All posts by Licketysplit

My snout is cold and wet like that of a basset hound

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Current mood: EAT EAT EAT

Current music: something catchy from Aimee Mann about being a sad drunk at christmas
Current terror level: financial, existential

I am talking to a flooring company about doing something to some floors. Their slogan is “A walk in the woods brought home.” For some reason, I’m picturing something involving ticks or lice. I should just gnaw my own floors like a beaver.

Earlier, I was eating leftover lasagna, and I had to ask the question “Hey, are you gonna barf on the bed?” And the answer was a barf. Thanks, cat. Luckily I caught it in a bowl, but this meant I couldn’t finish the lasagna. Problems: we all have them. Why was I eating near a bed anyway? It was the office bed. Don’t you have one? There was a time when I had to sleep under my desk, like peasant. But no more! Sometimes I take calls on the floor, but that’s just because I can.

What else can I do? So far today, I’ve been offended by the internets, and I’ve thought it was Wednesday. The parasite is bumping into walls, so I’m guessing it is offended by the internets as well. Or maybe it just wants to hear “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” again. Several people have expressed trepidation that the name “parasite” might give the little bugger the idea that it’s unwanted. Not unwanted. Shocking, sure. So from now on, I guess I’ll call it Montecore. Name that parasite!

Clam Sandies

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I whipped up a batch of my famous clam sandies last night. That’s what you’re all getting for xxxmasxxx! Actually, you’re not getting anything. Someone is getting Star Wars legos, someone is getting a sweater, and someone else is getting a wooden push toy that looks like a crocodile. In order to receive a present from me, you must be a child under ten. The rest of you bastards are on your own. Well, if I catch you using “gift” as a verb, you will receive a sound drubbing. That goes for you too, iTunes Music Store. You were not “gifted” with anything. Someone might have given you something though (Chlamydia, ooh, that’s a pretty name). I do hate to burst your bubble, but you are not gifted at all. You never were. I’m sorry, but nearly everyone eventually learns to count to ten. If you did it early, or in French, good for you and Muzzy, but where did that get you in the long run? You are average in every way, maybe above average if you live in Lake Wobegone.

I am just bitter because I am no longer “good for my age” at anything. I can’t even write a blog post without ripping off Garrison Keillor multiple times.

I was going to tell you about my parking problems, but my heart’s just not in it. I’m going to go eat this candied seafood and enable the power of the powerful internet for filthy money that can’t buy happiness, although it can buy Ralph Lauren paint in a shade called “Old Violin.” Or maybe not even that since bitches never pay on time. American Express has to buy the paint. I blame my foul mood on the lonely old lady who came around and gave us a plate of Christmas cookies. Random acts of kindness can be so depressing!

A la douche

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I recently horrified my sister by telling her that my father has purchased a bidet for the ancestral hovel. But he cheaped out and refused to spend the extra $300 to get the model with the heated seat and air-drying component. If you’re going to have a plumber come to your home and tear things apart, why not go totally ridiculous? I was really looking forward to pretending I was in Japan while home for visits, but this is not to be.

I hate that I come from a long line of proponents of the half-assed. Planting a garden turns into a few scraggly tomato plants in the front yard. Fencing the yard turns into chicken wire. Dropping out of society turns into ten years of glorified camping and small animal murder. Homeschooling turns into eating dirt and getting smacked as a study aid. We are not doers. We are imagineers! And right now, I am imagining that there are more croissants in the kitchen. There aren’t. Life is filled with disappointments. At least I don’t have crippling existentialism this year! Instead, I have a parasite, and I’ve officially become a second class citizen.

Which foods am I thinking of today?

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Today I awoke to find free cocaine falling from the sky! Pounds and pounds of it! I am so excited. People are taking it for granted and brushing it off their cars. I don’t understand that. It’s a gift from God. I am going to put some clothes on and go harvest some. Later-ish. I think I need a massage and a nap now. I’m also having all my pants hemmed to this season’s length, and I’m getting neck extensions. Huh, the landlord is out there pushing the cocaine around with a plow. That’s the ticket, man. Jolly good. Put some behind my car, yes, do that. I am going to have so much fun backing through that.

Oh, about the food. I am thinking of how bad microwave popcorn smells. And about how Hot Pockets are made of asthmatic stray cats. I could also go for some of that leftover casserole, except I ate it all last night. What do you people eat, anyway? I always imagine other people are eating better things than I am. Who am I talking to? Why do I let random dingdongs know my business at all? And by business, I mean total exaggerations or lies. Envy and vigilance, that’s the name of the game.

OMG OMG OMG

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I am a hideous monster, born of the briny, briny deep. I am wearing pants without a waist band.

Hey, would anyone ELSE like a copy of my bank records or my social security number? Because I will totally fax that right over to you. I’ve been playing “justify my existence” with several financial entities this week, and it’s getting wicked old. I used to care who had my social security number, but not now. It’s 229-43-8817. Or is it? Did I even give the right one to the bank? Maybe not. That could be the trouble. Actually, there is no trouble. They just want my birth certificate for scientific purposes. They are going to build a better Licketysplit. Then the condo board wants a photo of the cat. Whatever. I hope my clone gets properly toilet trained.

Also in OMG, at IKEA yesterday I saw a woman eat a 15-piece Swedish meatball plate with extra gravy, fries, a side of macaroni and cheese, and two slices of cake. NO, it wasn’t me. I was busy gumming my way through an ADEQUÄT potato. It was a boiled potato. Boiled things have no calories, don’t worry.

This post is titled Damn but I could go for some raclette

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Christ, it’s Monday again. There was a holiday dinner, and I survived the gauntlet of one billion hugs. The mashed potatoes were instant, and I almost ran screaming into the cold when I found out, but I toughed it out and ate them anyway. Mr. H’s Indian co-workers livened up the proceedings by graciously enduring inadvertent racial slurs. I am pretty sure they took pictures of the carpeted kitchen.

This week my pants don’t fit. I can’t tell if it’s because I am genuinely obese or because the parasite made a major land grab. We’ve been getting quotes for hardwood floor installation (yes, I know people do this themselves, but that’s people), and this has been a humiliating process, reminding me that we have no money. Between that and my rope belt, I feel myself entering a Shame Spiral.

Also, I broke the internet yesterday. Word to the wise: the reset button on a DSL modem is hard to press for a reason. My inner monkey tried power on/power off a few times, but then she stuck a pencil in the reset hole, figuring this must fix internet good. It didn’t. A smarter monkey would have just signed “Put lipstick on cat OK please cake.”

What’s your sign?

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PICK UP PIE TODAY. That’s mine.

Also, SUCKER and CHUMP. The mortgage guy calls from a cellphone listed under someone else’s name. The condo fee is now $40 a month higher, and we haven’t even closed yet. haha.

And let’s not forget SPECIAL. Mr H made coffee in the French press again today, putting on airs and all, and he poured me a cup and showed it to me. Like someone showing a dog the disgraceful leavings on a carpet. NO BARK. Here, HERE, girl. Right HERE. It’s not like I don’t deserve it. The French press was sitting one foot to the right of the coffee maker yesterday. A smarter dog would have noticed and called 911.

Nancy Drew and the case of why I am so damn stupid

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I woke up this morning, went about my breakfast and second breakfast routine, and yet I felt too ill to properly enjoy elevensies. I was going to blame the parasite, and I stormed into the kitchen to get the melon baller to have it out once and for all.

But then I noticed the half-filled French press on the counter. That could only mean that Mr H did not make coffee in the coffee maker this morning. Yet I drank coffee from the coffee maker, and I wondered why it was cold. I just thought he must have made it earlier than usual. I’m not one to complain, so I just microwaved what was in the pot and added honey and soy creamer. The parasite is laughing at me now, saying “I told you so!” Except it most certainly did not tell me. It sat idly by, chortling, while I sipped day old coffee. Misery! I am not going to swallow Thanksgiving dinner. I am going to chew n’ spit. That’ll teach it. “Mmmm, isn’t this greenbean casserole delicious? Oh, you’ll never know. That’s too bad.”

DJ SSpace JaMM

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I went for walkies, and I was not disappointed, despite the burden of physical activity. I saw police action, the super obese, an albino, incomprehensible business cards, and teen satanists. Not bad for an hour.

While I was getting my hair blown out on Thursday, the parasite said mean things about nearly everyone else in the salon. Then it wanted a croissant. I can’t take my inner monologue anywhere.

In other leaving the house news, the other day, I went to the grocery store and ran into ALEX, ALEX, DAMMIT, and his loathsome sock of a mother. This time ALEX was pretending to be a fire engine. “Reeeeoooooooooo!” I stuck out my leg and blocked him from passing me, and I asked “Do you see anyone else in here acting like this?” The man stocking bulk mayonaise said “YEAH, DO YOU?” ALEX was stymied for a second. But the local retarded fellow who thinks he is also a fire engine came in, and my argument quickly took on water. There is nothing to do but stop eating groceries.

Not if you were the last superstore on Earth

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Take the No Wal-Mart Holiday Shopping Pledge. I know this will be easy for most of you, since there is no way in hell you shop there anyway. And I always like feeling effective while not changing my habits at all. That rules!

Although the other day, I was at the bank, and I needed to pick up milk, and there was a Wal-Mart right there, and I thought “Hmm.” But then I slammed my face into the steering wheel to remind myself that we don’t shop at Wal-Mart in our family. Bad! NO BARK! So I went home and milked the neighbor’s cow instead. Or maybe it was actually Drunk Upstairs Cheryl. I’m not sure, but I milked something. Luckily, I drink soy milk. My inner obesity has requested that I switch to cream laced with chocolate syrup, but there are some things up with we cannot put.