Tag Archives: ack

You know what? Just no. I’m going the hell home.

Yeah, blah blah blah, everyone should vote. Important, historic, your voice, bleebity blee. However, if you are undecided a day before the election, just stay home! What are the odds that you can turn the door knob successfully, anyway? Do not get all eenie meanie on us. Please use your political voice for something besides gargling in front of the bathroom mirror. No, scratch that, even gargling has a point.

The Kevin Sheen featured in this article has got to be a proud under-bridge dwelling American. I can see no other explanation for “”I’m actually still wrestling with moral issues,” says the 29-year-old registered Democrat, who voted for George W. Bush in 2004.”

Sheen, of Lincoln, Nebraska, says his vote is coming down to one issue: abortion. Sheen says he’s “definitely pro-life” and he’s trying to decide whether Democrat Barack Obama or Republican John McCain is more in line with his views.

Yeah, OK, it’s funny to jerk CNN around, troll pants, I’ll give you that. Earlier I made a Bob Barr voter feel bad about not having the balls to write in Ron Paul. I’m no angel. If this guy is not a troll, then I need to speak with his parents and every school he ever attended. I need to find a very important YouTube clip for this troubled young man.

And there is no way I am going to click on “Watch the psychology behind undecided voters.” I have the answer already. Dropped on head as child. I see the future! And it’s full of people running into doors, falling down, and doing it all over again. Maybe wire mother will be nicer to me this time!

In short: conservatives are paranoid that someone is out to get them (and then give their TV to a shiftless non-white teen mother), and liberals feel everyone else must be incredibly stupid. Gonna go lie down.

Make mine a Listo and OJ

Only 17 days until Spring, goldendoodles! And it is with great regret that I only just remembered there is an enormous bottle of high-quality gin (oxymoron?) in the liquor bunker in the kitchen. Where were you in November! No on-the-job accidents since…what time is it now?

Next week I am vacationing in style in a location ten degrees warmer than here. Break out the winsome safari shorts! The Simpsons are going to my parents’ house. Oh, come on. It could be worse. I could have a gummy smile or cankles. My parents will feed us for a week, and when ybab gets up at the crack of dawn, I will say “Go find Grandma,” and she will gleefully race down the hall. Whether she actually finds Grandma or just ends up rooting around under the kitchen sink is anyone’s guess. Grandma is the one without the Mr. Yuck sticker, if that helps. No, Grandma routinely gets up at 4 AM, outfoxing even a ybab. It’s what Laura Ingalls Wilder would do. I trust ybab will be intercepted and drilled with flash cards until I awake from my beauty rest.

You’re kidding me, right?

Today I was reminded that a jury of my peers is a pitiful bunch. My peers have dry skin, unflattering haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, and scuffed shoes. Naturally, I fit right in, except for all of those things. Only one of my peers is non-white. 33% of my peers are men. 54% of my peers wear glasses. One of my peers did not bother to show up at all. If only I had known this was an option!

We the jury watched a video about jurying, and the presenter was a judge with a Barbara Wawa accent. Perhaps you have seen it? It is a gweat wesponsibility to one’s countwy to be on a juwy. That looks a little more Elmer Fudd when I wead it back in my head, but it was classic Wawa, I assure you. Our spirits were collectively broken, because I was the only person trying not to die of laughter. Suburban jurying is a little different, I found. On my last round, in Roxbury, the video was greeted with catcalls and errant “DAAAAAMN!s” But here, everyone just sat glumly, all Lester Burnham.

Then I took a bathroom break and stood outside the court room glaring in the little window and shaking my fist until everyone settled. Two hours, start to finish. My powers are getting better. Then I felt rejected: why they no want me? Is it my stench? Is it my hideous undereye circles? Is it the foul breath from the vending machine crackers I ate for breakfast? Because? Seriously? 8:30? That is too early.

Unprofessional painting

If me of now went back in time to warn me of five years ago that future/current me would be covered in flecking blue paint (Martha Stewart Surf 286) and honey-mustard sauce, me would not believe me! But it is all true. Me has no idea how me’s life turned out this way.

A few days ago, I had a few glasses of wine (with dinner, not at 10AM, although heaven knows…) and decided to start painting the bathroom a different shade of blue. I have good ideas all the time! I can’t even tell you how frequently. I have a whole folder on my desktop called “GOOD IDEAS!!!!!” My bathroom is 50% old blue and 50% new blue now, and I may work on it one hour per night for the rest of my life. Because either I get some paint in my hair, or someone wakes up and starts screaming, or a cat wants to come in because the door is closed, or maybe the fumes just become too much and I wake up on the floor the next morning even dumber.

After the bathroom is painted, I will have to tear the “shelving system” out of the linen closet. That means I will have to put better shelves in. I can’t just leave things in a heap in the bottom of the closet, much as I wouldn’t mind. It’s hard to find shelves. At IKEA, they expect you to cut them to the length you desire, like, with a saw or the power of your mind or something, so all their shelves are eighteen feet long. No. The Container Store has a sale on shelving, and that’s great, but everything is sold in systems, and I, a professional internet user, can’t figure out how to find JUST SHELVES. Single shelves of the correct length. In desperation, I typed in “http://ijustwanttobuysomefuckingshelves.com/” and crossed my fingers, but no luck there. Where do you get shelves, good people of the internet? I am hoping my own Google ads will tell me.

Local color report:
Lowell High School is back in session. Before we set out on our nightly trek for takeout, the phone rang: a “PRIVATE CALL” according to the display.

“Bee dee booop,” said the caller, voice breaking with hysterical giggling.


“I’m sorry, your penis did not go through!” The caller then died from laughter and somehow managed to slam the phone down in a dying act of valor.

Once downtown, a roving pack of teenagers conspiratorially made the aside “PENIS!” to us as we passed. Then we passed Marty Meehan over by the Masonic Temple. He was going to hassle us about voting when a young voice shrieked “I like penis!” out a screened window from the housing project across the street. We continued on, not stopping to vote in the primary because we had already seen Niki Tsongas having a victory dinner two streets over at the one nice restaurant in town, oblivious to the penis crisis in the streets. If she isn’t in touch with the penis issue, she does not need my support.

“If we were actually insane,” I remarked to Mr. H, “we’d assume people were only saying penis to us!” One never knows.

How I got covered in honey-mustard is another boring story for another time.

Poo corner

Yesterday, we foolishly tired of our air conditioned home and ventured out for a walk. You know, after a long drive. We had heard that a certain New England town, which I’ll call Concord since that’s what everyone else calls it, was quaint. But apparently there is a town ordinance there that requires everyone to bike in the damn road while swaddled tightly in Spandex. Lance Armstrong may have a vested interest in protecting his remaining testicle, but you’d think all those virile square-bottomed investment bankers could play a little fast and loose.

When we were nearly run off the road by yet another SUV (in this case, an H2) passing cyclists who insist on riding side by side (because CARS DO THAT ALL THE TIME WHEN THEY ARE FRIENDS, it’s true), we decided we’d had enough. Concord is now on the list of places to which I’m never going back, including Rockville and home again. Instead, we went to a farm, where a sheep did something offensive to my hand.

924: I’ll give you something to cry about

Dearest innernet, I realized that I have been remiss in apprising you of my widdle doings. It’s not on purpose. I just get caught up in other things. You know, day trading, taste testing yogurts, macrame. I have two eyebrows, and they BOTH need my attention. So get in line.

Last week, I threw my back out by, er, well, never mind. Did I mention Mr. H has lost four pounds? Just as this was mended thanks to tough love from my chiropractor, I was felled by strep throat. I have spent countless minutes trying to take a picture of the back of my throat, for it is truly a remarkable vista. Think the surface of the moon, white and pocked, a fragile crust wrapped around a molten core of pure agony. This is by far the most disgusting thing that has ever happened in my mouth. And that’s saying a lot, given “the nineties” and that time I had oral surgery and found a spare sixteen yards of gauze crammed somewhere back there.

So who knows what the next week will bring? Right now, it’s all over but the whining and a few more days of antibiotics. I am going to unionize for more sick days. Ybab still had the nerve to expect to be fed and entertained while I was feeling poorly! As I sprawled on the ground, drifting in and out consciousness, shirt off to allow her to eat once in a while with no actual effort from me, I wondered if my soon-to-be dead corpse would continue to produce milk to at least tide her over until Mr. H got home from saving orphans with Angelina Jolie or whatever it is that he does these days. Can you believe ybab doesn’t know how to make an omelette yet? I have to go look that up, post-mortem lactation. Google, get ready for me! I want to be number 1 for “post-mortem lactation” now. Get to linking.

917: Dine in affordable chic

I got an email imploring me to do just that. They must mean continue doing exactly what I am doing: eating a bagel while not wearing pants while ybab scavenges for sesame seeds. I can afford this! And certainly it is chic. I am sure celebrities do this all the time, when they aren’t busy doing other things that they also do.

I get many more emails than just advertisements from Worst Elm. The mind boggles. People feel I should do work at a schedule of their own choosing. Other people feel the need to be unreasonable about things pertaining to my personal life. Hi! Hi! I am going on an email boycott soon. I am going to print out each email I receive and shred it. This is the greatest idea since individually wrapped cheese slices. The alternative is to start telling people off, but that is the equivalent of eating a giant block of chocolate. It feels good at the time, but then things start to chafe. The Chafing of the Consequences. This is a national tragedy.