Minus: The local water supply has been contaminated. The grocery store is out of bottled water.
Plus: But there’s plenty of Perrier!
Minus: Mr. H and the cat and I are exiled. Some of our stuff is in our cars. Some of it, such as the couch, is on top of the kitchen table back at our brand new scuba lair.
Plus: At least we aren’t That Guy.
It’s been an interesting few months living on an imaginary street. We park the car in a worm hole. No, really. The three-legged dog peed on my tire the other day.
Our street is a new, invented street which is basically a long driveway. The city refuses to put up a street sign even though they generated the address. The street does not show up in Google Maps. However, we are next to a fucking minor league baseball park and a landmark bridge, so most people can find it when you mention these things. The United States Postal Service can find my house. UPS can find my house. Fed-Ex can sometimes find my house. Last week, they delivered something one day, and then the next day they opted to foist an item back on the sender because my house had disappeared again. Whoops. It’s so hard to hit a moving target like a huge mill building. Verizon managed to hook up phone service in my house, except they have my address as “Building 17, Parcel something something” on another street entirely instead of the technical USPS-sanctioned address. The upshot is that people who want my money can usually make it by for a spell.
Last night we got shot down by a pizza place. A pizza place which must have previously delivered to this building since they managed to carpet the hallway with leaflets. They took our order, complete with an inquisition about directions and landmarks. Then the driver called from the car. He was down the block, and then he got sucked into the parking worm hole. He was so shaken that he had to turn around and take my food all the way back to the restaurant. Oh, nuh-nuh. He did! His GPS box on his dashboard said we were funnin’ him. The parasite put a foot through my esophagus in protest.
So I give up. I went to the damn store and bought “groceries.” I hate doing that. I hate being reminded of agri-business and seeing what other people wear to the store and place in their carts. I lugged the groceries home. I put them in the “fridge.” I hear this is how it’s done. Then I made a list to stick on the front of the fridge to let me know what was in the fridge. Opening the door is too taxing for someone who frequently gets out of the shower with conditioner not washed out of her hair. I need tool tips and maybe that little talking paper clip. I also cross-referenced the expiration dates to placate my old food phobia. You’ve won, Google Maps. See what you’ve done to me?
It started with other people drinking before the sun was over the yardarm. Or maybe it started when Mr. H and I almost threw up on the plane. Turbulence. I don’t know.
At some point, I was asked if “THEY” were “satisfied” with the “progress” that the parasite has made. “No, of course not,” I replied. “I am having a weak and reedy child, sunken of chest. THEY feel I will have to heave a sturdy rock at its hideous visage shortly after birth.” Then there was a discussion of a custom closet system, not my first choice for conversation. “Did you MEASURE?” “No, of course not,” I replied. “Why would I measure to ensure custom results?”
Then there was the problem of more drinking and gross sexual harassment of a waitress and food covered in sauerkraut. I think that was supposed to be delicious. But again with the almost throwing up business. My primary tormentor wolfed down a plate of German potato salad and told a tale of meddling, which stemmed from describing a problem with her inability to gain satisfaction from the help file in Excel. “You have to know how to look things up!” Yes, yes you do. “I was in the checkout the other day, and there was this young kid doing the ringing, and he didn’t know what a Belgian Endive was. So I said ‘Look under witloof.'”
“Witloof?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s the Dutch word.”
“And this would help a checker in an American supermarket?”
“Well, I’ve seen it called that before. At Kroger!”
“Were you at Kroger?”
“No.”
“What were you doing with an endive, anyway?” I was suspicious, as it took this person nearly fifty years to try asparagus.
“It wasn’t mine, the lady in front of me had it.”
“So you injected yourself into someone else’s transaction and offered a bizarre foreign word to be helpful?”
“Well, she thought it was some kind of celery. So I said to try looking under Belgian Endive. And he still couldn’t find it, so I said he should try Endive Comma Belgian.”
“If you had been quiet, he would have entered it under either celery or general merchandise, and you would been able to leave two minutes sooner.”
“But that would screw up their inventory!”
***
It has taken me days to get over this trip. You really can’t go home again. Not without getting bombed back to one’s emotional stone age. There’s the judgment, the paranoia, the incoherent ranting about Big Pharma and how money will be worthless, the revisionist history of wrongs committed in childhood, and the great sucking need for connection that I don’t know how to answer. What does anyone want from me? What do I want from anyone? If someone likes me, is that enough reason to give my time to that person? What if you also owe that person $10,000 that you aren’t really good for? What if you are having a child, and someone assumes he or she will be a part of that child’s life, and all you can think of is how much you hope you don’t do to that child what was done to you? And the very prospect of repeating history keeps you up nights, in a soppy swamp.
Hello, Internet, hello. Last weekend I took a detour through Boringsville. The main export is bladder spasms and strong antibiotics. While there, we also managed to shop for furniture for the parasite. We actually purchased nothing. Was it because the salesman loomed over us and made disparaging remarks about the one thing we liked? We found that odd, but we’ve never let a hick stand between us and Swedish things that are expensive. No, when we walked out, I read the establishment’s slogan on the delivery truck. “Making things easier for Mom’s.” Something something. You can totally see where I tuned out and started muttering. Dead to me!
Let’s say that there is a lady who runs out of checks. She is a beautiful and kind lady. She has very healthy teeth. Full disclosure: she could use a pedicure. Anyway, this lady says “Hmm, I am out of checks. Although most of my bills are paid electronically, this could pose a problem.” She calls the check ordering company. They assure her that her checks will be there in a few days. They are not. So she calls back and complains. They blame DHL. DHL has never heard of these checks. So the lady waits a few more days, and then the lady has to pay her fucking federal taxes and quarterly taxes with money orders, like poor people. The lady waited til the last possible minute to get the cursed money orders, hoping against hope that DHL would come through. The lady comes home from mailing the money orders (which cost $3 each because she does not have a GOLD account). “Look,” says the friendly three-legged dog. There is a package from DHL! On the steps!
In other news, the teller at the bank thinks the parasite will be HUGE. The dry cleaning lady thinks the parasite will be TINY. Either I am a compulsive overreater, or I am starving the parasite. I can’t be sure. I should have gotten a third opinion from the grocery checker, but she was too busy drawing me in to a conversation on whether or not that was Eva Longoria on the cover of Scientific American. I asserted that it was. Because it was, and it also said “Eva Longoria” under the picture. She felt that Eva normally does not wear so much eye makeup, nor does she traffic in straightened hair. The bagger finally convinced her, and she mentioned that we could all change our looks so frequently if we had as much money as Eva. Damn the system. Some of us are just stuck being ugly.
Or he will be, if I ever see him again. He just called and tried to weasel himself a visit to stop by and take life insurance applications. I asked if he could give us a quote, and who the company would be, and he wouldn’t tell me. I said that I couldn’t make an appointment without knowing these things, and he asked why. I said “We aren’t sure we want to use your services at all.” Suddenly, he had quotes for me. “Was that so hard,” I asked?
When he asked to speak to my husband instead, the top of my head came off. My brain rocketed out of my skull, like the crust of Mount Vesuvius. I woke up on the kitchen floor, drooling, brains impastoed on the front of the stainless appliances. I clawed desperately for the phone to call 911, but he was still on the other end, trying to distract me by changing the subject to whether I enjoy nice weather. I heard a coffee drink order being screeched in the background. That can only mean that this fucker is one of those fuckers who works out of a Starbucks! Fucker.
I slammed down the phone and scooped up my brains as best I could. Then I went online and found the same policy he was trying to sell me for less. Was that so hard?
Someone always wants my damn money. Apparently I had $192 of lab work done once. The insurance plan went from “Great, go to the doctor all you want, you beautiful hypochondriac” to “You have a $2,500 deductible.” I think the lab work was the “Is the baby a mutant?” test. Would I have gotten my money back if she were?
My Worst Elm order came today, and dang was that a production. They pack huge, cumbersome things in one box, even though that box contains pieces. But five curtain rods come in five separate boxes. Oh yeah. In the lobby, the UPS man got scared by a three-legged dog of my acquaintance. Who’s a pretty girl!! “Dogs hate the uniform,” he explained. Then we entertained the notion to heave the huge boxes through the window instead. We do not trifle with doors and walking long distances. We care not for hassle nor friendly dogs.
Now I have to go to the accountant to pay more money. Tomorrow a financial planner is coming over to tell us what to do with our no money. I hope he remembers to bring the glitter putty. I can’t financially plan without it. I am not making him any fucking coffee. He can walk over to Top Donut if he wants a coffee.
This week, we’re living in a hotel. I could get into that, what with the room cleaning itself and lackluster food just appearing by magic. I just wish it were a nicer hotel. Maybe the kind with $15 nuts in the mini bar. That would be great. Instead, we have a view of all the old bicycles and shopping carts in the partially drained canal that runs by the community college.
The cat is being traumatized at Casa de la Carpeted Kitchen, Mr. H’s ancestral abode. She tolerates the toddler who gets so excited that he wrings his hands and sighs “Kitty!” everytime he sees her. He’s pretty funny these days. He runs around with his arms bent and his fists clenched, kind of like Foghorn Leghorn. He has a real sense of purpose for someone with nothing to do.
Anyway, I think we can go home tomorrow if the fumes dissipate. That’s good since I’m all caught up on my USAToday. I learned that Wal-Mart is trying to lure upscale shoppers. Mkay. I would just love to buy my sushi from Wal-Mart. I really hope it’s made with dirt cheap Chilean salmon farmed in an environmentally predatory manner and processed by workers who don’t get bathroom breaks. But then again, when Wal-Mart thinks of a “well-heeled customer,” perhaps they are thinking of the person with the largest SUV. That person probably also enjoys shopping for fine jewelry from a case stocked by a polo-shirted worker with no health insurance. Not me, no sir. I prefer choosing my blood diamonds with the help of a man wearing a natty suit. It helps if he looks a bit like Hector Elizondo.
I hope the workmen did not eat all of my snacks, or the painkillers I’ve been saving. Remind me never to try to improve my surroundings again.
I got righteously indignant about the state of modern feminism the other day after reading all the Betty Friedan obits, but then I had a nice bowl of strawberry ice cream and forgot all about it. I think I was also just mad because I dropped my bagel earlier. Lately, many of my problems relate to actually being hungry.
Oh yeah, so fighting about different brands of feminism: what an awesome bougie problem to have! More money, more problems indeed. Would you like to hear about my problem with impossible math and the condo board’s sub-flooring requirements? I bet you would. The System (this is like The Man) still sucks, in so many possible ways. But I have the great luxury of being able to put off thinking about fixing it until after my nap. I am grateful.
But before my nap, I will inform you that we picked a name for the parasite. However, it contains an “ar” sound. Let’s say it’s Nomar. Now try saying this like a Masshole. Yes. You see the problem. I beat Mr. H into correct R sound pronunciation with a combo of actual beatings and M&M treats, but then I remembered he also has a large family. A family who can talk. Nomah.
Finally, I owe a mess of people a mess of email. If you are one of them, that’s because all my downloaded email is still on another computer. I can’t find the doohicky (I really wanted to say “dongle,” but that wouldn’t be entirely accurate) that connects this computer to a monitor. Life is hard, but I did get a free peppermint hot chocolate from Starbucks. For my patience, which I guess can be confused with standing around not paying attention.
Today’s efficiency report: A sexy recorded voice left me a voicemail message to tell me that I have voicemail service. I never stopped having it, but thank you for this sexy update.
Today in cats: they often do humorous things.