Tag Archives: Tom Cruise

Subjective units of discomfort

Yes, we’re floating in space. We’ve been off our pills for a while now. We’re on drugs though. We’ve got vitamin sunshine. Thanks, Tom Cruise. Let me know how assassinating the president of Venezuela goes. See, I half pay attention. That’s all you get, current events. Fifty percent of my attention span, dispensed in spotty intervals.

So last weekend? We took a bus to hell? Yes, we did. I am still angry with that bus. To get to our destination, one can either take a ferry from Portland, or park in a satellite parking lot and get shuttled to a dock on Cousins Island, where one is then hauled on a smaller boat. This smaller boat ride only lasts fifteen minutes, versus ninety minutes from Portland. Thinking we were being efficient, we opted to leave from the satellite parking. We do enjoy parking. Turns out the shuttle is actually an old school bus with cloth seats infused with wet dog. People who go on vacation to Maine are all about bringing their large smelly purebred dogs. Oh, this is my Portuguese Water Dog. OK, it is. You got me.

The bus rocketed along narrow pocked roads, and Mr. H and I kept looking at each other, in total disbelief that no one else seemed to be bothered by staring death in the face. When we finally got to the dock, the bus had to turn around and back down a hill on a narrow strip of road for some reason. This strip of road is right next to water, with no guard rail. I contemplated throwing up in a panic, and then the bus lurched forward again because some asshole in a Volvo wagon had gotten off the car ferry and was trying to come up the hill. So we got to back down the hill twice. That’s a lot for your money.

That bus haunted us for the entire weekend, because we knew the only way back would also involve it. We tooled around the island in the fog, and every now and then that bus would loom out of the mist like the clown in It. In this photo, the bus is lurking right below the surface of the water, just waiting.

EDIT: This just in: a new view of the hell bus, courtesy of this man.

I hate you, bus! We did have a nice time, when we weren’t thinking about the bus. “Oh, look at the view. These goat cheese mashed potatoes are divine!” “But the bus!” Incoherent babbling and fist-shaking, like an America’s Funniest Home Videos clip of a toddler who has been tricked by a Slip n’ Slide. It took several scotches to forget about the bus, but I can’t drink scotch all day now, can I?

Lahge regulah coconut iced cawfee

I sin; I sin; I sip the flavored coffee. It was a gift. Patience is a gift. I have it coming out my ears, thanks to these vitamins. I woke up in the night at the moment the power fizzed out because I feel absence acutely. Nothing is always scarier than something.

Mr. H was reading this doomed personal internet homepage the other day, and he was rather crestfallen when he realized I was mocking Tom Cruise in the post where I was blathering about how lucky I am to be married. AMAZING. But the dirty secret is that everything I wrote was true. Normal people just aren’t supposed to be effusive. We must hide our light under the bridge with the rest of the trolls. O, grimy peasants of the internet, do not fear my bliss. Embrace it, and perhaps it will rub off on you, the toiling masses. In your nascent apprehension, already you must have realized that I regularly eat delicious things for dinner with a man I love. It is not so shocking.

Ehhhhhhhh, how you say. What else. Nothing and something had a race. Something won. The heat is talking. I swan.

S’wonderful, s’marvelous

Have I told you all lately how AMAZING my life is? My husband is just the handsomest man. I never thought I’d grow up to marry him! Everything is so wonderful, I can’t even tell you. It’s beautiful, just amazing. AMAZING. We had wood-grilled pizza the other night. It was just gorgeous. I’m so happy.

Yes, I am taking vitamins! Tom Cruise was right. They are AMAZING. What? I’m not supposed to take them all at once? Oh.

As I continue the grueling process of hunting for a job (day 2!!!), I’ve narrowed down my options to the following:

1. Generalísimo, small island nation preferred
2. Writing whiny Chick Lit about how hard it is to be a chick/hip mother
3. Leader of spaceship religion, retaining all merchandise rights
4. Tony Robbins

I don’t want any of the jobs on Monster.com or Craigslist. I am too sensitive to work for someone who indicates they want to hire a “profetional” or commands that “salary commiserate with experience.” My heart, my heart. My Chicago Manual of Not Being a Douche Bag.

Shit. I am supposed to be using my time to write an episode of “Law & Order: They Had It Coming.” More vitamins, please.

Because I love you

I decided to blow off the Amazon after just a few days. It was OK, I guess. I met some monkeys, and I learned how to dye fabric with bugs. I made a caftan. It makes me feel like lounging on the lanai with Dorothy and Rose.

But now that I’m back, I feel a little discontent. I decided it would be in my best interest to have one reasonably lucrative job instead of my usual million jobs with erratic pay schedules. So I set to lookin’, and so far I found one that would like me to know that I would have “responcibilities” if I took it. Oh, don’t do me like that. If anyone is hiring, I am good at being nosy and bossy. I know my way around a spreadsheet. I will fix your dumb idea and make it look like you are the genius in charge of geniusing.

Speaking of dumb ideas, I’m going to have to fire my therapist. I was complaining about a chronic pain condition I have, and he busted out a book called “How to Heal Your Life” or something like that. The cover was a whole mess of watercolor hearts. And I sat there thinking “Oh no you di’n’t,” and he turned to the entry for my particular condition and said “ah-ha: internalizes stress, chooses sugar over real love. something something pain all your fault. Your affirmation should be ‘I am a woman, and I love my womanly body.'” And I said “You are so, so, so, so fired.” I don’t think he believed me. So I should order a singing telegram. Oh Tom Cruise, you dumb cracker, where are you with your vitamins when I need you?

It was a miracle of rare device

Oh, Internet. You are looking sallow today. Go outside! There is a patch of blue sky. But you care not for blue sky. You wish to remain adrift on your own personal Raft of the Medusa. Young people today. You never finish anything you start. Uh huh, I am talking to you. Remember when you started that zine? And that eyebrow piercing, that was hot. Thai cookery? Wooo.


Tom Cruise, you crazy fucking Scientologist, you are the new David Hager. Apparently, one should use vitamins to treat post-partum depression, and Brooke Shields is a total washed up whore for treating her PPD with Paxil. (Not a) Dr. Cruise goes on to say that “when you talk about emotional, chemical imbalances in people, there is no science behind that.” I’ll keep that in mind, thanks!

Tom, you are a motherfucking lunatic: witness the hooting and leaping during a recent Oprah appearance. Or not, because it’s rather disturbing. His mid-life crisis seems to be right on schedule. Take some vitamins for that. Eat a raw pork chop and have a nap.


I am old, Internet. That freckle is a melanoma, I’m sure. My toe joints hurt when it rains. These white hairs are a sign of premature menopause. I rap children on the knuckles with my platinum-tipped cane, and my eyebrows are drawn on up to my hairline. It’s time to retire! See you in Pismo Beach. I need a chair to sit in while I shower.