a desk? It’s so…FOX affiliate! Who does a damn thing like that? I can see Anderson Cooper trying it, but would Peter Jennings have done this? I don’t want to see anyone’s knees while they tell me how many people died that day. I do not like news in the round. No walking around the set, please, unless you are discussing something important like Whitney Houston. I prefer the “sit very still at a desk and look apologetic and steely” delivery.

Maybe I am still mad that Katie took all summer to not come up with a sign off. Viewers writing in is just too painfully inclusive for my taste. Viewers are morons! She should have gone with “I’m Katie Couric, and it’s Miller time.” Or “I’m Katie Couric. Balls.” That’s how I feel after watching even five minutes of news. Why do folksy? I used to enjoy watching her on the Today Show, gritting her teeth and flexing her stilettos through endless interviews with gummy-smiling relationship experts. You could just tell how much she loathed it, how much she wanted to wear a flak jacket and do Important News instead. Somewhere, over the focus group….bluebirds fly….

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My sister and I used to have to play with unfun toys since our parents did not believe in fun. We had unpainted blocks, an abandoned kitchen sink, some dirt, and Cuisenaire® rods. Why, then, after having to fit those stupid rods back in the plastic tray so many times am I unable to properly load the dishwasher? Just last night, I realized bowls go sideways in the back three rows. Oops. No more jamming them in haphazardly around the plate slots. The world is not so rigid as I once thought. Mr. H didn’t know the bowls went that way either.

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.

Second toughest in the infants

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I have recently discovered that a baby hates other children She screws up her face and glares at the sound of their shrieks and giggles, but she is happy to make eyes at adults. It’s a good thing she’ll be an only child. Hell is other babies, darlin’.

Mr H and I celebrated our anniversary with spaghetti and meatballs, like Lady and the Tramp. Since I’m a tramp, I guess he has to be the lady. He cooked, as a lady should. He also bought my love with a gift, which took me off guard. We never exchange gifts because we usually buy whatever we want as it occurs to us. Which is probably why we’re broke. Shiftless Americans!

It’s getting to be that time in baby ownership when it’s possible to pull one’s head out of one’s ass for brief moments. I’ve read several disturbing articles that all go something like CIA, Bush, torture, torture, and I wish I could put my head right back in my ass. Oh wait, I can take a nice long nap with the Suri Cruise photo spread draped over my face. That’ll work.

Accomplishment Friday

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One week after Bastille Day (ce n’est pas Bastille Day), a baby achieved five weeks of breathing. A baby had seen better weeks, what with having the little thing that holds her tongue in her mouth removed and all. Long story, but she did really well, and the people at Children’s Hospital were very nice and simultaneously achieved the desired results while not accidentally killing her. I almost handled the dying for her, because my heart broke wide open from seeing her little head bobbing over the nurse’s shoulder when they took her into the OR. Oh shit, you have no idea.

Clearly her mouth developed improperly because of Something I Did While Pregnant. Did I take a Sudafed? Was it because I came within a few feet of the litterbox? Was it the sushi? See, I am pre-emptively guilt tripping myself. She’s going to have so much more free time as a teenager. Whenever she’ll start with “It’s all your—” I’ll be like “Gotcha covered, kid. See: July 2006, where I walked around with rocks in my shoes as penance.” And she’ll shrug, steal some of my Valium, and leave to go buy a slutty outfit.

We all needed a break on Friday night, so we tempted fate by walking downtown to get ice cream. A baby obligingly fell asleep in the sling, which is great because going somewhere in public with a baby is a bit like handling dynamite. Handling dynamite was covered in a episode of Lost, if you need a refresher. Results were mixed. We made it within a few doors of the ice cream place when a man scurried up to us and said “The guy from Lost in Space is at Gary’s Ice Cream!” We said “Oh,” and he helpfully offered “Not the old guy, the other guy.” Well, whoopee.

So we get in there, and Major Don West is signing photos for a bunch of obese older people in sci-fi themed t-shirts! Wow! He even had a seven-foot-tall replica of The Robot. Why did we leave the house without a camera?

Thus distracted, I made a fatal error when ordering my ice cream. I ordered a scoop of one flavor in a cup, and a scoop of a second flavor, intended to share the cup. But because I didn’t yell “PUT THEM IN THE SAME CUP,” each scoop arrived nestled in its own cup. Mr. H asked them to put the two scoops in the same cup, and panic ensued. The counter person couldn’t process this request, so he brought in the seventeen-year-old manager. “What’s the problem?”

“Um, we want both of these scoops in one cup.”

“What?”

Finally, after we employed hand gestures, switching to two other languages, drawing a crude image on a napkin, and holding Major Don West at knife point, TeenMgr squeezed both single cups into…another cup, single sized. At that point, I ran out screaming and threw the whole dripping mess in the trash.

At least a baby slept all the way home.

It’s like Ed Norton decorated our bathroom

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That’s an IKEA joke. Badum. I would punch Ed Norton too.

Note to greater universe: calling or emailing me every day does not make the parasite come out any faster. In fact, each contact initiation adds one day before I will actually tell you any news at all. Three days if the email also contains a lame forward, be it a prayer, recipe (I have a really hard time believing you went and bought fish sauce, Betty Lunchbucket), or “word find” titled “My Mommy and Me are Best Friends.” In fact, that gets you put on the auto-bounce list. Dead to me!

Mr. H is standing around yelling “screws!” There are several thousand of them dumped on the table, but none of them are the right ones. This is also Ed Norton’s fault.

I have to go putty something.