Tag Archives: animal farm

Insert Peter Murphy lyric

A ybab was a sad monster last night because Mr. H was gone on business. I can only assume his business involved Scotch. If I find out it involved a trip to Scores, I will say “You better expense that!” I am such a nagging wife.

After I put a ybab to bed for the third time, I read some more about the Kims. I’m sure you’ve seen the story. SFGate.com has all the heartbreak I can handle. I feel like I’m over-identifying due to the shared demographic. Their family photos look similar to ours. I have the sunglasses the wife is wearing in one of the “Happier Times” series. The aerial shot of their stranded car is our car, right down to the color. See, only the unlucky buy Saabarus, as we’ve proven time and time again this past year. And secretly, I just don’t care always when people in the midwest fall under combines. So I have the guilt of selective tragedy appreciation via consumerism to add to the heap.

A ybab is about to reach six months of dubious sleeping, one month younger than the Kims’ youngest girl. I can’t imagine juggling a ybab in the freezing cold in the car, running out of diapers, and wondering when one’s husband will return. Well, OK, I can imagine it. I get brief visceral flashes, and I’m sure they are no where near as bad as the real thing. I can’t get this feeling dislodged. I wondered what we’d do in that situation. I wished Mr. H were home for couch snuggles and Wine Block. The cat did that thing where she walked around the house looking for everyone, and she wasn’t happy because she couldn’t find him. She sat on my feet expectantly, as if I could produce him. It was one of those nights where you need to know where your people are.

An update on the carpet: breaking news

First, it is not so much a carpet as an area rug that was liberated from the Crate & Barrel outlet for $19.

Second, it is not so much bloodstained as adorned with a quarter-sized splotch of cat barf.

Third, rather than clean it, I am going to take it to be burned.

Fourth, the cat is going into regurgitation rehab if this keeps up. In Wyoming, or some other place that’s very far away.

Fiesta de Septiembre

Today is the third anniversary of my legal ensnarement of Mr. H. At least according to the state of Massachusetts. The JP actually filled out the form wrong. It’s really tomorrow. Then our sham wedding anniversary is Wednesday. Got it? OK. It’s a big month here atop the Indian burial ground. We both have birthdays, and of course our cat anniversary because I am the asshole who gives free kittens as gifts. I can’t wait to turn 25 again. Each year, our age gap widens. Soon it’ll be like {Warren Jeffs joke}. Oh, my heart’s not in it. You may note that I have a nearly three-month-old baby, so what happens in September does not stay in September. Don’t believe September for a moment. She’ll screw your cousin, give you herpes, and make you think you gave it to her first.

It’s 2 PM, and I have accomplished a shower (but not a hair drying, and now it looks all funny) and two baby naps. The painter’s tape stuck to one spot on the ceiling mocks me. It’s been there since January, and all I want to do is tear it down. But I can’t lift the ladder by myself, and the person who can lift the ladder will make so much noise that a baby wakes up. A tired baby is an angry baby. So here we are again, piece of tape. The days just trickle away. Hi, hi!

Why is a cat stuffed in a Canali suit?

A: She wants to host a gameshow

A: She has an irrational grudge against Hugo Boss because of an imagined slight

A: Once a cat goes I-talian, she can’t be happy sitting on American clothes again

A: All the suits are on the couch because the guts of the closet are ripped out thanks to EasyCloset.com not being as easy as alleged

Any of these would be OK and reasonable answers, relevant to life as we know it.

In other news, I have a giant scary-looking envelope from the IRS that I do not wish to open. I can’t wait until the parasite gets here. She’ll open my mail and learn to run the fax machine. It’ll be a regular Dickensian workhouse around here.

Excuse me, a cat looks totally stupid in a cashmere sweater. Mr. H’s clothes are much nicer than mine since he gets to leave the house sometimes, and I am secretly jealous. So I will let her continue wallowing around in there. I see nothing!

Step away from the internet

“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.

More human every day

We have a table! No more hunkering on the couch with our gruel. Eat at table, like people. The table weighs several hundred pounds, and it arrived on the roof of a car because SOMEONE thought this would be easier then paying a paltry sum for delivery. I prefer to pay other people to do difficult things for me. Me hates hassle. I cooked SOMEONE and his father wheat pasta with many different kinds of chard to stave off the heart attacks they nearly sustained lugging that thing down the hall.

Today in teeth: I went to the dentist, and this has already been the most pleasant part of the day. I do enjoy Russian dentist. He hums, and I fall asleep. He told me the parasite would become very interesting around the age of 3. I said that sounds about right. Is there a farm I can send it to until then? Somewhere out in the country with lots of other parasites to play with.

Today in cats: Just because you didn’t like hummus the last 17,000 times you sniffed it doesn’t mean this time won’t be different. It’s called hope, or possibly Walnut Brain.

Cats can’t fax for crap

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.

Will live in house, like people

Today is cat horrifying day at long last! She’s still stuffed in the corner sulking because the contractor and his team dropped off the wood for our floors so it can “acclimate.” Wait ’til she gets to go stay in Mr. H’s parents’ basement with the rats next week.

The workers helpfully commented in Spanish that I am pregnant, and my breasts are quite large. I have only studied Spanish for ten or twelve years, but I think I heard that right. Still, they were so jovial about it that it didn’t seem to be as awful a sentiment as it sounds. They are merely observers of the world, undocumented Walter Cronkites.

And they are dead wrong. I am not pregnant, I just ate a lot of Cadbury Mini Eggs last week. Those bitches will catch up to ya. And I like to dress like a milkmaid for fun. And I’m going to birth class tonight because I dig seeing cankles.

Grocery store existentialism is so 2004-05

No scratches! No! No! Stop it, kitty. NO THANK YOU is what parents who do not always follow through say when their child misbehaves. NO THANK YOU KITTY. Who’s the kitty? Who can stay mad at you? Certainly not me. Pass me some of that crab dip. Think you’re people!

Man alive. I keep forgetting about this blog thing. I keep making and completing lists instead. List: 1 king-sized mattress. 100 ounces of water. Half as much magnesium as calcium. 120 hours of work in 2 weeks. 4 nights in a hotel. 2 plane tickets. 4 nights in another hotel. Shallots. Can’t have enough. Well, 2, I bought 2. 1….I don’t know, what the fuck do you need for a live baby anyway? I should knit a blanket maybe? Am pretty sure I do not need a wipes warmer. But maybe a ghastly mirror stuck in a bear. That baby looks like Winston Churchill. I could use an immersion blender for purposes of my own. Am too lazy to blend in regular style. Immersion blender also easier for baby to use.

Tonight: week-old chicken! Bird flu + old food phobia, together at last. I have mushrooms to chop.