After much grumbling, I finally got rid of my 4-year-old phone. It was a great phone. I could drop it, step on it, and get it wet, and it didn’t seem to care. It had a flippy little keyboard so I could text like an old person. It vexed Verizon that I would not upgrade, and that’s always nice, to vex. Â But it was time to join the modern world, and it was free to do so, and thus I was tempted. STUPID IDEA, ME.
My new phone has many baffling features like a touch screen that enables me to randomly call people just because I scroll down a page with my hammy little thumbs. Mr. H tells me I need to get apps, apps. Fine, I’ll have the clams casino. Be a love and fetch that. It will only enfatten my thumbs.
The single worst feature, however, is a whole screen devoted to “favorites.” I dutifully stuck a few of my finer human companions in there. But then it occurred to me that there is no delete, so once someone is added, they are a perma-favorite.
What, you never suddenly decide you hate someone? You are never crossed, or even vexed? I want a phone that supports a scorched earth relationship policy in the favorites department. Mr. H suggested that I could delete the entire contact, but where’s the fun in that? I want to leave the object of my scorn in the ol’ memory banks, and change the display name to something embarrassing for when that person calls, crawling back like a worm. Lambchop gave me this idea years ago, and it works a treat!
You should see what YOUR name is in my phone. Haha! We will all laugh together, anal prod.
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.
It’s that time of year where I troll for summer help on Craigslist, a process not unlike slamming your head in a storm door. The storm door emails you in pink capital letters, eschews punctuation completely, and inquires “What is this job for? How much does it pay? When do you need me to start? Why am I emailing you again? A/S/L? Is it OK if I commute from another state? Is it OK if I am only 12? Gas is expensive: can you pay more than you stated you would in order to assist me in my unreasonable commute to your town?”
Well, you get the idea. Pesky storm door. It’s only a slight deviation from the “selling something on Craigslist” response template. Of course some people shock me by being competent! I don’t know what to do with that! I fear success! But not exclamation points.
My personal formula for Results seems to be “email address with some combo of numbers or xnamex” + “lack of standard English” = “hilarious inappropriate Myspace profile.” Do people really think that a prospective employer can find Craigslist but not Facebook and Myspace? Is it that hard to refrain from putting a photo of your butt smoking a cigarette on a public website? The formula is never wrong.
I keep forgetting to call about the results for my back scab hole. Wouldn’t they call me if something were awry? Surely this is need-to-know stuff. Uh, it’s not getting any smaller. Does skin stop regrowing at a certain age? After all, this year I will be 25 again.
Also, ybab said “Go to store. Buy cake.” Uh, twist my arm!
Someone suggested I have Zellweger write a post, but I can’t find her. Other wife keeps piping up while I’m trying to hear Oprah, and she leaves crumbs all over the kitchen floor. I also misplaced our chupacabra, so my ybab is wandering around unfettered, demanding entertainment and sustenance. Scheduling conflict, and all, as the chupacabra opted to get an entirely new job and disappear without mentioning it. Oh well. If you love it, set it free. And when you see it is online on Myspace while it won’t return your calls, it was not meant to be. You may also wonder if you should mention to your friend who also uses the same chupacabra that pictures of her child are on Myspace. Sigh.
At any rate, I feel 187% less like jumping off a bridge this July than last July. I attribute this to a number of factors: El NiÃ±o, interest rates fluctuating, and not having a newborn. Ybab is a delight, trotting around jibbering and meowing at everything. She likes long walks on the beach, crackers, and looking at dogs. What a difference a few zillion neural connections make. She can unscrew caps now. If only I could claim the same skills. At least I am not Mr. H, who cannot remember the words to “Head, shoulders, knees, and toes.” I said “You just failed your kindergarten exit exam, I think,” and he replied that he did in fact repeat kindergarten. Oops.
Pharrell is like the Great Pumpkin, I think.
Secret confession: I am the lady driving around in the Saab wagon with the duct-taped in windshield with the hip hop station blasting. A baby likes it better than all other forms of musical entertainment.
Now, I have an ethical dilemma. Ethicist, a baby went on the Google and found the very embarassing personal ad of the head troll from the condo association Yahoo! group. This troll recently lobbied for the installation of stockades in the lobby for the person who left trash next to the trash chute. This troll makes statements like “Didn’t this yahoo learn anything in kindergarten?”
How did a baby know this person was single? A wretchedly abrasive personality is never a non-starter when it comes to coupling. A baby has a lot to learn. There is some awful person out there for everyone, and the Internet is a uniter, not a divider.
But here’s the problem: a baby thinks I should print out the ad and plaster it liberally about the lobby. I think this is a good idea, but perhaps not environmentally sound. I think I should make a gmail address and email a PDF around instead. You see how we are at odds. A baby offered the compromise that we should do the printing on recycled paper, with vegetable-based inks, and only put the flyers on car windshields in the parking lot instead of all over the lobby. WWYD?
Compromise is the stuff of which marriages are made, so we’ve agreed to settle for the Stokke Xplory. At only $749, we’re talking less than the per capita GDP of Afghanistan! This is a steal. And baby can ride up high, the better to witness the pain of the world, judging from that first photo, or baby can easily enjoy an espresso beverage. We should have bred a baby-stroller hybrid when we had the chance. But I’m sure some Republican somewhere has something against Wheeled Americans. Or babies grafted on top of goats or St. Bernards.
In other important news, everyone’s all bent about MySpace. But The New York Times just discovered that teenagers enjoy taking self-portraits at arm’s length. This is the biggest break since they learned that people enjoy knitting.