Christ, it’s Monday again. There was a holiday dinner, and I survived the gauntlet of one billion hugs. The mashed potatoes were instant, and I almost ran screaming into the cold when I found out, but I toughed it out and ate them anyway. Mr. H’s Indian co-workers livened up the proceedings by graciously enduring inadvertent racial slurs. I am pretty sure they took pictures of the carpeted kitchen.
This week my pants don’t fit. I can’t tell if it’s because I am genuinely obese or because the parasite made a major land grab. We’ve been getting quotes for hardwood floor installation (yes, I know people do this themselves, but that’s people), and this has been a humiliating process, reminding me that we have no money. Between that and my rope belt, I feel myself entering a Shame Spiral.
Also, I broke the internet yesterday. Word to the wise: the reset button on a DSL modem is hard to press for a reason. My inner monkey tried power on/power off a few times, but then she stuck a pencil in the reset hole, figuring this must fix internet good. It didn’t. A smarter monkey would have just signed “Put lipstick on cat OK please cake.”
Ohhhh, internet, internet. This monkey was at the other end of the hall. He is also sultry. I should have checked the other floors for enticing wildebeests or come-hither warthogs.
I know you are wondering where I’m parking during this latest snowstorm. As it turns out, I’m parked in the driveway. Suck it. I never thought having a parking space would be so exciting until after I lived in Somerville. I used to feel like the biggest asshole leaving a table in the space after I dug it out, but if I didn’t, someone else would do it right back to me. And if you move a table to park, you get a brick through your windshield. It is the Code of the Jungle.
The pedantic church bulletin board down the street says “Do unto others as if you were others.” My first thought was that they meant that one should do all one’s dirty deeds under an alias or assumed identity. That’s how I usually work anyway. I am right with the Lord.
Yesterday I didn’t take my Mother’s Little Helper, and when I realized it, I thought “Wot’s the worst that can happen?” See, crazy people are always looking for an excuse to stop taking their medication. We feel better, so we must be cured. Well, I guess, kinda. I’m not curled up in a ball* weeping, so that is a huge plus. But I do get the sensation of an electric shock to the middle of my chest every time I move my head. This is not entirely unenjoyable. I like pills in a universal sense, and I also like negative pills. Good day to you, too. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a yogurt** with my name on it.
*With my small frame, I can curl up into a very small ball.
**Tonight is quesadilla night instead. Satan demanded Thai pasta last night, at totally the last fucking minute.
Whassup, Internet? I watched ten minutes of the Oscars. Hilary Swank had her dress on backwards, and Chris Rock is black! Oh, oh my. Swank swank swank I like to say it swank. Antonio Banderas sang some song about Shrek with BeyoncÃ©. I think.
It’s that time of the year where Mr. H and I start looking at our bank account, thinking “Hmm, there’s money in here, we should really give to charity or take a trip to Pluto or something.” But then Magic Larry’s secretary always calls to say I owe a whompin’ tax bill. I am trying to see if I can deduct money I spent this year if I first thought about spending it last year. Oh well. Maybe we’ll just vacation in Baltimore, where there is a hotel decorated with that incredibly louche primate depicted above. You can see I lack Mr. H’s fundamental photography skills, like holding the camera still. I can’t help it if I am a jittery person. Maybe we should just stay quietly at home and achieve our goal of seeing every zombie movie ever made.
Mmmm, and here is my hotline to satan that Lambchop mentioned the other day. He lets me live. He says we should have quesadillas tonight, and who am I to argue?