All posts by Licketysplit

Creatures of love

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Producing all this content is hard, dog. It’s hard out here for a boring lady. Today I sprawled in the bed while a baby napped. I read a book. The cat slept on my legs. She tolerates me. My book was acceptable. Maybe I will write about what was in the book at another time. It was nice to read with a cat and a baby. When I did catch Asperger’s, anyway? It must be going around. Spread by mosquitos.

Later, we went to a local event related to food. It was tremendously unsatisfying in its execution. We returned to our home with cold food that somehow cost us $30. A baby was displeased and would not relent until she was allowed to roll around on a blanket without pants. A huge thunderstorm moved in, and she would not believe that I was not causing it. This is the Lord’s way of telling us to move out of this town. Do not mess with what I eat.

If you stand in line for twenty minutes, the terrorists have won

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I went to the post office again today. I know, I know. The selling everything I own campaign is a bit trying, although it’s fun to imagine an obese shut-in in San Diego enjoying my used copy of The South Beach Diet. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring the wolverine, because she would have launched herself across the counter and gummed her way through the clerk’s jugular. She doesn’t like waiting. She was home watching General Hospital with a bottle of Southern Comfort, if you were wondering. No, she was poking a dead bird in the park with her father. What else?

Some dark-skinned men were attempting to mail some documents written in a non-Latin alphabet to a foreign country. The clerk was flummoxed and kept making them fill out more forms. She finally plugged some stuff into the computer, only to announce with a quaver that the package would arrive on… September 11th! Suddenly all the other clerks had to come over and inspect the package, while attempting to be casual. One of the men started making a cell phone call in a FOREIGN LANGUAGE. I was just waiting for the guy behind me to yell “Let’s roll” and strangle him with a roll of stamps. They were Indian. See, not even the bad brown people!

Mr. H is joining Content Challenge with a photo a day. A baby sits up like a little Rory Calhoun.

Second toughest in the infants

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I have recently discovered that a baby hates other children She screws up her face and glares at the sound of their shrieks and giggles, but she is happy to make eyes at adults. It’s a good thing she’ll be an only child. Hell is other babies, darlin’.

Mr H and I celebrated our anniversary with spaghetti and meatballs, like Lady and the Tramp. Since I’m a tramp, I guess he has to be the lady. He cooked, as a lady should. He also bought my love with a gift, which took me off guard. We never exchange gifts because we usually buy whatever we want as it occurs to us. Which is probably why we’re broke. Shiftless Americans!

It’s getting to be that time in baby ownership when it’s possible to pull one’s head out of one’s ass for brief moments. I’ve read several disturbing articles that all go something like CIA, Bush, torture, torture, and I wish I could put my head right back in my ass. Oh wait, I can take a nice long nap with the Suri Cruise photo spread draped over my face. That’ll work.

Oh, it’s ON

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David blighted my inbox with a summons to Content Challenge. He actually blighted it last night, but I didn’t notice the oozing trail of poison until this morning. So I am already a day behind. Maybe that means I have to post until October 6 instead of October 5. I barely manage a shower most days, so this ought to be interesting. Or…not!

Other participants include: JWER
Moose and Squirrel
ETA: Biscuit Report

Now I’m going to get back to entertaining a peckish wolverine. Go look at my auctions. Why do I have any of this stuff?

Fiesta de Septiembre

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Today is the third anniversary of my legal ensnarement of Mr. H. At least according to the state of Massachusetts. The JP actually filled out the form wrong. It’s really tomorrow. Then our sham wedding anniversary is Wednesday. Got it? OK. It’s a big month here atop the Indian burial ground. We both have birthdays, and of course our cat anniversary because I am the asshole who gives free kittens as gifts. I can’t wait to turn 25 again. Each year, our age gap widens. Soon it’ll be like {Warren Jeffs joke}. Oh, my heart’s not in it. You may note that I have a nearly three-month-old baby, so what happens in September does not stay in September. Don’t believe September for a moment. She’ll screw your cousin, give you herpes, and make you think you gave it to her first.

It’s 2 PM, and I have accomplished a shower (but not a hair drying, and now it looks all funny) and two baby naps. The painter’s tape stuck to one spot on the ceiling mocks me. It’s been there since January, and all I want to do is tear it down. But I can’t lift the ladder by myself, and the person who can lift the ladder will make so much noise that a baby wakes up. A tired baby is an angry baby. So here we are again, piece of tape. The days just trickle away. Hi, hi!

Alcoholics totally love babies

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This morning I went to the post office because I did something bad in my last five or six lives. I continued down to the village, and I had to detour to kill time because the hippie lunch hole wasn’t open yet. This took me past the bus station alcoholics who patrol the payphones for returned change. “Oh, shweet bundle of love,” they slurred, lurching towards me as if to paw the baby passed out in the sack I hang around my neck. The baby woke up, displeased, and we pepper sprayed the living hell out of the alcoholics. A passing police officer smiled and chucked the baby under the chin. “Saved me the trouble,” he said. Then I had an avocado wrap.

Space: a vast conspiracy

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Solar system downsized. Now, I didn’t actually read that whole article. I just skimmed the headlines to make sure the casualty wasn’t Uranus. Science is way boring!

A baby has been tolerating the songs of Kurt Weill this week. I am fresh out of ideas for entertaining a baby. The other day I was singing “Crafty” by the Beastie Boys, and I realized that might be a bit salty for tender ears. But then again, “Mack the Knife” is worse, but she loves it. So now we alternate between finding the way to the next whiskey bar and the “Mr. Belvidere” theme, one of Herr Weill’s lesser works.

Boop doop beep

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A dude left a message to say he was sorry for dialing the wrong number.

This is almost as entertaining as when another dude called to discuss my long distance service. I said “Oh, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” He apologized and hung up. I can’t believe that worked, but now I do it every time I get a call like that. Wiffff! No one ever catches the frisbee.

Welcome to Stockholm

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On Wednesday, my adorable mini captor celebrated two months of breathing. Not to mention pooping and barfing. It takes a village something something. Something indeed! I didn’t particularly care for her (or anything) for most of those two months, but we’re on a roll now.  We’ve had to learn each other. It’s been hard. Calculus hard. Middle East peace hard.

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Today she demonstrated her first poor taste when she enjoyed the “Hampster Dance Song.” And since I am a terrible mother, I bought it for her from iTunes. Three minutes of Hampster Dance is soooo much better than 30 seconds. There are nuances. Nuances make a baby giggle and bounce. The liquor bottles on the shelf in the kitchen also make her giggle. So do the Japanese postcards in the bathroom. In a few more days, we’re going to find out how she likes “Snakes on a Plane.” I wonder if it will rate as highly as watching laundry spin?

Hey, wanna buy a monkey?

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No? How about a baby?

No? How about a cat shaved up like a baboon?
No? A husband who is psychologically blocked from putting his clothes anywhere but next to the hamper?
No? I got it then. You want my cursed condo. The one that floods and threatens to explode.

The electrician was in to see about the sparks shooting out of the breaker box, and he kept muttering and asking “You sure no one’s done any work in here? This isn’t right.” Oh boyyyyy, Ren. No, it’s just as we found it when we moved in. Home surgery, sure, but no home electricianing for me.

Clearly, my housing problems must relate to some personal failing or stolen tiki idol. Track record as follows.

First home: was a trailer.
Second home: unfortunately my parents lived there too.
First apartment: contained a roommate who played Vampire: The Masquerade and had loud nerd sex clearly audible through the wall. Next to train tracks. Total stranger climbed the balcony and came into my room, although I marched him out the front door with the fake gun from my Wild West set from the toy store.
Second apartment: Bathroom ceiling collapsed on the night I moved in. Upstairs neighbor’s toilet rained liquid.
Third apartment: Bathroom ceiling also collapsed. Co-dependent relationship ended in complicated appliance custody.
Fourth apartment: landlord barbecued/distilled something in basement over open flame and caused carbon monoxide poisoning. Landlord also backflushed radiators and neglected to turn off water in the boiler, causing massive jets of steam to shoot out of radiator.
Fifth apartment: mice. And hoochie roommate who enjoyed having all her townie RI friends come to visit so they could screech “OMG I am sooooo wasted” while drinking Coors Light.
Sixth apartment: Living room flooded. Haunted. Upstairs neighbor a piano teacher and casual child abuser. Living room flooded again in new location. Air conditioner exploded twice in two weeks.
First condo: I don’t want to talk about. We can’t have nice things.