All posts by Licketysplit

Wee paws for station identification

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OMG, Internet, OMG. We’ve been on quite a spree around my place. The clocks are all flashing 11:11 at least twice a day, and the sink isn’t clogged anymore.

We went to my little nephew’s “parade” for Little League opening day. It was pouring rain, and we stood in it while hundreds of children swarmed around the block, led by a police car that occasionally flashed its lights. It was a real zen koan of a parade: Is it still a parade if no one is watching? This didn’t really bother my nephew, because he is a star. He is doing jazz hands in the group photo.

So what the fuck else. I’m learning Mandarin Chinese, and that’s tough. The inflections are a killer. You think I’m kidding, but I’m afraid I’m not. The more plausible something seems, the more likely I made it up. So if I’m telling you I brushed my teeth, I probably didn’t. Bought tickets to Easter Island? You bet!

I was having dinner with some friends the other night, and we were doing “roommate rundown.” I mentioned someone I’d lived with for three years, and idly wondered what happened to her. After dinner, we stopped at a bookstore, and her father stopped me in the Shakespeare aisle and gave me her phone number. Noo noo noo noo, twilight zone. But why is that if I say “I wish I had two billion dollars,” I never run into that in a bookstore?

Then today I think we impulse-bought a loft. We were just out for a walk, and then a little of this and a little of that, and some business cards were exchanged, and things were signed, oh boy. We should not be allowed out without supervision. My lawyer is gonna love this. Oh well.

Then I called to tell my parents about the loft, and somehow I ended up having a conversation with my mother about anal sex. For the record, she’s not that into it, but I suggested that she just didn’t give it a fair shake.

Any way you reich it

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Aw, you there, you look peaked. Have you tried Emergency Chocolate? Me Time? You might want to light some candles and take a soothing Aromatherapy Bath. I hate to say anything, but your delicate undereye skin is suffering, and, as a friend and good Christian woman, I must. Cortisol: it’s just hell on the complexion.

At least that’s what I’m going to say to Drunk Cheryl the next time I see her. Honestly, all the aromatherapy in the world isn’t going to help. Have you seen her Fame and Popularity corner? So tacky what she did with that. Can we say Hope-less!

Cheryl’s husband is a piano teacher, and he’s deep into Gilbert and Sullivan these days. When he’s not screaming at Cheryl’s child from a former relationship (i.e. the hours before 3PM), I get to hear little ditties like “Three Little Maids from School Are We” tinkling and plonking through the ceiling. And after 3 PM, this is augmented by the stomping of the spraddled hooves of the child (it may actually be a Clydesdale) and the aforementioned screaming.

So I went out to work at a cafe, and whaddya know, in walked Creepy Neighbor. Creepy Neighbor lives on the top floor. He always wears a beige baseball cap and black turtleneck and workout pants. He also bears a strong facial resemblance to this drunk copywriter I used to have the misfortune of seeing at work, except he smiles a lot. This all bothers me. I’m not saying he was following me, but he was following me. I should spray the deck with Gremlin-Proof and Serial Murderer B-Gone.

Clearly I need to get an office, maybe in another country. The thing is, I don’t DO anything anyway. I mean I do this, and I do that, and I get money, but I realize I’ve turned into one of those people where you have no idea what they do for a living. Sometimes I don’t even know. What was I saying? I need some more anti-oxidants. Then I have Yogilates.

God, me boring self. As you may have noticed, Lambchop jumped ship a few months ago, and she was the head of the Vomitola Mania Division. I usually handled Ennui and Existentialism, so I’m just all over the place these days. There’s no way I can fall down a flight of stairs like she could. I may call a temp agency. A floater, that’s what we need. How about this: I’m weaning off my Mother’s Little Helpers, and I predict a 93% increase in bile and desire to hurt others. Can you stand it?

Pope Destructicon XXX

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Well, there’s a lot of laundry on the bedroom floor. I can’t tell what’s clean and what isn’t, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sniff it all. I hope my laundering is not interrupted by drunk Cheryl from upstairs again. Cheryl is all “I have to do one load of laundry by 4 pm!” And I’m all “You should have planned ahead, fuck me for doing laundry on a random Thursday afternoon.” And she’s all “no, really,” and to end the conversation before she tells me why 4 pm is so important, I just take my laundry out. Then when hers is midway through the wash cycle, I go down and unplug the machine. I am kidding about that last part. I think.

There is an obese family that lives downstairs, and they do so much damn laundry. I had to take some of their stuff out of the dryer the other day, and I realized why they are constantly in the laundry room. Because each load only holds two pairs of supersized pants and a sweatshirt. Think of that wasted water. Sea otters could be cavorting in that. They also produce an amazing amount of trash, what with eating an entire box of Honey Smacks each at every meal. Or so it seems as I stare out my window with binoculars. OK, I sit out on the deck and openly stare.

I am Gladys Kravitz rolled into Dr. Phil rolled into a watery grave if I don’t watch my mouth. I can’t wait to purge the church of all the fornicators.

There’s always more to worry about

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I am convinced I’ve got a pre-cancerous spot on my left shoulder. Also, I need a new belt. Who knew that eating nothing but croissants and ham for a week could have a salubrious effect, particularly in the area of the waistline? Of course the croissants are half the size that they are in the US, and the ham is served in tiny portions because it is more valuable than gold. Or something.

Yesterday we were invited to our nephew’s “baseball recital.” This child wants nothing more than to DANCE, and he is quite good at it. But he is doing a sport instead. He was going to be in a parade for the opening day of the season, and in his mind I know he saw himself wearing a sequined jacket and riding an elephant. In the end, the league put the wrong date on the mailing, and it’s actually next week. So we all milled around a park for a while, and finally went out for pizza lunch once the mix-up was exposed. He was fine until the cheese slid off his pizza, and then the entire restaurant was filled with the most plaintive, soul-shaking howling.

Here’s some vacation pictures!

The first three are Madrid, then some from the train, and then we remain in Barcelona for the duration. Click one to enlarge it, and then you can tab through or run a slideshow.

I called the white dog Flash. He was so fast. Flash! You are so fast.

C’est si bon

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Flying does not make me nervous. Mr. H closes his eyes and grabs my hand when we take off, but I am usually scrambling to turn the video screen to the channel that shows the under-plane camera and jamming in ear plugs so I can start ignoring fellow passengers. However, on the return trip, I am paralyzed with fear as soon as I get off the highway within five miles of my house. I call this “The Zone of Ironic Death.” I have no qualms about being vaporized at 35,000 feet over some place exotic, but to get hit by a garbage truck around the corner? What a waste of my victim tribute photo that would be.

We had a lovely time in Spain. The food was soooo delicious. We ate at Pizza Hut, Subway, KFC, Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Burger King, and McDonald’s. I am totally kidding. There are 14 McDonald’s locations in Barcelona alone, and there is no way we had time to go to all of them. We counted 10 Starbuckseses too.

As usual, the only people who annoyed us were other Americans. There was the spoiled college girl loudly espousing her life philosophy and complaining about having to fly back for her cousin’s Bat Mitzvah in Connecticut, and of course we spotted people wearing sneakers and sweatshirts and braying about the prawns having heads. Luckily, we passed for European of Indeterminate Origin, so Americans wearing fanny packs asked us directions, shouting at us so we’d understand. Donde esta THE TRAIN STATION. I always lied in broken English. No wonder Americans think everyone else in the world is out to get them.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store, and my soul was nearly crushed by the lack of delicious yogurt. I came outside only to find that some intrepid soul had managed to use his vehicle to ram a shopping cart into my passenger door. I dropped to my knees and swore bitterly. Clearly America does not want me. To add insult to injury, the paint smear indicated that the cart must have been one of the blue ones from the Wal-Mart across the plaza. Poor people indirectly touched my car!

I am still hunting through photos, trying to find the ones where we are wearing pants. Control yourself, Internet.

The camera adds 50 pounds, er, euros, er, nevermind

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I have pre-travel agitation. My horoscope that arrives via e-mail each morning usually says something easily ignored like “Beware being mauled by a shark” or “Isn’t it time you tossed that mascara?” But today it said “This is not a good time for travel as frequent obstacles can arise.” The hell!

Perhaps I will write again later when I am still sitting in the airport in Boston long after I should have arrived at my destination. I will be the one swearing and drinking a bottle of Purell while trying to stab someone at the Air France counter with my travel lint roller. Or maybe I’ll never even make it to the airport. I think I feel a reaction to exfoliation coming on. Throat closing…. Initiate emergency self-tanning procedures….

Mr. H and I are going to try an experiment and post a photo every day during our vacation. Of course there are many variables that may interfere, including terrorism, the Pope’s funeral, the Mercury retrograde, and whether or not we murder each other. We love to travel together, but it’s just not a vacation without at least one screaming fight. Luckily I speak Spanish and he doesn’t, so I have the upper hand when threatening to leave him somewhere.

I could feel at the time there was no way of knowing

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Well freaking well, internet. It’s April already! You may recall that last year around this time, I was seized with a bout of experimentation in home anti-aging breakthroughs. That didn’t go so well, and I still have a little scar.

This year, however, I’ve had great success with cosmetic dentistry. I went to the dentist today, and he complimented my teeth. I’d never seen this dentist before, but I soon took to him, falling asleep as his bear-like Russian hands cupped my jaw. Such a gentle brute. When I awoke, he had filed down my front teeth. At first I was all “Hey, isn’t this a little Charles Dickens?” But then I took a second look, and I must admit the effect is pleasing. “There,” he said. “ocharovatel’naya, charuyuschaya ulybka” And I had to agree. Damn.

Now I’m wearing 2 layers of Crest Whitestrips. I accidentally swallowed one, but I think I’ll be fine. The things I do for beauty.

World Is Full of Crashing Bores

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I figured out why that Kodiak bear keeps coming around. Duh. And I thought he just liked me. The bear and I watched the second Bridget Jones movie from OnDemand after it turned out that Beauty Shop was sold out. But then he kept hanging around, making excuses not to leave. It’s better not to dwell on disappointment.

Today is so Morrissey.

I have to buy earplugs. Don’t let me forget, internet.

Got nothing, but died of complications

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Sometimes a Kodiak bear will drop by. He brought me a diet soda.

This morning someone pointed out to me that feeding tubes are the new black. The pope’s getting one, and so is Jerry Falwell. If I get one, I’ll never have to leave the couch. I guess I would also need a catheter and a colostomy, but the bear should have no problem changing me and occasionally rotating me. Wouldn’t want a PBJ to get stuck under a fold. Although come to think of it, the feeding tube probably would not accomodate a sandwich. That would be too bad, because I really like sandwiches of all sorts.

Internet, let it be known that I wish to be killed as needed. Hangnail? Bad haircut? Put me out of my misery! Don’t even think about putting me on TV in muu muu. Just wheel me out onto the lanai and let me expire with dignity, watching Golden Girls reruns as you serve me a mango daiquiri laced with downers. I asked Mr. H “You’d kill me, right, baby?” He pledged to smother me with a pillow in a satin case. Heather also offered to kill me, and of course I’d trip over her plug any day. That’s love, people.

My dad e-mailed me last week to say he’s making an effort to die on the job because his pension will be larger if he does. That 72-year-old bastard climbs eight flights of stairs twice a day. Sadly, this physical exercise will probably prolong his life, but I really appreciate the hustle.

Brainnnnnnnss

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Memo to self: do not go to grocery store on day before a holiday. People were tossing hams back and forth like footballs. Animals! I watched fat children waddling out of the store, already munching on candy. Maybe they brought it with them in the first place. Shopping hard.

Luckily, all I needed was salsa and beer, because we celebrate the Lord’s rising by having people over to watch a lot of zombie movies. What could be more fitting? Jesus was the original Undead. Besides, the zombie movie is the golden rectangle of movie formulas. I can’t think of an occasion when the zombie movie is not appropriate.