Tag Archives: parking

Clam Sandies

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!

Subjective units of discomfort

Yes, we’re floating in space. We’ve been off our pills for a while now. We’re on drugs though. We’ve got vitamin sunshine. Thanks, Tom Cruise. Let me know how assassinating the president of Venezuela goes. See, I half pay attention. That’s all you get, current events. Fifty percent of my attention span, dispensed in spotty intervals.

So last weekend? We took a bus to hell? Yes, we did. I am still angry with that bus. To get to our destination, one can either take a ferry from Portland, or park in a satellite parking lot and get shuttled to a dock on Cousins Island, where one is then hauled on a smaller boat. This smaller boat ride only lasts fifteen minutes, versus ninety minutes from Portland. Thinking we were being efficient, we opted to leave from the satellite parking. We do enjoy parking. Turns out the shuttle is actually an old school bus with cloth seats infused with wet dog. People who go on vacation to Maine are all about bringing their large smelly purebred dogs. Oh, this is my Portuguese Water Dog. OK, it is. You got me.

The bus rocketed along narrow pocked roads, and Mr. H and I kept looking at each other, in total disbelief that no one else seemed to be bothered by staring death in the face. When we finally got to the dock, the bus had to turn around and back down a hill on a narrow strip of road for some reason. This strip of road is right next to water, with no guard rail. I contemplated throwing up in a panic, and then the bus lurched forward again because some asshole in a Volvo wagon had gotten off the car ferry and was trying to come up the hill. So we got to back down the hill twice. That’s a lot for your money.

That bus haunted us for the entire weekend, because we knew the only way back would also involve it. We tooled around the island in the fog, and every now and then that bus would loom out of the mist like the clown in It. In this photo, the bus is lurking right below the surface of the water, just waiting.

EDIT: This just in: a new view of the hell bus, courtesy of this man.

I hate you, bus! We did have a nice time, when we weren’t thinking about the bus. “Oh, look at the view. These goat cheese mashed potatoes are divine!” “But the bus!” Incoherent babbling and fist-shaking, like an America’s Funniest Home Videos clip of a toddler who has been tricked by a Slip n’ Slide. It took several scotches to forget about the bus, but I can’t drink scotch all day now, can I?

Punish me with kisses, parking

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.

Review, developments, toying with emotions

Local Cambodian restaurant “pretty good.”

Also: new traffic personal best of 29 minutes from my house to rockstar parking (at a broken meter!) on Newbury Street. New personal worst on the way home: 1 hour and forty-five minutes. No fault of my own.

Today was National Underwear Day. I hope it was pleasing to you. Maybe next week I will make that rude picture I was planning.

All Tomorrow’s Pants

Fall In Love with Someone

David Bowie, the Man of the Pants, gave a stunning performance. This is the creature who invented or renewed everything I like about life in this century. He played Station to Station!!! He wryly requested that the audience not sing along to the chorus of “All the Young Dudes”. The power of that voice, that presence…it’s twitterpating, it’s Pantastic!

In addition, Clammy and I, social scientists that we are, have discovered the secret to a successful date. Only go on a Date with an attractive someone you really like, who also likes you. Thank you Mr. Drinkwater, for being a most charming escort. We scheduled all the major Date Highlights implicit in the Win a Date with Lambchop, from a nervous phone call to an awkward pause beneath the porch light.

As if it could have been any better, Helen did an excellent job of Parking and not killing anyone. Every day should be arranged to be that good!


Fine dining

This being a blog, I am obligated to report on topics of food consumed and parking spots occupied. Tonight I had a lovely mahi mahi with a fruit salsa and coconut risotto, and the highlight of the evening was the creepy waiter we always get at this establishment. We parked right outside the front door, in case you were wondering. This is a one-horse town, with ample parking day or night, like South Park.

Creepy Waiter knows us by name now, and he delights in rattling off the specials while making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. He always looks like he’s about to crack up, and we try really hard not to do the same. On our last visit, he described salmon as a “pink-flavored fish,” and mahi mahi is pronounced “maui maui.”

He also let us know how swamped he was on Valentine’s Day, and I deftly inquired “Wow, they must work you all the time, do you ever get a day off?” So now we know to come on Mondays instead.

Still, this is not as bad as the time Mr. H’s mother picked the restaurant where the waitress rammed the bottle of wine between her thighs and pulled for dear life on the cork, right next to the table. I got kicked under the table when I said “Someone’s been kegeling!”


The true holiday miracle

No, not oil in a lamp or loaves and fishes or the great pumpkin. I lost four pounds since Thanksgiving. My pants fit again.

Thanks, lack of interest in things I previously enjoyed. Including snacks and booze. And I suppose some credit goes to trudging to work in the snow instead of driving, because we can’t give up our precious parking spot to actually use the car. Oh no. Someone might plunk a busted-up chiffarobe in the space, and if we move it when we come back, we’ll lose our windshield to a brick. It’s Somerville, not some medieval fiefdom. But you wouldn’t know it from all the lawn chairs. And the best part? The snow is pretty much gone. The douche bags down the street who never use their garage and driveway will be claiming street space until motherloving April.

I was going to make a holiday card, but maybe not.


State and Mania

Our Lambchop hasn’t been the only one hitting the open road, oh no! I took the opportunity last weekend to hit the high seas. Mr. H and I stayed in a swanky hotel in Portland, Maine, complete with an all-glass porno shower stall separate from the tub. We meandered around Portland, where we discovered the chief pastime of the locals is heavy drinking. Then we headed over to Peaks Island on the ferry, a 15 minute ride past WWII gunnery fortifications and inexplicably large houses on private islands in Casco Bay. Mr. H’s grandparents live in a little house on the island, which they bought in 1961 for $750. Average property value on the island is now approaching half a million dollars and up for ramshackle cottages. But they ain’t sellin’, and I’m glad because I like to visit.

Mr. H took some pictures:

Even the housepets on the island are ramshackle.


A dire warning by the Great Head Light House:

(Ok, it is not really called that. It is called Portland Head Light.)

To the lighthouse.

Oh, as Lambchop so rightly pointed out, this *is* a blog, so I shall also detail my menu: Saturday Lunch: Pot Roast, 4-bean salad minus one type of bean that no one cared for. Saturday Dinner: Shrimp and Lobster Scampi, Lobster Quesadilla. Lots of locally brewed beer. Sunday Breakfast: Seafood omelette, red pepper home fries. Sunday Lunch/Dinner: Lobster Roll, fried scallops (to be fair, this was consumed in Portsmouth, NH), chocolate ice cream with chocolate jimmies. I’ve lived in New England 7 years now, and I can finally wrap my mind around saying “jimmies.”

And parking, let’s not forget about parking, this being a BLOG and all. There is a top secret FREE parking lot in Portland. Portland also features ample meter parking, and the valet rate at our hotel was a scandalously low $10. The locals are friendly, and will chat you up and make fun of the people from New Yawk City. One waitress also thoughtfully pointed out that since the economy is based on tourism and fishing, there is “fahck all” for jobs up that way.