Tag Archives: existential crisis
I can’t remember the worst December
Oh, sure I can! It’s a tie between December 1995, 2000, 2004, or 2008! And where there’s December, there’s January. Comminagetcha!
OK, I’m going to go make pudding and then skate around on the ice shelf on top of my car.
Let the Right One Slip In
We break from chewing on our nails for a “man on the street” interview with our own Lambchop.
“You got a donut??? Damn, I would have liked one of those! I would have voted for sanctity of life or marriage or fetal minimum wage for an old fashioned.”
Here she is, enjoying a free cone. Don’t worry, Monchichi! You can still make the rounds. In fact, you can do it even if you don’t vote! I am fairly sure she hadn’t even voted yet when this photo was taken. It also appears to have been taken in Italy, and there’s got to be something illegal about that. What would Karl Rove say about this?
In actual news, Obama appears to be leading in Indiana, with 0.0000435237384% of the polls reporting. Mr. H is on his way home with a brown paper sack full of refreshment.
This is just to rub it in
1. I am always right
2. Don’t even bother
3. My Saturn return starts in 3 weeks, so you better step!
4. I need attractive and inexpensive under-cabinet lighting
5. Like I need a hole in my head
6. I couldn’t tell you if things are any better
7. Maybe they are not worse
8. Could we agree on a bench?
9. See number 1
Pre, post, and currently traumatic
Internet, you jerk. I am trying to decide if I should go back to the therapist I saw last year or the year before or maybe the year before that for Wanting to Throw the Ybab in the River Syndrome. I want to throw the ybab in the river again. I am starting to think this is a personality flaw on her part, not mine. Can you have a two-year-old treated for Total Asshole Syndrome? Is there some kind of off-label use for animal tranquilizer everyone else is in on but me? I am so sorry that jerkism is hereditary. It is really biting me in the patootie.
But anyway, the therapist I saw back whenever that was happens to drink lots of soda with real calories, and that used to disturb me to no end. And I couldn’t just tell her that (because I’d sound crazy, wokka wokka), but jeez, I can’t watch someone drink two Mountain Dews or Pepsis in a row at 10AM. Am I really that boring with my petty neuroses that the woman has to prop her eyelids up with toothpicks? Don’t answer that.
I idly considered finding a new therapist, maybe one of those fancy CBT ones who will snap me with a rubberband every time I consider peeing on the floor. I wonder how therapists of that ilk feel about how cock and ball torture comes up ahead of their professional organization in the Google? Does this give them a complex? Do they just move their no-complainy bracelet to the other wrist and blithely move on? I’d like to know what that’s like. I require a full day of rumination if someone is a little hasty at a 4-way stop! And do not even talk to me about the grocery store. I couldn’t find the wheat germ. It was awful.
Oh well, if I can’t have low calorie mental health, at least I finally convinced someone at Saab to put a new liger on the back of the car. Someone stole the original one! Can you imagine? What must they be doing with it?
Highlights, for childrens
Someone’s world was rocked by the fact that everybody has a butt. And Spiderman? Spins webs with his butt.
The rain in Spain
Fellow humans, I am living proof that all it takes is one rainy day to undo a month’s work of feeling pretty spiffy! I should just live in a gro-light.
Instead, I live in a place where someone parks lengthwise across three parking spots, one of them being mine! I live in a place with a husband who snores and refuses to get his sleep apnea mask properly fitted to render it comfortable enough to wear and thus stop the snoring. I live in a place with a small child who pitches an unholy fit about sleeping in her special big girl bed, preferring to climb on top of me at 2 AM and 4 AM. I heard tell that at 4 AM, I actually snarled “You and your waking up and you and your snoring! I hate you all!” before jamming a pillow over my head and crying myself back to sleep. Or I don’t know what I really did, because I don’t remember even saying this. Someone claims I said this. Maybe someone is lying. Maybe someone is delusional due to oxygen deprivation from extreme sleep apnea.
The small child had a fit at the library this morning. Last time she assaulted the sign language bear, and this time she wept 10,000 tears when transparent scarf time ended. I am enjoying a fine cocktail of “Am I horrid parent, or is there something legitimately wrong with her?” This cocktail is a multivitamin and a glass of water and empty promises that someone is going to bring me back lunch soon.
While at the library, I overheard one lump of a woman say “Oh, I never know what to order at Starbucks. Everything on the menu is different.” Starbucks should take a memo and introduce a menu with only one thing on it. Or 30 things with the exact same name and constitution. The other lump who was the target of this declaration replied “Lattes! I love lattes! Get a latte!” And then I wept 10,000 tears, and I fell on the ground and kicked my legs in the air until a janitor came and removed me. That exchange, plus the fact that the LOL, MA newspaper, the Lowell Sun (motto: “We never spellcheck, and we call hot dog restaurants gourmet”), reports that a new wine and cheese shop called “Cest wine, Say Cheese” [sic] is opening, causes me to fling myself on the bed like a be-kneesocked school girl and scream “Get me out of this god-forsaken town!” Can’t you see that I am destined for bigger things? I’m packing my bag and heading to the bus station right now, like Axl Rose in the “Welcome to the Jungle” video. You’ll never take me alive, LOL, MA.
Is there an awareness pin for this too?
The weather has been delightful for a change, so ybab and I are making the most of it. We were at the park, and a ybab dominated the top of the slide like a 33 inch colossus. Some antsy pantsy older kid scrambled up behind her and started crowding her, and then he started whining and muttering. I was thinking “You little shit,” and I looked back at him and saw he was wearing a button that read “I’m not misbehaving. I have autism. Please be understanding.” Oh, oops. No arguing with that. But where can I get a helpful button for myself?
“I’m not disdaining you. I’m aloof and avoidant and afraid of you because you seem nice.”
“I really don’t recognize your face out of context. I would say hello if I realized I knew you.”
“Your parenting style makes me uncomfortable. I am not going to talk to you at all.”
“Your child is simply horrid. Would you like a paper bag and some rope for that?”
I’m imagining this working more like an L.E.D. belt buckle, I guess.
My filing technique truly is unstoppable
You do not want to know what I did with three days of naps, one father-supervised walk to feed ducks, and a P-Touch. I feel a deep sense of calm in my soul. A place for everything, and all the other stupid crap shredded and recycled.
I even went through a stack of proxy cards and voted them, generally installing incredibly old rich white men on boards everywhere. Sample additional question: “Some tedious meddling killjoy shareholders feel we should not invest in companies that profit from genocide. The board recommends a vote AGAINST this measure, as we wish to swim unfettered in our money bins.” Well, a vote for genocide is OK with m— whoa, wait a minute, reading messes things up again! I voted against profiting from genocide. So far, I’ve lost 3% for the year, so genocide can’t be that lucrative anyway. Don’t worry, the 3% was in retirement accounts, and I’m only 25. Indefinitely. The government is going to have a tough time making me take mandatory disbursements. I have a portrait in the attic I’ll use as ID.
OK, I made the 3% back last week. But still. Genocide!
Conquer existentialism in 72 easy steps
Can you believe I can go to the grocery store without a dissociative episode or panic attack? It was not always so, blogarinos, although that was still not enough to keep me away from the grocery store. Sometimes it’s kind of fun when the stuff on the shelf dances. Hell, I’ve paid for that experience before. But anyway, such vapors are a thing of the past. They took away my fainting couch down at the Hannaford. They also stole my debit card number, but that’s another story for another time. I got a new card, and the expiration date is no longer a very lucky 08/08, which was very popular when calling for Chinese takeout, trust me. Oh right. So anyway, to conquer your existentialism, try doing all your errands with a small conscience who yells at you, passersby, and dogs and fire trucks, just in case there are any. Your conscience should also throw things at you, like a grocery list, a pen, a travel magna-doodle, and a bag of organic soup beans. This works wonders for the constitution, if not the complexion. You might also substitute fire juggling if you do not have a conscience. You’ll be far too busy and concerned with your own survival to be crazy, at any rate.
The other day the conscience ran right over to that giant plastic car shopping cart, and I grudgingly soaked it in rubbing alcohol and secured her with a well-gnawed rope. A litter of other children saw her riding in splendor and made comment to their mother as to how they wished for a similar experience. MOMMYIWANNACARCARCARCARMOMMMYYYYYYYY. Their mother glared at me and said “No, we can’t do that today.”
“YAY! DRIVE CAR! FUN! WHEE! BEEP BEEP!” opined the conscience. Her timing is impeccable. The other kids dialed it up to about 12.
I decided to run with it, since other lady glared at me. “Yes, honey, I love you! You are driving! This is so much fun! I love it when you have fun with me at the store! Yay! What does the car say? Who’s the best little girl?”
Then I had to leave without all my groceries so I wouldn’t come out and find my tires slashed. On the way out, I realized if you go in the other entrance, there are no fucking plastic cars stored on that side. Oh. This is what it’s like to have low concerns.