Tag Archives: stupid

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.

Handwashing is key

October starts as a tickle in the back of your throat, a nagging little sensation that something bigger looms. I can get over this, you say. Let me take some zinc. The next thing you know, October has put a copy of “Star Wars: Episode I” in the dishwasher, unbeknownst to you. Why is there even a copy of that in this house? One can only blame A. Husband. Why did one marry someone with such poor taste? October is bungled logistics and petty grievances and the horror of taking a shower every day. October secretly arranged to go out to lunch with your Saturn Return and talk about you, and then they strike up a friendship born of shared distaste for you and stay up late on the phone, planning new pranks. I know, says October, I am going to call and ask if she has Prince Albert in a can! This wakes up a ybab, by the way.

If caught in time, October can be cured by a brisk walk and smoking an entire pack of cigarettes while listening to Ziggy Stardust on repeat five times. There is currently no vaccination for October, and even if there were, it would probably give you cankles and ennui. October is highly contagious. You may have contracted October just from reading this.

The only thing worse than October is November!

Oh, screw you, October, don’t make me take an adult ed pottery class. Don’t do me like that.

If the plant you wish to flee, go to sector 7G

As if Casa Vomitola has not already been in enough of a state of anomie lately, I got an email from Martha Stewart that was all “HEY LET’S PUT SOME GLITTER ON SOME PUMPKINS AND CALL IT A DAY.” This cannot be up with put, so I decided to resign from this uncomfortable communication once and for all. I am not sure how I got on this list in the first place. It probably had something to do with our wedding years ago, or perhaps it’s someone’s idea of a joke. Periodically, I open the Martha emails to find I can do something new with pork, or hot glue gun silver almond dragées to my baby or a turkey or something, but mostly I’ve been blithely deleting them.

When I clicked “unsubscribe,” I was taken to the following screen dominated with a Mao-like Martha, her smile cleverly applied in post-production. This screen told me to LOG IN TO MY ACCOUNT instead of just having one of the monkeys burn my email address in the database like every other unsubscribe function.

Oh hey, seems I don’t have an account, or at least they can’t seem to send me a password at the email address they regularly spam. Yes, I checked my junk box. So I must CREATE A LOGIN , giving them more information in order to get them to stop talking to me. The more I ignore you, the closer you get, Martha Stewart!

I dutifully filled out an account using plenty of raving in the form fields, and I finally was allowed to tick off “Do not send me anything ever.” But today I see that I am not actually free! Martha wants me to do something else with pumpkins. WHAT? Didn’t we already have this conversation? I am not going to go out with you just because you liked me first! We have standards here. I clicked “unsubscribe” again, only to be taken to this lovely unstyled Vignette error page:

(Note my username)

Apparently my rejection has caused the website to be so depressed that it simply can’t get out of bed. I decided that in the name of usability (theoretically how I earn a living) and all that is holy, I’d send the previously featured screen shots to MSLO customer service to help, but when I clicked on “Contact Us” I found that while I could get plenty of info on paint samples, anyone having an actual issue with the website gets a five or six question FAQ on downloading clip art instead of the means to actually submit a trouble ticket of any sort. That’s not the Martha I know! The Martha I know cares about every little sparrow and pixel. The Martha I know would print off my desperate email with ink she made herself, trim a lovely Scherenschnitte pattern into the margin, and dispatch a hand-raised snow white dove to my house to tell me it is sorry in original song!

But I did find the answer to one of my questions in the FAQ: It takes up to three weeks to be unsubscribed from the mailing list. Because I guess the SQL statement has to go out to the calligrapher.

In short, I feel overreaction is a mainstay of comedy! Don’t make me explain a joke, people. But srsly, this is wretched usability and a total disconnect from the public face of the brand. Or perhaps I am just taking it out on poor Martha because I have already spent this week dealing with the RMV, investment companies, actual criminals, a rogue play group, a no-sleep recidivist, insurance companies, and more. At least I did not walk five miles past lions or snipers to carry my groceries home, right? And nothing’s on fire. Yet.

Getting to no

I am still SELF-IMPROVING! No, really. I ate a vegetable. I did not smite anyone, even though I felt like it. And just between you and me and the tubes, there are a lot of people who could use a smiting these days! But that is kind of old school, smiting. These days we are “disappointed with the outcome but mindful of your sincere effort.” It is not the fault of the little creatures that they suck.

When kicking it old school, one usedta might cast one’s cares on to the Lord, but today, one casts one’s cares into a series of folders and calendars. The aim is the same: stop worrying about stupid crap. Maybe regrow a leg if you need one, or at least remember to research leg regrowth on the internet. I would like to grow the capacity for human love some day! I hear it is lovely. The internet tells me that my Asperger’s is acting up. It is October: no wonder. A wretched October day! Rhymes with holy. Er, rhymes with getting things so done that they are dead!

Don’t you love it when I rap crazy at you, internet? I have to go call my mortgage company now.

Do not let you live

Nermally (the world’s cutest kitten), I let a fair number of people live every single day. I am also teaming with friendly bacteria. However, today I received great insult when I discovered that an invoice about which I’ve wheedled and nagged for almost two months is late because the person who claimed to have submitted it never submitted it. Clearly, someone is lying, but I should have known enough to claw my way up the mountain and speak with the head yak sooner! Bah! It is a stroke of luck for all involved that I am so filthy rich that I do not even need this invoice. When the check comes, I’m going to cash it and roll around in it and then stuff it in a drawer and forget about it. My ybab might eat some of it. A cat has been on a diet, so she might want to eat some too. I don’t care. I am retired now!

You can light a candle, or you can keep pissing in the dark

Historically, I am really good at pissing in the dark. When I was infested with child, I would stumble into the bathroom at 3AM each night with my eyes closed and still manage to find the toilet. I wasn’t even awake, I don’t think. But in a bold break with tradition, I just ripped up my right shift key and took the waffle bit out from under it, rather than learn to shift with my left pinky finger. I mean, that was going OK, but I am older and just not adaptable anymore. Take me out back and shoot me.

My dad said that bit about the candle when we were on the phone a few weeks ago, and that sentiment is of course fraught with hilarity given my genetic background of half-assed solutions. My first phrase was probably “jury rig.” If you ever say “jerry-rig” to me, I will cut you. It’s just not right. There was some great meaning to what mine papa was saying, but I chose to ignore it and have a “Family Guy”-style mental diversion picturing Peter Griffin decked out in a periwig like Elton John, singing about pissing up a rope on a candle in the wind.

Recently, Mr. H overheard the following exchange at work and was trying to impart how “Family Guy” it was.

“So this lady who’s on maternity leave brings her baby in to show it off, and all the women are all ‘Ahhhhhhh, baby, ahhhhhh!’ and then they leave, and these two biddies on the other side of wall from me are quiet for a minute. And then one says ‘He’s all boy.’ And the other one says ‘Oh, yeah.'”

And I said “And then the second one took a sip of coffee? And it there was a really awkward long silence as they both looked at each other?”

“Yes!” he said. “Exactly.”

I am so glad we have the medium of television so as to better understand each other.

926: Don’t you wish you had brand recognition like me?

Yesterday I was working at a coffee shop like an asshole does, and I messaged Mr. H to say “Guess what, I’m at a coffee shop without a ybab.” And he freaked out, assuming I had gone into some sort of fugue state and left her chained to the fridge at home while I decided to have a mocha. What a vote of confidence in my maternal skills! Then a friend came in with her daughter and looked similarly alarmed. Sheesh. Don’t you let your kids play in abandoned appliances while you’re at the loser fake office? No no no. Other wife or the chupacabra had her. I think. I don’t know. I pay someone, and I pretend I don’t count the pain pills in the medicine cabinet.

I am not as much of an asshole as the women sitting next to me, though. One of them had a daughter named Linda Pam. I clutched at the air upon eavesdropping this, thinking I had just accidentally fallen a dozen states into Alabama. Linda Pam is the proud recipient of a bag of her mother’s used sandals. Linda Pam’s mother is not really a size 6; I found out when she went to the counter to get something. The others in her coven see right through her assertions.

There is no real point to this post, but I wanted to work in how two birds collided in mid-air and died before they hit the ground my window. It was a thing to see. Ybab wanted to pet the birds. No no no no! No dead birds! What does the live bird say? Cheep? Who are you calling cheap? What does the Tiger say? Meow. Sure it does, Linda Pam. Your face is your fortune.


Ybab was just carried screaming down the hall by the chupacabra. I told the chupacabra that the way to shut off the screaming is to sing “Let’s all go to the lobby, let’s all go to the lobby, let’s all go to the lobby to get ourselves a treat.” Why not, eh? It probably won’t work, but it will be funny.

I am exhausted from a round of “who has the paperwork?” with the mortgage vultures this morning. The answer: you do! You have it. Don’t you even think of faxing 134 pages to me, tree murderers.

Mr. H had never seen any lolcats. I can’t believe this. So I made him view some last night. He wanted to know why cats speak Engrish. Damned if I know. Could it be something along the lines of how dogs are bad at French? On another note, I received a brief written in lolcat recently.