I no longer care about the grapes on the plate, site and when I returned from “work,” Mr. H was carrying our joint asset down the hall to meet me. A big girl in new shorts was very happy to see me. Little arms! Reaching!
And later we all went for a walk, and it was still so nice out, and everyone is basically on E….oh what a beautiful dog! Screech! Hi! Look at that dog! Pet that dog! Oh what a beautiful ybab! Look at your ybab! No, your dog is still more beautiful! Oh, how kind of you to say! Tickle that ybab! God bless you! Have a nice night! Huuuuuggggggs.
It’s been an interesting few months living on an imaginary street. We park the car in a worm hole. No, really. The three-legged dog peed on my tire the other day.
Our street is a new, invented street which is basically a long driveway. The city refuses to put up a street sign even though they generated the address. The street does not show up in Google Maps. However, we are next to a fucking minor league baseball park and a landmark bridge, so most people can find it when you mention these things. The United States Postal Service can find my house. UPS can find my house. Fed-Ex can sometimes find my house. Last week, they delivered something one day, and then the next day they opted to foist an item back on the sender because my house had disappeared again. Whoops. It’s so hard to hit a moving target like a huge mill building. Verizon managed to hook up phone service in my house, except they have my address as “Building 17, Parcel something something” on another street entirely instead of the technical USPS-sanctioned address. The upshot is that people who want my money can usually make it by for a spell.
Last night we got shot down by a pizza place. A pizza place which must have previously delivered to this building since they managed to carpet the hallway with leaflets. They took our order, complete with an inquisition about directions and landmarks. Then the driver called from the car. He was down the block, and then he got sucked into the parking worm hole. He was so shaken that he had to turn around and take my food all the way back to the restaurant. Oh, nuh-nuh. He did! His GPS box on his dashboard said we were funnin’ him. The parasite put a foot through my esophagus in protest.
So I give up. I went to the damn store and bought “groceries.” I hate doing that. I hate being reminded of agri-business and seeing what other people wear to the store and place in their carts. I lugged the groceries home. I put them in the “fridge.” I hear this is how it’s done. Then I made a list to stick on the front of the fridge to let me know what was in the fridge. Opening the door is too taxing for someone who frequently gets out of the shower with conditioner not washed out of her hair. I need tool tips and maybe that little talking paper clip. I also cross-referenced the expiration dates to placate my old food phobia. You’ve won, Google Maps. See what you’ve done to me?
I whipped up a batch of my famous clam sandies last night. That’s what you’re all getting for xxxmasxxx! Actually, you’re not getting anything. Someone is getting Star Wars legos, someone is getting a sweater, and someone else is getting a wooden push toy that looks like a crocodile. In order to receive a present from me, you must be a child under ten. The rest of you bastards are on your own. Well, if I catch you using “gift” as a verb, you will receive a sound drubbing. That goes for you too, iTunes Music Store. You were not “gifted” with anything. Someone might have given you something though (Chlamydia, ooh, that’s a pretty name). I do hate to burst your bubble, but you are not gifted at all. You never were. I’m sorry, but nearly everyone eventually learns to count to ten. If you did it early, or in French, good for you and Muzzy, but where did that get you in the long run? You are average in every way, maybe above average if you live in Lake Wobegone.
I am just bitter because I am no longer “good for my age” at anything. I can’t even write a blog post without ripping off Garrison Keillor multiple times.
I was going to tell you about my parking problems, but my heart’s just not in it. I’m going to go eat this candied seafood and enable the power of the powerful internet for filthy money that can’t buy happiness, although it can buy Ralph Lauren paint in a shade called “Old Violin.” Or maybe not even that since bitches never pay on time. American Express has to buy the paint. I blame my foul mood on the lonely old lady who came around and gave us a plate of Christmas cookies. Random acts of kindness can be so depressing!
Oh, hey, I have a blog. I just can’t shake it. Like the bird flu. Like the parasite. Actually, I’m booking a vacation, or rather my assistant is. The parasite has no idea that I’m going to drown it off the coast of Tortola. What? Those things don’t breathe air? Now you tell me; I already blew the miles. Oh well. I’m sure we’ll be quite the sight on the beach, as it makes me request pineapple drink after pineapple drink… “and could you add a roasted suckling pig to that one, waiter?”
Other than those expertly laid plans, not much is new. I’m dreaming exclusively in Roxy Music, which is a little weird. In every dream home, a vanity is poorly installed. The new place suffers from some vexing construction issues, let’s say. I am not sure if we will actually move in. Hey, wanna buy an apartment in a flood zone? I’ll throw in the parasite, and this floor lamp from Target. Cheap!
It’s November, Charlie Brown. Outside forces continue to vex, astound. Inside forces also unfavorable.
We were supposed to do a final walk-through of our new place today, but someone at the mgmt company who misplace’s apostrophes decided to yank that football away. The unit is probably stacked clear to the ceiling with stray your’s and your’es. Some teamsters need to be hired to take care of the mess. A hose might work. Theoretically, we will go next week instead. This is really all a grand delusion.
Where is my tropical island? If I’m going to have a delusion, I’d like to put in for a better one. More calypso, please. Oil my flanks, cabana boy!
I want to get on with my life, I rilly rilly do, but how can I when there is breaking Zellweger news? It’s bad enough that Britney’s heartburn and upset stomach turned out to be pregnancy. I think Preston is a great name for a baby. This name is shared by the chicken farmer who lived down the road from me during my childhood.
La Zell has split up with the man who brought us songs like “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.” Â I don’t like to make fun of adults with good intentions who made decisions they now regret, unless they are a part of FEMA. I make terrible decisions all the time. Just ask me how!
In other news, did anyone catch that last issue of BusinessWeek? Woo fucking boy. The “Sleepless Nights” infographic is amazing.
I’m thinking for my next life, I will buy Videodiarrhea.com and just show a web cam day of me doing something boring around the house. Watch me order Tamiflu online. Watch me practice huddling under my desk. Watch me flirt shamelessly with the DHL guy. This will expose the crushing pointlessness of blogs and modern life, and maybe make me some money if I take my top off every hour on the hour.
My Powerbook is going to live in sunny Sacramento with a nice farm family who will give it plenty of room to run around for the next week or so. At least that’s what I told it. Actually, they’re going to do a Rosemary Kennedy number on it with a spoon. Oh, Pants, I am so sorry. I hope you still recognize me when we reunite. I have stored your consciousness in this hot nurse with the basket-weave hair don’t.
The living room ceiling is now gushing water, to which the landlord replies “Huh, weird,” although he did bring me some buckets. I would redouble my commitment to finishing leftover painkillers, except I have to wrangle underprivileged children tonight. I bet they will make fun of the huge zit I have on my chin.
I’ve fired both my therapist (for being obtuse: R U reading this, I know you up and Googled me) and my psych-pharm person (for having a pointy face that reminds me of a rat terrier, which is not the same thing as a Boston terrier), and I am deeply in debt due to stupid stuff-acquiring circumstances. Oh wait, housing and student loans and such are “good debt.” So are “business expenses.” Someone said to me the other day “I need stuff,” and I thought “Honey, stuff will be the death of us all.” Here I am lugging around sanctimonious guilt, and really I can’t even do Entitled Fuck properly. It’s amazing to exist in a world where some people have literally nothing but maybe a stray intestinal fluke, and other people judge potential mates by the quality of car ownership. Oh heyyyy, and there’s a tax payment due tomorrow. Yeah, heyyyy, how about that.
Really, I’m fine. Just hell of cranky and talking about it on the internets, thinking maybe I’m making a statement. It’s embarassing, I know. I am incapable of talking seriously about the joyous moments in life because they r 2 precious, so I’m left sounding insane and hypocritical. Therefore, this blog is over. Dreamhost has been trying to tell me that all week by crashing left and right, so let’s make it official. It’s been real. I’m OK, you’re OK.
I am so mad, internets. I am mad at people in our goverment for claiming our current situation was not forseeable. Chertoff, you GOON. What, natural disasters that show up on radar need to wear bells around their necks? I am mad at the people who say “this shouldn’t happen here, we aren’t a third world country.” This includes you, Andrew Sullivan. They are right that the hurricane aftermath shouldn’t have escalated the way it did, but since when is it OK for widespread deprivation and turmoil to happen anywhere? The things going on in the Sudan are just fine, because hey, third world country. Those folks knew what they were in for when they elected to exist in a third world country. Of all the lines of justification for why we should not be in this situation, “we’re not a third world nation” is shameful.
I am mad that I don’t have more money to give right now. I am mad at the people who say anyone who didn’t evacuate does not deserve help. I am mad at the people who are yapping about not contributing to relief efforts because they are soooo offended by what Kanye West said. I am mad that people don’t see all the opportunities to help to alleviate poverty in their own communities, and that it takes something this large and terrible to make people even consider helping another living soul. Hey, instead of burning the gas to drive your SUV from New England to New Orleans all by yourself, why not volunteer for the Red Cross here? They can send trained personnel to the gulf, and you can handle the less glamorous things like people getting displaced by fires. Howzabout that.
Yesterday, Mr. H and I drove down to the South Shore to participate in a tango contest. We did our best, but we were trounced by a one-year-old baby with a penciled-on moustache. We demanded a voting recount, but that went over about as well as it did in Ohio. What, we hate America. Of course we’re going to ask. It’s the supreme fucking court, stupid.
Anyhoo, I noticed a wind turbine along the highway, and I wondered why our highways don’t have these things all along them. After all, it’s not like they’re going to ruin the view, and wildlife has already been neatly thwarted. So I started looking into this option, envisioning a future as a wind power magnate, clear of conscience yet still filthy stinking rich. I found this blurb about just such an idea, and then the comments made me mad. Is there anything that doesn’t make me mad today? People arguing about physics = gold. Oh, thermodynamics. Where were you when I needed you? You could have helped me win the tango contest and stopped the cat from throwing up after eating all the cilantro.
There is so much I want to say about our villainous administration, but instead I have temporarily quieted myself by filling out the matching donation form from Mr H’s work and working on my WWLIWD? product line (bitch I already copyrighted it, don’t even think about it). What, indeed, would Laura Ingalls Wilder do? Verily, when those around you are losing their scalps, you must keep yours. You have a blind sister to think about, and a couple of insane parents who keep moving you somewhere dangerous and trying to subvert nature. Laura would make poultices out of Hostess Cupcakes and cholera vaccines out of malt liquor (brace for the smooth taste).
Soon we will all be able to enjoy pioneer activities like defending one’s homestead, making hardtack, and driving a buggy. I am having a hard time deciding on the slogan for my merch line. I figure “Laura Ingalls Wilder has a posse” will sell, but then again I like “Lunatic Fringe.” Maybe a Laura vs. Nellie grudge match kind of motif would be nice. I am simple, stupid people. My post-apocalyptic skills are going to be sharpshooting and carnival game rigging. So much for knitting and making my own soap. Where we’re going, we don’t need soap. Our own goverment is consistently more frightening than any turrorist attack.
Find out more about how you can help and where the money goes. Be sure to see if your employer offers donations-in-kind.
Give.org BBB Wise Giving Alliance
Rainbow World Fund
No, I still don’t feel like setting up the voicemail service on our new phone line. People might leave messages. Ugh! People! Dropping their messages like so many errant pigeons. And I would have to record a greeting, and when do I feel like greeting anyone? Why do I have a phone at all?
I was out today, as is my custom, and I noticed that Lowell seems to have bus service. The bus doesn’t have a number. Instead, one is greated by a scrolling marquee that reads DOWNTOWN CIRCULATOR. Indeed. Take that, Baltimore.
I wonder if I can write in essay form ever again? Probably not. Blast you, internet! I have the attention span of Mr. H or that dog across the street. Now I am thinking about hash browns. I am remembering song lyrics. Hmmm, hashbrowns again. Am I hungry? Maybe I am. Should I buy a plane ticket to Hong Kong? Internal bad idea meter says Yes! Christ. The mortgage underwriter wants proof of my income for the last few years. Dur, don’t they know everyone lies on those applications? How much could I make selling a kidney in Hong Kong? This could be an investment in my future. Dear Lord, deliver.