My mom is in town for three days. Already she has achieved a new hot single for the greatest hits by releasing my ybab from the carseat while the car was moving. I guess something something never had something and turned out fine? I don’t know. I couldn’t even quite get to the bottom of it. Instead, I took the high road and screamed and kicked the side of the car. Yes, that high road. You know, under the sea! Hey, that cheerful crab is offering me a turn with the hookah. BBL!
All posts by Licketysplit
May I interest you in the devil’s liquid?
I tried some kombucha the other day (this link might prove illuminating), and it was as disgusting as I had hoped. And by disgusting, I mean I totally hate it, yet I can’t stop drinking it. It is like a vile tincture of feline urine infused with vinegar and carbonated. But I want to marry it and have its little spores. That’s no fungus, he’s my lichen!
I’m going to make my own because my sister is going to give me some of her culture. Or if her poor alien is not up to it, I found a place where internet wackaloons will send me one for only the cost of shipping. I’ll have Zellweger tend a 5-gallon tub of it ’round the clock! Then I can stop giving these people all my lunch money. You know something’s good when the FAQ includes the question “So what are those little floaties, anyway?”
Also, I see that neither Biscuit is online right now, which means hell is freezing over, or their ybab has finally decided to outsource itself. To make sure, I am going to call their house and ask annoying questions.
Ethical problems continue apace
Paris Hilton did not appear to me in a dream, but I see that Nicole Richie was just popped for a DUI.
Now for more in me, me, me!
I am pondering an issue with my ethicist. It seems my diamonds are most likely made of little African children. No, really, I looked it up. It doesn’t look good in the origin department. I haven’t been wearing them for months and months anyway. I was thinking of selling them to be rid of them, but then that seems like profiting again from someone else’s misfortune, although I could donate the money to some theoretically worthy cause. On the other hand, reselling potentially keeps newer ones from being purchased. Yet it continues to validate cultural demand. And then that damn movie that’s coming out is just making me trendy, and I hate that! And just about anything we purchase manages to despoil the earth, unless we’re David, so I’d have to replace all my jewelry with recycled gum wrappers. What to do?
And how will people know not to say “Hey mami, bless you for that ass!” to me when I’m out and about, unfettered by conventional matrimonial signals? Oh, right, it doesn’t matter. They’ll say it anyway. Ethically, I am OK with that, because I work hard for my ass.
Apocalypse: soon
I am feeling so left out of the recent Bimbo Summit! Two nights ago, I had a dream that I was back in highschool with Lindsay Lohan. I bought her beer with my fake ID, and that’s how all the trouble started. I woke up knowing the subsequent downward spiral of la Lohan was all my fault. “Be adequite” indeed!
Then last night I woke up in a panic after a dream that I was hanging out with Britney Spears in Vegas. In the dream, she informed me that Kevin wanted to get back together, and she considered it because it was nearly their “Humpin’ anniversary.” This stuff writes itself, and the end must be nigh. If I dream about Paris Hilton tonight, start burying gold in the yard and set up a home water distillery.
Up Next: More on My Problems! For starters, I miss flying first class with live minks nestled around my feet for warmth. Did I mention those minks sipped Perrier?
Insert Peter Murphy lyric
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.
My small life continues!
Today I took Potassium Challenge. To do this, put three bananas in a blender. Dump in almond milk and enough cocoa powder to turn things brown. You can add almond butter if you are feeling totally insane. If you are only feeling moderately insane, add peanut butter. Mmmm, allergenic. I like to serve in a glass chilled in the freezer. Instant pretendo vegan ice cream!
A ybab’s dental trauma continues. She’s decided not to stop with just a tooth. She’s growing a tusk. Like a narwhal or something.
I made a list of people who are fated to receive our holiday card. How do we know 100 people? I don’t want to know 100 people. I do not want to address 100 envelopes, that’s for damn sure.
S.O.S.
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.
The continuing perils of instant gratification
Now there comes a time when one finds a leaflet for a new Chinese restaurant in one’s lobby, and one decides to carpe some diem and take a chance on life. One is too lazy to cook celebrating Mr. H’s last day at his old job. One places a call and ends up performing a slow-paced dramatic monologue of one’s address. Let’s try that again…. THIRTY five River… no…Thirty FIVE River…no…. R-I-V-E-R….R as in rangoon, I as in island, V as in vermicelli, E as in eggroll, R as in rangoon again.
One does not hold high hopes for delivery of this meal. One gets a return call from the restaurant in five minutes. One recites one’s credit card number for the thirteenth time.
The food arrives, much to one’s surprise. It is delicious! One notices that the ginger ale Mr. H requested is not in the bag. One calls the restaurant just to let them know. The restaurant representative has a seizure. Honor has been insulted. The driver will be dispatched at once. No, really, you can refund the card, or take it off the bill the next time we order, or just forget about it, we mean no disrespect!
The ginger ale arrives hours later. The arrival of the ginger ale wakes up a ybab. Justice is served on multiple levels. Why did Mr. H fiddle with the universe by ordering a ginger ale?
Restrain me
Tonight I took a ybab to the condo association meeting because I had to vote for people to be head busybody and Lord High Protector of the Visitor Parking Spot. A ybab behaved most delightfully, better than many of the adults present. Seen but not heard is a welcome prescription for most of society. OK, without the “seen” part too. I totally forgot about Wal-Mart for a minute there.
In other news: someone has recently acquired an enormous SUV. The license plate reads “YOGAETC.” Yoga and global warming, oil wars, etc.. Goes together like peanut butter and rocks.
Oh, and Zellweger has been leaking radiation all over the house. She’s hiding something, I just know it.
This just in
Mr. H is threatening to grow a beard. I believe he tried this in 2004, and hilarity ensued.
My Zellweger set the microwave on fire with a Chinese food container. That bitch! I think I’m going to have her return the dry cleaning hangers as punishment.