Tag Archives: parasite

My gang sign is Whatever

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I accidentally shot the building super when I was trying to flush the rats out of the trash room with my shotgun. I think he’ll pull through. He shook his fist at me out of the back of the departing ambulance. Feisty li’l guy. He reminds me of a svelte Wilfred Brimley. The whole debacle recalls how my pappy used to shoot at the neighbor kids with rock salt. That last part is actually true, although the prior truths are merely essential truths.

WTF is wrong with my DVR? It records The Daily Show like 6 times a day. Apparently the problem is something something metadata. The hell with you, fake news. I will make up my own. Haven’t I been doing this all along?

Have discovered surefire way to offend populus at large not already offended just because of parasite existence: casually mention we are planning on using cloth diapers for the parasite. People get righteously bent over a simple statement with no attached evangelizing or explanation. There is an explanation, but I know damn well no one likes those. As Americans, we all know that someone making a different choice means that someone is saying our choice is WRONG. Screw you, France, don’t judge me. You don’t even KNOW me111!!!!11!!

This attitude strikes me as hilarious because other people are not the ones who have to do our laundry/birth at home/invest in mutual funds/any of the other Godless things we get around to doing. Some of these same people have been offended by past follies such as foreign vacations/Mr. H shopping at Banana Republic. “Well. I just don’t know why you’d want to DO that!” I don’t know why a lot of people do a lot of things, but I agree that it is way fun to speculate.

Today in cats: The dead spider from the bathroom that I’ve been ignoring mysteriously disappeared.

Am terrible person

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I woke myself up this morning by laughing at my own joke in a dream. Ha! Haha! It was so funny that the parasite got the hiccups.

I’m doing my taxes, er, filling out the worksheet from the accountant. Did I start a farm last year? Please refresh my memory. I probably should have. This question seems leading.

Also, it’s Valentine’s Day. I have festooned the place with red confetti, and I’m wearing a fur bikini. By that, I mean mismatched socks. But they are pink! Who loves you?

Comme nous chanceux sommes!

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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.

Truthy, not facty, with annoying emphasis

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Today is the 33rd anniversary of Roe v. Wade. The parasite has learned to roll over, which feels rather odd. My mother always stood in the wings during high school and college hissing “You know I’ll always pay for an abortion, right?!” Now she’s inventing excuses to fly up and rub my belly. I should have bilked her out of abortion money while I had the chance. She’s never going to fall for an abortion a month now. Gestating is not nearly as uncomfortable and grotesque as I once conjectured, but I still wouldn’t wish it on anyone who didn’t want to do it. My resolve is strengthened.

Today is also the most depressing day of the year, mathematically (thanks, Lisa!). In unrelated news, through a complicated scheme, I will cancel my cable and restart it on the same day to get a free month of service. Why TV? I like OnDemand. I don’t like owning DVDs, and I am actually too lazy/busy to send Netflix movies back. It’s true. I just sent back one from July. We paid something like $75 to watch that movie. I wish Apple would get with it and figure out how to beam first-run movies directly into my head. I can’t see the movie screen because I need glasses now. Getting old is a bitch! I have toe arthritis. I’m not really 25, no matter what I might claim. Don’t listen to me at all.

How do other people do it?

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Internet pets, I have such poor stress management skills these days. No wine + no pills + not even freaking Nyquil make Hulk ill-equipped to handle paperwork or daily upset and challenge.

How dare someone want me to do work? How dare my insurance agent be out of the office? How dare my accountant send me a bill? How dare Saab continue to assert that I need a Subaru part? How dare “Kevin” at Subaru not know which part fits a Saab? OMGWTFBBQ Subaru is no longer even remotely a part of GM. I think Toyota owns those shares in Fuji Heavy Industries now. That makes the Saabaru the 2005 Tar-Baby of GM. My pappy once told me “Never buy GM.” Of course he’s also doing a gout cure he found on the internet when he doesn’t even have gout, but we trashpick advice around here as we see fit.

I told Saab to send my file to legal to get me the hell out of the lease. There was hemming and hawing, and then I can’t believe I did this, but I used the “We have a baby on the way, we can’t be expected to drive it around in a car with a broken windshield!” line. Oh, breederism. So loathsome, but apparently effective in this case because Phone Lady said “Oh! I’ll get that right over with a note then.” It doesn’t matter that the car would fail inspection, apparently I can drive it all the livelong day, but THINK OF THE CHIRREN!

Didn’t I write a book last year with a Moose? It was about this time last year, because my Media Bistro membership is expiring. IIRC. LOL. I think I was supposed to be famous by now, but we never got around to actually mailing it to the agent. That’s OK. I’ve met so many more horrible people this year. I could do a sequel in my sleep.

Hearing goes mono, hearing goes stereo. Oh…and back to mono.

You want to know about the billboard

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There are two churchs down the road that out-sloganeer each other each week. The one closest to the house says something like “Let your inner good show on the outside.” Of course I think of how the entrails of some of the Habsburg emperors were buried outside of their bodies. Or good old Saint Erasmus.

But mainly I think of how butt ugly the parasite is making me. In theory, I have the goodness of innocent infant blood inside (a prized beauty treatment for stars like Dick Cheney and Nicolette Sheridan), but the outside? Not so good. Little Davidette is giving mommy a lackluster mane and tail. Combine this with a minor illness, and I look like a zombie. A zombie with pants that can’t stay up properly because the zombie is not big enough for fat pants, but too small for her regular pants. I lurched into the car fixing place this morning and rattled “Change oil! Brains!” Then I just huddled on the floor by the counter, hissing at people until someone had to put on gloves and drag me to the customer lounge.

While in the lounge, I ate someone for starting a cell phone conversation about how annoying it was to wait in a waiting room. Survival of the fittest. This someone was even uglier than me, if that’s possible.

Compound fracture: Saturday/Sunday special

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Fwoo, writing on the internet is hard. I missed another day of content challenge. Amy is trouncing me with the alphabet. So far, I have managed to sneer at the real estate section of the Times, as is my weekend custom, and I also ate Belgian waffles. Yesterday was more involved, but too exhausting to recount.

The wind is howling, the cat is hiding under the table, and I am trying not to think about mini tacos because if I eat them all, they will be gone. The movers dropped off a billion boxes the other day, and I should be filling them and labelling them, but we can’t have that. I am also supposed to be doing something career-related, but I just. don’t. care. The parasite releases chemicals that make my brain fuzzy. It’s a warm, cuddly static, more like being trapped in a duvet than the usual January ennui, but the end result is much the same. We have pressing matters to address like playing “Who’s the baby!!!!!!,” which involves lying on the couch with a hand on the abdomen waiting for bonks. The baby is indignant when Mr. H takes his hand away, and the cat turns around and glares when petting stops. High needs.

Friday we took the gruesome ultrasound pictures over to oblige Mr. H’s family. Since he is a bastard, he held out two pictures, side by side. His mother freaked out, asking “Am I looking at TWO pictures?” And he said “Yes, you are looking at two pictures.” His sister jumped up and did an end zone dance, all “In your face, I was right, I was right, it’s twins!” No, but there are two pictures. I am not sure what made her think it was twins, since I am now 50% done gestating but have no obesity to show for it. Apparently my innards are spacious. So I asked about her reasoning, and it seems Darlene the psychic said it would be twins. Or a boy. Or a red-haired girl. Darlene is very diplomatic.

Now it’s really Friday, not Thursday’s make-up day

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Ah, Friday. I don’t have to do any work tomorrow. Except for oh crap. Crap. I have to go to a birthday party, which means I will wrap up some item I find in the back of the closet. Here, have one shoe. You’ll love it. It makes you look like you have more legs.

This morning Mr. H and I went and tortured the parasite with an ultrasound machine. I mean we treated it hospitably, as a guest of the US government. Verdict: parasites do not like being mashed and otherwise bullied with sound waves. It has quite the impressive brain, though. Takes after me. I also spotted the reproductive organs, and if I were a proper internet parent, I’d post a photo with an MS Paint arrow pointing to it, along with the caption “Money Shot!!!!!” Yes, this is done on the internets. I have seen it. People who do this also tend to have lots of blinkies festooning their personal internet homepages.

Later, I had a phone call with someone with a suave British accent. I wish I could only have calls with people with suave accents. I could just lie on the floor and pretend David Bowie is calling to ask me about my interactive vision. Except David Bowie would have even better manners than that. He’d start by inquiring after my health, and then he’d move on to a thoughtful compliment. Some pig!

OMGZ

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I totally blew off Content Challenge yesterday. I just somehow skipped Thursday. I woke up, and it was Friday. Who knew? OK, that is lie. Actually, I got quick-onset obesity, and I couldn’t get off the couch. That is also sort of a lie, but far closer to the truth. Oh, as if you did anything that great on Thursday. Who are you, Bono? Angelina Jolie?

Potatoes, not politics

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I had something to say, O Best Beloved, but I forgot. Surely the proper procedure is to stop typing, but when I get a notion to type, I can’t help myself. Idle hands take up the devil’s work. It’s either this or knitting the scarf I just can’t finish. I feel like Christo whenever I pick it up.

Have you called your senator to whimper about the Supreme Court yet today? I normally prefer to keep my whimpering to the comfort of my own duvet, but we do what we can. This is a remarkably angst-free January, all serotonin levels, wiretapping, construction projects, and parasites considered. I think I’ve discovered that eating every twelve minutes is the solution to my myriad personal shortcomings. Well, at least I feel better about them. Not saying it actually fixes them. Perhaps it was never existentialism: I just wasn’t eating enough oatmeal. This looks like it could be Dick Cheney’s problem as well. Fiber, mon petit robot.