Tag Archives: townie

Membership has its privileges

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Yesterday I got out of a ticket for speeding through Cow Town*, NH, with the “I have to pee!” excuse. Do give that a whirl! If you aren’t suffering from quick-onset obesity like I am, just slouch and tenderly pat your abdomen. Fucking breeders.

After escaping the law, I was glued to a story on NPR about organ brokers and illegal tissue harvesting. Finally, the profession for me! I’ve always wanted to be a surgeon, but this would allow me to skirt the pesky medical degree. I could do it from a home office. I’ve toyed with the idea of hanging out my illegal cosmetic surgery shingle, but who likes seeing how sausage is made?

Although I’m glad I haven’t had any recent illegal and unscreened tissue implants. I do feel bad for poor Alistair Cooke‘s family though. I used to love me some Masterpiece Theatre when I was a kid. And, oh hell, the families of other less-famous people too. And the unsuspecting people who received potentially contaminated tissue.

Annie Cheney was on the program discussing her book Body Brokers: Inside America’s Underground Trade in Human Remains (excerpt). Among other interesting facts, the hotel ballroom where you are having your wedding reception may have recently hosted a hands-on seminar for doctors, meaning a bunch of torsos or ankles might have been laid out around the room for surgical training or product demos.

Over dinner, I told Mr. H that he is 100% allowed to donate any of my organs, and that he may sell the rest or donate it to science as he pleases. Or have me stuffed and mounted over the fireplace or posed in lingerie. I honestly don’t care. I’ll be dead. I think part of the problem is that people aren’t allowed to just sell their own loved ones. Eliminate the middle man of the shady funeral home, and let people seize commerce as they see fit. No touchy the folks who don’t want to be recycled. Then regulate the shit out of the whole deal to avoid implanting diseased tissue. Someone’s already making money on this, so why not just make it legal and cap the profit margin? Wow, that was a hard-hitting FOX-news-y opinion.

Then Mr. H told me he had lunch with a friend who’s graduating from medical school in a few months. The friend was agonizing over going to his next class, saying it would be boring because all they’d be doing is dissecting a brain. Mr. H said “Are you kidding? My wife would love to dissect a brain!” He knows me well. I need to have our friend over for a home-cooked dinner so I can butter him up for an invite to brain lab. What food is most reminiscent of brains?

*The mayor is actually a goat. Whoa, recycled joke!

Jebus

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Anthropological findings based on the scrawling on the used boxes the moving company dropped off for us to fill:

* People with mudrooms also name their children Aidan and Ava

* People named Pete have enough “nic-nacs” to fill a large box

* People with children named Aidan and Ava are also heavy drinkers, because a few of those boxes were totally soaked in wine at some point

* People who get these boxes after us will know that we own a lot of “crap” and more “crap”

* I don’t believe in the expectations that labels enforce

* I prefer surprises

* I don’t own a Sharpie that works

And in other news, I just noticed that the street up by the Cracker Barrel is called “Internantional Way,” not “International Way,” as I had previously assumed.

Visa vee

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Unsourced gossip: apparently Massachusetts is trying to strengthen seatbelt laws to make being unbuckled a stoppable offense. There is outcry that this will lead to racial profiling, and then some people just don’t like being told what to do. Well, move to New Hampshire and pay higher property taxes. There are no races in New Hampshire (except dirt bike), so that takes care of racial profiling. The legal fireworks balance out the lack of diversity. Anyhoo, seatbelt laws require impassioned speeches about civil liberties, but wiretapping without a court order is A-OK!

I was once helped by a seatbelt! It’s true! Actually, more than once. This morning, some skeez in an orange Tonka truck (Honda Element?) tried to make a left into the lane of traffic. Unfortunately, I was already right in front of her. I used my cat-like reflexes and saved us all, but on second thought, I should have let her hit us. Such destruction would have totally gotten us out of the fucking lease.

Then there was the time my mother turned the mini van over during morning car pool. This was during her storied “I don’t need glasses” phase. The neck injury I sustained from dangling like a bat still kicks up to this day, but I imagine it might have sucked more had my neck crumpled against the roof of the car. The most annoying part out of all of this? A neighbor was driving by and thought it was a good idea to take several bruised and stunned children to school. I got to school on time and took a science test. I had a valid excuse to go home on a silver platter, and I was too dumb to take it. Never again! Today I am going to cancel a meeting because it is snowing. Discretion is the better part of laziness.

Yesterday in a-w-k-w-a-r-d

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Mr. H made the fatal mistake of allowing a checkout clerk into our lives. The insolent whelp commented eagerly on our selection of a pre-made pot pie, and Mr. H allowed that it did, in fact, look good. This led to a tiresome diatribe on the type of pot pie made by the clerk’s mother, and her gravy recipe to boot. His mother’s gravy is quite creamy.

Mmm-hmm, said Mr. H. I cringed as the worm cast an eye towards our pasta sauce. “Wow, only $3.49. Is this any good?”

While waiting for the card approval, the clerk stretched theatrically and asked “Does anyone want to walk on my back to get this knot out?” I decided this would be a great time to make sure the floor was properly tiled.

“You know, I used to have a friend who had his girlfriend walk on his back wearing six-inch pumps,” he persisted.

“Wow, usually you have to pay for that,” I said. The clerk stood there agog, as if I were suddenly the offensive one. Mr. H started snuffling, and we grabbed our bags and ran for it.

DJ SSpace JaMM

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I went for walkies, and I was not disappointed, despite the burden of physical activity. I saw police action, the super obese, an albino, incomprehensible business cards, and teen satanists. Not bad for an hour.

While I was getting my hair blown out on Thursday, the parasite said mean things about nearly everyone else in the salon. Then it wanted a croissant. I can’t take my inner monologue anywhere.

In other leaving the house news, the other day, I went to the grocery store and ran into ALEX, ALEX, DAMMIT, and his loathsome sock of a mother. This time ALEX was pretending to be a fire engine. “Reeeeoooooooooo!” I stuck out my leg and blocked him from passing me, and I asked “Do you see anyone else in here acting like this?” The man stocking bulk mayonaise said “YEAH, DO YOU?” ALEX was stymied for a second. But the local retarded fellow who thinks he is also a fire engine came in, and my argument quickly took on water. There is nothing to do but stop eating groceries.

A harrowing experience at the grocery store

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Today I went to the store, and there I spied an unmannerly child running around licking all the apples. Imagine the odds of finding a child beyond parental control at the grocery store.

ALEX, ALEX, DAMMIT! asked me where the carrots were, so I told him to go stand in the frozen foods cooler and wait for the next delivery. His mother started to chew me out, but then she realized she couldn’t hear him from in there. I nodded cordially and pushed my cart away. I wonder if he’ll ever get out?

This was all nearly as repulsive as the time I saw a mother spooning mints from a restaurant lobby communal bowl directly into her child’s mouth before replacing the spoon in the bowl. There’s a moral in here somewhere. Perhaps it will occur to me after a restorative nap and a fall down the stairs.

Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty

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No, I still don’t feel like setting up the voicemail service on our new phone line. People might leave messages. Ugh! People! Dropping their messages like so many errant pigeons. And I would have to record a greeting, and when do I feel like greeting anyone? Why do I have a phone at all?

I was out today, as is my custom, and I noticed that Lowell seems to have bus service. The bus doesn’t have a number. Instead, one is greated by a scrolling marquee that reads DOWNTOWN CIRCULATOR. Indeed. Take that, Baltimore.

I wonder if I can write in essay form ever again? Probably not. Blast you, internet! I have the attention span of Mr. H or that dog across the street. Now I am thinking about hash browns. I am remembering song lyrics. Hmmm, hashbrowns again. Am I hungry? Maybe I am. Should I buy a plane ticket to Hong Kong? Internal bad idea meter says Yes! Christ. The mortgage underwriter wants proof of my income for the last few years. Dur, don’t they know everyone lies on those applications? How much could I make selling a kidney in Hong Kong? This could be an investment in my future. Dear Lord, deliver.

Rear window

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We walked around this weekend. We saw a lot of things! We met some hooligans. It was fun. We did not take a shower that day, yet still went out to dinner. At dinner I saw a girl wearing a sweatshirt and red high-heeled Converse sneakers. I felt less bad about not bathing. If I had a camera phone, I could have snapped a pic to show my stylist. She simply does not believe me when I tell her these things.

Today Lambchop returns, and tomorrow we’re going to see The Man in the Pants.

-xxoo

Get a haircut and get a real job

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Yesterday I got the haircut. That’s a start, right? I have 1/2 inch long bangs. I said “I feel suburban,” and my stylist rubbed her hands together with glee at the butchery that would take place. I like it. She asked if people really wear sweatshirts all the time out here, and I said “Oh, but they do!” and she had an involuntary spasm and cut off three inches of hair.

I am starting to see real muscle definition from my escapades at the gymnasium. This is incredibly exciting.

The man upstairs with the piano has enlisted a singing companion. Two days ago, this woman caterwauled “You make me feeeeeel like a natural….wooooomannnnn…..” for three hours straight. Further impetus to get a job that entails leaving the house, as this is no longer charming. I am updating my resume, right after my power nap. I have officially quit freelance and must simply wrap up what I already have going on.

-xxoo

Fine dining

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This being a blog, I am obligated to report on topics of food consumed and parking spots occupied. Tonight I had a lovely mahi mahi with a fruit salsa and coconut risotto, and the highlight of the evening was the creepy waiter we always get at this establishment. We parked right outside the front door, in case you were wondering. This is a one-horse town, with ample parking day or night, like South Park.

Creepy Waiter knows us by name now, and he delights in rattling off the specials while making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. He always looks like he’s about to crack up, and we try really hard not to do the same. On our last visit, he described salmon as a “pink-flavored fish,” and mahi mahi is pronounced “maui maui.”

He also let us know how swamped he was on Valentine’s Day, and I deftly inquired “Wow, they must work you all the time, do you ever get a day off?” So now we know to come on Mondays instead.

Still, this is not as bad as the time Mr. H’s mother picked the restaurant where the waitress rammed the bottle of wine between her thighs and pulled for dear life on the cork, right next to the table. I got kicked under the table when I said “Someone’s been kegeling!”

-xxoo