Tag Archives: shenanigans

Trouble Loves Me

I woke up on election day wide awake, thinking “I get to vote!” Normally I laze about as long as possible, cramming a pillow over my head to drown out the little creatures and their pesky whining for food. Learn to work a can opener. Bootstraps and all. But damn, do I love voting. All the ballot questions even went my way for a change. I love paying taxes, love pot, and hate people with jobs. My sister hates the schools, but her question lost. Have fun with the slaaaaaahts.

Yesterday, I woke up, and my first thought was “Barack Obama is going to be the president.” What an amazing feeling. Whenever something went wrong, and many things did go wrong yesterday, I thought of that.

I took the whinier of the two little creatures out to buy newspapers, and there was not a single Times to be found in my town. They don’t hold with fancy walking around here. These sidewalks are for regular walking. I got one Boston Globe, the local rag, and a Boston Herald (headline: “O baby”). Keep it classy, world.

Then I was struck down with a pestilence. Either that or my body is purging the last eight years like one of those “as seen on TV” cleanses. I got verklempt during the speeches on election night, of course, but everything did not really hit me until I found myself bawling in the shower yesterday morning. This arresting image popped into my head, and all was lost. Maybe it’s only arresting if you have a small human of the same age, but surely you can project a bit.

I ended up with a full-blown migraine, even making good on the vomitola. I lurch and spew for you! I spent the rest of the day and night draped over various soft surfaces, moaning and swatting away the child trying to climb on me. There was sitcom-style drama with Mr. H attempting to bring an ex-girlfriend home for dinner. Nothing against her, I’d just prefer not to be encrusted in my own filth when I host! Called a friend in Virginia to hear tales of “I thought it was called the WHITE house, hur hur hur,” from her co-workers. Some say the best way to diffuse a racist joke is to play dumb, so I don’t get it. What does that mean? Can you be more specific? I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. Why is that funny?

Anyway, my head still hurts today, and I seem to have blown through all the expired vicodin. Maybe the pain is something to do with those 55 million folks who thought it would be OK to have Sarah Palin next in line to run the country. Maybe I am channeling the angst of people thrown in jail indefinitely without a trial. I nunno!

Also: WTF, California, Arkansas, Arizona, and Florida. Especially Arkansas, actually. We get to hear all this pap about how gay couples can enjoy all the same legal rights as a married couple with a little finagling, but now they can’t adopt children?
At least Connecticut gets a pat on the back for dissing Question 1, plus chasing the last Republican in Congress out of New England. Lotta work to do out there. I’ll be the one in dark glasses, whimpering softly.

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.

The murderer next door

I was out kicking cans around the parking lot the other day when I noticed the serial killer who lives across the hall had a new accessory for his brown serial killer car. I mean, come on, who drives a brown car? No one but a serial killer, right? Dead giveaway, pun intended. So on top of his brown Ford Focus hatchback he had balanced a small personal watercraft. A rowboat. This is a departure from the random pieces of lumber that he usually keeps on his roof rack. He is a perpetual putterer, always working on his makeshift chamber of horrors (MCOH) and no doubt assorted holding shanties in the woods.

Now, it’s December. And cold. Water tends to freeze in the cold. But I guess with great fortitude, one could hack a hole in the ice at the edge of a lake and shove off into deeper water. One is already used to hacking things up! The name of the boat is “Wait a Bit,” which is a perfect analogy for all that time-biding he must do in selecting his next victim. Or maybe it’s a clever nod to dropping weighted bits of a body into the inscrutable deep.

He just finished dragging the boat down the hall to his apartment, which I know because I made Mr. H watch through the peephole. I am afraid to get too close to the murderer, limiting my interactions to passing him in the hall. He’s always carrying power tools or bags of orange soda. He eyes my ybab, saying “Oh…what a cute…little girl…” in a hollow tone. I hear loud sawing noises coming from his apartment, and sometimes a tuneless attempt at the scales being played on a recorder, as if a child were just learning. I can only assume he is carefully immuring school children or prostitutes dressed as school children in a corner of his apartment and then dismembering them post-mortem.

From the outside of the building, I have carefully noted that his windows are blacked out with garbage bags, flouting the “white window coverings only” rule of the condo association. I guess they are too scared of him to enforce it! Why wouldn’t you decorate with garbage bags if you already have a bulk pack sitting around from wrapping bodies for storage in your chest freezer? It makes economical sense, and it adds a nice panache to your MCOH.

I would like to ask my other neighbors, the ones who dress as Klingons, what they think about all these shenanigans, but come to think of it, I haven’t seen them in two months. Not since their “Romulans Suck” dress-up World Series party. You don’t think….

Holiday Gift Guide!!!!!!!

For my Christmas miracle, I am getting the bathroom professionally painted. Our painter looks kind of like Perez Hilton, and it is super tempting to ask if Britney is really preggerz or not!!!!!

WHAT I WANT: someone to READ MY MIND and pick the perfect thing for me, just like I would. Since I am totally proactive, I ordered myself a book from Amazon while I purchased things for my nieces and nephews.

However, I could not read the mind of Amazon.com and know that the 1-click default shipping address is not the same as the default address book address for Stone Age Slow Checkout. “Turn on 1-click,” the button said, so I obediently did, and then I 1-clicked a few times, and then I got some emails today to let me know my order was winging its way to my address from two years ago. Oops. I suppose this is all my own fault for not being a proper steward of my address book and being ever mindful of the awesome power of 1-click, but you’d think the 1-click elves might have noticed the address in that profile is different from the one where I have received eleventy jillion other orders. I ask too much, I know.

So I called Amazon and confused poor Nigel in the customer service holding pen. It sounded like it just might be in India. “Well, who lives there now,” he asked, when I told him the order was accidentally going to an old address. “Not me, and that is my problem.” He was able to re-route things with UPS after thirty agonizing minutes, but for another part of the order, I had to contact that “Amazon Partner.”

It turned out the consenting adult partner had shipped it via the regular post. They suggested I return the one going to the wrong address and order a different one. Since I can’t return something destined to remain out of my physical custody, I then made a bizarre series of phone calls to the USPS 800 number, my local post office, and the local delivery center. “Oh, you’ll need a supervisah, honey.” Luckily, I was put through to a saint named Wayne, and Wayne was able to flag the tracking number so it will be rerouted when it scans in to the delivery center. And moreover, he has a close friendship with both the carrier for my former route and the carrier for my current route. He also has friends who live in my building, so he is intimately aware of the location. Bless us all, Tiny Tim! I think I may get the $12 spy pen for my nephew after all. Lead poisoning ahoy! That was certainly worth an hour of my life. I am sending Wayne a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. I will walk it over myself.


May cause inability to LOL

We are sailing the high seas of December here at the Vomitorium. Two-thirds of us were violently ill for a protracted period last week, prostate and one-third of us is on drugs. One-third of us is planning to snitch the drugs from the other third as soon as humanly possible because one-third of us never met pills we did not like! Shiny, ask shiny, ooh! Like a magpie, one-third of us is.

One-third of us may already have diabeetus!

One cat makes annoying noises under the bed.

One UPS driver once again claims we are not home when we are! We are very much at home. So at home that we wear slippers. We are super relaxed and ready to receive a UPS delivery.

You’re kidding me, right?

Today I was reminded that a jury of my peers is a pitiful bunch. My peers have dry skin, unflattering haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, and scuffed shoes. Naturally, I fit right in, except for all of those things. Only one of my peers is non-white. 33% of my peers are men. 54% of my peers wear glasses. One of my peers did not bother to show up at all. If only I had known this was an option!

We the jury watched a video about jurying, and the presenter was a judge with a Barbara Wawa accent. Perhaps you have seen it? It is a gweat wesponsibility to one’s countwy to be on a juwy. That looks a little more Elmer Fudd when I wead it back in my head, but it was classic Wawa, I assure you. Our spirits were collectively broken, because I was the only person trying not to die of laughter. Suburban jurying is a little different, I found. On my last round, in Roxbury, the video was greeted with catcalls and errant “DAAAAAMN!s” But here, everyone just sat glumly, all Lester Burnham.

Then I took a bathroom break and stood outside the court room glaring in the little window and shaking my fist until everyone settled. Two hours, start to finish. My powers are getting better. Then I felt rejected: why they no want me? Is it my stench? Is it my hideous undereye circles? Is it the foul breath from the vending machine crackers I ate for breakfast? Because? Seriously? 8:30? That is too early.

Life in these outrageous states

Indignity watch: I receive THREE copies of a really boring promotional magazine from my insurance company, sovaldi sale all addressed to the same name. There is no contact information for cancelling this to be found on the magazine, on the Web site, or via their 800 number. I am about to write a letter addressed to Snoopy and hope that works. Also, I have a cold. This is a separate problem.

UPS: I WAS HOME AT 10:24 THIS MORNING. Do not make a fool of me. I thought we were friends!

A few weeks ago at the grocery store, a man nearly knocked me over to get to the dairy case. He pumped his fist, half-whispered “YES!” and reached in and grabbed an egg nog.

I write Andy Rooney’s best stuff

OMG! Target double-charged me for something, and I did not notice. This is what I get for being so super rich that I do not care what things cost. Er, this is what I get for shopping with a Tasmanian devil and blindly clawing at the “AMT OK” button. So I was all bitches, give me back my $40, and we played a round of “Well, where’s the item you are returning?” Not returning, there is nothing to return (how EXISTENTIAL). I am keeping the one thing I did want. It is at my house kthx. “Well, why didn’t you bring it in?” Why, indeed, when I am keeping it. So they were all “Oh we do not believe you. This is clearly an elaborate ruse to defraud us out of $39.99 so you can go buy crack.” At last the sullen millenial or whatever we call college students now allowed that the security guy was back from lunch and could review the tape of the transaction. That $39.99 went right back on my titanium card. You better believe it. YOU KIDS TODAY.

Then I got my new glasses prescription filled, and everyone in the world got 22% less attractive now that I can actually see. Oh no!

I also bought a turtleneck.

I had a surprisingly good experience with Verizon Wireless the other day. I called, someone answered, and changed the thing I wanted changed. How pleasant! And unlike the rest of Verizon. I didn’t even have to shout “HUMAN! HUMAN!” at the automated system.

I lost a sippy cup at airport security because it contained water instead of the allowed juice. Oh, the ethical dilemma! I “declared” my cup as suggested, but then when asked what was in it, I forgot to could not tell a lie and admitted it was water. I asked if they could dump the water for me, and they said they could not open containers because a container might contain something hazardous to a screener. Fair enough, but then how on earth can you enforce the juice rule if you never see what’s in the cup? If I said “This kerosene jug is juice for my ybab,” they would take me at my word? They gave me the option to take my bags, ybab, and the friendly sky cap sherpaing the carseat back through security to empty the cup myself, and I said “Oh no, you keep it! I insist. Look, it has a ladybug on it!” And then they dumped the potentially hazardous material in a trash can six inches away from the screener. Oh well, consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, and there are nothing but big thinkers at the Department of Homeland Security. Also: no one asked to see i.d. for my ybab. Note to evildoers: free pass if you are under 36 inches tall!

MarthaStewart.com ruined my dinner by not seamlessly porting over all my recipe bookmarks after their redesign. I tried making “This page no longer exists. You will be redirected to the home page in ten seconds,” and it totally sucked. Mr. H felt I used to maybe put in milk before I put in the oven, but neither of us could really remember. I’d complain about this, but they still provide no discernible way to reach a human. What really gets me is that I bet the Web staff sit around in meetings patting each other on the back about how they have a 100% decrease in Web site complaints. I am going to disconnect my phone and email addresses to achieve the same goal!

I am sure many other taxing things have recently happened to me, and I will be sure to return and recount them in detail as painful as the initial experience. Caring is sharing! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go invest in gold and trip a skateboarder.

Mr. H and the case of the haunted poor life choice

I pawned jewelry for the first time today, and that was very exciting. I got to fill out a form for the police department and everything. I feel slightly bad that a nice man named Mahmoud is now the proud owner of our CURSE, but oh well! Then I had extraordinary I’m soaking in it parking, and later I came home and found a check in the mailbox. Parking spots and checks are the first delicate spring robins of changing luck. Also, I met two sets of twins at the playground, and I only have ONE CHILD. Luck is as plain as the nose on my face.

Mr. H had an old engagement ring kicking around from when he almost married a nice substitute teacher who would have probably born him triplets. He could have twelve-year-old triplets had he played his cards right! We found this ring stashed in a box when we recently rearranged the house, and I tried it on and felt pure evil wash over me. I believe he purchased it at an ancient tomb in the mall, and no good can come of this. I am going to be so pissed if a ybab starts sleeping and our house immediately sells now that this is out of my space! We had the power all along. Now I have to sell a vintage camera once owned by a Nazi, and we might get to go on vacation. And then I should probably do something about the possessed painting too. Dammit.