Tag Archives: recession

This the kinda of shit that you bump to get drunk to

I dunno, my baser instincts suggest I make jokes about how National Buy Nothing Day will be pretty easy for so many more Americans this year, but that is so wrong. It’s not nice. I like buying stuff and so do you! May we all take advantage of deep discounts on melamine-free items.

I was just saying to my moosie relation, who may or not be writing on her personal internet homepage again, that ….uh what the hell was I saying. Let me ask, er, review the logs. Yes, OK. I am seeing way more straight up gratitude posts today versus the usual smallpox blanket jokes. This must be a function of a bad economy, like hemlines getting longer. I beg to differ on that point in the article about people cutting their hair shorter when the market drops. Their cuts must not top a c-note. Me, I am growing mine out, and it looks fantastic. I still go every 6 weeks, though, because who wants split ends? It’s not the apocalypse.

This year, I am thankful that I played a twenty minute command drum solo on a Wednesday morning instead of going to a real job (I worked last week, so I am off the hook til I get the urge to buy stuff again). I am grateful that my child is a brilliant little beast, even if it means she is going to come up with shit even I never fathomed when she is a teenager. I am pleased that Mr. H got a job with a mere twenty minute commute. I am pleased I did not throw up today, despite initial leanings (seriously, WTF is wrong with me). A Cat did not throw up and only bit me two or four times. So much is right, right, right, despite living on an Indian Burial Ground. I mean, it’s sort of like living in a giant fridge box, but with climate control and indoor plumbing. Those things are OK by me. I am thankful to be Facebook friends with YOU! I am thankful my sister never got a Taz tattoo, you betcha. Hey, my kid hasn’t bothered me in ten minutes, and I have to go see about that. I am thankful she can’t reach the knife block. Yet.

LOL and the art of financial planning

Our retirement funds are only down 25%! We beat the market! Yay! Warren, look out. I will be the next secretary of the treasury. Or the navy. I always thought that would be fun. We are taking stock of our positions watching “Baby Mama” on OnDemand tonight. Mr. H is likely headed to a new job one of these days, so WTF do I do with the workplace-dependent retirement accounts? Roll lint and moths into an IRA with same brokerage and purchase exact same shares as 401(k), lie down with a hot water bottle and wait 30 years? I think that will work nicely. You got a better idea?

Now, my father ruined worrying about global financial crises for me twenty years ago, so please excuse my flippancy. It was 1987, and we were sitting in a McDonald’s, not too long after the October crash, and he said “You know, you’re not going to be able to eat hamburgers soon.” As I gummed my microwaved 49 cent burger, he went on to rail about what luxury I enjoyed, and how all this would come to a screeching halt, leaving us shooting claim jumpers in the streets and trading gold teeth for bread. We could lose our house, we could, oh hell, I forget the rest of the list. Trading cigarettes figured in at some point. I couldn’t eat without feeling nauseated for months. Now DEEP SHIT appears to be is HERE, and I am thrilled that I don’t have to worry anymore.

Oh! Oh! We were supposed to worry about nuclear power too.

I bet he’s gleefully grating Krugerrands to pay for groceries with gold dust. And hey, if it really turns out to be that bad, I’m going to move in with him and let my kid wake him up at 6 a.m. every. single. day.

Timing is everything

Dang, my kid is sucking on a toy made in China. I bet it is pure injection molded melamine, coated with lead. Luckily she has brain cells to spare. She can put her shoes on! She can memorize books and recite them while on her hind legs, like a little Rory Calhoun. She sees when I am sleeping, and wakes me the hell up.

We had a showing of the old Indian Burial Ground the other day, and the lady seemed to really like it. We baked cookies and posed seductively on the bed, sprinkled with dollar bills, saying “Here, take our money!” Take my house, please. Then wouldn’t you know there’s no credit left, so I would imagine she has a chance in hell of getting a mortgage. Is American Express going to stop buying me things too? I need to know! What about my dastardly scheme of getting 5% cash back and paying my bill in full every month? I hope they don’t see through that.

In order to ensure financial prosperity, I have been calling my representatives all day to remind them that provisions for scratch tickets and McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces for every man, woman, and child should be attached to any bills they happen to feel like passing. Park Place, you are my golden years strategerie!

And confidential to A. Cat, that $6 I spent on litter was just too much. You and I have a dinner date.

If, when, why, what?

My ass has been kiting checks again, if you know what I mean. And I hope you don’t. I have a series of impossible choose-your-own-adventure dealings with which to deal. Please pull up a chair.

The largest problem is probably our ridiculous living situation. Let me tell you it: we live in a beard of bees. No, we live in a loft in a charming old mill with a recycling program and a contentious owner message board, steps from a body of water that did not even flood this year, a lovely park, and old world charm-y cobblestone streets! There are now restaurants where you can get shiso on everything, if that is a kind of thing you like.

In short, my lovely home is a fantastic place for anyone who does not own a toddler. It is RATHER SMALL for raising a team of helper monkeys as well, so be warned. But people are all concerned with “mortgages” and “credit” and “interest rates” and do not seem keen on buying anything these days. That’s too bad. I would like to sell you my bee beard. The bathroom was recently painted by a man who could pass for Perez Hilton. There are numerous other selling points, including the fact that we would get out anytime you wanted, even in the middle of the night, and we would leave any items of furniture you fancied. I might do your grocery shopping and other unpleasant errands for a year. Do you need your taxes done? I got a guy. We recently discovered the image of the Blessed Virgin in the ceiling over our bed, if that helps.

We have hit upon a plan to kidnap Ricky Gervais, namesake of a local car dealership and famous actor/director, before he leaves this lovely town when his movie finishes shooting. He taunts me with posts about using a private jet and house hunting in New York. He clearly has no idea he needs a Lowell pied-à-terre. We will convince him of the beauty of this area by taking him to the Blue Moon, a windowless cinderblock strip club out on 3A, and then to Club Thirtysomething across the way for a nightcap. There you will be able to find a woman with a tattoo reading “The only things getting between my legs are a hard dick or a Harley.” I assure you, she is out there. Then we’ll take a tour of where they print The Lowell Sun. We could start with the proofreading department, but the donkey died several years ago. Very sad.

From there, we’ll attend a Lowell Spinners game, participating triumphantly in dizzy bat, and after this, some skanky townie friend of a relation is probably having a “Jack and Jill” shower at a VFW.

Perhaps some of you more worldly types are concerned and wondering why I am not pushing the martinis and the shiso a bit harder, but honestly, you can get that anywhere. I moved here for the local color, or colour, if you must. I moved here to live next to a minor league ballpark and a methadone clinic. It speaks to me. You just can’t make this crap up, except when you exaggerate a little. You people who can have nice things don’t know what you’re missing.

Waiting for dumbo

A child persists in climbing on the dining table, and she listens to me not. I definitely should have gotten a dog. But then again, I couldn’t teach a dog to shout “Banzai!” when it jumps off the table. Life is a series of agonizing trade-offs. Fast, good, and cheap? Choose two. I am so cheap that I only chose one.

For example, I attended a condo board meeting last night in order to find out about the status of our association being charged 293k for the mistakes of a real estate developer and an insurance company. And while I gained somewhat valuable information (we’re screwed), I had to listen to a woman repeatedly ask “What can the board do to prevent floods?” Everyone’s eye drifted to the window, where the river is clearly visible. Yes, what indeed can we do to prevent floods? “Well, did they KNOW this place would flood when they built it?” You mean 100+ years ago, prior to global weather patterns shifting? “Well, what can we DO?” Finally, I yelled “Move!”

Captain Obvious that I am, we are still dragging our feet on putting our place on the market. Various online estimators show an approximately one zillion dollar drop in value. We don’t even have an idiotic sub-prime loan! And we can pay our bills, so there’s certainly no remedy available. It’s just collateral damage. Not looking forward to paying a ton of money for getting out of my apartment. It’s actually a perfectly good apartment, especially since we hammered out how to prevent the river from flooding. The trick was to get in good with the beavers, and they will tell the river to stay the course. We just have to dump beaver chow over the scenic walkway railing at various requested locations. Beavers want “Just Tomatoes” dried mango from Whole Foods, though, and that crap is like $5 for a little tub.

That poor woman went on for another fifteen minutes. Another woman brought her dog to the meeting, and the dog finally ate the first woman. This was a relief to all. I think I am going to look into getting a service tiger for just these situations. Maybe the tiger will learn to yell “Banzai!” too.