Tag Archives: teebee

What we did on Bastille Day

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In this frame, a baby was amused by Anderson Cooper’s hair.

Last night, the baby went to a wedding. She wore a fetching outfit and slept in a sling all night, meaning I got to eat with both hands. Other babies in attendance loudly disgraced themselves during the toast, and Mr. H leaned over and whispered “not mine!” A baby only become upset when she was getting her diaper changed in the bathroom of one of the guest suites in the sprawling home where the wedding took place. We realized she was crying because we don’t have heated towel racks at home. It’s OK, that makes me cry too.

There’s no dog, but there IS a baboon!

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What a big, exciting weekend. I got the Ren & Stimpy DVDs I’ve been coveting for so long! And then whaddya know, one of my favorite episodes was on TV for free yesterday. Rip. Big rip. Then Mr. H made me go to Linens N’ Things. I guess we need things. He always wants crap like throw blankets. I ran around like a child who has slipped its leash while he evaluated thread counts. Look! They have candy! Do you see! Candy! We left with some candy. You are a true friend, Stimpy.

I’d say more (or less? since whatever I was going to say is hardly substantial. it probably has to do with food.), but I was up all night with a migraine (not related to the candy, honest). And people have started doing that mega-annoying thing where they call all our assorted phone numbers in quick succession if we don’t answer right away, because clearly that will help them gain faster access to Important News. If you want Important News, try CNN. Or the Boston Globe, where they only confuse “its” and “it’s” 50% of the time. The only people here are us firedogs.

Baby I’m your one and only

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Even though someone warned me that a killer tsunami (as opposed to a friendly, helpful tsunami) is supposed to cripple any land mass touching the Atlantic today, I still managed to get a pedicure. I chose a shade called “Tacky Whore.”

Ethicist, will this color make my parasite retarded? I know talking to the pedicure lady for an hour almost obliterated my few remaining brain cells. When she left the room to let my feets marinate in a brimming pool of pathogens, I read US Weekly and felt an immediate IQ boost. She was not my regular lady, let’s just say. And there is but a short list of ladies I can stand anyway, so this was decidedly non-ideal. This is a problem that could only happen to me, or possibly someone from “My Super Sweet 16.”

Then I had to take my gaudy trick-turning toes into the waiting room, and the local biddies grilled me about my house I don’t live in. Word gets around. I’m over the house, see. I didn’t like it that much anyway. But the way that unscrupulous snake dealer nearly thwarted my grand entrance and forced me to find a replacement snake at short notice? That was too damn much.

Would you rather

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A) Sort through three boxes of wires and cables that you’ve dragged along on the past two moves because Mr. H thinks they might be important

B) Deal with a client who says “Lighten this image,” and then turns around and says “No, I want it back the exact same way it was before.”

C) Interview pediatricians

D) Induce a diabetic coma with fun sized Three Musketeers bars while watching a saved America’s Next Top Model episode

A flashlight, a map, and a trusted Indian guide

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The parasite has decided to turn sideways again. This means I am supposed to hang upside down like a bat to encourage her to do the same. Seems contradictory to gravity, but so far it’s shoved her “this end up” a few times. She likes to torment by hanging out in the perfect position for weeks, then turning. For the uninitiated in the ways of parasitism: sideways means “can’t get theyah from heyah.” I would really prefer not to cap off nine months of existential panic with major surgery after all that planning on extruding her into a comfortable hot tub at my house.

In the natural birth world, any deviation from normal = It Must Be the Mother’s Fault. Surely I have been thinking bad thoughts or sitting wrong or not Trusting My Baby, Trusting My Body. In the medical world, any deviation from normal = There, There, Dear, a Doctor Can Fix This, Lie Back and Think of England. Can’t fucking win, as each option is equally insulting. Gonna move to that cave.

Maybe she flipped overnight because we watched that wicked traumatic “Grey’s Anatomy” episode last night that left both Mr. H and I weeping when the pregnant lady died on the operating table after a car accident. That lady’s baby came out early, and “didn’t look so good,” so clearly my parasite is digging in sideways and holding on until it’s really time. Yes, I know TV is for shit.

Or maybe she’s traumatized because yesterday we learned how to prevent choking by whacking a plastic infant on the back. I think I’ll just never allow her anything but a liquid diet. Hey, it works for Kirstie Alley. OK, I promise we won’t whack you on the back, you little potato. It’s not for sport. You’re not about to be born into “The Most Dangerous Game” or anything. Honest. Just try ass-end up for a while. It works so well for Carmen Electra.

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.

Stereotyping

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I do not like living up to the Vomitola name, I’ve decided. Whoever is holding the voodoo doll this week decided to add some actual vomitola to my bird flu. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your eyeballs shooting out of your nose at the same time as your stomach lining. That’s how I spent my Tuesday. What did you do, Bono?

On the plus side, if not for lying on the coach moaning and watching Entertainment Tonight, I never would have found out about this: Hilton leaves Renee Zellweger naked!

Where’s the wahmbulance?

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I can’t write content today because I came down with the bird flu overnight. I asked Mr. H to write my content, and he helpfully dictated “Wah, wah, wah, I’m sick, wah wah.” That’s about right, but I’m divorcing him anyway. So here I wallow, watching terrible TV and trying to take advantage of my good nostril. So far, I’ve seen a preview for “Skating with Celebrities.” What about “Brain Surgery with the B-List?”

Big do-ins like for humans

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And such it is that we are all consenting adults in this house, and we have set upon a solution: the DVR. It came in the afternoon, and Henry, the installer, even left us an extra remote. We can all sit on the couch and hold a remote, captain my captain, even the cat. It is important to feel powerful. These remotes will no doubt stop other acts of bullying. This way I can watch America’s Fattest Fatties and all the Top Model I can cram down my gullet without regurgitating, and Mr. H can watch Nerdistar Nerdlactica or whatever. Picture in a picture, bitch! Look, it’s Santa Claus, and he’s holding a Coke bottle with Santa Claus on it. It’s turtles all the way down.

So the first thing I think I recorded was the Martha Stewart talk show, but maybe I just watched it when it was on. I have no idea. I fast-forwarded it and rewound it, and then I had to have a yogurt because I was hungry. That is a thing to do if you find yourself hungry. My tip is free from me to you. Martha made Larry King frost a cake, and he didn’t know what a dollop was. Yeah, right! As if he never ate a dollop of lard right out of the jar. The man’s had heart attacks, for chrissakes. Next week Martha is planning to have Kate Moss on to discuss garnishing a plate with powdered sugar.

I want to be on that Martha Stewart show so badly. I write them every day, telling them about whatever trumped up talent I can think of. I feel certain they would like to have me and all the fat kids on the show, and then I will trick the fat kids by making a cookie recipe with applesauce instead of pork fat, and they will cry, right on TV. And Martha will laugh, because I am sure she does not like fat kids any more than Anna Wintour does. She should have Anna on that same show, and they will practice sealing envelopes with only disapproving thoughts.

The head gasket and how it blew

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Oh, you don’t want that to happen. No sir. First the o-rings pop out, see, here, and then we have to cut this out of the main line, and I’ll just need these plastic bags to wrap it, yeah, sure, like a grocery bag, I’ll need… three’s good. If you hear a hissing noise, just ignore it. I’m not supposed to do it this way, but I didn’t have the right tool with me. Haven’t seen one of these things happen in five years. This’ll be two in ten years. I’ll be back tomorrow. Who could have known?

I should have killed the HVAC guy when I had a chance, two months ago. Now he’s trying to kill me. I think it’s a different guy, but what does it matter at this point? Oliver? Why is it doing the names in our bedroom? You can’t plug a two in with a six.