We are entering the bespoke t-shirt business!
It’s about time. We have Ideas. And Opinions. And what better way to share than the venerable yet humble message t-shirt? Make one for your dog today!
It was what it was.
And don’t forget about the Meta Mug. There’s a story to go with this one. That we will never, ever tell you. Try this one on a stein.
Do you ever think it’s weird that other cities are allowed to have their own TV news? That’s just not right. We only have news in my city. I don’t care what happens in Pahrump, although it’s usually snowing. What was I doing watching TV in Las Vegas anyway?
On Friday, the chupacabra took the day off to prepare for finals, so I had to watch my own ybab. The hell? That implies that I don’t normally watch her. Ha. I wish! Normally, I sit there and “work” while she hangs upside down from the rafters above my head. The chupacabra is close at hand, and she does a wonderful job of trying to divert ybab by shaking some boiled bones or something, but ybab mainly prefers me. Foolish ybab. The chupacabra has a degree in early childhood education. I have a degree in lying. I wouldn’t hire me to watch a ybab. Anyway, we tired of menacing neighborhood dogs, so we steamed open some mail that didn’t belong to us and applied for credit cards. We could have just opened the mail, but since ybab snorts steam naturally, it seemed like the thing to do. If only we had some unwanted wallpaper.
At least watching my own ybab was free that day. Normally the chupacabra exacts a demanding price for not really watching ybab. Next thing you know, the chupacabra will want a four oh onek.
I accidentally watched thirty seconds of the local FOX affiliate’s morning show last week. Why was the TV left on FOX at all? Cops, duh. Anyway, a self-proclaimed parenting expert was talking about “infant discipline.” I picked up my coffee and prepared to be infuriated.
But the lady had a point! She said that I shouldn’t be picking up my ybab every time my ybab cries because this will teach her that I will pick her up every time she cries. I pondered this, thinking that surely there will be some time when I’ll need to pick her up. What if she is being partially eaten by crocodiles? But I realized that I would have to stand my ground. If I pick her up every time she’s being eaten by crocodiles, she’s just going to expect me to pick her up every time she’s being eaten by crocodiles. Shouldn’t she be learning to self-soothe if she’s being eaten by crocodiles? She should also be able to sleep through being eaten by crocodiles, for at least twelve hours in a row.
I still haven’t gotten around to writing the nasty letter I planned to write. I have been too busy picking up my ybab, but only when she is not being eaten by crocodiles.
Oh, to finish the joke, the parenting expert fell in the river, and the priest and the rabbi beat her senseless with a paddle. She died.
So the word on the street is that no one likes Jack Bauer. Tell me about it. I don’t like it any more than you men. I don’t even watch 24. My ex-almost-brother-in-law, an actual crackhead, found it too hard to follow. I can eat fifty eggs. You don’t want to see what the inside of my head looks like. It’s like that Mucinex commercial, except with movie quotes hanging down like streamers. Oh, there’s one on my shoe.
A planet must be doing a thing. Quelle mysterioso. Will I finally roll over that 401(k) from 2001? That requires getting a signature from someone who ought to be in jail. I think that’s been the sticking point. Will I stop silently judging people at the grocery store? Only if I start judging them out loud instead.
Tune in tomorrow to find out how fat Jack Bauer’s mama was. Well, I will just tell you now to save you the trip. She was so fat that he had to starve her for three months in a crawl space.
Jack Bauer will not be getting the iPhone because there is not enough room for hiding explosives in the battery compartment. He is also suspicious of the hike in text messaging rates.
Jack Bauer hopes you are not enjoying Jack Bauer week. I’m sure not enjoying it.
I am finally halfway through reading the October issue of Vogue. I’ve found out about outfits that are already out of style and movies that are already out of the theater. Very useful. Where’s the beef? Not in Vogue, of course.
In other TCB news, I am halfway finished collecting the annual bucket of refuse to take to the accountant. It seems we’ve paid enough in medical expenses and usury mortgage interest to buy a Lincoln Navigator. Well, more than a Yaris or two at least. How very, very exciting. I even paid my quarterly taxes like a good Beta, and I have the faint hope that we might get a refund. After all, a ybab is a terrible drain on our finances what with her daytrading habit. I keep telling her to hang on to Home Depot, but she doesn’t listen.
Not much going on at This Old Hovel. I find myself wandering around muttering things like “They’re boxy, but they’re good!”
Yesterday, we went to IKEA again, under great protest. Did you know that you need to special order hinges for your kitchen cabinets, but you have to pick up your handles at the store? You can’t just also order the handles. Theoretically, at the end of 3-5 more weeks, we’ll have some cabinets. Goodbye, pile of food. Goodbye, unused rice cooker. Now no one will be able to see that I don’t use you.
Anyway, at IKEA, you can totally tell who is from Cambridge. That is all. And you can also tell who made a wrong turn looking for the Christmas Tree Shops. They’ll be the ones in your way in the marketplace as you desperately try to escape. They’ll also ask, of the ybab strapped to your front, “Is he comfortable in there?” No, I am Jack Bauer. I specialize in discomfort of the infant variety. If a ybab is comfortable, then I am doing something wrong. Please call my 800 number.
Then there was some sleeping, and some life force draining, and more sleeping, and more life force draining. Laundry was not folded. Then phone calls were made because someone thinks speakerphone is soooo funny. A ybab yelled at Grandma, who said crazy things. “Well, maybe those veal were raised nicely.” Then Mr. H came home. He brought me a present! No, he didn’t, but he should have. Now we’re having “apple pie,” and we plan to watch ANTM. Life is small and precious, no?
[Recently, at the Ministry of Silly Hats]
I have Sunday evening quick-onset dysthymia. Shut up, it’s in the DSM-IV. Symptoms include having snippets of that “Always on Sunday” song that was used in an HBO promo severeal years ago stuck in one’s head. Ooooon Sunday. Ooooon Sunday, the prospect of a week alone all day wrangling a baby stretches before one**. It’s a delicate tightrope act performed while juggling a bear, er, the needs of a tiny human, housework, and work work all at the same time! I’ve totally caught ADD. Perhaps it is the fault of television? Fold laundry for three minutes, jiggle baby, check email, change diaper, back to laundry, empty dishwasher, dance with baby, prep file for press, bastardize Tears for Fears lyrics by using them in a humorous manner incorporating the actions of a baby, take call and explain that the background noises are an infant, not a kidnapped drifter, pee if I’m lucky…. You get the idea.
Mr. H and little H and I had a loverly three-day weekend, wherein we saw many friends and enjoyed a homecooked meal from his ancestral abode. Mr. H has a new job, and I am already scheming to get him to abuse working from home. Maybe that way we can both get nothing done! I was born to do nothing. I shouldn’t complain.
*Should I retitle this “Dumber than a Boston-area book report? Because that was just so hilarious on Family Guy.
**OK, mainly wrangling a baby between the witching hours of 5-6pm are the issue. She is soothed by speakerphone. Don’t be surprised if you get a call.
Man, why you gotta go sit on a desk? It’s so…FOX affiliate! Who does a damn thing like that? I can see Anderson Cooper trying it, but would Peter Jennings have done this? I don’t want to see anyone’s knees while they tell me how many people died that day. I do not like news in the round. No walking around the set, please, unless you are discussing something important like Whitney Houston. I prefer the “sit very still at a desk and look apologetic and steely” delivery.
Maybe I am still mad that Katie took all summer to not come up with a sign off. Viewers writing in is just too painfully inclusive for my taste. Viewers are morons! She should have gone with “I’m Katie Couric, and it’s Miller time.” Or “I’m Katie Couric. Balls.” That’s how I feel after watching even five minutes of news. Why do folksy? I used to enjoy watching her on the Today Show, gritting her teeth and flexing her stilettos through endless interviews with gummy-smiling relationship experts. You could just tell how much she loathed it, how much she wanted to wear a flak jacket and do Important News instead. Somewhere, over the focus group….bluebirds fly….
***
My sister and I used to have to play with unfun toys since our parents did not believe in fun. We had unpainted blocks, an abandoned kitchen sink, some dirt, and Cuisenaire® rods. Why, then, after having to fit those stupid rods back in the plastic tray so many times am I unable to properly load the dishwasher? Just last night, I realized bowls go sideways in the back three rows. Oops. No more jamming them in haphazardly around the plate slots. The world is not so rigid as I once thought. Mr. H didn’t know the bowls went that way either.