Tag Archives: hypomania

Boulevard of broken spleens

Today I am Honoring My Feelings, and I feel that I should eat an entire chocolate cream pie. But Feelings Are Not Facts, so I won’t. Or something. I think I need some Vitamin Tequila and some Me Time. See, I am coming to terms with the crushing realization that I have virtually no problems save being me and nipple confusion. Damn you, mother!

I got a hot tip that I could probably haul an abandoned CAT scan machine out of a dump in Brazil, so I have new plans to convert Mr. H’s Saabaru into a roving radiology wagon. If I pry the rear seat out, I’m sure the machine would fit. For good measure, I’ll install lead plating somewhere. And I’ll need an air-brushed sign: CAT scans, $20, meow meow! I can diagnose a brain bleed just as well as a trained professional. Look, this one is in the shape of Cookie Monster. If your brain is bleeding, I can’t help you, but I will be sure to let you know, as if you had toilet paper on your shoe. I will do it politely but firmly.

Oh, I am taking a moment to enjoy watching that dog dash away from the boulangerie with a string of sausages. Well, look at you! You are so cheeky! Run.


Some Argentines without means do it

Hi Internet, hi. It’s May. Just saying. Still singing loudly around the house and considering the purchase of a double-tall Airbus. You?

My horoscope says “You must make your own luck today by careful consideration of the alternatives.” Hmm. Such as: the alternative to making money is being poor, so I will do all my work. The alternative to starving to death is eating, so I will have some orange juice even though I don’t feel like it. Eating: Love it when other people make the food for me. Otherwise: 2 lazy 2 live!!!! If the alternative to not going to the bathroom weren’t exploding, I would never get up. OK, I force myself to trot around outside in a stupid outfit, but that doesn’t mean i enjoy it. That’s only prompted by vanity.

I nearly got pitched out of a child’s dance recital. She was on near the end, I was nursing a slight hangover and pill withdrawal brain shocks, and the kids were all tappa-tappa-tappa, twinkle twinkle. The theme was “Hollywood,” and each number was from a song associated with a movie. The emcee described “Pretty Woman” as a film about “opposites attracting.” I thought it was about whores! Then seven-year-olds in red lipstick came out to shake it.

A class of large teenage girls in voluminous tutus came out, and Mr. H had to restrain me as I jabbed him in the ribs. Turned out they all had Down Syndrome. My far vision has deteriorated to the point that all I saw was clumsy non-rhythmic lurching. I felt bad for snickering, but only a little. It was still a trial. Then the teachers all performed to “Batdance,” and there was no stopping me. It must be quite the burden to be a bringer of culture to Chelmsford, Massachusetts. Mr. H made me go wait in the hall before I started laughing too hysterically, bribing me with the promise of a Frosty. I never got that, come to think of it. He wouldn’t tell me about the rest of the show, only that it’s good that I left when I did. Hulk can’t help self.

Love my way

If it’s Tuesday, it must be Wednesday. I seem to be operating under a different time zone. I have a hard time falling asleep at night because the days are sunny and I want to pee on fire hydrants, but that’s OK, because the animals are on parade. Ocelots and apes! Donkeys and alligators! They look like felt hand puppets in shades of magenta and yellow. Oh, it’s a hippo. There goes the puffin. I think the antelope is a jerk. If I really can’t sleep, I crush the animals with Tetris blocks.

I fired the cleaners last month because they were making meth in the guest bathroom with MY Sudafed. They still show up once a week and sadly press their noses against the window, but I shout “NO!” in Spanish, or maybe Portuguese. So now I am cleaning everything in sight, ADD-style. I have to abandon what I am doing at least every ten minutes and go do something else, but things eventually get done. I had a conference call the other day, and what the other participants did not know was that I was on a ladder in the tub, scrubbing the corners of the ceiling with a toothbrush dipped in bleach. Cleanliness, Godliness. Fumes. All that.

Later I picked up trash on the street uncovered by melting snow while yelling into my headset. I wasn’t on the phone then, just yelling. OK, I was on the phone. But headsets make everyone look insane. So does picking up trash, but I can’t help that. it’s in my blood.

Go forth. Nip. Tuck. Spackle. Exfoliate. Oil those hooves. Shine your horn. Shake those bones.

Spring: what’s with it

Give me 2 days of sunlight here in typically crappy New England, and I feel like I am on a meth bender. I am the greatest! Look at me run up and down the stairs! Sex sex sex! Oh wait, no, birds, pie! I bought an Umbrellas of Cherbourg-style trenchcoat and a chrome multi-drawer under-sink organizer! Look at that dog; see that dog?

About that dog. I saw some dogs! My favorite had to be the celebrity terrier. People on the street holler “Is that Goblin? Hi, hi, Goblin!” Goblin does not say hi. She lets her entourage handle the little people.

Many thanks to David and Rob for allowing me to stay at their lovely home. A pile of straw in the yard would have sufficed since I am barnfolk, but no, I was allowed in. Safe from Balto-zombie attacks and the chilling laughter of children. Don’t worry, I also give thanks via letterpressed notes. It’s what God and Miss Manners want.

Southwest Airlines: I did not know they were a “funny” airline before I flew. Cripes. By the time the air hostesses started singing, I was contemplating throwing myself out window. Also, they have no assigned seating. Passengers are divided into groups A, B, and C, and the A group is allowed to storm the seats first and hog the overhead bins. I was an Alpha both times by virtue of genetic superiority and a fabulous new hair cut, so I was able to pick the most avoidant seat (exit row). The Betas shuffled and muttered “I’m glad I’m not an Alpha, so much pressure.” The air hostess made a packet of peanuts race a packet of pretzels down the aisle during takeoff, and the Epsilons were truly concerned with the outcome of this contest. Pretzels won. Don’t lie, you were emotionally invested just reading this.

To celebrate my return home, we were supposed to watch a bunch of Japanese zombie movies, but Heather and I crossed our wires. So Mr. H and I went to the packy*, because we are in love, and that’s what people in love do. It was 10:45 at night, and the nearest packy closed early! So we went across the street to the next nearest packy. Also closed! So we went down a whole block to the next one, and encountered a loud woman with mall bangs slurring “Didja ever try this beef jerky? I swear, it’s the answer to yah prayahs!” She fell into a display of Tooters test tube shots on her way out. God wanted this.

*When I first moved to Boston, I thought that was a reference to a Pakistani person. It means liquor store. Who knew?

I’m OK, you’re OK

A flash of peripheral motion caught my eye out the window, and I looked up to see a red-tailed hawk on the ground, bending and bobbing over something. Then it swooped off, clutching the limp dangling body of a squirrel. Stupid squirrel, of course you’re going to show up against white snow. Duh. My mother used to dress my sister and I in bright colors, to avoid hunters, she said, but maybe she was trying to attract hawks.

I owe this nature hour to the backyard of Mr. H’s parents’ house, where we’re still bunking. The evil building management people say our new place will be open for business on February 1, and that the holdup is the state elevator inspection people. I wonder if they have heard the phrase “cross my palm with silver.” It seems to be indicated. I have also heard of a person called a “permit expediter.” Apparently they hand out $100 bills all day at City Hall. Maybe this doesn’t work with a state agency, although I don’t see why it wouldn’t.

Some alert and concerned readers have asked if Lambchop and I are both stark, raving mad. I would have to say we’ve both seen better days, but in many ways no more so than usual. She handles the mania, and I am in charge of ennui. You see, we are a team! We both might fancy a trip to someplace warm, involving umbrella drinks!


Dateline: Bok Bok Bok!

Wherein I fire my colorist and press charges

“You call those highlights? Try GRILL MARKS! FIX THEM!”

A chunk-a-chunk here, a chunk-a-chunk there. Three hours later, I leave, shaking with rage. The hair is moderately fixed. A brief sojourn in the trailer park is humorous, oui, but try doing that 4 fucking days before the most photographed day of your life. Imagine if you were giving birth on The Discovery Channel and your waxer gave you a fucking shamrock instead of the requested star or heart or Gucci logo. Ugh. Just wrong. I consulted with Kitty Winn, and she was properly livid too.

Kitty and I also discussed wedding night lingerie. I said “Tell me, Kitty, what’s a sexy direction? Crotchless maybe?” And she rolled her eyes and yawned, “Oh, honey, he’s already bought that cow at that point. Give it up. You might as well be comfortable.”

So there you are. Oh, and we got married by a JP in lower Allston. The witness was a giant orange cat named Mr. Fluffy. So pop a cork for me and Mr. H. We could have held out til Saturday, but the paperwork for the gay Venezuelan Jew who was supposed to marry us didn’t go through. Imagine Mitt Romney denying such an application. I never. Now we just have to have an anticlimactic dog and pony show, huzzah!


Mood Swinging


I have been so angry lately. Ready to put my fist through glass when people talk to me. Well, I can pick a cliché to excuse myself- It’s because I am Irish. It’s because I am a Scorpio. It’s because I am bipolar. It’s because of hormones. It’s because I am just like my mother, who was a bipolar Irish Scorpio with unbalanced hormones. I am glum from waking up from a dream in which a woman in a supermarket was getting on my nerves and I smashed her head in with a can of peas, stuffed her body in my cart, and continued shopping. When the gruesome corpse in Aisle 4 was noticed by others, I was depressed and surrendered myself, weeping.

I don’t think I will be doing any shopping today.