Tag Archives: WTF

In a minute there is time

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I assure you it is hard being so ridiculously attractive, a regular genetic freak. If not for some quirk of face and international media, my perfect haunches and I would still be squatting on my ancestral goat farm in Brazil. But man, accidentally attend one beach volleyball tournament, and next thing you know, you have to date actors. Whatever works, I guess.

But I am tired of all the public scrutiny. Yesterday, I did not say “all white people look alike,” but the innernets are upon me with slings and arrows, and now I have to go to freaking rehab. Rehab! I can’t help it if all white people look alike, now can I? Some of my best friends are white! So I will get back to you lates. I really hope Keith Urban and Britney don’t snore. Did I ever tell you about the time I was in rehab with Robert Downey, Jr.? I let the air out of a judge’s tires on the wrong day, I guess. But anyway, blessing in disguise. You would not believe what I can do now with tinfoil and a Bic razor and some mouthwash.

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.

Of all the gin joints in all the tubes in all the internets

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I’ve had a Gmail address for a long time now, since I am Early McAdopterson. I was able to get my first name, just for the hell of it. Great, right? I don’t even use it except for nefarious schemes and my Google Analytics account since I have plenty of other email addresses to wrangle. I receive password change requests at my main email address all the time I dragged myself over to check the box yesterday, and lo, at least four different citizens of the internet feel they are duly entitled to use my address. Just because they can’t log in and check their mail doesn’t mean they stop giving it out. Frequently, they even sign up for various accounts, allowing me access to their credit cards and home addresses.

A brief history:
August 2005 – Helen K___ of Wallingford, NJ opens a Blockbuster rentals account. She rented The Aviator. She has an American Express card. She also signed up for some “get paid to” sites, and I was able to get her standard password pretty easily (hellgirl, wish I’d thought of that one). I finally get Blockbuster to cancel the account under my email address after a confusing hour with several different reps on the phone.

January 2006 – present – Helene K___ of NY, NY is job hunting. Her resume gets lots of hits from Monster. Too bad she put the wrong damn email address on it. Helene also books a room at the Inn at Saratoga for a Valentine’s getaway. Her sister wants to make sure she knows about a $949,000 condo in Park Slope. In June, Helene has a job at a well-known ad agency. She makes sure I get a deck and brief on look and feel for a high profile cellular client. She also makes sure to give me the password to their extranet. Shockingly, she’s back to job hunting in October. When I emailed what I deduced was her real email, she wrote back and said “Oh, it happens, people just can’t grasp that I have an E in my name.” Neither can she, apparently, since she was forwarding all those work emails to herself.

March 2006 – Helen K___ of Athens, Greece signs up for web hosting. I can administer her account if I want. I don’t, luckily. She also joins Myspace. I reject all her friends now and then. I stuck a note in her profile to let her know she’s attached her account to an email address that doesn’t belong to her.

July 2006 – Helen N___ of Piscataway, NJ wants to sell a drum set and posts on Craigslist. I wonder if that ever sold?

Ongoing dead letter office:

Feb 16, from “David”
“Hey, haven’t heard from you in a while, but hope all is well with you and
your sis. NY’s a tough town for fragile souls . . . :)”

March 6, also from David

“H,

You got another package — a box this time, but I’m afraid the time has come.
Oslen told me he’s not going to accepti any more packages for you. As much
as I love to be your boy, I guess you’ll have to find some other use for me
🙂 I’m good at cooking, but not cleaning.

– D”

The answers usually do come in the mail, except when they don’t.

You must not know about me

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I heard a disturbing song on the radio the other day wherein Beyonce throws a dude’s stuff out. That’s fine. I’m all for throwing a dude’s stuff out. He was probably an insolent whelp. Beyonce doesn’t have time for trifling.

Then she tells the dude that “I could have another you in a minute,” cautioning her lover to always remember he can be easily replaced. Yes, but wouldn’t you want to replace the cad who “called up on that chick to see if she is home” with a non-cad? Another him would be an emotional disaster. Has Beyonce not seen Groundhog Day? Apparently not, because she’s on and on telling the dude “I will have another you by tomorrow.” Nooooo, Beyonce. Break the chains!

I made sure to use this teachable moment to remind a baby that the number one rule of a broken relationship is “always trade up.” Just think, I could still be dating a roustabout if I had played my cards right. He was in a very promising local band that, as promised, is still a local band ten years later.

Tomorrow: I bring a baby up to speed on taking stylish victim tribute photos.

In Frisco Bay there lived a whale, she ate porkchops by the pail

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A baby just survived two days of being awakened at untimely points by her grandmother. Her grandmother agrees that a baby is “high needs,” which I could have fucking told you. Each day is like juggling several rabid badgers and running chainsaws, although a baby allowed us to eat dinner the other night because she was too busy stuffing her feet in her face. My mother elaborated so much as to use the term “handful.” And this is coming from a person who never met an inconvenient, convoluted process that she didn’t like.

To wit: on her last baby-poking expedition, Mr. H sent my mother to the grocery store with a detailed map. She returned with bags of groceries. Mission accomplished. On this expedition, I offered to draw her a map to the store, but she said she remembered where it was. My instinct said “no, not so much,” but I let her go anyway. Three hours later, I was thinking about calling the police. Turns out she went to the wrong store last time. Over the state line, in New Hampshire. So in the process of attempting to mis-follow the original directions, she missed New Hampshire. Some people gave her directions, and she ended up at the store in the next town. An employee at that store then gave her directions to the store I had initially suggested. Then she went to that store. So three hours for two real and one imaginary stores isn’t so bad. I guess.

Next stop: the bottom

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Ah, it’s that special time of the day when a baby slumbers. She slumbers her ass off while draped in my lap. Anything else yields an unpleasant talk about Feelings. I am working on developing the power of my mind to mix myself a drink and float it on over here. No luck yet.

We went to the library and signed up to get free stuff. I completely forgot about the existence of libraries. The barrier to entry is low: show up and say “I want a library card.” The librarian explained the policies very seriously. You can take out an unlimited number of items, except for DVDs and puppets. You may only borrow two puppets at a time. She underlined this part on the quarter sheet of pink copy paper devoted to policies. Puppets?

Puppets?

That made me want three puppets, of course.

Alcoholics totally love babies

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This morning I went to the post office because I did something bad in my last five or six lives. I continued down to the village, and I had to detour to kill time because the hippie lunch hole wasn’t open yet. This took me past the bus station alcoholics who patrol the payphones for returned change. “Oh, shweet bundle of love,” they slurred, lurching towards me as if to paw the baby passed out in the sack I hang around my neck. The baby woke up, displeased, and we pepper sprayed the living hell out of the alcoholics. A passing police officer smiled and chucked the baby under the chin. “Saved me the trouble,” he said. Then I had an avocado wrap.

Hey, wanna buy a monkey?

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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.

Hit ’em up style/ racing thoughts

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Has anyone ever said “Get at me” or “Hit me up” to you? I believe it means “Please return my phone call or instant message as soon as you are able.” But one never knows. Please stop saying it if you employ such terminology; it grates.

Today I was dutifully trotting on the treadmill, and I noticed all the bizarre things other people do in the gym. One gentleman has a routine of pointing at himself in the mirror, with alternating hands, as he bestrides the elliptical machine. Another woman tries to access the internet with her Palm Pilot while she’s on the stepper. I can get a good look at this in the mirror in front of me, as she bobs up and down and deploys antennae and swears.

And what do I do? We-ell. I thought about pointing back at the man behind me, but mainly I like to keep a bemused, vacant look on my face, as if I just won an Academy Award. I don’t want to look too pleased at how my deltoids glisten in the mirror. I want to remember things, like thanking my husband and my manager. Mainly I totally space out.

I did a controlled experiment with the heart rate sensor too. When I think happy self-involved thoughts, say, about my hair, it’s just fine. When I think of getting a job it shoots right up! Out of the cardio zone!

I’ve been trying the boxing stuff too. Soon I will be wiry, yet thick-necked, like Secretariat or Geri Halliwell. I asked my trainer “Why am I not losing tons of weight?” And he replied that I should work on my diet, perhaps cut out that bottle of wine I drink every night. Good god. Luckily pills are still OK!

-xxoo

Fine dining

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This being a blog, I am obligated to report on topics of food consumed and parking spots occupied. Tonight I had a lovely mahi mahi with a fruit salsa and coconut risotto, and the highlight of the evening was the creepy waiter we always get at this establishment. We parked right outside the front door, in case you were wondering. This is a one-horse town, with ample parking day or night, like South Park.

Creepy Waiter knows us by name now, and he delights in rattling off the specials while making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. He always looks like he’s about to crack up, and we try really hard not to do the same. On our last visit, he described salmon as a “pink-flavored fish,” and mahi mahi is pronounced “maui maui.”

He also let us know how swamped he was on Valentine’s Day, and I deftly inquired “Wow, they must work you all the time, do you ever get a day off?” So now we know to come on Mondays instead.

Still, this is not as bad as the time Mr. H’s mother picked the restaurant where the waitress rammed the bottle of wine between her thighs and pulled for dear life on the cork, right next to the table. I got kicked under the table when I said “Someone’s been kegeling!”

-xxoo