All posts by Licketysplit

A watched fax never sends

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My Powerbook is going to live in sunny Sacramento with a nice farm family who will give it plenty of room to run around for the next week or so. At least that’s what I told it. Actually, they’re going to do a Rosemary Kennedy number on it with a spoon. Oh, Pants, I am so sorry. I hope you still recognize me when we reunite. I have stored your consciousness in this hot nurse with the basket-weave hair don’t.

The living room ceiling is now gushing water, to which the landlord replies “Huh, weird,” although he did bring me some buckets. I would redouble my commitment to finishing leftover painkillers, except I have to wrangle underprivileged children tonight. I bet they will make fun of the huge zit I have on my chin.

I’ve fired both my therapist (for being obtuse: R U reading this, I know you up and Googled me) and my psych-pharm person (for having a pointy face that reminds me of a rat terrier, which is not the same thing as a Boston terrier), and I am deeply in debt due to stupid stuff-acquiring circumstances. Oh wait, housing and student loans and such are “good debt.” So are “business expenses.” Someone said to me the other day “I need stuff,” and I thought “Honey, stuff will be the death of us all.” Here I am lugging around sanctimonious guilt, and really I can’t even do Entitled Fuck properly. It’s amazing to exist in a world where some people have literally nothing but maybe a stray intestinal fluke, and other people judge potential mates by the quality of car ownership. Oh heyyyy, and there’s a tax payment due tomorrow. Yeah, heyyyy, how about that.

Really, I’m fine. Just hell of cranky and talking about it on the internets, thinking maybe I’m making a statement. It’s embarassing, I know. I am incapable of talking seriously about the joyous moments in life because they r 2 precious, so I’m left sounding insane and hypocritical. Therefore, this blog is over. Dreamhost has been trying to tell me that all week by crashing left and right, so let’s make it official. It’s been real. I’m OK, you’re OK.

Punish me with disk failure and a plague of larvae

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Meine Festplatte ist tot. Or something like that. I know not what I say. Really. I have taken up with some local Germans, and I have learned to ask their baby if his Trousers are stinky. It is all I can do to not ask people that same question in the checkout line, on the train, at Best Buy. Ja!

On Friday, I got a cold finger of fear down my spine, so I backed up my system, and then whaddya know, ker-flunk. Now, hulk not lose any data, and hulk always buy Apple Care, so no big deal. Except Apple no send for laptop until Wednesday, and then laptop stay in sunny Cupertino for another week. What? Hulk not have time for Wednesday! Hulk have to synergize. Hulk have to write in online journal and not balance checkbook due to dependence on online banking. This not happening to hulk!

So hulk go to Apple store and get Mac Mini and cute matching back-up drive for temporary use and future storage. Hulk mutter like Andy Rooney about how old Wallstreet powerbooks so much tougher. Why, hulk stand on, sit on, roll joint on, spill wine on…. For good measure, hulk get cinema display and CS2 upgrade. In for a penny, in for several thousand more dollars. The world ending anyway. Hulk draw line at getting new bag from Banana Republic. What is hulk, a monster? That bag made from animals!

And the larvae. You can’t show a larva crawling in my cabinets in the first scene and not deliver a pay-off. OK, last week, Mr. H opened the cabinets to get some cereal, and there were moths and larvae all over the place. I want to blame the sack of bulgur wheat, but that would be profiling. We threw out all the food not in cans or jars and sprayed toxic chemicals all over the kitchen. At least Mr. H did, I slept through the whole briefly inconvenient ordeal.

Now that I think of it, between the larvae and the Festplatte, there was a trip to the hospital. Hulk literally made of teflon, like Dick Cheney. Try harder.

Area idiots meet, spontaneously form condo association

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Dear, sweet, internets. Last night I met many of the people with whom I will share a haunted mill starting in October. At last I understand how the federal government could have abandoned all those people in the Gulf states. People are just plain stupid! They walk among us, holding down jobs and passing driver’s license tests and going to the grocery store, where they will most certainly crash the express lane with a full cart. Later they will back their SUV into you in the parking lot.

They say things like “You’ll have to check with the sales team on that one,” or “I don’t know what to do with these truckloads of bottled water.” And people say things like “I did, and they told me the opposite of what you just told me” or “How about you park them and hand out the water.” And then they say things like “My hands are tied, you’re really going to have to check with the sales team/Condoleeza Rice.” They also say “The documents have changed since you last saw them when you signed your purchase and sale agreements months ago, but you don’t get to see them until your closing day, but at that time it won’t matter because they will already be recorded with the state.” And they want us to confirm John Roberts without a fight.

So some people stay behind to eat frosted brownies and look at the discounted window treatments being pimped, and others form an angry mob and stand outside, muttering “Oh God, what have we done? Can you believe these people?” But secretly we, the angry people, want discount window treatments too. Then we hate ourselves so much that we go have mojitos. And we all drive our own cars to get those mojitos. And we hate ourselves more, so we come home and lie on the floor. We feel better when we wake up the next day, but not much.

I could tell you why the ocean’s near the shore

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OK. It took me a good fifteen seconds to correctly retrieve the correct spelling of “shore” from the linguistic trash heap in my brain. “Sure.” Nope. “Shower, that’s got to be it.” “Shure?” No. “Sore!” Closer. At least I finally got there before I had to Google it.

OK again. Now it’s two days later than when I first started trying to write this post. I forgot what the hell I was going to talk about in the first place, but I’m sure it was snotty and self-righteous. I consumed a ton of narcotics yesterday, for legitimate reasons even, but that whole sure/shure/shore mess took place Stone-Coldstone Creamery Steve Austin sober. I blame the Shure Fine, a convenience establishment down the road. I also blame the drugs I did in college. And I blame George Bush, for leaving this child behind. I blame a lot of people for a lot of things, but most of all I blame myself.

My long weekend of rage concluded with a trip to the ER for an ovarian cyst, which is how I got the narcotics. Turns out you can be mad enough to actually explode. Also turns out the bigger the fuss one makes about grinning and bearing it, the more forthcoming they are with the goods. Those folks in New Orleans should have clearly played harder to get instead of waving white flags and chanting “Help.” I told the nurse it was our second wedding anniversay, which it was, and she scuttled right back with apple juice and a giant syringe full of demerol. Guess where she stuck the syringe, just guess. According to Mr. H, the needle was “this long.” I am going to try telling people it’s our anniversary wherever I go. This might get me a free Bloomin’ Onion or something. But what I’d really like is world peace!!!!!!

If you knew anything about physics

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I am so mad, internets. I am mad at people in our goverment for claiming our current situation was not forseeable. Chertoff, you GOON. What, natural disasters that show up on radar need to wear bells around their necks? I am mad at the people who say “this shouldn’t happen here, we aren’t a third world country.” This includes you, Andrew Sullivan. They are right that the hurricane aftermath shouldn’t have escalated the way it did, but since when is it OK for widespread deprivation and turmoil to happen anywhere? The things going on in the Sudan are just fine, because hey, third world country. Those folks knew what they were in for when they elected to exist in a third world country. Of all the lines of justification for why we should not be in this situation, “we’re not a third world nation” is shameful.

I am mad that I don’t have more money to give right now. I am mad at the people who say anyone who didn’t evacuate does not deserve help. I am mad at the people who are yapping about not contributing to relief efforts because they are soooo offended by what Kanye West said. I am mad that people don’t see all the opportunities to help to alleviate poverty in their own communities, and that it takes something this large and terrible to make people even consider helping another living soul. Hey, instead of burning the gas to drive your SUV from New England to New Orleans all by yourself, why not volunteer for the Red Cross here? They can send trained personnel to the gulf, and you can handle the less glamorous things like people getting displaced by fires. Howzabout that.

Yesterday, Mr. H and I drove down to the South Shore to participate in a tango contest. We did our best, but we were trounced by a one-year-old baby with a penciled-on moustache. We demanded a voting recount, but that went over about as well as it did in Ohio. What, we hate America. Of course we’re going to ask. It’s the supreme fucking court, stupid.

Anyhoo, I noticed a wind turbine along the highway, and I wondered why our highways don’t have these things all along them. After all, it’s not like they’re going to ruin the view, and wildlife has already been neatly thwarted. So I started looking into this option, envisioning a future as a wind power magnate, clear of conscience yet still filthy stinking rich. I found this blurb about just such an idea, and then the comments made me mad. Is there anything that doesn’t make me mad today? People arguing about physics = gold. Oh, thermodynamics. Where were you when I needed you? You could have helped me win the tango contest and stopped the cat from throwing up after eating all the cilantro.

And and and and

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There is so much I want to say about our villainous administration, but instead I have temporarily quieted myself by filling out the matching donation form from Mr H’s work and working on my WWLIWD? product line (bitch I already copyrighted it, don’t even think about it). What, indeed, would Laura Ingalls Wilder do? Verily, when those around you are losing their scalps, you must keep yours. You have a blind sister to think about, and a couple of insane parents who keep moving you somewhere dangerous and trying to subvert nature. Laura would make poultices out of Hostess Cupcakes and cholera vaccines out of malt liquor (brace for the smooth taste).

Soon we will all be able to enjoy pioneer activities like defending one’s homestead, making hardtack, and driving a buggy. I am having a hard time deciding on the slogan for my merch line. I figure “Laura Ingalls Wilder has a posse” will sell, but then again I like “Lunatic Fringe.” Maybe a Laura vs. Nellie grudge match kind of motif would be nice. I am simple, stupid people. My post-apocalyptic skills are going to be sharpshooting and carnival game rigging. So much for knitting and making my own soap. Where we’re going, we don’t need soap. Our own goverment is consistently more frightening than any turrorist attack.

Find out more about how you can help and where the money goes. Be sure to see if your employer offers donations-in-kind.

Give.org BBB Wise Giving Alliance
JustGive.org
Charity Navigator
Rainbow World Fund

I want to eat the whole thing

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OMG, internets, yesterday I held a baby, and boy are my arms tired! No really, they are. Babies are heavy. I could scarcely spoon yogurt into my mouth this morning. Uhhhhhhh awwwhhhh. Eating is so taxing already, and now this. The baby was sleeping, and who wants to mess with a sleeping baby? Babies are known to wake up and cut you if they feel like it. Shudder.

I really have nothing to say, which is why I am writing in my personal online home page. Hurricane, oil, Africa, Iraq, family values, etc. I made Mr. H delink me from his photo blog so legions of his relatives won’t mosey over here. If you are one of those relatives, and you’ve already slogged through the moat, well, tough. I reserve my right to mention stupid things you may do if I feel it provides comedic material. Why, I remember that time I caught you with Zellweger at Thanksgiving dinner. Yes, I do. Memory like an elephant right here. Oh, like you don’t talk about me all the time: “Oh, Licketysplit buys things that are not on sale!” “Licketysplit treats the cat as some kind of child substitute!” I am wise to you.

Speaking of existentialism, please view the Happy Horse Rocker, the world’s most threatening and hideous children’s toy. The child model is begging his tormentors to allow him to unmount the horsie, yet he clings to the very thing he hates for some shred of security. A moment of true tension, sure to be replayed throughout the child’s adult life in the form terrible relationship behavior. Ach, Mutter!

C’est mon sac

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It’s Saturday, a day for getting over hangovers, brunches, picking dead skin off one’s toes while sitting in the sun, Lindsay Lohan panties, and organizing fonts. Goodbye, Charles in Charge font, why did we ever meet in the first place? I think I am going to make a font called Lindsay Lohan panties. I’ll be rich, Lindsay Lohan, rich!

Self-Importance, the fragrance for jerks

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I wore my largest pair of sunglasses to brunch today, and I came down with quick-onset glamour poisoning. I hate that. I feel faint. I could barely finish my blinis.

Living in a small town is insane-o. In one quick trip to the coffee shop, I encountered my hair stylist, the local crazy person who prays for the souls of things in store windows, the guy who sells hot dogs at the ballpark, and my lawyer. I am on a need-to-know basis with all of them, it seems. We chat. And then people just walk up and ask you to do work for them because you are having a meeting with someone else, and they overheard. My hair stylist randomly decided she couldn’t live without search engine optimization. And really, who can? Vomitola is no longer #1 for Lindsay Lohan Panties. I am a poor example in all ways. Don’t expose me, please.

I have been invited to another damn baby shower

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Clearly I need a karmic tune-up. Therefore I sent several emails apologizing to people I’ve been avoiding.

Dear you, I am writing to say that I’m sorry for not touching base again about your client’s project. It sounded tedious and terrible, and I am sure you are a terrible person to work with as well. I trust you’ve found other options in my absence. Good riddance. Yours, Licketysplit.

Er. At least that was the subtext. And I would not really say “touching base.” That was just for effect.

I also volunteered to teach underprivileged children things. The program director responded enthusiastically, so this looks like a go. I am trying to figure out what underprivileged children might like to learn. They can teach me how to fashion a convincing shiv, and I can show them how to organize the extra buttons and thread you get with garments. I think I am going to have them write about their dumb lives, because who doesn’t like writing about his or her dumb life? They already do it all over the sides of buildings. Adorable urchins! Adorable!

I am also cleaning the house and doing the laundry, all by my lonesome. I gave Zellweger a whole week off. She’s in Tijuana. I hope she can hitchhike back in time to drop off the dry cleaning. There are flies circling that pile. For some reason, I just thought that last line in a Katharine Hepburn voice. Flies. Circling that pile. There are.