Tag Archives: Indian Burial Ground

Ch-ch-ch-changes

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Today ybab celebrates eleven months of mostly breathing. She made a valiant attempt to chew up my British Airways Illuminati Perks membership card. That sucks! Without it, I can’t go up to the cockpit and sit on the captain’s lap while being misted with water extracted from volcanic springs with a crystal eyedropper. Did you know the co-pilot is actually a donkey? Little known fact about BA. That card also ensures that I receive an i.v. drip of caviar and crissy. Makes any flight more tolerable.

In other news, we have decided to move back to civilization a-sap. I am preparing to lose a squillion dollars on the ol’ IBG. That assumes that someone wants to buy it at all. Perhaps no one wants to buy it. This would be a reasonable decision on no one’s part. I eagerly await throwing out the rest of everything I own that I haven’t managed to sell on eBay and beating a path back to Brookline or even thickly settled Somerville. Maybe we will nest in the rafters of the Ted Williams tunnel, dropping down on unsuspecting motorists and gleefully exsanguinating them. This is how legends are born.

Three thumbs up to this natural disaster

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I just phoned Zagat’s and yelled “Fifteen stars!” because I am so impressed with this flood. We are now back home, after only two days of vacation in scenic Chelmsford. We stayed right next to the Hong & Kong, and I had a mai tai with a plastic sword in it. If that’s not nice, then I don’t know what is.

My highly sensitive spirited high needs sprog has learned to throw her arms in the air like the Village People. I have to fight, er, caucus and build consensus, with someone about the depiction of grapes on a plate. For real.

My Indian burial ground brings all the dead rats to the yard

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That’s right, it’s wetter than yours.

Confidential to the leathery chainsmoker leaning on the bridge railing by my house snickering “Didn’t those people LEARN?”

1. That tracheotomy is going to be very becoming on you in a few more years
2. Would YOU like to buy my Indian burial ground? Because no one else wanted it. Believe me, we tried to dump this thing.

If you need me, I’ll be lying under the bed in hotel. Mama remembered to pack the tranquilizers. I am getting good at this fleeing in the night business. I missed my calling as part of a Biblical tribe.

Hello, I’ll be bribing you today

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Someone is coming to appraise my Indian burial ground, and I have left a casual, shabby chic vintage suitcase filled with non-sequential bills by the front door, on an adorable antique stool draped with a lace doily made by nuns. I also made such concessions as putting on pants and boiling a pot of cinnamon water on the stove so it smells like I cook.

Not much is new other than my ethical violations. Luckily, I have a flunky who will go to trial for me. Everyone should have a good patsy. I am naming my next dog Scooter Libby, which is disarmingly perky.

Things are things, and this is not Darfur, and I am not an Austin Powers impersonator. Life is grand! There is a shopping channel just for rehab. It’s sort of like SkyMall.

My girl is the queen of the savages

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I bought a lovely pair of ballet flats in early 2005 and promptly ruined them two months later. When we toured the construction progress on our Indian Burial Ground, the ground was a bit marshy, and one shoe got sucked entirely off my foot. Foolish me, thinking a hard hat paired well with kicky flats. Where are Stacy and Clinton when I dress myself each day? They might have put the kibosh on the three shirts plus Nanook boots and rubber gloves joint from the other day. What can I say? I am always cold.

I found out that I have a vata problem. I used to be a nice corn-fed pitta with the moon eyes of a kapha, but now I am cold and crackly and speedy and have trouble falling asleep. I forget as quickly as I learn. And don’t get me started on how hard it is to be an Alpha. At least I am not infested with imaginary bugs, like my poor father.

Losing my slipper was only fitting though, since sucking and my real estate forays go hand-in-hand, hoof-and-mouth. I tried to sponge the mud off, but it didn’t really work. So I left the shoes in the back of my closet for two years. Duh.

Yesterday, I cleaned and polished them, and whaddya know, instant Spring! I also added up all our debt before I did this. All of it. I wrote it on a big piece of paper and stuck it on the fridge. Shame works wonders. I love to be shamed, don’t you? I’m your secretary. In summation, we owe every cent we take in before the end of the year to that piece of paper on the fridge. No, I can’t have new shoes. I am putting tiny human diminutive former primate to work on making me some, though. She is handy with an awl. She climbs the couch like a little ape and hangs upside down from my chest. One day I will give her power of attorney, and she will have to make decisions about my welfare. Until then, we Make Do and Improve.

February showers bring unpleasant trips to the parking lot

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We still have no hot water, medical which the management company scribe keeps referring to as Hot Water. Without fail, sick this causes me to free associate to Hot Chocolate, which means I have to sing “I Believe in Miracles.” The same managing individual, continues the bizarre habit of placing commas between noun/verb pairs in every sentence. This malady, is catching.

Later today, Hot Water, was briefly restored, and then the pipes, exploded, raining Hot Water into the hallway next to my door. The fire alarms, went off when the pressure, dropped, which caused a ybab to imitate the sound in solidarity. I, trussed her up in a blanket and stuck one leg, in a snowsuit, and we mingled in the parking lot with all the dogs in the building. Five fire engines came, which caused a ybab to join the dogs in howling.

Had this been a real emergency, well, I forgot the poor cat. Luckily, she can, swim.

Sick, sick, sick

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From the management team: “Correction: The Hot Water shut down, only effects the River Building.”

Oh, I’ll give you a correction! Let me get out my red electrons.

A ybab just finished a whirlwind installation of four teeth. She looks like a little hobo. Today she tested well with the urban demographic. “Dayum, you got a ybab in there!” No, I am not just amazingly obese. There is a ybab under my coat. Where do you keep your spare?

So where were the spiders

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Yesterday, Mr. H said “I dreamed we had a little boy too.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “I dreamed I had a calzone.”

Each concept is equally ludicrous. No cheese and no more seibab!

I’ve been cleaning up the house, and I noticed there are spiderwebs all over the rafters. Perfectly architected Halloween spirals. But no actual spiders are present. This is infinitely more creepy than the few months I spent living with Shower Spider in my old apartment. Each time I’d get in the shower, I’d say something to the effect of “Please don’t drop on my head while my eyes are closed, and I’ll let you live.” We respected each other. Shower Spider would never eat cheese in front of me when I can’t have any. AHEM. But absentee spiders? Who the hell knows? They could be forming a giant pyramid on top of the headboard while I’m asleep, for all I know. They could be blinking in Morse code to say I look fat! Stick with the devil you know. Hypotheticals and invisibles are terrifying.

Restrain me

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Tonight I took a ybab to the condo association meeting because I had to vote for people to be head busybody and Lord High Protector of the Visitor Parking Spot. A ybab behaved most delightfully, better than many of the adults present. Seen but not heard is a welcome prescription for most of society. OK, without the “seen” part too. I totally forgot about Wal-Mart for a minute there.

In other news: someone has recently acquired an enormous SUV. The license plate reads “YOGAETC.” Yoga and global warming, oil wars, etc.. Goes together like peanut butter and rocks.

Oh, and Zellweger has been leaking radiation all over the house. She’s hiding something, I just know it.

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.