Tag Archives: consumerism

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.

S.O.S.

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A ybab recently decided to install teeth in her mouth. This feat of dental rennovation is apparently painful and time-consuming, the kind of thing you should really consider offshoring. One tooth is now “in,” which means she looks like a hillbilly who broke one off in a bar fight. She is flailing on the floor now, thanks to the sweet, sweet relief of Tylenol. I’m sure the hippies will come revoke my hippie license, but we already tried homeopathic tablets and “gum-o-mile” oil, which only seems to enrage her. I’ll leave the lights off all to day, recycle something, and apply for a liver damage offset credit.

And see here, the problem is that I was supposed to go to the mall and get some clothes for Mr. “I have nothing to wear” H, as he was too overcome by the vapors to do this while he was AT THE MALL YESTERDAY. His real excuse must have been that he ran short of time BUYING ME A FABULOUS PRESENT I JUST DON’T KNOW ABOUT YET. Taking a screaming ybab is clearly easier than standing in line! Actually, I bet if I did take a screaming ybab, I’d be quickly helped. But the thing is that I don’t want to go at all. Zellweger is in a pout because I asked her to fold laundry, and she’s locked herself in the bathroom. So I’m going to apply for a helper monkey.

What? You say having a ybab is my own damn fault? Perhaps, but I bet people who drunkenly dive into shallow water and break their necks are not denied helper monkeys. Why, now is the time to apprise you that I once knew a person who knocked out all his teeth after performing a dive. He had a new set put in. Maybe a ybab should just look into that.

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.

Hail to the cheese sandwich

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How about all that politics and that guy who did that thing? Remember when I cared? The last election cycle sent me onto heavy antidepressants. Although I don’t take those anymore, I am still pleasantly dumb thanks to related short term memory loss and the brainfog that comes from all things to do with a baby. Hey! I like socks! Do you? My anti-drug is avoidance.

And WTF is with all you packy-loving sonsofbitches who don’t want to buy boxed wine at the same time you pick up your VeganHelper crumbled substance? I hate you! I bet you’ll still go to Starbucks, despite all your blah blah about preferring to support local businesses. Knobs. Do you all live in my condo association too*?

In other news, I am trying to craft the perfect bib for babies to wear to Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of “Don’t feed me. My mommy bites.” Or maybe “Don’t feed me. You had your chance to make your own kids fat.” A baby is still too young to eat food, pish.

*A baby and I compromised and signed the rudest neighbor up for casual encounters ads on Craigslist. You: must have own python.

Apparently

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Toting a baby around in a sack around my neck while in a store incites adults to make ridiculous faces. Do we know peek-a-boo? Do we? No, we care not for your antics. We care for 88% dark chocolate and being able to buy all the wine we want in grocery stores. A baby got me a sample of sushi. She would have been better served to get me a free eyebrow waxing, considering she has to look at me. She also got us invited to crash the express lane. I am like that awful boll weevil with the sense of entitlement. Except I don’t have one at all. I am as surprised as the next beetle. Honest.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have stop a baby from leaving rakes subtly angled next to the parking spots of neighbors.

Ten minutes til Wapner

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After throwing myself off a cliff the other day due to reading the nanny postings on Craigslist (“Little Angles Nanny Service,” anyone?), I was reincarnated as a dung beetle who is doomed to go to the post office every day for the rest of her life. Tomorrow I will go and cast a “Yoga for Your Pregnancy” DVD into the abyss. I can’t say I ever managed to do any of that yoga. Putting on pants becomes entertainment enough at a certain point.

But anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Craigslist is full of the little creatures of nature. And the occasional salacious outing of a wealthy family who stiffed the nanny. I’ve given up on ever selling anything with Craigslist, because one can post all salient details and a photo and still get an email reading “Hi! I want to buy your item! How much is it? How big is it? Will you bring it to my house? What were you selling, anyway?” Of course there are many more misspellings in the actual email. So I’m trying eBay and Half.com to purge our home of useless clutter and Mr. H’s awful CD collection from before he knew me. People ask all sorts of questions on eBay as well, it turns out. Apparently I must not have written my listing in Australian*, as someone wants to me to sort out the cost of shipping. Clearly, I can do this with much more panache than the shipping calculator link at the top of the page. People are so starved for love and attention these days. Let’s heal together.

*I responded pitifully, with the help of the Outback menu: It’ll be a dinkely doo bonzer right Thunder From Downunder $18.75 American dawlahs.

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.

What we did on Bastille Day

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In this frame, a baby was amused by Anderson Cooper’s hair.

Last night, the baby went to a wedding. She wore a fetching outfit and slept in a sling all night, meaning I got to eat with both hands. Other babies in attendance loudly disgraced themselves during the toast, and Mr. H leaned over and whispered “not mine!” A baby only become upset when she was getting her diaper changed in the bathroom of one of the guest suites in the sprawling home where the wedding took place. We realized she was crying because we don’t have heated towel racks at home. It’s OK, that makes me cry too.

There’s no dog, but there IS a baboon!

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What a big, exciting weekend. I got the Ren & Stimpy DVDs I’ve been coveting for so long! And then whaddya know, one of my favorite episodes was on TV for free yesterday. Rip. Big rip. Then Mr. H made me go to Linens N’ Things. I guess we need things. He always wants crap like throw blankets. I ran around like a child who has slipped its leash while he evaluated thread counts. Look! They have candy! Do you see! Candy! We left with some candy. You are a true friend, Stimpy.

I’d say more (or less? since whatever I was going to say is hardly substantial. it probably has to do with food.), but I was up all night with a migraine (not related to the candy, honest). And people have started doing that mega-annoying thing where they call all our assorted phone numbers in quick succession if we don’t answer right away, because clearly that will help them gain faster access to Important News. If you want Important News, try CNN. Or the Boston Globe, where they only confuse “its” and “it’s” 50% of the time. The only people here are us firedogs.