Tag Archives: ybab

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

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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.

925: Product Review: The Blendtec Total Blender/That Baby From the Grocery Store

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Recently, my attention was directed to a blender by an alert husband. Because he’s pretty much the only person I’ve talked to this week, except for yelling at the receptionist at my doctor’s office.

Her: “Do you have insurance?”
Me: “DYING! DYING! DYING!” (slumps against wall to make this clear)
Her: “Well, it’s just that what we have on file has expired. Do you want to self-pay?”
Me: (inner monologue) I actually have very fancy insurance. However, husband or husband’s work colluded in such a way that the cards for new job’s insurance have not yet arrived prior to my throat rotting from within. Insurance rep was most unhelpful on the phone, as nature intended. Can I wheedle this frowsy wench into calling them to verify it for me, since I can barely talk?)
Me: “DYING!” (throws checkbook at her head).

This blender, the Blendtec Total Blender, can blend an iPhone. I give them credit for ripping off “Will it float?” from Letterman as “Will it blend?” I also give them credit for blending up a variety of dangerous objects into pure shrapnel pâté. I would buy this product if I ever did anything in the kitchen save rearrange the take out menus. I may buy this product anyway just to blend things. I have a shoe rack I don’t need anymore, but I don’t want to throw it out or summon the mouthbreathers from FreeCycle to my house.

Speaking of mouthbreathers, at the grocery store, I sometimes see really ugly babies. My ybab tends to get many approving looks and comments, for her beauty as well as her poise and charm. “Reeesh?” she might exclaim, magnanimously including the deli counter in a sweeping hand gesture. The market employees know her and come out to see her, summoning others from the back. “SHE’S here!”

Another baby might be waiting in line too, but that other baby is so ugly that he is not even offered free stuff. I look at the other mother, and I think “Wow, that’s what you go home to, lady?” I would pity her, except that emotion demeans us all. Clearly, that other baby is an inferior specimen in many ways even apart from its decided unattractiveness: lolling, drooling, not even making an attempt to communicate or observe its environment. I think of the clever lies we must all tell ourselves, convincing ourselves to get out of bed each morning, no matter how lackluster our lives may be. “But tonight, I will watch that show I like! I may even fast forward the commercials. Except I like that one with the guy who does that thing.” Or perhaps we look forward to using a certain glitter bodywash. I can’t really say. I don’t have these problems. Aside from a little hoof and mouth disease, my life is a dream, something so marvelous it used to be reserved only for people like Pat Sajak.

924: I’ll give you something to cry about

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Dearest innernet, I realized that I have been remiss in apprising you of my widdle doings. It’s not on purpose. I just get caught up in other things. You know, day trading, taste testing yogurts, macrame. I have two eyebrows, and they BOTH need my attention. So get in line.

Last week, I threw my back out by, er, well, never mind. Did I mention Mr. H has lost four pounds? Just as this was mended thanks to tough love from my chiropractor, I was felled by strep throat. I have spent countless minutes trying to take a picture of the back of my throat, for it is truly a remarkable vista. Think the surface of the moon, white and pocked, a fragile crust wrapped around a molten core of pure agony. This is by far the most disgusting thing that has ever happened in my mouth. And that’s saying a lot, given “the nineties” and that time I had oral surgery and found a spare sixteen yards of gauze crammed somewhere back there.

So who knows what the next week will bring? Right now, it’s all over but the whining and a few more days of antibiotics. I am going to unionize for more sick days. Ybab still had the nerve to expect to be fed and entertained while I was feeling poorly! As I sprawled on the ground, drifting in and out consciousness, shirt off to allow her to eat once in a while with no actual effort from me, I wondered if my soon-to-be dead corpse would continue to produce milk to at least tide her over until Mr. H got home from saving orphans with Angelina Jolie or whatever it is that he does these days. Can you believe ybab doesn’t know how to make an omelette yet? I have to go look that up, post-mortem lactation. Google, get ready for me! I want to be number 1 for “post-mortem lactation” now. Get to linking.

923: Oh, hell, I should post to my personal internet homepage

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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 Niño, 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.

921: Fine, the official word of defensiveness

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Internet, I was going to write you a postcard, but I was all oh hey is that a rash, what is that, poison ivy? No, it’s got to be chiggers. They have those up here, right? OK, well, let’s get an ice cream. And then we rubbed two twigs together to fashion a rough internet connection, but it only worked when all the barnacles lined up to face the setting sun just right. I read some books and fondly remembered what it was like having a vacation without a ybab.

Please choose your own highlights from our vacation trip. We took (a boat, a Ferrari, a large winged medieval bird). We ate (mediocre lobster rolls, cupcakes, sand). Ybab became afflicted by (a rash, walking, multiple heads). I offset my (carbon, rear end size, existentialism). Our rental house was (sort of haunted, moderately haunted, hell of haunted).

OK, that last one was not really where we stayed, but surely you can hear the scraping of ghostly chains. Stephen King appeared to warn us of the future. And that photo brings me to another problem: I suggested that Mr. H get a new tripod and shoot some HDRs, and I suppose I should have thought of this years ago, because I did not see him for the rest of the trip. I think he might have caught the same ferry back as relddot (ybab no more!) and I did, as someone is leaving socks around the house. Ghostly socks.

918: When you care enough to click confirm

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I can’t live in the present, and in the future the sun is so hot that we have to wear Oakley sunglasses as soon as we step outside, so I am taking a trip to two months ago. Two months ago was not noticeably better than now, except it’s over, and I don’t have to do it again. That is a plus.

I really phoned in “Hippos Go Berserk” just now. I will add $5 to ybab’s therapy jar.

I’ll be taking requests for the next 82 posts before the doors clang shut forever!

917: Dine in affordable chic

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I got an email imploring me to do just that. They must mean continue doing exactly what I am doing: eating a bagel while not wearing pants while ybab scavenges for sesame seeds. I can afford this! And certainly it is chic. I am sure celebrities do this all the time, when they aren’t busy doing other things that they also do.

I get many more emails than just advertisements from Worst Elm. The mind boggles. People feel I should do work at a schedule of their own choosing. Other people feel the need to be unreasonable about things pertaining to my personal life. Hi! Hi! I am going on an email boycott soon. I am going to print out each email I receive and shred it. This is the greatest idea since individually wrapped cheese slices. The alternative is to start telling people off, but that is the equivalent of eating a giant block of chocolate. It feels good at the time, but then things start to chafe. The Chafing of the Consequences. This is a national tragedy.

915: Add your voice to the sound of the crowd

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I am thinking of switching this site over to Whereisyournose.com. Where is it??? Where’s your nose? Oh, not sure? Well, let’s find my nose first. No? Still no nose? We may need to consult Science on this one. Science holds the cure for fun. Write your own Michael Jackson joke at this point.

Oh, where was I? I am not an animal! Stop poking me. Stop it. What is wrong with you? Why are you pinching me? If you want this piece of pasta, you will stop pinching me. I mean it. Pasta! Look, a bird. That is a bird. Where is the picture of a cat?

I have to go drop off a check for my life insurance tomorrow. What are the odds that I will be hit by a large truck on the way to do this? I have never been more scared in my life. This is more terrifying than being three blocks from home after an exotic vacation. What do you mean, a window a/c fell and crushed her? You sure it wasn’t some rare fever? Leeches? No? Stop pinching me.

913: they see me rollin’

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Someone is big. Someone walks around holding one finger of my hand. Someone waves haughtily like a figurehead of the monarchy as we stroll downtown. Someone claps at the end of “Goodnight Moon” and when the waitress brings the chopsticks.

We haven’t yet tried this, probably because I like to believe in the illusion of the human soul. That link is so several days ago anyway. I have been too busy breathing into a paper bag to tell you things.

Developments

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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.