Tag Archives: parasite

Let’s pretend

Let’s say that there is a lady who runs out of checks. She is a beautiful and kind lady. She has very healthy teeth. Full disclosure: she could use a pedicure. Anyway, this lady says “Hmm, I am out of checks. Although most of my bills are paid electronically, this could pose a problem.” She calls the check ordering company. They assure her that her checks will be there in a few days. They are not. So she calls back and complains. They blame DHL. DHL has never heard of these checks. So the lady waits a few more days, and then the lady has to pay her fucking federal taxes and quarterly taxes with money orders, like poor people. The lady waited til the last possible minute to get the cursed money orders, hoping against hope that DHL would come through. The lady comes home from mailing the money orders (which cost $3 each because she does not have a GOLD account). “Look,” says the friendly three-legged dog. There is a package from DHL! On the steps!

In other news, the teller at the bank thinks the parasite will be HUGE. The dry cleaning lady thinks the parasite will be TINY. Either I am a compulsive overreater, or I am starving the parasite. I can’t be sure. I should have gotten a third opinion from the grocery checker, but she was too busy drawing me in to a conversation on whether or not that was Eva Longoria on the cover of Scientific American. I asserted that it was. Because it was, and it also said “Eva Longoria” under the picture. She felt that Eva normally does not wear so much eye makeup, nor does she traffic in straightened hair. The bagger finally convinced her, and she mentioned that we could all change our looks so frequently if we had as much money as Eva. Damn the system. Some of us are just stuck being ugly.

If you need me, I’ll be in the bell tower

I am trying to book a hotel room, and I’m really tempted to book the “Housewives on Hiatus” package just for the stupid name.

A better idea is probably to check into a monastery with a vow of silence until the baby arrives. Then I will have the baby out in the woods, like animal, away from everyone who annoys me. At this point, “everyone who annoys me” includes just about everyone but the cat. It’s no fault of everyone’s own. Science knows that weeks 31-40 of parasite hosting are when husbands become intolerable. They can’t help it, the dear little creatures! It’s the hormones acting on their delicate systems.

Despite being all Phantom of the Opera and hissing and scurrying into darkness, I still manage to show some restraint. When I think of all the people I did NOT kill over the past few days, I am truly amazed. The person at Starbucks who ordered a half-caf, half-syrup, skim caramel macchiato with one Equal. The financial consultant. This freak was referred to us by a relative (remind me to send a card). Freak assumed I was a housewife rather than asking the more reasonable “And what do you do for a living?” Oh, hey, do you see those many thousands of dollars of computer equipment in the office? That’s just so I can play The Sims when I take a hiatus from housewifing.

He directed all questions about investments and expenses to Mr. H. Mr. H knows about as much about where the bodies are buried as the cat. So I kept having to answer. The parasite sensed evil, and kicked the ever-loving crap out of me the whole time the guy was here. When he tried telling me about fund choices, I asked about ethical investing options. He looked at me like I was insane. I said “Well, for instance there are some companies we don’t patronize, so I can’t feel good about making money from them either.” He asked for an example, and I said Wal-Mart, I mean duh. He was shocked. “Wal-Mart? I never heard anything about them being bad.” I booted him out the door, but not before he left business cards containing both a Hotmail address and his “title” in “quotes.” If he’s not a “Wealth-Accumulation-Strategist,” then what is he? I have formulated several hypotheses, but the one that makes the most sense is “Not coming anywhere near my no money.”

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.

It’s not a crack house, it’s a crack home

Mr. H and I had a lovely weekend a few states away. Despite the supreme foolishness of bringing helpless life into the world and blowing out an entire wall of poorly wired outlets with a table saw, we still like each other. I trust this is because no one else will have us.

We sat and stared at boats swimming around being boats, and we realized that we are terrible, terrible people with mostly self-created problems. Ah, we already knew that. But it’s nice to sit and reflect, isn’t it? Then we went and had ice cream since I get dirty looks when I order whiskey. The people at Coldstone Creamery have to sing when they get a tip. That may be a worse problem than some of our stupid problems.

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.

Membership has its privileges

Yesterday I got out of a ticket for speeding through Cow Town*, NH, with the “I have to pee!” excuse. Do give that a whirl! If you aren’t suffering from quick-onset obesity like I am, just slouch and tenderly pat your abdomen. Fucking breeders.

After escaping the law, I was glued to a story on NPR about organ brokers and illegal tissue harvesting. Finally, the profession for me! I’ve always wanted to be a surgeon, but this would allow me to skirt the pesky medical degree. I could do it from a home office. I’ve toyed with the idea of hanging out my illegal cosmetic surgery shingle, but who likes seeing how sausage is made?

Although I’m glad I haven’t had any recent illegal and unscreened tissue implants. I do feel bad for poor Alistair Cooke‘s family though. I used to love me some Masterpiece Theatre when I was a kid. And, oh hell, the families of other less-famous people too. And the unsuspecting people who received potentially contaminated tissue.

Annie Cheney was on the program discussing her book Body Brokers: Inside America’s Underground Trade in Human Remains (excerpt). Among other interesting facts, the hotel ballroom where you are having your wedding reception may have recently hosted a hands-on seminar for doctors, meaning a bunch of torsos or ankles might have been laid out around the room for surgical training or product demos.

Over dinner, I told Mr. H that he is 100% allowed to donate any of my organs, and that he may sell the rest or donate it to science as he pleases. Or have me stuffed and mounted over the fireplace or posed in lingerie. I honestly don’t care. I’ll be dead. I think part of the problem is that people aren’t allowed to just sell their own loved ones. Eliminate the middle man of the shady funeral home, and let people seize commerce as they see fit. No touchy the folks who don’t want to be recycled. Then regulate the shit out of the whole deal to avoid implanting diseased tissue. Someone’s already making money on this, so why not just make it legal and cap the profit margin? Wow, that was a hard-hitting FOX-news-y opinion.

Then Mr. H told me he had lunch with a friend who’s graduating from medical school in a few months. The friend was agonizing over going to his next class, saying it would be boring because all they’d be doing is dissecting a brain. Mr. H said “Are you kidding? My wife would love to dissect a brain!” He knows me well. I need to have our friend over for a home-cooked dinner so I can butter him up for an invite to brain lab. What food is most reminiscent of brains?

*The mayor is actually a goat. Whoa, recycled joke!

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.

I’m into something good (leftover spaghetti)

Madge, I’m soaking in it. It’s March now? Why and how do these things keep happening? I can’t keep up. March always makes me think of back when companies were coming up with really stupid names, like marchFIRST. Whatever happened to them? Oh, bankruptcy, apparently.

And remember when PwC changed their name to Monday? Sadly, that also didn’t last.

I’m so glad I can remember dotcom era ephemera. Yet I keep forgetting to turn off the bathroom faucet, and I try to put the milk away in the cupboard on a fairly regular basis. Oh, right. It’s March. Double digits until the parasite hatches, and I get dumber by the minute.

We’re also going to fake Europe

Compromise is the stuff of which marriages are made, so we’ve agreed to settle for the Stokke Xplory. At only $749, we’re talking less than the per capita GDP of Afghanistan! This is a steal. And baby can ride up high, the better to witness the pain of the world, judging from that first photo, or baby can easily enjoy an espresso beverage. We should have bred a baby-stroller hybrid when we had the chance. But I’m sure some Republican somewhere has something against Wheeled Americans. Or babies grafted on top of goats or St. Bernards.

In other important news, everyone’s all bent about MySpace. But The New York Times just discovered that teenagers enjoy taking self-portraits at arm’s length. This is the biggest break since they learned that people enjoy knitting.

Which one of you maggots wants to take me to Paris

Financial planning has always been a topic near and dear to my heart. It involves less hallucinogens and guilt these days, but I’m still the one who knows where all the bank accounts are, and more importantly, how to extract money from them. My darling Mr. H says “Dee buh dee buh dee?” and gets direct deposit. I am the evil overlord who makes sure his student loans get extracted on the 12th of each month, as opposed to the 12th of never, his previously preferred date.

Normally, our system works well. I improved our credit scores over the years through the folksy homespun wisdom of paying the bills. To allow some illusion of mutual control, he is a guest user on my Amex. It generally doesn’t occur to him to spend money anyway, just as it didn’t occur to him to pay bills. He’s too busy thinking about complicated pieces of code. I don’t spend that much either, since I was brought up by people who believed “Why buy it if you can make it out of chickenwire?” If I must, I prefer to splurge on things I didn’t get in my youth: things like well-made shoes, hotel rooms nicer than my house, and x-rays performed by a licensed technician.

But the other day, I caught him playing with a Bugaboo stroller. This stroller is nearly $900, or about the GDP of Madagascar. It operates on the principles of the Rubik’s cube or a Transformers toy, so after a lot of flipping and clicking, you end up with an amphibious assault vehicle or Optimus Prime or a detachable bassinet. I’d always just assumed that only assholes who live in Park Slope or the aggressively European couple we know would get a Bugaboo, but damned if he wasn’t communing with one. My poor innocent, attracted to the engineering and oblivious to the social status baggage.

The saleslady pounced and demonstrated, including stealing someone else’s kid to show off the turning radius. I’ll admit that it’s lightweight and impressively easy to spin, but it’s still a little SUV-sized and overpriced for my taste. Then again, I spent a lot more than that on the Democratic party in 2004, and I did not get a foot muff for that investment. I got no muff at all.

Now he’s fairly adamant that the parasite should get trundled around in this contraption. The problem is that I had planned on trundling the parasite through Europe in my abdomen, because I want a goddamn last vacation before she starts playing at nonsense like breathing. Once she’s here, I had assumed that she’ll sleep in a file drawer and get carried in a pillowcase with air holes, just like the good old days. I thought about playing the “we have no money” card since he will never actually look at an account, but this will create problems with my recreational goals. So I see that I have no choice but to weave a convincing Bugaboo replica out of chickenwire if I want a chance to eat my weight in croissants before June. Damn you, the Dutch! You and all your industrial designers. Or perhaps I will just go on vacation by myself and leave Mr. H to push the cat around in the Bugaboo. That way we can afford to do both. What would Madagascar do?

Oh, today in cats: Flop-bott of the bottom system. That will probably end up costing an extra student loan payment.