All posts by Licketysplit

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.

Truthy, not facty, with annoying emphasis

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Today is the 33rd anniversary of Roe v. Wade. The parasite has learned to roll over, which feels rather odd. My mother always stood in the wings during high school and college hissing “You know I’ll always pay for an abortion, right?!” Now she’s inventing excuses to fly up and rub my belly. I should have bilked her out of abortion money while I had the chance. She’s never going to fall for an abortion a month now. Gestating is not nearly as uncomfortable and grotesque as I once conjectured, but I still wouldn’t wish it on anyone who didn’t want to do it. My resolve is strengthened.

Today is also the most depressing day of the year, mathematically (thanks, Lisa!). In unrelated news, through a complicated scheme, I will cancel my cable and restart it on the same day to get a free month of service. Why TV? I like OnDemand. I don’t like owning DVDs, and I am actually too lazy/busy to send Netflix movies back. It’s true. I just sent back one from July. We paid something like $75 to watch that movie. I wish Apple would get with it and figure out how to beam first-run movies directly into my head. I can’t see the movie screen because I need glasses now. Getting old is a bitch! I have toe arthritis. I’m not really 25, no matter what I might claim. Don’t listen to me at all.

Is it time to eat again?

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Germ warfare continues at our half-packed hovel. Yesterday we managed to pack two whole boxes between coughing fits. Then we took a break to eat whatever was in the freezer and watch a movie featuring attractive people and improbable gunplay. Glamour, story glamour everywhere.

One church billboard has updated ahead of schedule. It reads “When doing heavy lifting, bend at the knees.” My first thought was that this was some sort of sex tip, but then I realized they were talking about praying. Oh. The other billboard rallied with something about casting your cares onto the Lord. Hang on, Lord, get ready to help me pack the spice drawer.

How do other people do it?

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Internet pets, I have such poor stress management skills these days. No wine + no pills + not even freaking Nyquil make Hulk ill-equipped to handle paperwork or daily upset and challenge.

How dare someone want me to do work? How dare my insurance agent be out of the office? How dare my accountant send me a bill? How dare Saab continue to assert that I need a Subaru part? How dare “Kevin” at Subaru not know which part fits a Saab? OMGWTFBBQ Subaru is no longer even remotely a part of GM. I think Toyota owns those shares in Fuji Heavy Industries now. That makes the Saabaru the 2005 Tar-Baby of GM. My pappy once told me “Never buy GM.” Of course he’s also doing a gout cure he found on the internet when he doesn’t even have gout, but we trashpick advice around here as we see fit.

I told Saab to send my file to legal to get me the hell out of the lease. There was hemming and hawing, and then I can’t believe I did this, but I used the “We have a baby on the way, we can’t be expected to drive it around in a car with a broken windshield!” line. Oh, breederism. So loathsome, but apparently effective in this case because Phone Lady said “Oh! I’ll get that right over with a note then.” It doesn’t matter that the car would fail inspection, apparently I can drive it all the livelong day, but THINK OF THE CHIRREN!

Didn’t I write a book last year with a Moose? It was about this time last year, because my Media Bistro membership is expiring. IIRC. LOL. I think I was supposed to be famous by now, but we never got around to actually mailing it to the agent. That’s OK. I’ve met so many more horrible people this year. I could do a sequel in my sleep.

Hearing goes mono, hearing goes stereo. Oh…and back to mono.

You want to know about the billboard

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There are two churchs down the road that out-sloganeer each other each week. The one closest to the house says something like “Let your inner good show on the outside.” Of course I think of how the entrails of some of the Habsburg emperors were buried outside of their bodies. Or good old Saint Erasmus.

But mainly I think of how butt ugly the parasite is making me. In theory, I have the goodness of innocent infant blood inside (a prized beauty treatment for stars like Dick Cheney and Nicolette Sheridan), but the outside? Not so good. Little Davidette is giving mommy a lackluster mane and tail. Combine this with a minor illness, and I look like a zombie. A zombie with pants that can’t stay up properly because the zombie is not big enough for fat pants, but too small for her regular pants. I lurched into the car fixing place this morning and rattled “Change oil! Brains!” Then I just huddled on the floor by the counter, hissing at people until someone had to put on gloves and drag me to the customer lounge.

While in the lounge, I ate someone for starting a cell phone conversation about how annoying it was to wait in a waiting room. Survival of the fittest. This someone was even uglier than me, if that’s possible.

Stereotyping

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I do not like living up to the Vomitola name, I’ve decided. Whoever is holding the voodoo doll this week decided to add some actual vomitola to my bird flu. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your eyeballs shooting out of your nose at the same time as your stomach lining. That’s how I spent my Tuesday. What did you do, Bono?

On the plus side, if not for lying on the coach moaning and watching Entertainment Tonight, I never would have found out about this: Hilton leaves Renee Zellweger naked!

Where’s the wahmbulance?

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I can’t write content today because I came down with the bird flu overnight. I asked Mr. H to write my content, and he helpfully dictated “Wah, wah, wah, I’m sick, wah wah.” That’s about right, but I’m divorcing him anyway. So here I wallow, watching terrible TV and trying to take advantage of my good nostril. So far, I’ve seen a preview for “Skating with Celebrities.” What about “Brain Surgery with the B-List?”

Compound fracture: Saturday/Sunday special

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Fwoo, writing on the internet is hard. I missed another day of content challenge. Amy is trouncing me with the alphabet. So far, I have managed to sneer at the real estate section of the Times, as is my weekend custom, and I also ate Belgian waffles. Yesterday was more involved, but too exhausting to recount.

The wind is howling, the cat is hiding under the table, and I am trying not to think about mini tacos because if I eat them all, they will be gone. The movers dropped off a billion boxes the other day, and I should be filling them and labelling them, but we can’t have that. I am also supposed to be doing something career-related, but I just. don’t. care. The parasite releases chemicals that make my brain fuzzy. It’s a warm, cuddly static, more like being trapped in a duvet than the usual January ennui, but the end result is much the same. We have pressing matters to address like playing “Who’s the baby!!!!!!,” which involves lying on the couch with a hand on the abdomen waiting for bonks. The baby is indignant when Mr. H takes his hand away, and the cat turns around and glares when petting stops. High needs.

Friday we took the gruesome ultrasound pictures over to oblige Mr. H’s family. Since he is a bastard, he held out two pictures, side by side. His mother freaked out, asking “Am I looking at TWO pictures?” And he said “Yes, you are looking at two pictures.” His sister jumped up and did an end zone dance, all “In your face, I was right, I was right, it’s twins!” No, but there are two pictures. I am not sure what made her think it was twins, since I am now 50% done gestating but have no obesity to show for it. Apparently my innards are spacious. So I asked about her reasoning, and it seems Darlene the psychic said it would be twins. Or a boy. Or a red-haired girl. Darlene is very diplomatic.

Now it’s really Friday, not Thursday’s make-up day

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Ah, Friday. I don’t have to do any work tomorrow. Except for oh crap. Crap. I have to go to a birthday party, which means I will wrap up some item I find in the back of the closet. Here, have one shoe. You’ll love it. It makes you look like you have more legs.

This morning Mr. H and I went and tortured the parasite with an ultrasound machine. I mean we treated it hospitably, as a guest of the US government. Verdict: parasites do not like being mashed and otherwise bullied with sound waves. It has quite the impressive brain, though. Takes after me. I also spotted the reproductive organs, and if I were a proper internet parent, I’d post a photo with an MS Paint arrow pointing to it, along with the caption “Money Shot!!!!!” Yes, this is done on the internets. I have seen it. People who do this also tend to have lots of blinkies festooning their personal internet homepages.

Later, I had a phone call with someone with a suave British accent. I wish I could only have calls with people with suave accents. I could just lie on the floor and pretend David Bowie is calling to ask me about my interactive vision. Except David Bowie would have even better manners than that. He’d start by inquiring after my health, and then he’d move on to a thoughtful compliment. Some pig!

OMGZ

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I totally blew off Content Challenge yesterday. I just somehow skipped Thursday. I woke up, and it was Friday. Who knew? OK, that is lie. Actually, I got quick-onset obesity, and I couldn’t get off the couch. That is also sort of a lie, but far closer to the truth. Oh, as if you did anything that great on Thursday. Who are you, Bono? Angelina Jolie?