Today there are lots of new photos over at Mr. H’s photo blog. He actually let me touch the camera for a change. Think of it as a really vague, blurry tour of our loft!
Here we have the bedroom.
The dining room.
OK, this one is the local smoothie hut. I don’t stack anything on my own shelves that neatly.
Pharrell is like the Great Pumpkin, I think.
Secret confession: I am the lady driving around in the Saab wagon with the duct-taped in windshield with the hip hop station blasting. A baby likes it better than all other forms of musical entertainment.
Now, I have an ethical dilemma. Ethicist, a baby went on the Google and found the very embarassing personal ad of the head troll from the condo association Yahoo! group. This troll recently lobbied for the installation of stockades in the lobby for the person who left trash next to the trash chute. This troll makes statements like “Didn’t this yahoo learn anything in kindergarten?”
How did a baby know this person was single? A wretchedly abrasive personality is never a non-starter when it comes to coupling. A baby has a lot to learn. There is some awful person out there for everyone, and the Internet is a uniter, not a divider.
But here’s the problem: a baby thinks I should print out the ad and plaster it liberally about the lobby. I think this is a good idea, but perhaps not environmentally sound. I think I should make a gmail address and email a PDF around instead. You see how we are at odds. A baby offered the compromise that we should do the printing on recycled paper, with vegetable-based inks, and only put the flyers on car windshields in the parking lot instead of all over the lobby. WWYD?
Today, the Yahoo! group brain trust proposed that my building should become a gated community because people who don’t live here sometimes turn around in the parking lot. I worry about many frivolous things, but so far, I had managed to skip that one. Someone else’s tires may be touching pavement that my tires will need to touch! I am going to write back and suggest that we erect an ornate gate house and staff it with folks dressed like Raffles Hotel employees. I also want to be addressed as memsahib each time I come back from grocery shopping. Then they must ferry me over the alligator-and-stingray-filled moat on a raft of platinum.
Mr. H went to the meeting while I stayed home to ply a baby with strong drink, ed and when he returned, cialis I asked after the lady who picks fights on the email list and then declares that the list is not a good forum for discussion when people disagree with her.
“Did you figure out who that cooze is?”
“Yes!”
“What does she look like?”
“A cooze.”
Well, I figured!
A baby celebrated three months of excreting yesterday! Guess how she celebrated that. Just go on and guess. Keeping her alive all that time was approximately ten trillion times harder than keeping Sea Monkeys alive, and that’s hard anyway.
She’ll never learn to read because we can’t afford reading now. Mr. H toted up what his comic book collection would be worth, and we had a little moment of ka-ching! But then he called his parents and found out they gave it away at a yard sale recently. Oh, snap. Oh.
The locals on the Yahoo! Group continue to infuriate me. They are now calling pre-meetings for meetings. If I wanted to go to meetings about meetings, I’d have a goddamn job. There is an issue with flood insurance that may end in litigation with the management company, and one bokka booka crazy woman suggested that someone go to the registry of deeds and compile a list of people who actually owned when the flood took place, so as to exclude people who did not own at the time from the meeting. Yes, because PEOPLE LOVE TO GO TO EXTRA FUCKING MEETINGS THAT DON’T CONCERN THEM. People volunteer to attend meetings left and right, and it takes some super sleuthing to stop them. Everything is a conspiracy.
Yesterday was Mr. H’s birthday. He is now Old. How sad for him! To celebrate, we tried sneaking away for dinner after a baby was asleep. Of course a baby opted to wake up and vomit all over his sister. Still, that was the best glass of wine and speed-eaten entree I’ve had in months. We returned to find a baby fully alert and talking to a stuffed bear.
Yahoo! Groups: tool of the devil? I read through 50-odd messages from the bitches who are vying to be condo board president for our complex. People are complaining that as the temperature drops, the windows are drafty. Someone was spotted pulling a door open by holding the key in the lock. Someone’s parking spot has a pot hole that collects rainwater. People want parking stickers for our DEEDED, NUMBERED parking spots. Now, we don’t even have an association yet. The complex is under control of the management company until December, when we can technically form an association. This sticker decision was made by some sort of pre-association cabal, drunk with the power of reply-all. Unless I get to go to a meeting and vote/complain about it (I will make a baby raise her hand too), it seems slightly premature to be pricing out the printing of stickers. When someone is in my spot, I don’t really care if that person has a sticker or not. I know that person is not me, and hence I am justified in calling the towing company. So simple and elegant. I guess some people really enjoy a rousing game of “one of these things is not like the other one!”
No, the actual logic is that people are fiercely protective of the single visitor spot. OK, then, with the aid of stickers, we’ll be able to see if the person in that spot is a resident using it for selfish purposes, like leaving a second car there for twenty minutes while he drops something off. Then I suppose we must take down the license number, go look it up in the office, and nail a dead woodchuck to his door. Or perhaps we can arrange a time to stand around with torches and pitchforks. This time will be arranged using the Yahoo! Group. No, it can’t be Sunday night, because Shelly is going to be out of town! This is too bad. Shelly loves a good public whipping. Hey guys, if you need me, I’ll be boiling some oil!
Today is the third anniversary of my legal ensnarement of Mr. H. At least according to the state of Massachusetts. The JP actually filled out the form wrong. It’s really tomorrow. Then our sham wedding anniversary is Wednesday. Got it? OK. It’s a big month here atop the Indian burial ground. We both have birthdays, and of course our cat anniversary because I am the asshole who gives free kittens as gifts. I can’t wait to turn 25 again. Each year, our age gap widens. Soon it’ll be like {Warren Jeffs joke}. Oh, my heart’s not in it. You may note that I have a nearly three-month-old baby, so what happens in September does not stay in September. Don’t believe September for a moment. She’ll screw your cousin, give you herpes, and make you think you gave it to her first.
It’s 2 PM, and I have accomplished a shower (but not a hair drying, and now it looks all funny) and two baby naps. The painter’s tape stuck to one spot on the ceiling mocks me. It’s been there since January, and all I want to do is tear it down. But I can’t lift the ladder by myself, and the person who can lift the ladder will make so much noise that a baby wakes up. A tired baby is an angry baby. So here we are again, piece of tape. The days just trickle away. Hi, hi!
No? How about a baby?
No? How about a cat shaved up like a baboon?
No? A husband who is psychologically blocked from putting his clothes anywhere but next to the hamper?
No? I got it then. You want my cursed condo. The one that floods and threatens to explode.
The electrician was in to see about the sparks shooting out of the breaker box, and he kept muttering and asking “You sure no one’s done any work in here? This isn’t right.” Oh boyyyyy, Ren. No, it’s just as we found it when we moved in. Home surgery, sure, but no home electricianing for me.
Clearly, my housing problems must relate to some personal failing or stolen tiki idol. Track record as follows.
First home: was a trailer.
Second home: unfortunately my parents lived there too.
First apartment: contained a roommate who played Vampire: The Masquerade and had loud nerd sex clearly audible through the wall. Next to train tracks. Total stranger climbed the balcony and came into my room, although I marched him out the front door with the fake gun from my Wild West set from the toy store.
Second apartment: Bathroom ceiling collapsed on the night I moved in. Upstairs neighbor’s toilet rained liquid.
Third apartment: Bathroom ceiling also collapsed. Co-dependent relationship ended in complicated appliance custody.
Fourth apartment: landlord barbecued/distilled something in basement over open flame and caused carbon monoxide poisoning. Landlord also backflushed radiators and neglected to turn off water in the boiler, causing massive jets of steam to shoot out of radiator.
Fifth apartment: mice. And hoochie roommate who enjoyed having all her townie RI friends come to visit so they could screech “OMG I am sooooo wasted” while drinking Coors Light.
Sixth apartment: Living room flooded. Haunted. Upstairs neighbor a piano teacher and casual child abuser. Living room flooded again in new location. Air conditioner exploded twice in two weeks.
First condo: I don’t want to talk about. We can’t have nice things.
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.
I live in my house again. This is enjoyable.
The parasite wants out. I have mixed feelings on this topic.
The cat still needs shaving. She has very well-articulated feelings on this topic, which is why it’s not done yet.