Tag Archives: Indian Burial Ground

Zero tolerance

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Our own problems are always the worst, right? I am an angry wolverine, ready to bite the next person who says they’ve had a hard day when what they really mean is “They were out of toasted coconut iced coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Whatever. At least I can poo, even with a parasite attempting to force all my internal organs up into my left arm somewhere. There are people in this world who don’t poo, you know. Poor kids in China. We’ll always have regularity.

My mother sadistically gave my email address to an aunt, and that aunt has been bombarding me with religious spam. Funny, right after this started, I GOT FORCED OUT OF MY HOUSE. Thanks, St. Theresa. Today’s installment slipped past the junk filter, and it also contains a gem about her grandson’s neck fold staph infection and her son and “his use of coffee grounds to grow beautiful blueberry bushes in his yard.” My cup, my cup, my cup runneth. Over. And around. And through. Behind and before. My cups actually leak now. That’s another problem for another day. The solution is a humiliating system of bra stuffing.

How many more disgusting things can I put in one post? I am dying to see what the sponsored links comes up with to go next to this one. Speaking of which, I am so glad I am monetized. No fair that you get to enjoy my bad mood for free!

Homigod

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Housing situation still non-pleasurable. Living in hotel for another few weeks or so. Back story complicated and irritating. Short version: flood, munged up utilities, possible negligence on part of builder, city, who knows. Parasite due to arrive: whenever she wants, at this point.

But but but but….I do not have this Disgusting and Terrifying Skin Disease! SRSLY. Read that article, watch the video, visit the foundation’s website, and prepare to think about never touching another surface again.

It’s No Good, reports Depeche Mode

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I am still not allowed to live in my house. This displeases me.

Yesterday I was debating weeping or going to the post office, case and my sister helpfully suggested that I go to the post office and weep there. This turned out to be just the ticket. Thanks, ethicist! Everyone else was already weeping, even the employees. And after filling out a few forms and showing ID and a little ankle, I am allowed to pick up mail today.

Is it possible to get PTSD from sheer inconvenience?

Landshark

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Today I saw a beaver and some snakes. And a capsized boat. And people who labor under the illusion that one may successfully drive a car in deep water.

Our private island looks better. You can see the tops of the tires of the Honda Element left in the parking lot now. The mechanical room is hosed, pilule and they have to fix all the utilities before we can move back in. The building overlords say people will be escorted to their units on Thursday or Friday to survey any damage and get more belongings. Someone asked who might be doing the escorting, and I had to admit that this puzzled me as well. High class hookers, I hope. The kind who went to Harvard and can pass for your girlfriend.

Pizza not delivered: no shit

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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?

Step away from the internet

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“Any impute would be great.”

It would, wouldn’t it?

The condo management reminds us “owner’s” not to have any “boistarous” parties. Also, they approved that I live with a cat. The cat has lived in the building for almost three months now, as an illegal immigrant. To get approved, we initially had to submit a photo of the cat “clearly showing facial area,” a copy of her shot records, and a list of her turn ons and turn offs. Then a month or two later, they decided they would also like a copy of our personal property insurance policy. Never ye mind that this only covers OUR SHIT. The master policy for the building covers everything else. But it’s OK, and now I have permission to harbor a cat, and the cat has permission to mess up our shit as much as she sees fit.

I told her she was approved. She still doesn’t care to come out from behind the washing machine, because the upholsterer was here for about thirty seconds to attend to a blight upon the ottoman. This is traumatic for a cat, apparently. I think she’s stuck back there. It was traumatic for me in that he also told me the story of the Great Fire that occurred on this property some years back. Lo, the townspeople came and watched. I knew all about this because Mr. H was townspeople who watched. Maybe Mr. H stood somewhere near the upholsterer. Barrrrring. Move along.

Now someone outside is yelling “YEAH BABY,” Austin-Powers-style. I am totally liveblogging. I hate you too.

Cats can’t fax for crap

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But they can eat the hell out of some tulips. Oh! Oh! They are up too high for you to reach? Why don’t you yell about it and look wistful?

It’s OK, cat, I can’t fax either, and I have thumbs. I put that shit in upside down yesterday. Ghost fax! Casper the friendly blank seven pages.

I shouldn’t be allowed around machinery at this stage of my endumbenment. I am losing a battle with the battery in this laptop.

The condo management continues to send illiterate emails. My favorite: “All owner’s whom wish to rent out their unit must get a 6D certificate.”

Now I’m working on my to-don’t list. There is dumb stuff on this list that I am supposed to do but will leave til the last minute. Do you have to buy cards for First Communions? I think so, but the bodega only has Quinceanera cards (now I know someone is going to be an asshole and leave a pithy comment about Quinceanera that is sure to include a proper n-yay. will it be you? yeah, you thought about it).

Mr. H has jury duty today, so I had to drive poor Dagwood to the butt-earliest train. Turns out the methadone clinic down the block is open much, much earlier than I thought! Did you get that I live in a bad neighborhood? There is a bell outside, and it’s ringing ringing ringing. I think “they” are testing an alarm. I get it. I’m alarmed.

And a good time was had by all

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We have floors! And baseboards, sickness like people! No more sod house for us, nurse Nelly Olson. You bitch. The contractor finished this morning, sale and he proclaimed that the entire job looks “the balls.” He left me with some noxious chemicals for cleaning, and I left him with an oversized novelty check. Then I determined that he wants a website, so I will get my grubby paws on some of that money again, mark my words. Give each other $20.

It’s not a crack house, it’s a crack home

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Mr. H and I had a lovely weekend a few states away. Despite the supreme foolishness of bringing helpless life into the world and blowing out an entire wall of poorly wired outlets with a table saw, we still like each other. I trust this is because no one else will have us.

We sat and stared at boats swimming around being boats, and we realized that we are terrible, terrible people with mostly self-created problems. Ah, we already knew that. But it’s nice to sit and reflect, isn’t it? Then we went and had ice cream since I get dirty looks when I order whiskey. The people at Coldstone Creamery have to sing when they get a tip. That may be a worse problem than some of our stupid problems.