Tag Archives: ybab

The finest drops

Uncategorized,

At first, having a ybab is sort of like being a recovering alcoholic. There’s a lot of counting days involved. Then weeks. I realized I’ve stopped counting days and started counting in months. This is Good News. A ybab is 196 days old tomorrow. I figured that out, just now, with my pocket calculator.

I’ve been trying to work on some terms of emotional surrender on a variety of issues, and I’m still not there yet. My new rules for 2007 are simple: No Being a Shit. And instead of curbing my occasional irrational rage responses, I’ve decided that others need to simply be better and faster at any interaction that must involve me. Why, did I ever tell you about the time that Mr. H’s former employer mistakenly cancelled our health insurance prematurely and forgot to fund our FSA? That time would be yesterday, when I found out. Outsourcing is working very well in that they don’t have voicemail in those offices, so I can’t call up and scream at them for the length of time that voicemail records. Their loss!!!!!

The rest of you are On Notice. No Being a Shit.

Am I 52% dumber than last year?

Uncategorized,

I was all worried about that, but then I realized there was a stray USA Today left under my kitchen table by a guest. Once I properly disposed of it, I could do long division again.

The “holidays” bring us new findings, such as the report that I should be feeding a ybab sorbet because she watches people eating. Well, fine. She watches many things, but let’s go with this one. We’ll work up to any courses at all and then worry about palate cleansing. Did I ever tell you of the time I ate smoked lobster foam sorbet with a pickled fiddlehead fern garnish? Perhaps I was inebriated. Dr. Sears wrote to me personally to let me know this is absolutely a good first food for a ybab. She’s knocking back a Trou Normand right now. Bless her little tract!

Insert Peter Murphy lyric

Uncategorized, ,

A ybab was a sad monster last night because Mr. H was gone on business. I can only assume his business involved Scotch. If I find out it involved a trip to Scores, I will say “You better expense that!” I am such a nagging wife.

After I put a ybab to bed for the third time, I read some more about the Kims. I’m sure you’ve seen the story. SFGate.com has all the heartbreak I can handle. I feel like I’m over-identifying due to the shared demographic. Their family photos look similar to ours. I have the sunglasses the wife is wearing in one of the “Happier Times” series. The aerial shot of their stranded car is our car, right down to the color. See, only the unlucky buy Saabarus, as we’ve proven time and time again this past year. And secretly, I just don’t care always when people in the midwest fall under combines. So I have the guilt of selective tragedy appreciation via consumerism to add to the heap.

A ybab is about to reach six months of dubious sleeping, one month younger than the Kims’ youngest girl. I can’t imagine juggling a ybab in the freezing cold in the car, running out of diapers, and wondering when one’s husband will return. Well, OK, I can imagine it. I get brief visceral flashes, and I’m sure they are no where near as bad as the real thing. I can’t get this feeling dislodged. I wondered what we’d do in that situation. I wished Mr. H were home for couch snuggles and Wine Block. The cat did that thing where she walked around the house looking for everyone, and she wasn’t happy because she couldn’t find him. She sat on my feet expectantly, as if I could produce him. It was one of those nights where you need to know where your people are.

S.O.S.

Uncategorized, , ,

A ybab recently decided to install teeth in her mouth. This feat of dental rennovation is apparently painful and time-consuming, the kind of thing you should really consider offshoring. One tooth is now “in,” which means she looks like a hillbilly who broke one off in a bar fight. She is flailing on the floor now, thanks to the sweet, sweet relief of Tylenol. I’m sure the hippies will come revoke my hippie license, but we already tried homeopathic tablets and “gum-o-mile” oil, which only seems to enrage her. I’ll leave the lights off all to day, recycle something, and apply for a liver damage offset credit.

And see here, the problem is that I was supposed to go to the mall and get some clothes for Mr. “I have nothing to wear” H, as he was too overcome by the vapors to do this while he was AT THE MALL YESTERDAY. His real excuse must have been that he ran short of time BUYING ME A FABULOUS PRESENT I JUST DON’T KNOW ABOUT YET. Taking a screaming ybab is clearly easier than standing in line! Actually, I bet if I did take a screaming ybab, I’d be quickly helped. But the thing is that I don’t want to go at all. Zellweger is in a pout because I asked her to fold laundry, and she’s locked herself in the bathroom. So I’m going to apply for a helper monkey.

What? You say having a ybab is my own damn fault? Perhaps, but I bet people who drunkenly dive into shallow water and break their necks are not denied helper monkeys. Why, now is the time to apprise you that I once knew a person who knocked out all his teeth after performing a dive. He had a new set put in. Maybe a ybab should just look into that.

Love is….

Uncategorized,

Hep me, Uncle Wiggily! A ybab has been replaced with a Tasmanian Devil. Only between the hours of 11pm and 5am. Ryan wants to give her Benadryl, but I am not totally up for drugging children recreationally. She’ll pick up that slack when she’s a teenager. Why, a somewhat feathered duck did tell me a salty tale once, and I am loathe to recall the ending, but I daresay the complication was all the fault of the rag man.

Oh, and you’ll never guess what the cat dragged in!

My Zellweger has returned from parts unknown, pregnant and clutching a fistfull of parking tickets. I don’t know what to make of this. You will notice, oh best beloved, that it has been 314 days since she last made an appearance. She muttered something about witness protection, and I smiled and nodded and handed her a mop. These floors don’t clean themselves! And, as a bachelor, I don’t iron. If you want to stay around here, you have to earn your keep.

Chief operating visionary

Uncategorized, ,

I’m getting new business cards made up. In my mind, I am smart and capable and earn a fabulous living while balancing the needs of my family. My mind is a liar. Actually, I am behind on everything to the point where no one will ever call me again, not wearing pants (which meant I had to hide from Fed-Ex, thus vexing Mr. H, who is awaiting some shiny electronic jimcrack from Apple), and my ybab hates me. I know this because she stayed up all night plotting on how best to kick me in the abdomen. Oh, mummy, come closer…closer…just a little…WHAP. Now she’s sleeping the sleep of the guilty. Unfortunately, this is on the couch. If I move her, she will wake up. If I move, she will roll over and die somehow.

So I’m using this productive naptime to delete all my email. Currently, I’m expunging August 2004. Just try to subpoena me now! I don’t know what I’m trying to erase. Proof that my life used to be so much easier? At the time I did not think it was easy. I am a sucker. I will regret deleting later, but it feels so good at the time. I sort of regret throwing out all my concert ticket stubs and all my cassette tapes, but a little pain has a salutatory effect on the soul. Right? No, I am just an idiot. And when I want to hear that particular mix tape that contained that one song, I will not be able to do so.

Then we received some mail

Uncategorized,

A ybab did not care to sleep, so we tried to go for a walk. It’s jeezly cold out, and the wind is whipping along the river. Old ladies glared at me for daring to take a ybab out. She was wrapped in a snug blanket, and she was wearing her silliest hat.

I was not wearing a hat. I also don’t own a winter coat. Mr. H got putty on it last year. The coat drive would not even take it. I can’t go try on clothes with a ybab because she hates and hates and hates. So I wrap myself in newspaper. I am turning into my mother. We can’t have nice things.

On the way back in, we checked the mail. We received several pieces of junk mail and a bank statement.

We don’t need no stinkin’ naps

Uncategorized, , , , , ,

Today I went to the grocery store to wrestle for the last can of cranberry sauce. I had to hurt a bitch. A ybab (I am sick of all those ybab ads) bit a bitch. OK, she bit me. She bit her dog? I didn’t even buy cranberry sauce; it was just fun to play America. No one was in the bulk aisle buying organic quinoa by the pail but me. Why is that? Boy are my relations gonna love a pilaf.

The bagger at the checkout told a ybab that she is too small to be five months old. Well, how do you like that? Demoted by the help! There is no need for science when we have the great natural resource of grocery store advice just waiting to be tapped. Imagine our confusion and need for guidance as a nation, waking up in a world where Michael Richards has just Mel Gibson’ed himself. Down is up, up is down, and there is a tarantula in my bananas.

Oh, and peep this: the plumber came and put the tasteful little “hot” piece of red plastic and brushed metal in the bathroom faucet. Now I know that tap is Hot, as opposed to just knowing it was Not Cold. This divot has only been missing for a year, since we moved in and stuff, but compared to the other random hijinks to which the seller has attended (blood spatter on the counters, exploding circuit breaker box), this was a very small problem. With this problem’s small frame, it could curl up in a very small ball.

Apparently

Uncategorized,

Toting a baby around in a sack around my neck while in a store incites adults to make ridiculous faces. Do we know peek-a-boo? Do we? No, we care not for your antics. We care for 88% dark chocolate and being able to buy all the wine we want in grocery stores. A baby got me a sample of sushi. She would have been better served to get me a free eyebrow waxing, considering she has to look at me. She also got us invited to crash the express lane. I am like that awful boll weevil with the sense of entitlement. Except I don’t have one at all. I am as surprised as the next beetle. Honest.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have stop a baby from leaving rakes subtly angled next to the parking spots of neighbors.